25630	----	None 
28805	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28805-h.htm or 28805-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h/28805-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h.zip) DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY by EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrations by S. Schneider Chatterton-Peck Company New York, N. Y. Copyright 1908 by Chatterton-Peck Co. [Illustration: THE MOONLIGHTED FIGURE BY THE LILY POND. _Dorothy's House Party._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I END OF AN INFAIR 9 II CHOOSING THE GUESTS 21 III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST 35 IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING 44 V RIDDLES 61 VI A MORNING CALL 79 VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING 93 VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS 106 IX HEADQUARTERS 118 X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS 133 XI MORNING TALKS 145 XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH 159 XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN 174 XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND 189 XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING 203 XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY 215 XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED 229 XVIII CONCLUSION 244 DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY CHAPTER I THE END OF AN INFAIR Dorothy sat up in bed and looked about her. For a moment she did not realize where she was nor how she came to be in such a strange and charming room. Then from somewhere in the distance sounded a merry, musical voice, singing: "Old Noah of old he built an ark-- One more river to cross! He built it out of hickory bark-- One more riv----" The refrain was never finished. Dorothy was at the open window calling lustily: "Alfy! Alfy Babcock! Come right up here this very, very minute!" "Heigho, Sleepy Head! You awake at last? Well, I should think it was time. I'll be right up, just as soon as I can put these yeller artemisias into Mis' Calvert's yeller bowl." A fleeting regret that she had not waked earlier, that it was not she who had gathered the morning nosegay for Mrs. Betty's table, shadowed the fair face of the late riser; but was promptly banished as the full memory of all that happened on the night before came back to her. Skipping from point to point of the pretty chamber she examined it in detail, exclaiming in delight over this or that and, finally, darting within the white-tiled bathroom where some thoughtful person had already drawn water for her bath. "Oh! it's like a fairy-tale and I'm in a real fairy-land, seems if! What a dainty tub! What heaps of great soft towels! and what a lovely bath-robe! And oh! what a wonderful great-aunt Betty!" A moisture not wholly due to the luxurious bath filled Dorothy's eyes, as she took her plunge, for her heart was touched by the evidences of the loving forethought which had thus prepared for her home-coming before she herself knew she possessed a birthright home. Of her past life the reader if interested may learn quite fully, for the facts are detailed in the two books known as "Dorothy's Schooling," and "Dorothy's Travels." So though it was still a radiantly happy girl who welcomed Alfaretta it was a thoughtful one; so that Alfy again paused in her caroling to demand: "Well, Dolly Doodles, what's the matter? If I'd been as lucky as you be I wouldn't draw no down-corners to my mouth, I wouldn't! I'd sing louder'n ever and just hustle them 'animals' into that 'ark' 'two by two,' for 'There's one more river to cross! One more river--One more river to cro-o-o-oss!'" But without waiting for an answer the young farm girl caught her old playmate in her strong arms and gave her a vigorous hug. "There, Miss Dorothy Calvert, that don't begin to show how tickled I am 'bout your good fortune! I'm so full of it all 't I couldn't hardly sleep. Fact. You needn't stare, though 'tis a queer thing, 'cause if there's one thing more to my liking than another it's going to bed on such a bed as Mis' Calvert has in every single one of her rooms. There ain't no husk-mattresses nor straw shake-downs to Deerhurst. No, siree! I know, for I went into every single chamber from roof to cellar and pinched 'em all. The 'help' sleep just as soft as the old lady does herself. Softer, Ma says, 'cause old-timers like her if they didn't use feathers just laid on hard things 't even Ma'd despise to have in her house. However, everybody to their taste! and say, Dolly, which of all them pretty dresses are you goin' to put on? What? That plain old white linen? Well, if you don't beat the Dutch and always did! If I had all them silks and satins I'd pick out the handsomest and wear that first, and next handsome next, and keep right on, one after another, till I'd tried the lot, if I had to change a dozen times a day. See! I found them cardinal flowers down by the brook and fetched 'em to you." With one of her sudden changes of mood Alfaretta dropped down upon the floor and pulled from the pocket of her old-fashioned skirt a cheap paper pad. It was well scribbled with penciled notes which the girl critically examined, as she explained: "You see, Dorothy, that your story is like reading a library book, only more so; and lest I should forget some part of it I've wrote it all down. Listen. I'll read while you finish fixin'. My! What a finicky girl you are! You was born----" "But, Alfy, please! I protest against hearing my own history that way!" cried the other, making a playful dash toward the notes, which Alfaretta as promptly hid behind her. Then, knowing from experience that contest was useless, Dorothy resigned herself to hearing the following data droned forth: "You was born----" "Of course!" "'Twon't do you a mite of good to interrupt. I'm in real down earnest. You'll--you'll be goin' away again, pretty soon, and having come into your fortunes you'll be forgettin'----" Here Alfy sobbed and dabbed her knuckles into her eyes--"'Cause Ma says 'tain't likely you'll ever be the same girl again----" "I should like to know why not? Go on with your story-notes. I'd even rather hear them than you talking foolishly!" "Well, I'll have to begin all over again. You was born. Your parents were respectful--respective--hmm! all right folks though deluged with poverty. Then they died and left you a little, squallin' baby----" "Alfy, dear, that's unkind! I don't admit that I ever could be a squaller!" Alfaretta raised her big eyes and replied: "I ain't makin' that up. It's exactly what Mis' Calvert said her own self. 'Twas why she wouldn't bother raisin' you herself after your Pa and Ma died and sent you to her. So she turned you into a foundling orphan and your Father John and Mother Martha brung you up. Then your old Aunt Betty got acquainted with you an' liked you, and sort of hankered to get you back again out of the folkses' hands what had took all the trouble of your growing into a sizable girl. Some other folks appear to have took a hand in the business of huntin' up your really truly name; and Ma Babcock she says that Mis' Calvert'd have had to own up to your bein' her kin after awhile, whether or no; so she just up and told the whole business; and here you be--a nairess! and so rich you won't never know old friends again--maybe--though I always thought you--you--you--Oh! my!" Alfaretta bowed her head to her knees and began to cry with the same vigor she brought to every act of her life. But she didn't cry for long; because Dorothy was promptly down upon the floor, also, and pulling the weeper's hands from her flushed face, commanded: "It's my turn. I've a story to tell. It's all about a girl named Alfaretta Babcock, who was the first friend I ever had 'up-mounting,' and is going to be my friend all my life unless she chooses otherwise. This Alfy I'm talking about is one of the truest, bravest girls in the world. The only trouble is that she gets silly notions into her auburn head, once in a while, and it takes kisses just like these--and these--and these--to drive them out. She's going to be a teacher when she grows up----" Alfy's tears were dried, her face smiling, as she now interrupted: "No. I've changed my mind. I'm either going to be a trained nurse or a singer in an opera. Premer donners, they call 'em." "Heigho! Why all that?" Alfaretta dropped her voice to a whisper and cautiously glanced over her shoulder as she explained: "Greatorex!" "Miss Greatorex? What has that poor, learned dear to do with it?" demanded Dorothy, astonished. "Everything. You see, she's the first woman teacher I ever saw--the first _woman_ one. Rather than grow into such a stiff, can't-bend-to-save-your-life kind of person I'd do 'most anything. Hark! There's somebody to the door!" Both girls sprang to open it and found a maid with a summons to breakfast; also with the request that "Miss Dorothy should attend Mrs. Calvert in her own room before going below stairs." Dorothy sped away but Alfaretta lingered to put the cardinal flowers into a vase and to admire afresh the beautiful apartment assigned to her friend. There was honest pleasure in the good fortune which had come to another and yet there was a little envy mingled with the pleasure. It was with a rather vicious little shake that she picked up the soft bath-robe Dorothy had discarded and folded it about her own shoulders; but the reflection of her own face in the mirror opposite so surprised her by its crossness that she stared, then laughed aloud. "Huh! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Alfy Babcock? When you put on that two-sticks, ten-penny-nails-look you're homely enough to eat hay! 'Tain't so long ago that Dolly hadn't no more in this world than you've got this minute. Not half so much either, 'cause she hadn't nobody belongin', nobody at all, whilst you had a Ma and Pa and a whole slew of brothers and sisters. All she's found yet is a terrible-old great-aunt and some money. Pa says 'money's no good,' and--I guess I'll go get my breakfast, too." Her good temper quite restored, this young philosopher skipped away and joined her mother and sisters in the great kitchen where they were already seated at table. In Mrs. Calvert's room the happy old lady greeted Dorothy with such a warmth of affection that the girl felt no lack of others "belongin'"--for which lack Alfaretta had pitied her--and only yearned to find a way to show her own love and gratitude. There followed a happy half-hour of mutual confidences, a brief reading of the Word, a simple prayer for blessing on their new lives together, and the pair descended to the cheerful room where their guests were assembling: each, it seemed, enjoying to the utmost their beautiful surroundings and their hostess's hospitality. Jests flew, laughter rang, and the Judge could scarcely refrain from song; when just as the meal was over James Barlow appeared at the long, open window, his mail bag over his shoulder, and instant silence succeeded as each person within waited eagerly for his share in the contents of the pouch. There were letters in plenty, and some faces grew grave over their reading, while for the Judge there was a telegram which Jim explained had just come to the office where was, also, the post-office. "Hmm! that ends my vacation in earnest! I meant to stay a bit longer out of business, but--Mrs. Calvert, when's the next train cityward, please?" Mrs. Betty returned: "I've half a mind not to tell you! But, of course, if--Dorothy, you'll find a parcel of time tables in that desk by the fireplace. Take them to Judge Breckenridge, please." Nor was he the only one to make them useful; for it followed that the Deerhurst "infair," begun on the night before and planned to extend over several days must be abruptly ended. The hostess was herself summoned elsewhere, to attend the sick bed of a lifelong friend, and the summons was not one to be denied. Even while she was reading the brief note she knew that she must forsake her post and with a thrill of pride reflected that now she had one of her own kin to install in her place. Young as Dorothy was she must act as the hostess of Deerhurst, even to these gray-headed guests now gathered there. But, presently it appeared, that there would be no guests to entertain. President Ryall was needed to supervise some changes at his college; merchant Ihrie must hasten to disentangle some badly mixed business affairs; Dr. Mantler would miss the "most interesting case on record if he did not come at once to his hospital;" and so, to the four old "boys," who had camped together in the Markland forests, the end of playtime had indeed come, and each after his kind must resume his man's work for the world. Young Tom Hungerford's furlough from West Point expired that morning, and his mother felt that when he returned to the Academy she must establish herself for a time at the hotel near-by. At her invitation Mrs. Cook and Melvin were to accompany her; that these Nova Scotians might see something of lads' military training outside their own beloved Province. Catching the general spirit of unrest, Miss Greatorex suddenly announced that it was time she returned to the Rhinelander. Maybe she dreaded being left the only adult in the house, for as yet no mention had been made as to the disposal of her charges, Molly and Dolly. Certainly, she felt that having been burdened with their cares during the long summer she was entitled to a few days' rest before the beginning of a new school year. The lady added: "Besides all that, I shall have no more than sufficient time to arrange my specimens that I obtained in Markland." A short silence fell once more upon that company in the breakfast room, and somehow the brilliant sunshine seemed to dim as if a storm were rising; or was it but a mist of disappointment rising to Dorothy's eyes as she glanced from one to another and realized how well she loved them each and all, and how sad the parting was. But her last glance fell upon her Aunt Betty's face and she bravely smiled back into the kindly eyes so tenderly smiling upon her. After all, that was the Calvert way! To meet whatever came with "head erect and colors flying," and she, too, was Calvert. She'd prove it! Cried she, with that characteristic toss of her brown curls: "Well, if everybody _must_--what can I do to help? As for you two, darling 'father' and 'mother,' I hope nothing's going to take you away from Deerhurst all of a sudden, like the rest!" But there was, although there was no suddenness in this decision. As they presently informed her, the crippled ex-postman had made himself so useful at the sanitarium where he had spent the summer that he had been offered a permanent position there, at a larger salary than he had ever received as letter-carrier in Baltimore. He had also secured for his wife Martha a position as matron of the institution; and the independence thus achieved meant more to that ambitious woman than even a care-free home with her beloved foster-child. The death of their old aunt had released Martha from that separation from her husband which had so sorely tried her and, though sorry to part again from Dorothy, she was still a very happy woman. "We shall always love one another, Dolly dear, but we've come to 'the parting of the ways.' Each as the Lord leads, little girl; but what is the reason, now that Mrs. Calvert's grown-up party has ended, what is the reason, I say, that you don't give a House Party of your very own?" CHAPTER II CHOOSING THE GUESTS Those who must go went quickly. By trains and boats, the various guests who had gathered at Deerhurst to welcome Dorothy's home-coming had departed, and at nightfall the great house seemed strangely empty and deserted. Even Ma Babcock had relinquished her post as temporary housekeeper and had hurried across the river to nurse a seriously ill neighbor. "I may be back tomorrer and I may not be back till the day after never! I declare I'm all of a fluster, what with Mis' Calvert goin' away sort of leavin' me in charge--though them old colored folks o' her'n didn't like that none too well!--and me havin' to turn my back on duty this way. But sickness don't wait for time nor tide and typhoid's got to be tended mighty sharp; and I couldn't nohow refuse to go to one Mis' Judge Satterlee's nieces, she that's been as friendly with me as if I was a regular 'ristocratic like herself. No, when a body's earned a repitation for fetchin' folks through typhoid you got to live up to it. Sorry, Dolly C.; but I'll stow the girls, Barry and Clarry and the rest, 'round amongst the neighbors somewhere, 'fore I start. As for you, Alfy----" "Oh, Mrs. Babcock! Don't take Alfy away! Please, please don't!" cried Dorothy, fairly clutching at the matron's flying skirts, already disappearing through the doorway. Mrs. Babcock switched herself free and answered through the opening: "All right. Alfy can do as she likes. She can go down help tend store to Liza Jane's, t'other village, where she's been asked to go more'n once, or finish her visit to you. Ary one suits me so long as you don't let nor hender me no more." Not all of this reply was distinct, for it was finished on the floor above, whither the energetic farm-wife had sped to "pack her duds"; but enough was heard to set Alfaretta skipping around the room in an ecstasy of delight, exclaiming: "I'm to be to the House Party! Oh! I'm to be to the Party!" But this little episode had been by daylight, and now the dusk had fallen. The great parlors were shut and dark. Prudent old Ephraim had declared: "I ain't gwine see my Miss Betty's substance wasted, now she's outer de way he'se'f. One lamp in de hall's ernuf fo' seein' an' doan' none yo chillen's go foolin' to ast mo'." So the long halls were dim and full of shadows; the wind had risen and howled about the windows, which were being carefully shuttered by the servants against the coming storm which Dinah prophesied would prove the "ekernoctial" and a "turr'ble one"; and to banish the loneliness which now tormented her, Dorothy proposed: "Let's go into the library. There's a fine fire on the hearth and the big lamp is stationary. Ephraim can't find fault with us for using that. We'll make out a list of the folks to ask. You, Alfy, shall do the writing, you do write such a fine, big hand. Come on, Molly girl! I'm so glad you begged to stay behind your Auntie Lu. Aren't you?" "Ye-es, I reckon so!" answered the little Southerner, with unflattering hesitation. "But it's mighty lonesome in this big house without her and West Point's just--just heavenly!" "Any place would be 'heavenly' to you, Molly Breckenridge, that was full of boys!" retorted Dolly. "But don't fancy you'd be allowed to see any of those cadets even if you were there. Beg pardon, girlie, I don't want to be cross, but how can I have a decent party if you don't help? Besides, there's Monty and Jim left. They ought to count for something." "Count for mighty little, seems if, the way they sneak off by themselves and leave us alone. Gentlemen, _Southern_ gentlemen, wouldn't act that way!" "Oh, sillies! What's the use of spoiling a splendid time? It's just like a cow givin' a pailful of milk then turnin' round and kickin' it over!" cried good-natured Alfy, throwing an arm around each girl's shoulders and playfully forcing her into the cheery library and into a great, soft chair. Of course, they all laughed and hugged one another and acknowledged that they had been "sillies" indeed; and a moment later three girlish heads were bending together above the roomy table, whereon was set such wonderful writing materials as fairly dazzled Alfaretta's eyes. So impressed was she that she exclaimed as if to herself: "After all, I guess I won't be a trained nurse nor a opera singer. I'll be a writin' woman and have just such pens and things as these." "Oh, Alfy, you funny dear! You change your mind just as often as I used to!" "Don't you change it no more, then, Dorothy C.?" demanded the other, quickly. "No. I don't think I shall ever change it again. I shall do everything the best I can, my music and lessons and all that, but it'll be just for one thing. I lay awake last night wondering how best I could prove grateful for all that's come to me and I reckon I've found out, and it's so--so simple, too." "Ha! Let's hear this fine and simple thing, darling Dolly Doodles, and maybe we'll both follow your illustrious example!" cried Molly, smiling. "To--to make everybody I know as--as happy as I can;" answered the other slowly. "Huh! That's nothing! And you can begin right now, on ME!" declared Miss Alfaretta Babcock, with emphasis. "How?" "Help me to tell who's to be invited." "All right. Head the list with Alfaretta Babcock." "Cor-rect! I've got her down already. Next?" "Molly Breckenridge." "Good enough. Down she goes. Wait till I get her wrote before you say any more." They waited while Alfy laboriously inscribed the name and finished with the exclamation: "That's the crookedest back-name I ever wrote." "You acted as if it hurt you, girlie! You wriggled your tongue like they do in the funny pictures;" teased Molly, but the writer paid no heed. "Next?" "Dorothy Calvert." "So far so good. But them three's all girls. To a party there ought to be as many boys. That's the way we did to our last winter's school treat," declared Alfaretta. "Well, there's Jim Barlow. He's a boy." "He's no _party_ kind of a boy," objected Molly, "and he's only--_us_. She hasn't anybody down that isn't us, so far. We few can't make a whole party." But Dolly and Alfy were wholly serious. "Montmorency Vavasour-Stark," suggested the former, and the writer essayed that formidable name. Then she threw down the pen in dismay, exclaiming: "You'll have to indite that yourself or spell it out to me letter by letter. He'll take more'n a whole line if I write him to match the others." "Oh! he doesn't take up much room, he's so little," reassured idle Molly, with a mischievous glance toward the doorway which the other girls did not observe; while by dint of considerable assistance Alfy "got him down" and "all on one line!" as she triumphantly remarked. "That's two boys and three girls. Who's your next boy?" "Melvin Cook. He's easy to write," said Dolly. "But he's gone." "Yes, Alfy, but he can come back. They'll all have to 'come' except we who don't have to." A giggle from behind the portières commented upon this remark and speeding to part them Dolly revealed the hiding figures of their two boy house-mates. "That's not nice of young gentlemen, to peep and listen," remarked Molly, severely; "but since you've done it, come and take your punishment. You'll have to help. James Barlow, you are appointed the committee of 'ways and means.' I haven't an idea what that 'means,' but I know they always have such a committee." "What 'they,' Miss Molly?" "I don't know, Mister Barlow, but you're--it." "Monty, you'll furnish the entertainment," she continued. The recipient of this honor bowed profoundly, then lifted his head with a sudden interest as Dorothy suggested the next name: "Molly Martin." Even Alfy looked up in surprise. "Do you mean it, Dorothy C.?" "Surely. After her put Jane Potter." James was listening now and inquired: "What you raking up old times for, Dorothy? Inviting them south-siders that made such a lot of trouble when you lived 'up-mounting' afore your folks leased their farm?" "Whose 'Party' is this?" asked the young hostess, calmly, yet with a twinkle in her eye. "All of our'n," answered Alfaretta, complacently. "How many girls now, Alfy?" questioned Molly, who longed to suggest some of her schoolmates but didn't like a similar reproof to that which fell so harmlessly from Alfaretta's mind. "Five," said the secretary, counting upon her fingers. "Me, and you, and her, and----five. Correct." "Mabel Bruce." "Who's she? I never heard of her," wondered Molly, while Jim answered: "She's a girl 'way down in Baltimore. Why, Dorothy C., you know she can't come here!" "Why not? Listen, all of you. This is to be _my_ House Party. It's to be the very nicest ever was. One that everyone who is in it will never, never forget. My darling Aunt Betty gave me permission to ask anybody I chose and to do anything I wanted. She said I had learned some of the lessons of poverty and now I had to begin the harder ones of having more money than most girls have. She said that I mustn't feel badly if the money brought me enemies and some folks got envious." Here, all unseen by the speaker, honest Alfaretta winced and put her hand to her face; but she quickly dropped it, to listen more closely. "Mabel was a dear friend even when I was that 'squalling baby' Alfy wrote about. I am to telegraph for her and to send her a telegraphic order for her expenses, though Aunt Betty wasn't sure _that_ would be acceptable to Mr. and Mrs. Bruce. To prevent any misunderstanding on that point, you are to make the telegram real long and explicit. I reckon that's what it means to be that committee Molly named. She'll make six girls and that's enough. Six boys--how many yet Alfy?" "Three. Them two that are and the one that isn't." "Mike Martin." Both Jim and Alfy exclaimed in mutual protest: "Why Dorothy! That fellow? you must be crazy." "No, indeed! I'm the sanest one here. That boy is doing the noblest work anybody ever did on this dear old mountain; he's making and keeping the peace between south-side and north-side." "How do you know, Dorothy?" asked Jim, seriously. "No matter how I know but I do know. Why, I wouldn't leave him out of my Party for anything. I'd almost rather be out of it myself!" Then both he and Alfaretta remembered that winter day on the mountain when Dorothy had been the means of saving Mike Martin from an accidental death and the quiet conference afterward of the two, in that inner room of the old forge under the Great Balm Tree. Probably something had happened then and there to make Dolly so sure of Mike's worthiness. But she was already passing on to "next," nodding toward Alfy, with the words: "The two Smith boys, Littlejohn and Danny." Jim Barlow laughed but did not object. The sons of farmer Smith were jolly lads and deserved a good time, once in their hard-worked lives; yet he did stare when Dorothy concluded her list of lads with the name: "Frazer Moore." "You don't know him very well, Dolly girl. Beside that, he'll make an odd number. He's the seventh----" "Son of the seventh son--fact!" interrupted Alfaretta; "and now we'll have to find another girl to match him." "I've found the girl, Dolly, but she won't match. Helena Montaigne came up on the train by which your Father John left for the north. You could hardly leave her out from your House Party, or from givin' her the bid to it, any way." "Helena home? Oh! I am so glad, I am so glad! Of course, she'll get the 'bid'; I'll take it to her myself the first thing to-morrow morning. But you didn't mention Herbert. Hasn't he come, too?" James Barlow nodded assent but grudgingly. He had never in his heart quite forgiven Herbert Montaigne for their difference in life; as if it were the fault of the one that he had been born the son of the wealthy owner of The Towers and of the other that he was a penniless almshouse child. Second thoughts, however, always brought nobler feeling into the honest heart of Jim and a flush of shame rose to his face as he forced himself to answer. "Yes, course. The hull fambly's here." Dorothy checked the teasing words which rose to her lips, for when ambitious Jim relapsed so hopelessly into incorrect speech it was a sign that he was deeply moved; and it was a relief to see Alfaretta once more diligently count upon her fingers and to hear her declare: "We'll never'll get this here list straight and even, never in this endurin' world. First there's a girl too many and now there's a girl too short!" "Never mind; we'll make them come out even some way, and I'll find another girl. I don't know who, yet, and we mustn't ask any more or there'll be no places for them to sleep. Now we've settled the guests let's settle the time. We'll have to put it off two or three days, to let them get here. I wish your cousin Tom Hungerford could be asked to join us but I don't suppose he could come," said Dolly to her friend Molly. "No, he couldn't. It was the greatest favor his getting off just for those few hours. A boy might as well be in prison as at West Point!" "What? At that 'heavenly' place? Let's see. This is Wednesday night. Saturday would be a nice time to begin the Party, don't you all think?" "Fine. Week-end ones always do begin on Saturday but the trouble is they break up on Monday after;" answered Molly. "Then ours is to be a double week-ender. Aunt Betty said 'invite them for a week.' That's seven days, and now Master Stark comes your task. As a committee of entertainment you are to provide some new, some different, fun for us every single one of those seven days; and it must be something out of the common. I long, I just long to have my home-finding House Party so perfectly beautiful that nobody in it will ever, ever forget it!" Looking into her glowing face the few who were gathered about her inwardly echoed her wish, and each, in his or her own way, resolved to aid in making it as "perfect" as their young hostess desired. Monty heaved a prodigious sigh. "You've given me the biggest task, Dolly Doodles! When a fellow's brain is no better than mine----" "Nonsense, Montmorency Vavasour-Stark! You know in your little insides that you're ''nigh tickled to death' as Alfy would say. Aren't you the one who always plans the entertainments--the social ones--at your school, Brentnor Hall? You're as proud as Punch this minute, and you know it, sir. Don't pretend otherwise!" reproved Molly, severely. "Yes, but--that was different. I had money then. I hadn't announced my decision to be independent of my father and he--he hadn't taken me too literally at my word;" and with a whimsical expression the lad emptied his pockets of the small sums they contained and spread the amount on the table. "There it is, all of it, Lady of the Manor, at your service! Getting up entertainments is a costly thing, but--as far as it goes, I'll try my level best!" They all laughed and Dorothy merrily heaped the coins again before him. "You forget, and so I have to remind you, that this is to be _my_ Party! I don't ask you to spend your money but just your brains in this affair." "Huh! Dorothy! I'm afraid they won't go much further than the cash!" he returned, but nobody paid attention to this remark, they were so closely watching Dorothy. She had opened a little leather bag which lay upon the table and now drew from it a roll of bills. Crisp bank notes, ten of them, and each of value ten dollars. "Whew! Where did you get all that, Dorothy Calvert?" demanded Jim Barlow, almost sternly. To him the money seemed a fortune, and that his old companion of the truck-farm must still be as poor in purse as he. She was nearly as grave as he, as she spread the notes out one by one in the place where Monty had displayed his meager sum. "My Great-Aunt Betty gave them to me. It is her wish that I should use this money for the pleasure of my friends. She says that it is a first portion of my own personal inheritance, and that if I need more----" "More!" they fairly gasped; for ten times ten is a hundred, and a hundred dollars--Ah! What might not be done with a whole one hundred dollars? "'Twould be wicked," began James, in an awestruck tone, but was not allowed to finish, for practical Alfaretta, her big eyes fairly glittering, was rapidly counting upon her fingers and trying to do that rather difficult "example" of "how many times will seven go into one hundred and how much over?" "Seven into ten, once and three; seven into thirty--Ouch!" Her computation came to a sudden end. The storm had broken, all unnoticed till then, and a mighty crash as if the whole house were falling sent them startled to their feet. CHAPTER III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST For an instant the group was motionless from fear; then Jim made a dash for the front entrance whence, apparently, the crash had come. There had been no thunder accompanying the storm which now raged wildly over the mountain top, and Alfy found sufficient voice to cry: "'Tain't no lightnin' stroke. _Somethin's_ fell!" The words were so inadequate to the description that Molly laughed nervously, and in relieved tension all followed James forward; only to find themselves rudely forced back by old Ephraim, gray with fear and anxiety. "Stan' back dere, stan' back, you-alls! 'Tis Eph'am's place to gyard Miss Betty's chillens!" He didn't look as if the task were an agreeable one and the lads placed themselves beside him as he advanced and with trembling hands tried to unbar the door. This time he did not repulse them, and it was well, for as the bolts slid and the heavy door was set free it fell inward with such force that he would have been crushed beneath it had they not been there to draw him out of its reach. "Oh! oh! oh! The great horse chestnut!" cried Dorothy, springing aside from contact with the branches which fell crowding through the doorway. Hinges were torn from their places and the marvel was that the beautifully carved door had not itself been broken in bits. Jim was the first to rally and to find some comfort in the situation, exclaiming: "That's happened exactly as I feared it would, some day; and it's a mercy there wasn't nobody sittin' on that piazza. They'd ha' been killed dead, sure as pisen!" "Killing generally does mean death, Jim Barlow, but if you knew that splendid tree was bound to fall some day why didn't you say so? We--" with a fine assumption of proprietorship in Deerhurst--"we would have had it prevented," demanded Dorothy. Already she felt that this was home; already she loved the fallen tree almost as its mistress had done and her feeling was so sincere, if new, that nobody smiled, and the lad answered soberly: "I have told, Dolly girl. I kept on tellin' Mrs. Calvert how that lily-pond she would have dug out deeper an' deeper, and made bigger all the time, would for certain undermine that tree and make it fall. But--but she's an old lady 't knows her own mind and don't allow nobody else to know it for her! Old Hans, the gardener, he talked a heap, too; begged her to have the pond cemented an' that wouldn't hender the lilies blowin' and'd stop trouble. But, no. She wouldn't listen. Said she 'liked things perfectly natural' and--Well, she's got 'em now!" "Jim Barlow, you're--just horrid! and--ungrateful to my precious Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, indignant tears springing to her eyes. To her the fallen tree seemed like a stricken human being and the catastrophe a terrible one. "It's taken that grand chestnut years and years and years--longer'n you or I will ever live, like enough--to grow that big, and to be thrown down all in a minute, and--you don't care a mite, except to find your own silly opinion prove true!" "Hold on, Dolly girl. This ain't no time for you an' me to begin quarrelin'. I do care. I care more'n I can say but that don't hender the course o' nature. The pond was below; 'twas fed by a spring from above; she had trenches dug so that spring-water flowed right spang through the roots of that chestnut into the pond; and what could follow except what did? I'm powerful sorry it's happened but I can't help bein' common-sensible over it." "I hate common-sense!" cried Molly, coming to the support of her friend. "Anyway, I don't see what good we girls do standing here in this draughty hall. Let's go to bed." "And leave the house wide open this way?" Dorothy's sense of responsibility was serious enough to her though amusing to the others, and it was Monty who brought her back to facts by remarking: "The house always has been taken care of, Dolly Doodles, and I guess it will be now. Jim and I will get some axes and lop off these branches that forced the door in and prop it shut the best way we can. Then I'll go down to the lodge with him to sleep for he says there's a room I can have. See? You girls will be well protected!" and he nodded toward the group of servants gathered at the rear of the great hall. "So you'd better take Molly's advice and go up-stairs." Dolly wasn't pleased to be thus set coolly aside in "her own house" but there seemed nothing better to do than follow this frank advice; therefore, taking a hand of each of her girl friends, she led the way toward her own pretty chamber and two small rooms adjoining. "Aunt Betty thought we three'd like to be close together, and anyway, if we had all come that I wanted to invite we'd have to snug up some. So she told Dinah to fix her dressing-room for one of you--that's this side mine; and the little sewing-room for the other. She's put single beds in them and Dinah is to sleep on her cot in this wide hall outside our doors. It seemed sort of foolish to me, first off, when darling Auntie planned it, as if anything could happen to make us need Dinah so near; but now--My! I can't stop trembling, somehow. I was so frightened and sorry." "I'm sorry, too, and I'm scared, too; but I'm sleepier'n I'm ary one," yawned Alfaretta. "I'm sleepy, too;" assented Molly; and even the excited Dorothy felt a strange drowsiness creeping over her. It would be the correct thing, she had imagined, to lie awake and grieve over the loss of Mrs. Calvert's beloved tree, which would now be cut into ignominious firewood and burned upon a hearth; but--in five minutes after her head had touched her pillow she was sound asleep as her mates already were. Outside, the storm abated and the moon arose, lighting the scenery with its brilliance and setting the still dripping trees aglitter with its glory. Moonlight often made Dorothy wakeful and did so on this eventful night. Its rays streaming across her unshaded window roused her to sit up, and with the action came remembrance. "My heart! That money! All those beautiful new bills that are to buy pleasant things for my Party guests! I had it all spread out on the library table when that crash came and I never thought of it again! Nobody else, either, I fancy. I'll go right down and get it and I mustn't wake the girls or Dinah. It was careless of me, it surely was; but I know enough about money to understand it shouldn't be left lying about in that way." Creeping softly from her bed she drew on her slippers and kimono as Miss Rhinelander had taught her pupils always to do when leaving their rooms at night, and the familiar school-habit proved her in good stead this time. Once she would have stopped for neither; but now folding the warm little garment about her she tiptoed past old Dinah, snoring, and down the thickly carpeted stairs, whereon her slippered feet made no sound. Quite noiselessly she came to the library door and pushed the portière aside. Into this room, also, the moonlight streamed, making every object visible. She had glanced, as she came along the hall, toward the big door, bolstered into place by the heavy settle and hat-rack; and the latter object looked so like a gigantic man standing guard that she cast no second look but darted within the lighter space. Hark! What was that sound? Somebody breathing? Snoring? A man's snore, so like that of dear Father John who used, sometimes, to keep her awake, though she hadn't minded that because she loved him so. The sound, frightful at first, became less so as she remembered those long past nights, and mustering her courage she tiptoed toward the figure on the lounge. Old Ephraim! Well, she didn't believe Aunt Betty would have permitted even that faithful servant to spend a night upon her cherished leather couch; but the morning would be time enough to reprimand him for his audacity, which, of course, she must do, since she stood now in Mrs. Calvert's place, as temporary head of the family. She felt gravely responsible and offended as she crossed the room to the table where three chairs still grouped sociably together, exactly as the three girls had left them. Ah! yes. The chairs were in their places, Alfaretta's list of guests as well, and even the little leather bag out of which she had drawn the wealth that so surprised her mates. But the ten crisp notes she had so spread out in the sight of all--where were they? Certainly nowhere to be seen, although that revealing moonlight made even Alfy's written words quite legible. What could have become of them? Who had taken them? And why? Supposing somebody had stolen in and stolen them? Supposing that was why he was sleeping in the library? Yet, if there had been thievery there, wouldn't he have kept awake, to watch? Supposing--here a horrible thought crept into her mind--supposing _he_, himself, had been the thief! She was southern born and had the southerner's racial distrust of a "nigger's" honesty; yet--as soon as thought she was ashamed of the suspicion. Aunt Betty trusted him with far more than she missed now. She would go over to that window and think it out. Maybe the sleeper would awake in a minute and she could ask him about it. The question was one destined to remain unasked. As she stood gazing vacantly outward, her hands clasped in perplexity, something moving arrested her attention. A small figure in white, or what seemed white in that light. It was circling the pond where the water-lilies grew and was swaying to and fro as if dancing to some strange measure. Its skirts were caught up on either side by the hands resting upon its hips and the apparition was enough to startle nerves that had not already been tried by the events of that night. Dorothy stood rooted to the spot. Then a sudden movement of the dancer which brought her perilously near the water's edge recalled her common sense. "Why, it's one of the girls! It must be! Which? She doesn't look like either--is she sleep-walking? Who, what can it mean?" Another instant and she had opened the long sash and sped out upon the rain-soaked lawn; and she was none too soon. As if unseeing, or unfearing, the strange figure swept nearer and nearer to the moonlit water, its feet already splashing in it, when Dorothy's arms were flung around it to draw it into safety. "Why--" began the rescuer and could say no more. The face that slowly turned toward her was one that she had never seen before. It was the face of a child under a mass of gray hair, and its expression strangely vacant and inconsequent. Danger, fear, responsibility meant nothing to this little creature whom Dorothy had saved from drowning, and with a sudden pitiful memory of poor, half-witted Peter Piper who had loved her so, she realized that here was another such as he. In body and mind the child had never grown up, though her years were many. "Come this way, little lady. Come with me. Let us go into the house;" said the girl gently, and led the stranger to the window she had left open. "You must be the odd guest I needed for my House Party, to make the couples even, and so I bid you welcome. Strange, the window should be shut!" But closed it was; nor could all the girl's puny pounding bring help to open it. Against the front door the great tree still pressed and she could not reach its bell; and confused by all she had passed through Dorothy forgot that there were other entrances where help could be summoned and sank down on the piazza floor beside her first, her uninvited guest, to wait for morning. CHAPTER IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING But a few moments sufficed to show that this would not do. Despite her own heavy kimono she was already chilled by the air of that late September night, while the little creature beside her was shivering as if in ague, although she seemed to be half-asleep. She reasoned that Ephraim must have waked and closed the library window and departed to his own quarters. But there must be some way in which a girl could get into her own house; and then she exclaimed: "Why, yes! The sun-parlor, right at the end of this very piazza. All that south side is covered with glass and if I can get a sash up we can climb through. The place is as nice as a bedroom. Anyway, I'll try!" She left the stranger where she lay and ran to make the effort, and though for a time the heavy sash resisted her strength, it did yield slightly and her fresh fear that it had been locked vanished. Yet with her utmost endeavor she could lift it but a few inches and she wondered if she would be able to get her visitor through that scant opening. "I shall have to make her go through flat-wise, like crawling through fence bars, and I wonder if she will! Anyhow, I must try. I--I don't like it out here in the night and we'll both be sick of cold, and that would end our party." Dorothy never quite realized how that affair was managed. Though the wanderer appeared to hear well enough she did not speak and had not from the first. Probably she could not, but she could be as stubborn and difficult as possible and she was certainly exhausted from exposure. It was a harder task than lifting the great window, but, at last, by dint of pushing and coaxing, even shoving, the inert small woman was forced through the opening and dropped upon the matted floor, where she remained motionless. Dolly squeezed herself after and stooped above her guest, anxiously asking: "Did that hurt you? I'm sorry, but there was no other way. Please try to get up and lie down. See? There are two nice lounges here and lots of 'comfy' chairs. Shawls and couch-covers in plenty--Why! it'll be like a picnic!" The guest made no effort to rise but waved the other aside with a sleepy, impatient gesture, then fell to shaking again as if she were desperately cold. Dorothy was too frightened to heed these objections and since it was easier to roll a lounge to the sufferer than to argue, she did so and promptly had her charge upon it; but she first stripped off the damp cotton gown from the shaking body and wrapped it in all the rugs and covers she could find. She did not attempt to penetrate further into the house then, because she knew that Ephraim had bolted and barred the door leading thither. She had watched him do so with some amusement, early in the evening, and had playfully asked him if he expected any burglars. He had disdained to reply further than by shaking his wise old head, but had omitted no precaution because of her raillery. "Well, this may not be as nice as in my own room but it's a deal better than out of doors. That poor little thing isn't shivering so much and--she's asleep! She's tired out, whoever she is and wherever she came from, and I'm tired, also. I can't do any better till daylight comes and I'll curl up in this big chair and go to sleep, too," said Dorothy to herself. She wakened to find the sunlight streaming through the glass and to hear a chorus of voices demanding, each in a various key: "Why, Dorothy C!" "How could you?" "Yo' done gib we-all de wussenes' sca', you' ca'less chile! What yo' s'posin' my Miss Betty gwine ter say when she heahs ob dis yeah cuttin's up? Hey, honey? Tell me dat!" But Dinah's reproofs were cut short as her eye fell upon the rug-heaped lounge and saw the pile of them begin to move. As yet no person was visible and she stared at the suddenly agitated covers as if they were bewitched. Presently, they were flung aside; and revealed upon a crimson pillow lay a face almost as crimson. "Fo' de lan' ob lub! How come dat yeah--dis--What's hit mean, li'l gal Do'thy?" Dolly had not long been missed nor, when she was, had anybody felt serious alarm, though the girl guests had both been aggrieved that she should not have wakened them in time to be prompt for breakfast. They dressed hurriedly when Norah came a second time to summon them, explaining: "Miss Dorothy's room is empty and her clothes on the chairs. I must go seek her for she shouldn't do this way if she wants to keep cook good natured for the Party. Delaying breakfast is a bad beginning." Then Norah departed and went about her business of dusting; and it was she who had found the missing girl in the sun-parlor, and it had been her cry of relief that brought the household to that place. Demanded old Ephraim sternly: "Why fo' yo'-all done leab yo' baid in de middle ob de night an' go sky-la'kin' eround dis yere scan'lous way, Missy Dolly Calve't? Tole me dat!" "Why do you leave yours, to sleep on the library couch, Ephraim?" she returned, keenly observing him from the enclosure of her girl friends' arms, who held her fast that she might not again elude them. Ephraim fairly jumped; though he looked not at her but in a timid way toward Dinah, still bending in anxious curiosity over the stranger on the couch; and she was not so engrossed but that her turbaned head rose with a snap and she fixed her fellow servant with a fiercely glaring eye. Between these two equally devoted members of "Miss Betty's" family had always existed a bitter jealousy as to which was the most loyal to their mistress's interests. Let either presume upon that loyalty, to indulge in a forbidden privilege, and the wrath of the other waxed furious. Both knew that for Ephraim to have lain where Dorothy had discovered him, during that past night, was "intol'able" presumption, and at Dinah's care would be duly reported upon and reprimanded. Alas! The old man's start and down-dropped gaze was proof in Dorothy's opinion of a graver guilt than Dinah imputed to him, and when he made no answer save a hasty exit from the room her heart sank. "Oh! how could he do it, how could he!" and then honesty suggested. "But I haven't asked him yet if he did take the bills!" and she smiled again at her own thoughts. Attention was now diverted to Dinah's picking up the stranger from the couch and also departing, muttering: "I 'low dis yeah's a mighty sick li'l creatur'! Whoebah she be she's done fotched a high fevah wid her, an' I'se gwine put her to baid right now!" Illness was always enough to enlist the old nurse's deepest interest and she had no further reproof for the delayed breakfasts or Ephraim's behavior. There followed a morning full of business for all. Jim Barlow and old Hans, with some grumbling assistance from the "roomatical" Ephraim, whose "misery" Dinah assured him had been aggravated by sleeping on a cold leather lounge instead of in his own feather-bed--these three spent the morning in clearing away the fallen tree, while a carpenter from the town repaired the injured doorway. When Dorothy approached Jim, intending to speak freely of her suspicions about the lost money, he cut her short by remarking: "What silliness! Course, it isn't really lost. You've just mislaid it, that's all, an' forgot. I do that, time an' again. Put something away so careful 't I can't find it for ever so long. You'll remember after a spell, and say, Dolly! I won't be able to write that telegram to Mabel Bruce. I've got no time to bother with a parcel o' girls. If I don't keep a nudgin' them two old men they won't do a decent axe's stroke. They spend all their time complainin' of their j'ints!" "Well, why don't you get a regular woodman to chop it up, then?" "An' waste Mrs. Calvert's good money, whilst there's a lot of idlers on her premises, eatin' her out of house and home? I guess not. I'd save for her quicker'n I would for myself, an' that's saying considerable. I'm no eye-servant, I'm not." "Huh! You're one mighty stubborn boy! And I don't think my darling Aunt Betty would hesitate to pay one extra day's help. I've heard her say that she disliked amateur labor. She likes professional skill," returned the girl, with decision. James Barlow laughed. "I reckon, Dolly C., that you've forgot the days when you and I were on Miranda Stott's truck-farm; when I cut firewood by the cord and you sat on the logs an' taught me how to spell. 'Twouldn't do for me to claim I can't split up one tree; and this one'll be as neat a job as you ever see, time I've done with it. Trot along and write your own telegrams; or get that Starky to do it for you. Ha, ha! He thought he could saw wood, himself. Said he learned it campin' out; but the first blow he struck he hit his own toes and blamed it on the axe being too heavy. Trot along with him, girlie, and don't hender me talkin'." The "Little Lady of the Manor," as President Ryall had called her, walked away with her nose in the air. Preferred to chop wood, did he? And it wasn't nice of him--it certainly wasn't nice--to set her thinking of that miserable old truck-farm and the days of her direst poverty. She was Dorothy Calvert now; a girl with a name and heiress of Deerhurst. She'd show him, horrid boy that he was! But just then his cheerful whistling reached her, and her indignation vanished. By no effort could she stay long angry with Jim. He was annoyingly "common-sensible," as he claimed, but he was also so straight and dependable that she admired him almost as much as she loved him. Yes, she had other friends now, and would doubtless gain many more, but none could ever be a truer one than this homely, plain-spoken lad. She spied the girls and Monty in the arbor and joined them; promptly announcing: "If our House Party is to be a success you three must help. Jim won't. He's going to chop wood. Monty, will you ride to the village and send that telegram to Mabel Bruce?" The lad looked up from the foot he had been contemplating and over which Molly and Alfy had been bending in sympathy, to answer by another question: "See that shoe, Dolly Calvert? Close shave that. Might have been my very flesh itself, and I'd have blood poisoning and an amputation, and then there'd have been telegrams sent--galore! Imagine my mother--if they had been!" "It wasn't your flesh, was it?" "That's as Yankee as I am. Always answer your own questions when you ask them and save a lot of trouble to the other fellow. No, I _wasn't_ hurt but I _might_ have been! Since I'm not, I'm at your service, Lady D. Providing you word your own message and give me a decent horse to ride." "There are none but 'decent' horses in our stable, Master Stark. I shall need Portia myself, or we girls will. You can go ask a groom to saddle one--that he thinks best. I see through you. You've just been getting these girls to waste sympathy on you and you shall be punished by our leaving you alone till lunch time. I'll write the message, of course. I'd be afraid you wouldn't put enough in. Only--let me think. How much do telegrams cost?" "Twenty-five cents for ten words," came the prompt reply. "But ten would hardly begin to talk! Is telephoning cheaper? You ought to know, being a boy." "Long distance telephoning is about as expensive a luxury as one can buy, young lady. But, why hesitate? It won't take all of that hundred dollars," he answered, swaggering a trifle over his superior knowledge. Out it came without pause or pretense, the dark suspicion that had risen in Dorothy's innocent mind: "But I haven't that hundred dollars! It's gone. It's--_stolen_!" "Dorothy Calvert! How dare you say such a thing?" It was Molly's horrified question that broke the long silence which had fallen on the group; and hearing her ask it gave to poor Dorothy the first realization of what an evil thing it was she had voiced. "I don't know! Oh! I don't know! I wish I hadn't. I didn't mean to tell, not yet; and I wish, I wish I had kept it to myself!" she cried in keen regret. For instantly she read in the young faces before her a reflection of her own hard suspicion and loss of faith in others; and something that her beloved Seth Winters had once said came to her mind: "Evil thoughts are more catching than the measles." Seth, that grand old "Learned Blacksmith!" To him she would go, at once, and he would help her in every way. Turning again to her mates she begged: "Forget that I fancied anybody might have taken it to keep. Of course, nobody would. Let's hurry in and get Mabel's invitation off. I think I've enough money to pay for a message long enough to explain what I want; and her fare here--well she'll have to pay that herself or her father will. I've asked to have Portia put to the pony cart and we girls will drive around and ask all the others. So glad they live on the mountain where we can get to them quick." "Dolly, shall you go to The Towers, to see that Montaigne girl?" asked Alfaretta, rather anxiously. "Yes, but you needn't go in if you don't want to, Alfy dear. I shall stay only just long enough to bid her welcome home and invite her for Saturday." "Oh! I shouldn't mind. I'd just as lief. Fact, I'd _admire_, only if I put on my best dress to go callin' in the morning what'll I have left to wear to the Party? And Ma Babcock says them Montaignes won't have folks around that ain't dressed up;" said the girl, so frankly that Molly laughed and Dorothy hastened to assure her: "That's a mistake, Alfy, dear, I think. They don't care about a person's clothes. It's what's inside the clothes that counts with sensible people, such as I believe they are. But, I'll tell you. It's not far from The Towers' gate to the old smithy and I must see Mr. Seth. I must. I'm so thankful that he didn't leave the mountain, too, with all the other grown-ups. So you can drop me at Helena's; and then you and Molly can drive around to all the other people we've decided to ask and invite them in my stead. You know where all of them live and Molly will go with you." "Can Alfy drive--safe?" asked Molly, rather anxiously. Dolly laughed. "Anybody can drive gentle Portia and Alfy is a mountain girl. But what a funny question for such a fearless rider as you, Molly Breckenridge!" "Not so funny as you think. It's one thing to be on the back of a horse you know and quite another to be behind the heels of another that its driver doesn't know! Never mind, Alfy. I'll trust you." "You can," Alfaretta complacently assured her; and the morning's drive proved her right. A happier girl had never lived than she as she thus acted deputy for the new little mistress of Deerhurst; whose story had lost none of its interest for the mountain folk because of its latest development. But it was not at all as a proud young heiress that Dorothy came at last to the shop under the Great Balm Tree and threw herself impetuously upon the breast of the farrier quietly reading beside his silent forge. "O, Mr. Seth! My darling Mr. Seth! I'm in terrible trouble and only you can help me!" His book went one way, his spectacles another, dashed from his hands by her heedless onrush; but he let them lie where they had fallen and putting his arm around her, assured her: "So am I. Therefore, let us condole with one another. You first." "I've lost Aunt Betty's hundred dollars!" Her friend fairly gasped, and held her from him to search her troubled face. "Whe-ew! That is serious. Yet lost articles are sometimes found. Out with the whole story, 'body and bones'--as my man Owen would say." Already relieved by the chance of telling her worries, Dorothy related the incidents of the night, and she met the sympathy she expected. But it was like the nature-loving Mr. Winters that he was more disturbed by the loss of the great chestnut tree than by that of the money. Also, the story of the stranger she had found wandering by the lily-pond moved him deeply. All suffering or afflicted creatures were precious in the sight of this noble old man and he commented now with pity on the distress of the friends from whom the unknown one had strayed. "How grieved they'll be! For it must have been from some private household she came, or escaped. There is no public asylum or retreat within many miles of our mountain, so far as I know. I wonder if we ought to advertise her in the local newspaper? Or, do you think it would be kinder to wait and let her people hunt her up? Tell me, Dolly, dear. The opinion of a child often goes straight to the point." "Oh! Don't advertise, please, Mr. Seth! Think. If she belonged to you or me we wouldn't want it put in the paper that--about--you know, the lost one being not quite right, someway. If anybody's loved her well enough to keep her out of an asylum they've loved her well enough to come and find her, quiet like, without anybody but kind hearted people having to know. If they don't love her--well, she's all right for now. Dinah's put her to bed and told me, just before I came away, that it was only the exposure which had made her ill. She had roused all right, after a nap, and had taken a real hearty breakfast. She's about as big as I am and Dinah's going to put some of my clothes on her while her own are done up. Everybody in the house was so interested and kind about her, I was surprised." "You needn't have been. People who have lived with such a mistress as Madam Betty Calvert must have learned kindness, even if they learned nothing else." Dorothy laughed. "Dear Mr. Seth, you love my darling Aunt Betty, too, don't you, like everybody does?" "Of course, and loyally. That doesn't prevent my thinking that she does unwise things." "O--oh!!" "Like giving a little girl one hundred dollars at a time to spend in foolishness." Dorothy protested: "It wasn't to be foolishness. It was to make people happy. You yourself say that to 'spread happiness' is the only thing worth while!" "Surely, but it doesn't take Uncle Sam's greenbacks to do that. Not many of them. When you've lived as long as I have you'll have learned that the things which dollars do _not_ buy are the things that count. Hello! 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'" The blacksmith rose as he finished his quotation and went to the wide doorway, across which a shadow had fallen, and from whence the sound of an irritable: "Whoa-oa, there!" had come. It was a rare patron of that old smithy and Seth concealed his surprise by addressing not the driver but the horse: "Well, George Fox! Good-morning to you!" George Fox was the property of miller Oliver Sands, and the Quaker and his steed were well known in all that locality. He was a fair-spoken man whom few loved and many feared, and between him and the "Learned Blacksmith" there was "no love lost." Why he had come to the smithy now Seth couldn't guess; nor why, as he stepped down from his buggy and observed, "I'd like to have thee look at George's off hind foot, farrier. He uses it----" he should do what he did. How it was "used" was not explained; for, leaving the animal where it stood, the miller sauntered into the building, hands in pockets, and over it in every part, even to its owner's private bedroom, as if he had a curiosity to see how his neighbor lived. Seth would have resented this, had it been worth while and if the miller's odd curiosity had not aroused the same feeling in himself. It was odd, he thought; but Seth Winters had nothing to hide and he didn't care. It was equally odd that George Fox's off hind foot was in perfect condition and had been newly shod at the other smithy, over the mountain, where all the miller's work was done. "It seems to be all right, Friend Oliver." "Forget that I troubled thee," answered the gray-clad Friend, as he climbed back to his seat and shook the reins over his horse's back, to instantly disappear down the road, but to leave a thoughtful neighbor, staring after him. "Hmm. That man's in trouble. I wonder what!" murmured Seth, more to himself than to Dorothy, who had drawn near to slip her hand in his. "Dear me! Everybody seems to be, this morning, Mr. Seth; and you haven't told me yours yet!" "Haven't I? Well, here it is!" He stooped his gray head to her brown one and whispered it in her ear; with the result that he had completely banished all her own anxieties and sent her laughing down the road toward home. CHAPTER V RIDDLES "There's a most remarkable thing about this House Party of ours! Every person invited has come and not one tried to get out of so doing! Three cheers for the Giver of the Party! and three times three for--all of us!" cried happy Seth Winters, from his seat of honor at the end of the great table in the dining-room, on the Saturday evening following. Lamps and candles shone, silver glittered, flower-bedecked and spotlessly clean, the wide apartment was a fit setting for the crowd of joyous young folk which had gathered in it for supper; and the cheers rang out as heartily as the master of the feast desired. Then said Alfaretta, triumphantly: "The Party has begun and I'm to it, I'm in it!" "So am I, so am I! Though I did have to invite myself!" returned Mr. Winters. "Strange that this little girl of mine should have left me out, that morning when she was inviting everybody, wholesale." For to remind her that he "hadn't been invited" was the "trouble" which he had stooped to whisper in Dorothy's ear, as she left him at the smithy door. So she had run home and with the aid of her friends already there had concocted a big-worded document, in which they begged his presence at Deerhurst for "A Week of Days," as they named the coming festivities; and also that he would be "Entertainer in Chief." "You see," confided Dolly, "now that the thing is settled and I've asked so many I begin to get a little scared. I've never been hostess before--not this way;--and sixteen people--I'm afraid I don't know enough to keep sixteen girls and boys real happy for a whole week. But dear Mr. Winters knows. Why, I believe that darling man could keep a world full happy, if he'd a mind." "Are you sorry you started the affair, Dolly Doodles? 'Cause if you are, you might write notes all round and have it given up. You'd better do that than be unhappy. Society folks would, I reckon," said Molly, in an effort to comfort her friend's anxiety. "I'm as bad as you are. It begins to seem as if we'd get dreadful tired before the week is out." "I'd be ashamed of myself if I did that, Molly, I'll go through with it even if none of you will help; though I must say I think it's--it's sort of mean for you boys, Jim and Monty, to beg off being 'committees.'" "The trouble with me, Dolly, is that my ideas have entirely given out. If you hadn't lost that hundred dollars I could get up a lot of jolly things. But without a cent in either of our pockets--Hmm," answered Monty, shrugging his shoulders. Jim said nothing. He was still a shy lad and while he meant to forget his awkwardness and help all he could he shrank from taking a prominent part in the coming affair. Alfaretta was the only one who wasn't dismayed, and her fear that the glorious event might be abandoned was ludicrous. "Pooh, Dorothy Calvert! I wouldn't be a 'fraid-cat, I wouldn't! Not if I was a rich girl like you've got to be and had this big house to do it in and folks to do the cookin' and sweepin', and--and rooms to sleep 'em in and everything!" she argued, breathlessly. "You funny, dear Alfaretta! It's not to be given up and I count on you more than anybody else to keep things going! With you and Mr. Seth--if he will--the Party cannot fail!" and Alfy's honest face was alight again. It had proved that the "Learned Blacksmith" "would" most gladly. At heart he was as young as any of them all and he had his own reasons for wishing to be at Deerhurst for a time. He had been more concerned than Dorothy perceived over the missing one hundred dollars, and he was anxious about the strange guest who had appeared in the night and who was so utterly unable to give an account of herself. So he had come, as had they all and now assembled for their first meal together, and Dorothy's hospitable anxiety had wholly vanished. Of course, all would go well. Of course, they would have a jolly time. The only trouble now, she thought, would be to choose among the many pleasures offering. There had been a new barn built at Deerhurst that summer, and a large one. This Mr. Winters had decreed should be the scene of their gayest hours with the big rooms of the old mansion for quieter ones; and to the barn they went on that first evening together, as soon as supper was over and the dusk fell. "Oh! how pretty!" cried Helena Montaigne, as she entered the place with her arm about Molly's waist, for they two had made instant friends. "I saw nothing so charming while I was abroad!" "Didn't you?" asked the other, wondering. "But it _is_ pretty!" In secret she feared that Helena would be a trifle "airish," and she felt that would be a pity. "Oh! oh! O-H!" almost screamed Dorothy, who had not been permitted to enter the barn for the last two days while, under the farrier's direction, the boys had had it in charge. Palms had been brought from the greenhouse and arranged "with their best foot forward" as Jim declared. Evergreens deftly placed made charming little nooks of greenery, where camp-chairs and rustic benches made comfortable resting places. Rafters were hung with strings of corn and gay-hued vegetables, while grape-vines with the fruit upon them covered the stalls and stanchions. Wire strung with Chinese lanterns gave all the light was needed and these were all aglow as the wide doors were thrown open and the merry company filed in. "My land of love!" cried Alfaretta. "It's just like a livin'-in-house, ain't it! There's even a stove and a chimney! Who ever heard tell of a stove in a barn?" "You have! And I, too, for the first time," said Littlejohn Smith at her elbow. "But I 'low it'll be real handy for the men in the winter time, to warm messes for the cattle and keep themselves from freezin'. Guess I know what it means to do your chores with your hands like chunks of ice! Wish to goodness Pa Smith could see this barn; 'twould make him open his eyes a little!" "A body could cook on that stove, it's so nice and flat. Or even pop corn," returned Alfaretta, practically. "Bet that's a notion! Say, Alfy, don't let on, but I'll slip home first chance I get and fetch some of that! I've got a lot left over from last year, 't I raised myself. I'll fetch my popper and if you can get a little butter out the house, some night, we'll give these folks the treat of their lives. What say?" Whatever might be the case with others of that famous Party these two old schoolmates were certainly "happy as blackbirds"--the only comparison that the girl found to fully suit their mood. When the premises had been fully explored and admired, cried Mr. Seth: "Blind man's buff! Who betters me?" "Nobody could--'Blind man's' it is!" seconded Monty, and gallantly offered: "I'll blind!" "Oh! no choosing! Do it the regular way," said Dolly. "Get in a row, please, all of you, and I'll begin with Herbert. 'Intry-mintry-cutry-corn; Apple-seed-and-apple-thorn; Wire-brier-limber-lock; Six-geese-in-a-flock; Sit-and-sing-by-the-spring; O-U-T--OUT!' Frazer Moore, you're--IT!" The bashful lad who was more astonished to find himself where he was than he could well express, and who had really been bullied into accepting Dorothy's invitation by his chum, Mike Martin, now awkwardly stepped forward from the circle. His face was as red as his hair and he felt as if he were all feet and hands, while it seemed to him that all the eyes in the room were boring into him, so pitilessly they watched him. In reality, if he had looked up, he would have seen that most of the company were only eagerly interested to begin the game, and that the supercilious glances cast his way came from Herbert Montaigne and Mabel Bruce alone. Another half-moment and awkwardness was forgotten. Dorothy had bandaged the blinder's eyes with Mr. Seth's big handkerchief, and in the welcome darkness thus afforded he realized nothing except that invisible hands were touching him, from this side and that, plucking at his jacket, tapping him upon the shoulder, and that he could catch none of them. Finally, a waft of perfume came his way, and the flutter of starched skirts, and with a lunge forward he clasped his arms about the figure of: "That girl from Baltimore! her turn!" he declared and was for pulling off the handkerchief, but was not allowed. "Which one? there are two Baltimore girls here, my lad. Which one have you caught?" Mabel squirmed, and Frazer's face grew a deeper red. He had been formally introduced, early upon Mabel's arrival, but had been too confused and self-conscious to understand her name. He was as anxious now to release her as she was to be set free, but his tormentors insisted: "Her name? her name? Not till you tell her name!" "I don't know--I mean--I--'tain't our Dolly, it's t'other one that's just come and smells like a--a drug store!" he answered, desperately, and loosened his arms. Mabel was glad enough to escape, blushing furiously at the way he had identified her, yet good-naturedly joining in the laugh of the others. Though she secretly resolved to be more careful in the use of scents of which she was extravagantly fond; and she allowed herself to be blindfolded at once, yet explaining: "Maybe I shall have to tell who you are by just such ways as he did me. I never was to a House Party before and you're all strangers, 'cept Dolly C., and anybody'd know her!" But it wasn't Dolly she captured. Susceptible Monty beheld in the little Baltimorean a wonderfully attractive vision. She was as short and as plump as he was. Her taste ran riot in colors, as did his own. He was bewildered by the mass of ruffles and frills that one short frock could display and he considered her manner of "doing" her hair as quite "too stylish for words." It was natural, therefore, that he should deliberately put himself in her way and try his best to be caught, while his observant mates heartlessly laughed at his unsuccessful maneuvers. But it was handsome Herbert upon whose capture Mabel's mind was set, and it was a disappointment that, instead of his arm she should clutch that of James Barlow. However, there was no help for it and she was obliged to blindfold in his turn the tall fellow who had to stoop to her shortness, while casting admiring glances upon the other lad. So the game went on till they were tired, and it was simple Molly Martin who suggested the next amusement. "My sake! I'm all beat out! I can't scarcely breathe, I've run and laughed so much. I never had so much fun in my life! Let's all sit down in a row and tell riddles. We'll get rested that way." To some there this seemed a very childish suggestion, but not to wise Seth Winters. The very fact that shy Molly Martin had so far forgotten her own self-consciousness as to offer her bit of entertainment argued well for the success of Dorothy's House Party with its oddly assorted members. But he surprised Helena's lifted eyebrows and the glance she exchanged with the other Molly, so hastened to endorse the proposition: "A happy thought, my lass; and as I'm the oldest 'child' here I'll open the game myself with one of the oldest riddles on record. Did anybody ever happen to hear of the Sphinx?" "Why, of course! Egypt----" began Monty eagerly, hoping to shine in the coming contest of wits. Seth Winters shook his head. "In one sense a correct answer; but, Jamie lad, out with it! I believe _you_ know which Sphinx I mean. All your delving into books--out with it, man!" "The monster of the ancients, I guess. That had the head of a woman, the body of a dog, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, the paws of a lion, and a human voice;" answered Jim blushing a little thus to be airing his knowledge before so many. "The very creature! What connection had this beauty with riddles, if you please?" They were all listening now, and smiling a little over the old farrier's whimsical manner, as the boy student went on to explain: "The Sphinx was sent into Thebes by Juno for her private revenge. The fable is that he laid all that country waste by proposing riddles and killing all who could not guess them. The calamity was so great that Creon promised his crown to anyone who could guess one, and the guessing would mean the death of the Sphinx." "Why do you stop just there, Jim, in the most interesting part? Please go on and finish--if you can!" cried Dorothy. Mr. Winters also nodded and the boy added: "This was the riddle: What animal in the morning walks on four feet, at noon on two, and at evening on three?" "At it, youngsters, at it! Cudgel your brains for the answer. We don't want any mixed-anatomy Sphinxes rampaging around here," urged the farrier. Many and various were the guesses hazarded but each fell wide of the mark. Helena alone preserved a smiling silence and waited to hear what the others had to say. "Time's up! Five minutes to a riddle is more than ample. Helena has it, I see by the twinkle of her eyes. Well, my dear?" "I can't call it a real guess, Mr. Winters, for I read it, as James did the story. The answer is--_Man_. In his babyhood, the morning of life, he crawls or walks on 'all fours'; in youth and middle age he goes upright on two feet; and at evening, old age, he supplements them by a staff or crutch--his three feet." "Oh! how simple! Why couldn't I guess that!" exclaimed Molly, impatiently. "But who did solve the silly thing, first off?" "Oedipus; and this so angered the Sphinx that he dashed his head against a rock and so died." "Umm. I never dreamed there could be riddles like that," said Molly Martin; "all I thought of was 'Round as an apple, busy as a bee, The prettiest little thing you ever did see,' and such. I'd like to learn some others worth while, to tell of winter evenings before we go to bed." "I know a good one, please, Mr. Seth. Shall I tell it?" asked Frazer Moore. "Pa found it in a 'Farmers' Almanac,' so maybe the rest have seen it, too." "Begin, Frazer. Five minutes per riddle! If anybody knows it 'twon't take so long," advised Mr. Seth, whom Dolly had called "the Master of the Feast." "What is it men and women all despise, Yet one and all so highly prize? Which kings possess not? though full sure am I That for the luxury they often sigh. That never was for sale, yet, any day, The poorest beggar may the best display. The farmer needs it for his growing corn; Nor its dear comfort will the rich man scorn; Fittest for use within a sick friend's room, Its coming silent as spring's early bloom. A great, soft, yielding thing that no one fears-- A little thing oft wet with mother's tears. A thing so hol(e)y that when it we wear We screen it safely from the world's rude stare." "Hmm. Seems if there were handles enough to that long riddle, but I can't catch on to any of them. They contradict themselves so," cried Dorothy, after a long silence had followed Frazer's recitation. Handles enough, to be sure; but like Dorothy, nobody could grasp one, and as the five minutes ended the mountain lad had the proud knowledge that he had puzzled them all, and gayly announced: "That was an easy one! Every word I said fits--AN OLD SHOE!" "Oh!" "A-ah!" "How stupid I was not to see!" "'The farmer needs it for his growing corn!'" cried the Master, drawing up his foot and facetiously rubbing his toes. "Even a farmer may raise two kinds of corn," suggested he and thus solved one line over which Jane Potter was still puzzling. Thereupon, Monty sprang up and snapped his fingers, schoolroom fashion: "Master, Master! Me next! Me! I know one good as his and not near so long! My turn, please!" They all laughed. Laughter came easily now, provoked even by silliness, and again a thankful, happy feeling rose in the young hostess's heart that her House Party was to be so delightful to everybody. Helena Montaigne now sat resting shoulder to shoulder with proud Alfaretta upon a little divan of straw whose back was a row of grain sheaves; Mabel was radiant amid a trio of admiring lads--Monty, Mike Martin, and Danny Smith; Herbert was eagerly discussing camp-life with shy Melvin, who had warmed to enthusiasm over his Nova Scotian forests; and all the different elements of that young assembly were proving most harmonious, as even smaller parties, arranged by old hostesses, do not always prove. "All right, Master Montmorency. Make it easy, please. A diversion not a brain tax," answered Seth. "'If Rider Haggard had been Lew Wallace, what would 'She' have been?'" "'Ben Hur'!" promptly shouted Frazer, before another had a chance to speak, and Monty sank back with a well-feigned groan. "I read that in the Almanac, too. I've read 'Ben Hur,' it's in our school lib'ry, but not 'She,' though Pa told me that was another book, wrote by the other feller." "I'll never try again; I never do try to distinguish myself but I make a failure of it!" wailed Monty, jestingly. "But Herbert hasn't failed, nor Melvin. Let's have at least one more wit-sharpener," coaxed Dorothy. But Herbert declined, though courteously enough. "Indeed, Dorothy, I don't know a single riddle and I never could guess one. Try Melvin, instead, please." The English boy flushed, as he always did at finding himself observed, but he remembered that he had heard strangers comment upon the obligingness of the Canadians and he must maintain the honor of his beloved Province. So, after a trifling hesitation, he answered: "I can think of only one, Dorothy, and it's rather long, I fancy. My mother made me learn it as a punishment, once, when I was a little tacker, don't you know, and I never forgot it. The one by Lord Byron. I'll render that, if you wish." "We do wish, we do!" cried Molly, while the Master nodded approvingly. So without further prelude Melvin recited: "'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And Echo caught softly the sound as it fell; On the confines of Earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the Depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the Sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the Lightning and heard in the Thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest Breath, Attends at his Birth and awaits him in Death; It presides o'er his Happiness, Honor, and Health, Is the prop of his House and the end of his Wealth. Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the Wretch who expels it from Home. In the Whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the Whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the Heart; and tho' deaf to the ear 'Twill make it acutely and instantly Hear. But in Shade, let it rest like a delicate flower-- Oh! Breathe on it softly--it dies in an Hour." Several had heard the riddle before and knew its significance; but those who had not found it as difficult to guess as Frazer's "Old Shoe" had been. So Melvin had to explain that it was a play of words each containing the letter H; and this explanation was no sooner given than a diversion was made by Mabel Bruce's irrelevant remark: "I never picked grapes off a vine in my life, never!" "Hi! Does that mean you want to do so now?" demanded Monty, alert. He, too, had grown tired of a game in which he did not excel, and eagerly followed the direction of her pointing, chubby finger. A finger on which sparkled a diamond ring, more fitting for a matron than a schoolgirl young as she. Along that side of the barn, rising from the hay strewn floor to the loft above, ran a row of upright posts set a few inches apart and designed to guard a great space beyond. This space was to be filled with the winter's stock of hay and its cemented bottom was several feet lower than the floor whereon the merry-makers sat. As yet but little hay had been stored there, and the posts which would give needful ventilation as well as keep the hay from falling inward, had been utilized now for decoration. The boyish decorators had not scrupled to rifle the Deerhurst vineyards of their most attractive vines, and the cluster of fruit on which Mabel had fixed a covetous eye was certainly a tempting one. The rays from two Chinese lanterns, hung near it, brought out its juicy lusciousness with even more than daylight clearness, and Mabel's mouth fairly watered for these translucent grapes. "That bunch? Of course you shall have it!" cried Monty, springing up and standing on tiptoe to reach what either Jim or Herbert could have plucked with ease. Alas! His efforts but hindered himself. The vine was only loosely twined around the upright and, as he grasped it, swung lightly about and the cluster he sought was forced to the inner side of the post, even higher than it had hung before. "Huh! That's what my father would call 'the aggravation of inanimate things'! Those grapes knew that you wanted them, that I wanted to get them for you, and see how they act? But I'll have them yet. Don't fear. That old fellow I camped-out with this last summer told me it was a coward who ever gave up 'discouraged.' I'll have that bunch of grapes--or I'll know the reason why! I almost reached them that time!" cried the struggler, proudly, and leaped again. By this time all the company was watching his efforts, the lads offering jeering suggestions about "sheets of paper to stand on," and Danny Smith even inquiring if the other was "practising for a climb on a greased pole, come next Fourth." Even the girls laughed over Monty's ludicrous attempts, though Mabel entreated him to give up and let somebody else try. "I--I rather guess not! When I set out to serve a lady I do it or die in the attempt!" returned the perspiring lad, vigorously waving aside the proffered help of his taller mates. "I--I--My heart! Oh! Jiminy! I--I'm stuck!" He was. One of the newly set uprights had slipped a little and again wedged itself fast; and between this and its neighbor, unfortunate Montmorency hung suspended, the upper half of his body forced inward over the empty "bay" and his fat legs left to wave wildly about in their effort to find a resting place. To add to his predicament, a scream of uncontrollable laughter rose from all the observers, even Mabel, in whose sake he so gallantly suffered, adding her shrill cackle to the others. All but the Master. Only the fleetest smile crossed his face, then it grew instantly grave as he said: "We've tried our hand at riddles but here's another, harder than any of the others. Monty is in a fix--how shall we get him out?" CHAPTER VI A MORNING CALL So ended the first "Day" of Dorothy's famous "Week." At sight of the gravity that had fallen upon Seth Winter's face her own sobered, though she had to turn her eyes away from the absurd appearance of poor Monty's waving legs. Then the legs ceased to wave and hung limp and inert. The Master silently pointed toward the door and gathering her girl guests about her the young hostess led them houseward, remarking: "That looks funnier than it is and dear Mr. Seth wants us out of the way. I reckon they'll have to cut that post down for I saw that even he and Jim together couldn't move it. It's so new and sticky, maybe--I don't know. Poor Monty!" "When he kept still, just now, I believe he fainted. I'm terribly frightened," said Helena Montaigne, laying a trembling hand on Dolly's shoulder. "It would be so perfectly awful to have your House Party broken up by a tragedy!" Mabel began to cry, and the two mountain girls, Molly Martin and Jane, slipped their arms about her to comfort her, Jane practically observing: "It takes a good deal to kill a boy. Ma says they've as many lives as a cat, and Ma knows. She brought up seven." "She didn't bring 'em far, then, Jane. They didn't grow to be more than a dozen years old, ary one of 'em. You're the last one left and you know it yourself," corrected the too-exact Alfaretta. "Pooh, Alfy! Don't talk solemn talk now. That Monty boy isn't dead yet and Janie's a girl. They'll get him out his fix, course, such a lot of folks around to help. And, Mabel, it wasn't your fault, anyway. He needn't have let himself get so fat, then he wouldn't have had no trouble. I could slip in and out them uprights, easy as fallin' off a log. He must be an awful eater. Fat folks gen'ally are," said Molly Martin. Mabel winced and shook off the comforter's embrace. She was "fat" herself and also "an awful eater," as Dolly could well remember and had been from the days of their earliest childhood. But the regretful girl could not stop crying and bitterly blamed herself for wanting "those horrible grapes. I'll never eat another grape as long as I live. I shall feel like--like a----" "Like a dear sensible girl, Mabel Bruce! And don't forget you haven't eaten any grapes _yet_, here. Of course, it will be all right. Molly Martin is sensible. Let's just go in and sit awhile in the library, where cook, Aunt Malinda, was going to put some cake and lemonade. There'll be a basket of fruit there, too; and we can have a little music, waiting for the boys to come in," said Dorothy, with more confidence in her voice than in her heart. Then when Mabel's tears had promptly ceased--could it have been at the mention of refreshments?--she added, considerately: "and let's all resolve not to say a single word about poor Monty's mishap. He's more sensitive than he seems and will be mortified enough, remembering how silly he looked, without our reminding him of it." "That's right, Dorothy. I'm glad you spoke of it. I'm sure nobody would wish to hurt his feelings and it was--ridiculous, one way;" added Helena, heartily, and Dorothy smiled gratefully upon her. She well knew that the rich girl's opinion carried weight with these poorer ones and of Alfaretta's teasing tongue she had been especially afraid. Nor was it long before they heard the boys come in, and from the merry voices and even whistling of the irrepressible Danny, they knew that the untoward incident had ended well. Yet when the lads had joined them, as eager for refreshments as Mabel now proved, neither Jim, Mr. Seth, nor Monty was with them; and, to the credit of all it was, that the subject of the misadventure did not come up at all, although inquisitive Alfy had fairly to bite her tongue to keep the questions back. They ended the evening by an hour in the music room, where gay college songs and a few old-fashioned "rounds" sent them all to bed a care-free, merry company; though Dorothy lingered long enough to write a brief note to Mrs. Calvert and to drop it into the letter-box whence it would find the earliest mail to town. A satisfactory little epistle to its recipient, though it said only this: "Our House Party is a success! Dear Mr. Seth is the nicest boy of the lot, and I know you're as glad as I am that he invited himself. I thank you and I love you, love you, love you! Dolly." Next morning, as beautiful a Sunday as ever dawned, came old Dinah to Dorothy with a long face, and the lament: "I cayn't fo' de life make dat li'l creatur' eat wid a fo'k an' howcome I erlows he' to eat to de table alongside you-alls, lak yo' tole me, Miss Do'thy? I'se done putten it into he' han', time an' time ergin, an' she jes natchally flings hit undah foot an' grabs a spoon. An' she stuffs an' stuffs, wussen you' fixin' er big tu'key. I'se gwine gib up teachin' he' mannehs. I sutney is. She ain' no quality, she ain'." "But that's all right, Dinah. She's only a child, a little child it seems to me. And whether she's 'quality' or not makes no difference. I've talked it all over with Mr. Seth and he says I may do as I like. Whoever she is, she's somebody! She came uninvited and sometimes it seems as if God sent her. She can't understand our good times but I want her to share them. So, now that you say she is perfectly well, just let her take the place at table near the door where we settled she should sit. Let Norah wait upon her and I do believe the sight of all of us, so happy, will give some happiness to her. 'Touched of God,' some people call these 'naturals.' She's a human being, she was once a girl like me, and she's simply--_not finished_! She isn't a bit repulsive and I'm sure it's right to have her with us all we can." "She's a ole woman, Miss Do'thy, she ain' no gal-chile. He' haid's whitah nor my Miss Betty's. I erlow she wouldn'----" "There, there, good Dinah! You and I have threshed this subject threadbare. You are so kind to me, have done and will do so much to make my Party go off all right, that I do hate to go against anything you say. But I can't give up in this. That poor little wanderer who strayed into Deerhurst grounds, whom nobody comes to claim, shall not be the first to find it inhospitable. I've written Aunt Betty all about this 'Luna' and I know she'll approve, just as Mr. Winters does. So don't try to keep her shut up out of sight, any longer, Dinah dear. It goes to my heart to see her pace, pace around any room you put her in by herself. Like a poor wild animal caged! It fairly made me shiver to see her, yesterday, when you led her into the great storeroom and left her. She followed you to the door and peered, and peered, out after you but didn't offer to follow. As if she were fastened by invisible chains and couldn't. Then around and around she went again, playing with those bits of bright rags you found in the pocket of her own dress. I'm so glad she likes that red one of mine and that it fits her so well. So don't worry, Dinah, over the proprieties of your Miss Betty's home. There's something better than propriety--that's loving kindness!" Nobody had ever accused old Dinah of want of kindness and Dorothy did not mean to do so now. The faithful woman had been devoted to the unknown visitor, from the moment of discovering her asleep upon the sun-parlor lounge; but she could not make it seem right that such an afflicted creature, and one who was evidently so far along in life, should mix at all familiarly with all those gay young people now staying in the house. But she had never heard her new "li'l Missy" talk at such length before and she was impressed by the multitude of words if not by their meaning. Besides, her quick ear had caught that "Luna," and she now impatiently demanded: "Howcome you' knows he' name, Miss Do'thy, an' nebah tole ole Dinah?" "Oh! I don't know it, honey. Not her real one. That's a fancy one I made up. She came to us in the moonlight and Luna stands for moon. So that's why, and that's all! So go, good Dinah, and send your charge in with Norah. All the others are down and waiting and, I hope, as hungry for their breakfast as I am!" Dinah departed, grumbling. In few things would she oppose her "Miss Do'thy" but in the matter of this "unfinished" stranger she felt strongly. However, she objected no more. If Mr. Seth Winters, her Miss Betty's trusted friend, endorsed such triflin', ornery gwines-on, she had no more to say. The blame was on his shoulders and not hers! Since nobody knew a better name for the stranger than "Luna" it was promptly accepted by all as a fitting one. She answered to it just as she answered to anything else--and that was not at all. She allowed herself to be led, fed, and otherwise attended, without resistance, and if she was especially comfortable she wore a happy smile on her small wrinkled face. But she never spoke and to the superstitious servants her silence seemed uncanny: "I just believe she could talk, if she wanted to, for she certainly hears quick enough. She's real impish, witch-like, and she fair gives me the creeps," complained Norah to a stable lad early on that Sunday morning. "And I don't half like for Miss Dolly to 'point me special nurse to the creatur'. I'd rather by far be left to me bedmakin' an' dustin'. She may be one of them 'little people' lives at home in old Ireland--that's the power to work ill charms on a body, if they wish it." "True ye say, Norah girl. 'Twas an' ill charm, she worked on me not an hour agone. I was in the back porch, slippin' off me stable jacket 'fore eatin' my food, an' Dinah had the creature by the hand scrubbin' a bit dirt off it. I was takin' my money out one pocket into another and quick as chain-lightnin' grabs this queer old woman and hides the money behind her. She may be a fool, indeed, but she knows money when she sees it! and the look on her was like a miser!" "Did you get it back, lad?" "'Deed, that did I! If there's one more'n another this Luny dwarf fears--and likes, too, which is odd!--it's old black Dinah; and even she had to squeeze the poor little hand tight to make its fingers open and the silver drop out. Then the creature forgot all about it same's she'd never seen it at all, at all. But Tim's learned his lesson, and 'tis that there's nobody in this world so silly 't he don't know money when he sees it! 'Twas a she this time, though just as greedy." But if Norah dreaded the charge of poor Luna the latter made very little trouble for her attendant. She did not understand the use of knife and fork and all her food had to be cut up, as for a helpless infant; but she fed herself with a spoon neatly enough, though in great haste. Afterwards she leaned back in her chair and stared vacantly at one or another of the young folks gathered around that big table. Finally, her eyes rested upon the gaily bedecked person of Mabel Bruce and a smile settled upon her features; while so unobtrusive was she that her presence was almost forgotten by the other, happy chatterers in the room. "Who's for church?" asked Mr. Winters, with a little tap on the table to secure attention. "Hands up, so I can count noses!" Every hand went up, even Luna following the example of the rest, quite unknowing why. Seeing this, Dorothy must needs leave her seat and run around to the poor thing's chair and pat her shoulder approvingly. "The landau will hold four, and it's four miles to our church. Who is for that?" again demanded the Master. There was a swift exchange of glances between him and the young hostess as she returned: "Shall I say?" "Aye, aye!" shouted Monty, with his ordinary fervor. The considerate silence of his house-mates concerning his mishap in the barn had restored his self-possession, and though he had felt silly and awkward when he had joined them he did not now. "Very well. Then I nominate Jane, Molly Martin, Alfaretta, and Mabel Bruce, for the state carriage," said Dorothy. "Sho! I thought if that was used at all 'twould be Helena and the other 'ristocratics would ride in that," whispered the delighted Alfy to Jane. But the young hostess had quickly reflected that landaus and other luxurious equipages were familiar and commonplace to her richer guests but that, probably, none of these others had ever ridden in such state; therefore the greater pleasure to them. The Master produced a slip of paper and checked off the names: "Landau, with the bays; and Ephraim and Boots in livery--settled. Next?" "There's the pony cart and Portia," suggested Dolly. "Helena and Melvin? Jolly Molly, and Jim to drive? Satisfactory all round?" again asked the note-taker; and if this second apportionment was not so at least nobody objected, although poor Jim looked forward to an eight-mile drive beside mischievous Molly Breckenridge with some misgiving. "Very well. I'll admit I never tackled such an amiable young crowd. Commonly, in parties as big as this there are just as many different wishes as there are people. I congratulate you, my dears, and may this beatific state of things continue till the end of the chapter!" cried Mr. Seth, really delighted. "Why, of course, Mr. Winters. How could we do otherwise? In society one never puts one's own desires in opposition to those of others. That's what society is for, is what it means, isn't it? Good breeding means unselfishness;" said Helena, then added, with a little flush of modesty: "Not that I am an oracle, but that's what I've read and--and seen--abroad." "Right, Miss Helena, and thank you for the explanation. And apropos of that subject: What's the oldest, most unalterable book of etiquette we have?" Nobody answered, apparently nobody knew; till Melvin timidly ventured: "I fancy it's the Bible, sir. My mother, don't you know, often remarks that anybody who makes the Bible a rule of conduct can't help being a gentleman or gentlewoman. Can't help it, don't you know?" Old Seth beamed upon the lad who had so bravely fought his own shyness, to answer when he could, and so prove himself by that same ancient Book a "gentleman." "Thank you, my boy. You've a mother to be proud of and she--has a pretty decent sort of son! However, we've arranged places for but half our number. As I said the distance is four miles going and it will seem about eight returning--we shall all be so desperately hungry. We might go to some church nearer except that at this distant one there will be to-day a famous preacher whom I would like you all to hear. He is a guest in the neighborhood and that is why we have this one chance. Come, Dolly Doodles. You're the hostess and must provide for your guests. How shall eight people be conveyed to that far-away church?" "I've been thinking, Master. There's the big open wagon, used for hauling stuff. It has a lot of seats belonging though only one is often used. So Ephy told me once. We could have the seats put in and the rest of us ride in that." "Good enough. The rest of us are wholly willing to be 'hauled' to please our southern hostess. The rest of us are--let's see." "You, Mr. Seth; Littlejohn and Danny; Mike and Frazer; Luna and me. Coming home, if we wish, some of us could change places. Well, Mabel? What is it? Don't you like the arrangement?" "Ye-es, I suppose so. Only--you've put four girls in our carriage and four boys in your own. That isn't dividing even; and if it's such an awful long way hadn't we--shouldn't--shan't we be terrible late to dinner?" Poor Mabel! Nature would out. That mountain air was famous for sharpening every newcomer's appetite and it had made hers perfectly ravenous. It seemed to her that she had never tasted such delicious food as Aunt Malinda prepared and that she should never be able to get enough. A shout of laughter greeted her question but did not dismay her, for the matter was too serious; and she was greatly relieved when the Master returned, kindly and with entire gravity: "Little Mabel is right. We shall all be glad of a 'snack' when service is over and before we start back. Dolly, please see that a basket of sandwiches is put up and carried along. Also a basket of grapes. Some of us are fond of grapes!" he finished, significantly, and that was the only reference made to the episode of the night before. But there was one more objector and that outspoken Alfy, who begged of Dorothy, in a sibilant whisper: "Do you mean it? Are you really goin' to take that loony Luna to meeting?" "I certainly am. She is not to be hidden, nor deprived of any pleasure my other guests enjoy. Besides, somebody who knows her may see and claim her. Poor thing! It's terrible that she can't tell us who she is nor where she belongs!" "Hmm. I'm glad she ain't goin' to ride alongside of me, then. Folks will stare so, on the road, at that old woman rigged out like a girl." "Never mind, Alfy dear. Let them stare. She's delighted with the red frock and hat, and it's something to have made her happy even that much. Remember how she clung to those bits of gay rags Dinah found on her? She certainly knows enough to love color, and I shall keep her close to me. I'd be afraid if I didn't her feelings might be hurt by--by somebody's thoughtlessness." "Mine, I s'pose you mean, Dorothy C. But--my stars and garters! Look a-there! Look round, I tell you, quick!" Dolly looked and her own eyes opened in amazement. Framed in the long window that reached to the piazza floor stood a curiously garbed old man holding firmly before him two tiny children. He wore an old black skull cap and a ragged cassock, and he announced in a croaking voice: "I pass these children on to you. I go to deliver the message upon which I am sent;" and having said this, before anyone could protest or interfere, he was disappearing down the driveway at an astonishing pace, as if his "message" abided not the slightest delay. CHAPTER VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING "Of all things! If that don't beat the Dutch!" cried Alfaretta, and at sound of her voice the others rallied from their amazement, while Mr. Winters begged: "Run, lads, some of you and stop that man. Owen Bryan spoke of a half-crazy fanatic, a self-ordained exhorter, who had lately come to the mountain and lived somewhere about, in hiding as it were. An escaped convict, he'd heard. Run. He mustn't leave those children here." Jim and Frazer were already on the way, obedient to the Master's first words, without tarrying to hear the conclusion of his speech. But they were not quick enough. They caught one glimpse of a ragged, flying cassock and no more. The man had vanished from sight, and though they lingered to search the low-growing evergreens, and every hidden nook bordering the drive, they could not find him. So they returned to report and were just in time to hear Dorothy and Molly questioning the babies, for they were little more than that. They were clad exactly alike, in little denim overalls, faded by many washings and stiff with starch. Their feet were bare as were their heads, and clinging to one another they stared with round-eyed curiosity into the great room. "Oh! aren't they cute! They're too funny for words. What's your name, little boy? If you are a boy!" demanded Molly. The little one shook her too familiar hand from his small shoulder and answered with a solemnity and distinctness that was amazing, when one anticipated an infantile lisp: "A-n an, a ana, n-i ni, anani, a-s as, Ananias." Monty Stark rolled over backward on the floor and fairly yelled in laughter, while the laughter of the others echoed his, but nothing perturbed by this reception of his, to him, commonplace statement, master Ananias looked about in cherubic satisfaction. Then again demanded Molly of the other midget. "What's yours, twinsy? For twins you must be!" Evidently tutored as to what would be expected of her the other child replied in exact imitation of her mate and with equal clearness: "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, sapphi, r-a ra, Sapphira." Utter silence greeted this absurd reply, then another noisy burst of laughter in which even the really disturbed Master joined. "Surely a man must be out of his mind to fasten such names on two such innocents! But they must be taken elsewhere. Deerhurst must not become a receptacle for all the cast-off burdens of humanity. I must go ask Bryan all he knows about the case," said Mr. Seth, as soon as he had recovered his gravity. But Dorothy nodded toward the great clock and with a frown he observed the hour. If they were to make ready for their long drive to church, yet be in time for the beginning of the service, they must be making ready, so he consented: "I don't suppose any great mischief can be done by their remaining here till we get back; but----" "Why not take them with us, Teacher?" asked Alfaretta. "We could take one in the lander with us." Her tone was as complacent as if the vehicle in question were her own and her head was tossed as she waited for his reply. But it was Dorothy who forestalled him and her decision was so sensible he did not oppose it: "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but I think we would better take them. If we leave them they may get into mischief and the servants have enough to do without worrying with them. They're so little we can tuck them into the big wagon with us and it won't hurt even babies to go to church. But I wonder which is which! Now they've moved around and changed places I can't tell which is Ananias and which Sapphira! Poor little kiddies, to be named after liars!" "I know. This one has a kink in its hair the other one hasn't. I think it was Sapphira. Or--was it Ananias? Baby, which are you?" Neither child replied. They clung each to the other and stared at this too inquisitive Molly Breckenridge with the disconcerting stare of childhood, till she turned away and gathering a handful of biscuits from the table bade them sit down and eat. She forbade them to drop a single crumb and they were obedient even to absurdity. A half-hour later the three vehicles were at the door and the happy guests made haste to take the places allotted them; the big wagon following last, with Luna smilingly, yet in a half-frightened clutch of Dorothy, sitting on the comfortable back seat. Mr. Seth had lifted her bodily into the wagon and she had submitted without realizing what was happening to her till the wagon began to move. Then she screamed, as if in terror, and hid her face on Dolly's shoulder. "Doan' take he'. 'Peah's lak she's done afeered o' ridin'. Nebah min', Miss Do'thy. Some yo' lads jes' han' he' down to Dinah and she'll be tooken' ca' ob, scusin' dey is a big dinnah in de way an' half de he'ps' Sunday out. Han' 'er down!" However, without physical force this was not to be done. When Jim strove to lift her, as he might easily have done in his strong arms, she clung the closer to her little hostess and screamed afresh. So he gave up the attempt and turned his attention to the twins, the last arriving members of this famous House Party. There was no reluctance about them--not the slightest. They were fairly dancing with impatience and Ananias--or was it Sapphira?--was already attempting to enter the "wagging" by way of climbing up the "nigh" horse's leg, while her--or his--mate clung to the spokes of the forward wheel, wholly ready to be whirled around and around with its forward progress. "Evidently, these babies aren't afraid to ride!" cried Dorothy, laughing yet half-frightened over the little creatures' boldness. "Please set them right on the bottom, between your knees and Littlejohn's, Mr. Seth! Then they'll be safe. And there, Luna dear, poor Luna, you see we're off at last and--isn't it just lovely?" Luna made no more response than usual but her hidden face sank lower and more heavily upon Dorothy's shoulder, till, presently, she was sound asleep. Then Mike Martin climbed back over the seats to the spot and deftly placed his own cushion behind the sleeper's head. Dolly thanked him with a smile but wondered to see him stare at the sleeper's face with that puzzled expression on his own. Then he scratched his head and asked in a whisper: "Can you tell who she looks like? Terrible familiar, somehow, but can't guess. Can you?" Dorothy shook her head. "No, I've never seen another like her. I hope I never will." "If we could think, we might find her folks and you could get rid of her," continued the lad. "I don't know as I'm so anxious to be rid of her. I do believe she's happy--happier than when she came--and--Look out! If the wagon goes over another thank-ye-ma-am and you're still standing up you'll likely be pitched over into the road. My! But the horses are in fine fettle this morning!" A fresh jolt made Mike cling fast to escape the accident she suggested and he returned to his place, riding on the uncushioned seat as cheerfully as any knight errant of old. Dorothy was his ideal of a girl. She had taught him the difference between bravery and bullying and she had been his inspiration in the task to which he had pledged himself--to be a peacemaker on the mountain. Once, her coolness and courage had saved his life, and on that day he had promised to fulfil her desire, to bridge the enmity between south-side and north-side. His methods had not always been such as Dorothy would have approved but the result was satisfactory. In school and out of it, peace prevailed on the "Heights," and Mike Martin was a nobler boy himself because of his efforts to make others noble. There was a little stir of excitement in the small country church when Seth Winters and his following of young folks entered it, and by mere force of numbers so impressing the ushers that the very front pews were vacated in their behalf, although the farrier protested against this. However, he wasn't sorry to have his company all together, and motioned Dorothy into the same pew with himself, and to a place directly under the pulpit. Into this, also, they led the still drowsy Luna, Dorothy gently settling her in the corner with her head resting upon the pew's back, and here she slept on during most of the service. Here, also, they settled the twins, but could not avoid seeing the curious and amused glances cast upon this odd pair as they trotted up the aisle in Dorothy's wake. "Two peas in a pod," whispered one farmer's wife to her seat neighbor. "Where'd they pick up two such little owls? They're all eyes and solemn as the parson himself, but them ridiculous clothes! My heart! What won't fashionable folks do next, to make their youngsters look different from ours!" returned the other. Nobody guessed that the funny little creatures were an accidental addition to the House Party; and after the strangers were settled nobody was further concerned with them. The service began and duly proceeded. The singing was congregational and in it all the young people joined, making the familiar hymns seem uncommonly beautiful to the hearers; and it was not till the sermon was well under way that anything unusual happened to divert attention. Then there came a soft yet heavy patter on the uncarpeted aisle and two black animals stalked majestically forward and seated themselves upon their haunches directly beneath the pulpit. With an air of profound interest they fixed their eyes upon the speaker therein and, for an instant, disconcerted even that self-possessed orator. "Ponce and Peter! Aunt Betty's Great Danes! However has this happened!" thought poor Dorothy, unable quite to control a smile yet wofully anxious lest the dogs should create a disturbance. However, nothing happened. The Danes might have been regular worshipers in the place for all notice was accorded them by the well trained congregation; and after they were tired of watching the minister the animals quietly stretched themselves to sleep. Their movement and the prodigious yawn of one had bad results. The twins had been having their own peaceful naps upon the kneeling bench at Mr. Seth's feet, but, now, with the suddenness native to them, awoke, discovered the dogs, and leaped out of the pew into the aisle. There they flung themselves upon the dogs with shrieks of delight. It was as if they had found old friends and playmates--as later developments proved to be true. Poor Mr. Winters stared in consternation. He detested a scene but saw one imminent; and how to get both dogs and babies out of that sacred place without great trouble he could not guess. But Dorothy put her hand on his arm and gently patted it. She, too, was frightened but she trusted the animals' instincts; she was right. After a moment's sniffing of the twins, they quietly lay down again and the twins did likewise! and though they did not go to sleep again they behaved well enough, until growing impassioned with his own eloquence the speaker lifted his voice loudly and imploringly. That was a sound they knew. Up sprang one and shouted: "Amen!" and up sprang the other and echoed him! The minister flushed, stammered, and valiantly went on; but he never reached the climax of that sermon. Those continually interrupting groans and "Amens!" uttered in that childish treble, were too much for him. A suppressed titter ran over the whole congregation, in which all the Deerhurst party joined though they strove not to do so; and amid that subdued mirth the clergyman brought his discourse to a sudden end. The benediction spoken there was a rush for the door, in which the Great Danes and the twins led; riotously tumbling over one another, barking and squealing, while the outpouring congregation stepped aside to give them way. Happy-hearted Seth Winters had rarely felt so annoyed or mortified, while Dorothy's face was scarlet even though her lips twitched with laughter. These two lingered in their places till the clergyman descended from his pulpit and prepared to leave the church. Then they advanced and offered what apologies they could; the farrier relating in few words the story of the morning and disclaiming any knowledge as to the identity of the twins or how the dogs had been set loose. "Don't mention it. Of course, I could see that it was accidental, and it isn't of the slightest consequence. Doubtless I had preached as long as was good for my hearers and--I wish you good morning," said the minister, smiling but rather hastily moving away. Mr. Winters also bowed and followed his party out of doors. But he wasn't smiling, not in the least; and it was a timid touch Dorothy laid upon his arm as she came to the big wagon to take her place for the drive home. He looked down at her, and at sight of tears in her eyes, his anger melted. "There, there, child, don't fret! It was one of those unavoidable annoyances that really amount to nothing yet are so hard to bear. Here, let me swing you up. But we must get rid of those youngsters! Sabbath day or not I shall make it my business so to do at the earliest possible moment. By the way, where are they now?" For a moment nobody could say, though the Deerhurst wagons waited while the lads searched and all the regular congregation departed to their homes. Then called Mabel from her seat of honor in the landau: "Dolly Doodles, whilst we're waiting we might as well eat our lunch." For once Mabel's greediness served her neighbors a good purpose. Mr. Seth promptly replied, with something like a wink in Dorothy's direction: "Couldn't do better. There's the church well, too, a famous one, from which to quench our thirst. There's an old saying that 'Meal time brings all rogues home' and likely the presence of food may attract our little runaways. Indeed, I've half a mind to leave them behind, any way. 'Pass them on' to the world at large as that old man 'passed them on' to us." To this there was protest from every side, even Alfaretta declaring she had never heard of such a heartless thing! But she need not have feared, and Dorothy certainly did not. She knew the big heart of her old friend too well; and producing the basket of sandwiches she went about offering them to all. Nobody declined although Monty triumphantly exclaimed: "We haven't any right to be so hungry for an hour yet, 'cause if the dogs hadn't come to church we'd have been kept in that much longer." Then still munching a sandwich he set about to bring water for all, in the one tin dipper that hung by the well, the other lads relieving him from time to time. They were all so merry, so innocently happy under the great trees which bordered the church grounds, that the Master grew happy, too, watching and listening to them and forgot the untoward incident of the service; even forgot, for a moment, that either twins or dogs existed. Then, after both fruit and sandwich baskets had been wholly emptied and all had declared they wanted no more water, the cavalcade prepared to move; Dorothy begging: "Can Luna and I sit on the front seat, with Littlejohn driving, going back? See, she's no longer afraid and I always do love to ride close to the horses." "Very well. Here goes then," answered Mr. Seth gently lifting Luna--wholly unresisting now and placidly smiling--to the place desired while Dolly swiftly sprang after. Then the others seated themselves and Ephraim cracked his whip, the landau leading as befitted its grandeur. Then there were shrieks for delay. From Molly Breckenridge at first, echoed by piping little tongues as the lost "twinses" came into sight. Over the stone wall bordering the road leaped Ponce and Peter, dripping wet and shaking their great bodies vigorously, the while they yelped and barked in sheer delight. Behind them Ananias and Sapphira, equally wet, equally noisy, equally rapturous, and beginning at once to climb into the richly cushioned landau as fast as their funny little legs would permit. Then came another shriek as, rather than let her beautiful clothes be smirched by contact with the drenched children, Mabel Bruce drew her skirts about her, gave one headlong leap to the ground, and fell prone. CHAPTER VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS The laughter which rose to the lips of some of the observers was promptly checked as they saw that the girl lay perfectly still in the dust where she had fallen, making no effort to rise, and unconscious of her injured finery. "She'd better have kep' still an' let 'em wet her," said Alfy, nudging Jane Potter. "She ain't gettin' up because she can't," answered Jane and sprang out of the landau, to kneel beside the prostrate girl; then to look up and cry out: "She's hurt! She's dreadful hurt!" Unhappy Mr. Winters set his teeth and his lips were grim. "If ever I'm so misguided as to engineer another young folks' House Party, I hope----" He didn't express this "hope" but stooped and with utmost tenderness lifted Mabel to her feet. She had begun to rally from the shock of her fall and opened her eyes again, while the pallor that had banished her usual rosiness began to yield to the returning circulation. Already many hands were outstretched to help, some with the dipper from the well, others with dripping wooden plates whereon their luncheon had been packed. Mabel pushed the plates aside, fretfully, explaining as soon as she could speak: "If that gets on my clothes--they're so dusty--Oh! what made me--Oh! oh! A-ah!" Then she began to laugh and cry alternately, as the misfortune and its absurdity fully appeared, and Helena saw that the girl was fast becoming hysterical. Evidently, in their wearer's eyes, the beautiful frock now so badly smirched and the white gloves which had split asunder in her fall were treasures beyond compute, and Helena herself loved pretty clothes. She felt a keen sympathy in that and another respect--she had suffered from hysteria and always went prepared for an emergency. Stepping quietly to Mabel's side, she waved aside the other eager helpers, saying: "I'm going to ride back in the landau, Alfy, please take my place in the cart. Here, Mabel, swallow a drop of this medicine. 'Twill set you right at once." Her movements and words were as decided as they were quiet and Mabel unconsciously obeyed. She submitted to be helped back into the carriage and as Helena took the empty seat beside her, Ephraim drove swiftly away. Thus ignored the dripping twins stared ruefully after the vanishing vehicle and Mr. Seth looked as ruefully at them. But Molly begged: "Let them go in the cart with us. Alfy's frock and mine will wash, even if they soil us. One can ride between Jim and me and Melvin and Alfy must look after the other. Let's choose. I take Ananias. I just love boys!" "Be sure you've chosen one then," laughed Jim as he rather gingerly picked up one infant and placed it behind the dashboard. He had on his own Sunday attire and realized the cost of it, so objected almost as strongly as Mabel had done to contact with this well-soused youngster. "Say, sonny, what made you tumble in the brook? Don't you know this is Sunday?" "Yep. Didn't tumble, just _went_. I'm no 'sonny'; I'm sissy. S-a-p sap, p-h-i----" began the little one, glibly and distinctly. "You can't be! You surely are Ananias! Your hair is cut exactly like a boy's and you wear boy's panties! You're spelling the wrong name. Look out! What next?" cried Molly anxiously, as the active baby suddenly climbed over the back of that seat to join her mate behind. There master Ananias--or was it really Sapphira?--cuddled down on the rug in the bottom of the cart and settled himself--herself--for sleep. Neither Alfy nor Melvin interfered with these too-close small neighbors; but withdrawing to the extreme edges of the seat left them to sleep and get dry at their leisure. After that the homeward drive proceeded in peace; only Herbert calling out now and then from his place in the big wagon to make Melvin admire some particular beauty of the scene, challenging the Provincial to beat it if he could in that far away Markland of his own. "But you haven't the sea!" retorted Melvin, proudly. "We don't need it. We have the HUDSON RIVER!" came as swiftly back; and as they had come just then to a turn in the road where an ancient building stood beneath a canopy of trees, he asked: "Hold up the horses a minute, will you, Littlejohn? I'd like our English friend to say if he ever saw anything more picturesque than this." "This" was a more than century-old Friends' meeting-house. Unpainted and shingled all over its outward surface. "Old shingle-sides" was its local name, and a lovelier location could not have been chosen even by a less austere body of worshipers. Meeting had been prolonged that First Day. The hand clasp of neighbor with neighbor which signaled its close had just been given. From the doorways on either side, the men's and the women's, these silent worshipers were now issuing; the men to seek the vehicles waiting beneath the long shed and the women to gossip a moment of neighborhood affairs. Mr. Winters was willing to rest and "breathe the horses" for a little, the day being warm and the drive long, and to observe with interest the decorous home-going of these Plain People; and it so chanced that the big wagon, where Dorothy sat on the front seat with Luna resting against her, halted just beside the entrance to the meeting-house grounds. From her place she watched the departing congregation with the keen interest she brought to everything; and among them she recognized the familiar outlines of George Fox, the miller's fine horse; and, holding the reins over its back, Oliver Sands, the miller himself. So close he drove to the big wagon that George Fox's nose touched Littlejohn's leader, and the boy pulled back a little. "Huh! That's old Oliver in his First Day grays! But he's in the grumps. Guess the Spirit hasn't moved him to anything pleasant, by the look," he remarked to Dorothy beside him. "He does look as if he were in trouble. I don't like him. I never did. He wasn't--well, nice to Father John once. But I'm sorry he's unhappy. Nobody ought to be on such a heavenly day." If Oliver saw those watching beside the gate he made no sign. His fat shoulders, commonly so erect, were bowed as if he had suddenly grown old. His face had lost its unctuous smile and was haggard with care; and for once he paid no heed to George Fox's un-Quakerlike gambols, fraught with danger to the open buggy he drew. A pale-faced woman in the orthodox attire of the birthright Friends sat beside the miller and clung to him in evident terror at the horse's behavior. It was she who saw how close the contact between their own and the Deerhurst team, and her eye fell anxiously upon the two girlish figures upon the front seat of the wagon. For a girl the unknown Luna seemed, clad in the scarlet frock and hat that Dorothy had given; while Dolly, herself, clasping the little creature close lest she should be frightened looked even younger than she was. "Sisters," thought Dorcas Sands, "yet not alike." Then casting a second, critical glance upon Luna she uttered a strange cry and clutched her husband's arm. "Dorcas, thee is too old for foolishness," was all the heed he paid to her gesture, and drove stolidly on, unseeing aught but his own inward perturbation which had found no solace in that morning's Meeting. Dorcas looked back once over her shoulder and Dorothy returned a friendly smile to the sweet old face in the white-lined gray bonnet. Then the bonnet faced about again and George Fox whisked its wearer out of sight. "I declare I'd love to be a Quakeress and wear such clothes as these women do. They look so sweet and peaceful and happy. As if nothing ever troubled them. Don't you think they're lovely, Littlejohn?" "Huh! I don't know. That there Mrs. Sands--Dorcas Sands is the way she's called 'cause the Friends don't give nobody titles--I guess there ain't a more unhappy woman on our mountain than her." "Why, Littlejohn! Fancy! With such a--a good man; isn't he?" "Good accordin' as you call goodness. He ain't bad, not so bad; only you want to look sharp when you have dealings with him. They say he measures the milk his folks use in the cookin' and if more butter goes one week than he thinks ought to he skimps 'em the next. I ain't stuck on that kind of a man, myself, even if he is all-fired rich. Gid-dap, boys!" With which expression of his sentiments the young mountaineer touched up the team that had rather lagged behind the others and the conversation dropped. But during all that homeward ride there lingered in Dorothy's memory that strange, startled, half-cognizant gaze which gentle Dorcas Sands had cast upon poor Luna. But by this time, the afflicted guest had become as one of the family; and the fleeting interest of any passer-by was accepted as mere curiosity and soon forgotten. After dinner Mr. Winters disappeared; and the younger members of the House Party disposed themselves after their desires; some for a stroll in the woods, some in select, cosy spots for quiet reading; and a few--as Mabel, Helena, and Monty--for a nap. But all gathered again at supper-time and a happy evening followed; with music and talk and a brief bedtime service at which the Master officiated. But Dorothy noticed that he still looked anxious and that he was preoccupied, a manner wholly new to her beloved Mr. Seth. So, as she bade him good-night she asked: "Is it anything I can help, dear Master?" "Why do you fancy anything's amiss, lassie?" "Oh! you show it in your eyes. Can I help?" "Yes. You may break the news to Dinah that those twins are on our hands for--to-night at least. I'm sorry, but together you two must find them a place to sleep. We can't be unchristian you know--not on the Lord's own day!" He smiled his familiar, whimsical smile as he said this and it reassured the girl at once. Pointing to a distant corner of the room, where some considerate person had tossed down a sofa cushion, she showed him the ill-named babies asleep with their arms about each other's neck and their red lips parted in happy slumber. "They've found their own place you see; will it do?" "Admirable! They're like kittens or puppies--one spot's as good as another. Throw a rug over them and let them be. I think they'll need nothing more to-night, but if they do they're of the sort will make it known. Good-night, little Dorothy. Sleep well." After a custom which Father John had taught her, though he could not himself explain it, Dorothy "set her mind" like an alarm clock to wake her at six the next morning and it did so. She bathed and dressed with utmost carefulness and succeeded in doing this without waking anybody. Those whose business it was to be awake, as the house servants, gave her a silent nod for good-morning and smiled to think of her energy. The reason appeared when she drew a chair to a desk by the library window and wrote the following letter: "MY DARLING AUNT BETTY: "Good-morning, please, and I hope you'll have a happy day. I've written you a post card or a letter every day since you went away but I haven't had one back. I wonder and am sorry but I suppose you are too busy with your sick friend. I hope you aren't angry with me for anything. I was terrible sorry about somebody--losing--stealing that money! There, it's out! and I feel better. Sorrier, too, about it's being _him_. Well, that's gone, and as you have so much more I guess you won't care much. Besides, we don't need much. Dear Mr. Seth is just too splendid for words. He thinks of something nice to do all the time. "Yesterday we went to church and so did the dogs and the twins. I haven't told you about them for this is the first letter since they came and that was just after breakfast Sunday. A crazy man brought them and said he'd 'passed them on.' They're the cutest little mites with such horrible names--Ananias and Sapphira! Imagine anybody cruel enough to give babies those names. They aren't much bigger than buttons but they talk as plain as you do. They said 'A-ah!' and 'A-A-men!' in the middle of the sermon and stopped the minister preaching. I wasn't sorry they did for I didn't know what they'd do next nor Luna either. They three and Mr. Seth are the uninvited, or self-invited, ones and they're more fun than all the rest. Mabel fell out the carriage, or jumped out, and spoiled her dress and fainted away. "My House Party is just fine! Monty got stuck in the barn and had to be sawed apart. I mean the barn had to be, not Monty; and not one of us said a word about it. "I'm writing this before the rest are up because afterward I shan't have a minute's chance. It's a great care to have a House Party, though the Master--we call Mr. Winters that, all of us--takes the care. I don't know what we would do without him, and what we can without that stolen money. Monty says if he had that or had some of his own, he'd be able to manage without any old Master, he would. That was when he wanted to go sailing Sunday afternoon and Mr. Seth said 'no.' "Monty's real smooth outside but he has prickly tempers sometimes; and I guess he--he sort of 'sassed' the Master, 'cause he refused to give us any money to hire a sail boat and Monty hadn't any left himself. But it all blew over. Mr. Seth doesn't seem to mind Monty any more'n he does his tortoise-shell cat; and he's a very nice boy, a very nice boy, indeed. So are they all. I'm proud of them all. So is Mabel. So is Molly B. Those two are so proud they squabble quite consid'able over which is the nicest, and the boys just laugh. "Oh! I must stop. It's getting real near breakfast time; and dear Aunt Betty, will you please send me another one hundred dollars by the return of the mail? I mean as quick as you can. You see to-day, we're going around visiting 'Headquarters' of all the revolution people. There's a lot of them and they won't cost anything to see; but to-morrow there's 'The Greatest Show on Earth' coming to Newburgh and I _must_ take my guests to it. I really must. "Good-by, darling Aunt Betty. "DOROTHY. "P. S.--I've heard that people can telegraph money and that it goes quicker that way. Please do it. "D. "P. P. S.--Mr Seth says that this Headquartering will be as good as the circus, but it isn't easy to believe; and Melvin isn't particularly pleased over the trip. I suppose that's because our folks whipped his; and please be sure to telegraph the money at once. The tickets are fifty cents a-piece and ten cents extra for every side-show; and Molly and I have ciphered it out that it will take a lot, more'n I'd like to have the Master pay, generous as he is. Isn't it lovely to be a rich girl and just ask for as much money as you want and get it? Oh! I love you, Aunt Betty! "DOROTHY; for sure the last time." One of the men was going to early market and by him the writer dispatched this epistle. Promptly posted, it reached Mrs. Calvert that morning, who replied as promptly and by telegram as her young relative had requested. The yellow envelope was awaiting Dorothy that evening, when she came home from "Headquartering" with her guests, and she opened it eagerly. But there seemed something wrong with the message. Having read it in silence once--twice--three times, she crumpled it in her hand and dashed out of the room scarlet with shame and anger. CHAPTER IX HEADQUARTERS "Well, lads and lassies--or lassies and lads, it's due you to hear all I've found out concerning Ananias and Sapphira. I don't believe that those are their real names but I've heard no other. The curious old man who left them here is, presumably, insane on the subject of religion. He appeared on the mountain early in the summer, with these little ones, and preëmpted that tumble-down cottage over the bluff beyond our gates. Most of you know it by sight; eh?" "Yes, indeed! It looks as if it had been thrown over the edge of the road, just there where it's so steep. Old Griselda, the lodge-keeper's wife I live with claims it's haunted, and always has been. Hans says not, except by tramps and such," answered James Barlow. "Tramps? Are tramps on this mountain? Oh! I don't like that. I'd have been afraid to come if I'd known that!" protested Molly Breckenridge with a little shiver. Of course they all laughed at her and Monty valiantly assured her: "Don't you worry. I'm here." Then added as an after-thought, "and so are the other boys." Laughter came easily that Monday morning and it was Monty's turn to get his share of it, and he accepted it with great good nature. They were such a happy company with almost a whole week of unknown enjoyment before them, and the gravity of Mr. Seth's face did not affect their own hilarity. Dorothy had confided to Alfaretta that she had written to Mrs. Calvert for "another hundred dollars" and the matter was a "secret" between these two. "You, Alfy dear, because you never had, and likely never will have, a hundred dollars of your own, may have the privilege of planning what we will do with mine. That's to prove I love you; and if you plan nice things--real nice ones, Alfy--I'll spend it just as you want." Sensible, but not too-sensitive, Alfaretta shook her head, and asked: "Do you know how to make a hare pie?" "Why, of course not. How should I? I'm not a cook!" "First catch your hare! You haven't got your money yet and I shan't wear my brains out, plannin' no plans--yet. You couldn't get up nicer times'n the Master does, and he hasn't spent a cent on this House Party, so far forth as I know, savin' what he put in the collection plate to church, yesterday. Come on; he promised to tell all he'd found out about the twinses and all the rest of us is listenin' to him now." So Dorothy had followed to the wide piazza where the young people had grouped themselves affectionately about their beloved Master; who now repeated for the newcomers' information: "The old man is the children's grandfather, on their father's side. The twins are orphans, whom the mother's family repudiate, and he has cared for them, off and on, ever since their father died, as their mother did when they were born." "Oh! the poor little creatures!" cried Helena Montaigne, and snuggled a twin to her side; while there were tears in Molly Breckenridge's eyes as she caressed the other. "I said 'off and on.' The off times are when the old man is seized by the desire to preach to anyone who will listen. Then he wanders away, sleeps where the night finds him, and eats what charity bestows. Ordinarily, he does not so much as place the babies anywhere; just leaves them to chance. When they are with him he is very stern with them, punishing them severely if they disobey his least command; and they are greatly afraid of him. Well, here they are! I've tried to place them elsewhere, in a legitimate home; but I hesitate about an Orphanage until--Time sometimes softens hard hearts!" with this curious ending Mr. Winters relapsed into a profound reverie and nobody presumed to disturb him. Until Mabel Bruce suddenly demanded: "Where's their other clothes?" The farrier laughed. Mabel was an interesting study to him. He had never seen a little girl just like her; and he answered promptly: "That's what neither Norah nor I can find out. Only from the appearance of some ashes in the fireplace of the hut I fear they have been burned. I took Norah down there early this morning, for a woman sees more than a man, but even she was disappointed. However, that's easily remedied. One of the Headquarters we shall visit is in Newburgh, where are also many shops. Some of you girls must take the little tackers to one of these places and outfit them with what is actually needed. Nothing more; and I will pay the bill." "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but you will not! I will pay myself," cried Dorothy, eagerly. "With what, Dolly dear? I thought you were the most impecunious young person of the lot." "I am--just now; but I shan't be long," answered the young hostess, with a confident wink in Alfaretta's direction. To which that matter-of-fact maid replied by a contemptuous toss of her head and the enigmatical words: "Hare pie!" "Wagons all ready, Mr. Winters!" announced a stable boy, appearing around the house corner. "Passengers all ready!" shouted Danny Smith, perhaps the very happiest member of that happy Party. Never in his short, hard-worked life had he recreated for a whole week, with no chores to do, no reprimands to hear, and no solitude in distant corn-fields where the only sound he heard was the whack-whack of his own hoe. A week of idleness, jolly companionship, feasting and luxury--Danny had to rub his eyes, sometimes, to see if he were really awake. "All ready, all?" "All ready!" Much in the order of their Sunday's division they settled themselves for the drive to Newburgh, where the first stop was to be made, except that Molly Breckenridge declared she must ride beside Dorothy, having something most important to discuss with her friend. Also, she insisted that the twins ride with them, on the wagon-bottom between their feet. "They can't fall out that way, and it's about them--I'll tell everybody later." It was an hour when nobody wished to dash the pleasure of anybody else, so Mr. Seth nodded compliance; saying: "Then I'll take this other little lady alongside myself!" and lifted Luna to the place. This time she showed neither fear nor hesitation. She accepted the situation with that blankly smiling countenance she wore when she was physically comfortable, and the horses had not traveled far before her head drooped against the Master's shoulder, as it had against Dorothy's, and she fell asleep. "Poor thing! She has so little strength. She looks well but the least exertion exhausts her. Like one who has been imprisoned till he has lost the use of his limbs. I wonder who she is! I wonder, are we doing right not to advertise her!" thought the farrier; then contented himself with his former arguments against the advertising and the fact that Mrs. Calvert would soon be coming home and would decide the matter at once. "Cousin Betty can solve many a riddle, and will this one. Meanwhile, the waif is well cared for and as happy as she can ever be, I fancy. Best not to disturb her yet." When the wagon stopped at the door of the old stone Headquarters on the outskirts of Newburgh city, Helena said: "It will save time, Mr. Winters, if some of us drive on to the business streets and do the shopping for these twins. I'm familiar with this old house--have often brought our guests to see it; so I could help in the errands." "And I!" "And I!" cried Molly and Dolly, together. "Our school used to come here to study history, sometimes, right from the very things themselves. Besides--" Here Molly gave her chum such a pinch on the arm that Dolly ended her explanation with a squeal. So it was quickly settled. Mr. Winters handed Helena his purse, which she at first politely declined to take--having designs herself in that line. But when he as courteously and firmly insisted, she took it and said no more. Helena Montaigne would never carry her own wishes to the point of rudeness; yet in her heart she was longing to clothe the really pretty children after a fancy of her own. However, she put this wish aside, and the three girls with the orphans were swiftly driven to the best department stores the city afforded. Here trouble awaited. At the statement that one was a girl and one a boy--which her own perception would not have taught her--the saleswoman produced garments suitable for the two sexes. "Now which shall I fit first?" she asked smiling at the close resemblance of the pair. "Why, ladies first, I suppose!" laughed Helena and moved one child forward. The other immediately placed itself alongside, and Molly exclaimed: "Now, I don't know which is which! Anybody got a ribbon? or anything will answer to tie upon one and so distinguish them. Baby, which are _you_?" The twin she had clasped smiled at her seraphically but made no reply; merely cocked its flaxen head aside and thrust its finger in mouth. At once its mate did likewise, and Helena tossed her hands in comical dismay. "Oh! Get the ribbon, please! Then we'll make them _spell_ themselves and tie the mark on before we forget." So they did; and the attendant listened in amusement to the performance; till finding themselves of so much interest to others the midgets began again glibly to spell and--both together. Prancing and giggling, fully realizing their own mischievousness, the babies made that hour of shopping one which all concerned--save themselves--long remembered. Also, if there were the slightest difference between the garments selected for them they set up such a violent protest that peace could only be restored by clothing them alike. So they emerged from the establishment clad in snowy little suits that seemed as fitting for a girl as for a boy, with pretty hats which they elected to wear upon their backs, and sandals on their stubby feet--the nearest approach to shoes to which they would submit. A big box of suitable underwear was put into the wagon and they were lifted in after it, while Molly begged to walk a block or two till she found a confectioner's. Here she expended all her pocket-money, and climbing back beside Dorothy politely opened her big box and offered it to her friends. Incidentally, to the twins; who stared, tasted, and stared again! "My heart! I don't believe they have ever tasted candy! They don't know what it means!" cried Molly, laughing. They soon found out. In a flash they had seized the pasteboard box and snuggled it between them. Then with it securely wedged beneath their knees they proceeded to empty it at lightning speed. "Why! I never saw anything eat like that, not even a dog! You can't see them swallow!" said Helena, amazed. "They're getting themselves all daubed with that chocolate, too--The pity!" "Give it back to me, at once!" commanded Molly sternly, but she spoke to unhearing ears. Then she tried to snatch it away, but they were too strong for her, as anybody who has ever thus contested with sturdy five-year-olds can guess. "They'll make themselves ill! and they'll ruin their new clothes. What will Mr. Winters say? Molly, how could you!" wailed Dorothy. "I wish we'd never brought them. I mean, I wish you hadn't thought of candy. I wish----" "You'd hold your tongue!" snapped Molly, so viciously that her friends both stared and Dolly said no more. "I don't mean to be so horrid, girls, but it is so vexatious! I'd spent all I had and meant it to be such an addition to our picnic dinner in the woods. I'm ashamed--course--and I apologize. Though I remember Miss Penelope says that apologies and explanations are almost worse than useless. Besides----" Here Molly paused and looked at Dorothy most meaningly; but whatever she meant to say further Dolly stopped by a shake of her head, adding: "Now it's my turn to apologize, Helena dear, but there's something we two have in mind that we want to spring on the whole lot of you at once. Will you forgive and wait?" "Surely. But--those children! I hope we'll get back to the others soon and that Mr. Winters will have more influence with them than we've had." It proved that he had. One glance and word from him and the twins cowered as if they expected cruel blows, and without the slightest resistance permitted him to take away the nearly empty box. "Doesn't look very tempting now, I think. Best throw it away, especially as I had already provided sweeties for the crowd. Now, lads, westward ho! It's nearly dinner time again, and I believe it's being with so many other hungry youngsters makes me one too!" cried the Master, stepping to his place and saying with an air of authority which nobody disputed: "Hand over the twins. I'll take them under my care for the rest of this day!" The Headquarters which they were next to visit, and on whose grounds they were to picnic, was bordered by a stream that just there widened into a little lake. As they approached the place, cramped by their long ride, most of the lads left the wagons to finish the distance on foot. "Ever hear the story of General Lafayette and this creek, Melvin?" asked Herbert. "Good enough to tell and not against your side either." "Go on," said Melvin, resignedly. "I fancy I can match any yarn of yours with one of my own, don't you know." "Can't beat this. In those days there was no bridge here, not even a footbridge. One had to ford the stream. The General was going to a party at that very house yonder and was in his best togs. Course, he didn't want to get his pumps wet so he hired an Irishman--more likely a Britisher--to carry him over. Half way over--a little slip--not intentional, of course!--and down goes my General, ker-splash! Just this way it was! Only it's turn and turn about, now. Young America totes old England and----" "Lads, lads! That footbridge is unsafe! See! The plank's gone in the middle--Oh! the careless fellows!" Having been a boy himself the farrier was prepared for pranks; and the good-natured badinage between Herbert and the young Canadian had aroused no anxiety till now. He had been near enough to hear Herbert's recital of the Lafayette incident but had merely been amused. Now--Oh! why didn't they keep to the wide, safe bridge, that wagons used! Already it was too late even for his warning. Herbert had only meant to catch up the slighter Melvin, scare him by pretending to drop him, but in reality carry him pick-a-pack safely to the further shore. He considered himself an athlete and wished to show "young England how they do things in Yankeeland," and with a shout he darted forward. Headlong he came to the spot above the water where no foothold was--a space too wide for even his long legs to cover, and all the watchers shivered in fear. But from his elevation on Herbert's back, Melvin had already seen the chasm and as if he had been shot from a catapult--he cleared it! "Hip, hip, hooray! England forever!" yelled Frazer Moore and every other lad in the company added his cheers. Then Melvin, from his side the chasm, doffed his cap and bowed his graceful acknowledgments for his country's sake. And at sight of that the girls cheered, too, for Herbert had already regained his feet in that shallow stream and they could see that he had taken no hurt beyond a slight wetting. "Never mind that. He'll dry off, same as the twins did," laughed Molly Breckenridge. Which he did, for the sun was warm and his plunge had been a brief one; and in fact this "little international episode," as Monty called it, but served to increase the jollity of that day. Such a day it proved; without cloud or untoward incident to mar its happiness; and as they wandered here and there, inspecting for the last time the historical spot which had given them hospitable shelter, none dreamed of any mishap to come. Even the twins were tired enough to behave with uncommon docility, beyond continually removing from one another the ribbon which should have designated Ananias from Sapphira. "They've changed it so often I've really forgotten which is which, but I'm sure--that is I think--I'm really positive--that the hair with a kink belongs to Sapphira! After all, that isn't such a dreadful name when you say it softly," said Molly. "I think this is the loveliest old house I ever saw. I'd just like to stay here forever, seems if. The funny roof, so high up in front and away down, low almost as the ground behind. The great chimney--think of standing in a chimney so big you can look straight up, clear through to the sky!" murmured studious Jane Potter. "'Tisn't as big as the Newburgh one, and they haven't any such Hessian boots, though it does have a secret staircase and chamber," answered Jim who, also, was greatly interested in the ancient building. "But come on, Janie; they're getting ready to leave." "In just a minute. Just one single minute, 'cause I shan't ever likely come here again, even if I do live so near it as our mountain." Home through the twilight they drove, for kindly Seth couldn't abridge for his beloved young folks that long, delightful day; and they were ready to declare, most of them, that even the circus to come could hardly be more enjoyable than this day's "Headquartering" had been. It was then, on that happy return, that Dorothy had found the telegram awaiting, and had caught it up with a loving thought of her indulgent Aunt Betty. Then her happiness dashed as by cold water she had flown out of the room and shut herself in her pretty chamber to cry and feel herself the most unhappy girl in all the world. Twice had Norah come to her door to summon her to supper before she felt composed enough to go below among her guests. Over and over she assured herself that none of them should ever know how badly she had been treated. Nobody, of course, except Alfaretta, and the first thing that girl would be sure to ask would be: "Have you caught your hare?" In other words: "Did she send the money?" But in this she did poor Alfy great injustice. It had needed but one glance to tell her--being in the secret--what sort of an answer had come to Dorothy by way of that unexplained yellow envelope. Well, it was too bad! After all, Mrs. Betty Calvert must be a terribly stingy old woman not to give all the money she wanted to her new-found, or new-acknowledged great niece! Huh! She was awful sorry for Dolly Doodles, to have to belong to just--great aunts! She'd rather have Ma Babcock, a thousand times over, than a rich old creature like Dolly had to live with. She would so! Therefore it was not at all of news from town that warm-hearted Alfaretta inquired, as Dorothy at last appeared in the supper room, but with an indifferent glance around: "Why, where's Jane Potter?" CHAPTER X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS Where, indeed, was good Jane Potter! The least troublesome, the most self-effacing, staidest girl of them all. "Didn't she ride home with _you_?" "Why no. I supposed she did with _you_. That is--I never thought." "But--somebody should have thought!" cried Dorothy, diverted from her own unhappiness by this strange happening. "Yes, and that 'somebody' should have been myself," admitted Mr. Seth, after question had followed question and paling faces had turned toward one another. "Are you sure she isn't in her room?" asked Helena. "Sure as sure. I thought it funny she didn't come to clean herself, I mean put on her afternoon things; but I guessed she was too tired, and, anyway, Jane never gets mussed up as I do," answered Molly Martin, tears rising in her eyes. The Master rose from his unfinished meal. "Then we've left her behind and the poor child will be terrified. I'll have one of the work horses put to the pony cart at once, and go back for her. I'd like one of you lads to go with me. I might need somebody." Jim rose and Herbert, and, oddly enough, Mr. Winters nodded to Herbert; adding to Dorothy: "Have a bottle of milk and some food, besides a heavy wrap sent out to the cart. She will have missed her supper." "But you and Herbert are missing yours, too. I shall send something extra for you two and mind you eat it. I--I'm sure you'll find Jane all right only maybe frightened," said Dorothy, doing her utmost to banish anxiety from her friends, though she felt troubled enough in her own mind. If it had been any other girl but Jane, the steady! However, there was the long evening to get through, even though the rescuing party made their best speed. Many miles stretched between the old mansion and this with the distance to cover twice; and all the time there lay on the hostess's heart the burden of her own personal grief. But she mustn't think of that. She must not. She was a Calvert, no matter what Aunt Betty said. A gentlewoman. Only yesterday Helena had explained that a gentlewoman, "in society," had no thought save for the comfort of others. Well, she was in "society" now, and--She almost wished she wasn't! She'd rather have been a poor little girl, unknowing her own name, who'd never dreamed of being an heiress and who'd have been free to run away and hide and cry her eyes out--if she wished! So she put her best efforts to her task of entertaining and a jolly evening followed; though now and then one or another would pause in the midst of a game and ask: "Ought we to be carrying on like this, while we don't know what's happened to Janie?" Then the spirit of fun would sway them all again; for, as Alfaretta practically put it: "Whether we laugh or cry don't make any difference to her. Time enough to solemn down when we find out she's hurt." They were rather noisily singing the old round of "Three Blind Mice," with each particular "mouse" putting itself into its neighbors' way, so that the refrain never would come out in the proper order, when it was caught up by lusty voices in the outer hall and Mr. Seth's deep tones leading. "They've come! They've come--and it must be all right, else they wouldn't sing like that!" cried Molly Martin, infinitely relieved on her friend's and room-mate's account; she and the sedate Jane being as close chums as Dolly and the other Molly were. "The Campbells Are Coming," whistled Herbert merrily, and with the air of a courtier led the embarrassed Jane into the midst of the circle. She jerked her hand away with the reproof: "Don't be silly! I've made trouble enough without acting foolish over it." She seemed so completely ashamed of herself that Dorothy pitied her and hastened to put her arm about her and say: "Why should you think of trouble to anybody else since you're--alive?" "Alive! Did you think I might be dead, then? That makes it worse, still. I was never in the slightest danger. I was only just a--dunce." "You couldn't ever be that, Jane Potter!" cried Molly Martin, enthusiastically embracing the restored one from her other side. But Jane shook herself free from the caresses of both and calmly explained: "Since you'll all want to know I may as well tell just how thoughtless I was. I wanted to find that secret staircase Jim had told about, and the hidden chamber above it, under the roof. I couldn't at first. It led out of the paneled chamber, he said, where all the side walls looked like doors and only one of them would move. Finally, after I'd tried 'em all, and that took some time, I slid one open. It was the secret stair; nothing but a close sealed cupboard, so little that even I could hardly squeeze up it. It wasn't a regular stair, only tiny three-cornered pieces of board nailed in the back angles, first one side and then another. They are far apart and some are gone. I thought I'd never get up the thing, but I hadn't stayed behind to be worsted by a sort of old grain-chute like that." "Weren't you scared? Didn't you feel as if some enemy were after you?" Molly Breckenridge interrupted to ask. Jane coolly sat down and glanced contemptuously at the questioner. All the company felt a trifle disappointed by Jane's manner. They had expected a more exciting revelation. "What should I be afraid of? I haven't any enemies, as I know." "But it must have been very dark in such a place, a shut-in box like that," protested Helena, who as well as the others thought Jane might have made more out of her adventure. "No, it wasn't, not there. The panel-door let the light through from the big room where there are no blinds or curtains. All the light there was--only dusk, you know--came through. It was at the top, after I'd climbed off the top step into the hidden chamber that it got dark--black as night. Because, you see, I accidentally hit my foot against the trap-door and it fell shut. That's all. I ain't dead, you see, and there's nothing to be sorry for except the trouble I gave Mr. Winters and this boy. I've told them I was sorry, so that's all there can be done about it now. Anyway I've learned something, and that is how a prisoner must feel, shut up in a box like that." A sort of groan came from the further side of the room where the Master had sunk into a great chair as if he were utterly weary. Then he said: "I'm glad Jane is so philosophical. I think she doesn't know just how dangerous her situation was. The 'hidden chamber' under the roof was nothing but a closely sealed box, without any possible ventilation. Nobody could have lived long shut up in that space, breathing the vitiated air. It was well we found her, and you must all thank God for a tragedy averted. Nor would I have thought of looking there for her if Jim hadn't remembered talking with her about the place and told Herbert just as we started. He'd inspected it himself, had read of it, yet even I who had visited that old mansion many times didn't know of its existence." "Oh! I wish you'd told us all, Jim Barlow, when we were there! I think it was selfish mean of you not to, when we were sight-seeing on purpose," pouted Jolly Molly. "Wish't I had, now, since you all seem to care. I didn't think then anybody--I mean--I didn't think at all, except for myself," frankly answered the lad, which made them laugh again and so restored their ordinary mood. "Well, it's about breaking up time. I move that Dorothy C. give us a bit of music from her violin," said the Master, smiling upon his beloved child. She smiled in return but it was such a wan little attempt that it pained more than pleased him. Something was sorely troubling sunshiny Dolly and he wondered what, not knowing the purport of her begging letter to Mrs. Calvert nor what the telegram had said. He feared she was still grieving about the lost one hundred dollars and could sympathize in that, for he also grieved and puzzled. He made up his mind to ask her about it at the first opportunity; meanwhile, there was the obliging girl already tuning her violin and asking from her place beside the mantel piece: "What shall it be--when I've done squeaking this way?" "Yankee Doodle!" "God Save the King!" cried Herbert and Melvin, together; and immediately she began, first a strain of one, then the other, till even the mischievous petitioners cried that they had had enough of that medley and would be glad of a change. One after another she played the selections asked, watching with curiosity which all the others shared, the strange effect her music had on Luna. The waif now seemed to consider herself entirely one of the Party--the "Silent Partner," Danny called her; for though she never spoke she had learned to keep close to some one or other of the young folks, and so to avoid that big room where Dinah had placed her earlier on her visit. She took no part in any of their games but watched them with that vacant smile upon her wrinkled face, keeping out of the way of being jostled by cuddling down in some corner just as the twins did. Indeed, there was a close intimacy between the three "uninvited"; the little ones promptly realizing that no matter how mischievous they had been and how much they deserved punishment, they would be unmolested in Luna's neighborhood. She paid scant attention to them, no more than she did to anything, except gay colors and music. She slept much of the time, and just as the twins did; cuddled upon the floor or lounge or wherever drowsiness had overcome her. Yet let even the faintest strain of music be heard and she would instantly arouse, her eyes wide open and her head bent forward as one intently listening; and the strangest part of this attraction was that she dumbly realized the sort of melody she heard. At the jumble of the two national airs she had smiled, then frowned, and finally looked distressed. It was this expression upon the dull face she watched that had made Dorothy give over that nonsense, even more than the protests of her mates; and now as Molly begged: "Something of your own making-up, Dolly Doodles!" she let her bow wander idly over the strings, until a sort of rhythmic measure came to her; fragments she knew of many compositions but bound into a sheaf, as it were, by a theme of her own. It was a minor, moving melody and slowly but effectually touched the heart of every listener. Melvin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, picturing to his sometime homesick soul a far-away Yarmouth garden, with roses such as bloomed no other where and a sweet-faced, widowed mother gently tending them. Helena pondered if she did right to be in this house, a guest, with her own home so near and her parents thus deserted of both their children, and unconsciously she sighed. James Barlow and Jane Potter, after the habit of each, drifted into thought of the wide field of learning and the apparent hopelessness of ever crossing far beyond its boundaries. "The worst of studying is that it makes you see how little bit you can ever know;" considered the ambitious lad, while Jane regretted that she had not been left in peace in that old house from which she had been rescued and so have had the chance of her life to learn history on the spot. More or less, all within the sound of that violin grew thoughtful; but it was upon poor, "unfinished" Luna that the greatest stress was wrought. She did not rise to her feet but began to creep toward the player, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly advancing as if drawn forward by some invisible force. Presently they all became aware of her movement and of nothing else, save that low undercurrent of melody that wailed and sobbed from the delicate instrument, as the player's own emotions ruled her fingers. Even the Master sat erect, he who made a study of all mankind, touched and influenced beyond himself with speculations concerning this aged woman who was still a child. "Music! Who knows but that was the key to unlock her closed intelligence? Oh! what a pity that it came so late! But how sad is Dorothy's mood to evoke such almost unearthly strains! It's getting too much for her and for that helpless creature. I must stop it;" thought the farrier, but didn't put his thought into action. Just then he could not. "Makes me think of a snake charmer I saw once," whispered Monty Stark to Littlejohn. "Ssh! Luna's cryin'! Did you ever see the beat? Alfy Babcock, stop snivellin' as if you was at a first class funeral!" returned master Smith, himself swallowing rather hard as he happened to think of his mother bringing in her own firewood. Luna had reached the spot directly before Dorothy and was on her knees looking up with a timid, fascinated stare. Her small hands were so tightly clasped that their large veins seemed bursting, and great tears chased one another down her pink, wrinkled cheeks. Her close cropped head was thrown back and her back was toward the windows over which no curtains had been drawn. In her gay frock, which firelight and lamplight touched to a brilliant flame color, she must have appeared to one beyond the panes like a suppliant child begging pardon for some grave misdoing. Suddenly Alfaretta screamed, and Molly Breckenridge promptly echoed her; then bounded to Dorothy's side and snatched the violin from her hands. "Stop it, Dolly, stop it! I couldn't help doing that, for in another minute you'd have had me and--and everybody crazy! What made you----" "Why, Alfaretta! Whatever is the matter? Why do you stand like that, pointing out into the night as if you'd seen a ghost?" demanded Jane Potter, going to her schoolmate and shaking her vigorously. "Don't yell again. It's--it's more frightful to hear you than it was to be locked up in that hidden chamber, with a spring-locked trap shut between you and liberty." Which was the only admission this self-contained young person ever gave that she had once known fear. Alfy gulped, shivered, and slowly answered: "So I did. It--was a ghost. Or--or--just the same as one! A--lookin'--a lookin' right through the window--with his face--big and white--He--he wore a hat----" "Wise ghost! Not to cavort around bare-headed on a damp September night!" cried Monty, as much to reassure his own shaken nerves as those of the mountain girl. "Dorothy's music was so strange--weird you might say--that she's made us all feel spooky; but we have no apparitions at Deerhurst, let me tell you," said Herbert, consolingly. "Huh! You may say what you like, but that one apparited all right. I seen it with my very own eyes and nobody else's!" retorted Alfaretta, with such decision and twisting of good English that those who heard her laughed loudly. The laughter effectually banished "spookiness" and as now poor Luna sank down upon the floor in her accustomed drowsiness, her enwrapt mood already forgotten, the Master lifted her in his strong arms and carried her away to Dinah and to bed. But as he went he cast one keen glance toward the windows, where nothing could now be seen--if ever had been--save the dimly outlined trees beyond. Yet even he almost jumped when Jim, having followed him from the room, touched his arm and asked: "What do you s'pose sent old Oliver Sands to peekin' in our windows?" [Illustration: THE GHOST AT THE WINDOW. _Dorothy's House Party._] CHAPTER XI MORNING TALKS "Did anybody ever know such a succession of beautiful days?" asked Helena, next morning, stepping out into a world full of bird-song and sunshine. "And without doing anything extraordinary, nothing that anybody in the world couldn't have done, what a happy time we're having. Why, Dolly darling, you--what's wrong, honey? Are you in trouble? Can I help you?" Dorothy had been sitting on the broad piazza, waiting for her guests and breakfast, a very sober, worried girl. But she now sprang up to greet her friend and tossing back her dark curls seemed to toss away anxiety also. A smile rose the more readily, too, for at that moment there came around the corner Monty Stark and Danny Smith, kindred spirits, each singing at the top of his voice: "The elephant now goes round and round, The band begins to play, The little boys under the monkeys' cage Had better get out of the way-- Better get out of the wa-a-a-ay!" "Mornin' ladies! And let me assure you there'll be peanuts and pink lemonade enough to go around; for Daniel, my friend here, has just unearthed a quarter from one of his multitudinous pockets and I'll agree--to-lay-it-out-for-him-to-the-best-possible-advantage--Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, only ten cents to see the Double Headed Woman and to witness the astonishing feat of an Anaconda Swallowing his own Skin! Right this way, only ten----" "Monty Stark, behave yourself! The place for you, young sir, is in the monkeys' cage, not _under_ it! What have you horrid boys been doing out there in the barn so early, waking tired little girls out of their beauty-sleep?" demanded Molly B., appearing on the scene and interrupting the boy's harangue. "Oh! Just doing a few stunts. Practising, you know, against they call on us to take part in the 'ceremonies.' But it's a pity about that beauty-sleep. You needed it and I apologize! I mean I never saw you so charming! Hooray for the circus!" "Hooray!" answered Herbert, coming through the doorway, a twin on either arm. "Say it, 'Nias! Say it, 'Phira!" The youngsters squirmed to get away, to slide down out of the boy's grasp, but he held them securely till, at last grown desperate, one of them began gravely and distinctly to recite the doggerel which Monty and Daniel had just sung. The performance received great applause and amid the jests and laughter all turned to follow the summons to breakfast; Herbert restraining the little ones long enough to adjure them to: "Mind, you've promised! And you know what happened to some folks you're named for! No, I shouldn't have said that, poor innocents! I mean you must do what I told you or you'll lose what I promised." "Yep. We's do it, we's do it! I wants my brekkus!" answered one, while the other echoed: "Brekkus, brekkus!" Herbert placed them at a small low table in the corner where Dinah had decided they must eat, or "take deir meals; fo' as fo' eatins, dey's cwyin' fo' dem all de whole endu'in time! 'Peahs lak dem li'l ones nebah would get filled up an' nebah had ernough yet in dis yere world." Yet once at table nobody could find fault with their behavior, except for the extreme rapidity with which they stowed away their rations. They seemed afraid to drop a crumb or mess themselves in any way and the furtive looks they shot out from beneath their long lashes were pitiful, as if they feared their food would be snatched from them and themselves punished with blows. That many blows had been administered, Dinah had early found out, since when bathing them she saw the scars upon their poor little bodies. This had been sufficient to reconcile her to the extra care and labor their presence imposed upon her; for labor, indeed, they caused. For instance: stealing into the kitchen where Aunt Malinda had set upon the hearth a big pan of bread "sponge," to rise, they industriously dotted its top with lumps of coal from the hod, in imitation of a huckleberry pudding which had appeared at table. They even essayed to eat the mixture; but finding this impracticable set to work to force one another down into the pan of dough--with sufficient success to ruin the new suits they wore as well as Aunt Malinda's "risin'." Having discovered that sugar was sweet they emptied a jar of what looked like it into a fine "floating island" and turned the custard to brine. They hid Ephraim's glasses, and Dinah's bandana; they unloosed the dogs, let the chains be fastened ever so securely; they opened the gate to the "new meadow" and let the young cattle wander therein; and with the most innocent, even angelic expressions, they plotted mischief the livelong day. But they redeemed all their wickedness by their entire truthfulness. Despite their handicap of names, they acknowledged every misdemeanor and took every punishment without a whimper. "They're regular little imps! But, alanna, what'd this big house be widout 'em and their pranks?" cried poor Norah, laughing and frowning together, when called upon for the third time that morning to change the youngsters' clothes; the last necessity arising from the fact that they had filled the bathtub and taken a glorious dip without the formality of removing their garments. "You're the plague of my life, so you are; but poor motherless darlin's, I can't but love you! And sorra the day, when him 't you belongs to comes for you again!" When that morning's meal was over, the Master planned their day as had become his habit. Said he: "A circus day and the first day of the county fair, as this is, will crowd the streets of the city with all sorts of teams and people. I've decided not to risk Mrs. Calvert's horses in Newburgh to-day. We can all go up by train and have no anxiety about anything. It's but a down-hill walk, if a rather long one, from here to our own station, and in town there'll be plenty of stages to carry us to the grounds. Jim has consented to ride over on horseback early and secure our places on the front row of seats, if this is possible. I've seen no reserved seats advertised, but I don't like those insecure upper benches--or boards--of the tiers of scaffolding, where a fellow has to swing his feet in space or jab his toes into the back of the spectator below. Besides, I always did like to be close to the 'ring' when I go to the circus." "O, Teacher! As if you ever went!" cried Alfaretta, giggling. "Go? Of course I go every chance I get--to a real country circus--which isn't often. There's nothing so convinces me that I am still a little boy as the smell of tanbark and sawdust, and the sound of the clown's squeaking voice!" They laughed. It was so easy and so natural to laugh that morning. Even Helena, who had enjoyed many superior entertainments, felt her pulses thrill in anticipation of that day's amusement; and she meant to let herself "go" for all the fun there might be, with as full--if not as noisy an abandon--as any "mountain girl" among them. Continued Mr. Seth, closely observing Dorothy who, alone of all the company, was not smiling: "Now, for the morning. I suggest that you pass it quietly at home; tennis, reading, lounging in hammocks--any way to leave yourselves free from fatigue for the afternoon. Dinah says 'Y'arly dinnah'; because all the 'help' want to go to the circus and I want to have them. So we must get the dishes washed betimes, for the 'Greatest Show On Earth' opens its afternoon performance at two o'clock sharp precisely to the minute! and I, for one, cannot, positively cannot, miss the Grand Entrance! Umm. I see them now, in fancy's eye, the cream colored horses, the glittering spangles, the acrobats in tights, the monkeys, the--the----" "Oh! Don't say any more, dear Master, or I shall have to ride over with Jim this morning and see the street parade!" cried Molly Breckenridge clasping her plump hands in absurd entreaty, while every lad present looked enviously upon the thus honored James. "_I_ could buy circus tickets if I put my whole mind to it. How about you, Littlejohn Smith?" observed Monty. "Give me the cash and let me try!" Danny said nothing but his eyes were wistfully fixed upon vacancy, while Frazer Moore sadly stated: "All I ever did see about a circus--so far--was the parade. I run away to that--once." "And got a lickin' for it afterwards, I remember," commented Mike Martin. This was too much for the discipline of that dear old "boy," Seth Winters, and he cried: "See here, lads! I can't stand for that. Nor need I be afraid of fatigue for _you_. Nothing will tire a single boy of the lot, to-day, except missing some part of this delectable Show! Scamper! Scatter! Trot! Vamoose! In short, run to the stables and see if there are horses enough to go around, counting in the workers. There'll none of them be needed at Deerhurst to-day. Then you can all ride to town with our treasurer and put your horses up at the big livery on the High Street back of the town. See to it that they are made perfectly safe and comfortable for the day, and tell the proprietor that they are to be looked after for me. Here, Jamie lad, is an extra ten dollar bill. Use it judiciously, for anything needed, especially for luncheon for eight hungry boys. Better get that at some reputable restaurant and not on the grounds. Also, one of you meet the rest of us at the station at one o'clock with the tickets. Our whole big Party will make our own Grand Entrance!" "Oh! thank you, thank you!" With a simultaneous cry of rapture the lads sped stablewards, leaving some rather downcast girlish faces behind them. "I--I can ride horseback," said Molly B., with a sigh. "So can I; and 'tain't far to our house. I guess Pa Martin'd have let me have old Bess to ride on," responded the other Molly. "Shucks! Molly M. How'd you look, rockin' along on that old mare? Besides, you couldn't keep in sight, even, of the way them boys'll tear along. Another besides; you know, well's I do, that Mr. Martin wouldn't hold with no such nonsense as your trapesin' after a circus parade. Who wants to, anyway? We're born girls and we can't be boys, no matter how much we try. Since I ain't let to go I'd rather--I guess I'd rather stay to home and crochet some lace," said practical Alfaretta and pushed back from table. "Wait a minute, Alfy. There's something else I've got to say. It has been a secret between Dolly and me, but of course we can't keep it always and I can't a minute longer. It's this: We two girls have adopted for all their lives the two twins! We've adopted them with our pocket-money," proudly stated Molly B. "Molly! Molly!" cried Dorothy, her face aflame and her eyes swiftly filling. "Yes I shall tell, too. Secrets are the killingest things to bear. I expect Papa will scold and Auntie Lu make fun but I'm doing it for charity. I shall put away every bit of my allowance to educate my--my son--and I shall call him Augustus Algernon Breckenridge. I thought you might as well know," and with this startling statement the Judge's daughter threw back her head and eyed the company defiantly. The girls stared, all save Dorothy, and the Master laughed, while from their corners the twins echoed a shrill cackle; then immediately began to practice the somersaults which Herbert had been at such pains to teach them. Then Molly rose, with what she considered great dignity, and, forcing Ananias to stand upon his feet, said in a sweet maternal tone: "Come, my little boy. I want you to keep nice and rested till I take you to the circus." Then she led him away, Sapphira tugging at her skirts and Alfaretta remarking: "Guess you'll have to adopt the pair, Molly Breckenridge. Them two stick closer'n glue!" In another moment all but the Master and Dorothy had left the room, and seizing this opportunity he called her to him. "Dolly Doodles, I want to talk with you a little. Let's go out to the old barn--I mean the new one--and have a visit. We haven't had any cosy confidence talks, remember, since this House Party began." It was the very thing she craved. Frank and outspoken by nature, long used to telling everything to this wise old friend, they had no sooner settled themselves upon the straw divan, than out it came, with a burst of sobs: "Oh! dear Mr. Seth, I'm so unhappy!" "Yes, child. I've seen it. Such a pity, too, on a circus day!" "Please, please don't tease me now. Aunt Betty thinks--thinks--I hardly know--only--read that!" From the tiny pocket of her blouse she pulled the fateful telegram and thrust it into his hand. He had some ado to smooth it out and decipher the blurred writing, for it had been wet with many tears and frequently handled. "You have made me dangerously angry. You must find that money. Heretofore there has been no thievery in my house." Signed, "Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The farrier whistled softly, and slowly refolded the document; then drew Dorothy's wet face to his shoulder and said: "Yes, little girl, we must find that money. We must. There is no other way." "But how can we? And why should she--she be so angry after having told me I was all the world to her and that all she had was mine, or would be." "Well, dearie, 'would be' and 'is' are two widely differing conditions. Besides, she is Betty Calvert and you are you." "That's no answer, as I can see." "It is all the answer there is. She is an old, old lady though she doesn't realize it herself. All her life long she has been accustomed to doing exactly what she wished and when she wished. She has idealized you and you have idealized her. Neither of you is at all perfect--though mighty nice, the pair of you!--and you've got to fit yourselves to one another. Naturally, most of the fitting must be on your part, since you're the younger. You will love each other dearly, you do now, despite this temporary cloud, but you, my child, will have to cultivate the grace of patience; cultivate it as if it were a cherished rose in your own old garden. It will all come right, don't fear." "How can it come right? How ever in this world? I've promised to adopt one of the twins and Molly trusts me in that and I haven't a cent. I'm poorer than I used to be before I was an heiress. Molly will never believe me again. Then there's all this expense you're paying--the circus tickets and railway fares and all. It was to be _my_ House Party, my very own, to celebrate my coming into my rightful name and home and it isn't at all. It's yours and--Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Nothing is right. I wish I could run away and hide somewhere before Aunt Betty comes home. I shall never dare to look at her again after I've made her 'dangerously angry.' What can that mean? I used to vex Mother Martha, often, but never like that. Oh! I wish I was _her_ little girl again and not this----" Seth laid his finger on her lip and the wish she might have uttered and bitterly regretted was never spoken. But the old man's face was grave as he said: "You did not know, but my Cousin Betty means that you have excited her beyond physical safety. She has a weak heart and has always been cautioned against undue agitation. It has been a sad business altogether and I wish you had had more confidence in me and come to me with that letter before you sent it. As for the 'expenses' of your Party--it is yours, dear, entirely--they are slight and my contribution to the general happiness. The only real thing that does matter, that will be most difficult to set straight is--your suspicion of old Ephraim. It was that I believe which angered Mrs. Calvert, far more than the money loss, although she is exact enough to keep a cent per cent account of all her own expenses--giving lavishly the meanwhile to any purpose she elects. Poor Ephraim! His heart is wellnigh broken, and old hearts are hard to mend!" Dorothy was aghast. "Does he know? Oh! has anybody told him that I suspected him?" "Not in words; and at first he didn't dream it possible that his honesty could be doubted. But--that's the horrible part of suspicion--once started it's incurable. Side glances, inuendoes, shrugged shoulders--Oh! by many a little channel the fact has come home to him that he is connected in all our minds with the loss of your one hundred dollars. Haven't you seen? How he goes about with bowed head, with none of his quaint jests and 'darkyisms,' a sober, astonished old man whose world is suddenly turned upside down. That's why he refused my money this morning which I offered him for his circus expenses. 'No, Massa Seth, I'se gwine bide ter home.' Yet of all the family of Deerhurst, before this happened, he would have been the most eager for the 'Show.' However, he refuses; and in a certain way maybe it is as well. Otherwise the place would be left unguarded. I should keep watch myself, if I didn't think my Dorothy and her mates were better worth protecting than all Deerhurst. "So now, shorten up that doleful countenance. The mischief that has been done must be undone. Aunt Betty must come home to a loving, forgiving child; old Ephraim must be reinstated in his own and everybody's respect; and to do this--that money must be found! Now, for our friends--and brighter thoughts!" "That money _shall_ be found! I don't know how, I cannot guess--but it shall!" answered Dorothy with great confidence, born of some sudden inspiration. The talk with the Master had lightened her heart and it was with a fine resolution to be everything that was dutiful and tender toward Aunt Betty that she left the barn and rejoined her mates. CHAPTER XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH Deerhurst was deserted. With a down-sinking heart old Ephraim had watched the last of the merry-makers vanish through the gateway, even gray haired Hans and Griselda joining their fellow employees on this trip to the circus. The watcher's disappointment was almost more than he could bear. His love of junketing was like a child's and for many days, as he drove his bays about the countryside, he had gloated over the brilliant posters which heralded the coming of "The Greatest Show on Earth." He had even invited Aunt Malinda to accompany him at his expense, and now she had gone but he was left. "Hmm. It do seem pow'ful ha'd on me, hit sutney do. But--if all dem folkses is suspicionin' 't ole Eph'aim is a t'ief--My lan', a T'IEF! Not a step Ah steps to no ca'yins' on, scusin dey fin's Ah isn't. If my Miss Betty was to home! Oh! fo' my Miss Betty! She's gwine tole dese yeah Pa'ty folks somepin' when she comes ma'chin' in de doah. Dey ain' no suspicions ertwixt my Miss Betty an' me." His thoughts having taken this course Ephraim found some comfort. Then the responsibility of his position forced itself to mind. No, he couldn't go stretch himself on the back porch in the September sunshine and sleep just yet. Though it was against all custom and tradition in that honest locality, he would lock up the whole house. He would begin at the front door and fasten every window and entrance even to the scullery. There should nothing more be missing, and no more suspicion fixed on a poor old man. He didn't yet know who had set the miserable idea afloat in the beginning, and he didn't dream of its being Dorothy. He had found himself strangely questioned by the other servants and had met curious glances from the visitors in the house. Finally, a stable lad had suddenly propounded the inquiry: "What did you do with that money, anyway, Ephy? If you don't hand it back pretty soon there'll be trouble for you, old man." He had returned indignant inquiries himself, at last worming the whole matter out; and then, with almost bursting heart, had gone to Seth Winters with his trouble. The farrier had comforted as best he could, had assured the old negro of his own utmost faith in him, but--he could not explain the absence of the money and his assurances had been of small avail. Whenever he was alone poor Ephraim brooded over the matter. He now avoided his fellow workers as much as he could. His appetite failed, his nights were sleepless, and Dinah impressively declared that: "He's yeitheh been hoodooed or he stole dat money." She was inclined to accept the first possibility, but with the superstition of her race felt that one was about as derogatory as the other. So nobody, except Mr. Winters, had been very sorry to have him stay behind on this occasion when jollity and not low spirits was desirable. At last when all was secure, the care-taker retired to his bench and his nap, and had been enjoying himself thus for an hour or so, when the sound of wheels and somebody's "Whooa-a!" aroused him. "Ah, friend! Can thee afford to waste time like this?" demanded a blandly reproving voice; and Ephraim opened his eyes to behold George Fox and his owner reined up before him. He knew that equipage and wondered to see it at Deerhurst, whose mistress, he knew, had scant liking for the miller. "Yes, sah. I'se reckon Ah c'n afford hit; bein' mo' inclined to take mah rest 'an to go rampagin' eroun' to circuses an' such. On yo' way dar, sah?" "I? _I!_ On my way to a circus? Thee must know little of a Friend's habits to accuse me of such frivolity. Where is that Seth Winters?" asked Oliver Sands, well knowing what the answer would be and having timed his visit with that knowledge. "He's done gone to de Show, sah. He natchally injoys a good time. Yes, sah, he's one mighty happy ole man, Massa Seth Winters is, sah." "One mighty----" began the miller then checked himself. "I came--but thee will answer just as well. I'd like to inspect that new barn Elisabeth Calvert has put up; and, if thee will, show me through her house as well. I've heard of its appointments and Dorcas, my wife, is anxious to learn of the range in the kitchen. Thee knows that women----" Again the visitor paused, suggestively, and Ephraim reflected for a moment. He knew that his Miss Betty was the soul of hospitality and might upbraid him if he refused to show a neighbor through the premises. Even strangers sometimes drove into the park and were permitted to inspect the greenhouses and even some of the mansion's lower rooms. He had heard such visitors rave over the "old Colonial" appointments and knew that Deerhurst's mistress had been secretly flattered by this admiration. Ah! but that was before this dreadful thing had happened! When--before somebody had stolen, some unknown thief had been within those walls! "Well, sah, Ah is sutney sorry but, sah, when I'se lef' to care-take, sah, I care-takes. Some uddah time, when Miss Betty done be yeah, sah, sutney, sah----" The negro's exaggerated courtesy affronted Oliver Sands. It was not his policy to contest the point, and if he had fancied he could persuade this loyal care-taker to admit him that he might search the house as he had searched many other houses of late, he silently admitted his own mistake and drove away with no further word than: "Gid-dap, George Fox!" But he drove home with head on breast and a keen disappointment in his heart; which expressed itself in a stern rebuke to his wife as he entered her kitchen and met her timid, inquiring glance: "Thee has maggots in thy head, Dorcas Sands. I advise thee to get rid of them." She might have retorted with equal truth: "So is thee maggotty, Oliver, else would thee do openly that which should bring thee peace." But being a dutiful wife she kept silence, though she brooded many things in her tender heart; and the incident passed without further comment than Seth Winters's ambiguous remark, when Ephraim told of the miller's call: "So the leaven is working, after all." But while this trivial affair was happening at Deerhurst, the train had swiftly carried the household to the hill-city a few miles up the river; and almost before they were comfortably settled in the crowded car, the conductor was announcing: "Newburgh next! All out for Newburgh!" "Here we are! And here's our stage! We've chartered a whole one to carry us up the hill. A hard climb and no time to lose!" called out a boyish voice and Herbert's tall shoulder shoved a path through the throng. "There's another empty over yonder, if the 'help' speak quick enough!" But Aunt Malinda standing bewildered and Dinah indignantly correcting somebody for jostling her, rather delayed this operation; so, at a nod from the Master, Jim Barlow made a bee line for the vehicle and stoutly held it as "engaged!" against all comers. "It's a case of every man for himself!" laughed Monty, squeezing his fat body toward the group of girls which was standing apart, amazed and somewhat dismayed by the press of people. "Oh! Don't get worried, Molly, by a little jam like this. Wait till you see the grounds. I declare it seems as if everybody between New York and Albany had come to the 'Show.' It is a big one, I guess, and the Parade was fine. Sorry we didn't bring all of you, pillion, old-style, so you could have seen it, too." "Monty, stop! It's cruelty to girls to harrow up their feelings that way! As if we didn't all _think_ 'pillion' and long to suggest it, only our diffidence prevailed. But come! Mr. Seth has piloted the servants to their stage and is waiting for us!" answered Molly Breckenridge and was the first to spring up the narrow steps at the rear of the rickety omnibus and run to its innermost corner, where she extended her arms to receive her "son" whom she had kept in charge during the ride in the car. The other Molly had passed him on to her, he submitting in wide-eyed astonishment at all the novelty of this trip. Helena held Sapphira as closely, and Dorothy's arm was tightly clasped about Luna's waist, who, oddly enough, was the least affrighted of them all. "Won't the horses be afraid? Supposin' they should run away!" cried Molly Martin, who had seldom been in the town and never on such an occasion as this. "Pooh! Them horses won't run 'less they're prodded into it. They look as if they'd been draggin' stages up and down these hills all their lives and never expected to do anything else," answered Alfaretta, quickly. "Don't you get scared, Molly, I ain't." Indeed, of all that happy party Alfaretta was, maybe, the happiest. Her face was one continual smile and her chatter touched upon everything they passed with such original remarks that she kept them all laughing. Seth beamed upon her from his place beside Luna, and was himself delighted to see that Dorothy was now as gay as any of the others. For the time being any worries she had had were forgotten; and it was she who exclaimed in astonishment, as they came to the grounds and climbed out of the stage: "'Do I wake or am I dreaming'! If there isn't Miss Penelope Rhinelander! and Miss Greatorex is with her! True, true! Who'd ever believe _they'd_ come to a circus!" "Reckon they'd say they did it to study natural history--elephants and things!" laughed Molly, waving her hand vigorously to attract the attention of her old teachers. But they did not see her, so occupied were they in endeavoring to be of a crowd and yet not in it. "Shucks! There's Dr. Sterling! That I worked for last year and went trampin' with last summer! Who'd ha' believed a _minister_ would go to a circus!" now almost shouted Jim Barlow. "Why, I would, laddie. I'll warrant you that every grown-up in the town who has a child friend he can make an excuse of to bring here has done it! Funny they should offer excuses, when there isn't a man or woman but, at sound of a circus band, remembers their childhood and longs to attend one once more. For myself, I prefer a good, old-fashioned 'show' to the finest opera going. The one touches my heart, the other my head. But here we are, and Miss Helena, I see you're beginning to perk up, now you find yourself in such good company." For he had overheard that young lady, despite her morning's resolution to "do just as the rest did and forget it was silly," remark to Mabel Bruce in confidence that: "If I'd known, even dreamed, that we should have to mix with such a rabble, I should have stayed at Deerhurst!" This was when they had had to scramble for their stage; and Mabel had affectedly replied: "Me too. My folks never do like to have me make myself common; and this organdie dress will be torn to ribbons." Seth had smiled then, overhearing, and bided his time. Well he understood how one emotion can sway an entire crowd, and he but waited till they should have arrived to see even these contemptuous lassies catch the "circus spirit." So he couldn't resist this little jest at Helena's expense, which she took now in great good nature; by then they had come to the entrance to the big tent where the chief performance would be given. This entrance was guarded by a wooden stile, from which a narrow canvas-covered passage led to the inner door. At the stile tickets were sold, and these were in turn taken up by the collector at the end of the passage which opened directly into the tent. "Speaking of crowds! Was ever such another one as this!" gasped Melvin Cook, as he found himself in the swirl of persons seeming to move in two directions, as, indeed, they were. Then he looked around for his friends and to his consternation saw Molly Breckenridge tossed to and fro in a hopeless effort to extricate herself, and that she held one of the twins by hand, till suddenly the child fell beneath the very feet of the crowding adults. "My baby! Oh! O-oh!" screamed Molly, and an instant's halt followed, but the jam was to be immediately resumed. Fortunately, however, that instant had been sufficient for tall Jim Barlow to stoop and lift the child on high. "Hang on to me, Molly! I'll kick and jam a way through. 'Twill be over in a minute, soon's we get to the inside and have--you--got--your ticket?" "Ye-e-es! But--but--I'll never come to a circus--again--never--never----" "You haven't got to this one yet," returned Jim, breathlessly. Then he discovered Mr. Winters standing inside the tent, and extending his arms to receive the uplifted little one which Jim at once tossed forward like a ball. At last they were all inside. The Master had been more fortunate in piloting his especial charges, Luna and Sapphira, through that struggling mob; but it was in a tone of deep disgust that he now exclaimed: "Oh! the selfishness of human nature! A moment's delay, a touch of courtesy, and such scenes would be avoided. The struggle for 'first place,' to better one's self at the expense of one's neighbor, is an ugly thing to witness." "But, Teacher, when you get in such a place you have to just do like the rest and act piggish, too," said Alfaretta. "I guess I know now how 't one them panics that you read about, sometimes, could happen. If one them jammers went crazy, or scared, all the rest would too, likely." "Exactly, Alfaretta. But, let's think of pleasanter things. Let's follow James." After all, though Mr. Winters had doubted there would be, the lad had secured reserved seats and on "the front row near the entrance," just as that gentleman had desired; so presently, they had arranged themselves upon the low-down bench where, at least, their feet could touch bottom; and where with a comical air the farrier immediately began to sniff the familiar odor of fresh turned sod covered with sawdust, and turning to his next neighbor remarked: "I think I'm nine years old, to-day, nine 'goin' on' ten." But his facetiousness was wasted upon sedate Jane Potter; who did not even smile but reflected: "If that old man's going to talk silly I'll change places with Alfaretta. And if the performance isn't to begin right away I'll just walk around and look at the animals' cages." She did this, laying her handkerchief and jacket on her vacated seat, though her host called after her: "You may not be able to get your place again, in such a crowd." However, if she heard she did not turn back and was presently out of sight in the line of promenaders continually passing. Also, his own face grew sober at the sound of thunder, and he clasped his arm more protectingly around Luna's waist, who sat on his other side, and counselled Dorothy, just beyond: "Do you and Molly keep close care of the twins. There's a storm brewing and timid people may stampede past us toward the door." "Why, would anybody be afraid in a big tent like this?" asked Dolly, surprised. "Some might. But--Hark! Hooray! Here we come!" The band which had been playing all the time now broke into a more blatant march, a gaily accoutred "herald" galloped forth from a wide opening at the rear of the tent, then turned his steed about to face that opening, waving his staff and curveting about in the most fantastic manner. Then the silence of expectation fell upon that mass of humanity, the promenaders settling into any seats available, warned by men in authority not to obstruct the view of those on the lower benches. As a cavalcade of horses appeared Mr. Winters looked anxiously down into Luna's face. To his surprise it showed no interest in the scene before her but was fast settling into its habitual drowsiness. "Well, after all, that's best. We could not leave her behind and I feared she would be frightened;" he observed to Dorothy. "Yes, I'm glad, too. Keep still, 'Phira! You must keep still, else you may be hurt. Wait. I'll take you on my lap, as Molly has 'Nias. Now--see the pretty horses?" answered Dorothy, and involuntarily shivered as a fresh thunderclap fell on her ears. Alfaretta leaned forward to remark: "It's begun to rain! But isn't it cute to be under a tent and just let it rain! Ah! My soul! Ain't they beautiful? Look, girls, look, them first ones is almost here! A-ah! them clowns! And monkeys--to the far end there's real monkeys ridin' on Shetland ponies! Oh! my heart and soul and body! I'm so glad I come!" She finished her comments, standing up and swaying wildly from side to side, till somebody from the rear jabbed her shoulders with an umbrella point, loudly commanding: "Down front! Down front!" She dropped into her seat with a shriek, which somebody somewhere promptly caught up and echoed, while at that same instant a flash of lightning illuminated even that interior which had grown so strangely dark, and on the instant came a terrific crash. Another woman screamed, and Seth Winters's face paled. He knew how very little it would now take to start a panic. But the band played the louder, the performers went round and round the great ring, the clowns frolicked and the monkeys pranked, and he inwardly blessed the discipline which kept every player to his post, as if such electric storms were every day incidents. "What are those men doing to the roof?" suddenly demanded Molly Martin of her neighbor, James, calling his attention to the sagging canvas and the employees hurrying hither and thither to lift it on the points of great poles. Then would follow a splash of water down the slope from the central supporting pole of that flimsy roof, dashing off at the scalloped edges upon the surrounding ground. "Water's heavy. I guess they're afraid it'll break and douse the people. Hi! But that was a teaser! It don't stop a minute and it's getting blacker'n ink. Never heard such a roar and it don't let up a second. They'll have to stop the performance till it slacks up, and--What fools these folks are that's hurrying out into that downpour!" "Maybe--maybe--they're safer outside. Rain won't hurt--much--but circus tents are sometimes blown down--I've read----" "Now come, Alfy Babcock, just hold your tongue! Rough way to speak but I mean it. Hear what the Master said? How it was mighty easy to start a panic but impossible to stop one, or nigh so? Everyone that keeps still and behaves helps to make somebody else do it. Here, boy, fetch them peanuts this way? Dip in, Alfy, I'll treat, and I see the lemonade feller's headed this way, too. Whilst we're waitin' we might as well----" Even Jim's philosophy was put to the test just then, for with a peanut half-way to his lips his hand was arrested by another terrific crash and the swishing tear of wet canvas. CHAPTER XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN Still the band played on. The cavalcade paced round and round the ring, while a hundred workmen--it seemed--swarmed to the repair of the torn tent. Fortunately, the injured portion was that occupied as dressing rooms and stables for the performers, so that few of the audience suffered more than fright. Indeed, most of the spectators realized as Mr. Winters had done, the danger of panic and the wisdom of composure, so remained in their places. Also, with the same suddenness that had marked its rising the storm ended and the sun shone out. One mighty sigh of relief swept over those crowded tiers of humanity, and the indefatigable band struck up a new and livelier note. The tight-rope dancer sprang lightly into the ring and went through her hazardous feats with smiling face and airy self-confidence; the elephants ascended absurdly small stools, and stood upon them, "lookin' terribly silly, as if they knew they were makin' guys of themselves," so Mike Martin exclaimed, though he still kept his fascinated eyes upon their every movement. There was the usual bareback riding and jumping through rings: the trapeze, and the pony quadrille; in short, all that could be expected of any well conducted "Show," while above all and below all sounded the clown's voice in a ceaseless clatter and cackle of nonsense. Laughter and badinage, peanuts and pink lemonade; men and women turned back to childhood, smiling at the foolishness enacted before them but more at their own in thus enjoying it; and the "Learned Blacksmith" who had pondered many books finding this company around him the most interesting study of them all. It was this that he loved about a circus; and, to-day, at their first one, the faces of Ananias and Sapphira held his gaze enthralled. "Dolly, Dolly Doodles! Do watch them!" he cried for sympathy in his delight. "Did ever you see eyes so bright? Mouths so wide agape? and happiness so intense! Ah! if those to whom they belong could see them now, all hardness would vanish in a flash!" Dorothy looked as he desired, but her glance was less of admiration than of anxiety. She had seen what he did not see and was hearing what he did not; a face and figure somberly different from the tri-colored one of the clown, and a voice more raucously insistent than his. All at once the twins also saw and heard. Their attention was clutched, as it were, from those adorable monkeys a-horseback, which had come once more to the very spot before where they stood, and whom in their baby-souls they envied frantically. "HIM!" shrieked Ananias. "H-I-M!" echoed Sapphira, all her pretty pink-and-whiteness turned the pallor of fear. There was a flash of bare feet and blue-denimed legs and the terrified twins had leaped the velvet-topped barrier bordering the ring and were scurrying heedlessly away, how and where they cared not except to be safe from that "Him" whose memory was a pain. "My soul! They'll be killed--the little rascals!" cried Jim, and leaped the barrier, in pursuit. "He can't catch 'em! I'll help!" and fat Monty rolled himself over the fence. "What's up, boys?" demanded Frazer Moore; and, perceiving, added himself to the rescuing party. Ditto, Mike; then Littlejohn and Danny. This was the chance of a lifetime! to be themselves "performers." Only Melvin and Herbert rose, hesitating, amazed--and, seeing the little ones, whom everybody tried to catch and who eluded every grasp, in such imminent peril of trampling horse-hoofs, they also followed the leader. Even Mr. Winters rose to his feet and watched in deep anxiety the outcome of this escapade, and the darting nimbleness of two small figures which everybody, from the ring-master down, was chasing like mad. Only the trained horsemen and their following troupe of monkeys kept on unmindful; while from the seats on every side ran shouts of laughter. To most of those onlookers this seemed a part, a delightfully arranged part, of the entertainment. Only those nearest, and the farrier was one of them, realized that the strange old man with the croaking voice was an alien to that scene. A half-crazed old man who felt called upon to deliver his "message" of warning to a sinful world, at all times, seasons, and places. He had stumbled upon this as a fine field and, unbalanced though his mind was, it had yet been clear enough for him to purchase a ticket and enter in the customary way. "Oh! will he take the twins away?" asked Dorothy, clasping her hands in dismay. "And will they--be--killed!" "I think not, to both questions. Evidently he has not perceived the children though they were quick enough to discover him. The pity! that one should inspire such fear in his own household! But, see! See!" Mr. Winters forgot the old exhorter for the moment and laughed aloud. In the ring the clown had, at first, pretended to join in the pursuit of the nimble runaways, but only pretended. Then he suddenly perceived that they were growing breathless and had almost fallen beneath the feet of a mighty Norman horse. The man beneath his motley uniform rose to the emergency. Catching the bridle of a near-by pony, he flung the monkey from its back, scooped the babies up from the ground, set them in the monkey's place and, mounting behind them, triumphantly fell into line. It was all so quickly done that its bravery was but half appreciated; and the absurdly grinning mask which he now waggled from side to side, as if bowing to an outburst of applause, roused a roar of laughter. As for Ananias and Sapphira--their felicity was complete. The stern grandparent was forgotten and the only fact they knew was this marvelous ride on a marvelous steed, and most marvelous of all, in the friendly grasp of the tri-colored person behind them. Mr. Winters turned from them for a moment, at the sound of a scuffle near by. An instant's glance showed him that the poor fanatic was being roughly handled by some employees of the circus, and he stepped forward protesting: "Don't do that! He'll go quietly enough if you just ask him. He's a feeble old man--be gentle!" "But we want no 'cranks' in here creating a disturbance! Enough has happened this performance, already!" [Illustration: THE TWINS AND CLOWN ON THE SHETLAND PONY. _Dorothy's House Party._] "Jim! James Barlow! Herbert Montaigne!" These two were the only ones left still in the ring of the lot who had pursued the runaway twins, the others having shamefacedly retreated as soon as they saw the children were safe. They looked toward the Master yet lingered to receive the twins whom their captor was now willing to resign; they struggling to remain and a mixed array of flying legs and arms resulting. However, neither screams nor obstreperous kicks availed to prolong that delectable ride, and presently the little ones found themselves back in the grasp of a bevy of girls who made a human fence about them, and so hedged them in to safety. "Lads, I must leave you to see our girls safe home. Do so immediately the performance is over and it must be nearly now. This poor old chap is ill and bemused by his rough handling. I'm going to take him to a hospital I know and have him cared for. I'll go down to Deerhurst as soon as I can but don't wait for me. Come, friend. Let us go;" and linking his strong arm within the weak one of the man, scarce older yet so much frailer than he, he walked quietly away, the fanatic unresisting and obedient. With the Master's departure the glamour faded from the "Show"; and at Helena's suggestion the whole party promptly made their exit. "It's a wise move, too, Helena. We can catch the five o'clock train down and it won't be crowded, as the later one will be. I fancy we've all had about all the circus we want--this time. Anybody got a rope?" said Herbert. "What in the world do you want of a rope?" asked his sister. "I think if we could tie these irrepressibles together we could better keep track of them." There were some regretful looks backward to that fascinating tent, when the older lads had marshalled their party outwards, with no difficulty now in passing the obstructing stile; but there were no objections raised, and the homeward trip began. But they had scarcely cleared the grounds when Molly Martin paused to ask: "Where's Jane Potter?" "Oh! hang Jane Potter! Is she lost again?" asked Danny Smith. Then with a happy thought, adding: "I'll go back and look for her!" In this way hoping for a second glimpse of the fairy-land he had been forced to leave. Whereupon, his brother reminded him that he had no ticket, and no fellow gets in twice on one. Besides, that girl isn't--Hmm. "She's probably lingered to study biology or--or something about animals," observed Monty. "Any way, we can afford to risk Jane Potter. Like enough we shall find her sitting on the piazza writing her impressions of a circus when we get home." They did. She had early tired of the entertainment and had been one of the first to leave the tent after the accident to it. Once outside, she had met a mountain neighbor and had begged a ride home in his wagon. Jane was one to be careful of Jane and rather thoughtless of others, yet in the main a very good and proper maiden. But if they did not delay on account of Jane they were compelled to do so by the twins. "These children are as slippery as eels," said Molly, who had never touched an eel. "I'll lend my 'son' to anybody wants him, for awhile. I'd--I'd as lief as not!" she finished, quoting an expression familiar to Alfy. "And I'll lend 'Phira!" added Dorothy. She had tried to lead the little one and still keep her arm about Luna, who by general consent was always left to her charge. "All right. Give her here!" said Frazer; while Herbert whistled for a waiting stage to approach. But as it drew near and the girls began to clamber in, preparatory to their ride stationwards, Ananias jerked himself free and springing to one side the road began a series of would-be somersaults. It was an effort on his part to follow Herbert's instructions--with doubtful success. Of course, what brother did sister must do, and Sapphira promptly emulated her twin. "Oh! the mud! Just look at them! How can we ever take them in that stage with us?" asked Mabel Bruce, in disgust. But the happy youngsters paid no attention to her. Having completed what Herbert had taught them to call their "stunt" they now approached their instructor and demanded: "Candy, what you promised!" "All right. Driver, we'll stop at the first confectioner's we pass and I'll fill them up." "But, Herbert, you should not. Don't you remember how ill they were from Molly's supply? And I do say, if you led them into this scrape, getting themselves in such a mess, you'll have to ride in front and keep them with you." Herbert made a wry face. He was always extremely careful in his dress and his sister's just suggestion wasn't pleasant. However, he made the best of it and no further untoward incident marked that day's outing. Arrived at home they found Jane calmly reading, as has been told, and no other one about except old Ephraim, who had not unfastened the doors for "jes one l'il gal," but now threw them wide for the "House Party." Then he retreated to the kitchen, where Dorothy found him stirring about in a vain attempt to get supper--a function out of his line. "Now, Ephy, dear, you can't do that, you know! You're a blessed old blunderer, but one doesn't boil water for tea in a leaky coffee-pot! Wait! I'll tell you! I'll call the girls and we'll make a 'bee' of it and get the supper ourselves, before Aunt Malinda and Dinah and the rest get back. They'll be sure to stay till the last----" "Till the 'last man is hung'!" finished Alfaretta, with prompt inelegance. "Oh! I'm just starving!" wailed a boyish voice, and Monty rushed in. "So are we all, so are we all!" cried others and the kitchen rang with the youthful, merry voices. Ephraim scratched his gray wool and tried to look stern, but Dorothy's "Ephy, dear!" had gone straight to his simple heart, so lately wounded and sorrowful. After all, the world wasn't such a dark place, even if he had missed the circus, now that all these chatterers were treating him just as of old. They were so happy, themselves, that their happiness overflowed upon him. Cried Jim Barlow, laying a friendly hand on the black man's shoulder: "Come on, Ephy, boy! If the girls are going to make a 'bee,' and get supper for all hands--including the cook--let's match them by doing the chores for the men. The 'help' have done a lot for us, these days, and it's fair we do a hand's-turn for them now! Come on, all! Monty, you shall throw down fodder for the cattle--it's all you're equal to. Some of us will milk, some take care of the horses, everybody must do something, and I appoint Danny Smith to be story-teller-in-chief, and describe that circus so plain that Ephraim can see it without the worry of going!" "Hip, hip, hooray! Let's make a lark of it!" echoed Herbert, now forgetful of his good clothes and eager only to bear his part with the rest. "Well, before we begin, let's get the twins each a bowl of bread and milk and tie them in their chairs, just as Dinah does when they bother. They mustn't touch that candy till afterward, though I don't know how Herbert ever kept it from them so long," said Molly Breckenridge, adjusting a kitchen apron to her short figure by tucking it into her belt. "I know! I sat on it!" called back the lad and disappeared barnwards. Luna was placed in her corner and given a bowl like the twins, and the girls set to work, even Jane Potter asking to help. "What all shall we cook? I can make fudges," said Molly. "Fudges are all right--you may make some, but I want something better than sweets. Helena, you're the oldest, you begin. Suggest--then follow your suggestions. Fortunately we've a pretty big range to work on and Ephraim can make a fire if he can't make tea. It's burning fine. Hurry up, Helena, and speak, else Alfaretta will explode. She's impatient enough," urged Dorothy. "Once--I made angel food," said Helena, rather timidly. "It didn't turn out a real success, but I think that was because I didn't use eggs enough." "How many did you use?" "A dozen." "Try a dozen and a half. There's a basket of them yonder in the storeroom and everybody must wait on everybody's self. Else we'll never get through. I'll light up, it's getting dark already," answered Dorothy who, as hostess, was naturally considered director of affairs. "Well, Alfy! What will you do?" "I can fry chicken to beat the Dutch!" "Hope you can," laughed Helena. "I'm not fond of Dutch cookery, I've tried it abroad. They put vinegar in everything." "But where will you get chicken to fry?" "There's a whole slew of them in the ice-box, all ready fixed to cook. I suppose Aunt Malinda won't like it, to have me take them, if she's planned them for some other time, but there's plenty more chickens in the world. Come along, Jane Potter, and get a pan of potatoes to peel. That's the sitting-downest job there is. Molly Martin, you can make nice raised--I mean bakin'-powder biscuit--there's the flour barrel. Don't waste any time. Everybody fly around sharp and do her level best!" After all it was Alfaretta who took charge, and under her capable direction every girl was presently busy at work. "I'm going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That ought to be enough to go around; only they'll all want the lemon ones. 'Christ Church,' Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said 'twas the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, 't first thought them out. I can make 'em good, too. What you goin' to make, yourself, Dorothy Calvert?" "I reckon--pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They're nothing but eggs and flour and--and--I'll have to think. Oh! I know. There's an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don't believe Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table, important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I've seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?" "No, nor don't want to. We ain't makin' jelly to-night, and do for goodness' sake get to work!" cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all by her own activity. "Ma says I'm a born cook and I'm going to prove it, to-night, though I don't expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter, you ought to know better than peel them 'tatoes so thick. 'Many littles make a mickle,' I mean a lot of potato skins make a potato--Oh! bother, do right, that's all. Just because Mrs. Calvert she's a rich 'ristocratic, 'tain't no reason we should waste her substance on the pigs." Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor. Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads. "That's fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something hearty," said Monty, smacking his lips. Herbert sniffed, then advised: "I'll warrant you that Helena will try angel cake. If she does, don't any of you touch it; or if you think that isn't polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they'll ever get the supper ready, anyhow." "Afraid it'll be just 'anyhow,'" wailed Monty. "Those girls can't cook worth a cent." "Don't you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I've et 'em to picnics and they're prime," said Mike Martin, loyally. "Well, I only hope they don't keep us too long. I begin to feel as if I could eat hay with the cattle." After all, the young cooks were fairly successful, and the delay not very great. Most of them were well trained helpers at home, even Dorothy had been such; but this time she had failed. "Three times I've made those things just exactly like the rule--only four times as much--and those miserable pop-overs just will not pop! We might as well call the boys and give them what there is. And----" At this moment Dorothy withdrew her head from a careful scrutiny of the oven, and--screamed! The next instant she had darted forward to the imposing figure framed in the doorway and thrown her arms about it, crying: "O, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty! I'm a bad, careless girl, but I love you and I'm so glad, so glad you've come!" CHAPTER XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND That picnic-supper! The fun of it must be imagined, not described. Sufficient to say that it was the merriest meal yet served in that great mansion; that all, including Mrs. Calvert, brought to it appetites which did not hesitate at "failures," and found even Helena's angel cake palatable, though Herbert did remark to his next neighbor: "If they'd had that kind of leathery stuff instead of canvas to cover that circus tent it would never have broken through, never in the world!" Not the least delighted of that company were the servants, who returned late from their outing, and had had to walk up the mountain from the Landing; they having lingered in the hill-city till the last possible train, which there were no local stages to meet. "And to think that our Miss Dorothy had the kindness to get supper for us, too! Sure, she's the bonniest, dearest lass ever lived out of old Ireland. Hungry, say you? Sure I could have et the two shoes off my feet, I was that starved! And to think of her and them others just waitin' on us same's if we was the family! Bless her! And now I'm that filled I feel at peace with all the world and patience enough to chase them naughty spalpeens to their bed! See at 'em! As wide awake now as the morn and it past nine of the night!" cried Norah, coming into the room where the twins were having a delightful battle with the best sofa cushions; Mrs. Calvert looking on with much amusement and as yet not informed who they were and why so at home at Deerhurst. The chatter of tongues halted a little when, as the clock struck the half-hour, Mr. Seth came in. He looked very weary, but infinitely relieved at the unexpected return of the mistress of the house, and his greeting was most cordial. Indeed, there was something about it which suggested to the young guests that their elders might wish to be alone; so, one after another, they bade Mrs. Betty good-night and disappeared. Dorothy, also, was for slipping quietly away, but Aunt Betty bade her remain; saying gently: "We won't sleep, my child, till we have cleared away all the clouds between us. As for you, Cousin Seth, what has so wearied you? Something more than chaperoning a lot of young folks to a circus, I fancy." "You're right. The afternoon performance was a pleasure; the ride home a trial." "With whom did you ride?" "Oliver Sands." "Indeed? How came----" "It's a long story, Cousin Betty. Wouldn't we better wait till morning?" "Don't you know how much curiosity I have? Do you want to keep me awake all night?" demanded the lady. But she believed that her old friend had some deep perplexity on his mind and that it would be a comfort to him to share it with her. "Is it something Dorothy may hear?" "Certainly, if you wish. Already she knows part. Has she told you how the twins came here?" "Somebody told, I forget who. All of the young folks talked at once, but I learned that they had been dropped on our premises, like a couple of kittens somebody wished to lose." "Exactly; and though he did not personally 'drop' them, the man who most heartily wishes to lose them is miller Oliver Sands. They are his most unwelcome grandchildren." "Why, Cousin Seth!" "Why, Master!" cried the hearers, amazed. "True. Their mother was Rose Sands, whom her father always believed--or said--was ruined by the foolish name her mother gave her. His sons were like himself and are, I believe, good men enough, though tainted with their father's hardness." "Hardness. That suave old Quaker! But you're right, and I never liked him." "Nor I, I'm sorry to say, but I don't wish to let that fact stand in the way of fair judgment. The man is in trouble, deep trouble. I'm not the only one who has noticed it. His behavior for awhile back has been most peculiar. He neglects his business, leaves the fruit in his vineyards and orchards to go to waste, and to his workmen's question: 'What shall we do next,' returns no answer. He has taken to roaming about the country, calling at every house and inspecting each one and its surroundings as if he were looking for something he can't find. His face has lost its perpetual smile--or smirk--and betrays the fact that he is an old man and a most unhappy one." "Huh! I've no great sympathy for Oliver Sands. He has wronged too many people," said Mrs. Calvert, coldly. "But if those children are his grandchildren, what are they doing here?" "I'm coming to that. His daughter, Rose, 'married out of meeting,' and against her father's will. He turned her out of doors, forbade her mother ever to see or speak to her again, and though--being a Friend--he took no oath, his resolution to cast her off was equivalent to one. That part of my tale is common neighborhood gossip." "I never heard it," said Mrs. Betty. "No; such would scarcely be retailed to you. Well, Rose took refuge with her husband's people, and all misfortune followed her flight from her father's house. Her mother-in-law, her consumptive husband, and herself are dead; she passing away as the twins came into the world. The father-in-law, who was only a country-cobbler, but a profoundly religious man, became half-crazed by his troubles, and though I believe he honestly did his best by the babies left on his hands, they must have suffered much. They have never been so happy as now and I hope----" "Please, Mr. Seth, let me tell! Aunt Betty, if you'll let me, I want to adopt Sapphira!" "Adopt--Sapphira! You? A child yourself?" "Yes, please. I'll go without everything myself and I'd work, if I could, to earn money to do it. Molly is going to adopt Ananias. It will be lovely to have some object in life, and some the Seniors at the Rhinelander adopted some Chinese babies. True. They pay money each month, part of their allowance, to do it; so we thought----" But Aunt Betty was leaning back in her chair and laughing in a most disconcerting manner. It's not easy to be enthusiastic on a subject that is ridiculed and Dorothy said no more. But if she were hurt by having her unselfish project thus lightly treated, she was made instantly glad by the tender way her guardian drew her close, and the gentle pat of the soft old hand on her own cheek. "Oh! you child, you children! And I made the mistake of thinking you were as wise as a grown-up! We'll attend to the 'adoption' case, by and by. Let Cousin Seth say his say now." "Well, finally, the old man, Hiram Bowen, forsook his old home, sold his few belongings and came here to our mountain. He must have had some sense left, and realized that he was not long for this world, because though until lately he has been unforgiving to Oliver Sands for the treatment of Rose, he now sought to interest her father on the little ones' behalf. I've learned he made frequent visits to Heartsease, the Sands' farm, but only once saw its owner. But he often saw Dorcas, the wife, and found her powerless to help him; besides, he did not mend matters, even with her, by explaining that he had named the twins as he had--'_after her husband, and herself!_' He told her that she and Oliver were living liars, because the Scripture commanded Christians to look after their own households and they did not do so." "But how could her heart, the heart of any woman, remain hard against the sight of her orphan grandchildren?" demanded Mrs. Calvert, impatiently. "I've met that Dorcas Sands on the road, going to meeting with the miller, and she looked the very soul of meekness and gentleness." "So, I believe she is; but she never saw the children. I told you he was crazed, partially; and despite the fact that he felt their mother's family should care for the orphans he did not want to give them up, permanently. He felt that in doing so he would be consigning them to a life of deceit and unscrupulousness." "How strange! And, Seth, how strange that you should know all this. It's not many days since that old man 'passed them on' to us. You must have been busy gathering news," commented Mrs. Betty. "I have; but the most of it I learned this afternoon, when I was taking the fanatic to the Hospital. Dolly, you tell her about his harangue in the tent and what the twins did there. It will give a diversion to my thoughts, for it _was_ funny!" So Dolly told and they all laughed over the recital, and in the laughter both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy lost the last bit of constraint that had remained in their manner whenever either chanced to remember the missing one hundred dollars and the sharpness of the telegram. Mrs. Calvert resumed: "You say, taking him to the Hospital. Have you done that, then? And how came you with Oliver Sands? The last man in the world to be drawn to Newburgh to see a circus." "Not the circus, of course, but the county fair. He got up enough interest in ordinary affairs to drive to the fair grounds to see his cattle safely housed. He will have, I presume, the finest exhibit of Holstein-Friesians on the grounds. He always has had, and has carried off many first premiums. He's on the board of managers, too, and they had a business meeting at the Chairman's, which is next door to St. Michael's--the semi-private establishment where I took Bowen. He was just unhitching George Fox, to come home, as I stepped out of the Hospital grounds and met him." "So you asked him for a lift down?" asked Aunt Betty, smiling. "No, I didn't ask. He was so preoccupied, and I so full of what poor old Hiram had told me, that I just 'natchally' stepped into the rear seat without the formality of a request. Truly, I don't think he even noticed me till we were well out of the city limits and on to the quiet back road. Then I asked: 'How much will you pay, Friend Oliver, toward the support of Hiram Bowen at St. Michael's Hospital?' "Then he heard and noticed. Also, he tried to get rid of his passenger; but I wouldn't be set down. He gave me a rather strong bit of his opinion on meddlers in general and myself in particular, and finding he had me on his hands for all the distance here he said not another word. It was 'Quaker Meeting' in good earnest; but I felt as if I were riding with a man of iron and--it tired me!" "Oh, you dear Master! Did you have any supper?" suddenly demanded Dorothy, with compunction that she hadn't thought of this earlier. "Oh! yes. Some little girls were holding a sidewalk 'fair' for the benefit of the children's ward and, while the authorities inside were arranging for Hiram's bestowal, I bought out their stock in trade and we ate it all together. I do love children!" Aunt Betty rose and turning to Dorothy, remarked: "That should be a much better use for your money when you find it than adopting the grandchildren of a rich old Hardheart! Come, child, we must to bed; and to-morrow, we'll take home the twins. 'Pass them on' to Heartsease." "Oh! must we? But, maybe, they won't keep them there. Then, course, you wouldn't leave them just anywhere, out of doors, would you? Besides, I don't know what Molly will say. She's perfectly devoted to her 'son,' 'Nias." "Do you not? Then I know very well what her Aunt Lucretia and his honor, the Judge, will say; I fancy that their remarks will have some weight! But I'm not hard-hearted, as you suggest, and we shall see what we shall see!" answered Aunt Betty, in her bright, whimsical way; adding as she bade Mr. Winters good-night and kissed Dorothy just as if no "cloud" had ever been between them: "I am glad to be at home. I am so glad to come, even thus late to the House Party." And though she had said the misunderstanding that had made both herself and Dolly so unhappy "should be set right that very night," maybe this was her way of "setting" it so. Thus ended another Day of that Wonderful Week, but the morning proved rainy and dark. "No day for going to the County Fair," remarked Mrs. Calvert as she appeared among the young folks, just as they came trooping in to breakfast. "We must think of something else. What shall it be? Since I've invited myself to your Party I want to get some fun out of it!" Helena thought she had never seen anything lovelier than this charming old lady, who moved as briskly as a girl and entered into their amusements like one; and when nobody answered her question she volunteered the suggestion: "Charades? Or a little play in the big barn?" "Just the thing; the charades, I mean. There would hardly be time for getting ready for a play, with parts to study and so on. We might plan that for Friday evening, our last one together. But do you, my dear, gather part of your friends about you and arrange the charades. Enough of us must be left for audience, you know. Well, Dorothy, what is it? You seem so anxious to speak?" "Why not 'character' studies and make everybody guess. There's that attic full of trunks I discovered one day. Surely they must be full of lovely things; and oh! it's so jolly to 'dress up'! Afterward, we might have a little dance in the barn--May we, may we?" "Surely, we may! Dinah has the keys to the trunks, only I warn you--no carelessness. It's one of my notions to preserve the costumes of the passing years and I wouldn't like them injured. You may use anything you find, on the condition of being careful." That rainy day promised to be the merriest of all; and Dorothy had quite forgotten some unpleasant things, till, breakfast being over and most of the company disappearing in pursuit of Dinah and her keys to the treasure-trunks, Aunt Betty laid a detaining touch upon her arm and said: "But you and I, my dear, will have a little talk in my room." Down went her happiness in a flash. The "misunderstanding" had not been passed by, then; and as yet there had been no "setting right." Mrs. Calvert's face was not stern, saying this, but the girl so thought. Indeed, had she known it, Aunt Betty shrank more from the interview and the reproof she must give than did the culprit herself. However, shrinking did no good, and immediately the Mistress had seated herself she began: "What grieved me most was your suspicion of Ephraim. Dorothy, that man's skin may be black but his soul is as white as a soul can be. He has served me ever since he was able to toddle and I have yet to find the first serious fault in him. The loss of the money was bad enough, and your scant value of it bad. Why, child, do you know whose money that was?" "I--I thought it was--mine." "It was--God's." "Aunt--Betty!" almost screamed Dorothy in the shock of this statement. "Yes, my dear, I mean it. He has given me a great deal of wealth but it was His gift, only. Or, His loan, I might better call it. I have to give an account of my stewardship, and as you will inherit after me, so have you." For a moment the girl could not reply, she was so amazed by what she heard. Then she ventured to urge: "You said you gave it to me for my House Party. How could it be like that, then?" "So I did. I 'passed it on,' as poor Hiram Bowen did the twins. Then it became your responsibility. It was a trust fund for the happiness of others, and for their benefit. Why, just think, if you hadn't been so careless of it, how much good it would have done even yesterday, for that very old man! Then dear Seth wouldn't have had to tax his small income to pay for a stranger's keep. Ah! believe me, my Cousin Seth spends money lavishly, but never unwisely, and always for others. When I said 'dangerously angry' I meant it. I am, in some respects, always in danger, physically. I shall pass out of your life quite suddenly, some day, my darling, but I do not wish to do so by your fault. "Now, enough of lectures. Kiss me and tell me that hereafter you will hold your inheritance as a 'trust,' and I shall trust you again to the uttermost. Next I want you to go over every incident of that night when you mislaid the money and maybe I can hit upon some clue to its recovery." It was a very sober Dorothy who complied. It didn't seem a very pleasant thing to be an heiress. She had found that out before, but this grave interview confirmed the knowledge; and though they discussed the subject long and critically, they were no nearer any solution of the mystery than when they began. "Well, it is a strange and most uncomfortable thing. However, we can do no more at present, and I'd like you to take a little drive with me." "This morning, Aunt Betty, in all this rain? Ought you? Won't you get that bronchitis again? Dinah----" "Dinah is an old fuss! She never has believed that I'm not soluble in water, like salt or sugar. Besides, I'm not going 'in the rain,' I'm going in the close carriage, along with you and the babies with the dreadful names. I'm going to have them renamed, if I can. Run along and put on your jacket. I think I've solved the riddle of my neighbor Oliver's unhappiness and I'll let no rain hinder me from making him glad again." "Dear Aunt Betty, will you do this for a man you do not like?" "Of course. I'd do it for my worst enemy, if I knew--and maybe this poor miller is that. What ails that man is--remorse. He hasn't done right but I'm going to give him the chance now, and see his round face fall into its old curves again." But good and unselfish as her mission was, for once the lady of Deerhurst's judgment was mistaken. CHAPTER XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING Oliver Sands was shut up in his private office. It opened from another larger room that had once been tenanted but was now empty. The emptiness of the great chamber, with its small bed and simple furnishings, both attracted and repelled him, as was witnessed by the fact that he frequently rose and closed the door, only to rise again directly and open it again. Each time he did this he peered all about the big room, whose windows were screened by wire netting as well as by a row of spruce trees. These trees were trimmed in a peculiar manner and were often commented upon by passers along the road beyond. All the lower branches, to the height of the window-tops, were left to grow, luxuriantly, as nature had designed. But above that the tall trees were shaven almost bare, only sufficient branches being left to keep them alive. Also, beyond the trees and bordering the road was a high brick wall, presumably for the training of peach and other fruit trees, for such were carefully trained to it. But the same wondering eyes which had noticed the trees had observed the wall, where indeed the fruit grew lusciously after a custom common enough in England but almost unknown in this region. "Looks like both trees and wall were planned to let light into that side the house and keep eyes out. But, has been so ever since Heartsease was, and nothing different now." No, everything was outwardly unchanged, but his home was not like his home, that morning, when Mrs. Betty Calvert came to call. The rain that had kept him within had sent him to pass the hours of his imprisonment in his "den," or office, and to the congenial occupation of looking over the cash in his strong box. He was too wise to keep much there, but there had been a time when the occupation had served to amuse the inmate of the big room, and he was thinking of her now. Indeed, when there came a knock on the outer door he started, and quickly demanded: "Well?" "Oliver, Betty Calvert, from Deerhurst, has called to see thee," said the trembling voice of Dorcas. "Why? What does she want?" "To bring thee news. To bring thee a blessing, she says." "I will come." He rose and locked the strong box, inwardly resolving that its contents must be placed in the bank when next he drove to town, and he again carefully closed the door of the further room. But if there had been any to observe they would have seen his face grow eager with hope while his strong frame visibly trembled. He was not a superstitious man but he had dreamed of Deerhurst more than once of late and news from Deerhurst? A blessing, Dorcas said? He entered the living-room, cast one eager glance around, and sat down. He had offered no salutation whatever to Mrs. Calvert and the gloom had returned to his face even more deeply. Dorcas was standing wringing her hands, smiling and weeping by turns, and gazing in a perfect ecstasy of eagerness upon Ananias and Sapphira, huddled against Dorothy's knees. She held them close, as if fearing that cross old man would do them harm, but they were not at all abashed, either by him or by the novelty of the place. "Well, Oliver Sands, you like plain speech and use it. So do I--on occasion. I have brought home your grandchildren, Rose's children. Their grandfather on the other side has been committed to an institution and will give you no trouble. He 'passed them on' to my household and I, in turn, 'pass them on,' to yours, their rightful home. You will feel happier now. Good-morning." "What makes thee think he is unhappy?" ventured Dorcas, at last turning her eager gaze away from the twins. "All the world sees that. He's a changed man since last we met, and I suppose his conscience is troubling him on account of the way he treated Rose and her children. Their demented grandfather, on the other side, gave them horrible names. I'd change them if I were you. Good-morning." But if the miller had not sought to detain her nor responded to her farewell, Dorcas caught at her cloak and begged: "Wait, wait! Oliver, does thee hear? Elisabeth Calvert is going. She is leaving Rose's babies! What--what--shall I do? May I keep them here? Say it--Oliver speak, speak, quick! If thee does right in this thing mayhap the Lord will bless thee in the other! Oliver, Oliver!" He shook her frail hand from his sleeve but he spoke the word she longed to hear, though the shadow on his face seemed rather to deepen than to lighten and astute Betty Calvert was non-plussed. She had so fully counted upon the fact that it was remorse concerning his treatment of his daughter which burdened him that she could not understand his increased somberness. But he did speak, as he left the room, and the words his wife desired: "Thee may do as thee likes." Then Mrs. Calvert, too, went out and Dorothy with her; strangely enough the twins making no effort to follow; in fact no effort toward anything except a pan of fresh cookies which stood upon the table! and with their fists full of these they submitted indifferently not only to the desertion of their friends but to the yearning embraces of their grandmother. "Oh! what perfectly disgusting little creatures! Didn't mind our leaving them with a stranger nor anything! Weren't they horrid? And it didn't make him look any happier, either, their coming." "No, they were not disgusting, simply natural. They've been half-starved most of their lives and food seems to them, just now, the highest good;" said Aunt Betty, as the carriage door was shut upon them and they set out for home. "I cannot call it a wasted morning, since that timid little woman was made glad and two homeless ones have come into their own. But--my guess was wide of the mark. It isn't remorse ails my miller neighbor but some mystery still unsolved. Ah! me! And I thought I was beautifully helping Providence!" "So you have, Aunt Betty. Course. Only how we shall miss those twins! Seems if I couldn't bear to quite give 'Phira up. Deerhurst will be so lonesome!" "Lonesome, child! with all you young folks in it? Then just imagine for an instant what Heartsease must have been to that poor wife. Shut up alone with such a glum, indifferent husband, in that big house. I saw no other person anywhere about, did you?" "No, and, since you put it that way, of course I'm glad they're to be hers not Molly's and mine." "The queer thing is that he was so indifferent. I thought, I was prepared to have him rage and act--ugly, at my interference in his affairs; but he paid no more attention than if I had dropped a couple of puppies at his fireside. Hmm. Queer, queer! But if I'm not mistaken his young relatives will wake him up a bit before he's done with them." After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further "lectures," the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn't have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands's pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the "twinses" could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted "son" had been removed from her authority without so much as "By your leave." Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert's presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed: "You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: 'Rose's children! Rose's children!' Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides--to come right to the bottom of things--neither of us _could_ adopt a child, yet. We haven't any money." "Pshaw! We could get it!" "I couldn't. Maybe you could; but--I'm glad they're gone. It's better for them and we shouldn't have been let anyway, and--where's Helena?" "Up garret, yet. They're all up there. Let's hurry. They'll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don't." They "hurried" and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don't sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures. All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin--his fiddle he called it--and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang. "Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!" cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. "Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me--Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!" Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command: "Every one of you get your places an' set round in a circle. It's Danny's and my turn now, and--Come on, Daniel!" Alfaretta vanished in the harness room. Danny followed, rather sheepishly, for despite his love of fun he didn't enjoy being forced into prominence; and from this odd retreat the pair presently emerged with great pans of snowy popped-corn, balanced on their heads by the aid of one hand, while in the other they carried each a basket of the biggest apples even Melvin had ever seen; yet the wonder of the Nova Scotian apples had been one of his proudest boasts. "Jump up, Jim, in your 'Uncle Sam' clothes and fetch the jugs out. Fresh sweet cider, made to farmer Smith's this very day! There's nuts in there all cracked, for some of you other fellows to bring and tumblers and plates 't Aunt Malinda let us take. We've had ice-cream and plum-puddin' and every kind of a thing under the sun and now we're going to have just plain up-mounting stuff, and you'll say it's prime! Danny and me done this. We planned it that night Monty got stuck--Oh! my soul, I forgot!" "Never mind. I don't care," said Monty; and, maybe to prevent another doing so, promptly related for Mrs. Calvert's benefit the tale of his misadventure. Indeed, he told it in such a funny way that it was plain he was no longer sensitive about it; and he finished with the remark that: "If Deerhurst folks don't stop feeding me so much I may even get stuck in that big door!" The quiet sitting and talking after so much hilarity was pleasant to all and tended to a more thoughtful mood; and finally clapping her hands to insure attention Molly Breckenridge demanded: "A story, a story! A composite story! Please begin, Mrs. Calvert: 'Once upon a time----' Then let Helena, my Lady of the Crinoline take it up and add a little, then the next one to her, and the next--and so on all around the ring. The most fun is to each say something that will fit--yet won't make sense--with what went just before. Please!" "Very well: 'Once upon a time and very good times they was, there was a Mouse and a Grouse and a Little Red Hen and they all lived in the one house together. So wan day, as she was swapin' the floor, they met a grain o' cor-run.' 'Now, who'll take that to the mill?' 'I won't,' says the Mouse. 'Nayther will I!' say the Grouse. 'Then I'll aven have to do it mesel,' says the Little Red--Next!" Irish Norah was in ecstasies of laughter over her mistress's imitation of her own brogue, and all the company was smiling, as Helena's serious voice took up the tale: "'Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn--Next!" "Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill--just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird--for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!" cried Monty, passing his empty plate; "and I'll grind them in a mill that'll beat the Hen's all hollow! while Jane Potter--next!" "For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, 'twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation--Next!" "To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and--Next!" cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked: "How could you think of them all, Jane?" "Oh! easily enough. I'd rather read the dictionary than any other book. I've only a school one yet but I've most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then----" "Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid's brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen--Next!" put in Herbert, as his contribution. "The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that's the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped--Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen--Next!" continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that: "The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and--and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah--in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn't boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and--what's happening? 'Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring--staring--staring--Oh! My! What's happening to our own Little Red Hen!" What, indeed! CHAPTER XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality. The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point--as spoiled children usually do. Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna. So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago. The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor's tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse. This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained. She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying: "The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!" Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep. All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled. "Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?" "But she wasn't in the house the night it was lost. Don't you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn't have been she!" "Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?" "It couldn't. The window wasn't opened. It stormed, you know." Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy's exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been. Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy's next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn't disappointed them--she was their precious Dorothy still. She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said: "Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see." "No, no, li'l Missy! No, no. An' fo' de lan', doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo' de lan', Missy, whe'-all's yo' pride an' mannehs?" Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear: "It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker's, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I'm sure I didn't stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the 'pocket' and what was in it, she can't tell us. We've heard the 'help' say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she's been afraid we'd take it from her; although she didn't resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!" Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn't speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever. Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro's sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty's lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady's shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said: "Now the lost is found, I'd like to inquire what shall be done with it? It'll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let's put it to vote. Here's my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars." So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening's sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish. Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters's face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted: "For the old man at St. Michael's." So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say: "That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day," for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen's days could not be "many," though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life. "Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for--the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!" cried the Master. The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity. Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before. Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded: "Gimme a drink." "Gimme a drink!" echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their "plain speech" was not exactly that of the Friends. "Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink." "A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias." "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra," glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him. Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible! Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were "brands" to be saved from the burning. "Hear me, Rose's Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink--but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not." The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering--without blows--the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver's office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say: "Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That's who I am now and I'm to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I'm Rose's baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, _did thee know Rose?_" This was the "plain speech" with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. "Did he know Rose?" For the first time in many a day he remembered that he _had_ known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy's hand and said: "Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner." "But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap--I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it's cold at night and Him's off messagin'." "Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee'll keep still while we ask blessing." The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of "Rose's babies" had wrought such a happy effect on her husband's sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done--this allowing of the orphans to come home--would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all. All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found "blessings." She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins' belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver's would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother's soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well. "To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: 'Whose children has thee found?' I shall just say 'Rosie's babies.' Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home--in the dear forms of her children." Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the "peace" upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing. The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound--the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish. Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair. That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing--it sounded as if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out. "Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!" called his thoughtful spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard against his rheumatism. "Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow--her calf--Child! is thee possessed?" Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet--the twins had certainly waked their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest. "We oughtn't ha' did that! That big cow'll eat that little cow up. See Sapphi--Ruth, see them stairs? Let's drive the little cow up the stair past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice," suggested Benjamin. So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there still remained the fear that the one would devour the other. Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching they rushed to meet him, exclaiming: "The little cow's all safe but how will we get the big cow down?" How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up when driven by maternal love. With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft, that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights. So, in that it seemed his "waking up" had proved a blessing. CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED The morning proved fair and cool, ideal weather for their visit to the County Fair; but Mrs. Calvert decided that a whole day there would be both inconvenient and too fatiguing. Now that she was at home the management of the House Party had been turned over to her by tacit consent, and she had laughingly accepted the trust. "This was to be Dorothy's affair, but it's been more Mr. Winters's than hers and now more mine than his. Well, I like it. I like it so exceedingly that I propose to repeat the experiment some time. I love young people; and am I not quite a young person myself?" "Of course, you are, dear Aunt Betty! The youngest of us all in some things, Mr. Seth says!" "So the farrier has been talking, eh? Well, I want to talk a bit, too. In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom--as we have the highest authority to believe; and the case in question is: Shall we, or shall we not, take Luna to the Fair?" They were all grouped on the big piazza, after their early lunch, waiting for the wagons to come from the stables and carry them to the city beyond; and as Mrs. Betty asked this question a hush of surprise fell on them all. Finally, said Helena: "We have taken her, she has gone with us, on all our jaunts. Doesn't it seem too bad to leave her out of this?" One after another as the lady nodded to each to speak the answer was frankly given, and Dorothy remarked: "It's about half-and-half, I guess. Yes, I know she does go to sleep in all sorts of queer places and at the strangest times, but I hate to leave her." "Then if she goes she must wear her own clothes." "Why, Aunt Betty, please? Of course, I don't want to see her in that red frock again--I'd like to burn that up so nobody would ever see it and be reminded how careless and unjust I was. But there's a pretty blue one she could have." "That's not my reason, dearie. I think it has been a mistake, kindly meant, to dress her as you have; that is for longer than was necessary to freshen her own soiled things." She paused and Alfy remarked: "She's the proudest thing for them bright colors. Red, and green, and blue--ary one just sets her smilin'. Besides, once Dinah tried to put back her old brown dress and Luna wouldn't let her. Just folded her arms up tight and didn't--didn't look a mite pleasant." Those who had seen Luna on the rare occasions when she showed anger smiled at this mild description of her appearance then. "I don't know as Dinah would be bothered with her, Aunt Betty, and Norah has a sick headache. But--I'll stay and take care of her if you don't want her to go," said Dorothy. It was an effort to say this and dreading that her offer might be accepted the girl turned her face away to hide her disappointment; but whatever Mrs. Calvert's answer might have been she was not to hear it then. Because there was Jim Barlow beckoning to her in a mysterious manner from behind a great hydrangea bush and looking vastly excited over something. So it was a relief to murmur: "Excuse me a minute, Aunt Betty," and to respond to that summons. "Dolly, there's a man here wants to see you." "A man? To see me? and not Aunt Betty? Who is he?" Jim answered rather impatiently to this string of questions. "I said a man, didn't I. He said he'd rather see you because he knows you, that is you gave him a lift on the road once in your pony cart and talked real sensible----" "Couldn't have meant me, then, could he, Jim?" "Don't fool, Dorothy. He looks as if he was in some trouble. He's the head man from Oliver Sands's grist-mill. Some relation to the miller, I've heard, and lives with him. Hurry up and don't hender the raft of us any longer'n you can help. Tell him, whatever his business is, 'twill have to wait, 't we're going to the Fair and all the teams are ready----" "Yes, I'll hurry. Where is he?" "In that little summer-house beyond the lily pond. That's where he said he'd go. Get rid of him quick, for the horses don't like to stand after they're harnessed." "All right, I'll try!" Gayly waving her hand in the direction of the piazza, she sped across the lawn to a group of silver birches, and the spot in question. Solidly roofed, with vine covered sides, and good board floor, the out-of-door building was a pleasant place, and had been greatly enjoyed by all the House Party. It was well furnished with wicker tables, chairs, and lounges, and heavy matting covered the floor. It was empty now except for the old man awaiting Dorothy, and his first remark showed that he appreciated this bit of outdoor comfort. "It's real purty in here, ain't it? Anybody could spend a night here and take no hurt, couldn't she?" "Why, ye-es, I suppose so; if anybody wished. James told me you asked for me. What is it, please, for we're just on the point of starting for the County Fair, and I don't like to delay the others." "Hmm. Yes. I suppose so. Hmm. Yes. Thee is the little girl that's had such a story-paper kind of life, isn't thee? Don't remember me, but I do thee. Gave me a ride once after that little piebald nag thee swopped Oliver's calf for. Thee sees I know thee, if thee has forgot me and how my floury clothes hit the black jacket thee wore, that day, and dusted it well, 'Dusty miller' thee laughed and called me, sayin' that was some sort of plant grows in gardens. But I knew that. Dorcas has a whole bed of it under her kitchen window. Hmm. Yes." Dorothy tapped her foot impatiently, but did not sit down. Would the man never tell his errand? Finally, as he lapsed into a reverie she roused him, saying: "What is your errand, please?" "It's to help an old man in trouble. It--the--I don't find it so easy to begin. But--is there a little old woman here, no bigger than a child? Is she here? Is she safe?" This was a question so unexpected that Dorothy sat down the better to consider it; then greatly wondering, answered: "Yes, there is an afflicted little creature here. Why? What do you know about her?" "All there is to know, child! All there is to know. Thee sees a most unhappy man before thee, lass." "Who is Luna? How came she here? Tell me, quick, quick; and if you know her home?" "Verily, I know it, since it's my own, too. It's a long story, a long lane, but the worm turned. Ah! yes. It turned." Dolly began to think her visitor was crazy and springing up ran toward the house, saying: "I'm going for Aunt Betty. I'd rather you told your errand to her." The man did not object, and, greatly surprised by the imperative summons though smiling at her darling's excitement, Mrs. Calvert left her guests and followed the girl through the shrubbery to the arbor where the vines hid her from the curious glances of those she had left. "Something's up! I wonder what?" exclaimed Monty Stark. "Whatever it is, if it concerns us we shall be told in due time; and if it doesn't--Hmm," answered Helena. "Stand corrected, Miss Montaigne; but bet a cookie you're as curious as all the rest of us." "Well, yes, I am; though I never bet--even cookies. Now let's talk of something else till they come back. I know they'll not be long." Nor were they; for down in the summer-house, with Elisabeth Calvert's compelling gaze upon him, the visitor told his tale. "Thee can look upon me, lady, as the worm that turned. I am a poor relation of Oliver Sands and he felt he owned me." "That man? Are we never to hear the end of Oliver Sands? He's the 'Old Man of the Mountain', in truth, for his name is on everyone's lips," cried Mistress Betty, crisply, yet resigning herself to the chair Dorothy pushed her way. "Thee never said truer. He is the biggest man up-mounting in more ways'n one. I've not wasted more love on him than many another but I hadn't no call to break his heart. Hark, thee. I'll be as short as I can. "When Oliver's mother died he was a boy and I was. She----" "Beg pardon, please; but this afternoon I really have no time to learn the family history of my neighbor." "But I have to tell thee part, to make thee understand. When his mother died, a widow, she left them two children, Oliver and Leah. He was a big boy, smart and trustable, and Leah was almost a baby. Her mother knew then that the child wasn't like others, she'd talked it with me, I bein' older'n him; but he didn't know it and from the time she was born he'd just about worshiped that baby. When she was dying Mehitabel made him promise, and a Friend's promise is as good as another man's oath, 't he'd always take care of little Leah and love her better'n anybody in the world. That nobody, even if he should grow up and marry and have children of his own, should ever come betwixt her and him. Well, 'twas a good spell before he found out 't he was brother to a fool. That's plain speech but I'm a Quaker. When he did find out, 'twas a'most more'n he could bear. He give out to anybody that asked, how 't she was sickly and had to be kept private. "Elisabeth Calvert, she _has_ been kept private, all her life long, till I let out the secret. He and Dorcas and me, and the children while they lived at the farm, we was the only ones ever had to do with care of her or saw her even. I worked on for him, he makin' the money, I gettin' shorter wages each year, besides him investin' 'em for me as he pleased. "But I'm old. I want a home of my own; and lately I've been pestering him to let me go. He'd always make excuse and talk plausible how 't he couldn't spare me nohow. I knew he told the truth, since if I left he'd have to get in strange help and it might get out 't his sister's sickness was plain want of brains. That'd have nigh killed him, he's so proud; to be pointed at as 'Oliver Sands, that's brother to a fool'." "Well, well. This is exceedingly painful to hear, but to what does it tend?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Just this, Elisabeth. One day I got nursin' my wrongs and forgettin' my blessings, and the devil was on hand to give me the chance. Dorcas was off nursing a sick neighbor, Oliver was to Newburgh on some Fair business, and there wasn't nobody in the house but me and Leah. I took an old horse and wagon, 't he'd been meaning to sell, to the sales-stable at the Landing; and I coaxed Leah to come take a ride. She come ready enough. She didn't have much fun, anyway, except sitting with him in the office such times as he was lookin' over his accounts and reckonin' his money. She liked that. She always liked to handle money. That proved her a Sands, even if she was imbecile! "Thinks I, I'll break his pride. I'll make him know 't he ain't no better than other folks, even if he does speak in meeting. I meant to carry her clear to the Landing and let things take their chance while I cleared out for good. But when I'd got as far as here I begun to get scared on her account. I'd set out to humble Oliver but I liked Leah, poor creatur'! and I'd forgot I might be hurtin' her the worst. She'd never been 'mongst folks and they might treat her rough. So then I remembered this little girl, and how there was talk 'round about her having a passel of young folks to visit her. So I thought Leah would have a chance amongst 'em and I fetched her in and laid her right in this summer-house, on that bench yonder and covered her with a shawl I saw. She was asleep as she is a lot of the time, and didn't notice. "Then I went on to the Landing, left the rig to the stable, and took the cars for York. I've been there ever since. I never meant to come back; but there's something about this mountain 't pulls wanderers' feet back to it, whether or no. And--is Leah here?" "Rather it was your own guilty conscience that brought you back. Yes, I suppose it is 'Leah'--the witless waif my Dorothy found. And now I understand my poor neighbor's trouble. I am proud myself. Ah! yes I can understand! After the silence of a lifetime, how he shrank from publishing what he seems to have considered a disgrace to a gossiping world. But he was wrong. Such pride is always wrong; and he has spent a most unhappy time, searching with his own eyes everywhere but never asking for his lost Leah! but he was cruel in that, as cruel as misguided; and as for you, sir, the sooner you get upon your wicked feet and travel to Heartsease and tell its master where the poor thing may be found--the better for yourself. I think such an act as you committed is punishable by the strictest rigor of the law; but whether it is or not your own conscience will punish you forever. Now----" Mrs. Calvert stopped speaking and rose. She had never been so stately nor so severe and Dorothy pitied the poor old man who cowered before her, even while she was herself fiercely indignant against him. By a clasp of Mrs. Betty's arm she stayed her leaving: "Wait a moment, Aunt Betty, please. It's just as bad as you say, he's just as bad; but--he's terrible tired and old. He looks sick, almost, and I've been thinking while he talked: You let me stay at home, take Portia and the pony cart and carry Luna--Leah--and him back to Heartsease right away. May I, please?" "But to miss the Fair? He should have the unpleasant task of confessing himself, and nobody else to shield him." "Please, Aunt Betty, please! I found her. Oh! let me be the one to give her back!" Mrs. Calvert looked keenly into her darling's eyes, and after a moment, answered: "I might be willing; but should you desert your guests? And if you do, what shall I say to them for you?" "Just this: that a messenger has come who knows where Luna belongs and that I'm going with him to take her home. That'll make it all right. You might tell Dinah to keep Luna--Leah--I came pretty near her name, didn't I?--to keep her contented somewhere till I come for her and to put on her own old clothes. I have a feeling that that proud old miller would like it better that way." There was a mist in Aunt Betty's eyes as she stooped and kissed the eager face of her unselfish child; but she went quietly away and did as she was asked. Left in the summer-house alone with Dorothy Eli Wroth relapsed into silence. He had had hard work to make himself unburden his guilt and having done so he felt exhausted; remarking once only: "Thee may be sure that the worm hurts itself too when it turns. Thee must never turn but kiss the cheek which smites thee." After which rather mixed advice he said no more; not even when all the other carriages having rolled out of the great gateway, Dorothy disappeared in search of Portia and the cart; nor did he cast more than one inquiring glance upon Leah, sitting on the front seat beside the girlish driver. As for the other, she paid him no more heed than she did to anything else. She might have been seeing him every day, for all surprise she evinced; and as for resentment against him she was too innocent to feel that. The ride was not a long one, but it seemed such to Dorothy. At times her thoughts would stray after her departed friends and a wish that she were with them, enjoying the novelties of the County Fair, disturb her. But she had only to glance at the little creature beside her to forget regret and be glad. Also, if her tongue was perforce silent, her brain was busy, and with something of her Aunt Betty's decision, she intended to have her say before that coming interview was finished. All was very quiet at Heartsease when she reached it. Even the twins were abnormally serious, sitting on the wide, flat doorstep of the kitchen entrance, and looking so comical that Dolly laughed. For the Fifth Day meeting Dorcas had clothed them properly. Her ransacking of old closets had resulted in her finding a small lad's suit, after the fashion of a generation before. A tight little waist with large sleeves, which hung over the child's hands, and a full skirt completed the main part of his costume; while his nimble feet were imprisoned in stout "copper-toes," and a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat covered his already shorn head. Such was Benjamin, in the attire of his uncle at his own age. As for Sapphira-Ruth,--a more bewitching small maiden could not be imagined. She wore her mother's own frock, when that mother was five. Its cut was that of Dorcas's own, even to the small cap and kerchief, while a stiff little bonnet of gray lay on the step beside her. Ruth's toes also shone coppery from under her long skirt; and the restraint of such foot gear upon usually bare feet may have been the reason why the little ones sat sedately where they had been placed without offering to run and meet their old friend. Eli Wroth started to get out of the cart, but Dorothy had a word to say about that. "No, sir, please! You sit still with Leah and hold the horse. I'm going in first to speak to Mr. Sands, but I'll come back." Tapping at the kitchen door, she stooped to kiss the twins, receiving no further response than to see Benjamin wipe her kiss away; Ruth, as a matter of course, immediately doing the same. Nor was there any answer to her knock, and since the door was ajar she pushed it wide and entered. Dorcas sat there asleep; her work-worn hands folded on her lap, her tired body enjoying its Fifth Day rest. Oliver was invisible but Dorothy softly crossed to a passage she saw and down that, stepping quietly, she came upon him alone in his office. The door to that inner, secluded room--Leah's room, she understood at a glance--this door was open, and the miller sat as if staring straight into it. So gently Dolly moved that he did not hear her, and she had gone around him to stand before his face ere he looked up and said: "Thee? thee?" "Yes, I. Mr. Sands, I know the whole story, and I'm sorry for you. I'm more sorry though for the little old woman who belongs in that room. It's pleasant enough but it has been her prison. It has deprived her of lots of fun. If I should bring her back to it, would you let her go out of it sometimes, into the world where she belongs? Would you let her come to visit me? Would you take her to meeting with you as is her birthright? Would you put your pride aside and--do right? If I would bring her back?" For a moment he stared at her as if he did not understand; then all that gloom which had so changed him vanished from his face and he answered with that promise which to a Quaker is better than an oath: "I would. I will! If thee can bring her!" A moment later Leah's hand was in her brother's and Dorothy had left them alone, and thus the House Party neared its end, to become but a happy memory to its soon to be homeward speeding guests. The thoughts of the young hostess were even now turning wholly to the future, her brain teeming with marvelous plans. What these were and how fulfilled in "Dorothy in California," to those interested, the story will be told. CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION "Friday! And to-morrow we part!" said Molly Breckenridge, with more of sadness on her sunny face than was often seen there. "It's been such a perfectly enchanting Week of Days, and this is the last one left! Oh! dear! Oh! I do hate good-bys. Saying that and packing one's trunk are two just unbearable things and make one wish, almost, that the nice times had never begun." "Yes, beginnings are grand; but endings--Hmm. I agree with you, Miss Molly," echoed a boyish voice so close to her elbow that the girl wheeled briskly about to see who spoke. "Why, Melvin Cook! Are you down in the dumps, too? I didn't know boys had--had feelings, don't you know." He ignored her mockery and answered gravely: "They do feel a deal more than they get credit for. A boy daren't cry and be silly like a girl----" "Thanks, awfully!" "He just has to keep everything bottled up. That's why he acts rude sometimes. I fancy that's what's amiss with the two Smiths yonder. They've been literally punching each other's heads because Danny happened to remark that Littlejohn would have to work the harder when he got home, to make up for this week's idleness. And----" "Here comes the Master and he doesn't look at all like crying! Why he's holding his hands above his head and--yes, he's clapping them! Call all the others with that new bugle of yours, and let's go meet him! Toot-te-toot-te-toot!" Melvin obediently raised the handsome instrument which Dorothy had given him the night before, and which Mrs. Calvert had bought for him in the hill-city. It had not come from the County Fair but from the best establishment for such ware and Melvin was delighted with it. There had been a "keepsake" for each and all. For Jane Potter her "unabridged"; for Alfaretta, who had never minded rain nor snow, a long desired umbrella; for Jim a Greek lexicon; for Mabel Bruce an exquisite fan; and after the tastes of all something they would always prize. In fact, Mrs. Calvert had early left the Fair and spent her time in shopping; and Seth knew, if the younger ones did not, that far more than the equivalent of the famous one hundred dollars had been expended to give these young folks pleasure. "Oh! what is it, Master! What is it? Have you settled on the play? Will you assign the characters and let us get to studying, so we can make a success of it to-night?" cried Helena, rather anxiously. "I have settled on the play. Rather it has been settled for me. As for characters they will need no study, since each and all are to appear in this most marvelous drama in their own original selves." "Why, Mr. Seth, what do you mean? You look so happy and yet as if something had made you feel bad, too;" said Dorothy, slipping her hand into his as he dropped it to his side. "Oh! I tell you I am happy! So will many another be, 'up-mounting' on this auspicious day. Talk about partings--there are going to be meetings, meetings galore. In short, I won't mystify you any longer though I am half-mystified myself. Attention! Leah Sands will give a House Party this afternoon at Heartsease Farm and we and all who'll accept are bidden to attend at three o'clock sharp." "Leah--that's Luna? How can she do a thing like that?" "Well, it can be done in her name, I reckon. Just as this was Dorothy's and somebody else managed it; eh, lassie? The Friends speak when the Spirit moves. At last, by the power of grief and remorse, by the power of Love, the Spirit of unselfishness and humility has moved upon the heart of Oliver Sands. One is never too old to learn; and, thank God, some are never too old to acknowledge their ignorance! He isn't, and to prove it he is doing this thing. His messengers are speeding everywhere. Caterers from Newburgh have had hurry-up orders to provide a bountiful feast and old Heartsease Farm is to be the scene of an 'Infair' that will beat Dorothy's to--smithereens! I mean, begging her ladyship's pardon, in point of size. Leah is to be the guest of honor, since she cannot preside; but be sure she'll not disgrace her proud brother since at Dorothy's Party she has learned how harmless are even strangers. Yes, I can safely say that Leah made her debut with us. Now, who'll accept? Don't all speak at once!" But they did. So joyfully, so earnestly, that the Master clapped hands over ears and, laughing, hurried away, while Mrs. Calvert beamed upon them all, the dearest hostess who had ever lived--so one and all declared. The scene at Heartsease? It is useless even to try to depict that. Sufficient to say it was a marvelous Party; and he who marveled most was the giver of the Party himself. Because where he might easily have expected absences and "regrets" came hastening guests to shake him by the hand, to forgive hard dealings, to rejoice with him that she who had been lost, in every sense, had been found. And when, at last, the young folks from Deerhurst tore themselves away and walked homeward over the moonlit road, it was with the feeling that this last outing of their Week of Days had been the dearest and the best. Partings? They had to come; but when on the Saturday morning the last guest had disappeared and Dorothy stood alone beside Aunt Betty on the broad piazza, there might be tears in her brown eyes, but there was no real heaviness in her heart. God had given her a home. He had given her this dear old lady to love and serve, and the girl had already learned that there is joy only in Loving Service. THE END [Illustration: DOROTHY AND AUNT BETTY, ALONE AT HOME. _Dorothy's House Party._] IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS The latest and best works of Mrs. L. T. Meade. Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for girls. Her characters are living beings of flesh and blood. Into the trials and crosses of these the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. Turquoise and Ruby. Ten full-page illustrations. The Girls of Mrs. Pritchard's School. Ten full-page illustrations by Lewis Baumer. A Madcap. Eight full-page illustrations by Harold Copping. The Manor School. Ten full-page illustrations. A Bevy of Girls. Ten full-page illustrations. Cloth, 12mo. Special decorated cover. Price, $1.00. CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK THE COMRADES SERIES By Ralph Victor. This writer of boys' books has shown by his magazine work and experience that this series will be without question the greatest seller of any books for boys yet published; full of action from start to finish. Cloth, 12mo. Finely illustrated; special cover design. Price, 60c. per volume. Comrades on the Farm, or the Mystery of Deep Gulch. Comrades in New York, or Snaring the Smugglers. Comrades on the Ranch, or Secret of the Lost River. Comrades in New Mexico, or the Round-up. Comrades on the Great Divide (in preparation). _Ralph Victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boy's stories of the present day. He has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with Sears in India, has voyaged with Jack London, and was a war correspondent in Natal and Japan. The lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many._ --_"Progress."_ CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK _Specimen Chapter from_ COMRADES IN NEW MEXICO BY RALPH VICTOR. _Published by Chatterton Peck Co._ "We will ride part of the way with you," suggested Fleet, "and see you safe on the road." "If you are going," advised the major, "the sooner you get away the better." "Then I am going to get off at once," announced Chot. It was but a few moments before the horses were saddled and the little cavalcade started. After accompanying him for some half dozen miles the others bade Chot "adios" and returned to the ranch. It was still early evening for the days were now very long, when Chot arrived at El Perro Negro, but unlike the other to be remembered evening there were but few persons about and these few paid no attention to him. He attended to his horse and as the supper hour was already over he asked the landlord to get him something to eat. The inner man satisfied he was off early to bed. The night passed without any disturbance although he slept as Fleet would express it "with one eye awake" and with the coming of daylight he was astir. He fed his horse and gave him a rub down preparatory to an early start. On his way to the shed that morning, he noticed several men whom he had not before seen. Among them he observed the outlaws Jose and Miguel. He paid no attention to them however until they came up beside him. He was engaged in currying his horse. "That is a good beast you have there," said Miguel. "Cuanto? How much for him?" "Good morning," responded Chot, and continued, "He isn't for sale." "Your horse?" went on the man. "No," said Chot, shortly. "He isn't mine." "Where do you come from?" asked Miguel. "I came from Captain Benson's," said Chot, guardedly, thinking it wise not to speak of Rosado. "Isn't that Mr. Shelton's horse?" asked Jose. "Yes," said Chot. "Do you know the owner?" The man muttered something which Chot could not understand. "Then you come from Rosado?" questioned Jose. This after a pause during which he eyed Chot narrowly. "I have been stopping there," answered Chot. "Are you going back there?" asked Miguel. "I am going to meet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton," replied Chot, getting somewhat uneasy under the insistent questioning. "That is what I told you," remarked Jose to Miguel, as the men started back to the Inn. "I wonder what it was he told him?" mused Chot. "The best thing I can do is to get away from here as quickly as possible." As soon as Chot could get his breakfast he was off on his way, having seen nothing more of the bandits. From Estrada a good part of the journey was along the course of a stream that came down from the mountains and as the road was good Chot urged his horse on, but in spite of all his efforts the animal lagged; so that when at noon he stopped to rest in a small grove, he was much less than half way to Rosado. The presence of the bandits at the Inn had disquieted him and as soon as the worst of the heat was over he re-saddled his horse to resume his journey. As he was starting off, as a matter of precaution he glanced back over the road and was disturbed to see two horsemen rapidly approaching. "The quicker I can get away from here the better," he thought, and he urged his horse on as fast as he could. "They may be all right," he reflected, "but I don't like the looks of it and it will be just as well to keep out of their way." "I wonder what is the matter with Brownie," he cogitated after a bit, for in spite of all his efforts the horse's pace became more labored and slower. His pursuers, if such they were, were rapidly gaining on him. "They may be after me and they may be only traveling in this direction," he reasoned, "but I am going to find out. I will ride over to the woods, it is out of my way and off the trail, if they follow I'll know they are after me." Turning his horse's head in the direction of the forest he proceeded as fast as he could. Looking back after a few moments he saw that the men had changed their course and were plainly headed toward and rapidly gaining on him. His position was decidedly unpleasant. The outlaws he was sure, had recognized him as one of the comrades who were visiting at the hacienda, and of whom they had heard enough, through Took, to regard as dangerous enemies and to be gotten out of the way. Whether they knew that the comrades had discovered the secret of the lost river or not, they were evidently anxious to be rid of them. "I can't successfully resist them if they attack me," reasoned Chot, "I wish I had brought a gun of some kind. As it is the only thing I can do is to try and elude them." Chot thought quickly. "If I can jump from the saddle into one of the trees I won't leave any trail and they won't know where I have gone. I'll try it anyhow," he said to himself, "even if I fail I won't be any worse off, for my mount is laboring painfully." The wood which he was now approaching was of very heavy timber and little underbrush had grown up between the trees. The trees themselves were well scattered yet were so large, their wide spreading branches interlaced. Even the lower branches were so high that Chot could not reach them with his extended hand. Climbing now on to the saddle he got first on his knees, as he and his chums had practiced in their efforts to imitate the tricks of the cowboys at the hacienda, then on to his feet; here he balanced himself for an instant. While the horse was loping along under his persistent urging he came to a slightly sagging branch, grasping it he sprang into the tree. Quickly he drew himself up out of sight of any one below. He had scarcely succeeded in doing this when the bandits, who were only a short distance behind him when he entered the woods, were heard galloping below him. "We have got him now," he overheard Jose saying to his companion. "Don't be too sure of that," objected Miguel. "They are devils those Americans." "A fig for your devils," returned Jose. "If I can get my hands on him I will take care of him all right." "You want to pray the saints they don't get their claws on you," retorted Miguel. Further words he could not catch as they rode along. "I wonder what will be the next move," thought Chot as he made his way to better security farther up in the tree. "I think I will study up flying machines when I get out of this. A pair of wings would come in handy just now." Chot was not long left in doubt for in ten minutes the men came back through the woods, evidently in search of him. "What did I tell you," expostulated Miguel. "I knew he would get away somehow." "He hasn't got away yet," growled the other, stopping beneath the tree in which Chot had taken refuge. "He disappeared in the woods somewhere and I am going to find him. He is somewhere between this locality and the edge of the wood where we found his horse. Say but you did not give him a big enough dose. The animal ought to have played out hours ago." "So they tried to poison my horse," was Chot's thought. "I am going to find him," repeated Jose. "Quiza!" said Miguel, looking about him, "Maybe you will and maybe you won't. If he were human where could he go? There is no place here where he could hide." "He is here somewhere," retorted Jose, "and I am going to search him out. He knows too much and I am going to get rid of him. He must be up a tree and so he must come down." "Carambo! no," said Miguel. "Nothing but a cat could go up a tree so quick. We were just behind him. See there are the marks of his horse's hoofs, the animal never stopped in his stride. The boy went off just like that," and Miguel blew across his hand with an expressive little puff. "Same as they did in the cave. Better leave him alone. No good will come of it." Chot, who had climbed up into the tree as high as he dared, now drew himself close to the trunk and waited for the next move on the part of his pursuers which was not long in coming. He could not see the speakers below, but of a sudden his attention was attracted to an adjoining tree. Chot had noted that the branch upon which he was resting his hands for partial support, was of a remarkable length and stretched out till it met and overlapped a branch of the next nearest tree. Some motion upon the branch of the farther tree caught his eye. To his horror he made out some sort of a wild beast stealthily approaching. Its yellow eyes were on a level with his own. He gazed in fascinated terror. Truly his predicament was hopeless. There seemed no way for him to cope with one enemy or the other. To remain where he was, would be to become the sure prey of the wild beast. To make any move for defense would call to the attention of the outlaws his hiding place. * * * * * * WORLD-WIDE ADVENTURE SERIES _By Edward S. Ellis_ Cloth, 12mo., stamped in colors and gold. Handsomely illustrated. Price per volume, postpaid, 60 cents. The books written by Mr. Ellis are too well known to need a special introduction here. All are bright, breezy, and full of life, character, and adventure. They cover a wide field, and consequently appeal to all classes of young folks. The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success In this tale life in a country town is well described. There is a mysterious bank robbery, which fills the community with excitement. There is likewise a flood on the river; and through all this whirl of events the young telegraph messenger exhibits a pluck and sagacity sure to win the admiration and approval of all wide-awake boys. Other Volumes in this Series: From the Throttle to the President's Chair Tad; or "Getting Even" with Him Through Jungle and Wilderness A Waif of the Mountains Down the Mississippi Life of Kit Carson Land of Wonders Lost in the Wilds Up the Tapajos Lost in Samoa Red Plume CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY New York THE FRONTIER BOYS BY CAPT. WYN. ROOSEVELT. This noted scout and author, known to every plainsman, has lived a life of stirring adventure. In boyhood, in the early days, he traveled with comrades the overland route to the West,--a trip of thrilling experiences, unceasing hardships and trials that would have daunted a heart less brave. His life has been spent in the companionship of the typically brave adventurers, gold seekers, cowboys and ranchmen of our great West. He has lived with more than one Indian tribe, took part in a revolution at Hawaii and was captured in turn by pirates and cannibals. He writes in a way sure to win the heart of every boy. Frontier boys on the overland trail. Frontier boys in Colorado, or captured by Indians. Frontier boys in the Grand Canyon, or a search for treasure. Frontier boys in Mexico, or Mystery Mountain. Finely illustrated. Cloth, 12mo. Attractive cover design. Price 60c. per volume. CHATTERTON-PECK. CO. NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber�s Note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters� errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author�s words and intent. 
28221	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28221-h.htm or 28221-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/2/2/28221/28221-h/28221-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/2/2/28221/28221-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/dorothystriumph00raymiala DOROTHY'S TRIUMPH by EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrated by Rudolf Mencl New York A. L. Chatterton Co. Copyright 1911 A. L. Chatterton Co. [Illustration: "A MELODY SUCH AS SETS THE HEART BEATING." "_Dorothy's Triumph._"] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I ON THE TRAIN 9 II AT OLD BELLVIEU AGAIN 28 III DOROTHY MEETS HERR DEICHENBERG 49 IV THE BEGINNING OF THE TRIP 66 V THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS 84 VI A CRY IN THE NIGHT 104 VII UNWELCOME VISITORS 122 VIII THE JOURNEY HOME 143 IX THE FIRST LESSON 158 X HERR DEICHENBERG'S CONCERT 174 XI CHRISTMAS AT BELLVIEU 192 XII MR. LUDLOW'S OFFER 207 XIII IN THE METROPOLIS 222 XIV THE STORM 237 XV DOROTHY'S TRIUMPH 251 DOROTHY'S TRIUMPH CHAPTER I ON THE TRAIN "Maryland, my Maryland!" dreamily hummed Dorothy Calvert. "Not only _your_ Maryland, but _mine_," was the resolute response of the boy beside her. Dorothy turned on him in surprise. "Why, Jim Barlow, I thought nothing could shake your allegiance to old New York state; you've told me so yourself dozens of times, and--" "I know, Dorothy; I've thought so myself, but since my visit to old Bellvieu, and our trip on the houseboat, I've--I've sort o' changed my mind." "You don't mean that you're coming to live with Aunt Betty and I again, Jim? Oh, you just can't mean that! Why, we'd be so delighted!" "No, I don't mean just that," responded Jim, rather glumly--"in fact, I don't know just what I mean myself, except I feel like I must be always near you and Mrs. Calvert." "Say Aunt Betty, Jim." "Well, Aunt Betty." "You know she is an aunt to you, in the matter of affection, if not by blood." "I do know that, and I appreciate all she did for me before she got well enough acquainted with you to believe she wanted you to live with her forever." "Say, Jim, dear, often when I ponder over my life it seems like some brilliant dream. Just think of being left a squalling baby for Mrs. Calvert, my great-aunt, to take care of, then sent to Mother Martha and Father John, because Aunt Betty felt that she should be free from the care of raising a troublesome child. Then, after I've grown into a sizable girl, in perfect ignorance as to my real parentage, Aunt Betty meets and likes me, and is anxious to get me back again. Then Judge Breckenridge and others take a hand in the matter of hunting up my real name and pedigree, with the result that Aunt Betty finally owns up to my being her kith and kin, and receives me with open arms at Deerhurst. Since then, I, Dorothy Elisabeth Somerset-Calvert, F. F. V., etc., etc., changed from near-poverty to at least a comfortable living, with all my heart could desire and more, have had one continuous good time. Yes, Jim, it is too strange and too good to be true." "But it is true," protested the boy--"true as gospel, Dorothy. You are one of the finest little ladies in the land and no one will ever dispute it." "Oh, I wasn't fishing for compliments." "Well, you got 'em just the same, didn't you? And you deserve 'em." The train on which Dorothy and Jim, together with Ephraim, Aunt Betty's colored man, were riding, was already speeding through the broad vales of Maryland, every moment bringing it nearer the city of Baltimore and Old Bellvieu, the ancestral home of the Calverts, where Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert, familiarly termed, "Aunt Betty," would be awaiting them. Since being "taken into the fold" by Aunt Betty, after years of living with Mother Martha and Father John, to whom she had sent the child as a nameless foundling, Dorothy had, indeed, been a happy girl, as her experiences related in the previous volumes of this series, "House Party," "In California," "On a Ranch," "House Boat," and "At Oak Knowe," will attest. Just now she was returning from the Canadian school of Oak Knowe, where she had spent a happy winter. Mrs. Calvert had been unable to meet her in the Dominion, as she had intended, but had sent Jim and Ephraim, the latter insisting that he was needed to help care for his little mistress. Soon after the commencement exercises were over the trio had left for Dorothy's home. And such a commencement as it had been! Dorothy could still hear ringing in her ears the rather solemn, deep-toned words of the Bishop who conferred the diplomas and prizes, as he had said: "To Miss Dorothy Calvert for uniform courtesy." Then again: "To Miss Dorothy Calvert, for advancement in music." "The dear old Bishop!" she cried, aloud, as she thought again of the good times she had left behind her. "'The dear old Bishop'?" Jim repeated, a blank expression on his face. "And who, please, is the dear old Bishop?" "I'd forgotten you did not meet him, Jim. He's the head director of the school at Oak Knowe, and one of the very dearest of men. I shall never forget my first impression of him--a venerable man, with a queer-shaped cap on his head, and wearing knee breeches and gaiters, much as our old Colonial statesmen were wont to do. 'So this is my old friend, Betty Calvert's child, is it?' he said. Dorothy imitated the bass tones of a man with such precision that Jim smiled in spite of himself. 'Well, well! You're as like her as possible--yet only her great-niece. Ha! Hum!' etc., etc. Then he put his arm around me and drew me to his side, and, Jim, I can't tell you how comfortable I felt, for I was inclined to be homesick, 'way up there so far from Aunt Betty. But he cured me of it, and asked Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon to care for me." "Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon?" "Why, yes--the Lady Principal. You met her, Jim. You surely remember her kind greeting the night the prizes and diplomas were conferred. She was very courteous to you, I thought, considering the fact that she is so haughty and dignified." "Don't believe I'd like to go to a girls' school," said Jim. "Why, of course, you wouldn't, silly--being a boy." "But I mean if I was a girl." "Why?" "Oh, the life there is too dull." "What do you know about life at a girls' school, Jim?" "Well, I've heard a few things. I tell you, there must be plenty of athletics to make school or college life interesting." "Athletics? My dear boy, didn't you see the big gym at Oak Knowe? Not a day passed but we girls performed our little feats on rings and bars, and as for games in the open air, Oak Knowe abounds with them. Look at me! Did you ever see a more rugged picture of health?" "You seem to be in good condition, all right," Jim confessed. "_Seem_ to be? I _am_," corrected Dorothy. "Well, just as you say. I won't argue the point. I'm very glad to know you've become interested in athletics. That's one good thing Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon has done for you, anyway." "Jim, I don't like your tone. Do you mean to insinuate that otherwise my course at Oak Knowe has been a failure?" "No, no, Dorothy; you misunderstood me. You've benefited greatly, no doubt--at least, you've upheld the honor of the United States in a school almost filled with English girls. And that's something to be proud of." "Not all were English, Jim. Of course, Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard and her chum, Laura Griswold, were members of the peerage. But the majority of the girls were just everyday folks like you and I have been used to associating with all our lives. Even Millikins-Pillikins was more like an American than an English girl." "'Millikins-Pillikins'!" sniffed Jim. "What a name to burden a girl with!" "Oh, that's only a nickname; her real name is Grace Adelaide Victoria Tross-Kingdon." "Worse and more of it!" "Jim!" she protested sternly. "I beg your pardon, Dorothy--no offense meant. Millikins-Pillikins is related to Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon, I suppose?" "Certainly." "Well, it may be all right," sighed the thoroughly practical Jim, "but this putting a hyphen between your last two names looks to me like a play for notoriety." Dorothy's eyes flashed fire as she turned a swift gaze upon him. "Now, look here, Jim Barlow, we've been fast friends for years, and I don't want to have a falling out, but you shall not slander my friends. And please remember, sir, that the last two words in _my_ name are connected by a hyphen, then see if you can't bridle your tongue a while." Dorothy, plainly displeased, turned and looked out of the car window. But she did not see the green fields, or the cool-looking patches of woodland that were flashing past; she was wondering if she had spoken hastily to her boy chum, and whether he would resent her tone. But Jim, after a moment's silence, became duly humble. "I--I'm very sorry I said that, Dorothy," he began, slowly. "I--I'm sure I'd forgotten the hyphen in your own name. I was just thinking of those English girls. I'm positive that when they met you they felt themselves far above you, and it just makes my American blood boil--that's all!" Dorothy turned in time to catch a suspicious moisture in Jim's eyes, and the warm-hearted girl immediately upbraided herself for speaking as she had. "You're true blue, Jim! I might have known how you meant it, and that you wouldn't willingly slander my friends. And, just to show you that I believe in telling the truth, I'll admit that Gwendolyn was a hateful little spitfire when I first entered the school. But finally she grew to know that in the many attributes which contribute to our happiness there were girls in the world just as well off as she. Gradually she came around, until, at the end, she was one of my warmest friends." Dorothy went on to relate how she had saved Gwendolyn from drowning, and how, in turn, the English girl had saved Dorothy from a terrible slide to death down an icy incline. "Well, that wasn't bad of her," admitted Jim. "But she couldn't very well stand by and see you perish--anyway, you had saved her life, and she felt duty bound to return the compliment." "Please believe, Jim, that she did it out of the fullness of her heart." "Well, if you say so," the boy returned, reluctantly. Both looked up at this juncture to find Ephraim standing in the aisle. The eyes of the old colored man contained a look of unbounded delight, and it was not difficult to see that his pleasure was caused by the anticipated return, within the next few hours, to Old Bellvieu and Mrs. Calvert. "Well, Ephy," said Dorothy, "soon we'll see Aunt Betty again. And just think--I've been away for nine long months!" "My, Miss Betty'll suttin'ly be glad tuh see yo' once moah, 'case she am gittin' tuh a point now where yo' comp'ny means er pow'ful lot tuh her. Axin' yo' pawdon, lil' missy, fo' mentionin' de subjeck, but our Miss Betty ain't de woman she were befor' yo' went away las' fall. No, indeedy! Dar's sumpthin' worryin' her, en I hain't nebber been able tuh fin' out w'at hit is. But I reckon hit's some trouble 'bout de ole place." "I'll just bet that's it," said Jim. "You remember we discussed that last summer just before we went sailing on the houseboat, Dorothy?" "Yes," said the girl, a sad note creeping into her voice. "Something or somebody had failed, and Aunt Betty's money was involved in some way. I remember we feared she would have to sell Bellvieu, but gradually the matter blew over, and when I left home for Oak Knowe I had heard nothing of it for some time. The city of Baltimore has long coveted Bellvieu, you know, as well as certain private firms or individuals. The old place is wanted for some new and modern addition I suppose, and they hope eventually to entice Aunt Betty into letting it go. Oh, I do wish the train would hurry! I'm so anxious to take the dear old lady in my arms and comfort her that I can scarcely contain myself. Don't you think, Jim, there will be some way to save her all this worry?" "We can try," answered the boy, gravely. The way he pursed up his lips, however, told Dorothy that he realized of what little assistance a boy and girl would be in a matter involving many thousands of dollars. "Let's wait and see. Perhaps there is nothing to worry over after all." "Lor' bress yo', chile--dem's de cheerfulest wo'ds I eber heered yo' speak. An' pray God yo' may be right! De good Lord knows I hates tuh see my Miss Betty a-worryin' en a-triflin' her life erway, w'en she'd oughter be made comf'table en happy in her las' days. It hain't accordin' tuh de Scriptur', chillen--it hain't accordin' tuh de Scriptur'." And with a sad shake of his head the faithful old darkey moved away. A moment later they heard the door slam and knew that he had gone to the colored folks' compartment in the car ahead. "Ephy is loyalty personified," said Dorothy. "His skin is black as ink, but his heart is as white as the driven snow." The boy did not answer. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes riveted on the passing landscape. Dorothy, too, looked out of the window again, a feeling of satisfaction possessing her as she realized that she was again in her beloved South. On every hand were vast cotton fields, the green plants well above ground, and flourishing on account of the recent rains. Villages and hamlets flashed by, as the limited took its onward way toward the great Maryland city which Dorothy Calvert called her home. "Oh, Jim, see!" the girl cried, suddenly, gripping her companion's arm, and pointing out of the window. "There is the old Randolph plantation. We can't be more than an hour's ride from Baltimore. Hurrah! I'm so glad!" "Looks like a 'befor' de war' place," Jim returned, as he viewed the rickety condition of what had once been one of Maryland's finest country mansions. "Yes; the house was built long before the war. It was owned by a branch of the famous Randolphs, of Virginia, of whom you have heard and read. Aunt Betty told me the story one night, years ago. I shall never forget it. There was a serious break in the family and William Randolph moved his wife and babies away from Virginia, vowing he would never again set foot in that state. And he kept his word. He settled on this old plantation, remodeling the house, and adding to it, until he had one of the most magnificent mansions in the South. Aunt Betty frequently visited his family when a young girl. That was many years before the Civil War. When the war finally broke out, William Randolph had two sons old enough to fight, so sent them to help swell the ranks of the Confederate Army. One was killed in battle. The other was with Lee at Appomattox, and came home to settle down. He finally married, and was living on the old plantation up to ten years ago, when he died." "What became of the father?" queried the interested Jim. "Oh, he died soon after the war, without ever seeing his brothers in Virginia, they say. The son, Harry Randolph, being of a sunny disposition, though, finally resolved to let bygones be bygones, and some years after his father's death, he went to see his relatives in the other state, where he was received with open arms. How terrible it must be to have a family feud, Jim!" "Terrible," nodded the boy. "Just think how I'd feel if I were to get mad at Aunt Betty and go to Virginia, or New York to stay, never to see my dear old auntie again on this earth. Humph! Catch me doing a thing like that? Well, I reckon not--mo matter how great the provocation!" Jim smiled. "Not much danger of your having to do anything like that," he replied. "Aunt Betty loves you too much, and even if you did, you could go back to Mother Martha and Father John." "Yes; I could, that's true. But life would never seem the same, after finding Aunt Betty, and being taken to her heart as I have. But let's not talk of such morbid things. Let us, rather, plan what we shall do for a good time this summer." "Humph!" grunted the boy. "Reckon I'll be having a good time studying 'lectricity. There's work ahead of me, and I don't dare allow myself to forget it." "But, Jim, you are going home with me for a vacation. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, or, at least, that's what I've always been taught to believe." "I know, Dorothy; but I've got a living to make." The serious note in Jim's voice made Dorothy turn in some surprise. "Why, Jim Barlow, how you talk! You're not old enough to strike out for yourself yet." A note of authority crept unconsciously into Dorothy's tones. "Yes; I am. Lots of boys younger than I have gone out to wrestle with the world for a livelihood, and I reckon I can do the same." "But Dr. Sterling won't let you, I'm sure." "Humph! A lot Dr. Sterling has to say about _that_!" "But you would surely regard his advice as worth something?" "Yes; a great deal. His advice is for me to learn electricity--to learn it thoroughly from the bottom up. To do that I shall have to serve as an apprentice for a number of years. The pay is not great, but enough to live on. I've made up my mind, Dorothy, so don't try to turn me from my purpose." Dorothy Calvert looked with pride on this manly young fellow at her side, as she recalled her first meeting with him some years before. At that time she had been living with Mother Martha and Father John on the Hudson near Newburgh. Jim, the "bound boy," had been Mrs. Calvert's protégé, and had finally worked his way into the regard of his elders, until Dr. Sterling had taken him under his protecting wing. The doctor, a prominent geologist, had endeavored to teach the boy the rudiments of his calling, and Jim had proved an apt pupil, but had shown such a yearning toward electricity and kindred subjects that the kindly doctor had purchased for him some of the best books on the subject. Over these the boy had pored night and day, rigging up apparatus after apparatus, that he might experiment with the great force first discovered in its primitive form by Benjamin Franklin, and later given to the world in such startling form by Morse and Edison. "I shall never try to turn you from your purpose, Jim," said Dorothy. "I feel that whatever you attempt will be a success. You have it in you, and in your lexicon there is no such word as fail. When do you begin your apprenticeship?" "In Baltimore this month, if I can find a place." "Oh, Jim, won't that be fine? I'll tell Aunt Betty the moment we arrive. Perhaps some of her friends will know of an opening. I'm sure some of them will, and we'll have you always with us." "That sounds good to me. I've written Dr. Sterling to send my books and electrical apparatus by freight to Bellvieu." "Then we'll give you a fine, large room all to yourself, where you can set up your laboratory." Dorothy's enthusiasm began to communicate itself to Jim, and soon he had launched himself into an exposition of electricity and its uses, with many comments on its future. So engrossed were both boy and girl in the discussion that they did not hear Ephraim, who came silently down the aisle and stood in a respectful attitude before them. "S'cuse me, please, Miss Dorot'y, en Mistah Jim, but p'raps yo' don't know dat we's almos' tuh de Baltimore station." Dorothy threw a quick glance out of the window. "Oh, so we are! See, Jim! There's the old Chesapeake, and it's a sight for sore eyes. Now, for old Bellvieu and Aunt Betty!" There was a hasty gathering of satchels and paraphernalia as the train drew into the big station. The hum of voices outside, mingled with the shouts of the cab drivers and the shrill cries of the newsboys, met their ears as they descended from the coach. Through the throng Ephraim led the way with the luggage, Dorothy and Jim following quickly, until finally, in the street, the girl descried a familiar carriage, on the top of which a young colored boy was perched. "Hello, Methuselah Bonaparte Washington! Don't you know your mistress?" cried Dorothy, running toward him. This was probably the first time Dorothy had ever called him anything but "Metty," by which nickname he was known at Bellvieu, where he had always lived, and where he had served as Aunt Betty's page and footman since he was old enough to appreciate the responsibilities of the position. His eyes glowed with affection now, as he viewed his little mistress after many months' absence. Descending from his perch on the carriage, he bowed low to Dorothy, his face wreathed in a smile of such broad proportions that it seemed his features could never go back into their proper places. "Lordy, lil' missy, I's suah glad tuh sot mah eyes on yo' once mo'. Ole Bellvieu hain't eben been interestin' sence yo' lef las' fall." "Do you mean that, Metty?" cried the girl, her heart warming toward the little fellow for the sincerity of his welcome. "Yas'm, lil' missy, I suah does mean hit. An' I hain't de only one dat's missed yo'. Mrs. Betty done been habin' seben fits sence yo' went off tuh school, an' as fo' Dinah en Chloe, dey hain't smiled onct all wintah. Dey'll all be glad tuh see yo' back--yas'm, dey suah will!" "And how is Aunt Betty?" the girl asked, a little catch in her voice. Instinctively she seemed to dread the answer. Aunt Betty was getting old, and her health had not been of the best recently. "She's pow'ful pooh, lil' missy, but I jes' knows she'll git plenty ob strength w'en she sees yo' lookin' so fine en strong." "Well, take us to her," said Dorothy, "and don't spare the horses." "Yas'm--yas'm--I'll suah do dat--I'll suah do dat!" Through the narrow, crowded streets of old Baltimore the Calvert carriage dashed, with Dorothy and Jim inside, and Ephraim keeping company with Metty on the box. Metty chose a route through the dirtiest streets, where tumbledown houses swarmed with strange-looking people, who eyed the party curiously; but this was the shortest way to the great country home of the Calverts. Soon the streets grew wider, the air purer, then the Chesapeake burst into view, the salty air refreshing the tired occupants of the carriage as nothing had done for days. Finally, the glistening carriage and finely caparisoned horses sped on a swift trot through the great gateway at Bellvieu, and Dorothy, leaning out of the window, saw Aunt Betty standing expectantly on the steps of the old mansion. Home at last! CHAPTER II AT OLD BELLVIEU AGAIN "Oh, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, as she leaped from the carriage and dashed across the lawn toward the steps, followed more leisurely by Jim. "I just can't wait to get to you!" Aunt Betty gave an hysterical little laugh and folded the girl in her arms with such a warmth of affection that tears sprang into Dorothy's eyes. "My dear, dear child!" was all the old lady could say. Then her lip began to tremble and she seemed on the verge of crying. Dorothy took the aged face between her two hands and kissed it repeatedly. She forgot that Jim was standing near, waiting for a greeting--forgot everything except that she was home again, with Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert, the best and dearest aunt in the world, to love and pet her. "Break away! Break away!" cried Jim, after a moment, forcing a note of gayety into his voice for Aunt Betty's sake. "Give a fellow a chance for a kiss, won't you, Dorothy?" "Certainly, Jim; I'd forgotten you were with me," was the girl's response. "You, as well as Dorothy, are a sight for sore eyes," cried Aunt Betty, pleased at the warm embrace and hearty kiss of her one-time protégé. "And we're glad to be here, you bet!" Jim replied. "A long, tiresome journey, that, Aunt Betty, I tell you! The sight of old Bellvieu is almost as refreshing as a good night's sleep, and that's something I stand pretty badly in need of about now. And just gaze at Dorothy, Aunt Betty! Isn't she looking well?" "A perfect picture of health, Jim. Had I met her in a crowd in a strange city, I doubt if I should have known her." "Oh, Aunt Betty, surely I haven't changed as much as that," the girl protested. "You don't realize how you've grown and broadened, and--" "Broadened? Oh, Aunt Betty!" "Broadened, not physically, but mentally, my dear. I can see that my old friend, the Bishop, took good care of you, and that Miss Tross-Kingdon has borne out her well-established reputation of returning young ladies to their relatives greatly improved both in learning and culture." "Well, auntie, dear, I'm satisfied if you are, and now, let me take off my things. I'm so tired of railroad trains, I don't care to see another for months." "Well, you've had your work, and now you shall have your play. I do not mean that you shall be shut up in this hot city all summer without a bit of an outing. What would you say to a--oh, but I'm ahead of my story! I'll tell you all this when you are rested and can better decide whether my plans for your vacation will please you." "Oh, auntie, tell me now--don't keep me in suspense!" "Young ladies," said Aunt Betty, regarding her great-niece half-severely over her glasses, "should learn to control their curiosity. If allowed to run unbridled, it is apt, sooner or later, to get them into trouble." "But, auntie, I want to know!" Just the suggestion of a pout showed itself on Dorothy's lips. "What a pretty mouth! And so you shall know." "You're the best auntie!" Two white arms went around Mrs. Calvert's neck and the pouting face was wreathed in smiles. "But not now," concluded Aunt Betty. "Oh!" The disappointed tone made Aunt Betty smile, and she winked slyly at Jim, as she observed: "Isn't it wonderful what a lot of interest a simple little sentence will arouse?" "I've never yet met a girl who wasn't overburdened with curiosity--and I s'pose I never shall," was Jim's response. "It's the way they're built. Aunt Betty, and I reckon there's no help for it. Not changing the subject, but how do I reach my room?" "Ephy will show you. It's the big room on the east side. Everything is ready for you. When you have washed and freshened up a bit you may join Dorothy and I on the lawn." "Very good; but don't wait for me. I may decide to take a snooze, and when I snooze I'm very uncertain. Traveling always did tire me out." Ephraim, with Jim's suit case, led the way up the broad stairs of the Calvert mansion, the boy following. "Heah we is, sah," said the colored man, after a moment. He paused to throw open the massive door of a room. "Dis yeah room am de very bestest dis place affords. Youse mighty lucky, Mistah Jim, tuh be relegated tuh de guest chambah, en I takes dis ercasion to congratulate yo'." "Thank you, Ephy. But, being a guest, why should I not have the guest chamber?" and Jim's eyes roamed admiringly over the old-fashioned but richly-furnished apartment. "No reason 'tall, sah--no reason 'tall. I hain't sayin' nuffin'. But dis suah am er fine room." The suit case was resting on the floor by the wardrobe, and Ephraim was carefully unpacking the boy's clothes, and putting them in their proper places, while Jim, glad to be rid of his coat, which he termed "excess baggage," was soon puffing and blowing in a huge bowl of water, from where he went for a plunge in the tub. "Lordy, Mistah Jim," the colored man chuckled, following him to the door of the bathroom, "hit suah looks as though yo' was a darkey, en all de black had washed off." "That's some of the smoke and cinders acquired during our journey from Canada. Don't forget that you have them on you, too, Ephy, only, being as black as ink, they don't show up so well." "Yas'r, yas'r, I reckon dat's right." Old Ephraim continued to chuckle at frequent intervals. "Yo' suah is er great boy, Mistah Jim!" "Thank you, Ephy." "A-washin' yo' face en haid in de wash bowl, den climbin' intuh de tub fo' tuh wash de rest. Dat's w'at I calls extravagantness." He straightened up suddenly. "Now, sah, yo' clothes is all laid out nice, sah. Is dar anyt'ing moah I kin do?" "Nothing, Ephy--nothing. You've done everything a gentleman could expect of his valet. So vamoose!" "Huh?" "Get out--take your leave--anything you want to call it, so you leave me alone. I'm going to take a nap, and when I wake up I'll be as hungry as a bear." "Well, I reckon we kin jes' about satisfy dat appetite, chile. If dar's anyt'ing mah Miss Betty hain't got in de way ob food, I hain't nebber diskivered hit yet." So Ephraim left Jim to his own devices, and went down to the servants' quarters, where he literally talked the arms off of both Chloe and Dinah, while Metty stood by with wide-open mouth, as he listened to Ephraim's tale of his adventures in Canada. In the meantime, Dorothy and Aunt Betty were in the former's big front room, and the girl, too, was removing the stains of the journey, keeping up an incessant chatter to Mrs. Calvert, the while. "I was perfectly delighted with Oak Knowe," she said, "and most particularly with your friend, the Bishop, who received me with open arms--not figuratively, but literally, Aunt Betty--and gave me such a good send-off to Miss Tross-Kingdon that I'm sure she became slightly prepossessed in my favor." Dorothy then told of her examination by Miss Hexam, and how well she had gone through the ordeal, despite the fact that she had been dreadfully nervous; her examination in music, and her introduction to the other scholars; the antipathy, both felt and expressed for her by Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, a member of the British peerage, who led the student body known as the "Peers"; of her introduction to the "Commons," the largest and wildest set in the school, who were all daughters of good families, but without rank or titles. "And I can see my mischievous girl entering into the pranks of the 'Commons,'" smiled Aunt Betty. "I only hope you did not carry things with a high hand and win the disapproval of Miss Tross-Kingdon." "Occasionally we did," Dorothy was forced to admit. "But for the most part the girls were a rollicking lot, going nearly to the extreme limits of behavior when any fun promised, but keeping safely within the rules. There is no doubt, Aunt Betty, but that Miss Tross-Kingdon was secretly fonder of us than of the more dignified 'Peers.'" Then Aunt Betty must know the outcome of the dislike expressed for Dorothy by Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, so the girl recounted her subsequent adventures, including her rescue of Gwendolyn from the water, and the English girl's brave act in saving Dorothy from a frightful slide down a precipice. "Just think! You were in deadly danger and I knew nothing of it," said Aunt Betty, a sternly reproving note in her voice. "But think, dear Aunt Betty, of the worry it would have caused you. It was all over in a few moments, and I was safe and sound again. If I had written you then, you would have felt that I was in constant peril, whereas my escape served as a lesson to me not to be careless, and you would have worried over nothing." "Perhaps you are right, Dorothy; at any rate, now I have you with me, I am not going to quarrel. I'm sure your adventure was merely the result of being thoughtless." "It was. And Gwendolyn's rescue was simply magnificent, auntie. Her only thought at that moment seemed for me." "We will try to thank her in a substantial manner some day, my dear." "I should dearly love to have her visit me at Bellvieu, if only to show the cold, aristocratic young lady the warmth and sincerity of a Southern reception." "And perhaps you will have the opportunity. But not this summer. I have other plans for you." "Now, you are arousing my curiosity again," said Dorothy, in a disappointed tone. "Please, Aunt Betty, tell me what is on your mind." "All in good time, my dear." "Has it--has it anything to do with Uncle Seth?" the girl queried, a slight tremor in her voice. Somehow, she felt that the death of the "Learned Blacksmith," with whom Aunt Betty had been so intimate for years, had been responsible in a measure for the present poor state of her health. "Yes; it has to do with your Uncle Seth, poor man. His death, as you have probably imagined, was a great shock to me. I felt as though I had lost a brother. And then, the news of his demise came so suddenly. It was his dearest wish that you become a great musician. You will remember how he encouraged and developed your talent while we were at Deerhurst, arranging with Mr. Wilmot to give you lessons? He has frequently expressed himself as not being satisfied with your progress. Shortly before his death I had a letter from him, in which he urged me to employ one of the best violin teachers in Baltimore for you at the end of your course at Oak Knowe. I feel it is a small favor, to grant, dear, so if you are still of the notion that you were intended for a great violinist, I have decided to give you a chance to show your mettle." "Dear Aunt Betty," said the girl, earnestly, putting an arm affectionately around the neck of her relative, "it is the dearest wish of my life, but one." "What is the other wish, Dorothy?" "That you be thoroughly restored to health. Then, if I can become perfect on my violin, I shall be delighted beyond measure." "Oh, my health is all right, child, except that I am beginning to feel my age. It was partly through a selfish motive that I planned this outing in Western Maryland." "An outing in Western Maryland! Oh, and was that the secret you had to tell me?" "Yes; the South Mountains, a spur of the famous Blue Ridge range, will make an ideal spot in which to spend a few weeks during the summer months." "It must be a beautiful spot," said the girl. "I love the mountains, and always have. The Catskills especially, will always be dear to me. When do we start, auntie?" "As soon as you have perfected your arrangements with Herr Deichenberg, and have rested sufficiently from your journey." "Herr Deichenberg? Oh, then you have already found my teacher?" "Yes; and a perfect treasure he is, or I miss my guess. Do you remember David Warfield in 'The Music Master,' which we saw at the theater a year ago?" "Indeed, yes, auntie. How could one ever forget?" "Herr Deichenberg is a musician of the Anton Von Barwig type--kind, gentle, courteous--withal, possessing those sterling qualities so ably portrayed in the play by Mr. Warfield. The Herr has the most delightful brogue, and a shy manner, which I am sure will not be in evidence during lesson hours." "And I am to be taught by a real musician?" "Yes." "What a lucky girl I am!" "If you think so, dear, I am pleased. I have tried to make you happy." "And you have succeeded beyond my fondest expectations. There is nothing any girl could have that I have wanted for, since coming to live with you. You are the finest, best and bravest auntie in the whole, wide world!" "Oh, Dorothy!" "It's true, and you know it. It's too bad other girls are not so fortunate. To think of your having my vacation all planned before I reached home. I said I am tired of railroad trains, but I've changed my mind; I am perfectly willing to ride as far as the South Mountains and return." "But in this instance we are not going on a train, my dear." "Not going on a train?" queried Dorothy, a blank expression on her face. Aunt Betty shook her head and smiled. "Now, I've mystified you, haven't I?" "You surely have. The trolleys do not run that far, so how--?" Dorothy paused, perplexed. "There are other means of locomotion," said Aunt Betty in her most tantalizing tone. "Yes; we might walk," laughed the girl, "but I dare say we shall not." "No; we are going in an automobile." "In an automobile? Oh, I'm so glad, auntie. I--I--" Dorothy paused and assumed a serious expression. "Why, auntie, dear, wherever are we to get an automobile? You surely cannot afford so expensive a luxury?" "You are quite right; I cannot." "Then--?" "But Gerald and Aurora Blank have a nice new car, and they have offered to pilot our little party across the state." "Then I forgive them all their sins!" cried Dorothy. "Somehow, I disliked them when we first met; and you know, dear auntie, they _were_ rude and overbearing during the early days on the houseboat." "But before the end of the trip, through a series of incidents which go a long way toward making good men and women out of our boys and girls, they learned to be gentle to everybody," Aunt Betty responded, a reminiscent note in her voice. "I remember, we discussed it at the time." "I must say they got over their priggishness quickly when they once saw the error of their ways," said Dorothy. "Yes. Gerald is growing into a fine young man, now. You know his father failed in business, so that he was forced to sell the houseboat, and that Uncle Seth bought it for you? Well, Gerald has entered into his father's affairs with an indomitable spirit, and has, I am told, become quite an assistance to him, as well as an inspiration to him to retrieve his lost fortunes. The Blanks have grown quite prosperous again, and Mr. Blank gave the auto to Gerald and Aurora a few weeks since to do with as they please." "I'm glad to hear of Gerald's success. No doubt he and Jim will get along better this time--for, of course, Jim is to be included in our party?" "Indeed we should never go a mile out of Baltimore without him!" sniffed Aunt Betty. "It was expressly stipulated that he was to go. Besides Jim, Gerald, Aurora, and ourselves, there will be no one but Ephraim, unless you care to invite your old chum, Molly Breckenridge?" "Oh, auntie, why do you suggest the impossible?" Dorothy's face went again from gay to grave. "Dear Molly is in California with her father, who is ill, and they may not return for months." "I'd forgotten you had not heard. Molly returned east with her father some two weeks since, hence may be reached any time at her old address." "That's the best news I have heard since you told me I was to study under Herr Deichenberg," Dorothy declared. "I'll write Molly to-day, and if she comes, she shall have a reception at Bellvieu fit for a queen." Molly and Dorothy had first met during Dorothy's schooldays at the Misses Rhinelanders' boarding academy in Newburgh, where they had been the life of the school. Their acquaintance had ripened into more than friendship when, together, they traveled through Nova Scotia, and later met for another good time on the western ranch of the railroad king, Daniel Ford. More than any of her other girl friends Dorothy liked Molly, hence the news that she had returned east, and that she might invite her to share the outing in the South Mountains, caused Dorothy's eyes to glow with a deep satisfaction. "And now that we have discussed so thoroughly our prospective outing," said Aunt Betty, "we may change the subject. It remains for me to arrange an early meeting for you with Herr Deichenberg. The Herr has a little studio in a quiet part of the city which he rarely leaves. It is quite possible, however, that I can induce him to come to Bellvieu for your first meeting, though I am sure he will insist that all your labors be performed in his own comfortable domicile, where he, naturally, feels perfectly at home. "I visited the studio some weeks ago--shortly after I received your Uncle Seth's letter, in fact. The Herr received me cordially, and said he would be delighted to take a pupil so highly recommended as Miss Dorothy Elisabeth Somerset-Calvert." "To which I duly make my little bow," replied the girl, dropping a graceful curtsey she had learned from Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon. "My dear Dorothy, that is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen you do. As Ephraim would express it, it is 'puffectly harmonious.' Indeed, you _have_ improved since going to Canada, and it pleases me immensely." Aunt Betty's admiration for her great-niece was so thoroughly genuine that Dorothy could not refrain from giving her another hug. "There, there, dear; you overwhelm me. I am glad to be able to pay you an honest compliment. I have no doubt you have acquired other virtues of which I am at present in ignorance." "Aunt Betty, you're getting to be a perfect flatterer. And what about the vices I may have acquired?" Aunt Betty smiled. "They are, I am sure, greatly in the minority--in fact, nothing but what any healthy, mischievous girl acquires at a modern boarding school. Now, in my younger days, the schoolmasters and mistresses were very strict. Disobedience to the slightest rule meant severe punishment, and was really the means of keeping pent up within one certain things from which the system were better rid. But I must go now and dress. When you have rested and completed your toilet, pass by my room and we'll go on the lawn together." With a final kiss Aunt Betty disappeared down the hall, leaving Dorothy alone with her thoughts. "Dear old auntie," she murmured. "Her chief desire, apparently, is for my welfare. I can never in this world repay her kindness--never!" Then, seized with a sudden inspiration, she sat down at her writing desk by the big window, overlooking the arbor and side garden, and indicted the following letter to her chum: "_My Darling Molly:_ "Heavy, heavy hangs over your head! You are severely penalized for not writing me of your return. But to surprise your friends was always one of your greatest delights, you sly little minx! So I am not holding it up against you. I'll even the score with you some day in a way you little imagine. "Well, well, well, you just can't guess what I have to tell you! And I'm glad you can't, for that would take away the pleasure of the telling. Aunt Betty has planned a fine outing for me in the South Mountains, which, as you know, form a spur of the Blue Ridge range in Western Maryland. We are to be gone several weeks, during which time who can say what glorious adventures we will have? "You are going with us. I want your acceptance of the invitation by return mail, Lady Breckenridge, and I shall take pleasure in providing a brave knight for your escort in the person of one Gerald Blank, in whose automobile we are to make the trip. He has a new seven-passenger car given him by his father, and, in the vulgar parlance of the day, we are going to 'make things hum.' It is only some sixty miles to the mountains, and we expect to be out only one night between Baltimore and our destination. Besides yourself, Aunt Betty and I, there will be only Gerald, Aurora, his sister, Jim Barlow, and Ephraim, who will be camp cook, and general man-of-all-work. "Now write me, dear girlie, and say that you will arrive immediately, for I am just dying with anxiety to see you, and to clasp you in my arms. Jim is already here, having traveled to Canada with Ephy to bring me safely home. As if a girl of my mature age couldn't travel alone! However, it was one of Aunt Betty's whims, she being in too ill health to come herself, so I suppose it is all right. Dear auntie will improve I feel sure--now that I am back. That may sound conceited, but I assure you it was not meant to. We are just wrapped up in each other--that's all. The outing will do her good, and will, I am sure, restore in a measure her shattered health. "And oh, I forgot to tell you! I am to have violin lessons after my vacation from the famous Herr Deichenberg, Baltimore's finest musician, whom Aunt Betty had especially engaged before my return. No one can better appreciate than you just what this means to me. My greatest ambition has been to become a fine violinist, and now my hopes bid fair to be realized. I know it rests with me to a great extent just how far up the ladder I go, and am resolved that Herr Deichenberg, before he is through with me, shall declare me the greatest pupil he has ever had. It takes courage to write that--and _mean_ it--Molly, dear; but if we don't make such resolves and stick to them, we will never amount to much, I fear. "My first meeting with the Herr Professor will be within the next few days, and I am looking eagerly forward to the time. Aunt Betty says he has the dearest sort of a studio in a quiet part of the city, where he puts his pupils through a course of sprouts and brings out all the latent energy--or, temperament, I suppose you would call it. "Well, Molly, dear, you must admit that this is a long letter for my first day home, especially when I am tired from the journey, and have stopped my dressing to write you. So don't disappoint me, but write--or wire--that you are starting at once. Tell the dear Judge we hope his health has improved to such an extent that you will be free from all worry in the future. Remember us to your aunt, and don't forget that your welcome at old Bellvieu is as everlasting as the days are long. "Ever your affectionate "DOROTHY." "There! I guess if that don't bring Miss Molly Breckenridge to time, nothing will." Dorothy put the letter in a dainty, scented envelope, stamped and addressed it, and laid it on her dresser where she would be sure to carry it down to Ephraim when she had dressed. An hour later, when the declining sun had disappeared behind the big hedge to the west of Bellvieu, and the lawn was filled with cool, deep shadows, Dorothy and Aunt Betty settled themselves in the open air for another chat. CHAPTER III DOROTHY MEETS HERR DEICHENBERG The arrival of Herr Deichenberg at Bellvieu was looked forward to with breathless interest by Dorothy, and calm satisfaction by Aunt Betty, whose joy at seeing her girl so well pleased with the arrangements made for her studies, had been the means of reviving her spirits not a little, until she seemed almost like her old self. The day following Dorothy's return Ephraim was sent to the musician's studio with a note from Mrs. Calvert, telling of the girl's arrival, and suggesting that possibly the first meeting would be productive of better results if held at Bellvieu, where the girl would be free from embarrassment. Here, too, was a piano, the note stated, and Herr Deichenberg, who was also an expert on this instrument, might, if he desired, test Dorothy's skill before taking up the work with her in earnest in his studio. Ephraim returned in the late afternoon, bringing a written answer from the music master, in which he stated that it was contrary to his custom to visit the homes of his pupils, but that in the present instance, and under the existing circumstances, he would be glad to make an exception. He set the time of his visit at ten the following morning. Dorothy awoke next day with a flutter of excitement. To her it seemed that the crucial moment of her life had come. If she were to fail--! She crowded the thought from her mind, firmly resolved to master the instrument which is said by all great musicians to represent more thoroughly than any other mode of expression, the joys, hopes and passions of the human soul. Breakfast over, with a feeling of contentment Dorothy stole up to her room to dress, the taste of Dinah's coffee and hot biscuits still lingering in her mouth. As the minutes passed she found herself wondering what Herr Deichenberg would look like. She conjured up all sorts of pictures of a stoop-shouldered little German, her final impression, however, resolving itself into an image of "The Music Master's" hero, Herr Von Barwig. Would he bring his violin? she wondered. It was a rare old Cremona, she had heard, with a tone so full and sweet as to dazzle the Herr's audiences whenever they were so fortunate as to induce him to play. Descending finally, arrayed in her prettiest gown, a dainty creation of lawn and lace, Dorothy found Aunt Betty awaiting her. "Never have I seen you dress in better taste, my dear!" cried Mrs. Calvert, and the girl flushed with pleasure. "The Herr, as you have perhaps surmised, is a lover of simple things, both in the way of clothes and colors, and I am anxious that you shall make a good impression. He, himself, always dresses in black--linen during the warmer days, broadcloth in the winter. Everything about him in fact is simple--everything but his playing, which is wonderful, and truly inspired by genuine genius." "Stop, auntie, dear, or you will have me afraid to meet the Herr. After holding him up as such a paragon, is it any wonder I should feel as small and insignificant as a mouse?" "Come, come, you are not so foolish!" "Of course, I'm not, really--I was only joking," and Dorothy's laugh rang out over the lawn as they seated themselves on the gallery to await the arrival of the guest. "But I do feel a trembling sensation when I think that I am to meet the great Herr Deichenberg, of whom I have heard so much, yet seen so little." "There is nothing to tremble over, my dear--nothing at all. He is just like other men; very ordinary, and surely kind-hearted to all with whom he comes in contact." As they were discussing the matter, Jim and Ephraim came around the corner of the house, their hands full of fishing tackle. "Well, Aunt Betty," greeted the boy, "we're off for the old Chesapeake to court the denizens of the deep, and I'm willing to wager we'll have fish for breakfast to-morrow morning." He pulled off his broad-brimmed straw hat and mopped a perspiring brow. "Don't be too sure of that," returned Aunt Betty. "Fish do not always bite when you want them to. I know, for I've tried it, many's the time." "Mah Miss Betty suah uster be er good fisher-woman," quoth Ephraim, a light of pride in his eyes. "I've seen her sot on de bank ob de Chesapeake, en cotch as many as 'leben fish in one hour. Big fellers, too--none ob yo' lil' cat-fish en perch. Golly! I suah 'members de time she hooked dat ole gar, en hollered fo' help tuh pull 'im out. Den all de folks rush' up en grab de line, en ole Mistah Gar jes' done come up outen de watah like he'd been shot out ob er gun." Slapping his knees at the recollection, Ephraim guffawed loudly, and with such enthusiasm that Aunt Betty forgot her infirmities and joined in most heartily. "The joke was on me that time, Ephy," she finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "But we landed old 'Mistah Gar,' which I suppose was what we wanted after all." "Wish I might hook a gar to-day," said Jim. "En like as not yo' will, chile, 'case dem gars is mighty plentiful in de bay. Hardly a day go by, but w'at two or t'ree ob 'em is yanked outen de sea, en lef' tuh dry up on de bank." "Well, we'll try our hand at one if possible. Good-by, Dorothy! Good-by, Aunt Betty. Have plenty of good things for lunch," were Jim's parting words, as he and Ephraim strode off down the path toward the gate. "We will be as hungry as bears when we get back, and I'm smacking my lips now in anticipation of what we're going to have." "Go along!" said Aunt Betty. "You're too much trouble. I'll feed you on corn bread and molasses." But she laughed heartily. It pleased her to see Jim enjoying himself. "Oh, maybe I'll cook something nice for you," she called after him--"something that will make your mouth water sure enough." "Yum yum! Tell me about it now," cried Jim. "No; I'm going to surprise you," answered the mistress of Bellvieu, and with a last wave of their hands, Jim and the old darkey disappeared behind the big hedge. They were hardly out of sight before the figure of a little, gray-haired man walked slowly up to the gate, opened it, and continued his way up the walk, and Dorothy Calvert, her heart beating wildly, realized that she was being treated to her first sight of the famous music master, Herr Deichenberg. As the Herr paused before the steps of the Calvert mansion, hat in hand, both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy arose to greet him. Dorothy saw before her a deeply intellectual face, framed in a long mass of gray hair; an under lip slightly drooping; keen blue eyes, which snapped and sparkled and seemed always to be laughing; a nose slightly Roman in shape, below which two perfect rows of white teeth gleamed as Herr Deichenberg smiled and bowed. "I hope I find you vell dis morning, ladies," was his simple greeting. [Illustration: "HERR DEICHENBERG." "_Dorothy's Triumph._"] "Indeed, yes, Herr," Aunt Betty responded, offering her hand. "I am glad to see you again. This is the young lady of whom I spoke--my great-niece, Dorothy Calvert." "H'm! Yes, yes," said the Herr, looking the girl over with kindly eye, as she extended her hand. Then, with Dorothy's hand clasped tightly in his own, he went on: "I hope, Miss Dorothy, dat ve vill get on very good togedder. I haf no reason to believe ve vill not, an' perhaps--who knows?--perhaps ve shall surprise in you dat spark of genius vhich vill make you de best known little lady in your great American land." "Oh, I hope so, Herr Deichenberg--I hope so," was the girl's fervent reply. "It has been my greatest ambition." The Herr turned to Aunt Betty: "She iss in earnest, Madame; I can see it at a glance, and it iss half de battle. Too many things are lost in dis world t'rough a lack of confidence, and de lack of a faculty for getting out de best dat iss in one." The Herr sank into one of the deep, comfortable rockers on the gallery, near Aunt Betty, as Dorothy, at a signal from her aunt, excused herself and went in search of Dinah, with the result that mint lemonade, cool and tempting, was soon served to the trio outside, greatly to the delight of the Herr professor, who sipped his drink with great satisfaction. After a few moments he became quite talkative, and said, after casting many admiring glances over the grounds of old Bellvieu: "Dis place reminds me more than anything I have seen in America, of my fadder's place in Germany. De trees, de flowers, de shrubs--dey are all de same. You know," he added, "I live in Baltimore, dat iss true, yet, I see very little of it. My list of pupils iss as large as I could well desire, und my time iss taken up in my little studio." "But one should have plenty of fresh air," said Aunt Betty, "It serves as an inspiration to all who plan to do great things." "Dat sentiment does you credit, madame. It iss not fresh air dat I lack, for I have a little garden in vhich I spend a great deal of time, both morning und evening--it iss de inspiration of a grand estate like dis. It makes me feel dat, after all, there iss something I have not got out of life." There was a suspicious moisture in the Herr's eyes, brought there, no doubt, by recollections of his younger days in the Old Country, and Aunt Betty, noticing his emotion, hastened to say: "Then it will give us even greater pleasure, Herr Deichenberg, to welcome you here, and we trust your visits will be neither short nor infrequent." "Madame, I am grateful for your kindness. No one could say more than you have, and it may be dat I vill decide to give Miss Dorothy her lessons in her own home, dat ve may both have de inspiration of de pretty trees und flowers." "Aside from the fact that I am anxious to see your studio," said the girl, "that arrangement will please me greatly." "It vill please me to be able to show you my studio, anyvay," said the Herr. "How long have you been in America?" Aunt Betty wanted to know, as the Herr again turned toward her. "I came over just after de Civil War. I was quite a young lad at de time und a goot musician. I had no difficulty in finding employment in New York City, vhere I played in a restaurant orchestra for a number of years. Den I drifted to Vashington, den to Baltimore, vhere I have remained ever since." "And have you never been back across the water?" asked Dorothy. "Yes; once I go back to my old home to see my people. Dat was de last time dat I see my fadder und mudder alive. Now I have few relatives living, und almost no desire to visit Germany again. America has taken hold of me, as it does every foreigner who comes over, und has made of me vhat I hope iss a goot citizen." The talk then drifted to Dorothy's lessons. Herr Deichenberg questioned her closely as to her experience, nodding his head in grave satisfaction as she told of her lessons from Mr. Wilmot at Deerhurst. Then, apparently satisfied that she would prove an apt pupil, he asked to be allowed to listen to her playing. So, at Aunt Betty's suggestion, they adjourned to the big living-room, where Dorothy tenderly lifted her violin from its case. As she was running her fingers over the strings to find if the instrument was in tune, she noticed Herr Deichenberg holding out his hand for it. She passed it over. The old German gave it a careful scrutiny, peering inside, and finally nodding his head in satisfaction. "It iss a goot instrument," he told her. "Not as goot as either a Cremona or a Strad, but by all means goot enough to serve your purpose." "It was a present from my Uncle Seth," said Dorothy, "and I prize it very highly, aside from its actual value." "Und so you should--so you should," said the Herr. "Come, now,"--moving toward the piano. "You read your music of course?" Dorothy admitted that she did. The Herr, sitting on the stool before the large, old-fashioned instrument, struck a chord. "Tune your instrument with me, und we vill try something you know vell. I shall then be able to judge both of your execution und your tone. There iss de chord. Ah! now you are ready? All right. Shall we try de 'Miserere' from 'Il Trovatore?' I see you have it here." Dorothy nodded assent. Then, from somewhere in his pocket, Herr Deichenberg produced a small baton, and with this flourished in his right hand, his left striking the chords on the piano, he gave the signal to play. Her violin once under her chin, the bow grasped firmly in her hand, what nervousness Dorothy had felt, quickly vanished. She forgot the Herr professor, Aunt Betty--everything but the music before her. Delicately, timidly, she drew her bow across the strings, then, when the more strenuous parts of the Miserere were reached, she gathered boldness, swaying to the rhythm of the notes, until a light of positive pleasure dawned in Herr Deichenberg's eyes. "Ah!" he murmured, his ear bent toward her, as if to miss a single note would be a rare penance. "Ah, dat iss fine--fine!" Suddenly, then, he dropped his baton, and fell into the accompaniment of the famous piece, his hands moving like lightning over the keys of the piano. Such music Aunt Betty vowed she had never heard before. With a grand flourish the Herr and Dorothy wound up the Miserere, and turned toward their interested listener for approval. And this Aunt Betty bestowed with a lavish hand. "I am proud indeed to know you and to have you for a pupil," the music master said, turning to Dorothy. "You have an excellent touch and your execution iss above reproach, considering de lessons you have had. I am sure ve shall have no trouble in making of you a great musician." Flushing, partly from her exertions, partly through the rare compliment the great professor had paid her ability, the girl turned to Aunt Betty and murmured: "Oh, auntie, dear, I'm so glad!" "And I am delighted," said Aunt Betty. "That is positively the most entrancing music I have ever heard." Herr Deichenberg showed his teeth in a hearty laugh. "She shall vait until you have practiced a year, my little girl," he said, winking at his prospective pupil. "Den who shall say she vill not be charmed by vhat she hears? But come," he added, sobering, "let us try somet'ing of a different nature. If you are as proficient in de second piece as in de first, I shall have no hesitation in pronouncing you one of de most extraordinary pupils who has ever come under my observation." Dorothy bowed, and throwing her violin into position, waited for the Herr professor to select from the music on the piano the piece he wished her to play. "Ah! here iss 'Hearts und Flowers.' Dat iss a pretty air und may be played with a great deal of expression, if you please. Let me hear you try it, Miss Dorothy." Again the baton was waved above the Herr professor's head. The next instant they swung off into the plaintive air, Dorothy's body, as before, keeping time to the rhythm of the notes, the music master playing the accompaniment with an ease that was astonishing. In every movement the old German showed the finished musician. Twice during the rendition of the piece did he stop Dorothy, to explain where she had missed the fraction of a beat, and each time, to his great satisfaction, the girl rallied to the occasion, and played the music exactly as he desired. The ordeal over at last, Herr Deichenberg was even more lavish in his praise of Dorothy's work. "Of course, she iss not a perfect violinist," he told Aunt Betty. "Ve could hardly expect dat, you know. But for a young lady of her age und experience she has made rapid progress. Herr Wilmot, who gave de first lessons had de right idea, und there iss nothing dat he taught her dat ve shall have to change." Out on the broad gallery, as he was taking his leave, the professor looked proudly at Dorothy again. "I repeat dat I am glad to meet you und have you for a pupil. Vhen shall de first lesson be given?" Dorothy threw a quick glance at Aunt Betty. "Not for at least four weeks, Herr Deichenberg," said that lady. "Eh? Vhat!" cried the old music master. "Not for four veeks! Vhy iss it dat you vait an eternity? Let us strike vhile de iron iss hot, as de saying has it." "But, Herr, my little girl has just returned from a winter of strenuous study at the Canadian school of Oak Knowe, and I have promised her a rest before she takes up her music." "If dat iss so, I suppose I shall have to curb my impatience," he replied, regretfully. "But let de time be as short as possible. If you are going avay, please notify me of your return, und I vill manage to come to Bellvieu to give Miss Dorothy her first lesson. But don't make it too long! I am anxious--anxious. She vill make a great musician--a great musician. So goot day, ladies. It has been a pleasure to me--dis visit." "Let us hope there will be many more, Herr Deichenberg," said Aunt Betty. They watched the figure of the little music teacher until it disappeared through the gate and out of sight behind the hedge. Then they turned again to their comfortable rockers, to discuss the visit and Dorothy's future. "Oh, Aunt Betty," confessed the girl, "I was terribly nervous until I felt my violin under my chin. It seemed to give me confidence, and I played as I have never played before. Somehow, I felt I could not make a mistake. I'm so glad the Herr professor was pleased. Isn't he a perfect dear? So genteel, so polished, in spite of his dialect--just the kind of a man old Herr Von Barwig was in 'The Music Master.'" Dinah came out on the gallery to say that Dorothy was wanted at the 'phone. "Oh, I wonder who it can be?" said the girl. "I didn't think any of my friends knew I was home." She hastened inside, and with the receiver at her ear, in keen anticipation murmured a soft: "Hello!" "Hello, Dorothy, dear! How are you?" It was a girl's voice and the tones were familiar. "Who is this? I--I don't quite catch the--! Oh, surely; it's Aurora Blank!" "You've guessed it the first time. I only learned a few moments ago that you were home. I'm just dying to see you, to learn how you liked your trip and the adventures you had at school. You'll tell me about them in good time, won't you, Dorothy?" "Why, yes, of course. On our camping trip, perhaps." "Won't that be jolly? Papa says we're to stay in the mountains as long as we like--that's what he bought the auto for. Gerald and I have been planning to start the first of the week if you can be ready." "Oh, I'm sure we can. I'll speak to Aunt Betty and let you know." "Do so, and I'll run over to Bellvieu to-morrow to discuss the details. Did that nice boy, Jim Barlow, return to Baltimore with you?" "Yes; he is going with us on the trip--at least, Aunt Betty said he was included in the invitation." "Indeed he is! I like him immensely, dear--lots more than he likes me, I reckon." "Oh, I don't know!" "I'm sure of it." "Aurora, I'm afraid you're trying to make a conquest." "No, I'm not--honor bright. But he's a dear boy and you can tell him I said so." "I'll do that," said Dorothy, with a laugh. Then she said good-by and hung up the receiver. "I guess I won't!" she muttered, as she went out to join Aunt Betty again. "Jim Barlow would have a conniption fit if he ever knew what Aurora Blank had said." CHAPTER IV THE BEGINNING OF THE TRIP "I'm glad to see you again, Miss Blank. You'll find Dorothy waiting for you in the house." It was the following morning, and Jim had been roaming about the grounds when Aurora came in. At first he had seemed disinclined to be affable, for her actions on Dorothy's houseboat had been anything but ladylike, until, like many another young girl, she had been taught a lesson; but he decided to be civil for the Calverts' sake, at least. "But I want to see you, Jim," Aurora persisted. "You don't mind my calling you 'Jim,' do you?" "No." "And will you call me Aurora?" "If you wish." "I do wish. We're going on a long camping trip together, as I suppose you've heard." "Yes, and I want to thank you for the invitation." "You've decided to accept, of course?" "Yes. At first I didn't think I could; but Aunt Betty--Mrs. Calvert, that is--said if I didn't I'd incur her everlasting displeasure, so I've arranged to go." "I'm delighted to hear it. We just can't fail to have a good time." "I figure on its being a very pleasant trip, Miss Blank--er--I mean, Aurora." "You should see our new car, Jim. Papa presented it to Gerald and I, and it's a beauty. Gerald's coming over with it to-day to teach you and Ephraim how to run it. Then you can take turns playing chauffeur on our trip across country. I imagine if I were a boy that I should like nothing better." Jim's face brightened as she was speaking. "Thank you; I believe I will learn to run the machine if Gerald doesn't care." "Care? He'd better not! The machine is a partnership affair, and I'll let you run my half. But he won't object, and what's more, he'll be only too glad to lend you the car occasionally to take Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy riding." "I'll ask him when he comes over," said the boy. Electricity was Jim's chief hobby, but anything of a mechanical nature appealed to him. While a gasoline car uses electricity only to explode its fuel, Jim was nevertheless deeply interested, particularly as he had never been able to look into the construction of an auto as thoroughly as he would have desired. "When do we start?" he asked Aurora. "The first of next week, if it's all right with Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy." "Who dares talk of Dorothy when she is not present?" demanded that young lady, coming out on the gallery at this moment. "I believe this is a conspiracy." "Dorothy Calvert!" "Aurora Blank!" These sharp exclamations were followed by a joyous hug and a half dozen kisses, while Jim stood looking on in amusement. "Say, don't I get in that game?" he wanted to know. "If you wish," said Aurora, throwing him a coquettish glance. "No indeed!" laughed Dorothy. "Gentlemen are entirely excluded." She turned to her girl friend. "How well you are looking! And what a pretty dress!" "Do you like it, Dorothy? Mamma had it made for me last week. At first it didn't please me--the the front of the waist is so crazy with its pleats and frills." "Oh, that's what I liked about it--what first caught my eye. It's odd, but very, very pretty." "Excuse me!" murmured Jim. "The conversation grows uninteresting," and turning his back, he walked off down the lawn. He cast a laughing glance over his shoulder an instant later, however, shaking his head as if to say, "Girls will be girls." "Come into the house, Aurora, and tell me about yourself. What has happened in old Baltimore since I've been gone? Really, Aunt Betty and I have been too busy arranging for my music lessons, and with various and sundry other things to have a good old-time chat." "Things have been rather dull here. Gerald and I went with papa and mamma to the theaters twice a week last winter, with an occasional matinée by ourselves, but aside from that, life has been very dull in Baltimore--that is, until the auto came a few weeks since. Now we take a 'joy' ride every afternoon, with an occasional evening thrown in for good measure." "I am anxious to see your car, Aurora." "And I am anxious to have you see it." "It must be a beauty." "Oh, it is." Aurora leaned toward her friend. "Confidentially, Dorothy, it cost papa over four thousand dollars." "Just think of all that money to spend for pleasure!" cried Dorothy. "But then, it makes you happy, and I suppose that's what money is for." "Did you ask your aunt about starting on our trip the first of the week?" "Yes, and it's all right. We'll be ready. The only thing worrying me now is that I'm expecting to hear from one of my dearest girl chums, Molly Breckenridge--" "Oh, and is she going with us?" "Aunt Betty made me ask her. She said you wanted us to make up the party, and include Gerald and yourself." "That's the very idea. It's your trip, Dorothy, given in honor of your home-coming." "I'm sure that's nice of you, Aurora. And now let's discuss--" "Pawdon me, Miss Dorot'y," interrupted Ephraim, entering at this moment. "I--I--er--good mawnin', Miss Aurory." "Good morning, Ephy," Dorothy's visitor responded. "Has anyone told you that you are to become a chauffeur?" "W'at's dat, Miss Aurory? A show fer? A show fer w'at?" "A chauffeur, Ephy, is a man who drives an automobile." "One o' dem fellers dat sets up in de front seat en turns de steerin' apparatus?" "Exactly. How would you like to do that?" "I ain't nebber monkeyed round dem gasoline contraptions none, but I reckon I'd like tuh do w'at yo' say, Miss Aurory--yas'm; I jes' reckon I would." "Well, Gerald is coming over some time to-day to show you and Jim a few things about the car. You will take turns playing chauffeur on our camping trip, and he wants to give you a lesson every day until we leave." "Dat suah suits me," grinned the old negro. "But what did you want, Ephy?" Dorothy asked, recalling him suddenly to his errand. "Oh, Lordy, I done fergit w'at I come fo'. Lemme see--oh, yas'm, I got er lettah fo' yo'. Jes' lemme see where I put dat doggone--er--beggin' yo' pawdon, young ladies, I--Heah hit is!" The letter, fished from one of Ephraim's capacious pockets, was quickly handed over. "Oh, it's from Molly!" the girl cried, joyously, as she looked at the postmark. "Let's see what she has to say. You may go, Ephy." "Yas'm," responded the darkey, and with an elaborate bow he departed. Tearing open the letter, Dorothy read as follows: "_My Dear, Dear Chum_:-- "To say that I was overwhelmed by your very kind invitation, is to express it mildly, indeed. The surprise was complete. I had hardly realized that you had finished your course at Oak Knowe and returned to Baltimore. It is strange how rapidly the time flies past. "We returned from California, some two weeks ago. Papa is greatly improved in health, for which we are all duly thankful. He says he feels like a new man and his actions bear out his words. He wants to know how his little Dorothy is, and when she is coming to visit him. In the meantime, it may be that I shall bring the answer to him in person, as I am leaving next Monday evening for Baltimore, and you, dear Dorothy! "How glad I shall be to see you! As for the camping trip, you know how I love an outing, and this, I am sure, will prove to be one of the finest I have ever had. So, until Tuesday morning, when you meet me at the train, _au revoir_. "Ever your loving "MOLLY." "I just know I shall like Molly Breckenridge," cried Aurora. "Such a nice letter! I have already pictured in my mind the sort of girl that wrote it." "You will like her, Aurora, for she is one of the best girls that ever breathed. Full of mischief, yes, but with a heart as big as a mountain. There is nothing she won't do for anyone fortunate enough to be called her friend." "I hope to be that fortunate before our trip is over. But you, Dorothy, are more than friend to her. One can see that from the tone of the letter." "I hope and believe I am her dearest chum." "You are _my_ dearest chum, Dorothy Calvert!" cried Aunt Betty, who entered the room at this moment. "How are you, Aurora?" "Very well, Mrs. Calvert." "I am glad to see you here. My little girl will get lonesome, I fear, unless her friends drop in frequently to see her." "I shall almost live over here, now Dorothy is home," replied Aurora. "Indeed she will," Dorothy put in. "And Molly is coming, Aunt Betty!" Triumphantly she displayed the letter. "Ephy just brought it. Want to read it?" "No; you can tell me all about it, dear," returned Aunt Betty. "I am glad she is coming. I hardly thought she'd refuse. Judge Breckenridge is very good to her, and allows her to travel pretty much as she wills." The talk turned again to the camping trip. "I have talked it over with Dorothy," said Aunt Betty, "and we have decided to be ready Wednesday morning." "That will suit us fine," said Aurora. "Gerald couldn't get away before Tuesday anyway, and another day will not matter. He thinks we'd better plan to start in the cool of the morning, stopping for breakfast about eight o'clock at some village along the route--there are plenty of them, you know. The recent rains have settled the dust, and the trip, itself, should be very agreeable. We figure on being out only one night, reaching the mountains on the second morning. Of course, if pushed, the auto could make it in much less time, but Gerald thinks we'd better take our time and enjoy the ride." "The plan is a fine one," said Aunt Betty, "especially the getting away in the early morning, before the hot part of the day sets in." "I thoroughly agree with you, auntie," said Dorothy. "If we fail to find a village," Aunt Betty continued, "where we can get coffee and rolls, we will draw on our own supply of provisions and eat our breakfast en route. Or we can stop by the wayside, where Ephy can make a fire and I can make some coffee." "Oh, you make my mouth water," said Aurora, who knew that Aunt Betty Calvert's coffee was famous for miles around. Aurora took her leave a short while later, and hardly had she gone before Gerald Blank drew up in front of the Calvert place in his big automobile and cried out for Jim and Ephraim. Neither the boy nor the negro needed a second invitation. Each had been keen in anticipation of the ride--Jim because of his natural interest in mechanism of any sort; Ephraim because he felt proud of the title "chauffeur," which Aurora had bestowed upon him, and was curious to have his first lesson in running "dat contraption," as he termed it. "I tell you, Gerald, she's a dandy," said Jim, after the boys had shaken hands and made a few formal inquiries about the interval which had elapsed since last they met. As Jim spoke, his eye roamed over the long torpedo body of the big touring car. Straight from the factory but a few weeks since, replete with all the latest features, the machine represented the highest perfection of skilled mechanical labor. The body was enameled in gray and trimmed in white, after the fashion of many of the torpedo type of machines which were then coming into vogue. Seeing Jim's great interest, Gerald, who was already a motor enthusiast, went from one end of the car to the other, explaining all the fine points. "There is not a mechanical feature of the Ajax that has not been thoroughly proven out in scores of successful cars," he said. "Now, here, for instance, is the engine." Throwing back the hood of the machine, the boy exposed the mechanism. "That's the Renault type of motor, known as 'the pride of France,' and one of the finest ever invented. Great engineers have gone on record that the men who put the Ajax car together have advanced five years ahead of the times. You will notice, Jim, that the engine valves are all on one side. You're enough of a mechanician to appreciate the advantage of that. It makes it simple and compact, and gives great speed and power. We should have little trouble in traveling seventy miles an hour, if we chose." "Lordy, we ain't gwine tuh chose!" cried Eph. "Why, I thought you had the speed mania, Ephy," was Gerald's good-natured retort. "Don' know jes' w'at dat is, Mistah Gerald, but I ain't got hit--no, sah, I ain't got hit." "Now, Jim," Gerald continued, as they bent over to look under the car, "you see the gear is of the selective sliding type, which has been adopted by all the high grade cars. And back here is what they term a floating axle. The wheels and tires are both extra large--in fact, there is nothing about the car, that I've been able to discover, that is not the best in the business." "What a fine automobile agent you'd make, Gerald!" "Do you think so?" "Surely. You spiel it off like a professional. The only difference is, I feel what you say is true. I am greatly taken with that engine, and should like to see it run." "When we start in a moment, you shall have that pleasure. Of course, I could run it for you now, while the machine is standing still, but they say it's poor practice to race your engine. If you do so, the wear and tear is something awful." "I'd heard that, but had forgotten," said Jim. "Well, come on, now, and I'll take you and Ephy for a spin, and, incidentally, I'll teach you both how to run the car." Jim crawled into the front seat, Ephraim occupying the big five-passenger compartment in the rear. Gerald, after "cranking up," took his seat behind the steering wheel. "All ready, Ephy?" "Yas'r--yas'r." "Then we're off." The big Ajax started without a jar and moved almost noiselessly off down the road. The engine ran so smoothly that it was hard to imagine anything but an electric motor was driving the machine. Gerald knew Baltimore and its environs by heart. He did not enter the city immediately, however, but kept to the fine country roads which lay just outside. When a level stretch was reached once, he put her on the high speed, and Jim and Ephraim traveled for a few moments at a pace neither had ever experienced before--even on a railroad train. Finally, slowing down, Gerald said: "Now I'll change places with you, Jim, and you shall run the car." The change was quickly effected, Jim being eager to feel the big steering wheel in his grasp, his feet on the pedals in front, with the single thought in his mind that the Ajax was run and controlled by his hand alone. Gerald explained the points of starting, showing him the three speeds forward and the reverse; how to regulate his spark so as to keep the motor from knocking, especially on heavy grades; then how to advance the spark where the pull was slight, so as to make the motor work cooler and to use less gasoline. Jim admired Gerald's thorough knowledge of the car. It showed a side to the boy's nature that Jim had not suspected--in fact, the Gerald Blank who owned this auto was hardly the same boy who had caused so much dissension on the houseboat the summer before. "When you think you've had enough, we'll let Ephy try it," said Gerald. "I'd never get enough," smiled Jim. "So better let Ephy get a-hold right here and now." He good-naturedly resigned his post, and Ephraim soon found himself sitting in the chauffeur's seat, the big steering wheel almost touching his breast, his feet on the pedals. Then Gerald instructed him as he had Jim. When he told the old negro to press slowly on one of the pedals to make the machine slow down, Ephraim misunderstood his orders and pressed the wrong one, with the result that the speed remained undiminished, while the exhaust set up such a beating that Ephy turned a shade whiter. The joke was on him. No harm was done, and soon, when Gerald and Jim were through laughing at him, he began to show considerable agility in the handling of the car. "I'll give you both another lesson to-morrow," said Gerald, as, some seven miles out of the city, he took charge of the big machine and turned for the run back to Baltimore. Soon the engines began to sing as the car gathered headway. The road was clear ahead, hence Gerald felt no qualms about "speeding her up." He kept a close watch, however, for lanes and crossroads, twice slowing down for railway crossings, only to resume his former pace when on the other side. Trees and houses flashed past in hopeless confusion. A cloud of dust arose behind them, and mingled with the gaseous smoke that came from the rear of the machine. Through the city they went, now at a much lessened pace--in fact, at only eight miles an hour, which was the speed limit in the city--finally turning out along the shores of the Chesapeake toward old Bellvieu. Dorothy and Aunt Betty were sitting on the gallery when they drew up, and waved their hands at Gerald as he let Jim and Ephraim out and turned his machine toward home. "You are both chauffeurs now, I suppose?" queried Aunt Betty, as the pair came up the walk toward the house. "Ephraim is, at least," laughed Jim. "Yas'r, yas'r; I suah is," said Ephraim with a deep chuckle. "Dis yere joy ridin' business am gittin' intuh mah blood. Nebber ain't gone so fast in mah whole life as w'en Mistah Gerald done let dat blame contraption out. Lordy, but we jes' flew!" "Where did Jim come in?" Dorothy wanted to know. "Oh, Mistah Gerald teached him how tuh run de machine, en den he teached me. I tell yo' w'at, Miss Betty, I's gwine tuh be yo' shofer all right, en I's gwine tuh be a mighty good one, too." "He can hardly wait for Gerald to come back to-morrow," said Jim. "Then Gerald is coming back, is he?" asked Dorothy. "Yes; we can't learn to run his car in one lesson, you know. I reckon I haven't much call to talk about Ephy's enthusiasm, for the fever's in my blood, too." "That's what they call 'automobilitis,'" said Aunt Betty. "Well, whatever hit am, I's got it," said Ephraim, with a grave shake of his head. Then he emitted another chuckle and walked away. The next few days passed quickly. Gerald came each afternoon, as he had promised, and before the long-looked-for day arrived, both Jim and Ephraim were nearly as proficient in the use of the car as he. On Tuesday afternoon Molly Breckenridge arrived, as she had promised in her letter, Dorothy, Jim and Metty meeting the train with the barouche. To describe the meeting between the girls would be impossible. A bystander, observing the hugs and kisses they bestowed upon each other, might well have wondered who they were, to be so lavish with their affection. "You dear, good girl!" Dorothy kept saying, over and over, each word accented by another kiss. Molly surprised Jim by kissing him rapturously on the cheek, an act the boy did not like, but which he took with the good nature he knew would be expected of him. Later, in confidence, he confessed his displeasure to Gerald, which caused that young man to go off into a fit of merriment. "You're a funny fellow, Jim," he said, finally, when he had induced a sober expression to remain on his face. "Most fellows would go several miles out of their way to get a kiss from Molly Breckenridge. But you, with kisses thrust upon you, are angry. Well, that may be all right, but I don't understand it--hanged if I do!" But Jim vouchsafed no further comment. He only smiled and shook his head. CHAPTER V THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS Old Bellvieu was early astir on Wednesday morning, the time set for the departure. At four o'clock, when the darkness without was still intense, Ephraim, who had been awakened by an alarm clock, went from door to door of the big mansion, arousing the inmates. The provisions and cooking utensils had been packed in baskets and were setting in the front hall, ready to be carried to the automobile when Gerald and Aurora should arrive. There was also a hamper containing extra clothes for Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Molly. It was two sleepy-eyed girls who came slowly down the back stairway to eat hominy, biscuits and coffee, prepared by Chloe and Dinah in the big kitchen--sleepy-eyed, because the chums had lain awake more than half the night talking over old times. Molly's trip to California had been told of to the most minute detail, and at the end of the discourse Dorothy had started on her adventures at Oak Knowe. Then to sleep at half past one, to rise at four! It was no wonder Dorothy said, as they entered the kitchen: "I feel like the last rose of summer. The next time you keep me awake till nearly morning, Molly Breckenridge, I'm going to be revenged." "The same to you, Dorothy Calvert," was Molly's retort. "You seem to have no regard for my condition after my long journey here. I needed rest, but you kept me awake all night with your constant chatter, telling me things that did not interest me." "I didn't!" "You did!" And so forth and so on. Then, when Chloe, Dinah and Metty, were staring open-mouthed, impressed with the fact that the young ladies had apparently descended in a very bad humor, both girls laughed, threw their arms about each other's neck, and concluded their performance with a resounding kiss. "My, how affectionate!" said Aunt Betty, who entered at this moment. "And what swollen eyes!" "Why, isn't that strange?" asked Dorothy, assuming an innocent look. "She says our eyes are swollen, Molly--and after all the sleep we had, too." Aunt Betty laughed. "Do you think, my dears, I did not hear you talking 'way into the night?" "Oh, did you, auntie?" "Yes; but it was your first night together, so I decided to say nothing. But come; let us eat, for Gerald and Aurora will shortly be here in the car." The girls needed no second invitation. The coffee, made by Chloe, after Aunt Betty's special recipe, was delicious, and served to revive the sleepy girls, while the biscuits, as Molly expressed it, "fairly melted in your mouth." The meal over, preparations for departure went forward rapidly, and when, at half past five, just as the sun was getting ready to peep above the distant horizon, the big touring car drew up in front of the place, Aunt Betty, the girls, Jim and Ephraim were all waiting on the gallery. "Ship ahoy! What ship is that?" cried Jim, cupping his hands at Gerald. "The good ship Ajax, out of Baltimore for the South Mountains. Four first and one second class cabins reserved for your party, Mr. Barlow." [Illustration: "THE PARTY CLIMBED INTO THE BIG MACHINE." "_Dorothy's Triumph._"] There was much good-natured badinage as the party climbed into the big machine. Molly and Aurora seemed to take to each other from the first, and Aunt Betty saw with no little satisfaction that the trip bade fair to be a happy one. When the baskets were all under the seats, or placed in the great trunk-like compartment on the rear of the machine, along with several large tent flaps and a coil of rope, the party waved a cheery good-by to Chloe, Dinah and Metty, Gerald started the Ajax, and they went bowling off down the smooth road on the first stage of their journey. Gerald occupied the driver's seat with Dorothy beside him. In the big rear seat were Aunt Betty, Molly and Aurora, while the smaller seats at either side were occupied by Jim and Ephraim. The city was just beginning to stir itself as the big car rolled through the main streets and out into the suburbs beyond. Soon the city limits were passed, and the great country highway, so enticing to Baltimore automobilists, lay before them. Straight toward the west Gerald drove the car, the miles being reeled off at a good rate of speed--all, in fact, that Aunt Betty would allow. "I'm no speed maniac," she told Gerald, in response to his query as to whether she cared to ride as fast as a railroad train. "I'm well satisfied at the present pace. I feel that it is as fast as we can go in perfect safety, and I have no desire to endanger the lives of the young ladies under my charge. This is not a limited, anyway, but just a slow train through Maryland." "I'll bear that in mind," the boy returned, smiling. Some miles further on the country grew rolling and hilly. Patches of dense timber were penetrated, and finally the machine shot out onto a broad plain which stretched away for many leagues toward the west. The sun was well up now, but the party had hardly felt its warmth. The big automobile, moving along at a fair rate of speed, created enough breeze to keep the occupants at a comfortable temperature. Dorothy and Molly, thoroughly awake now, and in no way missing the sleep they had lost, kept up an incessant chatter, Aurora and Aunt Betty occasionally chiming in. "I've never thought to ask, but what sort of sleeping quarters are we to have at the camp?" asked Molly. "Goodness me! I hadn't thought of that," said Aunt Betty. "Gerald, did you provide sleeping quarters for the lady guests?" "Yes, ma'am; there are several portable tent tops packed in the rear compartment." "Tent tops! Indeed, it seems to me we'll need some tent _sides_, too, if we are to sleep with any peace of mind." This caused a general laugh. "I've provided for that, too," said Gerald. "Don't worry. It was impossible to carry poles and stakes, however, so Jim and I will show our woodcraft by cutting them in the mountains where we camp." "I imagine we'll think of several things we've forgotten before we've been long at our destination," said Aurora. Dorothy uttered a startled exclamation. "My goodness! How you startled me," said Aunt Betty. "What's wrong?" "I've forgotten something already." "Now our troubles begin." Mrs. Calvert heaved a long sigh of resignation. "Well, what is it?" "My curling irons." "Pouff! I might have known you were starting a joke. You'll be lucky to have a comb and brush, young lady, let alone curling irons, and as for a mirror, I'm blessed if I believe we thought to bring one." "I have one," smiled Aurora. "It will do for all. We can take turns each morning combing our hair." "A fine idea," said Jim. "Every morning, I'll delegate myself as a sort of camp marshal to see that each of you has a turn at the mirror. So when you hear me call, 'Hey, Molly; you're next!' you want to bestir yourself." Ephraim, who had been silent most of the time since the car left the city, now burst into a loud guffaw. "Lordy, but I didn't imagine dis was gwine tuh be sich er ceremonious occasion. I done lef' mah curlin' irons tuh home, but maybe yo'-all will take pity on er pooh colored gem'man en allow him tuh comb his curly locks in front ob yo' solitary glass." "Of course, we will, Ephy," said Aurora--"especially after all that fine language. You shall have your turn--I'll see to that." It was eight o'clock when Gerald stopped the car in front of a small village inn. The community was just bestirring itself, and the inhabitants gazed long and curiously at the party. Addressing a middle-aged man who sat on the front steps of the hostelry, smoking a pipe, Gerald said: "How about breakfast for seven?" "Reckon we can accommodate you," was the reply, in a low drawl--"that is, if you ain't too particular what you eat." "Needn't worry about that. We're hungry--that's all. Some fresh milk and eggs, some crisp slices of fried bacon, a cup of coffee, and a few things of a similar nature will be more than sufficient." "You've just hit off my bill o' fare to a T," the man responded, grinning. "Come in and make yourselves at home, while I go tell Martha there's some extry mouths to feed." The members of the little camping party needed no urging, for the early morning ride had given them large appetites, which they were anxious to satiate. Soon the Ajax was standing silent in front of the building, while its occupants were grouped in the little parlor of the hotel, waiting the welcome call to breakfast. "There's a picture of George Washington," said Jim, as his glance roamed about the room. "Wonder if there's a village hotel in any part of the original thirteen states, which hasn't a picture of our immortal ancestor?" "Probably not," smiled Gerald. "Thomas Jefferson seems also to be a favorite. See, there he is, peeking at you from behind the what-not." "And there's Robert E. Lee, bless his heart," cried Dorothy, to whom the southern hero's name was the occasion for no little amount of reverence--thoughts that had been instilled in her mind by Aunt Betty, loyal southerner that she was. The hotel proprietor appeared on the scene a few moments later with the cheery remark: "You all can come into the dinin'-room now." He led the way through the hall and into a small, though comfortable, room, where the landlady had already begun to serve the breakfast. Their appetites sharpened by the ride, everyone did ample justice to the things which were put before them. Even Aunt Betty, usually a light eater, consumed three eggs, two glasses of milk and a plate of fried bacon, topping them off with a cup of strong coffee. "Whatever has come over you?" cried Dorothy in delight. "I never knew you to eat so much for breakfast, auntie, dear." "I just wanted it," was Aunt Betty's response, "and, wanting it, I see no reason why I should not have it. I have no intention of denying myself what sustenance I require." "Then never talk to me again about being an invalid!" cried the girl. "When I came back to Bellvieu I was led to believe that you were fast failing in health. But, as yet, I have seen no indication that you are not as hale and hearty as the best of us." "I feel some better--that I will freely admit." "And at the end of our camping trip you are going to feel better still. Who knows? You may take on ten or twelve pounds in weight." This from Jim. "Well, let us hope not. I am carrying now all the flesh I am able to put up with." Breakfast over at last, the party lost no time in re-embarking, and soon the big Ajax, given a new lease on life by reason of a sharp turn of the crank in front, was again speeding on its way. The car proved itself an excellent traveler. The roads were rough in many places, yet not once during the day did any trouble arise either from mechanism or tires. The machine proceeded at a steady gait until shortly after noon, when, in another village some forty odd miles from Baltimore, the party stopped for lunch. Here the supply of gasoline was replenished, Gerald having already been forced to draw upon his reserve. This was necessitated by his having forgotten to fill his tank before leaving home. "I don't know how I came to neglect such an important matter," he said to Jim. He seemed rather piqued. "Mistakes will happen, no matter what you are doing or where you are," was Jim's reply, intended to be consoling. "Suppose we had run out of gasoline between towns, though?" Gerald grinned at the thought. "But we didn't," he said. "Yes; but if we had?" "Well, some of us would have taken a little journey, to the nearest available supply, and brought some back with us--that's all. Fortunately, in these days of the automobile, an ample supply of gasoline may be found at any country store. There was a time when it was as hard as the mischief to get it." "How far can you run with one supply?" "Seventy-five miles, without the reserve, which is good for another forty." "This machine seems complete in every particular, with its reserve tank, and store box behind." "Surely. While called a touring car, it has many of the features of a roadster." "A roadster?" "Yes; a car built for traveling across country--one you can take long trips in--a car built to stand no end of wear and tear." "All right, boys!" Aurora called out at this moment. "We're through lunch. Let's be moving. You know we want to get as near the mountains as possible before putting up for the night." So on they went, the country spreading out before them in gentle undulations. The Ajax would climb a low hill to pass the pinnacle and go bowling down into some miniature valley, over foot-bridges and through grove after grove of pretty trees. It seemed that old Mother Nature had spread on the scenic touches with a master hand in this part of Maryland, and the occupants of the car thoroughly enjoyed themselves, particularly as the recent rains had soaked the dirt so thoroughly it had not yet had time to resolve itself again into dust. Farmers stopped to watch them, often to wave hat or handkerchief as they went flying past. To these salutations the girls took delight in replying, greatly to the disgust and chagrin of Jim Barlow. "Why, you don't even know them!" he said to Dorothy in a sternly reproving tone, when she chided him gently about a reproof he had just administered to Molly, who had become quite enthusiastic in her efforts to attract the attention of a young farmer lad who was plowing in a nearby field. "Neither do they know us," the girl responded. "Besides, Molly is her own mistress, and you have no right to tell her she may or may not do as she pleases." "But I can express my opinion on the subject," growled Jim. "This is a free country." "Ugh! He's a regular bear to-day, girls," said Aurora. "Let's leave him alone until he can be civil." Which made Jim grate his teeth in rage. He gradually cooled off, however, when he found that no one was paying any attention to him, and by the middle of the afternoon was laughing and chatting as gayly as ever. Villages appeared before their gaze every few miles, only to vanish behind them as they went down the main street, the hoarse-voiced horn sending out its warning to pedestrians. Their speed was clearly within the limits of what was required by law, however, so they experienced no trouble from country constables, as is often the case when automobile parties go on tour. Throughout the afternoon the big auto kept up its steady gait, reeling off mile after mile, until the sun had disappeared below the horizon. Just when dusk was ready to envelop the land they descried in the distance a good-sized town, and beyond it some miles the eastern spur of the South Mountains. "There, children, is where we will be camping if all goes well to-morrow," said Aunt Betty. "Sounds mighty good to me," said Gerald. "Here, Ephy, take hold of this steering wheel awhile. I'm going to stretch myself and gaze out over the country a bit." Ephraim, delighted at the confidence reposed in him by the boy, clambered into the front seat, while Gerald took one of the small seats in the rear compartment, facing Jim. Sometime later Ephraim guided the car into the main street of the village, and, at Aunt Betty's suggestion stopped before what seemed to be a hotel of the better class. Upon investigation accommodations were found to be so tempting, the party decided to spend the night. Gerald registered for the crowd, while Ephraim, with a stable boy belonging at the hotel, took the Ajax around to the rear where shelter might be had from the elements. Supper was served at seven-thirty in a large and commodious dining-room, and the campers sustained their reputations for ravenous eaters so well that the proprietor secretly wrung his hands in despair. Had these city folks come to eat him out of house and home? he wondered. He was glad when the meal was over, and the visitors had departed down the street in search of amusement before turning in. This amusement was found at the town hall, where a cheap theatrical company was offering the time-worn favorite, "Lady Audley's Secret." Even Aunt Betty enjoyed the old play which she had not seen for years, though she declared that the scene at the well gave her a fit of the "creeps." The company was a very mediocre one--in fact, an organization which made its living off of small town audiences, where the standard set is not so high, and a little less for the money does not seem to matter. To bed at eleven and up at six was the story of the night, as recorded by the master of ceremonies, James Barlow, who was the first to awaken in the morning, and who aroused Ephraim and told him to wake the others. The proprietor of the hotel, evidently fearing a repetition of the night before, was careful to put on the table only such food as he felt his guests should have, and when a second portion was asked for his solitary waiter was instructed to say that the concern was out of that particular dish. While Jim and Molly were hardly satisfied at being limited to but one batch of pan-cakes each, they were too eager to be on their way to register a protest. As soon as the sun had risen the South Mountains loomed up distinctly to the west, the purple haze which had enveloped them the night before being gone. Instead, the sun seemed to glint off the peaks like burnished gold. However, as Old Sol rose higher, this effect was gradually dissipated, and after a two hours' ride, during which the progress was very slow on account of the condition of the roads, the party found themselves in the foothills, with the mountains looming close at hand. A pretty sight lay before their eyes a short time later, when Gerald stopped the machine half way up the side of one of the mountains, and they gazed out over the valley, through which a silvery stream of water flowed merrily toward the Potomac. Then, their eyes thoroughly satiated, they began to look for a suitable place in which to make their camp. "Seems to me there's a desirable spot over there on that plateau," said Dorothy. "There are lots of fine shade trees, and we would have an excellent view of the valley. And then, if I am not mistaken, that path leading down the mountainside goes to yonder village, and it is just as well to be in close proximity to what supplies we may need." "That village is farther away than you think," said Jim. "Well, we'll ride over and look at the plateau, anyway," said Gerald. "Getting there is the next thing," said Molly. The way did appear difficult. The road they were on wound up and around the mountain, and it was only after a most diligent search that Gerald and Jim discovered another road leading off in another direction and finally crossing the plateau. They reached their destination some time later, and found the prospective camp-site even more satisfactory than they had expected. A vote of the party was taken, and it was unanimously decided to stay on this spot. "It will soon be noon," said Aunt Betty, at once assuming charge of arrangements. "So let's unload the things while the boys are fixing the tents. If we have good luck we shall have our lunch in good Camp Blank." "Oh, not Blank," said Aurora, with becoming modesty. "Why not call it Camp Calvert?" "I think Camp Blank sounds very nice," Aunt Betty made reply. "And I," said Dorothy. "Let's call it Camp Blank." "No," said Gerald; "the Blanks have nothing to do with it. This is Dorothy's party. It shall be called Camp Calvert." "I protest," said Dorothy. "It's no more my party than yours, Gerald Blank, even if it is given in honor of my home-coming." "It shall be Camp Calvert," Gerald persisted. "Well, we'll submit it to arbitration. Jim, you have taken no part in the controversy. Shall we name it Camp Blank or Camp Calvert?" "Neither," said Jim. "What!" cried Dorothy and Gerald in a breath. "Oh, come now, Jim!" This from Aunt Betty. "No," said Jim, "we'll call it neither. You've left the matter to me, so we'll call it Camp Breckenridge after Molly, but we'll make it Camp 'Breck' for short." "No, no," said Molly. "I shan't permit it." But Molly's protests were quickly overridden, and with the discussion at an end, the members of the party went about the various tasks they had set themselves to do. Getting a hand-ax from the tool box, Gerald took Jim and marched off into the woods, while Ephraim was delegated to stay behind and "tote" things for the ladies. First, an imaginary plan was drawn of the camp--just where the tents would go; where the camp-fire should be to get the best draught; which direction the breeze was coming from, so the tent flaps might be left back at night for the comfort of the sleepers; and the many other little details which a woman and several girls will always think of. By the time Gerald and Jim returned, bearing several tent poles and an armful of stakes, all matters had been definitely settled. The first tent was pitched between two huge oak trees, which threw their shade for yards around. The other, which was to house the boys and Ephraim, was placed a short distance to the rear in a clump of smaller trees, but within a few steps of the rear of the ladies' quarters. Once the tents were up, Ephraim was instructed to kindle a fire, which he did very quickly, his camping experience having been of a wide and varied nature. While the fire was blazing merrily as if to welcome the campers to the newly-organized Camp Breck, the mistress of Bellvieu bustled about in a nimble fashion for one of her years, directing the preparation of the meal. Molly was set peeling potatoes, while Dorothy and Aurora spread the table cloth in a level spot on the soft grass, and began to distribute the tin plates, steel knives and forks and other utensils which had been purchased especially for the camp. Soon affairs were moving merrily, and the party sat down to lunch shortly after one, half-famished but happy, little dreaming of the thrilling adventure which was to befall them ere another day had passed. CHAPTER VI A CRY IN THE NIGHT In the late afternoon, after the girls and Aunt Betty had taken their naps, Gerald suggested a jaunt down the mountainside toward the valley. The suggestion was eagerly accepted by Aurora, Dorothy, Molly and Jim. Aunt Betty agreed that she would stay with Ephraim to look after the camp, being unable to do the climbing which would be necessary on the return. No Alpine stocks had been brought, but Gerald and Jim again sallied forth with the hand-ax, the result being that in a short while the entire party was equipped with walking sticks. Telling Aunt Betty good-by, and warning Ephraim not to stray away from his mistress during their absence, they soon were off down the pathway leading toward the village in the valley. "I'll tell you, girls, there's some class to this outing," said Gerald, who, with Dorothy, led the way. Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind. "This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen," said Molly. "The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and ever." "Come--don't get poetical, Molly," warned Jim. "This is a very modern gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated." "Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow, and you know it!" "Sounded like blank verse to me," and Jim grinned. "You mustn't blame me for being enthused over such sights as these. If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly deficient in your make-up." "That's right, Molly; rub it in," Dorothy said, over her shoulder. "Jim is entirely too practical--too prosaic--for this old world of ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other amusements, and poetry is naturally included." "Hopelessly overruled," murmured Jim. "So sorry I spoke. Go ahead, Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and--and--" "Pills?" suggested Aurora. "Well, anything you wish; I'm no poet." "You're no poet, and we all know it," hummed Aurora. "I dare you girls to go as far as the village!" cried Dorothy. "How about the boys?" Gerald wanted to know. "They are included in the dare, of course." "Well, I'll have to take the dare," said Molly. "That village is too far for me to-day." "Why, it's only a short way down the valley," Dorothy protested. "It's several miles, at least," said Jim. "Oh, come!" "Why, yes; distances are very deceptive in this part of the country." Dorothy could not be convinced, so the others decided to keep on until the girl realized that she had misjudged the distance, and asked to turn back. They did not know Dorothy Calvert. The path led down the mountainside and into a broad road which followed the bank of a stream. Somehow, when this point was reached, the village seemed no nearer. Dorothy uttered no protest, however. But the others exchanged glances, as if to say: "Well, I wonder will she ever get enough?" On they went till at last, at a great bend in the road, where lay a fallen log, Molly stopped for a rest. "You folks can go on," said she, seating herself on the fallen tree. "I'll wait here and go back with you." "And I," said Aurora, dropping down beside her. "Guess those are my sentiments, too," drawled Jim, as he languidly sat down beside the girls. "Well," said Gerald, "after our journey this morning, and the work I did in camp, I don't believe I want any village in mine, either." And he, too, sat down. Dorothy stood gazing at her friends, an amused expression on her face. "I suppose if the majority vote is to be listened to, I lose," she said. "I thought you all were mountain climbers, and great believers in exercise on a large scale. But I see I was mistaken. I yield to the rule of the majority; we will not go to the village to-day." Dorothy sat down. As she did so, the others burst into a roar of laughter. "Well, I don't see anything so funny," she said. "But perhaps that is because I am lacking a sense of humor." "No, it's not that," said Gerald. "We are laughing to see how stubbornly you give up a little whim. Nobody wanted to go to the village but you, yet you insisted that everyone go." "Oh, I didn't mean that like you took it, at all, Gerald," protested the girl, a slight flush creeping over her face. "We felt that, hence, knowing it could give you no real pleasure to go farther, and tire yourself and ourselves completely out, so that we would have to hire a conveyance to get back to camp, we decided to rebel, and stay here." "I imagine the fishing is good in this neighborhood," said Molly, who was looking out over the stream where the water ran gently between the rocks. It was as clear as glass, and the fish could be seen swimming about. "They catch a great many trout in these mountains, I've heard," said Jim. "Say we get some poles and try our luck before we go back, eh, Gerald?" "Surely," responded the person addressed. "I brought plenty of fishing tackle in the big chest on the back of the machine. I have also four poles in sections, each fitted with a fine reel and silk line. I wouldn't come on a camping trip like this without having a try at the fish, I assure you." When the party had rested sufficiently, the climb back to camp was begun, and even Dorothy was thankful that they had not gone to the village, realizing the truth of Gerald's words, that they would have needed a conveyance to get them back to their starting point. It was late afternoon when they reached the camp, to find that Aunt Betty and Ephraim had supper on the fire. And a fine supper it was, too--fine for camp life. When it was spread on the ground before them a short time later, they devoured it ravenously, which pleased Aunt Betty immensely, for she loved to see young folks eat. The meal over and the things cleared away, the young folks and Aunt Betty gathered before the ladies' tent where a fine view of the valley could be obtained, and for some little time were silent, as the wonderful glories of Mother Nature unfolded themselves. Before they realized it, almost, the day was gone--their first day in camp--and night was upon them. A gray light, mingling with the faint afterglow of twilight, showed clearly the outlines of the distant mountains. The stars blinked down from their heavenly dome and the air was cool and comfortable, thanks to the altitude. To the silent watchers it seemed that no skies were ever so deep and clear as those which overspread Camp Breck. "It would seem," said Aunt Betty, breaking a long silence, "that in making the stars, nature was bent on atoning in the firmament for a lack of beauty and brilliancy on the earth." "How like the Gates of Wonderland I read about when a wee child are these hills on such a night," said Dorothy reverently. "Stop!" warned Molly. "If you don't, Jim will soon be chiding you for becoming poetic." "No; this is different, somehow," said the boy. "It has gotten into my blood. I feel much as Dorothy does--a sensation I've never experienced before, though I've traveled through the Catskills till I know them like a book. Even the Rockies did not appeal to me in this way." "It is not the environment, but the viewpoint, Jim," Aunt Betty said. "The nights in the Catskills are just as beautiful as here; it happens that you have never thought of the wonders of nature in quite the same way in which you have had them brought home to you to-night. I daresay you will never spend another night in any mountains, however, without thinking of the transcendent beauty of it all." "There is something in the air that makes me feel like singing," said Gerald. "Then by all means indulge yourself," Dorothy advised. "Let's form a quartette," said Molly. "I can sing a fair alto." "And I can't sing anything--can't even carry an air," Aurora put in in a regretful voice. "But Gerald has a fine tenor voice, and perhaps Dorothy can take the soprano and Jim the bass." In this way it was arranged, Dorothy being appointed leader. "First of all, what shall we sing?" she wanted to know. "Oh, any old thing," said Jim. "No; not any old thing. It must be something with which we are all familiar." "Well, let's make it a medley of old Southern songs," suggested Gerald. "An excellent idea," said Aunt Betty, while Ephraim was so delighted at the suggestion that he clapped his hands in the wildest enthusiasm. So Dorothy, carrying the air, started off into "The Old Folks At Home." Never, thought Aunt Betty, had the old tune sounded so beautiful, as, with those clear young voices ringing out on the still air of the summer's night, and when the last words, Way down upon the Suwanee River, Far from the old folks at home, had died away, she was ready and eager for more. "Old Black Joe," followed, then "Dixie," and finally "Home, Sweet Home," that classic whose luster time never has or never will dim, and which brought the tears to her eyes as it brought back recollections of childhood days. Then, as if to mingle gayety with sadness, Ephraim was induced to execute a few of his choicest steps on a hard, bare spot of ground under one of the big oak trees, while Jim and Gerald whistled "Turkey in the Straw," and kept time with their hands. The old negro's agility was surprising, his legs and feet being as nimble, apparently, as when, years before as a young colored lad, he had gone through practically the same performance for Aunt Betty, then in the flower of her young womanhood. After this the party sought the tents, where, on blankets spread on the ground, covered by sheets, and with rough pillows under their heads, each member of the party sought repose. In one end of the tent occupied by Gerald and Jim slept old Ephraim, the watch-dog of the camp, who prided himself that no suspicious sound, however slight, could escape his keen ears in the night time. The slumber of the party was undisturbed during the early hours of the night, as, with the tent flaps thrown back, to allow the clear passage of the cool breeze off the valley, the occupants of both tents slept soundly. Sometime after midnight, however, the slumber of all was broken by a most startling incident. It was a cry of distress coming out of the night from farther down the mountainside--a cry so appealing in its pathos that Ephraim was on his feet, listening with open mouth, before the echoes had died away. Then, as he roused Gerald and Jim, the cry came again, reverberating over the mountain in trembling, piteous tones: "Oh, help me! Help me! Won't someone please help me? Oh, oh-h-h-h!" The last exclamation, drawn out in a mournful wail sent a thrill of pity through the hearts of the old negro and the boys. Dorothy heard the second cry, and she, too, felt the appeal of the voice, as she awakened the other inmates of the tent. The cry came again at short intervals. "What can it be?" someone asked. "Sounds to me like someone's lost their way," said Jim, as he and Gerald stood listening outside their tent. "Oh, Lordy! Maybe it's er ghost!" wailed Ephraim, whose superstitious fears the passing years had failed to dislodge. "Dat suah sound tuh me like de cry ob er lost soul." "Nonsense!" cried Gerald. "There's no such thing as a lost soul. And stop that sort of talk, Ephy. No matter what you think, there's no use scaring the women." "What are you boys going to do?" asked Dorothy, peeking out from behind the flap of her tent. "There's only one thing to do, when a voice appeals to you like that--investigate," said Jim. "Yes; we must find out who it is," Gerald readily agreed. "But you boys mustn't venture down the mountainside alone," said Aurora. "No telling what will happen to you. No, no; you stay here and answer the voice. Then maybe the person will be able to find his way to the camp." "I'm not so sure we want him in camp," said Aunt Betty, grimly. "Well, the least we can do is meet him half way," was Jim's final decision. Dorothy, who knew the boy, felt that further argument would be useless, particularly as Gerald seemed to agree with everything Jim said. "But you have no revolvers," protested Aurora. "It is nothing short of suicide to venture off into the darkness unarmed." "That's right; we didn't think to bring any fire-arms with us," Gerald said, turning to Jim. "But we'd have a hard time finding anything to shoot in the dark, so I reckon we may as well get a couple of stout clubs and see who that fellow is." Two poles that had been found too short for the purpose of erecting the tents lay near at hand, and searching these out, the boys bade Ephraim not to leave the women under any circumstances and started down the side of the mountain in the direction from whence the cries had come. "Help, help!" came the voice again, like a person in mortal terror. "Hello, hello!" Jim responded, in his deep bass voice which went echoing and re-echoing down the valley. "Where are you?" "Here!" came the quick response. "Come to me! Hurry! Hurry!" "Have patience and keep calling; we're moving in your direction. We'll find you," replied Jim in an encouraging tone. At short intervals the voice came floating up to them, getting louder and louder, until it seemed but a few yards away. The boys realized, however, that voices carry a great distance on a clear night, hence knew that they had not yet achieved the object of their search. Grasping their clubs tightly, they worked their way through the underbrush. The trees were scattered in places, letting a few beams of moonlight seep through, though the dark shadows were deceptive and no objects could be distinguished beyond their bare outlines. Soon, however, they were in close proximity to the voice, which appeared to be that of a young boy. Then, suddenly, as Jim called out again in an encouraging tone to know whom they were addressing, a form came staggering toward him out of the shadows, and someone grabbed him in frenzied madness, while great heart-rending sobs shook his frame. Startled at first, Jim realized that this was caused by fright, so instead of casting the person away as his instinct seemed to bid him, he threw his arms about the trembling form and tried to distinguish in the darkness who and what he was. What he felt caused a great feeling of pity to surge over him; for his hands encountered the slight form of a young lad, not more than twelve years old. Jim was astonished, and readily perceived why one so young should be racked with terror at being alone on the mountainside in the dead of night. "There, there," he said; "don't cry. It's all right. You're with friends." He turned to Gerald: "It's nothing but a boy. Scared most to death, I suppose." "What, a boy, and alone on the mountain at this hour?" "Strange, but true." "I don't understand it." "Neither do I. I suppose he's lost, or has run away from home. In either case, the best we can do is to get to camp with him as quickly as possible." Jim tried to draw the lad out--to get him to tell something of himself, but his only answer was more sobs, as the lad still quivered from fright. "Well, are you alone?" Jim asked. There was a hastily murmured: "Yes." "Do you want to go with us?" "Oh, yes, yes--don't l-l-leave m-m-me alone again!" "We'll not leave you alone. We have a camp near here and you're more than welcome." Gerald led the way back up the mountainside, Jim, his arm supporting the little fellow at his side, following as rapidly as the rough going would permit. It was no easy matter, getting back to camp, as they quickly discovered. As a matter of caution, of course, those at the camp would not allow any lights, so the boys were forced to pick their way through the woods with only the stars and a partly-obscured moon to guide them. The descent had been comparatively easy, but this was almost more than human endurance could stand. Several times great rocks impeded their progress and they were forced to go around them. They paused frequently to rest on account of the young boy, who seemed all but exhausted. The frightened lad continued his sobbing at intervals, his body shaking like one with the ague. He refused to talk, however, save to respond to an occasional question in a monosyllable. "Is that the camp, do you suppose?" Gerald inquired, suddenly, after they had climbed what seemed an interminable distance. Jim, following the motion of his arm, saw a bright patch of light; but as he looked this resolved itself into sky. Concealing their disappointment, they continued the ascent. At times they were almost tempted to cry out, but thoughts of the boy, and the fear that he had not been alone on the mountain, caused them to refrain. Finally, they reached the road by which that morning they had come upon the mountain. Now, at least, they were able to get their bearings, for the mountain to the east, the first one they had ascended after leaving the foothills in the auto, loomed up sentinel-like, through the moonlight. Forming their impressions by their distance from this mountain, the boys decided that they were nearly half a mile from camp. "Just think of all the climb we wasted," said Jim. "We might have been at camp twenty minutes ago had we been able to keep in the right direction." "Well, one thing is sure," Gerald responded; "we'll be able to find it now." They set off down the road, which, being composed of sand, was plainly visible in the moonlight, in spite of the deep shadows thrown by the trees on either side. Some moments later they made out the tents. This time there was no mistake, for, as they listened, they heard the murmur of voices. The girls and Aunt Betty were no doubt discussing their protracted absence. Probably suspecting that some harm had come to the boys they were afraid to make their presence known, and were talking in low, guarded tones. "Camp ahoy!" cried Gerald, suddenly. Then everyone screamed, and there was a scramble to strike a light, as they all crowded around the boys with eager questions. Ephy struck a light and by its fitful glare the girls saw the pale face of the lad Jim and Gerald had found on the mountain. "Here's the result of our trip," said Jim, as he led his burden forward. "In heaven's name!" cried Aunt Betty. "Who have you there, Jim Barlow?" "Ask me something easy, Aunt Betty. We found him alone on the mountain, half scared to death. He won't talk. He's been hysterical all the way back. Perhaps after a good night's rest he will be able to tell us who he is and where he came from." "You poor boy!" cried the sympathetic Dorothy. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, she threw her arms about his neck and drew him to her--an action which the lad seemed in no way to resent. The story of their adventure told, Gerald and Jim again sought their sleeping quarters, taking their newly-found friend with them. Before they went to sleep they induced him to tell his name, which was Len Haley. When they pressed him to know how he came to be alone so far from home, he shook his head and his lip trembled. That, he said, he would tell them in the morning. Fixing a comfortable place for him, the boys waited until he was sound asleep, before again closing their own eyes. Then, tired from the exertions of the day and night, they, too, dropped off to sleep, to the tune of old Ephraim's snores. CHAPTER VII UNWELCOME VISITORS While gathered about the breakfast table--if table, it could be called--the next morning, the campers heard the boy's story. Len Haley had by this time thoroughly recovered from his fright, and he related in a timid, halting fashion how he had come to be alone on the mountain in the dead of night. An orphan, living with his uncle, James Haley, near the little village of Armsdale in the valley, he had worked for years in a truck garden. Neither James Haley or his wife had experienced any affection for the lad, but seemed bent only upon making him carry on his young shoulders the burden of running their little farm. Len, a willing worker, had accepted his lot as a matter of course. But when the hours grew longer, and he was forced to rise before daylight to milk the cows and feed the horses, and was not allowed to retire until the same services had been performed late at night, with hours of drudgery in the field, during the intervening time, he had rebelled, only to be soundly beaten by his uncle, and told to return to his work under the penalty of being beaten till he was black and blue. The boy had stood this as long as he could. Then he resolved to run away. He kept this purpose to himself, however, waiting for the proper opportunity to present itself. The previous night James Haley had gone to the village about eight o'clock. Mrs. Haley was feeling badly, and it was necessary to fill a prescription at the drug store. Why Len was not selected for this mission he could not imagine, for usually his uncle took a keen delight in rousing him out of bed at all hours of the night. It had seemed to the boy to be an omen in his favor. James Haley apparently believed him to be asleep at the time of his departure for the village. The boy had really gone to bed, but lay there thoroughly dressed. Soon after his uncle left the farm, the boy had crept softly down the stairs in his stocking feet, then out of the house. Putting on his shoes out by the barn he had immediately struck out for the mountains, not realizing what a terrible thing it was for a boy to be alone in the woods in the night time. When finally this realization was brought home to him, he became frightened. But he gritted his teeth, resolved not to turn back. He knew full well that the beatings he had received in the past would be as nothing compared to what the future would hold in store, if James Haley ever laid hands on him again. He wandered on up the mountainside as the hour grew late, until, driven almost into hysterics by the dreadful lonesomeness about him, he had cried out for help, hoping, he said, to attract the attention of some people he knew lived in this vicinity. The first response to his cries had been Jim's "Hello!" So overjoyed was Len at hearing a human voice again that he had come near fainting. Now that the dreadful trip was a thing of the past, and the boy had an opportunity to think calmly over the matter, he feared that his cries had been heard in the valley, and it would be only the question of a few hours until his uncle would be searching the mountain. The sympathies of the entire party, particularly those of Dorothy and Aunt Betty, were with the unfortunate boy, and what action was to be taken to keep him out of his uncle's hands was to all a pertinent question. "Don't let them take me back there," Len begged, while they were discussing the matter. "I'd rather die--honest to goodness, I would!" "Oh, we just can't let you go back," was Aunt Betty's rather grim resolve. "It's against all the principles of human nature to stand by and see a young boy like you abused. You shall stay with us, Len; you shall be under our protection. We'll find some way to circumvent your uncle and keep you out of his hands." Tears came into the boy's eyes, and he flashed her a look of gratitude. "We might take Len back to Baltimore with us and find him a position," said Dorothy. "There is enough work at Bellvieu alone to keep him busy for many months," returned Aunt Betty. "Ephraim is getting old, and Metty is occupied with the care of the horses and cattle. Len shall be our yard boy for a while, if he desires." Len did desire, and did not hesitate to so express himself. He would work hard for Mrs. Calvert, he said, until he was old enough to strike out for himself. This part of the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of all. It was then decided that Len should remain in the seclusion of one of the tents during the day, so that he would be out of sight from anyone approaching Camp Breck from either direction. Aurora had brought a bundle of reading matter, including several illustrated papers, and these were placed at Len's disposal. The boy had had several years of schooling previous to the death of his parents, and was a fair reader. Like most boys who have been restrained through one cause or another from reading all the books they desired, he was ready and anxious to devour anything that came his way. Jim and Gerald put their heads together, and resolved to circumvent James Haley should he appear on the scene in search of Len. "We'll lead him away from the camp," said Jim, "without telling him any deliberate untruths--send him off on a false scent. Aunt Betty is right, you know; we can't let him go back to a life like that." "No," said Gerald; "it would be a pity. If his uncle's treatment was bad enough to make Len take to the mountains in the night time, it must have been at least a mild sort of an inquisition." The boys congratulated themselves later on planning matters out in advance, for the forenoon was barely half gone when two horsemen rode out of the woods to the south of the camp and turned their horses in the direction of the tents. Jim was the first to see them. "Don't be startled, folks," he said, "and please don't turn and 'rubber,' for there are two men coming toward camp on horseback." "Oh!" gasped Molly. "Poor Len!" "Poor Len, nothing!" Jim returned. "I know it is hard for a girl to refrain from doing something she's been asked not to, but if you turn your head, Molly Breckenridge, or let on in any way that you've seen those horsemen, you need never call me your friend again. We must act like we haven't seen them, until they hail us. Ephraim, you sneak into the tent, without looking to the right or the left. Then hide Len under the cots or somewhere where they won't find him. Gerald and I will talk to the men when they arrive." The girls and Aunt Betty kept their presence of mind very well, considering the fact that they were laboring under no little excitement. Ephraim went carelessly into the tent, as Jim had bade him, where he concealed the runaway lad in a very natural manner under a heavy quilt. It mattered not that the weather was excessively warm this time of day; the old negro figured that the exigencies of the case demanded desperate measures, and as for Len, he accepted his punishment without a whimper. By the time the men had drawn rein before the tents, Ephraim was sitting calmly in a chair, an illustrated paper in his hand, puffing complacently at his pipe. "Good morning," greeted the larger of the two men. "Good morning," returned Jim, pleasantly. Then he and Gerald went forward to meet them. One of the riders, a rather pompous-looking individual, with a long, drooping mustache, dismounted and threw the reins over his horse's head. "I'm Sheriff Dundon of this county, boys," he said. "The gentleman with me is Mr. Haley. We're searching for a boy named Len Haley--Mr. Haley's nephew, in fact. He left his home down in the valley some time in the night. We thought perhaps you'd seen him." Jim and Gerald exchanged feigned glances of surprise, which was part of the plan they had mapped out to save Len. "It must have been him we heard cry out in the night," said Jim. "Yes," Gerald responded. "Too bad we didn't know it was only a boy." "You heard someone cry out in the night, then?" the sheriff asked, while the man on the horse eyed them keenly, and flashed curious glances about the camp. "Why, yes," Jim returned; "Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far away from camp." "What time was this?" "Must have been in the neighborhood of two o'clock." The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley. "It was Len; no doubt about it," said that worthy, nodding. "He's only a kid and I s'pose he got scared when he found himself alone in the dark." "You don't know which way he was going at that time?" asked the sheriff, turning again to the boys. "It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer, then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them, including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until everything was quiet." "Let's see," said the sheriff; "I didn't quite catch your names." "Mine's Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We're members of a camping party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning for a two weeks' stay." "Blank?" repeated the sheriff. "Blank? Any relation to Blank, the broker?" "He's my father," said Gerald. "That so? Then I'm right glad to meet you." The sheriff extended a horny hand, which Gerald shook. "I knew him years ago. Didn't realize he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you can't give us a clue to the boy's whereabouts." [Illustration: "I AM SHERIFF OF THIS COUNTY." "_Dorothy's Triumph._"] "It is too bad," said Gerald. "When we last heard the cries they came from about that direction," and he extended his finger down the mountainside. "Then they grew fainter and seemed to be moving off to the east. We'd like very much to help you, sheriff. If we'd any idea it was only a boy, and a scapegoat, at that, we could have caught and held him until your arrival." "Well, I could hardly expect that," returned the minion of the law, with a good-natured smile. "Come, Haley, let's be off. He can't have gone far between midnight and now, so we're apt to overhaul him at some of the farm houses up the valley. Good-by, boys--see you later!" The men tipped their hats to the ladies out of courtesy for their presence, and rode away. "Hope they don't see us later," said Jim, as he stood with Gerald gazing after their receding forms. "No; for he might catch us at an inopportune moment. If they ever found Len in our camp there'd be the very dickens to pay." "Couldn't do anything to us, Gerald, and I don't believe he'd have any right to take Len, unless there's some papers filed in the court of this county, appointing James Haley his guardian. Just merely because he's an orphan don't give a man a right to take him and hold him against his will--even if he is his uncle." "Boys, I really must congratulate you on your presence of mind," said Dorothy, when the riders had disappeared from view. "You handled the matter perfectly. Wait till I tell Ephraim to let Len come out from under cover," and she left them to enter the tent. Len was nearly roasted when he emerged from beneath the quilt, for the weather was excessively warm and his clothes were not as thin as they might have been. But he was smiling bravely through the perspiration, and rejoiced with the others that he had been so lucky as to escape being returned to captivity. "I don't understand how my uncle ever influenced the sheriff to help him hunt for me," he said. "I know Sheriff Dundon, and he's a mighty good man. He knows very well the way I was treated, so Uncle James must have pulled the wool over his eyes some way. Well, I reckon it don't matter much now. They're gone and I hope they'll never come back." "It won't do to take any chances, yet, Len," said Aunt Betty. "You'll have to spend most of your time in the tent, with someone constantly on watch outside. It will be pretty hard on you, but better than going back to the life you left." "I don't mind in the least, Mrs. Calvert--staying in the tent, I mean. I'd do anything to escape my uncle. He's certainly the meanest man on earth." Aunt Betty's plan was followed during the next few days, but neither Sheriff Dundon or James Haley put in a further appearance at the camp. Aunt Betty cautioned Len, however, to keep out of sight until the end of the trip, at which time he was to be piled into the big auto and taken with them back to Baltimore. The party had been in the mountains a week before Jim and Gerald decided to put into practice their oft-repeated resolve to go fishing. Dorothy and Molly begged to be taken along, and to this the boys reluctantly consented. The trout stream in the valley was the objective point of the pilgrimage. Here, in the spot where Molly had discovered the fish swimming about in plain view of those on shore, they would try their luck. Aurora, interested in a book, refused to be tempted by the other girls, and stated her intention of remaining in camp with Aunt Betty, Ephraim and Len. With a bundle of sandwiches and their tackle, the fishing party got away from camp in the early morning, planning to spend the better part of the day in enticing the denizens of the deep to nibble at their flies. Then the return to camp could be made in the cool of the evening between sundown and dark. By nine o'clock they were seated on the bank of the stream, poles in hand, and lines cast far out into the stream. At first the girls kept up an incessant chatter, in spite of the warning from Jim and Gerald that if they did not stop they would scare the fish away. "Nonsense!" cried Molly, laughing aloud at the warning. "Fish can't hear." At this Jim and Gerald exchanged glances of amused tolerance. "Told you we should have left 'em at home," said the latter. "I knew it," Jim replied. "It was only through the kindness of my heart that I agreed to let them come." This statement only served to amuse Dorothy and Molly, and their laughter rang out over the water so loudly, that Jim and Gerald, with sighs of resignation, began winding in their lines with the evident intention of departing. At first this increased the merriment of the girls. But when they saw the boys taking their poles apart, and stowing the sections away in their fishing bags, they realized that they had really incurred the displeasure of their young friends by what they had intended as a joke. "Come," said Dorothy, soberly. "You boys are not going home?" "Oh, aren't we?" demanded Gerald. "Yes; we're going home," Jim said, rather curtly. "Where did you think we were going--to the village?" "Oh, come! You must have known Molly and I were only joking?" "Of course, they knew it," Molly chimed in, in a careless tone. "There's such a thing as carrying a joke too far," said Gerald. "No use to argue with a couple of girls, Gerald," said Jim. "Let's take 'em home and come back to-morrow." "Suits me," responded his chum. "I hate to think we've had this long jaunt for nothing, but there's an old saying to the effect that we must learn by experience." Their poles "knocked down," and stowed away in their canvas cases, the boys picked up their coats and prepared to move. "Oh, I say, this is a shame!" cried Dorothy. "I had counted on having such a good time." "So had I," echoed Molly--"such a good time!" "So had we," said the boys in unison. "But we didn't," Jim added. "No; we didn't," echoed Gerald. "Well, it wasn't our fault," said Dorothy. "We thought you could take a joke," said Molly. "We can," Gerald replied. "It's a good joke. We're willing to admit it's on us. You asked to come; we consented. That was our fault, not yours." "Yes," Jim put in, "we thought you knew at least the rudiments of fishing." Molly shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, dear, what a fuss over nothing," she groaned. "And to think I started it all by remarking that fish have no ears. And I'll stand by my statement. I'm sure I am right." "No use to argue with a girl," said Jim. "Not a bit," Gerald replied. "Let's get 'em back to camp." "I refuse to go!" The fire fairly flashed from Dorothy's eyes. "I came down here to fish, and fish I shall until I get ready to stop, and you're a bigger 'it' than I think you are, Molly Breckenridge, if you let two unruly boys bluff you into doing as they wish." "Then we'll have to leave you here," said Jim, in the most matter of fact tone he could muster. Gerald nodded assent. Then both boys assumed an independent air, and acted as if they were going to leave--as much as to say that settled the matter. "Well, let's be going," said Gerald, casting a sly glance toward Dorothy, and noticing that she made no move to wind in her line. He picked up his basket and threw an inquiring glance at Jim. "Of course, if the girls agree to keep still, it won't be necessary for us to go," said Jim. "Too bad we didn't think of that before we wound in our lines," Gerald lamented. "Well, it's never too late to let them out again," Dorothy said, coolly. "Will you promise to be quiet, Dorothy?" "I promise nothing, Jim Barlow!" "Oh, come now; don't act contrary!" "It's not me who's contrary, and you know it very well." "You said you were going back to camp. Why don't you go?" Molly flung at them, tauntingly. "Well, by cracky, we should; it would serve you right," Gerald responded, slightly impatient. "You girls have no right to treat us this way. We brought you with us to give you a good time, and it seems that you might respect our wishes a little. No one can catch fish with a regular gab-fest going on on the bank." "Go along and don't bother us," admonished Dorothy. At that instant her floater began to bob fiercely up and down. There was a strong tug on her line, and the reel began to revolve at a high rate of speed, as Mr. Fish, evidently aware that in snapping what appeared to be a nice, fat fly, he had gotten decidedly the worst of it, made a desperate effort to get away. "Hold him!" cried Molly, rising on the bank and waving her arms excitedly. "Oh, yes, hold him," said the boys, exchanging glances of amusement. "Hold him?" Dorothy gritted her teeth. "You just know I'll hold him! We'll show these young gentlemen that fish _can_ be caught when there is noise on the bank. Oh, we'll show them!" The reel was revolving more slowly now, and before the end of the line was reached, had ceased altogether. Then the girl, a light of triumph in her eyes, began to wind in her prize. It was a slow task and a hard one, for when the denizen of the river found he had again encountered resistance, he renewed his struggle for freedom. Once he nearly jerked the girl off the bank into the water, greatly to the delight of Jim and Gerald, who had settled in a comfortable nook under the trees with the avowed intention of being "in at the finish." That Dorothy would fail to land the fish they were quite sure, and to be on hand with a hearty laugh when her disappointment came, would in a measure atone for the trouble of bringing the girls on the trip. Little by little the struggling fish was brought nearer, until, with a quick jerk of her pole, the girl lifted him clean of the water and swung him over her head to the shore. So quickly did it happen that Jim was unable to get out of the way, and the fish, which was a three-pound trout, struck him squarely in the face, bowling him over in the grass, and causing him to drop the fishing tackle he was holding in his hands, long enough to brush the water from his eyes. Now it was the girls' turn to laugh, and they did not neglect the opportunity. "Thought I couldn't catch a fish, didn't you, Jim Barlow?" cried Dorothy. "Well, I trust you now see the error of your judgment. I caught him, and you caught him, too, only you caught him where I didn't--across the face." At this both girls burst out laughing again, and Gerald, no longer able to restrain himself, convulsed at the sight of Jim as he went tumbling backward with his eyes and nose full of water, was forced to join them. They laughed so loudly that Jim first smiled, then burst into a guffaw himself. He had been inclined to be angry at the humiliation imposed upon him by the fish, but now the ludicrous side of the affair appealed to him. He admitted that Dorothy had all the best of the argument and wound up by declaring that he intended trying his luck at the fish again. Dorothy, in the meantime, had walked over and picked up her squirming catch, which she detached from the hook and dropped in the basket she had brought with her for that purpose. "Here goes again!" she cried, and fastening a new fly on her line, she cast it far out into the stream. "Better hurry, you people, or I'll have the record for the day." Gerald and Jim, thus admonished, began undoing their fishing tackle, and soon the quartet were fishing as if their lives depended on what they caught that afternoon. And the strangest part about it was that nobody--not even the girls--said a word! Silence reigned supreme. So, although Dorothy had triumphed in showing the boys the folly of keeping absolutely silent, the boys had also won their point in getting the girls so interested that neither cared to talk. The fish began to bite with unusual frequency, and soon each member of the party had a fine string in the basket. Lunch was forgotten, so eager was each to beat the other's record, and so nearly equal were the numbers of fish caught by each, they were afraid to stop to count them for fear they would be losing valuable time. But finally, when the declining sun told them that the afternoon would soon be gone, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at their stomachs, a general agreement caused all to wind in their lines. The fish were counted and it was seen that Dorothy had made the best record with seventeen trout of various sizes. Gerald came a close second, having sixteen, while Molly and Jim followed in the order named with fourteen and twelve respectively. Lunch was eaten--or rather devoured, for they were ravenously hungry--in the shade of the big trees on the bank before preparations were made for the return to camp. "Wish those fish were up the mountain," sighed Jim. "Oh, it will be easy to carry them," said Molly. "Yes; easy for you, because Gerald and I will have to carry all you've caught as well as our own." "How clever of you to guess that," Dorothy said, laughing. "You're a bright boy, Jim." "Yes; a little too bright sometimes," he returned. "Next time I come fishing I hope I shall be bright enough not to invite you girls." "You did not invite us; we invited ourselves," said Molly with some spirit. "And they should be well satisfied," said Dorothy. "If it had not been for us they would have gone back to camp before the fish commenced to bite, and then we would have had none." "Pooh, pooh!" said Jim. "And again pooh, pooh!" said Gerald. Then, without further ado, the boys picked up their loads and the climb back to the camp was begun. They reached their destination tired from the exertion of the climb and generally weary from the day's strenuous outing, but soon the odor of fried fish made them glad they had taken the trip and that the results had been so satisfying. CHAPTER VIII THE JOURNEY HOME The next few days passed quickly to the campers, who were loath for the time to approach when they would have to "pull up stakes" for the return to Baltimore. Among the excursions following the fishing trip, was another of a similar nature, participated in alone by Jim and Gerald. But as the results were considerably less than on the day the girls had accompanied them, there was a hearty laugh at the boys' expense when they returned to camp. This they accepted good-naturedly, however. At one time or another the whole face of the mountain was explored, many curious things being discovered. Among them was a cave of large extent, where stalactites and stalagmites abounded in great profusion. Many were broken off to be taken back home as mementoes of the trip. Nothing further had been heard from James Haley and Sheriff Dundon, and during the last few days in camp Len was allowed to show himself, though he did not venture far from the tents, fearing to take a risk that might be the means of placing him again in captivity. By the time the day for departure came, the lad had won his way into the hearts of everyone. Aunt Betty and Dorothy were so taken with his winning manners and extreme good nature that they already regarded him as a protégé, and were planning how he was to be trained for the future, and given a thorough business education. When the plan was mentioned to Len he fell into the spirit of it with an alacrity that astonished them. His resolve to make something of himself was a commendable one and showed the proper appreciation for their efforts. On the morning which marked the end of their two weeks' stay, the boys began to gather up the camping paraphernalia which was packed in the rear chest and under the seats of the automobile. After a short conference between the campers, it was decided that to best enjoy their last day, the afternoon should be spent running about over the mountains in the machine. The journey home would then be made by moonlight, Gerald having won Aunt Betty's consent to "speed her up." He promised that they should all be home and in bed shortly after midnight. "Oh, dear, dear!" moaned Aunt Betty. "I see I'm in for it. Why did I ever let you persuade me to become a party to this speed mania, Gerald Blank?" "Don't ask me why, Mrs. Calvert," Gerald responded, laughing; "I only know that you did. I have your promise, remember! And," he added, dramatically, "a Calvert never goes back on a promise." "Oh, yes; you have my promise, but I'm sorry I gave it." "She'll be glad she promised, when she sees how easy the big Ajax covers ground," said Jim, winking at his chum. "I think the ride back to Baltimore by moonlight will be ideal," said Molly, rapturously. "Isn't it strange to think that here we are over sixty miles from home, not planning to start until the moon is up, yet will be home and in bed by midnight?" said Aurora. "Pshaw! That's nothing," cried Gerald. "It's mere play for this big Ajax. Why, I could easily do the sixty miles in a little over an hour if Aunt Betty--" "Mercy!" screamed Aunt Betty. "In a little over an hour? Gerald, if you don't stop that silly talk, I shall sit myself down under one of these trees and refuse to budge an inch." "Oh, you don't know how nice it is to ride fast, Aunt Betty," said Dorothy; "to feel the wind fairly blowing the hair off your head; the landscape flashing past so rapidly one can scarcely see it, and to know that--" "Stop, Dorothy Calvert! You shall not tempt me. I'm too old to acquire such habits, and if Gerald lets his car get beyond a fair rate of speed during our journey home, I shall leap out into the ditch. Then just think how badly you all will feel." But the boys only grinned at this, and resumed their work of taking down the tents. Soon everything was packed in the machine but enough food for their mid-day lunch, which was eaten under the shade of the trees. When the time to leave came at last, no one seemed happier or more eager than Len Haley. An instinctive fear seemed to possess the lad that his uncle would be prowling about the mountains and apprehend him when he least expected it; hence, to go flying away to Baltimore in a big automobile was to him the acme of delight. The early afternoon was spent at the camp, but about four o'clock, when the sun was on the decline, and the shadows in the valley had commenced to lengthen, Gerald, at the wheel of the big Ajax, sent the machine slowly across the plateau toward the eastern mountain. As the car moved along the girls burst into a song, and a moment later Jim and Gerald joined in. For a few moments they fairly made the welkin ring. Then as the machine was plunging down a steep descent the concert came to an abrupt end, and the inmates clutched the rails to keep from pitching forward. Up around the side of the east mountain the auto then climbed slowly, seeming to exert itself very little for the performance of so difficult a task. Shortly after sundown, they went spinning down into the valley to the hotel where they had stopped for the night on their trip to the mountains two weeks before. The landlord had apparently forgotten that this was the party who had feasted on the good things he had set before them, greatly to his discomfiture; for now he put himself out to serve them a fine supper. And everyone was hungry! Cold meats, bread, fresh country butter, and milk, with iced tea for those who desired it, and strawberry jelly and chocolate cake for dessert, made a bill of fare tempting enough to suit the most fastidious member of the party. With the supply of gasoline replenished, both in the regular and reserve tanks, with the moon peeping over the undulating land to the eastward, shedding its brilliant rays over farm and road, the party left the village hotel for the run back to Baltimore. Aunt Betty sat sternly in the big rear seat, with Dorothy on one side and Aurora on the other, her bonnet held firmly in place by a large veil, her lips tightly compressed in prospect of the fast ride Gerald had promised was to come. She had little to say. In her heart was a nameless dread--had been, in fact, since Gerald won her consent to allow him to run at a faster pace on the return trip. The highways in this part of Maryland were all that could be desired, and Gerald was not long in fulfilling part of his promise. Knowing that something over half way to their destination there was for several miles a bad stretch of road, he wished to even matters by making good time until the rough spots were reached. It was nearly nine o'clock now, and as the auto gathered speed, Aunt Betty gave a little gasp, then looked at Dorothy and bravely smiled. Gradually Gerald let the car out until she was doing fully forty miles an hour. This could be kept up only on the smooth level stretches which they encountered every now and then. In climbing the hills, the car did not average over eight. The streams of light from the gas lamps made a wobbly path in the darkness when occasionally clouds blew across the sky, obscuring the moon. The car made very little noise. In fact, the low hum of the engine, and swish of the tires along the smooth roadway, were all that met their ears as they went flying up hill and down dale, past farmhouses and over bridges. The great highway seemed deserted save for an occasional farm wagon, which turned quickly to one side when its occupant saw their rapidly approaching lamps. Gerald was very considerate of horses, knowing that many animals were unused to automobiles, hence were liable to become frightened at the slightest provocation. Through the villages the speed was slackened to not more than ten miles an hour. Very few of the places had electric lights, hence Gerald was forced to depend entirely upon the moon and his lamps for guidance through crooked streets. At times they passed little groups of people, come out from nearby houses to watch them go by; at others they were chased for long distances by yelping dogs, who snapped at the wheels and in other ways tried to show their supreme contempt for a vehicle driven without horses. Aunt Betty soon grew used to the bursts of speed, and before they were half way to Baltimore she was breathing freely once more, conscious of the fact that in Gerald the big auto had a good pilot, and convinced that did the occasion demand it, the car could be brought to a standstill within its own length. "I believe I like it when you 'speed her up,' as you say," she finally admitted, greatly to Gerald's delight. "I hope I shan't develop a mania for speeding, however, as that would necessitate my buying a car--something which I don't feel able to do just at present." "I shouldn't allow you to buy one," said Dorothy, a note of authority in her voice that caused a laugh from the others. "Humph! Talks like she rules the ranch," said Jim. "Well, maybe I do, Mr. Smarty," replied the girl. "One thing I am quite sure of--_you_ don't!" "Come, children; neither of you rule the ranch," Aunt Betty intervened. "I rule it and expect to do so for an indefinite period." "See!" Jim cried, tauntingly. "Told you so! Told you so!" Dorothy aimed a playful blow at him, but he dodged and caught her arm in a vise-like grip, refusing to let go until she had promised to be a good girl. At ten-fifteen they passed through a village which Gerald said was the half-way mark between Baltimore and the South Mountains. "We have rather a bad stretch of road ahead, however," he told them, "so for the next half hour it will be slower going. But wait till we strike the graveled county road this side of Baltimore. Then we'll make up some of our lost time." But somehow this did not interest Aunt Betty. She was talking with the girls and apparently felt not the slightest tremor at the thought of going at a faster pace--a change that Dorothy noticed and commented on with no little delight. Just when Gerald was congratulating himself that the roughest part of the trip was over, the front tire on the left exploded with a bang that brought a scream from every feminine inmate of the car. Molly, who was nearest the noise, promptly threw her arms around Gerald's neck, and clung there as if her very life depended on it. It was with considerable difficulty that the boy retained the presence of mind to stop the car. But he did so immediately, then gave himself up to the task of releasing Molly's arms. When he had succeeded, he kissed her on the lips, greatly to her amazement and chagrin, for the others, recovered from their momentary scare, laughed heartily. "Gerald Blank!" she cried. "I'll never, never forgive you for that!" "Well, seeing you came so near capsizing us by your affectionate embrace of the chauffeur, the latter individual is surely entitled to some reward for his valued services--particularly as he will now have to detain the party some ten or fifteen minutes while he does a little real hard labor." He jumped quickly out of the machine and going around to the left front wheel, examined the exploded tire. It was perfectly flat. "Yes;" he repeated, "this means a little work." "That was hard luck, Gerald," said Dorothy, "particularly when you were trying to make a record run." "Yes; it's the first trouble we've had with the machine since starting on our trip. But this is really a simple matter, Dorothy." "Oh, I'm so glad of that." "I shall still have the satisfaction of putting you into Bellvieu in time to be in bed by twelve--and we may even shade that time a little. Come, Jim! Get that jack out of the tool chest, and help me hoist this wheel off the ground. You'd better bring the pump, also, and we'll see how long it will take you and Ephy to inflate a tire of this size." Jim and Ephraim both sprang to Gerald's aid. Soon the jack was under the wheel, where it required but a moment to raise the machine until the wheel was clear of the ground. Then Gerald removed the punctured tire, pulled out the inner tube, and proceeded to put the new one in its place. With the tire back on the rim again, he attached the end of the pump to the air tube with astonishing swiftness, and Jim began at once to force the ozone into the rubber. Tiring after a few moments, he gave way to Ephraim, while Gerald, his hand on the tire, waited until it was sufficiently hard to carry the weight of the machine. Then he gave the signal to stop pumping. Another moment sufficed to lower the wheel onto the ground, and to put the tools back in the chest. Then Gerald and his helpers crawled into the machine and the big car started off as if nothing had happened. The whole affair had not taken over ten minutes. "I had no idea punctures were so easily remedied," said Aunt Betty. "Somehow, I have always dreaded the thought of being in an automobile away from the city when a tire blew up. But, aside from the noise, there seem to be no disagreeable features." "Would be if you didn't happen to have an extra inner tube along," said Jim. Gerald nodded. "You're right. The idea is always to have one." "But what would you do if you hadn't?" asked Dorothy. "It would be necessary to find the hole in the punctured tube and stop it up with cement." "And then you would have to wait hours for it to dry, I suppose?" "No; only a few minutes. There is a preparation something like putty which you force into the puncture, and which dries in a very few minutes. Of course, a tire fixed in this way would never be considered as satisfactory as a new inner tube, yet they have been known to go many miles without the slightest trouble. In fact, you are more apt to get a new puncture, than to have the patch give out." Time passed so quickly as the big machine shot along the level highway at a rapid pace that no one realized their whereabouts until Aunt Betty cried suddenly: "Oh, look over there! Those must be the Northern Lights." Her hand was extended toward a brilliant glare which lit up the sky as the moon went behind a heavy cloud. "The Northern Lights, and in the east!" cried Dorothy. "Oh, Aunt Betty!" "As I live that _is_ the east! Why, I'm all turned around. Then what are those lights, my dear?" "Baltimore, of course, you dear auntie." "So soon? Why, it seems as if we have been out barely two hours." "And we have been out but a very little more," said Jim, looking at his watch. "It is only eleven o'clock and it was a few minutes to nine when we left the hotel. Another half hour will put us to the gates of Bellvieu, eh, Gerald?" "Surely," was the response, delivered in an "I-told-you-so" tone. Gradually they began to encounter more vehicles, the majority of which seemed to be traveling toward the city. "Strange those wagons are all going that way," said Aurora. "Nothing so strange about it," said Jim. "Most of them are lumber wagons filled with country produce, such as vegetables, eggs and fruit. They leave the farms early in the night so as to be on hand at the Baltimore market when it opens for business in the morning." On they flew at a high speed, the lights ahead becoming brighter and brighter. Soon an electric light burst before their vision off to the right, then another, and another, until they realized that they were, indeed, in the outskirts of Baltimore. Gerald ran the car more slowly now, for city ordinances are very strict, imposing a low limit on the speed of autos when within the confines of a municipality. Gerald had never been fined for speeding since coming into possession of an auto, and he had made up his mind that he never would be. Through the shopping district they went, and into a brilliantly-lighted residence street, thence into smaller, narrower streets as Gerald turned the big Ajax toward the shore of the bay. Then old Bellvieu, lying dark and silent in the moonlight, a single light twinkling from the servants' quarters in the rear, burst upon their view. The car ran quickly along the hedge and stopped before the gate. Gerald looked at his watch. "It is just eleven-thirty," he said. "I have the honor to report that I have beaten the time I suggested by several minutes--enough to give you time to unload your things and get to bed before the clock strikes twelve." Jim and Ephraim grabbed the baskets out of the big chest in the rear, while Aunt Betty and the girls seized their other belongings. Then, bidding Gerald and Aurora good night, with many thanks for the nice time they had had in the new car, they went up the pathway toward the house. Chloe, Dinah and Metty had heard their voices, and with shouts of delight had begun to light up the mansion. By the time the party reached the gallery the big house looked as inviting as one could wish. How soft and fine the beds seemed that night to each one of the tired camping party, for no matter how enjoyable a time they had had, they were forced to admit that there was no place like home. CHAPTER IX THE FIRST LESSON The next week was a pleasant one at Bellvieu. Molly Breckenridge secured the consent of her father to remain for that long, and the girls explored every nook and corner of the old mansion and its grounds. Even the big, old-fashioned barn came in for its share of their attention. Horseback riding is one of the chief attractions at Bellvieu. Both girls were good riders, and very fond of horses. Jim was not so anxious, but usually accompanied them when they ventured away from home. Long rides into the country early in the morning, or in the cool of the evening, were enjoyed to the utmost. Gerald came over frequently and the big automobile served to give them many pleasant hours. The first lesson with Herr Deichenberg had been postponed until after Molly's departure, though that young lady was not aware of it. The Herr refused to have the attention of his pupils distracted by visitors, so, while impatient to begin his labors, he consented to a postponement until Bellvieu should be clear of company and affairs running along in their natural groove. The day for Molly's departure finally rolled around, and at the station to see her off, besides Dorothy and Jim, were Gerald and Aurora. Molly waved a last farewell from the car window as the train moved out of the station. In Dorothy's ears still rang her promise: "If papa consents, I will spend Christmas with you at old Bellvieu." To which Dorothy had replied: "Of course, he'll consent, for you're to invite him, too." This pleased Molly greatly and she had promised to write her chum what the judge's decision was. The first violin lesson was set for the morning after Molly's departure, Herr Deichenberg having kindly consented to come to Bellvieu, greatly to the delight of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty. Dorothy was eager to display her ability, and, feeling every confidence in herself, was not the least bit flustered when she met Herr Deichenberg at the door and ushered him into the big drawing-room. "It seems real good to see you again, Miss Dorothy," the old professor said. "I have been t'inking about you a great deal vhile you have been avay, und I am really anxious to have you back--really und truly anxious." "It was good of you to come to Bellvieu, Herr. I feel that I should have gone to your studio." "Ah! Don't mention dat. I--" "But I am much younger than you. I can afford to exercise myself a little if it will save you trouble." "You are younger, yes. Yet, I am not as old in body as in looks. I valk pretty straight, yet, eh, Miss Dorothy?" and laughing, he chucked her playfully under the chin. "You walk with military precision, Herr, except on a few occasions when you forget yourself. Then I have noticed a slight stoop to the shoulders," she replied. "Ah, vhen I forget myself, yes--und I fear dat is very often, eh?" "No, no; I think you do remarkably well." "Do you, really? Dat iss very nice of you to say. If you vill pay me all de time such compliments, I t'ink you need not come to my studio at all. I vill be happy to come to your great home, here." He looked out through the window, where the magnificent sweep of lawn, with its flowers, trees and hedges, made a pretty picture. "It iss beautiful--beautiful!" While they were talking Aunt Betty, attired in a charming morning gown, well-becoming to one of her age, entered the room. Herr Deichenberg arose with a broad smile to greet her. "Ah, here iss de mistress of de house," he said to Dorothy, then turned to Aunt Betty, who had extended her hand with the words: "Welcome again to Bellvieu, Herr Deichenberg." "T'ank you, madame. It iss very kind of you. Really, if I sit here much longer, admiring de flowers und de trees, I shall forget dat I have come to give dis young lady a moosic lesson, und dat I shall have another pupil vaiting for me in de studio at eleven." "But it is well that you occasionally forget your labors, Herr." "Ah, yes, but--" "I know what you are going to say--that you have your living to make." "Madame, you have read the sordid t'oughts of an old man who is supposed to have made a great success." "And I'm sure you have made a great success. As for the money, Herr, is that any reason you should ruin your health?" "No, no, madame, but--" "Ah, Herr," she interrupted again, "you are becoming too thoroughly imbued with the American spirit, which thinks of nothing more than to catch the dollars as they go rolling past. Then, after they are corralled in a bank, or invested in property, you are not satisfied, but begin to covet more." "Madame, you have struck de key-note of it all, I fear. I plead guilty. But I also plead, in extenuation, dat I have a vife to whom I owe a great duty." "Ah, yes, a wife! True, true; but did you ever put straight to her the question whether she would prefer to have you slave for money or give her a little more of your time for pleasure?" "No; but I know vhat she vould say. You are right und I am wrong. But come, Miss Dorothy, de lesson! I have brought with me my own instrument. I vill get it at once." Stepping across the room he picked up his violin case and began to unfasten the clasps, while Dorothy watched him with fascinated gaze. "Oh, Herr," cried the girl, "you--you didn't bring your old Cremona?" "Surely. Vhat you t'ink, dat you are not good enough to be taught on a Cremona, eh?" "Oh, Herr, you know I didn't mean that!" "Of course not," he laughed. "You meant dat you vould like to see it, maybe?" "Yes, yes." "Vell, here it iss." For a moment Dorothy was awed as she gazed at the rather ordinary-looking violin. Could this be the great Cremona of which she had heard so much? This--this--why, this looked more like a ten-dollar fiddle picked up in a pawnshop! She knew, however, that the Herr would not deceive her, so she took the instrument tenderly in her hands while the old German watched her intently. When he saw the look of reverence that crossed her face, he seemed pleased. "You vould like to try it, yes, Miss Dorothy?" "Oh, Herr, if I only may!" "Surely, surely. Iss it stingy I am, do you t'ink? Surely you may try it, my leetle girl. Here--use my own bow, too. It iss well resined, und in good shape for to make fine moosic. Now, let me hear you play." Not until she had drawn the bow across the strings and heard the deep, sweet tones of the old Cremona, did Dorothy realize that in her hands she held an instrument constructed by one of the finest of the old masters--an instrument that had come down, perfectly preserved through the ages, growing better with each passing year. As the girl played one of the simple pieces which lay uppermost on the piano-rack, the big living-room was filled to overflowing with matchless melody. So clear and pure were the tones that Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Was it indeed she who made such delightful music, or was she dreaming? Herr Deichenberg's voice brought her back to her normal state of mind. "It iss beautiful--de melody. I did not believe you could do it, even on a Cremona." "It is not me, Herr, but this wonderful violin," the girl cried in admiration. "Oh, come, now, vhen ve simmer t'ings down to a fine point, de Cremona iss not so different from your own instrument, Miss Dorothy." "Oh, Herr, surely you are mistaken. Why, I seem to be dreaming when I am playing on the Cremona." "Und vhy iss dat? Because you have made up your mind dat dis iss absolutely de finest violin in de whole vorld, und have prepared yourself to hear somet'ing vhich iss not there. De tones are clear und full, but so are those of your own violin, on vhich you played for me vhen I vass here before." Dorothy shook her head in disbelief, unable to appreciate the full truth of his words. Herr Deichenberg smiled. "You von't believe me, eh? Very vell. Let us on with de lesson. I shall convince you at another time." "I'm afraid you will have a hard time ever convincing me of that," the girl replied. Dorothy's own violin was tuned, and on this, under the music master's direction, she ran scales for the better part of an hour--to limber her fingers, Herr Deichenberg said. "But they are already limber, Herr," she returned, in a tone of mild protest. "Vait, vait," he good-naturedly said. "Vait just a few veeks und den you vill see vhat you shall see. I vill have you doing vhat you Americans call 'stunts' on dat violin. Really, it vill surprise you! Your fingers are stiff. See; I vill show you. Now, try dis exercise--here!" He opened one of her music books and pushed the music before her. "Right there, now. One--two--t'ree! One--two--t'ree!--" Dorothy swung off into the exercise with apparent ease, but soon reached a difficult scale in the third position. Somehow her fingers would not go where she intended them. She tried it once--twice--then stopped, flushing. "You see?" said the Herr professor. "If I vant to be mean, I vould say, 'I told you so.'" "Oh, Herr, I beg your pardon! I will never dispute your word again--never--never! My fingers _are_ stiff. They are all right for ordinary music in the first and second positions, but the third I can hardly do at all, and I'm sure I have practiced and practiced it." "Surely you have practiced it, but never as you shall during de next few veeks. It iss only by constant application to a certain method dat great violin players are made. Dey are expected to accomplish de impossible. Dat may sound rather vague to you, but you vill some day understand vhat I mean." "I understand what you mean now, Herr. I find an exercise which it is impossible for me to play. But I keep everlastingly at it until I can play it. In that way I have achieved what _seemed_ to be the impossible." "Dat iss it--dat iss it! You catch my idea exactly. Do you t'ink you vill be able to accomplish many of those impossible t'ings?" "I shall perform every task you set for me, no matter how long or how hard I have to try." "Ah, now, dat iss de proper spirit. If all young ladies vere like you vhat a beautiful time de moosic teachers vould have." "They would, Herr?" "Oh, yes; dey vould be so overjoyed dat dey vould be avay on a vacation most of de time." "I suppose you have all sorts of pupils, Herr?" said Aunt Betty, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between the girl and the professor. "Yes; mostly young girls, madame, und to say dat dey are a big trouble iss but expressing it mildly. In fact, dey are de greatest of my troubles. Dey pay me vell, yes, but vhat iss pay vhen you must labor with dem hour after hour to get an idea t'rough their heads? Vy, for example I vill show you. A lady pupil vill valk into my studio, t'row off her t'ings und prepare for a lesson. Vhen I say now you do dis or dat, she vill reply, 'Oh, Herr, you should not ask of me de impossible!' Und I try to explain dat it iss only by practice dat she vill ever make a great musician. Den perhaps she vill reply: 'Vell, if I had known it vass such hard vork maybe I vould not have tried to play,' und den she heaves such a sigh dat for a moment I really feel ashamed of myself for making her vork so hard. Oh, madame, it iss awful! Sometimes I almost go crazy in my head." He turned again to Dorothy. "But, come, young lady, back to de lesson, und ve vill soon be t'rough." Dorothy nodded her willingness, which caused the Herr professor to smile and nod delightedly at Aunt Betty. "Dat iss de proper spirit," he kept repeating, half aloud. Scale after scale the girl ran over, repeating dozens of times the same notes, until Herr Deichenberg would nod his head that she had played it to his satisfaction. Then on to another and the same performance over again. Her work won from the Herr the heartiest of commendation, and when he left he told both Dorothy and Aunt Betty that he would look forward to the next lesson with a great deal of pleasure. Thereafter, twice each week, the Herr came to Bellvieu. He seemed to dearly love the old place, for during her first four weeks of lessons Dorothy was unable to win from him his consent to take her to his home. Finally, he agreed that the next lesson should be in the studio, but only after considerable pleading on her part. "I am doing it to please you," he told her, "for if I have my vay, I vould much rather come to dis beautiful place." Dorothy could hardly wait for the time of the visit to come. The Herr had asked Aunt Betty to accompany her great-niece, to meet Frau Deichenberg, and on the morning in question they set out together in the barouche. Metty finally drew up on a quiet street before the quaintest-looking little house Dorothy had ever seen. It was not a bungalow, yet about it were certain lines which suggested that type of structure. It was all in one story, with great French windows on two sides, and with trailing vines climbing the porch posts onto the roof in thoroughly wild abandon. Herr Deichenberg came out to meet them and lead them into the living-room of the house, where Dorothy and Aunt Betty met for the first time Frau Deichenberg, who had been out on the occasion of Aunt Betty's first visit. The Frau proved to be a kindly German lady who spoke English with even more accent than her distinguished husband. The welcome to the studio was complete in every way, and as Dorothy went from room to room examining the rare curios and works of art, which the Herr and his wife had gathered from various parts of the world, she felt that her visit had not been in vain. In the large, well-lighted music room, where the Herr received his pupils, Dorothy found the things of greatest interest. Half a dozen violins were scattered about on the shelves, or lying on the old-fashioned piano, while clocks of every conceivable size and shape, bronze statues from the Far East, and queerly woven baskets from the Pampas, mingled with the Mexican pottery and valuable geological specimens from her own United States. Finally, when the girl's curiosity had been thoroughly satisfied, Aunt Betty and Frau Deichenberg were shown into another room and the music master and his pupil began their lesson. It was not until the lesson was over that the Herr turned to his pupil with a merry twinkle in his eyes and observed: "You are so fond of moosic, perhaps you do not know dat every year I give a concert in de theater before de opening of de regular season." "Oh, yes, I have often heard of your concert," the girl replied. "I have longed to go to them, but something has always kept me from it." "Vell, you are going to my next one." "I am? Oh, how good of you, Herr!" "Yes, it iss very good of me, for there you shall meet one of my most promising pupils." "Oh, tell me who it is," she replied, unable to restrain her curiosity. "Vell, it iss a secret dat has not yet been vhispered to a soul. But I don't mind telling you. De name of de young lady iss Miss Dorothy Calvert." "Why, Herr Deichenberg, you don't mean that--?" Dorothy stopped short. A lump came into her throat and she was unable to continue. "Dat iss just vhat I mean," he smiled, reading her thoughts. "You are to play at de concert, vhere you are expected to do both yourself und your moosic teacher proud." "Oh, Herr, I hadn't imagined such an honor would be conferred upon me this year. Why, surely there are other pupils who have more talent and can make a better showing for you than I?" "My dear young lady, it iss I who shall be de best judge of dat." "Oh, I didn't mean--" "Never before have I had a young lady refuse an invitation to play at my concert." "Why, Herr, I haven't refused. You don't understand me. I--I--" "Yes, yes. I understand you perfectly--I have surprised you and you have not yet found time to catch your breath. Iss dat not so?" "Yes, but--" "Oh, no 'buts.' I know vhat you vould say. But it is not necessary. I have made up my mind, und once I do dat, I never change." "I know, Herr, but--" "Didn't I say no 'buts'? You shall show de people of Baltimore vhat a really fine violinist dey have in their midst." "Well, if you insist, of course I shall play. And are you to play my accompaniments?" "I, my dear young lady? No, no; I shall have my hands full vidout attempting dat. But you shall have a full orchestra at your beck und call to t'under at you vun minute und to help you lull de audience to sleep de next." "Herr, you overwhelm me!" "Such vass not my intention. I am merely telling you vhat I know to be de truth. You are a remarkable girl und nothing I can say vill turn your head. I have tried it und I know. Dat iss vhy I do not hesitate to say it." When Dorothy Calvert left Herr Deichenberg's studio that morning she was the happiest girl in Baltimore. CHAPTER X HERR DEICHENBERG'S CONCERT Herr Deichenberg's concert was but a month away, and Dorothy, despite the hotness of the weather, practiced as she never had before. After her visit to the studio Herr Deichenberg resumed his comings to Bellvieu. He seemed never to tire descanting on the beauties of the old estate, and in this way won a warm place in the hearts of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty--aside from his many other fine qualities. Aunt Betty had been delighted at the thought of Dorothy's appearing at the Herr's concert. "His affairs are the finest of their kind given in the city," she told the girl, "and it is an honor you must not fail to appreciate. The Herr would not have invited you to appear had he not been sure of your ability to uphold his standards." The week before the concert Herr Deichenberg came out one morning in a particularly good humor--though, to tell the truth, he seemed always bubbling over with agreeable qualities. "It iss all arranged," he told Dorothy--"for de concert, I mean. De theater has been put in readiness, und you should see de decorations. Ah! Vines trailing t'rough de boxes, und de stage just loaded down with palms. Und yet I am not t'rough, I have been offered de loan of some of de finest plants in de city. I tell you, Miss Dorothy, it iss very nice to have friends." "It is indeed," the girl responded. "A little inspiration from them can go a long way toward helping us accomplish our tasks." The lesson went unusually well that morning. Dorothy was practicing certain pieces now, which she was to render at the concert, the selections having been made from among the classics by the Herr professor. There were two pieces, and a third--a medley of old Southern airs--was to be held in readiness, though the music master warned his pupil not to be discouraged if she did not receive a second encore. The Herr was even more particular than was his wont--if such a thing were possible. The missing of the fraction of a beat--the slightest error in execution or technique--he would correct at once, making her play over a certain bar time and again, until her playing was to his entire satisfaction. Then he would encourage her with a nod of approval, and go on to the next. But Dorothy did not mind this; rather, she revelled in it. Her heart was in her prospective career as a violinist, and she was willing to undergo any discomfort if she could but attain her ambition. On the morning before the concert Herr Deichenberg made his last call at Bellvieu--before the event. By this time Dorothy had learned well her lessons, and the Herr required that she run over each piece but once. Her execution was perfect--not a note marred or slurred--and he expressed his satisfaction in glowing terms. "You vill now take a vell-deserved rest," he said. "Please do not touch a violin until you arrive at the theater to-morrow evening." "I can hardly wait for to-morrow evening to come, Herr," she replied. The eagerness in her voice caused the music master to smile. "Ah, but you must not be too anxious, young lady. Better it iss to get de concert off your mind for a vhile. Vhat iss de use of playing de whole affair over in your mind, until you are sick und tired of it? No, no; don't do it. Vait till you get de reality." "As well try to banish my dear Aunt Betty from my thoughts," was the answer of the smiling girl. "Ah, vell, vhen you are as old as I, those t'ings vill not vorry you." "Ah, but Herr, you are worried yourself--I can see it." "Vhat! Me vorried? Oh, my dear young lady, no; my composure is perfect--perfect." "You are worrying right now." "Over vhat, please?" "Well, first you are wondering whether the confidence reposed by you in one Miss Dorothy Calvert will be justified when she faces a great audience for the first time in her life. Now, 'fess up, aren't you, Herr Deichenberg?" "No, no; I have not de slightest doubt of dat." "Then you are worrying because you fear some of the other numbers on the programme will not come up to your expectations. Now, aren't you?" "No, no, Miss Dorothy. No; I do not vorry--of course, there iss dat young lady who is to render de piano selections from 'Faust'--er--yet, I have no cause to vorry. No, no, I--" Dorothy interrupted with a laugh. "Your troubled expression as you said that gave you away, Herr. But I suppose it is very bold and impudent of me to tease you about these matters." The Herr smiled. "Oh, you just tease me all you vant--I like it. But really, if I vass vorried, I vould tell you--surely I vould. Er--if dat young lady vill just remember vhat I haf told her, she--" Again the troubled expression flitted over Herr Deichenberg's countenance, and Dorothy, seeing that he was really worried though he would not admit it, decided not to tease him further. He soon took his departure, and the girl rushed away to tell Aunt Betty that the Herr was well satisfied with her work, then to talk incessantly for half an hour about the coming event. The concert was by far the largest affair that had ever loomed up on Miss Dorothy's horizon, and she naturally could not get it off her mind. The great opera house in which the concert was to be held was packed with people the next evening. Dorothy, on the stage, peeping through a little hole in the curtain, saw one of the most fashionable audiences old Baltimore had ever turned out--the largest, in fact, Herr Deichenberg had ever drawn to one of his affairs, though the drawing power of the old professor had always been something to talk about. Entering the stage entrance early in the evening, dressed in an elaborate white evening gown, made expressly for this occasion at one of the great dressmaking establishments, Dorothy had deposited her violin in her dressing-room and sallied forth to view the wonders of Fairyland--for such the stage, with its many illusions and mysteries, seemed to her. She took great care to keep out of the way of the stage hands, who rushed back and forth, dragging great pieces of scenery over the stage as if they were but bits of pasteboard. Drops were let down, set pieces put in place, until, right before the eyes of the girl, a picture, beautiful indeed, had appeared. Where there had been but an empty stage now stood a scene representing a magnificent garden, with statuary, fountains and beautiful shrubbery all in their proper places. True, a great portion of this was represented by the back drop, but Dorothy knew that from the front the scene would look very real. Great jagged edges of wood wings protruded on to the stage--three on either side--while benches and palms were scattered here and there to properly balance the picture. Then, as if to force into the scene an incongruity of some sort, a grand piano was pushed out of the darkness in the rear of the stage, to a place in the garden, where it stood, seemingly the one blot on the landscape. "A piano in a garden!" exclaimed Dorothy, and laughed softly to herself. "Who ever heard of such a thing? Yet, of course, the concert could not proceed without it." "Ah, my dear, here you are! You are fascinated with it all, yes?" questioned Herr Deichenberg, as he passed in a hurry. She nodded, smiling, and saw him rush hurriedly to the dressing-rooms below the stage to make sure all his pupils were present. As he went the house electrician, with each hand on portions of the big switchboard, threw on the border and bunch lights, making the great stage almost as light as day. Then, out in front, Dorothy heard the orchestra as it struck into the overture, and hastening away, she seated herself in her dressing-room to await her turn on the programme. Aunt Betty, she knew, sitting with Len and Jim in one of the front rows of the orchestra, would be eagerly awaiting her appearance. She resolved that not only her relative, but Herr Deichenberg, as well, should be proud of her achievements. She heard the first number--a piano solo--then the great roar of applause that swept over the assemblage. This was followed by an encore. Then another round of applause. The next number was a harp solo. This was followed by a piano duet, which, in turn, was succeeded by a vocal number. Following each the applause was almost deafening. Encores were allowed in each instance by the music master. Finally, toward the close of another piano duet, a call boy came to the door of Dorothy's dressing-room to say: "Herr Deichenberg says tell you your turn is next, and you will please come at once and wait in the wings." Most girls would have felt a flutter of excitement when told that one of the crucial moments of their lives was at hand. Not so Dorothy Calvert. Her hands were steady and her confidence unbounded. Holding her skirt slightly off the stage, that her new frock might present a spotless appearance, the girl, violin in hand, hurried to the wings. The encore of the piano duet was just concluding. Herr Deichenberg nodded and smiled at her. Then the players, two young girls, scarcely older than she, arose, and with graceful bows, tripped off the stage within a few feet of her, their faces flushed with pleasure as great rounds of applause again rolled over the big auditorium. Herr Deichenberg sent them out for another bow, after which the noise simmered down, and the music master turned his attention to the next number. The curtain was not lowered between numbers. There was merely a pause as the orchestra laid aside one set of music and turned to another. "Be ready now," he warned, turning to Dorothy. "You enter from vhere you are, valking to de center of de stage, down near de footlights. Smile, Miss Dorothy, und do not put your violin to your shoulder until de orchestra is half way t'rough de introduction." The girl inclined her head and smiled that she understood. Then, at a nod from the music master, the electrician flashed a signal to the orchestra. The leader raised his baton, then the instruments swept off into the overture of the piece Dorothy was to play. "Now," said the Herr, giving her a gentle push. The next instant Dorothy, for the first time in her life, found herself sweeping out on a great stage, with a sea of faces in front of her. She blinked once or twice as the footlights flashed in her eyes, then singling out Aunt Betty, Jim and Len--having previously located their seats--she smiled genially. In the center of the great stage, but a few feet back from the footlights, she paused as Herr Deichenberg had told her. Then, as the orchestra approached the end of the overture, she raised her violin to her chin. With a graceful sweep of the bow she began. There was a great hush over the auditorium, as the horns, bass viol and second violins left off playing, and the clear notes of Dorothy's instrument went floating into every corner of the building, accompanied by soft strains from the piano and first violins. The piece was one of the classics, recognized immediately by everyone, and there was an expectant move as the girl reached the more difficult parts. Her eyes closed, her body swaying slightly, Dorothy played as she never had before. She forgot the audience, Aunt Betty, everything, except that here was a great orchestra playing her accompaniment--surely enough encouragement for any girl to do her best. There came a pause in the music, and the girl lowered her violin, while the orchestra played on. There was a slight ripple of applause from several in the audience, who, apparently, thought the piece was at an end, but this died away as the girl again raised the instrument to her chin. The second part was even more difficult than the first, but Dorothy swept into it with no thought but to play it as it should be played. Even the eyes of the orchestra leader lit up with admiration, and when at last the piece was concluded with a great flourish, and Dorothy had bowed herself off into the wings, the applause that swept over the assemblage was louder than at any other time during the evening. Herr Deichenberg patted Dorothy reassuringly on the back as she stood in the wings, panting slightly from the exertion of her work, and well-pleased that so much of the ordeal was over. The applause continued without cessation--first, the sharp clapping of hands, which spread over the audience as if by magic, finally the stamping of feet; later shrill whistles from the gallery. "It means for you an encore," said the music master, smiling at Dorothy. Then he nodded to the electrician, who again flashed a signal to the orchestra leader, and the musicians struck off into the overture of Dorothy's second piece. Bowing rather timidly, but with much grace, the girl again advanced to the center of the stage, and gazed out for a moment over the vast ocean of faces which stared up at her. Then as the orchestra finished the introduction, she again raised her violin to her chin. The second piece was a sad, plaintive one, and as Dorothy drew her bow full length across the strings, the instrument sent forth loud wails, which, to anyone with a keen musical ear, denoted mortal anguish. This was followed by shorter, quicker parts, which finally resolved themselves into the coming of a storm. On her G string the girl brought forth all the terrors of the elements, running the whole gamut from incessant rumbling to the crashing of the thunder, while the orchestra supplied effective and necessary accompaniments. It was a beautiful piece of music, well played, and when Dorothy had finished and again bowed herself off the stage, the storm of applause broke forth again. Under Herr Deichenberg's direction she took three bows in succession, only to find the applause, if anything, more pronounced. She looked at the music master for her cue. He smilingly said: "Vell, dey seem to like it. You may play another." Again he signaled the orchestra, and once more Dorothy Calvert went tripping out on the stage, gratitude surging in her heart toward that great audience which had been so kind as to express approval of her work. This time it was a medley of old Southern airs she played. The audience sat spellbound while the strains of "Old Black Joe," and "Old Folks at Home" were heard throughout the auditorium, and when Dorothy swung into the quick measures of her beloved "Dixie," such a roar shook the building as Aunt Betty had never heard before. Again Dorothy bowed herself off into the first entrance. Again and again she was sent forth to bow her acknowledgments--to bow again and again until she was forced to throw up her hands in token of the fact that she had exhausted her repertoire. The applause extended well into the beginning of the next number, and the young lady who was to perform on the piano after Dorothy, refused to go on the stage until the young violinist had taken another bow. Then followed the appearance of Herr Deichenberg, whose reception was easily the greatest of the evening. Dorothy did not wait to hear her music master play, but hurried off to her dressing-room with her violin, her heart singing a song of gladness. "Thus it is," she thought, "that success takes hold of our sensibilities, and in the same way does failure serve to discourage one, and put enthusiasm at a low ebb." In her dressing-room she sat and heard the thunders of applause that followed the Herr's playing. Then, after a short wait, when the audience was quiet, the Herr appeared suddenly at the door of her dressing-room. With him was a smartly-dressed stranger who bowed and extended his hand in a cordial way as the old German said: "Miss Calvert, allow me to introduce Mr. Ludlow, de theatrical manager from New York. He happened to be in de theater during your performance, and he hastened back to talk over with you a few matters of importance. I vill leave him with you." The Herr disappeared, and after inviting Mr. Ludlow to have a seat, Dorothy reseated herself and turned expectantly toward him. "I know you are wondering what I have to say to you, Miss Calvert, so I will come at once to the point. Being in the theatrical business, I am naturally on the lookout for talent along various lines. I have been vividly impressed with your playing to-night and I felt that I should not care to let the opportunity go by to inquire into your future plans." This was put partly in the form of a question and the girl responded: "Do you mean, Mr. Ludlow, that you would like to offer me an engagement?" "That I shall, perhaps, be able to determine when I learn your plans." "Well, I have none. My lessons are not over with Herr Deichenberg. I shall be under his instruction until next spring, at least." "And after that?" "Oh, I cannot say. Before talking over arrangements with you, I should like to discuss the matter with my aunt, Mrs. Calvert." "That will be agreeable to me, I am sure." "But she is out in front. I shall be unable to see her until the concert is over." "To-morrow will do, Miss Calvert. I merely wish to-night to make sure you do not sign a contract with another manager without giving me a chance." "Oh, I can safely promise that." "Then I shall be content. Where can I see you to-morrow?" "We shall be very glad to have you call at Bellvieu." "Bellvieu, Miss Calvert?" "Yes; our home in the suburbs. I had forgotten you were not a native Baltimorean." "At what time will it be convenient for me to call?" "Either in the morning or afternoon." "Shall we say ten o'clock, then?" "Yes." "I trust I shall not inconvenience your aunt by calling so early." "Not at all." "It is imperative that I catch a train for New York at twelve." Mr. Ludlow took his leave, after expressing his pleasure at having met Dorothy. The girl's feelings would be hard to describe. That her playing should have awakened the interest of a professional manager was to her rather astonishing. She was meditating over the offer, and wondering what her prim and staid Aunt Betty would think of it, when Frau Deichenberg entered the dressing-room. The Frau had been on the stage looking after several of the Herr's protégés, and was highly elated over the showing they had made. "My dear, my dear," she cried. "You have done nobly! Herr Deichenberg is pleased with you beyond measure." To which Dorothy responded: "If I have deserved his praise, I am glad. But it seems that I have done so little." "Ah, but did you not hear de audience? Dey liked your moosic, und dey clap their hands und stamp their feet. Dat iss de one true mark of appreciation." When the concert was over and Dorothy was traveling homeward in the barouche with Aunt Betty, she told her of the visit of Mr. Ludlow. Aunt Betty listened patiently until she had finished, then said: "Dear, I had supposed I was raising you up to something better than a stage career." "But, auntie, the stage is all right--it must be, there are so many fine people connected with it. And then, it would be the concert stage in my case, and that is different from dramatic work, you know." "Yes; but violinists, as well as other performers, sometimes listen to the call of the dollar, and go from the concert to the variety stage. I am not sure such connections would be the best for my little girl." "But, Aunt Betty, it is my life's ambition," said the girl, a queer little catch in her voice. "There, there," Aunt Betty responded, as she put her arm about the shoulder of her great-niece. "Don't take what I say so much to heart. We will think this matter over, and you may be very sure of one thing, dear--we shall do what is right and for the best." And with this for the time being Dorothy was forced to be content. The matter was put in abeyance for an indefinite time, however, by a message from Mr. Ludlow, the following morning, in which he said he had been called back to New York earlier than he had expected, but that he would not forget the girl, and upon his next visit to Baltimore during the course of the fall or winter, he would arrange to call and settle matters to Dorothy's entire satisfaction. "And who knows, by then I may have won Aunt Betty over," muttered the girl, who, however, decided to drop the subject until the opportune moment arrived to discuss it. CHAPTER XI CHRISTMAS AT BELLVIEU The fall days slipped rapidly by, and still Dorothy continued to take instruction from Herr Deichenberg, improving her technique with each lesson under the old music master's careful guidance. The concert had been a revelation to her. For the first time in her life she had stood before a great assemblage and heard the roars of applause which her playing aroused, and it had given her confidence as nothing else could. Aunt Betty's deep-rooted prejudice against a stage career was the only thing that served to mar the girl's pleasure, and even this caused no great unhappiness, for Aunt Betty's refusal to allow Dorothy to play professional engagements took the form only of feeble protests. This led the girl to hope her relative might gradually be won over. Then, as the holidays approached, bringing a letter from Molly in which she stated that she and the Judge would arrive at Bellvieu several days before Christmas, the stage career was for the time relegated to the innermost recesses of her mind, and she joined Aunt Betty in an effort to have a real, old-fashioned Christmas. This, with the aid of Ephraim, Dinah and Chloe, they were fortunately able to do. As the preparations went forward, Aunt Betty's delight knew no bounds, and her soul was filled with rapturousness as joy after joy unfolded itself to relieve the tedium and monotony of her old age. A week before the eventful day, Ephraim and Metty, with two other negroes, hired for the occasion, took a team and sleigh and set out for the timber along the shore of the bay. There had been a heavy fall of snow the night before and the ground was covered with a sparkling mantle, while an invigorating breeze from the north filled everyone with energetic desires. Once at their destination Ephraim and his men felled a large black gum tree from which two logs were cut. These were just short of four feet in length and cut with the especial purpose of filling the two large fire-places in the Calvert mansion. Returning late in the evening with their load, they rolled the big logs into the duck pond back of the barn, where the crust of ice was thin, there to soak until Christmas morning, at which time they would be placed in their respective fire-places in the big dining and living-rooms of the house, and a fire kindled. Ephraim was thoroughly familiar with the old custom, and it was understood between him and Aunt Betty that he should keep good fires burning during the day and banked during the night after bed time. Logs such as these would, by this process, last ten days, or until the holidays had come and gone, for they were burned until not a vestige remained but ashes. During the latter part of November Aunt Betty had caused a half dozen of her finest turkeys to be put up to fatten. Some days later several huge pound cakes had been baked and a nice little pig put in the pen to grow round and tender, later to be roasted whole, with a tempting red apple in his mouth. Mincemeat, souse, and stuffed sausages, those edibles of the early days, which Aunt Betty had grown to love and yearn for, were provided on this occasion by Chloe and Dinah, and when, a few days before Christmas, Metty returned from the woods with a fine, fat possum, the mistress of Bellvieu began to feel that her Christmas would be indeed complete. A store of sweet potatoes had been laid by, and green apple, pumpkin, potato and other pies made and stored in the cellar. In the days of Aunt Betty's girlhood, when there were no cooking stoves, turkeys were cooked in a turkey roaster made of sheet iron, with a dripping-pan in the bottom and a large tin lid, much resembling a buggy top, over the pan. When Mr. Turkey was stuffed and otherwise prepared for the feast, he was spitted on an iron rod that passed through the sides of the roaster and on through his body from end to end. Then he was ready for the finishing touches over a red-hot fire. The roasters had legs at each corner, so that hot embers could be placed under it when necessary. The tin top reflected the heat and had hinges so that it could be turned back when the cook basted the turkey with a prepared sauce. The dripping-pan at the bottom served to catch and hold the rich gravy. As Aunt Betty stood now, watching the preparations for the roasting of one of the turkeys, her thoughts traveled back to those other days, and she marveled at the progress of civilization. "Lawsee, Mis' Betty!" cried Chloe, as she stopped to wipe her hands on her gingham apron. "We's gwine tuh hab 'nuff food in dis yere house tuh feed er million people, looks like tuh me." Aunt Betty laughed. "Better too much than not enough," she observed. "I reckon there won't be much left by the time New Year's Day has come and gone. Gerald and Aurora Blank will be over for Christmas dinner, and will drop in for occasional meals during holiday week. Then, with Miss Molly and her father, and Herr and Frau Deichenberg, there will be a nice little party here at home. Those boys, Jim and Len, have appetites that will startle you. Oh, yes; we have lots to eat, Chloe, but--well, you just watch it disappear!" "Yas'm; we'll watch hit, all right, en I reckon, Mis' Betty, dat Ephy, Dinah en me'll sort o' _help_ it disappear, too!" Chloe, bending nearly double, guffawed loudly at her own joke. Aunt Betty smiled, too, then went to the front of the house to meet the carriage which had been sent to the train, with Dorothy and Jim in it, to meet Judge Breckenridge and Molly. Dorothy's chum waved her hand at Aunt Betty, then came hurrying up the walk, to be the first to greet the mistress of Bellvieu. Then came the Judge, cane in hand, assisted by Jim, looking much better, but still somewhat enfeebled in health. "I'm glad indeed to see you again, Judge Breckenridge," greeted Aunt Betty, as she clasped one of his hands in both her own. "I am particularly pleased to be able to welcome you to a Christmas at Bellvieu." "And I am more than pleased to be here," was the Judge's response. "I am sure it will be one of the most delightful trips of my life." Once inside, and ensconced in easy chairs in the living-room, Aunt Betty pressed him for news concerning his sister, Lucretia, as well as Mrs. Hungerford, Mrs. Stark and Mrs. Cook, not forgetting to ask if the Judge ever heard from Joel Snackenberg. These questions answered to her entire satisfaction, Aunt Betty excused herself to see to the preparing of the mid-day meal, leaving Jim to talk to the Judge. "I haven't seen you in a long time, my boy," said Molly's father, "but it seems to me you are growing into a fine, strong young man. Molly tells me you've left Dr. Sterling for good." "Yes, sir; I thought I'd better strike out for myself." "And what do you intend doing, if I may ask?" "I intend learning electricity, sir--in fact, it is on Dr. Sterling's advice that I do so. Aunt Betty through some of her friends here, has arranged to secure me a place the first of the year. I have been idle during the past few months waiting for this position to materialize, and I'm certainly glad it is coming out all right." "You will have to serve an apprenticeship, I suppose?" "Yes, sir." "Well, electricity is a good thing to know, Jim. I wish you every success. Hello--who is this?" The Judge's eyes were turned toward a lad who entered the room at that moment. It was Len Haley, attired in a brand new Christmas suit, and looking as spick and span as one could wish. "Oh, I'd forgotten you didn't know Len, sir. Surely you've heard Molly speak of Len Haley, sir? He's the boy we rescued from a cruel uncle on our camping trip last summer. Aunt Betty has had him under her wing ever since. This is Molly's father, Len." "Yes, yes," said the Judge. "So this is Len Haley, the boy who was lost in the woods in the dead of night?" The judge reached out and took Len's hand. "I am glad to know you, my boy, and to learn that you have found such a fortunate way around your troubles." "Thank you, sir." "Anyone whom Mrs. Betty Calvert stands sponsor for is surely to be envied." "I think so too, sir," said Len, beginning to thaw out under Judge Breckenridge's good-natured smile. When Dorothy and Molly came downstairs and joined them, they made a merry party. Molly had changed her traveling dress for a clean frock, and with her hair arranged prettily in the latest mode, made even Jim Barlow "sit up and take notice." As for the Judge and his gayety, if old in years, he was young in heart, and forgot his infirmities to such an extent that Aunt Betty, entering suddenly, threw up her hands in amazement. "I knew this trip would make a wonderful improvement in you, Judge," said she, "but had no idea the change would be effected in so rapid a manner." "I just can't help it, Mrs. Calvert. To see these young folks about me makes me feel young again, which reminds me that I have never been happier than when I once took the boys and girls on a jaunt through the Nova Scotia woods." "A jaunt that ended in my giving a house party at Deerhurst," said Dorothy. "That was after I had learned that I was not a homeless waif, but the great-niece of Mrs. Betty Calvert." "It was papa, if you remember, who ran down the clues leading to the discovery that Mrs. Calvert was your relative," said Molly. "And I'll never forget how overjoyed we all were when we knew to whom our girl friend was related," and the old Judge leaned over and stroked Dorothy's hand as he spoke. "Then came my humiliation," said Aunt Betty in a reminiscent tone. "I was forced to admit to you all that when my nephew's baby came I was indignant, feeling that I was too old to have a squalling infant forced upon me. Then, better thoughts prevailing, I saw in Dorothy traces of my own family likeness and wanted to keep her. Then I listened to Dinah and Ephraim, and finally took their advice to hunt up a worthy couple unburdened with children of their own, and force the child upon them to be reared in simple, sensible ways. When I found that you had discovered the relationship between us, I did only what my heart had been bidding me do for many years--took Dorothy to my bosom, and into my household where she belonged." Dinah came to the door to say that lunch was served, and the party filed into the dining-room to continue the discussion at the table. On the following morning--the day before Christmas--a great bundle of presents arrived from one of the Baltimore department stores, and was taken upstairs by Ephraim, there to be concealed. On the night before Christmas, following the time-honored custom, stockings of every size and color were strung up around the big fire-place in the living-room. Those of the Judge, Jim and Len not being large enough, garments of a satisfactory size were generously tendered by Dorothy and Molly. Going late to bed, hoping that old Santa Claus would be good to each of them, the young folks awoke in the morning to find their stockings fairly bulging with good things. There was a cane and a pocketbook from the Judge to Jim, and wearing apparel running from neckties to shirts from Aunt Betty and the girls. Len came in for a similar lot of presents, his gift from the Judge being a shining five-dollar gold piece, which he declared should go in the savings bank as a foundation of his fortune. Dorothy and Molly were well remembered, the gifts being both pretty and useful, and running principally to toilet articles and lingerie, while Aunt Betty found great difficulty in lifting her stocking from its peg over the fire-place, so heavy was it. Early Christmas morning came a belated 'phone message from Herr Deichenberg, accepting on the part of him and Frau Deichenberg, the kind invitation extended by Aunt Betty to gather around the festive Christmas board. It had been necessary to postpone two lessons, the music master said, which accounted for the delay in letting them know. At ten o'clock Gerald and Aurora arrived. There had been a slight protest on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Blank at the children being away from home for Christmas dinner, but a compromise had been effected by which they were to eat with their parents on New Year's Day. With the arrival of Herr and Frau Deichenberg nothing then remained but to serve the dinner. Metty and Ephraim were both pressed into service, and with Chloe and Dinah working like Trojans in the kitchen, the meal was served on scheduled time, and to the entire satisfaction of everyone concerned. Tale and jest passed around the table, as the members of the Christmas party made merry. "Christmas comes but once a year," some one has said, and with this in their minds, trouble was given its _conge_ for the time being, and mirth and gayety reigned supreme. Herr Deichenberg was asked to tell of the old German customs at Christmas time, which he did in an interesting way. He told of the toymakers of Nuremberg and other cities, and how easily and dexterously they did their work. Then there were many humorous incidents of his own boyhood, which he remembered and told with such success, that he had the entire party roaring with laughter before the meal was half over. When he had finished, the Judge and Aunt Betty took turns telling of strange and funny incidents that had come under their observation at various Christmas times, and by the time dessert was reached everyone felt at peace with the world. It was a dinner long to be remembered, and when it was over they all gathered in the living-room, where the Herr was induced to play a number of his favorite pieces, Dorothy's violin being pressed into service for the occasion. Dorothy next took her turn with the violin, Herr Deichenberg playing her accompaniments on the piano. Molly, who had not heard her chum play for many months, was astonished at the progress she had made, as was the Judge, and they complimented both master and pupil, after three pieces had been rendered. The players then stopped under protest, promising to play more before the gathering broke up. Jim sang a bass solo. Gerald also rendered a song, his sweet tenor voice delighting his auditors, after which the old quartette of the mountain camp was formed again and sang familiar pieces in such a manner as to win the heartiest of commendation from all--even that captious critic, Herr Deichenberg. Aunt Betty was asked to speak one of her girlhood pieces, but begged to be allowed to substitute old Ephraim, who, upon being urged, recited the following verses, remembered since his earliest recollection: "Sho' 'nuff, is dat yo', buddie? Why, I sca'ce beliebs mah eyes! Yo's growed so slendah en so tall, I like not tuh know yo' size. Does yo' eber hunt de possum-- Climb de ole p'simmon tree? Like we did in de good ole times W'en de niggah wasn't free? We'd take ole Tige, en den a torch, Den we'd start out fo' a spree, Lots o' fellers wuz in dat chase, Erside, mah boy, frum yo' en me, After a w'ile ole Tige'd yelp, Den we'd know dar's sumpthin' round, Er rabbit, coon, er possum, sho', Er gittin' ober de ground. W'en up de tree de possum run, Den ole Tige he'd change he tune, Den wif de torch we'd shine his eyes Den we'd nab him pretty soon, We'd break he neck, en build er fire Den a tater roast, yo' mind; Why, bress yo' heart, dis make me cry, Nebber mo' dem times yo' find. De Massa's gone--ole Missus, gone, En mah ole woman am, too; I'm laid up now wif rheumatiz, En mah days am growin' few. Ole Tige mos' blind en crippled up, So dat he can't hunt no mo'; No possums now tuh grease de chops, Oh, I's feelin' mighty po'!" As Ephraim concluded he made a most elaborate bow, touching his hand to his forelock--or where the forelock should have been. The old negro's interested listeners burst into loud applause, and the bow was repeated again and again. The verses had been rendered with considerable feeling and some sense of their poetic value, which, of course, Ephraim had learned from hearing the verses recited by others. Len Haley, upon being called on for a contribution to the entertainment, spoke the first--and last--piece he had learned during the few short months he had attended school. It was a temperance piece, and if not thoroughly in keeping with the festive occasion, was at least one of the most earnest efforts of the afternoon. Aurora, who was an elocutionist of no mean merit, rendered Longfellow's "Hiawatha," with such realistic touches that Herr Deichenberg sat spellbound through her recital, to spring up and grasp her hand when she had finished. "My dear girl," he cried, "dat was excellent--excellent. I am proud, indeed, to know you." "I trust you will never have occasion to change your mind," was the girl's pleasant response. The entertainment over, Herr Deichenberg and Judge Breckenridge engaged in a checker contest, which was so closely fought that the others stopped whatever they were doing to look on. The Herr was finally triumphant, taking four games out of seven. When the Christmas party broke up that evening, all were agreed that it had been one of the most glorious holiday times they had ever spent. CHAPTER XII MR. LUDLOW'S OFFER The holidays passed all too quickly to the happy party at Old Bellvieu. Herr and Frau Deichenberg came no more during the stay of the Judge and Molly, but Gerald and Aurora were over nearly every evening. One night, toward the close of the week, Aunt Betty and the Judge chaperoned a party of young people, including Dorothy, Molly, Aurora, Gerald, Jim and Len to the theater, where one of the reigning comic opera successes was on view. It was an imported piece of the "Merry Widow" type, and everyone enjoyed it to the utmost. Aunt Betty and the Judge found their risibilities thoroughly shaken by the antics of the star, a comedian of prominence, while the tastes of the young people seemed to incline toward the bright chorus numbers, and the individual songs and duets. Len was perhaps the most joyous member of the party. It was his first experience at the theater, and the elaborate stage settings, the bright lights, and the catchy music had opened to him the gates of Fairyland, as it were. When one of the characters cracked a joke, and the comedian replied that he was very fond of walnuts and hickory nuts, but not at all partial to chestnuts, Len nearly fell out of his seat, and the young lady who followed them on the stage was well through her song before he controlled his laughter enough to realize what was going on. Len's merriment so pleased Aunt Betty and Judge Breckenridge that they, too, burst into laughter, which continued until a whispered "Sh!" from Dorothy warned them that they were attracting the attention of others in the theater. Then the Judge put his finger to his lips and looked solemnly at Len and Aunt Betty, whereupon the trio instantly became sober, and turned their attention again to the stage. After the theater the Judge insisted on treating the party to hot chocolate and cake, so they were led to a popular resort often frequented during the days by Dorothy and Aurora. This served to round off a very pleasant evening, and as there was nothing to prevent each member of the party from sleeping late the following morning, their happiness was complete. So urgently did Aunt Betty and Dorothy beg Molly and the Judge to spend the early part of January with them, that the Judge consented, greatly to Molly's delight. "Business really demands my attention in New York," he said, "but I suppose that can wait another week. We don't have times like this every year, do we Molly, girl?" "Indeed, no," responded the person addressed. "But it will not be my fault hereafter, if you do not have them each year," said Aunt Betty. "I hereby issue a standing invitation for you both to spend the next holiday season with us, and the next, and the next, and so on, and next year, Judge, you must bring your sister Lucretia. It was an oversight on my part in not inviting her on this occasion." "Lucretia has been very busy doing some settlement work, and Christmas is her busy time, hence, she would have been unable to accept your kind invitation. Next year, however, things may have changed. If so, we shall certainly bring her with us." There followed a succession of trips to nearby points of interest. The snow, which lay thick during the holidays, began to melt soon after the new year dawned, and, the roads drying hard, Gerald came over one day in the auto and took them for a jaunt in the country. A fishing excursion to the shores of the bay on another day, with Jim and Ephraim as the pilots, served to demonstrate to the Judge that he was every bit as good a fisherman as he had been in the early days, for he caught eight speckled sea-trout, and three red-fish--a better record than was made by any other member of the party. Finally, the Judge and Molly took their departure, the former declaring that the duties in New York had become imperative ones. Dorothy hated to lose her chum again, they saw each other so seldom, but agreed with Molly that the latter must spend some time in her own home. Then, as February passed, and the winds of March began to make themselves felt, things settled down to their usual routine at Bellvieu. Dorothy, who had resumed her lessons immediately upon Molly's departure, was fast approaching a point where, Herr Deichenberg declared, she would be able to appear before an audience in the most critical of musical centers. He advised that she immediately seek the opportunity, or allow him to seek one for her. Again Aunt Betty interposed a mild objection, and the music master, with a sly wink at Dorothy, observed under his breath: "Just leave it to me." This Dorothy did, and with good results, as will be seen. She dropped the subject entirely when Aunt Betty was around, resolved to wait until the psychological moment arrived to again broach the matter, or until she heard further from Herr Deichenberg. Two weeks passed and finally Herr Deichenberg came out to the house one morning with Mr. Ludlow, whom he presented to Aunt Betty. At first the mistress of Bellvieu was inclined to receive the theatrical man coldly, believing he had come to entice her niece away, but gradually, under Herr Deichenberg's careful urging, she began to see matters in a new light. "Mr. Ludlow has no desire to take Miss Dorothy avay from you," said the Herr, earnestly. "Please believe me vhen I tell you. Also believe me vhen I say dat all of Miss Dorothy's lessons vill go for naught, if she does not seek a time und place to exploit her talents. There is open for her a career of great prominence--of dat I am very sure, but to attain de pinnacle of success, she must first go a few steps above de middle rounds of de ladder. Mr. Ludlow has a good proposition to make to her, und one dat meets with my hearty approval. I beg of you, Mrs. Calvert, listen carefully to vhat he has to say, und deliberate before you give him an answer." "If Dorothy's welfare is at stake I shall listen, of course; I should have listened, anyway, but with some prejudice, I will admit. I cannot see where it will do my niece any great good to become a stage celebrity, but if Mr. Ludlow can convince me, I stand ready to acknowledge my error." "I am sure that is fair enough," said Mr. Ludlow, smiling genially. He had a pleasant personality--refined, even striking in the more serious moments, and Aunt Betty felt attracted to him the instant he began to speak. "A career for your niece, Mrs. Calvert--a professional career--under proper management, is distinctly the proper thing for her. I heard her play at Herr Deichenberg's concert here last fall, and knew at once that she had an exceptional amount of talent, which, if fostered, under the Herr's careful methods, would make of her one of the musical wonders of the age. It was then I made my offer--which was merely a tentative one--to Miss Calvert, not meaning to in any way override your authority, but merely for the purpose of sounding her out and winning a promise that she would give me an option on her services, provided she decided to adopt the concert stage as a career." "She told me of her conversation with you," returned Aunt Betty, "and I am free to admit that I was prejudiced against it." "You were also prejudiced against riding fast in Gerald's automobile, auntie," said Dorothy, smiling. "But Gerald overcame that just as Mr. Ludlow is going to try to overcome this." "From speeding in an automobile, to adopting the concert stage as a career, is a far cry, my dear," returned Aunt Betty, rather severely, Dorothy thought. Had she known what was passing in her relative's mind, however, the girl would not for a moment have condemned her. Had she known, for instance, that Aunt Betty's prejudice against the stage as a career was not at the bottom of her refusal, but the fact that she feared Dorothy would be taken away from her in her old age, just when she had found her a second time, and learned to know and love her, she would have immediately thrown her arms around Aunt Betty's neck and making no comment have kissed her affectionately. "Of course, I do not know the state of your finances, nor would I be so presuming as to inquire," Mr. Ludlow went on, "but it may interest you to know that if Miss Dorothy goes on the concert stage it will mean quite a tidy sum of money for her--and money, I am sure, will always prove a handy asset to have around. So, both artistically and financially, it seems the proper thing for her to do." "But I have heard that girls on the stage are exposed to many temptations," protested Aunt Betty, who felt the ground slipping from under her arguments. Realizing, as she did, that it was Dorothy's wish that she give the concert stage a trial, she was inclined to be lenient. "A wrong impression, madame--an entirely wrong impression," said Mr. Ludlow, emphatically. "There are temptations in stage life, yes; but so there are in other professions, and he or she who falters will find their steps to be hard ones, no matter who they are or where they be. Force of character rules on the stage, Mrs. Calvert, just as it does in every other walk of life. Thus it is that the theatrical profession shelters some of the smartest, most wonderful women the world has ever known. Because a few notoriety seekers have caused the finger of scorn to be pointed at an honorable profession, just as one dishonest employé can, and frequently does, cause a whole institution to be looked at with suspicion, should the dramatic profession, as a whole, be made to suffer? I ask you this in all fairness, madame, and await your answer." "Well, really, I hadn't considered it in that light," said Aunt Betty, slowly, deliberately. "I believe you are right, Mr. Ludlow, and I thank you sincerely for changing my viewpoint. Ever since I saw that great play, 'The Music Master,' with David Warfield in the part of Herr von Barwig, I have wondered if the theatrical profession was wholly a bad one. Now, I think I understand." "I am glad it remained for me to tell you, Mrs. Calvert." "And if my niece sees fit to arrange with you for a metropolitan appearance, and you feel that it will be a great triumph for her, I shall certainly not stand in the way." "Oh, you dear, good auntie!" Dorothy cried, throwing her arms about Mrs. Calvert's neck and giving her a resounding kiss. "I shall thank you all my life for those few words." "Mrs. Calvert, you have made a very sensible decision," Herr Deichenberg remarked with no little degree of satisfaction. "Believe me, I know vhat I say iss true. Und now, if you vill please allow Mr. Ludlow to make some necessary arrangements before he takes his leave, it vill greatly facilitate matters." Aunt Betty quickly assented, and turning to Dorothy, Mr. Ludlow said: "What I wish is for you to appear at a preliminary concert in New York City, at a date yet to be decided upon. You will be under the watchful eye of your music master, and the affair will be given under his auspices. You will, perhaps, have some prominent vocalist to help you fill in the evening's entertainment. I wish to know if this will be agreeable?" "Yes, if the date is not too soon," the girl replied. "As to that, we shall suit your pleasure, so it occurs before warm weather sets in." "It need not be later than the first of May." "Then please sign this contract. I have drawn it up with the approval of Herr Deichenberg, but before attaching your name, I will ask you to read it and be sure you thoroughly understand it." "Perhaps my lawyers might--" Aunt Betty began. Herr Deichenberg raised his hand in dissent. "Madame, it iss unnecessary. I am familiar with every form of contract und I say to you dat de one offered your niece by Mr. Ludlow is equitable and just, and can only be to her advantage." "We will take your word, of course," replied Aunt Betty. "The only reason I spoke is that neither Dorothy or myself is well versed in contracts of any sort." "The very reason why I prepared the contract after suggestions offered by Herr Deichenberg," said Mr. Ludlow with a good-natured smile. "Oh, Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, as she read the document, "for one appearance in New York, I am to receive one hundred dollars and my expenses both ways. I think that is a very liberal offer." "Merely a pittance, Miss Calvert, beside what you will get if your concert pleases the music lovers of the metropolis, who, as you are no doubt aware, are the most discriminating in the country." "Oh, I hope I shall please them. I shall try so hard." "You just leave dat to me," said Herr Deichenberg. "Any young lady who played as you did at my concert, need have no fear of facing a metropolitan audience." "The plan is, Miss Calvert," Mr. Ludlow went on, in a thoroughly business-like tone, "if your New York concert proves a success, for you to sign contracts to appear next season under my management in the principal cities of the country. When we know positively that this is advisable, we will discuss terms, and I assure you we shall not quarrel over the matter of a few dollars, more or less." "I'm sure we won't," replied Dorothy. Aunt Betty found herself hoping for the success of the plan. All opposition to the matter seemed, for the time, to have slipped her mind. Mr. Ludlow bade them good-by shortly after, and left in company with Herr Deichenberg. Dorothy closed the door softly behind them, then, happy that her ambition was at last to become a reality, threw herself in the arms of Aunt Betty and sobbed: "Oh, auntie, auntie, it has come at last, but it won't--it won't take me away from you." "We must not be too sure of that, my dear," Aunt Betty replied, as calmly as she could. Her wildly-beating heart cried out for the love and sympathy that she knew only this girl could give her. How could she ever, ever bear to give her up? "Auntie, dear," Dorothy said, straightening up and wiping her eyes with quick, nervous little dabs, "if such a thing as separation is even suggested, I shall never move a step from old Bellvieu--never, never!" "Oh, my dear, I cannot expect you to give up a great career for me." "What would any sort of a career be without you? Nothing--absolutely nothing! I wouldn't listen to it for a moment. Where I go there you shall go also." "But I am getting too old to travel." Aunt Betty's protest, however, sounded rather feeble. "Nonsense!" the girl replied. "You were the very life of our camping party, and I'm sure riding in railroad trains is not half so strenuous as speeding forty miles an hour over country roads in an automobile. No objections, now, auntie dear, unless you want me to give up my career before it is begun." "No, no, of course, I--" "Of course you don't want me to do that. Certainly not. For that very reason, if for no other, you are going to accompany me wherever I go, which means that you may as well start planning that new spring dress, for we will be traveling New Yorkward ere many weeks have passed." "Do you think blue would be becoming, dear?" Dorothy could have laughed outright with delight, when she saw how quickly Aunt Betty became lost in contemplation over what she should wear on the trip. "Well, yes, if it is of the proper shade, auntie, but you know nothing becomes you so well as black." "Black it shall be, then--black panama, with a nice new bonnet to match." "And I, auntie, dear, what shall _I_ wear? How are we to afford all these fine things when our finances are at a low ebb?" "Our finances are in better condition than they were, dear. A letter a few days since from my lawyers, states that certain property I have placed in their hands is rapidly increasing in value, and that I shall be able to realize from time to time such sums as I may need." "Oh, I'm so glad! Strange you didn't tell me." "I'd forgotten it. I really believe I am getting absent-minded." Had Dorothy known the truth--that though the lawyers had agreed to advance certain sums, it meant a mortgage on old Bellvieu, her peace of mind would have been sadly disturbed. But Aunt Betty took good care she did not know it--self-sacrificing soul that she was. CHAPTER XIII IN THE METROPOLIS New York! A magic word to Dorothy Calvert, and as she stepped from the train in the great Pennsylvania railway station, curiosity and interest were expressed in her glance. Not since her trip to California with Aunt Betty and Ephraim had the girl been in Gay Gotham, which, to her, had always been a place of great enchantment. The noise of the trains, the clangor of trucks, as they were whirled up and down the station platform by the baggagemen; the noise of the subway and surface cars, mingled with countless other sounds, were sufficient to distract any girl's attention, and Dorothy came out of her reverie and turned, only when Aunt Betty cried out from the car steps: "Dorothy Calvert, wherever are you going?" "Oh, I--" "Are you going to leave me behind?" "I--I--why, auntie--I--" "One would think you had never been in a great city before. Wait for me! Remember, I am going everywhere you go. You did not bring me this far from Bellvieu to leave me in the lurch, young lady." "Goodness knows, I had no idea of doing anything of the sort, auntie." "Well, you just wait! I'm not as spry as I used to be." Jim Barlow carefully helped Aunt Betty to the platform, while Ephraim followed with a load of suit cases. Then came Herr and Frau Deichenberg, each with a little hand satchel, the professor guarding jealously his beloved violin. No heavy luggage for the Deichenbergs, the Frau had told Aunt Betty on the journey up from Baltimore. "Ve shan't be here for long; de concert occurs to-morrow night, und ve shall go straight back home vhen ve are t'rough," was the way she put it. The Herr was attired in his customary black. He had maintained his usual phlegmatic manner all through the journey, and apparently had no intention of departing from it now. Having spent many years in New York after his arrival in America, the city's fascination for the average mortal seemed to make no appeal to him. Once off the train, Jim began to search diligently in the crowd for a familiar face. For a moment a blank look expressed his disappointment. Then his features lighted up and he waved his hand at a tall, spectacled gentleman who came eagerly forward to meet him. "Jim, I am glad to see you," greeted this individual. "And I to see you, Dr. Sterling." A hearty hand-clasp followed. "Why it _is_ Dr. Sterling!" cried Aunt Betty, adjusting her glasses that she might better see him. "How good it seems to find you here in New York. How did you leave things up the Hudson, and especially at Deerhurst?" "Same as of yore," he replied. "Hans and Griselda, faithful souls, are keeping the place in spick and span condition." His face lighted suddenly. "And here is Miss Dorothy, grown into a tall young lady since last I saw her." "Don't accuse me of being too tall, Dr. Sterling," said Dorothy, in a tone of mild reproof. "That is getting to be a sore subject with me. I have no intention of being either a toothpick or a beanstalk, though if what my friends tell me is true, I am in a fair way to be either, or both." Dr. Sterling laughed. "You mustn't mind a bit of a joke, you know. You are at an age where nothing can stop your growth. Your height seems to you exaggerated--that's all--and your friends merely perpetuate the belief with the idea of teasing you." "I'll take your word for that, doctor. And now, let me present my music teacher, Herr Deichenberg, and Mrs. Deichenberg," Dorothy then said. The introductions were duly acknowledged, after which the party went into the station, and thence to the street beyond. "Where are you going to stop?" Dr. Sterling wanted to know, as he turned an inquisitive glance on Aunt Betty. "I've forgotten the name of the place," replied the mistress of Bellvieu, "but Herr Deichenberg can enlighten you. He wired ahead for the rooms." "It iss de Arlington," the music master vouchsafed. "De proprietor iss a personal friend of mine, und de accommodations vill be of de very best." "Then I shall immediately change my quarters," said the genial doctor. "I am farther down town, but as we are to be in the city but a couple of days, it is well for us to be together as much as possible." This programme was followed to the letter, and before noon Dorothy and Aunt Betty had washed, and changed their attire for fresh, clean linen suits, after which they announced themselves in readiness for any events that might be on the programme. Dr. Sterling, who had been holding a conference with Jim, proposed a boat trip down the bay. "Oh, that will be delightful," Dorothy said. "How can it be arranged?" "I have a friend in New York, a Mr. Ronald, who owns a very handsome private yacht. This he has placed at my disposal on all occasions. I shall immediately call him up by 'phone and find if the boat is available for this afternoon." This the doctor did, and returned a few moments later with the good news that Mr. Ronald would personally see that the party viewed all the sights of the bay and river front. While at lunch one of the surprises of the day revealed itself in the shape of Judge Breckenridge and Molly, who walked in on the astonished Calverts totally unannounced. "Molly!" "Dorothy!" These exclamations were followed by a bear-like hug as the girls flew into each other's arms. Many of the diners became interested and stopped eating long enough to watch the lingering embrace to the end. The Judge shook hands all around, then places were made for him and Molly at the table occupied by Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Jim. Dorothy quickly won their promise to go down the bay in the yacht, and lunch over, the party immediately made preparations to start. Herr Deichenberg and his wife were sure the trip would prove rather trying for them, as neither was fond of the water, so decided to remain at the hotel and receive Mr. Ludlow, who was due at four o'clock. Upon Dorothy's insisting that perhaps she had better stay and meet the manager, also, the Herr shook his head. "No, no; dat iss entirely unnecessary." "Then give him my regards, and say that I shall see him to-night or in the morning," cried the girl. "I vill do dat. In de meantime enjoy yourself. Forget there iss such a t'ing as a concert. To-morrow night, vhen you stand before de great audience in de theater, iss time enough to t'ink of dat." Aunt Betty at first thought she, too, would remain behind, but after lunch she was feeling in such unusually good spirits that she announced her intention of going, if only to have an old-time chat with the Judge. "Auntie, you are getting younger every day," cried Dorothy, pleased that her relative was so spry at her advanced age. "And I intend to continue to grow younger as long as I may, dear. It is a privilege not given many women, and I shall make the most of it. If I have the opportunity I may even set my cap for a beau." "Oh, Aunt Betty, how can you say such a thing!" "'Such a thing,' as you call it, would be perfectly proper. Would it not, Judge Breckenridge?" "Quite proper, madame--quite proper," responded the judge gallantly--"in fact, judging by the evidence of my eyes, I see no other solution of the matter." "What a gallant speech," laughed Molly. "You may be a semi-invalid, papa, but you will never, never lose your courtly ways." "An example which all young men should emulate," said Aunt Betty, looking pointedly at Jim, who grinned broadly. It was a merry party that boarded the trim gasoline yacht _Nautilus_ at one of the wharves an hour later. Aunt Betty, assisted by the Judge and Jim, was the first aboard. Doctor Sterling, with Dorothy and Molly followed. The owner of the yacht was introduced by Dr. Sterling, and when all were comfortably seated in the deck chairs forward, Mr. Ronald signaled the man in the wheelhouse, who in turn signaled the engine-room to go ahead. "Ah, this is my style of boating," sighed the Judge, as, with a deep sigh of satisfaction he dropped into one of the comfortable chairs on the forward deck. "When a boy I used to sail a little sloop, but after all, it is better to have something to push you besides the wind." The steamer whistle screeched hoarsely. "We're off!" cried Dr. Sterling. Though a strong breeze, in which there was a tinge of dampness, came in from the ocean as the yacht went spinning down the bay, no one chose to retire to the cabin, even Aunt Betty protesting that the fresh air was doing her good. A heavy swell was running, but the _Nautilus_ weathered the waves in true ocean style, only a slight rocking movement being perceptible. When they were well started down the bay, Mr. Ronald came to ask if they cared to visit the Statue of Liberty. "I think that's an excellent idea," said Dr. Sterling. "Judge Breckenridge and Mrs. Calvert cannot, of course, climb the spiral stairs leading up into the statue, but we younger people can, and will, if you say the word." "Oh, I think it will be jolly," cried Dorothy, who had seen the Statue of Liberty from the Brooklyn bridge and wondered what was inside it. Molly and Jim fell promptly in with the plan, so the yacht was moored to the little island, after which Dr. Sterling guided the girls and Jim up to the dizzy height represented by the statue's hand. Quite a climb it was, too, but one which amply rewarded them, for they were able to gaze out over city and bay to such an advantage that they were loath to descend. Back to the yacht they finally went, however, and the _Nautilus_ again turned her nose down the upper bay. On one side lay Brooklyn, on the other Jersey City, while about them craft of all shapes and sizes puffed and snorted as they performed their daily tasks. On down into the lower bay the yacht went skimming, breasting the heavy swells of the Atlantic, and causing exclamations of delight from both Molly and Dorothy, neither of whom had ever been this far at sea. Down between the upper quarantine and the Staten Island shore they went at a speed of twelve knots, then, rounding the lower quarantine, stood straight for Rockaway Beach. It was too early in the season for any of the resorts to be open, hence the girls were unable to view the scenes of activity that make these famous places the mecca of the bathers in the warm season. "I imagine I should like to spend a summer here," said Dorothy. "And perhaps some of these days you will have the opportunity--who knows?" remarked Aunt Betty. "Well, when she comes I must be included in the party or there will be big trouble," Molly put in. "Lots of trouble you'd make your best chum, young lady," replied Aunt Betty, chucking the Judge's daughter playfully under the chin. After a run of some twenty minutes, the yacht again turned, this time nosing its way back along the coast toward the lower bay. "In a few moments, I will show you Brighton and Manhattan Beaches," said Dr. Sterling--"also the famous Coney Island of which you have heard so much." "I should dearly love to visit Coney," said Dorothy. "I have been there twice," said Molly, proudly, "and it is a veritable city of wonders. I have never been able to understand how a brain can conceive all those funny things which amuse you." "Great brains are capable of many things in these days," Jim said. "Oh, are they now, my noble philosopher?" "Yes, Miss Saucy, they are!" "What's that stretch of water east of us, with all the little islands in it?" asked Dorothy, suddenly. "That is Jamaica Bay," replied Mr. Ronald. "It lies across the peninsula from Rockaway Beach." "I thought Jamaica was in the West Indies, or some other forsaken spot," said Molly. "Come, come," chided Dr. Sterling. "Remember your geography." "You certainly ought to know where the ginger comes from," said Jim, in the same bantering spirit. "Well, I guess I do, if anybody asks you, Mr. Barlow," she returned, saucily. "But that's no sign I knew there was a Jamaica Bay in New York State. My geography didn't teach me that." "Of course it did," taunted the boy, "but you did not take the trouble to remember it." Further discussion of this unimportant subject was cut short by a crash from the engine-room of the yacht, followed by a hissing noise as of escaping steam, and the propeller, which was being driven at many thousands of revolutions per minute, began suddenly to slow up. A shriek from Aunt Betty drew Dorothy quickly to her side, while Mr. Ronald cried out: "Something has happened to the engine!" Then he made a dash below decks, followed by Dr. Sterling, and, a few seconds later, by Jim, who saw in the yacht's misfortune another opportunity to satisfy his mechanical curiosity. The boy reached the engine-room directly on the heels of Mr. Ronald and Dr. Sterling, and saw the engineer and his assistant flat on their backs trying to locate the trouble. "Something apparently broke inside her, sir," the engineer was saying, in response to a question from Mr. Ronald. "I can't say how serious it is till we find it, sir." "Then of course you do not know how long we shall be delayed?" "No; I couldn't say, sir. Can't even promise that we can run in on one pair of cylinders, sir, for they all seem to be affected alike." At this a shadow overspread the owner's face and he turned to Dr. Sterling. "Sorry, Doc," he said. "What did you tell me about getting to town before dark?" "I merely mentioned the fact that Miss Calvert should be early to bed, because she appears at a concert to-morrow evening, and it is necessary that she feel as well as possible." "It is after four now," said Mr. Ronald, looking at his watch, "and I don't know what to tell you until Sharley--that's my engineer--locates the trouble." "Then perhaps we had better withhold from those on deck the fact that there may be an indefinite delay, merely making the general statement that the trouble is being rectified as rapidly as possible." "Very well; will you tell them, and make my excuses? I shall want to stay pretty close here till this trouble is found." "I'll tell them," said the doctor, and motioning Jim to follow went on deck. So the news which, poorly told, might have brought consternation to Dorothy and her aunt, merely aroused their curiosity. Soon they were laughing and talking with all thoughts of the accident gone from their minds. Meanwhile, below, Mr. Ronald, Sharley and the assistant engineer, were going over every inch of the gasoline motors, hoping to find what had been the cause of their sudden refusal to do their work. Screws were tightened and several other minor matters remedied. Then Sharley signaled the pilot house that he was going to try her again. Having tested his batteries with the buzzer, and adjusted the timer, he turned on the gasoline and slowly opened the throttle. There was no response. Sharley repeated the operation several times without getting the desired explosion. Then he retested the batteries with the buzzer and adjusted the carburetor, discovering that the gasoline had not been turned on at that point--or, at least, had been turned off after the trouble started. More cranking followed, but without success. The _Nautilus_ was now drifting in toward the shore, and a peep through a porthole told Sharley that he would be upon the sands of Rockaway if something were not done soon. "Told you she ought to have a sail equipment for emergencies," he said to Mr. Ronald. "Yes; you told me--that's not your fault. The question now is, what are we going to do?" "Nothing that I can see but throw out our anchor. Ain't more than twenty feet of water here, and she's growing less all the time." "But I can't throw out the anchor without alarming the ladies." "Have to alarm 'em, then, I guess. That's better than going aground and paying somebody salvage to get you off, eh, Mr. Ronald?" and the engineer laughed. Mr. Ronald admitted the force of the statement, then went on deck to break the news to his guests. CHAPTER XIV THE STORM Mr. Ronald's appearance on deck was the signal for a jubilant shout from Dorothy, Molly and Jim. "Now we'll be off again in a jiffy!" Molly cried. "I can see it in Mr. Ronald's face." "Which only goes to show that looks are really deceiving," returned the owner of the yacht, good-naturedly. "What!" cried Dorothy, while Molly gave vent to a disappointed, "Oh!" "Do you mean that the engineer hasn't yet got to the seat of the trouble?" queried Dr. Sterling. "I regret to say that his efforts are not meeting with the success we had hoped for, and as we are slowly drifting in toward the beach, with only a few feet of water under our keel, we shall be forced to drop anchor, pending further developments in the engine-room." "That means that the trouble is serious," groaned Aunt Betty. "Not necessarily," said Judge Breckenridge, in an encouraging tone, "but if we run aground we will be 'suah 'nuff' in trouble, as old Ephraim would say." "The trouble is merely temporary, I assure you," Mr. Ronald went on. "If you will excuse me again, I'll order the anchor dropped. Then we can at least make our minds easy as to where we will stay until the trouble is located." The others nodded their assent and he hurried forward. A moment later, with a rattling of chains, the anchor plunged into the waters of the bay. Mr. Ronald then rejoined his guests, and in spite of the anxiety that was surging in Dorothy's breast, she entered into the spirit of the occasion with the others. Story and jest rang out over the water as the sun gradually approached the horizon. It was after six when Sharley came on deck to say that the trouble was as elusive as ever. "We've been over every inch of her," he said, "and can't find a thing the matter. Yet, she won't budge an inch. The gasoline supply is O. K., and the batteries are in good shape. There's no trouble at all about exploding the spark, but I can't get the engine to turn a wheel, sir." Mr. Ronald cast an uneasy glance toward the eastern sky, where a heavy bank of clouds was appearing above the sky-line. The rapidity with which they were approaching seemed to indicate that a storm was brewing. He said nothing of this to his guests, though, but smilingly remarked that he would go below again to go over the matter another time with Sharley. Then owner and engineer disappeared below decks together. Anxiously those on deck awaited some report from the engine-room; but the minutes slipped by and none came. Finally, Dorothy noticed the approaching storm, and gave vent to a startled exclamation, which, caused Aunt Betty to jump, and Molly to grab her chum nervously by the arm. "What is it?" Aunt Betty wanted to know. Dorothy extended her finger toward the formidable looking bank of clouds. "A storm is coming," she replied, "and if we don't hurry and fix the engines we shall be caught in it." As if in answer to Dorothy's remark, Mr. Ronald appeared on deck at this instant. His face wore a troubled expression and the hopes of the guests fell as they noticed it. "It's of no use; we can't find the trouble," he said. "Looks very like we were in a trap and destined to quite a stay." The wind had already commenced to blow. The _Nautilus_ had swung around bow on to the east and was tugging viciously at her anchor. "If some other boat would only come by and pick us up!" cried Aunt Betty. "Why, we may have to stay out here all night." "What of it?" queried Judge Breckenridge. "Why, Dorothy will be in no shape for the concert to-morrow night--that's what of it. And Herr and Frau Deichenberg will be worried over our continued absence." "The cabin of the yacht will afford comfortable sleeping quarters for you ladies," said Mr. Ronald. "I regret this occurrence, but now that we are here, with no prospect for getting away under several hours, we must make the best of a bad bargain." "Let me suggest that we all go inside," said Dr. Sterling. "The wind is getting too cool for you, Mrs. Calvert." "I suppose that's an insinuation against my age," returned the person addressed, with some spirit. "But I'll forgive you, doctor; we had best look the facts in the face." She arose as she spoke, and taking Jim's arm, walked slowly toward the cabin. The others followed. No sooner were they inside than the storm descended with a roar. Sheets of water, wind-driven, beat against the windows of the cabin, and the yacht rose on top of great waves to plunge down into the trough of the sea with a motion that gave Aunt Betty a sinking feeling. "It's like going down in an elevator," she confided to Dorothy. "I just know I'm going to be seasick." "You will if you think about it every minute," said Dr. Sterling. "Get your mind on something else and you will be all right." "Easier said than done, doctor." "Oh, I don't know. Now, that reminds me of a story," and he went on to relate a certain incident of his career which took the thoughts of seasickness and storm away from Aunt Betty's mind. It soon grew so dark it became necessary to switch on the electric lights. Then, while the yacht rolled and tossed on the heavy waves, Mr. Ronald and his guests entertained themselves as best they could. Through the windows a glare marked the location of the city, though no objects were visible on the ink-black surface of the water. As Dorothy looked longingly out into the darkness she wondered what Herr Deichenberg and Mr. Ludlow would be thinking by this time. Knowing she had gone out on the yacht, and that a storm had descended on both bay and city, they would be worried, no doubt, and there was no means of communicating with them to allay their fears until the yacht was able to pull up anchor and steam into the city by her own motive power. And this seemed unlikely to happen soon, for no word of encouragement had come from the engine-room, though Engineer Sharley and his assistant were still making a diligent search for the trouble. Fortunately the larder of the _Nautilus_ was well-stocked with food, and Mr. Ronald, with the help of one of the deck hands, was able to serve a very satisfactory lunch to the storm-bound, hungry guests. Steaming coffee was made on a little electric range, and this, with rolls, canned salmon, and bread and butter, served to satisfy the appetites of all. "How nice and cozy this would be," said Molly, as they were gathered about the table, "if it were not storming so hard, and Dorothy was not worried as to when she is to reach the city." "Why, pshaw! there's nothing to worry over," said Jim. "The storm won't last forever, and I'm sure if the engines are not fixed by morning, Mr. Ronald will signal for a tow to pull us into the city." "That will be the only thing to do," said the yachtsman. "But the trouble will be remedied before morning, I am sure." At ten o'clock the storm had abated to some extent, though the rain was still beating in sheets against the cabin windows. The wind, however, seemed to have lost its great velocity, and the yacht did not toss as badly. Under these comforting circumstances the girls and Aunt Betty retired to the staterooms of the yacht, where they threw themselves in the bunks thoroughly dressed, resolved to get what rest they could. In the cabin the men smoked and told stories, while Jim sat near, an interested listener. At midnight the boy curled up on a seat built against the side of the cabin and went to sleep. Judge Breckenridge was nodding in a big Morris chair, so Dr. Sterling and Mr. Ronald left them and went to the engine-room, where Sharley and his assistant were still laboring faithfully at the machinery. "Well, we've got it located," said the grimy engineer, smiling good-naturedly. "The trouble is on this end of the propeller shaft. A piece of metal is lodged between the cogs, and we've been unable so far to get it out. It's only a question of time, though. Bill is hammering away with a cold chisel and something is bound to give 'way soon." "Can we run into the city in the storm, Sharley, or will it be better to wait till it clears?" "Well, it's pretty misty out, and hard to see the lights of other boats, but we'll chance it if you say so, sir." "I'll think it over. Let me know when the engine is fixed and we'll decide what is best to do. Come, Sterling; let's go on deck for a breath of air." Donning heavy ulsters, they were soon on the slippery deck of the yacht, the storm beating in their faces. The man in the wheelhouse, encased in heavy oilskins, was nodding in the shelter of his little quarters. He started up as Mr. Ronald and his friend came slipping along the deck. "A bad night, sir, but the storm's going down," he remarked, pleasantly. "The engines will soon be fixed, Donnelly, and if it's let up sufficiently we may try to make the city at once. Otherwise we will wait till daylight." "Yes, sir; all right, sir," and the man bowed as Mr. Ronald and Dr. Sterling passed on. In the meantime, Dorothy and Molly lay in their bunks, talking on various subjects, but mostly of the coming concert. Dorothy, of course, was worried, and was trying to borrow trouble by declaring the storm would keep up all the following day, and that she might be forced to miss the concert altogether--an idea which Molly "pooh-poohed" in vigorous terms. "I'm surprised at you, Dorothy Calvert," she said. "You're not a quitter. Nothing in the world will keep you from being at the theater to-morrow night, and you will play as you have never played before. Difficulties will but serve to spur you on to greater deeds." "You're right, chum," Dorothy replied. "That is a well-deserved rebuke and I thank you for it. Which reminds me that my fears were groundless, for the wind is going down and it does not seem to be raining as hard as it was." "Of course not, you goosey! These storms rarely last more than a few hours. The sun will be shining in the morning, and all you'll see to remind you of to-night will be the rather worn looks of your companions. But what is one night's loss of sleep, anyway? I just know when you were at school you lost many a good night's sleep through some prank. Now, didn't you?" "That would be telling tales out of school," smiled Dorothy. "An evasion means an assent," remarked her chum. "And the next evening you were feeling as well as ever--just as a nice, warm bath and a rub-down will make you forget your troubles of to-night." And Molly was a true prophet. The storm went down rapidly after midnight, until there was only a slight mist falling, and the wind came in fitful little gusts, which lacked the force to do damage even of a slight nature. After one o'clock, with the cheering intelligence that the engines would soon be in working order, called to them through the stateroom door by Dr. Sterling, the girls fell asleep, to be awakened some hours later by the motion of the boat. "Oh, look, Molly!" Dorothy cried, shaking her chum out of a sound sleep. "The yacht is under way." "Didn't I tell you so?" was the rather discomforting reply, as Molly sat up, rubbing her eyes. "First thing we know we'll be back at the hotel." "We'll have to reach the dock first, though." "Thanks for the information," said Molly, as she began to arrange her hair. The sun was streaming in through the port-holes and the water without was as smooth as glass. The yacht was headed toward the city, and moving along at a steady pace, though not at full speed. The girls smoothed out their crumpled dresses, gave several other touches to their attire, and after a vigorous use of powder rags, taken from their hand-satchels, they aroused Aunt Betty and together went into the cabin, thence to the deck. "Good morning!" greeted Judge Breckenridge, who, seated near the rail amidships, was smoking an early morning cigar in the keenest enjoyment. "It is _good_ morning, sure enough!" cried Dorothy, drawing her lungs full of the pure, sweet air. "And I'm so glad. I hope we reach the city soon, for Herr Deichenberg and Mr. Ludlow will be worried to death over my absence." "In half an hour we'll be at the wharf," said Mr. Ronald, who approached at this moment. "I trust you rested well?" This remark was directed principally toward Aunt Betty, who replied: "I didn't hear a sound all night long. The last noise I heard was the chatter of the two young magpies who occupied the berths across from me, but no misfortune, no matter how dire or dreadful, could bridle their tongues, so that was to be expected." "That sounds very much like a libel to me," said Dorothy, laughing. "Well, you're my niece, and I can libel you if I wish," was the spirited response. "But Molly isn't your niece, auntie." "Never mind; she insists on keeping company with you. Under those circumstances she must expect to take home to herself most of the things I say about you." "I'm not worried," said Molly. "I suppose we are all you say we are, and more, Mrs. Calvert." "That's a charitable view to take of it," said Dr. Sterling. The engines were working so well that before they realized it the _Nautilus_ was lying snugly moored to her wharf in the North River. Mr. Ronald's guests bade him good-by and left the boat, after making him promise to be at Dorothy's concert in the evening. At the hotel, early as was the hour, Dorothy found Herr Deichenberg and Mr. Ludlow in conference over her continued absence. "My goodness! My goodness!" cried the music master. "Would you drive us crazy, Miss Dorothy, that you stay avay all night and make us believe you are lost in the storm?" "I did not make you believe anything, Herr Deichenberg. You took that upon yourself. And perhaps I was lost in the storm, sir," replied the girl, then extended her hand to Mr. Ludlow. "I forgive you, Miss Calvert, and trust you have not so impaired your faculties that your work will fall below its usual standard to-night," said the manager. "I have not, I assure you. We were very comfortable in the berths, and put in some good time sleeping between midnight and morning. Molly will tell you that we have no reason for feeling badly." "Indeed, no, and Dorothy will be in perfect trim, Mr. Ludlow." "Your assurance makes my mind perfectly easy," was his reply. "But vhy didn't you let us know?" Herr Deichenberg asked excitedly. "Vhy? Vhy?" "Because the yacht was not equipped with a wireless apparatus, I suppose," Jim Barlow put in, rather testily. "She has done the best she knew how, sir, and that's all anyone can do." "Truly spoken, my boy," replied the Herr, laying a kindly hand on his shoulder. "You must not mind me; I am a little nervous--dat iss all." "The nervousness will pass away now the truant has returned," Aunt Betty assured him. Frau Deichenberg, who approached at that moment, nodded, smiling: "Ah, madame, dat iss true. You must not mind him. He iss like dat vhenever anyt'ing goes wrong. But he means not'ing--not'ing!" She extended her hand. "I am glad to see you safely back." Assuring Mr. Ludlow that she would be on hand in the evening without fail, and promising to see him during the afternoon if he called, Dorothy went up to her room, where a hot bath and a nap of several hours' duration put her in excellent physical trim for the ordeal that night--for an ordeal she knew it was to be--an ordeal that would be the making or the breaking of her career. CHAPTER XV DOROTHY'S TRIUMPH At last the hour was approaching when Dorothy would make her appearance before a metropolitan audience. As evening drew near she felt a nervous sensation, mingled with a faint suspicion of nausea, and wondered at it. Upon the occasion of her appearance in Baltimore not even a tremor of excitement had possessed her; yet, the very thought of appearing in the glare of the footlights in this great New York theater gave her an almost uncontrollable desire to fly away--anywhere--away from the people of this city whose opinions seemed to mean so much to the followers of music and the drama. Arriving at the theater early, just as she had on the occasion of her appearance in her home city, Dorothy again peeped through a small hole in the curtain, to find the great gold-and-green auditorium a perfect blaze of light. To her right, in the stage box, sat Aunt Betty, Molly, the Judge, Frau Deichenberg, Mr. Ronald and Jim Barlow chatting gayly, and awaiting the time when the curtain should rise for Dorothy's opening number. The murmur of many voices reached the girl, as she looked. It was an audience of taste and culture. Mr. Ludlow had seen to that. His affairs were looked upon by music lovers as distinctly out of the ordinary, hence the better class of people attended them--even sought eagerly for seats. By the time Herr Deichenberg appeared on the stage to flash the orchestra a signal for the overture, the house was packed almost to the doors. People were even standing three deep in the back, apparently in the best of humor and seeming not to mind in the least the discomforts attending "standing room only." Dorothy sought her dressing-room, a great lump in her throat, and taking her violin from the case, nervously thumbed the strings. It was so unusual--this feeling of helplessness--the feeling that she was but an unimportant atom in this great sea of people who were waiting for her to appear that they might subject her to scathing criticism. Herr Deichenberg smiled in at the door a moment later. "Und how iss my little lady?" he inquired. "Oh, Herr, I have such a strange sensation. It seems as if my heart is going to stop beating." "Ah, ha! You t'ink so, but it iss not so, Miss Dorothy. De heart has changed its place of residence--dat iss all. It is now lodged in de mouth, vhere it vill stay until you get before de audience und realize dat you vill have to play. Den it vill leave you." "If I could only be sure!" "Vhat I tell you iss true. I have been there, many iss de time. You vill find dat de audience vill be your inspiration." Shortly after, when the orchestra was in the last bars of the overture, the music master hurried Dorothy out of her dressing-room to her place in the wings. The sinking feeling grew more intense. She could not get her mind off the ordeal which was before her. If she had only agreed not to come, she argued with herself, she might have saved her reputation. But now the merciless critics of the metropolis would subject her to comparisons with greater and more famous artists, and she would surely be the loser thereby. Strange she had not thought of that before! She was startled out of her meditation by Herr Deichenberg, who cried: "Ready, now, young lady! Look your prettiest! Valk out as you did before, und forget there iss an audience. Take your time und vait till de orchestra iss t'rough with de introduction." She nodded, her lower lip trembling visibly. Then, with a sudden shake of her head, she forced a smile and stepped out into view of the audience! And as those staid old New Yorkers saw this slim, young girl advancing, violin in hand, toward the footlights, while the great orchestra roared and thundered through the introduction to Rubenstein's "Barcarole," they burst into a round of applause. And Dorothy, surprised at the reception thus accorded her, when she had expected nothing but silence and curious stares, all but stopped in the center of the stage and forgot what she was doing. Then, realizing that the orchestra was rapidly approaching the place where she was to begin playing, she had the presence of mind to bow and smile. And just back of the footlights, with the faces of her auditors but a blurred spot on her vision, the girl put her violin under her chin and gently drew the bow across the strings. As the orchestra played a low accompaniment, there suddenly filled the air a sound of deep melody, which swept down the aisles and filled with melodious sweetness every corner of the big theater. It was a melody such as sets the heart beating--a melody full of the most witchingly sweet low notes. Dorothy swayed back and forth to the rhythm of the music, and the audience listened spellbound. To Aunt Betty and the other attentive auditors it seemed that all the world was music--that, as played by this young girl, it was the greatest and best of all earthly things. As she played on, by, as it seemed to her, some strange miracle, all her fears and tremblings vanished. Herr Deichenberg had been right, and now her only thought was for her work--how best to do it to the satisfaction of those who had honored her with their presence. When it was finished and she had bowed herself off into the first entrance, applause such as she had never heard before, thundered through the building. Out she stepped and bowed, but still the plaudits continued, and finally, walking out, she signified with a nod of her head her willingness to respond with an encore. She played a simple little piece far removed from the great Rubenstein melody, and it went straight to the hearts of the audience, as Herr Deichenberg, keen old musician that he was had intended that it should. From that moment Dorothy Calvert had her audience with her heart and soul. As she swept into the concluding bars of the melody, the audience fairly rose to its feet and applauded. She took seven bows before the curtain was allowed to descend. The first part of the entertainment was over and Dorothy sought her dressing-room to rest, closing and locking the door so that no one might intrude on her privacy. There she lay, eyes half-closed, breathing rather heavily, more from excitement than from actual physical exertion, while the popular tenor whom Mr. Ludlow had engaged to assist in the concert was singing a song from "Lucia." She heard his encore but faintly--enough, however, to recognize one of the solos from a popular comic opera, then someone rapped on her door and bade her be ready for her second turn. Words fail to describe the reception she met as she played Schubert's Sonata, followed by the march from "Lenore," the latter seeming to strike the chord of popular approval in a very forcible manner. She bowed herself off again, after taking ten curtain calls, to give the tenor another chance. Again she rested in her dressing-room, and again ventured forth for the last, and to her most difficult, part of the entertainment. Two of the classics she played, then, upon insistent calls from the audience for more, nodded to the orchestra and struck into her old medley of southern airs. As the plaintive notes of "The Old Folks At Home" echoed and reëchoed through the theater, Dorothy watched the effect on her audience, and saw that many handkerchiefs were used as the sadder strains were played. "Old Black Joe" produced much the same effect, and "Dixie" aroused them to cheers which increased as the girl played "The Star Bangled Banner" and, finally, "Home, Sweet Home." Again and again the curtain descended, only to rise again, as the girl bowed her acknowledgments to the great audience that had received her with such marked expressions of approval. Then, to her dressing-room she went, to find that Aunt Betty and her friends had reached the stage through an entrance back of their box, and were awaiting her. "Oh, auntie, auntie!" was all she could say, as she threw herself into the arms of her aged relative and sobbed through sheer joy. "My dear, it is the triumph of your life. I am indeed proud to call you my own." "And she wasn't one tiny bit scared," said Molly. "Shows you don't know what you're talking about," Dorothy replied, with some spirit. "Herr Deichenberg had all he could do to induce me to leave my dressing-room. Let the announcement sound as absurd as it may, I was literally scared to death." "If you can play like that when you're literally scared to death," said Molly, "I wish someone would scare me." "Here's Mr. Ludlow," said Jim. "Let's hear what he has to say." "Mr. Ludlow is about the happiest man in New York to-night," said the manager, "realizing, as he does, that he has discovered, with the aid of Herr Deichenberg, a young lady who is destined to set the whole country afire with her playing. Miss Calvert, I congratulate you most heartily. It was the finest thing of its kind I have ever heard in my long theatrical experience." Dorothy choked up and could not speak as she took his hand. "Don't try to thank me," he went on, observing her embarrassment. "It is I who should thank you. And now, I know you are anxious to return to your hotel. I shall see you in the morning before you leave for home and discuss with you our future plans." It was not until the early hours of the morning that Dorothy Calvert wooed sleep successfully, and when she did, she dreamed of violins, music masters, stages and scenery--all inextricably mixed. She arose early, however, as they were to catch a train for Baltimore during the forenoon. Jim Barlow came into the room occupied by Dorothy and Aunt Betty as soon as they had dressed, bringing the morning papers. The music critics were almost unanimous in pronouncing the young violinist a player of exceptional merit, and one destined to become a great force in the musical world. Dorothy hastened to show the papers to Aunt Betty and Molly, who, of course, were greatly rejoiced over her success. Mr. Ludlow called as he had promised, and when he took his departure Dorothy had put her signature to a contract, calling for a forty weeks' tour of the United States and Canada, starting the last week in September. And the contract called for a salary of $200 per week and expenses. Those interested in our heroine's welfare may learn as to the outcome in the next volume named "Dorothy's Tour." Dorothy could hardly believe her good fortune; nor could Aunt Betty, whose resources were so low that the only thing in prospect was a mortgage on her beloved Bellvieu. The fact that Aunt Betty was in such sore financial straits became known by accident to Dorothy after they had returned home. But once the girl was familiar with conditions, she showed what a loyal niece she could be by depositing in one of the Baltimore banks the money she had received for her concert, subject to Aunt Betty's order. Then, in company with Aunt Betty, she called upon the lawyers who had the Calvert estate in charge, and by explaining her prospects for the coming season, and exhibiting her contract with Mr. Ludlow, arranged for such funds as she and Aunt Betty might need between then and the end of September. Thus was old Bellvieu saved to those who loved her most. It was a happy summer to Dorothy, though she kept up her work under the direction of Herr Deichenberg, gradually growing to be a more polished artist. As the fall drew near she became very eager, particularly when Mr. Ludlow wrote that he had provided a private car that Aunt Betty might go with her upon her long journey over the continent. So here, with her triumph achieved, and greater triumphs and trials as well before her, we will leave Dorothy prepared to take up her adventurous tour. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
26389	----	DOROTHY ON A RANCH By EVELYN RAYMOND AUTHOR OF "Dorothy," "Dorothy at Skyrie," "Dorothy's Schooling," "Dorothy's Travels," "Dorothy's House Boat," "Dorothy at Oak Knowe," "Dorothy's Triumph," "Dorothy's Tour." A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U.S.A. THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. [Illustration: The great animal had now dropped from its upright position at Dolly's window and was crawling on all fours back along the wide porch. (_Frontis_) (_Dorothy on a Ranch_)] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE TRIP IN THE ERMINIE 9 II. A SPILL BY THE WAY 25 III. THE MIDNIGHT SEARCHING PARTY 45 IV. THE WATCHERS AT RODERICK'S 62 V. THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS 75 VI. A MARTINET OF THE ROCKIES 93 VII. A RIFLE PRACTICE 110 VIII. A CONCERT IN THE MOONLIGHT 127 IX. A MODERN HORSE FAIR 142 X. AN UNEXPECTED DEPARTURE 157 XI. THE SHEEP HERDER'S CABIN 172 XII. PLAY THAT WAS WORK AND WORK THAT WAS PLAY 187 XIII. THE HEN OF WUN SING 205 XIV. THE GRIZZLY AND THE INDIANS 220 XV. A TRIP TO BALD EAGLE ROCK 235 XVI. PROSPERITY AND PARTING 250 DOROTHY ON A RANCH CHAPTER I THE TRIP IN THE ERMINIE The "Erminie," private car of "Railway Boss, Dan Ford," stood side-tracked at Denver, and his guests within it were the happy people whom, some readers may remember, we left keeping a belated Christmas in the old adobe on the mesa, in southern California. To Dorothy, the trip thus far had been like a wonderful dream. "Just think, Alfy Babcock, of owning a real car, going and stopping just as you please, same's riding in a carriage with horses! Even darling Aunt Betty, who's been 'most everywhere and seen 'most everything, in her long life, never travelled 'private coaching' this way before. I hate to think it's over, that I'll have to say good-by to her so soon. Seems if I ought not. Seems if she'll be dreadful lonesome without me all summer. I'm her own folks and I--I believe I shall go home with her after all, 'stead of into the mountains to that ranch with the Gray Lady." Alfaretta gave a vigorous tug to the shawl-strap she was fastening about a curious assortment of her personal belongings and answered: "That's enough of your 'seems-if-ing,' Dolly Doodles! It's all settled, isn't it? And when a thing's fixed--it ought to stay fixed. Mrs. Calvert don't want either of us. She said so, more 'n once, too. She's tickled to death to think there's such a good time comin' for us. She's got all that prop'ty that got itself into trouble to look after, and she's got them ladies, her old friends, that's been in San Diego all winter, to go home to New York with her. You better stop frettin' and lookin' out o' winder, and pick up your things. You've lots more 'n I have and that's sayin' consid'able. The way that Mr. Ford moves makes other folks hustle, too! Hurry up, do! He said we was all to go to a big hotel for our dinners and I'm real ready for mine. I am so! Car-cookin's well enough, but for me--give me a table that won't go wobblety-wobble all the time." Dorothy roused from her idleness and began to collect her own "treasures." They had accumulated to a surprising degree during this journey from San Diego to Denver; for their genial host had indulged his young guests in all their whims and, at the various stops along the way, they had purchased all sorts of things, from baskets to blankets, horned toads on cards, centipedes in vials of alcohol, Indian dolls and pottery, and other "trash," as Aunt Betty considered it. In the roomy private car these had given but little trouble; now Alfaretta expressed the thought of both girls as well as of the lad, Leslie, when after a vain effort to pack an especially ugly red-clay "image," she exclaimed: "A fool and his money! That's what I was. Felt as rich as a queen, startin' out with all them earnin's and presents in my pocket-book. Now I haven't got a cent, hardly, and I'd ha' been better off if I hadn't a had them! There! that paper's busted again! Does beat the Dutch the way things act! Just plain _things_! If they was folks you could box their ears, but you can't do a thing to things, not a thing! Only--" "Throw them away! That's what I'm going to do with my stuff!" cried Leslie, from a far corner, standing up and wiping his face, after his own bit of packing. "This old musket that that man in uniform assured me had belonged to General Custer--Dad says never saw a soldier's hands, let alone Custer's. Says he knew that all the time, even when I was dickering for it. Says--" Dorothy looked up from her own task to ask: "Why should he let you buy it then?" "For experience, likely. That's the way he likes to have us learn, he claims." "Humph! But Aunt Betty says it's wicked to waste money. One ought only to use it for some good purpose." A shout of derision came from both Alfy and Leslie, at this remark, and they pointed in high glee at a basketful of things Dorothy was vainly trying to make look a tidy bundle. She had to join in the laughter against herself and Mr. Ford came forward to lend a hand or offer advice, as need be. "So you're up against a tough proposition, are you, youngsters? How much of all that stuff do you really want?" "Not a scrap!" said Alfaretta, frankly. "Good enough! Well, let me tell you. There's a poor old fellow hangs out just beyond this station who makes his scanty living selling just such 'trash.' I'll give you just five minutes to select whatever you really wish to keep, five minutes more to stow them compactly for our long buckboard-drive, and about as much longer to make the acquaintance of my lame peddler and give him your leavings. Five seconds wasted already, taring at me! Begin, begin!" The gentleman's face was aglow with happiness and mischief, but there was a tone in his voice which compelled instant obedience; and long before the first five minutes had passed all three young folks had heaped the most of their "things" in a pile in the center of the car. The rest was quickly strapped in the beautiful Navajo blankets which Mrs. Ford, or the "Gray Lady"--as they best loved to call her, had purchased and given them as souvenirs of this wonderful trip. Blankets that were almost priceless, as only Dorothy knew from Aunt Betty's explanation, but that Alfaretta considered far less attractive than a plain white wool one. A porter, laden with baskets, appeared at that moment, as if by previous instruction; and into the baskets were tossed or tumbled the odd collection, everybody working swiftly yet already half-regretfully that they hadn't kept more. "That horned toad'll get a rush of blood to his head!" cried Leslie, as Alfaretta threw her recent "treasure" into the mess. "Take care, boy! Don't break that alcohol bottle. That centipede mayn't be as dead as he looks! The horrid leg-gy thing! How in the world did I ever fancy it? Take care!" warned Dorothy, as Leslie dropped an uncouth Indian "image" upon the vial. "Hi, dere! Massa Leslie! Jed'll do de res'!" cried Mr. Ford's own especial servant, coolly pushing the lad aside and rapidly making a better arrangement of the articles. Then he shouldered his baskets and left the car, Mr. Ford following, with the three young people trailing after him. At the door Alfaretta turned and rapidly surveyed the luxurious coach in which she had spent the past few days. To her it had been a veritable fairyland, and quick tears sprang to her eyes as she exclaimed: "I never had such a good time in all my life as I've had in this 'Erminie,' and I never expect to again! It 'most breaks my heart to say good-by to it!" "Don't say it then! I shan't, though I feel as bad as you do. But our worst good-by is to come when Aunt Betty starts east and we west. I can't--how can I?--let her go alone?" This was sufficient to arouse all Alfy's sympathy. She promptly forgot her own regret in soothing her friend, for Dorothy's grief was most sincere. Ever since that day when she had learned that Mrs. Calvert was her own kin she had loved the lady with all her heart and had, during the past winter of Aunt Betty's lameness, felt that she must now take care of her. She did not realize that the one-time invalid was now quite well and as independent of aid as ever. Indeed, the Gray Lady had laughingly declared: "Dear Mrs. Betty is the youngest-hearted of us all!" After that happy day when Dorothy had helped to bring about the reunion of the long parted Fords, the "Railroad Boss" had taken his wife and son away for a little time; but they had soon returned to _El Paraiso_, that charming home in the southwestern city and had remained as members of Mrs. Calvert's household till the spring days came. Then Mr. Ford had announced his summer plans: "I'm going to give myself a long vacation. I own a ranch in the Colorado mountains and I'm going to take you all, each and everyone, to enjoy it with me. My wife, Erminie, claims it her turn to play hostess, so we'll all become cowboys and cowgirls, and have a wild-west show of our own, with a continuous performance for three jolly months. All in favor, say Aye!" "Aye! Aye! Aye!" the youngsters had it, so heartily that, for a moment, nobody noticed that Aunt Betty was silent. Then, when Dorothy observed this, with a down-sinking of her own spirits, the lady made haste to explain: "Nothing could please me better for Dorothy, and for myself if I were able to accept. But I can't. As you know, my business affairs have become tangled in some way and I must go home to really understand what is amiss. Indeed, I don't know yet where I may have to be during the warm weather and I'm delighted for my little girl, and for Alfaretta, to have such a fine chance. I fancy you'll all come east in the autumn, as brown as the Indians who'll be your neighbors, and in fine health. How soon do you leave, Mr. Ford? That I may make some arrangement about this dear old house, for I shan't want to stay in it after you're gone." Then it was his turn to explain: "I have felt all along, ever since I found Erminie here with our boy, that the place should never become again just 'a house to rent.' So I've bought it. I've found Padre Nicolas, the old priest whom the Indians love and trust, and deeded it to him in trust for them as a Home. Here Lazaro Gomez and the other ancients of his race shall dwell in comfort for the rest of their days. The only proviso is that Father Nicholas shall admit none who hasn't reached the age of discretion--say, eighty-odd years, or so! Nor shall any of his charges be compelled to tame wild beasts and sell them for a livelihood. The good old priest is ready to take possession as soon as we vacate and will put everything into what Alfy calls 'apple-pie order,' according to a red man's fancy. So, when everybody is ready--Don't hurry, please!--we'll board my car, the 'Erminie,' and take our leisurely way northward. It isn't as if we had to say good-by, you see, for we'll be all together still. As for Mrs. Calvert's plan--maybe we can persuade her to postpone business awhile for a taste of real ranch life. Eh?" But Mistress Elisabeth Cecil-Somerset-Calvert was a matron who never said "No" when she meant "Yes;" and she smilingly kept to her own purpose, yet took good care that no shadow of a coming separation should darken her beloved Dorothy's wonderful trip in a private car. Just here we may recall to the readers' attention that this young girl's earlier experiences have been told in "Dorothy's Schooling," her "Travels" and "House Party" and best of all "In California." Now those happy days of travel and sightseeing had ended in the city of Denver. The "Erminie" was to be stripped and renovated and put aside to await its owner's further orders. From this point the ranchers were to proceed by a coaching tour over the long and delightful road to the distant Rockies: while Mrs. Calvert, her black "boy," Ephraim, and some women friends were to speed eastward by the fleetest "limited" express. One more short hour together, in a hotel dining-room, and the parting was due. Aunt Betty and Mrs. Ford had already been driven away to this hotel as Leslie and his girl guests followed his father from the "Erminie," and seeing the downward droop of Dorothy's lip he tried to divert her by exclaiming: "There was never such a man as Dad! He never forgets. Never. I believe he knows every cripple between New York and San Francisco. I do, indeed. This fellow we're going to give that 'trash' to is one of his pets. I remember him now. Got hurt in a railway smash but is as independent as they make 'em. Wouldn't sue the company and wouldn't take money from it when offered. Claimed he was stealing a ride and only got what he calls his 'come-uppance' when he got hurt. Dad was so astonished when he heard about that, he said the man ought to be 'framed and put on exhibition, as the only case of his kind on record.' Then he suggested this way of earning his living. He has the 'boys' keep him fixed up in a little sort of stand just yonder and they see to it that his stock never fails. The cripple's as proud as Punch. Boasts that any honest man can do well in America if he tries. He hasn't any legs left and his arms aren't worth much but his spirit is the bravest ever. It would break his heart if he guessed that most of the stuff he sells is bought for my father by some of his employees, all on the sly. But he'll never know it. That's the best of Dad! His 'boys' love him. They think he's just rippin'! And he is. Look now. See how that man's face lights up when he hears that 'Halloo'!" Dorothy stopped short to exclaim: "Bought the stuff and gave us most of it, and now will buy it over again just to throw away! I never heard anything like that!" "Reckon you didn't, for there is only one Dan Ford! But he doesn't have it thrown away. He has it burned. He says, 'Burned toads tell no tales,' and the worst trouble the boys have is to get folks enough to buy the things for them. When they see a likely lookin' tourist edging around the stand they use him, if they can. If they can't it's a 'short day' for Cripple Andy, but that doesn't worry him. 'The fat and the lean,' he calls it. Oh! I say, he's almost as rippin' as Dad himself, he's so plucky!" The cripple's face did indeed light up as Mr. Ford appeared before him and shouted that gay "Halloo!" "Well, well, well! If you ain't the best sight I've had since I saw you last. Halloo, yourself and see how you like it!" With this attempt at facetiousness, the seller of notions leaned forward over his stand and extended his best hand toward his benefactor. "How's business, Andy?" "Tollable, sir, fairly tollable. Been sellin' a lot o' truck, lately, to some Cookies, and there was a reduction-school-ma'am-racket that nigh cleaned me out. See that your man Jed here has got a heap more things. How'd he come by them? Must ha' cleared the country of rep_tiles_, judgin' by them samples." "Oh, he came by them fairly enough, Andy. These youngsters couldn't live without the things when they first saw them, but now they'll be grateful if you'll take them off their hands. Maybe you can make something from them, maybe not. In any case they're not going to _San Leon_ on a buckboard with me! Take them off our hands, lad, and do a good deed once in your life!" By this time Mr. Ford had placed his own two strong hands over the shrivelled one of the peddler and was pressing it warmly, while the two looked into one another's eyes with mutual respect and liking. Then when the hands unclasped there was left on Andy's palm a glittering double eagle. Dorothy, watching, wondered at this, after hearing Leslie's boast of the cripple's independence; and there did a flush rise in his face for a moment, till Mr. Ford said: "For Laddie, you know. If you can't use it--pass it on!" The flush died out of the vender's cheek and a soft look came over it. "So I will, man, so I will. Thank God there's always somebody poorer than me! Good-by, and good luck, Boss! By that token I never seen you look that happy as you do this day, man alive, never!" "I never had such reason to be glad, Andy boy! Good-by, good-by!" Mr. Ford started off at a brisk pace, the young folks trying to equal his long strides, and Alfaretta asking: "Is that cripple crazy? What'd he mean by sellin' things to 'Cookies' and what's a 'school-ma'am-racket'?" Leslie laughed and answered: "A 'racket' of that sort has nothing to do with tennis, Miss Babcock, at your service; and 'Cookies' are just Cook's tourists. All railroaders call them that; and I suppose the 'racket' was a cheap excursion the school-ma'ams were taking. Odd, isn't it? That though all Andy's trouble came from the railroad he claims to belong to it as one of its 'boys.' He's rippin', Andy is. He told father 't he 'teached school' himself, once! But he got so tired of it that the sight of a spelling-book made him sick." "It does me, too," said Alfy, with sympathy. "So he 'cut and run,' and rode on trains in every direction as long as his money held out. Then he stole the ride that ended his travels right here in Denver. Hello! where's Dad?" They had loitered along the way and he had simply outstripped them. So without even a quarter in his purse but in his most lordly air, Leslie hailed a cab to carry them to the hotel he knew was that habitually patronized by his father; and a few minutes later they rode up to the entrance in state. An attendant hastened to the curb to assist the "young ladies" out of the cab, but the hackman laid a detaining hand upon Leslie's shoulder with the remark: "Fares, please." "Eh? Just settle that with Mr. Daniel Ford, inside. Here, Buttons, you find Mr. Ford and ask him to step here. It'll be all right, Jehu, and let's hurry, girls, else we'll be late for dinner." He started to enter the building but the cabman retained his hold on the lad's shoulder and remarked: "No, you don't! You may be all right and so may your Mr. Ford but, as for me, I never heard tell of him and money talks. Fares, please." Dorothy and Alfaretta clung together, really afraid of the cabman who was now growing decidedly angry. He was a stranger to that city and had just embarked in a rather losing business, his outfit of horse and cab being a second-hand one and too shabby for most patrons. Also, "Buttons," as Leslie had called the bell-boy, now returned to say that "no name of Ford was on the register and the clerk wouldn't bother." Here was a dilemma. The trio who had ridden in state now felt very small, indeed, and glanced at one another in dismay. Then Leslie surveyed the name over the hotel entrance and exclaimed: "Pshaw! This isn't the place at all. That donkey of a driver has brought us to the Metropole and not the Metropolitan. I might have known Dad wouldn't put up at such a third-rate tavern as this! Now, you idiot, we'll get in again and you take us where you were bid! and there, it's likely, you'll make the acquaintance of Mr. Daniel Ford in a way you don't like! Get in, Dorothy--Alfy! We can't stand foolin' here!" But the cabman closed the door of his vehicle with a bang and calmly folded his arms to wait. Dolly pulled out her little purse. It contained one nickel and two cents. She had carefully cherished these because coins smaller than a nickel are not plentiful in California; but she tendered them to Leslie who smiled and shook his head. Alfaretta discovered a dime, but it was her "luck piece," wrapped in pink tissue paper and carried thus in order that she "might always have money in her pocket," and she hated to give it up. Both she and Dolly thought regretfully of the little pocket-hoard they had begged the Gray Lady to keep for them, lest they spend it on the trip. However, neither the cabman nor Leslie accepted their offering, and the latter exclaimed: "Ain't this rippin'? Lost in a strange city, in the middle of the day, and not a soul willing to help us out! What in the world will Dad say!" "What, indeed! But look here, Leslie Ford, we've got enough to pay for telephoning that other hotel, if the man in here will let us use his 'phone! Then your father will send somebody after us or do something. Please try. I feel so queer with so many folks staring at us as if we'd done something bad!" By this time the hotel clerk had become more amiable. The name of Ford had impressed him if it hadn't the hackman, and though he, too, was new to the town he bade Leslie: "Go ahead! Call him up, if there is such a man." With a glance of angry contempt Leslie put the receiver to his ear and rang up "Dad;" only to hang it up again in disgust, as the answer came back: "Line's busy!" CHAPTER II A SPILL BY THE WAY The "line" remained busy for so long that the loungers in the hotel lobby grew amused at Leslie's impatience while the two girls became very anxious. "It was only an hour or so, Mr. Ford said, before Aunt Betty's train would leave and I shall be too late to see her--to bid her good-by--and it's for all summer--a whole long summer! I must go, I must find her, I shall--I will!" cried poor Dorothy, her own words increasing her fear of this calamity, and with a sudden burst of tears. For an instant she tried to keep them back, then careless who might see her crying, darted outward to the curbstone and to the hackman waiting there. In so doing she collided with a gentleman entering, who staggered backward from the impact, then quietly put his hands upon the girl's shoulders, to steady her also. "Beg pardon, little miss! and hello! What's wrong? Did I hurt you? Beg pardon twice, in that case!" The tone was kindly and to Dorothy it was a case of "any port in a storm." "No, no, sir, you didn't! But I'm--we're--in dreadful trouble. Do you know--do you?--where that other hotel is, that Metropolitan?" "Surely, I know. Why?" "Is it far? Can I run there quick? The cabman--we haven't any money--it was a mistake--and I must go, I must!" Leslie laid a soothing hand on Dorothy's, which she had clasped imploringly before the stranger, and told their story. The effect was surprising. This gentleman was the proprietor of this establishment and he well knew Mr. Ford, by reputation at least. With one angry glance around the lobby and at the now obsequious clerk, he wheeled about, strode to the cab, opened the door and lifted Dorothy within. Then he as promptly settled Alfaretta beside her, himself took the forward seat and motioned Leslie to follow. Then he ordered: "Now, cabby, drive like lightning! It'll be worth your while. Straight ahead, five blocks--east two--north three! Drive, I tell you." And "drive" the man did, as fast as his slow horse could be urged, while within the carriage the three young folks sat in anxiety, Dorothy leaning far forward, as if by that means she could reach her destination sooner. Their new friend beamed upon her, asking a few questions which drew out a brief history of their trip and the plans for their coming summer. Then almost before the cab was halted before a big hotel he had opened its door again and taking the hands of the two girls piloted them straight into it and through some great halls to the dining room. There he halted and gave the name: "Mr. Daniel Ford and party." "At dinner, sir, private dining room. May not wish to be disturbed. I'll send to inquire--step into the reception room please," bowed and explained the employee the gentleman had summoned. "That's all right. Direct us. I'm Darby of the Metropole. These young people belong to Mr. Ford's party." A moment later they had met Mr. Ford himself, issuing from his private room, vexed and anxious at their delay and starting out in their pursuit. "Well, laggards! What does this mean? Wasting the time when there's so little of it? Mrs. Calvert's fretting so she can't eat her dinner and--in with you! In with you! There's but fifteen minutes before her train starts east!" When a good natured man is angry he seems another person and Dorothy drew back in fear. But Alfaretta's own temper rose and she exclaimed: "Don't scold us, please, Mr. Ford, it wasn't our fault!" while Leslie vainly tried to explain: "A gentleman, a stranger, brought us here and paid our cab fare. I want a dollar, Dad, to refund him." But, for once, the doting father was deaf to his son's words. He did not even pause in his rapid stride along the corridor, fairly dragging Dorothy off her feet in his unconscious haste, and finally depositing her in an empty chair beside Aunt Betty's, with the remark: "Here's your 'bad penny' again! She--they all--will learn some lessons up at San Leon, this summer, or I'm a mistaken man. The one thing nobody should dare lose is--time!" Mrs. Calvert gave him a surprised look but she had also been hurt by Dorothy's absence during the brief space that remained to them together, and she hastened to deliver the many last charges and bits of advice that seemed needful before their parting. A waiter placed their dinner before the three young folks and Alfy and Leslie fell to work upon it with hungry zeal, but Dorothy could not eat. Her eye had discovered a clock on the wall, with the hands pointing five minutes to three. At ten minutes past that hour the "Eastern Limited" would roll out of the station and she be left behind. In a sudden impulse, she threw her arms about Aunt Betty's neck, begging: "Take me with you! Please take me with you! I--I love you best of all the world, so why shouldn't we keep together?" If there were tears in Mrs. Calvert's bright, dark eyes, she did not allow them to fall. Unclasping her darling's arms and gently laying them down, she silently signalled to Mrs. Ford and almost as silently left the room. The "Gray Lady" followed and Aunt Betty whispered: "I'm getting too old for good-bys. I'm going to slip away in the hotel stage and don't let Dolly follow me, please, till it's too late. She'll be all right again, directly, and--and so shall I. Good-by to you, though, and--that's all." Dolly dropped her head on the edge of the table, as Aunt Betty loosened her arms. She was bravely trying to overcome the sudden loneliness which possessed her and in this was helped by Alfy's warning: "Dolly Doodles! Take your head out of your soup plate! Are you crazy? There goes your ribbon right into the mess!" The head was lifted so suddenly that the ribbon flew off and fell into the dish and its owner's tears ended in a giggle. Then her face flushed at thought of her own awkwardness and she looked down expecting a reprimand from Mrs. Calvert. When none came she lifted her eyes and found the next chair empty. This was a relief. She'd hide the ribbon before her aunt discovered it! But already the waiter had whisked that plate away and was supplying her with another. Funny! Where Aunt Betty had gone! But, of course she'd merely left the room for a minute and would be back to say good-by. Then she picked at her food for a moment, wondering why Mr. Ford had also disappeared, and at the eagerness with which Leslie and Alfaretta enjoyed the good things served to them. Gray Lady slipped back to her own place between the other two young people and began to ask them about the adventure which had delayed them. Presently they were all talking together, even Dorothy adding her comments and forgetting to look again at that warning clock. Besides, she was listening to the grumbles of Leslie who, for once, was angry against his father and was explaining to his mother: "I never felt so ashamed of myself. The idea of letting that stranger, and the proprietor of a rival hotel, pay our cab fare! I wish you'd hand me the cash and I'll send a boy to hunt him up and settle. I--" Mrs. Ford stopped his further complaints by a nod of her head and the odd remark: "They must have arrived by this time and the others must be gone. Yes, they ought to be here. I hope they'll not delay us, too, as you did. Money? No, dear, I can't give you that. Not in this case when your father has denied it. Ah! Fifteen minutes after three! Then our friends must be well out of the city by now." Lady Gray, as her son still loved to call her, now took her eyes from the clock she had been studying and cast a tender look upon the face of Dorothy. The girl had sprung up from her chair and had fixed her own gaze upon the time-piece while the color left her cheeks and she trembled violently. But Mrs. Ford's arm was about the slender waist and her voice was comforting: "Your Aunt Betty thought it was the best. She shrank from the good-bys for both your sakes. She's a wonderful woman and thinks of everything that will make people happier. She said she'd just postpone the farewells till you meet again. She went away as cheerfully as possible and you must follow her example. Ah! hark!" Dorothy's bent head lifted slightly. There was a sound of merry, youthful voices in the corridor, the genial tones of Mr. Ford mingling with them, and presently the portieres were parted and the opening was filled by a group of faces matching the voices and belonging to--Could it be? Could it! "Molly Breckenridge! Helena! Oh! Oh! Jim--you dears!" cried the astonished Dolly, rubbing her eyes that had been so dimmed by tears, and gazing at the faces in the doorway as if she couldn't believe her own sight. There, too, was Alfaretta, clasping the hands of all the newcomers, fairly dancing up and down in her excitement, "hail-fellow-well-met" with them all, forgetful for once of the difference in their social positions which had used to make her shy and restrained. "Be I awake or asleep? How in my senses have you all got away out here to this jumpin' off place of all creation? Jim Barlow, you darlin' old Jim! How's Ma Babcock? How's Pa? How's every single one the precious folks up-mounting? Oh! I could just squeeze the life out of you, I'm so terrible glad to see you!" almost screamed the girl, as she now for a moment forsook the "'ristocratics" of the party to hug and kiss James Barlow. He, poor fellow, rid himself of her clasping arms as soon as possible, reddening yet laughing, and casting an appealing look upon the lady who had risen from the table and stood smiling her welcome to them all. "Don't mind Alfy, ma'am; she always did have to be the middle of things," begged the lad, overcoming his own shyness rather than have that beautiful lady think he was a "softie" who liked kissing girls. Also, he was thankful that Dorothy had contented herself with merely holding tight to his hand and simply looking her affection. "Oh! that's all right. We love Alfy; and this, I see, is that wonderful 'Jim' of whom I've been told so much. I--we--are delighted that you were able to take your holiday with us; and though we are not there yet, I bid you hearty welcome to San Leon," said Lady Gray, now moving forward and warmly shaking the hand of the "work boy" as Dorothy released it. "Isn't it splendid? Is it a surprise? Didn't you know a thing about it, Dolly Doodles?" demanded pretty Molly, hugging her friend, then standing back to hold her at arm's length and study the changes which a few months' separation had made in the beloved face. Helena Montaigne, too, was trying to clasp her in equally tender arms, and Molly reluctantly released Dorothy, while she let Mr. Ford lead her to his wife, introducing her as: "The daughter of my old friend, Judge Breckenridge. He and I were classmates once, and come here, Leslie boy! I've heard this little lady spoken of as 'Jolly Molly,' and you must make it your business that not one day of her coming summer with us shall be anything save 'jolly.' Ah! Erminie, young people on a ranch!" Evidently, Leslie was as much in the dark as Dorothy and Alfy had been, this visitation of so many young strangers a complete surprise to him; but he was trained to good manners and at once captivated Molly's admiration by his cordial greeting. So that, a moment later, she whispered to Dorothy: "Isn't he a dear! I declare he's just a heavenly handsome boy, with his blue eyes and--and his _air_! He really is too sweet for words, that boy!" Whereat Dolly laughed and answered: "Oh! you funny Molly! You don't change a bit! Still 'doting on boys' as much as ever! How's Melvin?" "Melvin's a poke. The invitation included him, too, but he sets himself up stiff as stiff and said he had no time to waste visiting. He'd got to learn the business soon as he could, for his mother--Oh! a lot of bosh about his mother, and her trusting him. Even my father--" "Never mind him, then, but tell me how in the world you happened to come just here and now?" The two had retreated to the window and stood with arms about each other and Dorothy's eyes now free from tears. Indeed, so surprising was this whole affair that she had, for a moment, forgotten Aunt Betty's departure. "Why, it's this way. Mr. Ford is an old friend of Papa's and when he found out that you knew us, too, he just planned the whole thing for a grand treat to you! He wrote Papa that he was under 'lifelong obligation to you' because--well, of something or other. I wasn't told what, but it doesn't matter. The thing that does matter is that we're to be together all summer long, at least for three whole months. Think of that, girlie, just think of that! He wrote Papa, too, that he'd have liked to gather the whole 'House Party' together if it had been practical, but his wife didn't think it would. I reckon she knew she'd have her hands full enough, chaperoning eight youngsters, without asking more. We came pretty near not getting Helena and Herbert, though! Mr. Montaigne fancied it was too much like an imposition to let them come, because he didn't know the Fords. Helena wrote me that, so I got Dad to send him a letter to make him stop and think! Besides, Jim--that boy is just grand! He--" "Of course, honey. He's a boy, you know." "Laugh away! I'm too happy to care. I do like boys best. Why shouldn't I? They're heaps more fun than girls--except you. And to think! Helena and Jim were the real chaperons of our trip, though Helena's governess, Miss Milliken, was called such. But she's a stick! I had the time of my life, keeping her scared all the way on. Oh! I'm glad to be off that train. Mr. Ford says we're to finish our journey in wagons. I like that." "But I don't see Miss Milliken, Molly." "No. She knows some people here in Denver and they met her at the station and carried her off to dine with them. I wish she'd get belated and left behind. She was a regular kill-joy all the way out." "Poor, meek, timid woman! She used to have so little snap that Herbert nicknamed her 'The Worm.' It was horrid--" "Well, she's 'turned,' then. Of course, we were pretty full of fun and scared her with some of our pranks. But--Ah! there she is now! You can't lose that woman! Mrs. Montaigne told her that 'the lives of her precious children were entrusted to her hands,' and the governess feels her responsibility to the full, I tell you. Even Helena--" "Dinner for the newcomers!" called Mr. Ford, interrupting, as a fresh meal was placed upon the table and they were invited to their seats. The zeal with which they accepted and the fine appetites they displayed sent a satisfied smile to their host's lips, and he nodded merrily to his wife: "No invalids among them! Glad of that! But youngsters, eat first, chatter afterwards! The wagons will be at the door very soon and I want to get in a good thirty miles before bedtime!" They tried to check their eager talk but they were all too excited for quiet, and presently rose from the table, ready for the ride, while Mr. Ford said: "Now, Erminie, wife, you do the pairing off of the youngsters, and arrange how we shall divide. First, count noses! Eight youngsters, three oldsters, two 'boys'--thirteen passengers in all! Miss Milliken, did you ever 'cross the plains' before?" The prim little lady, who had been standing beside Mrs. Ford, appeared not to hear the gentleman's question, but turned with an air of anxiety to ask in turn: "Madam, did I hear there were 'thirteen,' THIRTEEN?" "Yes, Miss Milliken. Why?" "Then I think you'll have to excuse me. I might follow you later if there were some way but I positively decline to make the thirteenth of any party." There certainly was nothing wormlike, or undecided, about the governess, whose lips had closed in such a thin line of obstinacy as changed her whole appearance, while her would-be hostess inquired with amusement: "Are you superstitious, Miss Milliken? Surely, with your culture and--" Helena advanced with an air of authority: "Milliken, this is absurd! Please get back your common sense. Remember we are guests and have no right to object to anything." The chaperon bridled, but kept silence, till Mr. Ford explained: "Thirteen doesn't mean the whole party. There'll be three drivers, besides. Possibly more men picked up along the road. Moreover, thirteen is my 'lucky number,' if 'luck' is anything. Well, Mrs. Ford, have you arranged the company?" "No, I cannot. I know them so slightly, as yet, and the best way is to draw lots. How many will the first buckboard carry?" "Eight, all told. A dozen, if need be. Well, time's precious! Here's a lot of matches. The whole ones go in number one, the next lengths in wagon two, and the little ones in the last. See, I've snapped them off, and Miss Milliken, as head of the expedition, please draw first!" The lady flushed and drew. Her lot was in the last and smallest buckboard which would carry but two more beside the driver; and it fell out that her companions would be Alfaretta and Monty Stark. The driver was known as Silent Pete, and it certainly was an odd combination which had resulted from the first "drawing." To the leading wagon the "lots" assigned the three Fords and Jedediah, their colored "boy," with Molly, Helena and Herbert--their driver, Lem Hunt, the most talkative man at San Leon but, also, the crack whip of the ranch. The driver of the second team was "Tenderfoot Sorrel," so called because of his red hair and his comparatively recent arrival from the east. He was less familiar with the country than the other two teamsters and had been assigned to the place in the middle of the little cavalcade, so that "he can't lose hisself afore or ahind, ary way," as Lemuel explained it. Naturally, everybody was disappointed at the result of the lots, Mrs. Ford protesting that it was inhospitable to put all her family in one vehicle, and that the best, but that "a Ford should have been in each." "Let's change, then," begged Monty, "and let one of the girls settle it as she knows we'd like it." But Alfy gave him such a frown that he ducked his head, avoiding an imaginary blow, while Miss Milliken as vigorously declared: "You mustn't do that. Oh! don't do that! 'Twould be the very worst luck of all. Something would surely happen!" "Well, if there doesn't I shall be disappointed! We're all eager for adventures, and that's why I took this long, roundabout way to the ranch. We could have gone there in next to no time, by rail, but that's too humdrum a thing. Anyhow, I bow to Miss Milliken's prejudices for the time being. We shall be in sight of each other all the time, I expect, and meet at Roderick's for our suppers and beds! All off for San Leon that's going!" cried Mr. Ford, in imitation of a steamboat steward, and taking his wife's arm led her and her guests out of the hotel. The trunks and heavier luggage had already gone ahead in other wagons and only suit-cases and hand-bags were on hand. These were hastily bestowed in the boxes of the two less crowded buckboards, and no attention paid to their ownership, since it was expected that all would meet at "Roderick's," where every traveller could find his own. With a blast on his coach horn, a crack of his long whip over his four-in-hand, proud Lemuel led the way along the city street, out of the town, and into the open country beyond. All the horses attached to the blackboards were the picked ones of the San Leon stables, with a record known as well in the far east as in that wide western land. As one spectator of this gallant start remarked: "It goes without saying that Dan Ford will drive no second-rate horseflesh, any more 'n he will a second-class railroad. My! See 'em travel! At that gait they'll pick up the stretch 'twixt here and 'Roderick's' long before nightfall, or I'm no judge." "Likely enough, likely enough. Only I don't like the looks of that second span--I mean the one to the middle buckboard. Them blacks. The boys up to S' Leon hadn't no right to trust a tenderfoot to drive them critters!" remarked another observer, as the fretful animals passed out of sight, following their leaders. Even Lem Hunt looked back once or twice, as they left the city limits, and waved a warning hand toward "T. Sorrel," who merely tossed his red head and continued to draw upon the reins he should have loosened. Also, Silent Pete opened his lips for once and hallooed to the man ahead: "Let 'em out, you fool! Give 'em their heads, I say!" Then he relapsed into his normal condition, attending strictly to his own business and making himself deaf to the timid shrieks of Miss Milliken, from the rear seat. He was known to "hate silly women" and felt his fate a hard one in having to escort such a one as the governess. She, accustomed only to the sedate pace of the fat Montaigne steeds, felt that the spirited animals before that wagon were simply on the road to destruction and nowhere short of it! She clung to her seat-arm with one hand and clutched Pete's coat collar with the other, frantically beseeching him: "Do stop! Oh! you--man--just stop--and let me get my breath! I--I bump so--I--I can't even think!" But this western jehu merely flicked her fingers off as he would a troublesome fly, while Monty coolly advised: "Don't try, Miss Milliken. Fast? Why, they call this mere walkin' out here. I'm going to take a nap." He settled himself sidewise on his seat, folded his arms upon its back, dropped his face upon them and tried to sleep. He was cross. He had wanted to ride in the foremost vehicle with the fine four-in-hand. He hated being put at the tail end of the procession with stupid Alfaretta Babcock, a speechless man, and a nervous, half-hysterical woman for companions. But the chuckle that escaped him a moment later proved that his slumber was only a pretended one. At a particularly rough spot in the road and a particularly shrill scream from Miss Milliken, the angry ranchman faced about and rudely ordered: "Shut up!" Then his lips closed with a click and nothing further escaped them during all that drive. Alfaretta giggled; then strained her eyes again to pierce the distance which she had been studying for some time. Then she laid a hand on Monty's head and shook it vigorously: "Wake up, boy! Look ahead and see if either wagon is in sight! 'Tisn't so awful dark yet but I wish--I wish I could get a glimpse of Dolly and Jim. That fool driver might have taken the wrong road where it branched off a ways back." Silent Pete heard and guessed this was the truth, but he ventured no reply. His business was to drive his own horses and let the tenderfoot look out for himself. But Monty roused himself enough to assure Alfy: "He wouldn't do that! Why, that road is nothing but a trail through the woods. Dark as midnight. Don't worry." Then he settled himself to sleep again. Now the fact was that "T. Sorrel," as his fellow ranchmen called him, had more conceit than common sense. He had heard that the branch road was a short cut to "Roderick's," but not that it was impassable for a team. A man on horseback might pass safely over it, by daylight and with a trustworthy mount. Not otherwise; and though the opening was fairly clear the trail entered a hopeless tangle of underbrush and fallen timber but a short way further on. To go forward then became impossible, and equally so the turning back. The lively blacks resented the scratching of briers and broken branches upon their tender limbs and pranced and fretted wildly. A molly cottontail scurried across the track before them and with a mutual, frenzied impulse they shied and sprang into the air. The buckboard flew upward, turned turtle, scattered its load in all directions, then settled into a broken heap, while the light traces yielded to the strength of the horses, and they rushed madly forward out of sight. At that very moment it had been, that Silent Pete and his wagon had passed the entrance of that trail; and even in that dusk his trained eye had noted fresh wheel and hoof prints. But it was not his business to stop and investigate. He had been set to bring his party to "Roderick's", not to take care of a tenderfoot who ought to have a nurse, the fool! CHAPTER III THE MIDNIGHT SEARCHING PARTY The night was growing late and there were anxious hearts at "Roderick's." The four-in-hand had arrived hours before, and Silent Pete had also brought his party safely in--to the mutual relief of himself and Miss Milliken, the latter really surprised to find she had arrived sound in body and limb. She had promptly retired to the little chamber assigned herself and Helena, only to reappear in fresh distress. "My suit-case with my night-things! I can't find it anywhere. The one they gave me has a lot of boys' things in it-all jumbled together. I'd like my suit-case, please. I'm worn out with that awful ride and if I've got to repeat it to-morrow, I must get to rest;" but as the buxom maid to whom she appealed paid her scant attention, she turned to Helena with her wail: "Oh, Miss Helena! _Won't_ you make them give me the right case?" The emphasis put on the "won't" suggested a desperate need, but merely annoyed her young mistress, who requested: "Don't make a nuisance of yourself, Milly. The loss of a suit-case is nothing compared to--Oh! if Dolly were only safely here!" "She will be, of course. Haven't I, with my nerves, lived through that ride? But, you don't understand, dear, I _want my things_. I can't wear a boy's pajamas--all mussed up, at that. I want, I want to go to bed." "Then, for goodness' sake--go!" cried Monty Stark, who had come up to the pair. "That'll give us a rest, too." "I shall have to sit up all night, then," still moaned the lady, "for your case isn't to be found either, Miss Helena." Then finding no greater sympathy from her mistress than from that saucy boy, the governess betook herself out of the way. She was the only one of the party which had so gaily left Denver that now cared for anything except the appearance down the road of the missing buckboard. Molly and Leslie, congenial spirits, had tried to laugh off their anxiety and to convince the others that everything was "all right, of course." "Likely Dolly Doodles has discovered some new sort of flowers somewhere and has wandered off to get them. She's always doing that kind of thing," Molly assured her hostess, who had gently answered: "We'll hope it's only that. But she'd scarcely look for wild flowers at night, nor do anything to make us anxious by her delay. Our Dorothy is a very considerate girl and I wish--they would come." Linking her arm within Helena's, the lady set her steps to suit the girl's and resumed the pacing up and down the long piazza. The house was a one-storied building, stretching along the roadway to a size that was unusual for such a locality. It had been added to at different periods, as need arose; each addition being either a little lower or higher than its neighbor, according to the cash in hand, but invariably with the continuance of the comfortable piazza. This now afforded a long promenade, and all the people gathered at the wayside inn that night, were using it to walk off their impatience at the delay of "Tenderfoot Sorrel" to bring in his team. Supper had been put back till it was spoiled, and having been telegraphed for beforehand, good Mrs. Roderick had wasted her best efforts upon it. But, at last, seeing Monty and Molly peering through the kitchen windows in a hungry sort of way, Mr. Ford ordered it served and all repaired to the dining room, feeling that the meal would be a farce, yet something with which to kill time. However, the long ride in the keen air had given all a fine appetite and despite the landlady's laments over the "dried-up stuff," the table was nearly cleared of its food when they left it. Moreover, everyone felt better and brighter for the refreshment and so hopeful now for the speedy arrival of the laggards, that Mr. Ford suggested to the waitress: "Just have a few things kept warm for the others. There'll be four of them. If they aren't here within a half-hour, now, I'll go back in search of them. Something may have happened to the wagon and they left to come on a-foot." "Dear, did you ask the man you call Silent Pete if he passed them anywhere along the road?" "Surely, I did that the first thing. He had neither passed nor seen them, he said." "Well, I'm going to interview him again. Come on, Miss Molly, to the stable with me," cried Leslie. "'Molly,' without the 'Miss,' please, and I'm ready enough! It seems as if I must be doing something, for everybody is looking so worried," she answered, catching his outstretched hand and racing with him down the long porch and around to the stables in the rear. Silent Pete had not gone to the loft where the workmen slept. He had wrapped himself in a blanket and, with another for a pillow, had settled himself in a corner of the loose box next the stalls where his team stood. He was so devoted to them that he couldn't leave them alone in a strange stable, though from the snores which already came from him he didn't seem a great protection to anything. But Silent Pete was wily. He had heard the voices of the pair without the building, asking a groom to tell where Pete could be found, and had resented being disturbed. He had done his day's work, he had no intention of joining in any search that might be made for the delinquents, and he promptly pretended slumber. But he hadn't reckoned upon Leslie's persistence nor his own uneasy conscience. "Wake up there, Peter, if that's your name! I'm your boss's son, and I want a word with you. Wake up, man!" The snores deepened. Rarely had the nose of mortal man emitted such ear-splitting sounds as now issued from the nostrils of the ranchman, as Leslie shoved aside the sliding door of the loose box and stepped within. "Here, Molly-without-the-Miss, take the lantern and hold it so I can find the head inside that roll of blankets! Feet are big enough. Can't miss them," said the lad, stumbling over the protruding boots of the sleeper. "I'll take this pitchfork and prod him up a bit. Hello, Pete! I say, Pete, you've earned your name one way--but you hardly deserve it another. 'Silent!' You'll certainly keep the horses awake and--Wake up, I say! You shall!" Leslie thrust the pitchfork into the boards of the floor so uncomfortably near that snoring nose that Pete hitched aside and so admitted himself awake. Molly ran into the box and held the lantern low, while the boy squatted at the teamster's head and thumped it soundly. Both were giggling, which incensed their victim still further, and he suddenly tossed off his blanket with such force that it hit Molly's face and made her jump away, while Leslie ordered: "Quit that! Don't you know how to treat a lady?" There was no answer, save a frown directed toward the laughing girl, and the lad demanded: "You're to open your lips and tell us what you think has happened to that tenderfoot driver and his team. Why doesn't he come in? They say you're the oldest driver round, know the most about the roads, or trails, and your opinion's wanted. Give it quick, because--Well, there'll be some thing doin' if you do know anything and don't tell it. I don't understand why I suspect you're hiding things but I do; unless it's that grudge I heard some men say you had against the 'Sorrel' fellow. Now, you talk. Where do you think that buckboard is?" "Gone to smash." Molly screamed at this cool answer, and Leslie threatened his pitchfork. But it was neither of these things which moved Pete to tersely disclose his private opinion: "I know nothin'. I guess shortcut and destruction. Lem knows the trail. T. Sorrel ain't wuth huntin', nor them boys. Little gal--might--Talk to Lem. Clear out." Having relieved his conscience of this much information the man buried his face again in his blanket and resumed his interrupted repose. Leslie wasted one moment of indignation upon him, as a heartless human being, then hurried out of the place and to his father. When consulted, Lem Hunt hesitated for an instant only, then advised: "Best get right a-doin' things! No wagons, but fresh hosses and as many of 'em as want to go. Jiminy cricket! If T. Sorrel branched off where Pete thinks he did he's done for hisself an' all consarned. Let's be steppin'!" Fortunately, there were plenty of fresh horses at "Roderick's" that night. A drove of them were corralled behind the inn, _en route_ from a distant ranch to Denver, and thence eastward to market. All of them were well broken, to the saddle at least, and the best were promptly led out for Mr. Ford's selection, leaving his own beasts to rest for the next day's travel. Also, the drivers eagerly offered their own company, mounting without their saddles, which they insisted upon lending to the less experienced riders. Excitement followed Lemuel's advice to "Be steppin'," and a very few minutes' of bustling activity saw the cavalcade lined up before the inn with him for leader. It numbered Mr. Ford, Herbert and Monty, of that party; with Noll Roderick himself and three drovers. That Leslie had not joined the riders was due to his mother's anxiety for his health, though his father had rather favored his going. The lad had been indignant at the "molly-coddling" and had hurt the tender heart of the Gray Lady by some angry words. Then he had walked away to the extreme end of the long piazza, whence he watched the disappearance of the rescuers down the moonlight road. As the horses' footfalls died in the distance, his grumblings were interrupted by a light touch on his arm. "Come around this corner, boy! Hurry up!" He turned to find Molly Breckenridge beside him, her finger on her lip, and a wild light in her eyes. She was trembling with excitement and could scarcely wait to whisper: "I'm going, too!" "Girl, how can you?" "Horseback, course. Roderick's daughter's lending me her own pony. Mattie, her name is, and she was all for going with the others but her mother can't spare her. I told her I was just crazy, thinking of my Dorothy; hurt maybe, lost anyway, and nobody but a lot of men to speak to, even if they find her. Do you s'pose I'll desert her? That I love best of all the world? I guess not. I'm a Breckenridge! Good-by!" There was mischief in her eyes as she turned to leave him and Leslie laughed: "Course! You're thoroughbred--I saw that right away. And you're my guest! Could I, as a gentleman, let you ride off alone on a lonely road at night? Hurray! You're A 1! You're rippin'!" Molly sped around the house. She wasn't familiar, as yet, with Leslie's "rippin'" but she knew he'd approved of her wild prank and would join her in it. She was a far better rider than he, for in her own southern home she had been reared to the saddle and was never happier than when she had a good horse at command. Mattie's pony was swift and easy, and Molly sprang to its back with the feeling that now she was "really doing something," and that very speedily she would have her arms about her missing friend and all would be well. She had also begged Mattie to get a mount for Leslie, forseeing that he would follow her--exactly as he did. Another instant, and the pair were off along a little by-path, toward the main road and the pursuit of the searching party. As they struck into the smoother going Molly touched the calico pony with her whip and called to Leslie: "Come on! Hurry up! We'll have to ride like the wind to catch up with the rest!" "All right--I'll do my best but--but this--old nag--wait a little bit!" Molly wheeled about and did so, but the delay made her extremely impatient, and with some contempt she remarked, as the lad came alongside: "Why, I supposed you could ride! You looked like a boy who knew how!" "So I do! But this thing I'm on--Call this a horse? I'd rather have a mule! How dared they give me such a thing?" In her hurry Molly had not observed the animal which had stood saddled at the stable door, and that now seemed as ugly and tiresome a beast as her own little pony was fine. Pity then banished vexation and she exclaimed: "You poor fellow! I don't believe Matty meant you to have that beast. But, come on, anyway. Maybe he'll warm up after a bit, and I'll take that back--that I said about your riding. I reckon you're all right. Anybody must be who can stick on the rack-o'-bones you've got. Touch him up a little--I'll set the pace." Away she sped while the gaunt creature which Leslie bestrode planted his forefeet firmly on the ground and refused to lift them thence. Molly was fast passing around a curve in the road and would then be out of sight, and Leslie's temper rose to its height. He forgot everything except his own awkward position and the fact that his lively young guest could have the laugh on him when that night's tale was told. "Oh! you hateful beast! You won't go, eh? Well, go you shall! Hear me? Take that--and that--and--THAT!" Blows rained hard and fast, till the lash of the whip gave out, and the butt took its place. Then, as if the astonished horse had just aroused to the state of things, it bolted! and the way its old heels picked up that road was the most amazing thing of all that evening's happenings. Then, indeed, did Leslie prove himself a better horseman than he looked, and, for all time to come, his full ability to "stick." Riding ahead at a smart pace, but not her pony's best, Molly heard the footfalls behind her and swerved out of the way--not a minute too soon! Evidently, the maligned "rack-o'-bones" would otherwise have ridden her down. He passed her like a whirlwind and then--she after him. Followed, a race to be remembered! The big horse keeping the lead, the little "calico" pit-pattering along behind in a hopeless effort to get even. Thus for what seemed an endless time, the long dusty road was desolate of any travellers except this pair of runaways. Sometimes a coyote yelped in the distance; occasionally some creeping thing barred the track before them; and a screech owl sent its blood-curdling cries into their ears. Otherwise they were alone in the wilderness and the night, and beyond speaking distance even of one another. The effect was to set each culprit thinking. How wild a thing they had done! How thoughtless, how selfish! What fresh anxiety they had added to the troubled hearts back there at "Roderick's," as soon as their absence was discovered! How flat their jolly adventure had fallen! Molly had bound Mattie to secrecy, and there was that about the western girl that convinced the other that the secret would be kept. If Mrs. Roderick did guess what had become of them, and said so, it would be no comfort to Lady Gray and Helena; and the longer Molly pondered the matter, the more ashamed and terrified she felt. What would Aunt Lucretia say? And what her father--could he see his madcap at that moment? In a bitter reaction of feeling the girl dropped her head upon the pony's neck, though still mechanically urging the willing creature to her utmost speed. Her thoughts were far away when, suddenly, she felt a check upon the rein and lifted her startled face. "Why, Leslie! You scared me!" "Were you asleep?" "No." "What then? Your head was down. The 'calico' was taking her own way. What's the matter?" "It's none--I mean, if you must know, I was crying." "Oh! horrors! Why?" "Because I've done such a dreadful thing. It was wicked. I had no right and--and--" "Yes, I know. You were frightened. Well, I was, too." Molly straightened her shoulders and pretended contempt, saying: "I didn't know as gentlemen--'thoroughbreds,' you know--western thoroughbreds ever were fr-fri-ghtened. What--was--that?" A curious cry had reached them and Molly finished her speech in a whisper. The horses, also, had heard it and had thrust back their ears in fear. Just there the road skirted the edge of a forest and the cry had come from its depths. They peered into the shadows but could see nothing, and edging the pony close to Beelzebub, as Leslie's mount was named, Molly repeated her question. "Likely a wild cat, puma, or wolf. I don't know," he answered. "Have you heard it before? Was it that scared you?" "No, I was afraid something would happen to you, left behind, alone. I fancy we're in no danger that way--" pointing forestward. "But--" "'But'--what? If you thought about me why didn't you come back to look for me?" "I couldn't. Once he got in motion this beast wouldn't stop till he--ran down like a clock." "Pooh! You should go to a riding school! Let's go on, now, or else back. I can't stop here with lions and panthers yelling at us! I--I--Oh! do come on! But keep tight hold of the pony's rein. Don't get away from me again." "I shan't. I can't." "Oh! come!" "I tell you I can't. We're planted." Molly's lip quivered, but she restrained her tears and tremulously entreated: "Oh, Leslie, don't! I can't stand teasing now. This isn't funny--not a bit. Shall we go back? Or try to overtake the others?" "We can't do either one. I tell you we're simply stuck. Settled down and gone to housekeeping. Beelzebub has finished. He won't take another step. Fact. We've got to make the best of it. If that pony of yours was as big as a decent calf we might ride double and leave this wretch to starve and think it over at his leisure. I don't see why that girl gave me such a creature. Let's get off and sit down on that rock and wait. Something's bound to happen--sometime--if we live long enough. The folks'll come back this same road, course." He jumped to the ground and held out his hand to her but, for a moment, she would not dismount; then as he coolly left her and walked to the rock he had pointed out, she slipped from her saddle and followed him. But she still held fast to her bridle rein and the pony offered no resistance to the leading, though the big brute of the profane name remained in the middle of the road, his forefeet pointed forward, his hind ones backward, his whole attitude one of stubborn ugliness. Leslie had reached a point where the ludicrous side of things appeared and he remarked: "Looks like the potato-horses I used to make when I was a kid, with matches stuck in for legs. I wonder how long he'll stand there!" Molly smiled faintly. At present there were no alarming sounds from the forest and the boy's apparent indifference to their lonely situation relieved her own fears. "Well, it's an 'ill wind that blows nobody good,' you know. That Beelzy thing is the toughest I ever rode. He's bumped me up and down till I ache all over and this rock is actually soft in comparison. Here. I'll put some of these big ferns for a cushion for you, and, after all, we'll meet our folks just as soon by waiting as by going on. They must come back, you know, sure as fate. This is the only road leads to 'Roderick's', I heard them say. Hello! Why--Beelzebub, good boy!" A whim had seized the obstinate animal to approach his late rider and fawn about his feet, nibbling the scant grass which grew there, as the pony was already doing. In surprise at this change both Leslie and Molly laughed and forgot, for the time, that they were in such a desolate place at so late an hour. The horse's action reminded Molly of an animal her father had once owned and she began to tell stories about him; stories that the boy matched with marvelous ones of his own. That some of these were fiction made no difference. Molly disdained to believe them but they served to pass the time as well as any better ones might have done. Indeed, fear had now left them. The rest after their hard ride was pleasant and both felt that they were simply waiting for their friends' return. So they sat on, as composedly as if they were safe at home, till Molly's eyes, fixed upon the distant road, suddenly grew startled again. Leslie's latest yarn had been of an Indian outbreak, or uprising, of recent date and in this neighborhood. He had heard it that evening from the men at the inn and had not paused to consider how unlikely was such an incident so near to the city of Denver. In truth, the "boys" had invented the whole story, just for the sake of impressing the young "tenderfeet"--Monty, Herbert and Leslie; and it had satisfied the jokers that these youngsters "swallered it hull." But Leslie had a gift for dramatic recital and listening to him the affair seemed very real to the girl. The scene and the hour suggested a possible repetition of the occurrence; and as there now came to her ears the sound of distant hoofbeats on the road, and presently, to her eyes the sight of a company of horsemen approaching, she gave one terrified cry and darted into the forest behind her. "The Indians! The--Indians! They'll kill us!" Moved by his own eloquence and still believing the story he had been told, the boy followed her flight. He did not even turn to look where she had pointed but, with a headlong rush, dashed into the wood and into a mass of briars which threw him face downward in their midst. Also, at that same instant both the deserted horses set up a continued neighing, which confirmed the fears of their riders who, both now prone upon the ground, felt that their last hour had come. CHAPTER IV THE WATCHERS AT RODERICK'S As soon as Molly and Leslie had ridden away, Mattie Roderick disappeared within her own room and became deaf to all the inquiries made outside her door. She was a high-spirited, "wild western" girl, accustomed to obeying little else than her own impulses. She had a fine record as a horsewoman and had been disappointed that she could not go with the searching party. This being the case, it was next better to lend her pony to that other lively girl who was so like herself. But Mrs. Roderick was certain that the missing Molly and Leslie had followed the first party and could give no comfort to anxious Mrs. Ford beyond the statement: "Things don't happen often, 'twixt here an' Denver. Been one or two hold-ups, of men known to carry money, but beyond a murder or so, ain't been no excitement this long spell." "Murder!" cried Helena aghast, and folding her arm a bit more tightly about Gray Lady's trembling body. "Oh! yes'm. A few has been. But nobody'd touch to harm them children. You needn't worry. They've thought it smart to take a hand in the business, that's all. Mattie won't say 'yes' nor 'no' to my askin', but the 'calico's' out of the corral and Long Jim's Belezebub ain't hitched no longer. Ha, ha, ha! If either them kids tries to ride Beelzy--Hmm. But Chiquita, now, she's little but she's great. Pa and Matt claim she's worth her weight in gold. She's likely, anyway. An' don't fret, lady. They'll all be home to breakfast, an' seein's I've got that to cook, I'll hump myself to bed and advisin' you to do the same. If not, make yourselves comfortable's you can, and good night." After the landlady's departure the house became strangely quiet. The men who had been talking outside sought their own rest, and the anxious watchers missed the murmur of voices and the sense of protection which the presence of even these strangers gave. While Mrs. Ford was still restlessly pacing the long piazza, Alfy slipped within. With her keen observation of details, she had seen where the woodpile was and that the fire on the hearth in the main room of the house had about died out. This had been lighted for the guests' enjoyment, the inn folks caring nothing for it and therefore easily forgetting to replenish it. When she had gathered an armful of wood, Alfy carried it to the fireplace and lustily blew upon the embers till a little blaze started. Then she heaped the sticks upon this and presently had a roaring flame. At once the room grew cheerful, its bareness furnished, as it were, by this open fire. "Now, dear Lady Gray, please come right inside. You'll get your death out here in this night air, with not even your cloak on. Come, Helena, you both come in," said Alfaretta, appearing on the porch. But her first words had started the mother's tears. "Lady Gray." That had been her son's pet name for her, its use still more frequent than "Mother," and with a little cry she murmured: "Ah! my boy! Shall I ever hear you say that again!" "I don't see why not," said practical Alfaretta, nodding to Helena to help persuade the woman to take a needed rest. "You heard that landlady tellin' how 't they'd all be home to breakfast. Well, then, she knows. She's lived here a power o' time and we've only just come. Say, Helena, let's make a pot of coffee and set the table. I can do it right on them coals, after the fire burns down a mite. If I can't there, 'twon't be the first cook stove I've tackled in my life, and I know one thing if I don't any more: that is, when those searchers and Dolly an' Jim do come they'll be so tearing hungry they could nigh eat ten-penny nails. Come on. Let's get supper for 'em. You boss the job, Mrs. Ford, and then it'll be done right. I saw a lot of chickens in a back room, as I come through, all fixed to fry. Well now, you both know I can fry chicken to the queen's taste, and I'll just lay myself out this time!" Her energy and cheerfulness were not to be resisted. Mrs. Ford followed the two girls inside and with a little shiver, from her exposure outside, drew a chair to the hearth and bent to its warmth. Then, as if she had been in her own home, Alfaretta whisked about, dragging small tables from the dining room into this larger one, ordering Helena to do this and that, and all with a haste that was almost as cheering as the fire. "Now, Helena, here's the dish-closet. You set the table. My! Ain't these the heaviest plates and cups you ever saw? Ma Babcock'd admire to get some like 'em; our children break such a lot of things. But Mis' Calvert wouldn't think she could drink tea out of such. She wants her 'n to be thin as thin! and she's got one set, 't belonged to her grandmother--great-grandma, I guess it was--come over from England or somewhere--that she won't let no hands except her own touch to wash. I wish you could see Aunt Betty wash dishes! 'Twould set you laughing, fit to split, first off. It did me till I begun to see the other side of it, seems if. First, she must have a little porcelain tub, like a baby's wash-tub, sort of--then a tiny mop, doll's mop, I called it, and towels--Why, her best table napkins aren't finer than them towels be. And dainty! My heart! 'Tis the prettiest picture in the world when that 'ristocratic old lady washes her heirloom-china! But this--your hands'd get tired enough if you had to do much of this. Hurry up! Don't you know how to set a table yet, great girl like you? Well, do the best you can. I'm going into that kitchen to cook. I can't wait for this fire to get low. I surely can't, because, you see, they might be here any minute--any single minute--and nothing done yet, not even the table set. Mrs. Ford, you better cut the bread. Here's a lot of it in a tin box, and a knife with it, sharp enough to cut a feller's head off. You best not touch it, Helena, you're so sort of clumsy with things. Now I'm off to boil 'tatoes and fry chicken!" It was impossible to retain gloomy forebodings while Alfy's cheerful tongue was running on at this rate, and as she left the living-room for the kitchen at the rear both Lady Gray and Helena were laughing, partly at their own awkwardness at the tasks assigned them as well as at her glib remarks. "I never set a table in my life!" cried Helena, in glee. "And I never sliced a loaf of bread!" said Gray Lady; "though I'll admit it is time I learned. Indeed, I've never had a home, you know, and I'm looking forward to my housekeeping as eagerly as a child to her playhouse." "I'm wondering what the landlady will say, when she finds how we've invaded her pantry," continued Helena, carefully arranging the coarse stone-china upon the oilcloth covered tables. She had begun very reluctantly but found that the labor was a delightful relief from worry, and, with the good sense she possessed, now went on with it as painstakingly as if she expected a fashionable and critical company. Indeed, her first table-setting, copied, as near as she could remember, from the careful appointments of her own mother's board, was to be an object lesson to others besides herself. For presently there was the sound of voices in the kitchen; Alfaretta's, of course, with another equally gay and girlish. Mattie Roderick had slept lightly. She had been excited over the arrival of the Ford party in the first place, and doubly so from the later events of the night. So as she lay sleepless and listening, she heard the rattle of cooking things in the kitchen below and soon the odor of frying. With a little grumble she got up and put on the few garments she had discarded. "It can't be near morning yet. I don't see what's set Ma to cooking, 'less they're on the road back and nigh starved. One thing I know! I shan't marry no tavern-keeper! It's nothin' but fry, roast, bake, an' bile, the hull endurin' time. I'm goin' to quit and go east fur as Denver, anyhow, soon's I get my age. I'd like to look same's them girls do, and they ain't no prettier 'n me. It's only their clothes makes 'em look it, and as for that Molly, they call her, that's rid off on Chiquita, she's just as plain and folksy as get out! So's the red-headed one with the high-falutin' name, out of that song Pa sings about the 'blue Juniata' and 'bright Alfaretta,' or some such trash. Them boys--Well, they hain't took no notice o' me yet--but I can show 'em a thing or two. I bet I can shoot better than any of 'em. I bet, if they don't hurry off too early to-morrow, I'll get up a match and teach 'em how a Colorado girl can hit the bull's-eye every time!" With these ambitious reflections the inn-keeper's daughter arrived at the kitchen and the presence of the red-headed girl in it, instead of the portly form of her mother. "What on earth does it mean?" demanded Mattie, scarcely believing her own eyes. It didn't take Alfy long to explain, and she added the warning: "You keep it up! Don't you let on to Mrs. Ford that there's the least misdoubt in your mind but what them searchers will be back, right to once, same's I'm pretending! Oh! I hope they do! I hope they do! I hope it so much I dassent hardly think and just have to keep talking to stop it. If I had hold that Molly Breckenridge I'd shake her well! The dear flighty little thing! To go addin' another scare to a big enough one before, and now about that Leslie. He's a real nice boy--Leslie is--if you let him do exactly what he wants and don't try to make him different. His ma just sets all her store by him. I never got the rights of it, exactly, Aunt Betty Calvert--she 't I've been hired out to--she never approved of gossip. She said that folks quarrellin' was just plain makin' fools of themselves, or words to that effect. The Fords had done it and now, course, they was thicker 'n blueberries again and didn't want to hear nothing about the time they wasn't. Don't leave them 'tatoes in that water so long! Why, child o' grace, don't you know yet, and you keepin' tavern, that soon's a potato is cooked it ought to be snatched out the pot and set to steamin', to get dry? Soggy potatoes gives you the dyspepsy and that's a disease I ain't sufferin' to catch. It makes folks so cross." By this time Mattie had entered into the spirit of the thing and had never been happier in her life. This Alfaretta was so jolly, so friendly, so full of talk. So wholly satisfied in her conscience, too, now that "one of the family" was beside her to share the risk she had assumed of using other people's provisions so recklessly. But in that she had misjudged her genial hosts. Nothing was too good for their guests, these or any others, and if the chickens meant for breakfast were pre-empted for this midnight meal, why there were plenty more in the hennery. So, secure in her better knowledge of the elder Rodericks, Miss Mattie sped about, flew in and out of the sitting-room, to tend the fire or add some delicacy to Helena's daintily set table; the same that made her stare at its difference from ordinary. Didn't seem possible that the mere arrangement of cups and saucers, of knives and forks, could give such an "air" to the whole place. "Like brook trout, Mis' Ford?" asked the girl, upon one entrance. "You men-folks like 'em, too?" Assured that they were considered a great treat, Mattie advised: "Well, you just wait! I know where there's a lot, in a basket in the pool. Pa catched 'em to have 'em ready and I'll hike after 'em to onct. You like to go along, Helena?" Stately Helena smiled at the free masonry of the westerner and glanced at Mrs. Ford, in inquiry: "Yes, dear, go with her. I shan't be lonely, with Alfaretta left, flying in and out busily. I declare, those kitchen odors _are_ savory! I hope the wanderers will soon be here, that this new meal won't be kept till spoiled, as Mrs. Roderick complained of the other." Helena noticed that the lady expressed no further doubt about the safety of the absentees and thus encouraged she gladly accepted Mattie's invitation. Indeed, this whole trip was full of delightful novelty and all the affectations which had once made Helena Montaigne disagreeable to sensible people had been discarded, or outgrown. Mattie's first preparation was to take off her shoes and stockings and she advised the other girl to do the same. "Else you'll get 'em all dirt going through the swamp to the pool. We don't have none too much water hereabouts but what we have got is _wet_!" "I couldn't go barefooted. My feet would hurt so. I'll have to risk the shoes. I have others in my suit-case, wherever it is." "Well, come on then. You can step light through the ma'sh and 'twon't be so bad. Wait till I fetch a lantern." "A lantern, in this moonlight?" "Sure. 'Twon't shine into the woods. The trees are awful thick and though I could go straight there and back, without stumbling once, you're new to the way an' the light's for you. I don't want you to get hurt just goin' for a mess o' fish!" "Thank you, Mattie. That is very considerate of you. Shall I carry it?" Mattie was pleased by the other girl's "thank you." Such small courtesies were almost unknown to her, but she determined to remember how "good" it had made her feel and to experiment with it upon somebody else, sometime. Even as Helena's table-setting had also been a lesson in neatness; and with her eagerness to learn she felt that she had been amply repaid for giving up her sleep. Chattering as if she had always known the stranger she led the way safely to the pool, deep in the woods; and Helena never forgot that scene. Except for the slight illumination of the lantern the blackness of the forest was intense, and the rustling of wild things among the tree-tops startled her. Mattie looked up and saw her fear, then laughed hilariously: "Two 'fraid-cats together, you an' the birds! Likely, they never saw a lantern before and hate to be disturbed even more 'n I did, listenin' to Alfaretta in the kitchen. But don't you like it? Ain't it awful solemn in such woods in the night-time? Makes a body think of all the hateful things she's done and sort of wish she hadn't done 'em. But there ain't no livin' thing in these woods'll hurt you, nowadays, though onct they was chock full o' grizzlies an' such. Now I guess that's enough. Don't suppose your folks'd eat a bigger mess 'n that, do you? 'Cause I could take a few more if you say so." Helena looked at the big basket of trout and laughed, then shivered at the echo of her own laughter in that place, which seemed full as "solemn" to her as it did to the more accustomed Mattie. They were soon back at the inn, Mattie at once proceeding to show Alfaretta that she could do some fine cooking herself; and between them they made Mrs. Roderick's larder suffer, so eager was each to outdo the other and to suggest some further delicacy for that wonderful meal. Mrs. Ford paced in and out of the living-room, watchful and still anxious, though greatly amused at the doings of the three girls, and wondering, as well, how the landlady could sleep through all that din and chatter. For Helena, too, had gone into the kitchen and seizing a pitcher of cream Mattie was carrying to the table, demanded a chance to "whip" it. "It's such an improvement, or will be for that good coffee you've made, and Herbert likes it so much." Mattie put her arms akimbo and stared; then demanded, in turn: "Can't you do anything sensibler than 'whip' cream? As if it was bad. You make me laugh, though I don't know what you mean." Helena soon showed her, even with a two-tined steel fork beating the rich cream into a heaped-up, foamy mass, which Mattie declared was the "wonderfulest thing" she had ever seen. They were still discussing the matter, and each sampling the delicacy with relish, when Mrs. Ford's excited voice was heard, calling: "They're coming! Oh! they're coming at last! Away down the road! I can hear them--beyond the turn of the road. Only it seems that they come slowly. Is it so? Or is it my own impatience?" Only Alfaretta stopped to push the pans and pots to the cool, safe end of the great stove, now glowing red in front from the hot fire they had made. The other girls rushed outward to see for themselves, and Alfy reached the piazza just in time to hear Mattie remark: "Yes, they do travel powerful slow. They ain't in no hurry to get here. Somethin's happened. You can just believe me--somethin's happened!" CHAPTER V THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS As the approaching company came around the bend of the road into sight of the inn, a "calico" pony detached itself from the group of riders and before those watching on the porch could hear her words, Molly was shouting to them: "We're all right! Everybody is all right--except the one that isn't! And he--Wait, I'm coming!" The three girls ran down the road to meet her, and even Lady Gray walked swiftly after, and in a moment more they had encircled the truant with their loving arms, forgetting that she had given them a needless anxiety. "They weren't Indians at all. They were just our own folks, but Leslie and I were frightened half to death! I don't know what would have become of us except the pony told our story. And he's only smashed up a little some way. They had to hold him on the horse--" "What! Leslie, my Leslie, my boy!" gasped Mrs. Ford. "Leslie? No, indeed! Nothing the matter with him only riding the rack-o'-bones. The 'Tenderfoot' man, and the cowboys say it served him right. Only he got off too easy with just a broken collar bone, and a sprained ankle, and some teeth gone--and a few other trifles like that. He--" "You can get off Chiquita now, Molly. I want to rub her down. Ain't she the best ever?" said Mattie, calmly lifting the rider down from the saddle. "Indeed she is! And how strong you are, to lift a big girl like me!" cried Molly, eagerly. "I do believe your little Chiquita saved our lives, Leslie's and mine." "Tell me what you mean, child. Where is Leslie?" demanded the Gray Lady, placing her hand on Molly's shoulder and peering into her eyes. "Why--I mean, what I say, course, Mrs. Ford. But Leslie's all right now. He's scratched with the briars and torn his clothes and has had to ride double with a cowboy, or drover, because he couldn't stand Beelzebub again. Mr. Roderick is riding that creature and--Here, here they are!" Once in sight of the house most of the party came up at a canter, Mr. Ford cheerfully saluting his wife, and the others waving their hats and showing off a few tricks of their steeds--while Dorothy was handed down from riding-pillion behind her host. Everybody's tongue was loosened at once and such a hubbub arose that Mrs. Ford clapped her hands to her ears, then caught hold of Leslie as he slid to the ground and ran like a girl to the house. She wanted a chance to kiss him before the rest came in and had learned long before this that her boy "hated coddling." However, he submitted to a little of it that night with a better grace than usual, understanding that he had given his mother anxiety; and told her as briefly as possible the whole story. "You see, Lady Gray, that 'Sorrel Tenderfoot' was too smart, so came to grief." "A good lesson to remember, son." "Course. Well, he drove into a road, a trail, and got stuck. The horses bolted, the wagon went to smash and he was hurt. Pretty bad, I guess. The others weren't at all, only frightened and sort of stunned. They were in a tight fix. So dark in there they didn't know which way was out and made up their minds to stay till daylight. That Jim Barlow--I tell you he's great!--he fixed a bed with the wagon cushions and laid 'Sorrel' on it. Then he felt the man all over and saw his legs and arms were sound. After that he got the box of the buckboard right side up and made Dorothy get into that and lie down. He covered her with the robes and made Manuel promise to stay right beside her while he went back for help. Dorothy wouldn't let him go, at first, till he made her ashamed thinking about the 'Tenderfoot.' "He made his way back all that distance to the main road, just by noticing the branches that had been broken by their driving in. He was going to walk back to Denver for help, thinking that was the quickest way, but when he got out of the woods he couldn't go any further. He'd hurt his arm some way--Dad says it's broken--and the pain made him faint. We found him there--I mean the searchers did, and when he came to be told them the rest. "Lem Hunt and Roderick knew exactly where to look. They found the runaway blacks and captured them, or some of the cowboys did, and they made a litter of the wagon box, covered it with branches and carried him out of the woods. They've brought him all the way here for he insisted on coming. Said he'd be better cared for by Mrs. Roderick than at any hospital in Denver. He was sort of crazy and they didn't dare oppose him. That's why they are so slow. But they'll be here soon and he'll be put to bed. Lemuel says the man'll take a blazed trail the rest of his life, and will have time to get over his smartness while his bones heal. But I think it's too bad. I'm sorry for him, and so is Dad. Now, come. They're going to table and I'm hungry as a bear. Isn't it fine of Mrs. Roderick to get a meal this time of night, or day, or whatever hour it is?" "It wasn't Mrs. Roderick. Alfy was the moving spirit and the other girls helped. But not one mouthful shall you have till you confess your own fault. Why did you, Leslie, run away into all that danger against my wishes?" "Why, Molly--" began the lad, then checked himself for shame. "Why, Lady Gray, I couldn't let a girl like Molly ride away alone, could I? And she would go--just would. And the funny part was--we heard 'lions' or 'panthers', or something in the woods behind us. We'd stopped to rest and we thought so. Then we saw the searchers coming back and thought they were Indians! and the way we took to the woods would make you laugh. That's how I got to look like this. We might have been in them yet if little Chiquita hadn't stood like a post right beside the rock where we'd been sitting. Her being there, and Molly's hat and jacket that she'd taken off because she was too warm, told the truth. Dorothy saw the hat and knew it at once. So when Roderick came up and recognized Chiquita they made another search and found--us. But I tell you, Lady Gray, I've had all the lecturing I need just now from the other head of the family. I think Dad would have liked me to ride with him, at first, but he gave me his opinion of a boy who would 'sneak' off and 'leave his mother unprotected in a strange house at night.' Just forgive me this once, motherkin, and I'll be good in future; or till next time, any way. Now, come." Such a meal as followed had rarely been eaten even in that land of hungry people, where the clear air so sharpens appetite; and in the midst of it came the landlady herself, not even showing surprise, and certainly not offence, at the liberties which had been taken in her house. Fortunately, Jim's arm had been bruised and strained, only; not broken as Mr. Ford had feared. Then to bed and a few hours of sleep; another breakfast, as good as the first; after which buckboards were driven round and horses saddled; Herbert, Jim, and Manuel electing to ride while Monty was to travel in the wagon with Silent Pete, as driver. He was the better suited thus because Mr. Ford and Leslie were to be his companions, the gentlemen having arranged matters this time without any casting of lots. Lemuel drove the four-in-hand as on the day before, having as passengers Mrs. Ford and Miss Milliken--who had slept soundly through all the events of the night--with the four girls. Jedediah, Mr. Ford's colored "boy" also rode beside the driver, for the greater protection of the feminine travelers, should any need arise. But nothing did. All the untoward incidents of this journey to the Rockies had happened during its first stage. "Tenderfoot Sorrel" was left behind, of course, but he did not greatly regret that. He felt that he could more easily endure physical pain than the chaffing of his fellows at San Leon. As before, the start was made with a flourish of whip and horn, amid good wishes and farewells from the hosts of the Wayside Inn, and a sure promise to "come again!" Then a day's journey steadily onward and upward, through river-fed valleys and rocky ravines, with a mid-day stop at another little hostelry, for a change of horses and a plain dinner. Then on again, following the sun till it sank behind a mountain range and they had climbed well nigh to the top. Here Mr. Ford ordered a brief halt, that the travellers might look behind them at the glorious landscape. When they had done so, till the scene was impressed upon their memories forever, again the order came: "Eyes front! but shut! No peeping till I say--Look!" Laughing, finding it ever so difficult to obey, but eager, indeed, the last ascent was made. Then the wheels seemed to have found a level stretch of smoother travelling and again came Mr. Ford's cry: "All eyes front and--open! Welcome to San Leon!" Open they did. Upon one of the loveliest homes they had ever beheld. A long, low, roomy building, modelled in the Mission style that Lady Gray so greatly admired; whose spacious verandas and cloistered walks invited to delightful days out of doors; while everywhere were flowers in bloom, fountains playing, vine-clad arbors and countless cosy nooks, shadowed by magnificent trees. A lawn as smooth as velvet, dotted here and there by electric light poles whose radiance could turn night into day. For a moment nobody spoke; then admiration broke forth in wondering exclamations, while the host helped his wife to alight, asking: "Well, Erminie, does it suit you?" "Suit? Dear, I never dreamed of anything better than a plain shack on a mountain side. That's what you called it--but this--this is no shack. It's more like a palace!" "Well, the main thing is to make it a home." "Is it as good as the 'cabin,' father?" asked Leslie, coming up and laying his hand on Mr. Ford's shoulder. "Let us hope it will be! If the first inmates are peace and good will. Peace and good will," he repeated, gravely. Then his accustomed gayety replaced his seriousness and he waved his hand toward the entrance, saying: "Queen Erminie, enter in and possess your kingdom! Your maids of honor with you!" "My heart!" cried Alfaretta, following her hostess, like a girl in a dream. "I thought 'twould be just another up-mounting sort of place, not near so nice as Deerhurst or the Towers, but it's splendid more 'n they are, either one or both together." "Wonderful, what money can do in this land of the free!" remarked Herbert, critically estimating the establishment. "Think of a man having his own electric light plant away up here! Why, if it weren't for the mountains yonder one could fancy this is Newport or Long Branch." "Without the sea, Bert. Even money can't bring the sea to the mountain-tops," said Helena, though her own face was aglow with admiration. "It can do the next best thing to it. Look yonder," said Monty, pointing where a glimmer of sunset-tinted water showed through a hedge of trees. "Let's go there. It certainly is water," urged Jim Barlow. "Well, Leslie told me there was a strange waterfall near San Leon and I suppose the same money has pressed that into service. To think! That 'Railroad Boss' earned his first quarter selling papers on the train! He was talking about the 'cabin' as we came along. It had two rooms and he lived in it alone with his mother. By his talk they hadn't always been so poor and she belonged to an old family, as 'families go in America.' That was the way he put it, and it was his ambition to see his mother able to take 'the place where she belonged.' That's how he began; and now, look at this!" All the young people had now gathered around the pond, or lake, that had been made in a natural basin on the mountain side, for thinking that their host and hostess would better like to enter their new home with no strangers about them, Dorothy had suggested: "Let's follow the boys! Jim's arm ought to be looked after, first thing, and I'll remind him of it. He'd no business to come on horseback all that long way, but he never would take care of himself." "Has Leslie ever been here before?" asked Molly Breckenridge. "No. It is as much a surprise to him as to his mother. But he's mighty proud of his father," answered Dorothy. "Look, here he comes now." He came running across the sward and down the rocky path to the edge of the lake and clapped a hand on the shoulders of Herbert and Montmorency. He did not mean to be less cordial to Jim Barlow but he was. For two reasons: one that Dorothy had extolled her humble friend till he seemed a paragon of all the virtues; and secondly what he had learned of Jim's eagerness for knowledge had made him ashamed of his own indifference to it. Even that day, his father had commended the poorer boy for his keen observation of everything and read him a portion of a letter received from Dr. Sterling, the clergyman with whom James lived and studied. The Doctor had written that the lad was already well versed in natural history and that his interest in geology was as great as the writer's own. He felt that this invitation to his beloved protégé was a wonderful thing for the student, and that Mr. Ford might feel he was having a hand in the formation of a great scientist. There had been more of the same sort of praise and Leslie had looked with simple amazement at the tall, awkward youth, who had arrived in Denver with the rest of his young guests. "That fellow smart? Clever? Brainy? Well, he doesn't look it. If ever I saw a regular clodhopper, he's the chap. But that Herbert Montaigne, now, is rippin'! He has the right 'air,' and so has the shorty, the fat Monty, only his figure is against him," he had remarked to Mateo, who had instantly agreed with him. Indeed, the Mexican _never_ disagreed with his "gracious excellency, Señor Leslie." Mateo's service was an easy one and his salary good. Besides, he was really fond of his young master and formed all his opinions in accordance. So then he, too, cast a supercilious glance at Jim, and had caused that shy lad's color to rise, though beyond that he took no notice. Already as they stood there gazing over the lake, crimson with the last rays of the sun, Jim was studying the rocks upon the farther side and squinting his eyes at something moving among them. It was with a startled return to his surroundings that he heard Leslie now say: "My father wants to have you come in, Mr.--I mean James. The doctor is going to properly dress your arm." "The doctor? Is there a doctor here?" asked Dorothy, slipping her hand under Jim's uninjured arm, and conveying by that action her sympathy with his feeling of an alien. But he coolly drew aside. He wasn't going to be humiliated by any girl's cossetting, not even hers. He had never realized his poverty so bitterly, nor been more ashamed of that fact. Just because some richer boys looked down upon him was no reason he should look down upon himself. Also, it angered him that he really needed surgical attention. He had suffered intensely during the ride hither but he had kept that to himself. He meant to keep it to himself whatever happened, and to join in what was going on as if he were physically sound as the other boys. "It's only my left arm, anyway. I'd be a poor stick of a thing if I couldn't manage with the other," he had thought, bravely, despite the pain. Now here was he being made the object of everybody's notice; and, being Jim--he hated it! There was a surly look in his eyes as he replied to Leslie's message: "I guess not. I mean--there isn't any need--I'm all right. I'm all right, I say. I'm--Shucks! I'm bully!" It was Dorothy who blushed this time, she was so mortified by the rudeness of her "paragon." Whenever had he used such an expression? She flashed an indignant glance upon him, then coolly commanded him: "You come right straight along, James Barlow. You're Mr. Ford's guest now and must do what he wants, just the same as if he were Dr. Sterling. Besides, I know we all ought to be freshening ourselves before supper. Lady Gray hates untidy people. Come on." Again she linked her arm in Jim's and led the way up the slope toward the house, while at the mention of supper all the others fell into line behind her. And now Jim was already ashamed of his petulance with her. After all, she was the prettiest girl of them all; and, so far as he knew, the richest. She was "thoroughbred;" her family one of the oldest in its native State; and though the poorhouse boy had no family pride of his own he was loyal to old Maryland and his earliest friend. What had not Dolly been to him? His first teacher, his loving companion, and the means of all that was good coming into his life. "Say, Dolly, I'm sorry I said that and shamed you. Sorry I'm such a conceited donkey as to hate being looked down on. You just keep me posted on what's what, little girl, and I'll try to behave myself. But it beats creation, to find such a place as this up here on the Rockies and to know one man's done it. Kind of takes a feller's breath away, don't it?" They were a little ahead of the rest of the party and able to talk freely, so Dorothy improved the chance to give "her boy Jim" a little lecture; suggesting that he must never stop short of accomplishing just as much as Daniel Ford had done. "What one poor lad can do, another can--if he will! _If he will_, James Barlow! It's just the _will_, you see. There was a copy in my old writing-book: 'What man has done, man can do.'" "Shucks! I'm ambitious enough, but 'tain't along no money lines. What I want is learnin'--just plain knowledge. I wrote a copy once, too, and 'twas that 'Knowledge is Power.' I made them capitals the best I could so 't I never would forget 'em." "Huh! For such a wise young man you talk pretty common. There's no need, Jim Barlow, for you to go back into all the bad grammar and chipped-off words just because you're talking to--me. I notice you are very particular and careful when you speak to our hosts. Oh, Jim! isn't this going to be just a glorious summer? Except when I think about Aunt Betty I'm almost too happy to breathe." Jim had stumbled along beside her, unseeing the objects that were nearest--the lovely shrubbery, beautiful flowers, and quaint little furnishings of that grand lawn--but with his eyes fixed on a distant mountain peak, bare of verdure, and seemingly but a mass of vari-colored rock; and he now remarked: "I wonder how much of this country that Dan Ford owns! I wonder if he's got a claim on the peaks yonder!" "Come back to earth, boy! Can't you think anything, see anything but--stones? Here we are at the door and I fancy this gentleman is the doctor. Good evening, sir." "Is this the lad with the injured arm?" asked the gentleman meeting the pair, and glancing toward Jim's bandaged arm, with the coat sleeve hanging loose above it. "Yes, sir, but it's nothing. It doesn't need any attention," said Jim, ungraciously. "Behave yourself, Jim. Yes, Doctor--I suppose you're that?--he is so badly hurt that he's cross. But it's wonderful to find a doctor away up here," said Dorothy. Her odd little air of authority over the great, loutish lad, and her gay smile to himself, instantly won the stranger's liking, and he answered warmly: "Wonderful, maybe, but no more so than all of Dan Ford's doings. Step this way, my son, and Miss, I fancy you'd best not follow just yet. Nurse Melton will assist me, if I need assistance." "A nurse, too? How odd!" said Dorothy turning to join her mates. She did not see Jim Barlow again that night. When the examination was made the doctor found the injured arm in bad shape, swollen and inflamed to a degree that made great care a necessity unless much worse were to follow. So, for the first time in his healthy life, Jim found himself an invalid; sent to bed and ministered to by a frail, sweet-faced woman in a white uniform, whose presence on that far away ranch was a puzzle to him. Until, seeing his evident curiosity, she satisfied it by the explanation: "Oh! I'm merely another of Mr. Ford's beneficiaries. My brother is an engineer on one of his railroads, and he heard that I was threatened with consumption. So he had me sent to Denver for a time, till San Leon was ready. Then I came here. I'm on hand to attend any sick folks who may need me, though you're the first patient yet. I can tell you that you're fortunate to number Daniel Ford among your friends. He's the grandest man in the world." Jim lay quiet for a time, till his supper was brought in. But he could not taste that. The dressing of his wounded arm had been painful in extreme, though he had borne the pain without a groan, and for that been greatly admired by both the surgeon and the nurse. He was now feverish and discontented. The "happy summer" of which Dorothy had boasted was beginning anything but happily for him. He was angry against his own weakness and disappointed that he could not at once begin his work of studying the rocks of this region. To do so had been his chief reason for accepting Mr. Ford's genial invitation, for his shyness shrank from meeting strangers and accepting favors from them. Dr. Sterling had talked him "out of his nonsense" for the time being, but he now wished himself back in his familiar room at Deerhurst lodge, with Hans and Griselda Roemer. They were humble folk and so was he. He had no business in this rich man's "shack" that was, in reality, a palace; where pleasure was the rule and work the exception. Well--things might happen! He'd take care they should! He was among the mountains--for that part he was glad; only regretful of the debt to another which had brought him there. The hum of voices in and about the big house ceased. Even the barking dogs were silent at last, and the music from the men's quarters, stopped. There was where he, Jim belonged, by right. Out in some of the many buildings at the rear; so many, in fact, that they were like a village. He guessed he'd go there. Yes. In the morning, maybe the Boss would give him a job, and he could work to pay his keep. His thoughts grew wilder and more disordered, his head ached. The nurse was sitting silent in an adjoining room. Actual watching was unnecessary and she understood her patient's mood, that her presence in his chamber worried him. It was his time--now or never. He crept from his bed and stepped out of the low window upon the wide porch. Even in his delirious confusion it struck him that he had never seen such wonderful moonlight, nor such a big, inviting world. The vagary of thought altered. He would not seek the workmen's quarters, after all. The mountains were better. They called him. They did not seem far away. He would not feel so hot and then so shivery if he could lie down on their cool tops, with only the sky above him. Aye, they called him; and blindly answering to their silent summons the sick boy went. The things he prophesied had surely begun to "happen." CHAPTER VI A MARTINET OF THE ROCKIES San Leon ranch was a large one. The dwelling house and many outbuildings were upon a rich plateau topping a spur from the great mountain beyond. On one side, the land sloped to the valley of the Mismit, utilized for the sheep farming; and across the river, or run, rose grassy fields, climbing one above another till they ended in rocky, verdureless soil. Here were the cattle ranges, and here the herds of horses lived their free life. The extent of the property amazed the newcomers, even Lady Gray herself. She was exploring the premises escorted by Leslie and her young guests, and piloted by the talkative Lem Hunt. For once he had attentive listeners. There was no fellow ranchmen to ridicule his oft-told tales, but eager ears to which they were new; and eyes as eager to behold the scenes of these same marvellous stories. All began and ended with "The Boss, he." Evidently, for old Lem, there existed but one man worth knowing and that was the "Boss, he." "I s'pose, Ma'am, you know how the Boss, he come to buy S' Leon. No? You don't? By the Great Horned Spoon! Ain't that great? Just like him. The Boss, he never brags of his doin's, that's why I have to do it for him. Well, Ma'am, I can't help sayin' 'twas a deed o' charity. Just a clean, simon-pure piece of charity. Yes, Ma'am, that's what it was, and you can bite that off an' chew it." Mrs. Ford smiled. She was always delighted to hear of her husband's generous deeds but rarely heard of them from himself. Also, she had supposed that the purchase of San Leon had been a recent one and was amazed now to learn it had been owned by Mr. Ford for several years. Not as it then was, for no improvements had been made to the home-piece till after he had found her that last winter in San Diego. Then, at once, preparations had been made for this home-coming, with the result of all the beauty that now greeted her eyes. "Tell us, Lemuel. I'm anxious to hear." Lem switched some hay from a wagon seat, that stood upon the ground, and motioned the lady to be seated. The youngsters grouped about her, Lem cut off a fresh "chaw," rubbed his hands and began. He stood with legs far apart, arms folded, an old sombrero pushed back on his head, a riding crop in hand, and an air of a king. Was he not a free-born American citizen, as good as could be found in all the country? Lemuel adored his "Boss" but he had not learned the manners which that "Boss" would have approved in the presence of the Gray Lady; who, by the way, was never more truly the "Lady" than in her intercourse then, and always, with the toilers at San Leon. "Well, sir, Ma'am, I mean--'twas really a deed o' gift. There was another railroader, rich once, done somethin' he hadn't ought to. I don't rightly know what that was. The Boss never told, course, and it never leaked out otherwise. That's no more here nor there. But he, the other feller, had his bottom dollar into S' Leon, and some dollars 't wasn't his 'n. He was countin' on this range bein' chock full o' silver an' he'd wheedled the rest to takin' his word for it. Silver? Not on your life. The sheriffs got after him. He hadn't a friend in the world. He lit out a-foot and got as far as Denver city an' aboard a train. Leastwise, under a baggage car, stealin' a ride. Course he got hurt. Happened the Boss, he was on hand. He's a way of bein' when other folks is in trouble. Heard the feller's story. Had knowed him out east and 'lowed he was more fool than knave. Long-short was--S' Leon swopped owners. The first named had had to take his medicine an' I've been told he took it like a little man. The Boss paid in full, on condition 't all hands round got their level dues. Atterwards, the Boss made this a dumpin'-ground for all the down-in-the-world unfortunates he knew. "The doctor's one. He was just dyin' back yonder, same as Miss Melton. Doc, he took the place o' book-keeper, sort o' manager--I claim to be that myself--but to do anything needed. The's always somebody gettin' broke, legs, an' arms, and such. But as for gineral sickness, why there ain't never been none o' that to San Leon. No wonder that Dan Ford's a prosperous man! He lives his religion--he ain't no preachin'-no-practice-sky-pilot, the Boss, he ain't. "Ma'am? Like to see where the boys hang out? Well, come along. If things ain't the way I'd like to have 'em, you c'n allow 't I'm the only one's been in the ranks. Yes, Ma'am. I have that. Used to belong to a crack comp'ny out home and was one the picked men to shoot at Seagirt, New Jarsey. The National Rifle Range, Ma'am, as maybe you know. I've scored highest, more 'n once. That's how I come to sort o' set up in business out here. Shootin' an' hosses; them's my business; and every tenderfoot strikes S' Leon comes under my teachin' first or last." With that remark he cast a critical eye upon the assembled young folks and noted the kindling gleam of seven pairs of eyes. Only Jim Barlow's blue orbs were missing; but, of course, that nurse or doctor had made him stay in bed, which was a shame, the others thought, and Dorothy loyally expressed: "Course! That's one the things we're all wild to do--learn to handle a rifle. But don't let's begin till Jim gets well." A curious expression passed over Mrs. Ford's face. She was the only one present who knew of Jim's midnight escape. The knowledge had almost miraculously been kept from Lemuel and by the master's express orders. Whatever that talkative ranchman knew, all the world knew, as fast as his tongue could tell it. All had been so quiet in the sick room that the nurse had supposed her patient fallen asleep; and it was not till daybreak that she discovered his absence. She had immediately informed Dr. Jones, and he, in turn, the "Boss," who understanding the shy nature of the truant and knowing how he would dislike to be talked about, had instituted a quiet but thorough search. Only the trustiest men had been set upon this search, Mr. Ford taking the most active part in it. By his request the matter had been kept from his young guests, also; and they were to be made as happy as possible in their ignorance. As he said to Lady Gray, before leaving her: "Of course, we shall find him in a very little while. He can't have gone far afield, and we'll have him back in bed before any of those youngsters get wind of his performance. Nurse says he was flighty and feverish and I don't wonder. Doctor claims he'd rather have had a clean, sharp break to mend than all those bruised and torn ligaments. However, don't you worry. This party is going to be a success--don't doubt. Sorry to leave you with seven young folks on your hands--a little world in themselves, of varying ideas and wills. They can easily spend this first half-day in inspecting the ranch and, if they're as healthy and happy as they seem, will be too interested to give much thought to Master James. Good-by, don't worry." However, although they felt it would be well to wait for the injured Jim before beginning their lessons in shooting, Lemuel himself took the matter out of their hands, explaining: "I've lived long enough to know there ain't never but one time to do one thing, an' that if a feller don't snatch it then, afore it gets out o' reach, he'll be sorry forever atterwards. We'll go inspect the boys' quarters first hand. That's a part o' my business, anyway. Makes 'em mad, sometimes, but it's for their good. Nothin' like the army for trainin' folks right, an' so I tell 'em. Get jawed for it a pretty consid'able, but Lemuel G. W. Hunt--I'm named for the Father of my Country, Ma'am--Lemuel G. W. Hunt always does his duty, let come what follers atterwards. Right this way, Ma'am. Hep, hep, hep, right face!" The odd fellow led off with a military step and catching his humor the boys did likewise. Then, the girls laughed and marched, Herbert gallantly escorting Mrs. Ford, as the eighth of the little "Company A," as Leslie immediately named the new "awkward squad." "And I say, Lem, it'll be just rippin' if you'll drill us in regular 'tactics.' Once a day, anyhow. I'll get Dad to furnish the uniforms and it'll be a help because, you know, I'm bound for West Point sometime," cried Leslie. Lady Gray's face resumed its look of anxiety that had passed for a moment, listening to Lemuel's talk. This West Point ambition of her son's was a sore subject with her, though his great desire for a military life had never been hidden from her. "If I can pass the physical exam., and the book one--either," he added, with a grimace. "Well, you'll have to know a power more 'n you do now, if you get into that place," said truthful Alfy. "I've heard Mis' Judge Satterlee, up-mounting, tell 't her boy near studied his head off, an' then got shut out. It's a terrible fine thing, though, if a body could. Why, up-mounting, we can hear the bands playin', guns firin', and Dolly there, she's seen 'em drill. Seen the battery-drill, she called it, and didn't guess how in the world them gray-coated boys could hop on-an'-off their gun wagons like they did. When I get home, I mean to go over to the Point myself and see 'em. If you should be there I'd take you something to eat." Leslie was now much more interested in hearing about the place of his dreams than in the present inspection of San Leon; and encouraged by this Alfaretta made Dolly tell how she and Molly had once visited the Academy and Molly's cadet cousin, Tom Hungerford. Molly interrupted the narrative with frequent comments and they all paused at the entrance to the Barracks, as Lemuel had named the long building of the workmen, while the story was told. Lemuel and Leslie were the most eager listeners, both faces alight with enthusiasm, as the two girls described their day at the military school. "Tom got leave off, to show us around, and Aunt Betty with Mrs. Hungerford--" "That's Aunt Lucretia, Tom's mother," explained Molly. "You tell it, Molly. You can do it better," urged Dorothy. "All right. I'd rather. Well, we went down in the morning early, on the boat, to be in time for early drill. It was summer time and the darling cadets were all in their white uniforms, fresh as daisies. Do you know those poor lambs have to change their white suits every day? Some oftener, if they get a single speck of dirt on them. Their laundry bills are something terrible. Terrible! poor dears!" Lady Gray laughed at the girl's sympathy with the afflicted young soldiers, and Dolly took up the tale again: "Well, they needn't worry. The Government pays for it, really. They just get a little salary each month and their expenses come out of that. Whatever else they have their own people give them. But, anyway, it was just lovely. If I were a boy and didn't want to be a great scientist, like Jim does, or a banker like Monty, or--or anything else, I'd be an army man." "Bother what you'd be, Dolly. You're only a girl. Go on with the story," said impatient Leslie, while Lemuel nodded his head in satisfaction. Talk of soldiering touched the warmest spot in the old sharpshooter's heart. "Do hurry up." "Why, after all, there isn't much to tell--" "But there is," cried Molly. "About the luncheon in the church. Listen. We went everywhere about the grounds, saw the riding-school, the mess-room, the dancing-hall and all, a lot of places. Oh! yes, the library, too. Then it got noon and hungry-time and we'd brought an elegant lunch. Cold chicken and sardines and sandwiches and early peaches--the nicest we could get, and Tom's 'leave' gave him a chance to eat it with us. We asked him where we could and he thought a minute, then said in the church. Aunty Lu thought that was dreadful, to eat in a church! But Tom said it was the only place on the Point where we wouldn't be stared at by others. Folks were everywhere else; cadets and visitors--and oh! It was so pretty. All the white tents on the campus and the darling boys walking about in their white--" "Nighties?" suggested Monty, maliciously. It had been an ambition of his own to enter the Academy; but his being under age, his size--and several other good reasons, including his utter want of fitness in the matter of book learning--had prevented the realization of this fine dream. His failure had rendered him skeptical of the charms of the famous institution, and he now always mentioned it as a place quite beneath his own notice. The story promised to be a long one and Lemuel thoughtfully produced a chair and placed it for Mrs. Ford's use. Her eyes were on Leslie's interested face and she would gladly have postponed the recital; for, even more than the disgruntled Monty, she disliked the very name of West Point. However, in this matter, as in many future ones, her own fancy was to be set aside by the eagerness of her young guests. So Dorothy went on: "There wasn't anybody else in the church except ourselves. A few visitors came to the door and peeped in, to see a famous painting over the chancel, but finding us there went away again. That old church is so interesting! Tablets to famous generals everywhere--" "This isn't a history lesson! Go on with the story!" cried Herbert, who was so familiar with West Point that he desired no fresh description. Molly made him a little mocking face and herself took up the tale: "Well, we had our dinners there, sitting in some of the front pews, and the way Tom walked into that fried chicken and things would make you open your eyes. We were all hungry, course, after so early a breakfast, and the sail down, and all; but Tom was simply ravenous. He was so hungry he took away our own appetites, just watching. When he'd eaten all he could there was still a lot of stuff left; and Mrs. Calvert asked him if he knew any place where we could dispose of it; a garbage can, she meant, or some waste-box. "Tom said yes he did, and if she'd excuse him he'd show her. It was what he called 'slumgudgeon day.' 'Slumgudgeon' is a kind of stew made up of the leavings of lots of other meals and the poor, darling cadets just hate it. He said 'cold victuals' never came in as handy as ours did then. So he unbuttoned his jacket, that fitted him as if he'd been melted into it, and began to pad himself out with the leavings. Cake and chickens, pickles and sardines, boiled eggs and fruit--you never saw such a mess! And the way he packed it in, so as to keep an even sort of front, was a caution. You know the poor dears have no pockets in their uniforms. Not allowed. So that was the only way he could take it. He wanted to share it with his cronies after we'd gone and told Aunty Lu that it would have been a perfectly wicked shame to have thrown it away, when it would do him so much good. Oh! we had a glorious time. I do just love West Point--" "The cadets, you mean! I never saw a girl that liked the boys so well as you do, Molly Breckenridge. But I s'pose you can't help it. If 't wasn't for that you'd be just splendid, and _they_ don't seem to mind--much--anyway," remarked Alfaretta, beaming upon pretty Molly with loving smiles. Molly's liking for "boys" seemed to honest, sensible Alfy the one flaw in an otherwise lovely character. But Molly tossed her sunny head and laughed. Also, she flashed a mischievous glance into all the boyish faces turned toward her and on every one she saw a similar liking and admiration of herself. She was quite satisfied, was Jolly Molly. "Now, if we are to 'inspect' the 'Barracks,' isn't it time? So that we can get back to the house by the time James Barlow is ready to see us. I suppose the doctor won't keep him in bed all day; do you, Mrs. Ford?" said Helena Montaigne. She had already learned that the Gray Lady was bitterly opposed to Leslie's plans for the future and wanted to put aside the unfortunate subject of West Point. To her surprise, instead of lightening, the lady's face grew still more troubled, as she turned to scan the landscape behind her with a piercing gaze. "That story was just rippin'! When I get to the Point the first place I shall go to see will be that church! Hear me, Dorothy Doodles?" demanded Leslie, catching her hand and swinging it lightly as he led her forward into the first room Lemuel had opened. "Will you come over there and bring me just another such a luncheon, girlie?" "Well, yes. I don't like to promise things but I guess this is safe enough. When you get there--_when you get there_--I'll come, and you shall have the finest dinner Alfy and I can cook. We'll do it all by ourselves--_when you get there to eat it_!" "Oh! I'll be there, never fear. My! isn't this rippin'? How does the old soldier make the men keep such order, I wonder! Lem Hunt must be as great a martinet as he is talker. Look at him." The ranchman was in his element. He had long before marshalled the entire working force of San Leon into a "regiment." Any newcomer who declined to join it was promptly "left out in the cold." The "soldiers" were jolly company for themselves and none at all for any outsider who refused to obey the unwritten laws which honest old Lem had laid down for their benefit. "Captain Lem" was the neatest man of all, but he required the rest to come as near his standard as the disadvantages of previous bad training permitted. Now, in imitation of that West Point discipline he admired, he had pulled from his pocket a white linen handkerchief and was passing it gently but firmly over the few simple furnishings of this first apartment in the long row. It belonged to Silent Pete, just then engaged breaking to harness a spirited colt, exercising it around and around the smooth driveways of the "home piece." He was not so far away that he could not perfectly see what was going on at the "Barracks," and even at that distance his grizzled cheek flushed. He had risen late and been remiss in his room-cleaning. He hoped old Lem would forget to mention who was the occupant of that cell-like place, and, for once, he did. There was dust on the chest of drawers which held Peter's belongings, the cot was just as he had crawled out of it at daybreak, a horsewhip and blankets littered the floor, and the "Martinet" was so ashamed of the whole appearance of things that, after one hasty test with the handkerchief, he withdrew carrying the company with him. Yet, before leaving, he had drawn a piece of chalk from the band of his sombrero and made a big cross upon the dusty chest. Silent Pete would know what that meant: mounting guard for three nights to come! and a grim smile twisted Lemuel's lips, reflecting what that meant to one of his "Squad." The visitors had smiled, too, but with amusement at this odd old ranchman's discipline; and Monty had whispered: "What makes 'em put up with it? What right has he to order them around?" But Leslie, the young master of San Leon, was as much in the dark as any other stranger, and could only answer: "Suppose it's because he's a leader. Born that way, just as my father was, though it's a different way, of course. Otherwise, I can't guess. But I'm wild to get at the shooting lessons. I hope the rest of you are, too. The first step to becoming a real 'wild westerner' is to know how to handle the 'irons.' He's rippin', Lem is. But come on. He's getting away from us. I wish poor old Jim was here. It's a pity anybody has to be sick in such a place as this. I tell you, boys, I was never so proud of Dad as I am now, when I look around and see what a ranch he's got--earned--right out of his own head-piece! I don't see where he is! I wish he was here. I'd ask him about those uniforms and I'd get him to let old Lem off every other duty, just to teach us. Dad's a sort of sharpshooter himself. Once he--No matter. That story'll keep. Lady Gray is calling us." They had lingered to inspect some of the ranchmen's belongings, as they passed from room to room, Lady Gray and the girls going forward in Lemuel's company. She was beckoning her son and asked, as he came running up: "Please go across the lawn and ask Miss Milliken to join us. She went to her room to write letters, immediately after breakfast, but I see she's come out now and I don't want her to feel lonely nor neglected." Leslie darted away, but returned again to say: "She doesn't want to come, just now. She wants Jim Barlow. Says she went to his room but the nurse said he wasn't in. Jim knows about some books she wants to send for, when the mail-bag is sent out. Do you know where he is? Or father? 'Tisn't half-fun, this inspection of San Leon without Dad here to tell us things. I haven't seen him this morning, any more than I have Jim. Do you know where they are?" Poor Lady Gray was not much better at keeping secrets than old Lemuel was. She had had to put a great constraint upon herself not to reveal the anxiety which consumed her. Hours had now passed since Mr. Ford had ridden away, with a couple of men attending him. All the other men not absolutely required to look after the place had been despatched to search on foot. Their long-delayed return seemed to prove the matter of the sick boy's disappearance a more serious one than at first imagined. Her answer was a sudden wringing of her white hands and the tremulous cry: "No, no, I don't. Pray God, no tragedy marks the opening of our home!" CHAPTER VII A RIFLE PRACTICE "Mother, what do you mean? Don't turn so white and do speak! What 'tragedy' could have happened up here in this lovely place?" demanded Leslie, putting his arm around the lady's shoulders and wondering if she had suddenly become ill. She was slender but had never complained of any weakness, nor shown the least fatigue during her long care of him at San Diego. Since then, she had been like a happy girl with him and his father but something was amiss with her now. In a moment she had calmed herself and was already blaming herself for her disobedience to her husband's request for silence. However, this last matter was a small one; for, if the missing lad was not soon found, all would have to know it. Indeed, it might be better that they did so now. They knew him better than his hosts did and possibly might give a clue to his whereabouts. So she told them all she knew, and the surmise that he had wandered away in a fit of delirium. The very telling restored her own courage, and, as yet, there was little fear showing upon the faces of her young guests. Except on Dorothy's. Her brown eyes were staring wide and all the pretty color of her cheeks had faded. As if she saw a vision the others could not she stood clasping and unclasping her hands, and utterly sick at heart for the loss of her early friend. Longer than she had known any of these here about her she had known poor Jim. He had saved her life, or she believed so, in her childhood that now seemed far away. But for Jim, the poorhouse boy, she had never escaped from Mrs. Stott's truck-farm when she had been kidnapped and hidden there. He had stood by her in all her little troubles, had praised and scolded her, and known her through and through. It was her talk about him which had made Mr. Ford invite him to San Leon--to his death, maybe. That thought was too much. Clinching her small hands and stamping her little foot she defied even death to hurt poor Jim, good Jim, brainy Jim, who was to astonish the world some day by his wisdom! "Oh! If you'd only have told me before! I would have had him found long, long ago! To think of that poor fellow wandering around alone, sick, crazy, suffering--not knowing where he was or what he was doing! And we strolling around, looking at old 'Barracks' and things, and telling silly stories of silly picnics! It was cruel, cruel! Come, Alfy. You like him, too. You don't look down on my poor boy--you come and help me find him!" She seized her old friend's hand and ran toward the house, which now looked anything save beautiful in her sight; and, turning, she saw the lake, gleaming in the noonday sun as it gleamed in the red rays of sunset with Jim there to admire it. "The lake! He's drowned! That's where he is, our Jim! In the bottom of that horrible lake!" Catching Alfaretta's hand more firmly she drew that frightened girl along with her to the edge of the pond and to a little boat that was moored there. Both lake and boat were merely toylike in proportion and the bottom of the pond was pebble-strewn and plainly visible through the clear, shallow water. "He ain't--he--ain't--he can't--you could see--him--He isn't--Oh! Dolly, Dolly Doodles! I'm sick! It makes me feel terrible queer!" wailed Alfaretta. "But Jim can't--Jim can't be drowned! _He can't!_" "Yes he can, too. Shut up. Help me untie that rope. Get in. Take an oar. Row--row, I tell you," snapped Dorothy, distraught. "I can't. I dassent! I never touched to row an oar in my life. Not in my whole life long, and--I--I shan't do it now!" retorted the mountaineer with equal crispness. But she had no need to try. The whole party had followed Dorothy to the water's edge and had divined her intent. Not one believed that Jim was drowned, though they could have given no good reason for this disbelief. Only that was too horrible. Such a thing would not have been permitted! Yet Herbert, as the best oarsman there and also as the loyal friend of the missing lad, assumed the place Alfy would not take. Without a word he did what Dorothy desired. He slipped the painter from its post, helped the girl to take her seat in the little "Dorothy," even smiling as he observed that it had been named for her, and quietly pushed out from shore. It was just as Alfy had said: the bottom of the lake was clearly visible everywhere, and no frightful object marred its beauty. Dorothy was utterly quiet now but her searching gaze never lifted from the water, as Herbert patiently rowed around and around. The group on the bank waited also in silence, though certain after that first circuit of the pond that Jim was not there. When they had gone around several times, and had crossed and criss-crossed in obedience to Dorothy's nod, Herbert brought the boat back to the little landing and helped Dorothy out. "He isn't there, Gray Lady. May I go to the doctor?" "Surely. I'll go with you. And don't look so tragic, darling. The boy will certainly be found. There will nothing else be done at San Leon until he is. Both my husband and myself agree on that point--that Jim Barlow's safety is our first consideration. He will probably be found near at hand, although--" "Hasn't he been looked for 'near at hand,' then, dear Gray Lady?" "Certainly. At the beginning. We didn't think he could have wandered far, yet when they failed to find him on the home-grounds, the searchers spread out in all directions. Here is the doctor coming now, if you wish to speak with him." "Thank you, I do." The gentleman came toward them and Dorothy ran to meet him. "Oh! sir, have you found him?" A negative shake of the head answered her. Then she plied him with all sorts of questions: how long could a sick boy live exposed to the night air, as Jim had been; without food or medicine; and couldn't he think of some place that nobody else had searched, so she might go and try it? He laid his hand upon her head and gently asked: "Was he your brother, little girl?" "No. I haven't any brother. I haven't anybody but Jim, that has known me always, seems if, and--and dear Doctor, won't you please, please find him?" Clasping her hands about his arm she looked up piteously into his face, and his own grew pitiful as he answered: "I will do my utmost. What I hope is that he will wander back, of his own will, just as he wandered away. Be sure I shall keep a sharp lookout, but it is Mr. Ford's wish that I do not leave the home-place till--at present. If he is found, I mean _when_ he is found, he will need my care and it wouldn't do for me to be away then. Else I should have gone out with one of the searching parties." That "when he is found" was reassuring. Evidently, the doctor expected the speedy return of the lad and all were relieved, even Dorothy. Alfaretta expressed her own feeling by saying: "Out here in this Colorado, seems if there wasn't anything but folks gettin' lost and other folks searching for 'em. I never heard anything like it," she finished with a sigh. The sigh was echoed by all the rest; then Mrs. Ford suggested: "Let us have luncheon now, then call on Lemuel to give us our first lesson in rifle-firing." She assumed a cheerfulness she did not really feel, but felt that the happiness of so many should not be spoiled by the absence of one. "Oh! Lady Gray, will you practice with us?" asked Leslie, eagerly. "To be sure. I'm going to 'play pretend,' as children say, that I'm just as young as any of you. In my busy life I've not had much time for 'playing' but I mean to make up for lost time. Come, I'm sure that Wun Sing has made something nice for us. He--" "Wun Sing! _Wun Sing?_ Why that was the name of Aunt Betty's cook at _El Paraiso_! How odd that yours should have the same name!" exclaimed Dorothy, forgetting her troubles for the moment. "Not so odd, dearie, because it is the same man. He came to Mr. Ford one day while we were still in San Diego and confessed his regret for his behavior at Mrs. Calvert's home. And my good Daniel can never turn his back upon any penitent; so the result is the Chinaman reigns in our kitchen here. Doubtless he'll be pleased to see Alfaretta who taught him so many fine dishes." "Oh! good! May we go see him, Mrs. Ford?" demanded that young person, eager not only to see Wun Sing because he was one more familiar acquaintance but because she wished to settle a few old scores. "I'm so glad! I'll make him toe the mark here, see if I don't. Come on, Dolly Doodles, he's an old friend of yours, too." Alfy's eagerness infected even anxious Dorothy and gave an agreeable turn to the thoughts of all. So, at a nod of consent, the girls sped along the cloister, seeking the great kitchen and the salaaming grinning Chinaman within it. "Oh! how good you look, Wunny! Same old purple sack! same old shoes; same old twisted cue around your same old shiny black head! Same old nasty messes cooking! and same old Alfaretta to get after you with a sharp stick!" cried Leslie bursting in with all the others. Even Dorothy was laughing now, Jim quite forgot, while the cook held such a reception as had never been his before. Leslie went through some formal introductions, beginning with the lady of the mansion and ending with Miss Milliken, who had followed unseen till now. Wun Sing's back must have ached, so often and so low he bowed, while his tongue mumbled compliments to the most gracious and honorable visitors; but a look of real delight was on his swarthy face and one of great affection for smiling Alfaretta. "My heart! Ain't it just grand to find an old friend up here on the mountains! I declare, it does beat the Dutch!" and to this, her expression of greatest wonderment, Leslie added his own: "Just downright rippin'! He's worth all he costs just to make our Dolly forget that horrid Jim Barlow. I can't forgive him for running away and stirring up all this mess, sending Dad off on a tiresome ride and spoiling sport this way. He was good enough, I'd have treated him decent, all right, but I wish now he'd never been heard of." But the most of this was whispered in his mother's ear, as he stood beside her, his hand upon her shoulder, in that familiar, loving attitude which always made her so happy. Then she demanded of the proud _chef_ how soon he could have lunch ready, and he replied with another gesture of profound respect: "Light away, this instlant! By my honorable forefathers it is fittee for the most bleautiful!" Then he bowed them out of the place and they wandered to the pretty room where the meal would be served, and which because of its simple, cloister-like effect, Helena at once named "The Refectory." It had been a trifling incident, but it had had a happy effect. All tongues were talking now, planning, anticipating, wondering over the things they meant to do and to learn; while a man was sent across to the "Barracks" to tell Lemuel that they would like to begin their rifle lessons that afternoon. Mrs. Ford suggested naps for everybody, on account of their previous long journeys but none wished to sleep just then. "How can anybody be tired in this glorious air?" asked Helena, burying her nose in a beautiful bunch of wild flowers somebody had placed beside her plate. Even Miss Milliken was wide awake now and as happy as she ever could be anywhere. Her one complaint was that it was "so far from civilization." "But you knew that, Milly, before you came. Mamma stated everything to you as plainly as could be. You knew you were going to an isolated ranch on a mountain, so how could you expect daily papers, visitors, and such things? You've always said you loved quiet and, now you've got it, do be satisfied," begged Helena. She was really fond of the nervous little governess but sometimes lost patience with her. "Yes, dear, but suppose--suppose something happened? Illness at home, or something serious." Lady Gray gently interposed, and made, also, her little speech. It was her first and last advice, or request, to her guests and most of them were impressed by it. "Dear Miss Milliken, don't be troubled by 'being so far from civilization.' You aren't that, at all. My husband has brought civilization with him. I am amazed at all he has accomplished. We have a telegraph line--that he found necessary for his business, but that can be used by any of us. Bad news travels fast. Be sure if 'anything happens' we shall hear of it all too soon. And now I have but one suggestion to make for our life together, and I mean to apply it to myself first of all. It is: Let us put everything unpleasant under our feet, as far as possible, and each do his and her share to make this a wholly joyous summer. I'm inclined to 'worry' and it's a most unfortunate inclination. This is the first time I have had a chance to make a 'home' for Daniel and Leslie and I want it to be perfect. Will you all help me? Will you all take my dear husband's words for a summer text and make life at this dear San Leon a synonym of 'Peace and Good Will'?" Lady Gray's beautiful face was very earnest, there was even a suspicion of tears in her long-lashed eyes, but they did not fall, and, after a moment's silence, Leslie sprang to his feet with a: "Hip, hip, hurra, for the Gray Lady and her maiden speech! All in favor of following her lead, say 'Aye'!" All the company rose and the deafening "Ayes" which those young throats emitted were as flattering as confusing to the "speech" maker. Then she waved them back to their chairs and Wun Sing's perfection lunch was served. Of course they all missed their jolly host, and their hearts were still troubled because of the missing Jim; but each strove with the other to keep these feelings out of sight. This was hardest for Dorothy, who guessed that the lady's suggestion was meant for her most of all; yet she bravely tried to smile at every witticism made by her mates and to respond in sort as far as she could. They had been a little company of eight and because one was away should the seven be made to suffer? She would try not, and contented herself with one final question, as the hostess rose from the table and, the others hurrying "Barracks"-ward, she could whisper: "Even if they don't find my poor boy right away, you won't let them give up looking, will you, dearest Gray Lady?" Mrs. Ford drew the child close into her arms and kissed her tenderly: "Don't fear that, for a moment, darling. As if James Barlow were our own Leslie, the search for him would never be given up till he were found. Scouts will be looking for him everywhere; though, of course he's sure to be found near home and soon. Now, my dear little girl, shorten up that long face and trust to older heads to do the right thing. Your business now, as it has always seemed to be, is to make your playmates happy. Jim shall be found; and soon--I do believe. You've heard the men say that whatever 'Dan Ford, Railroad Boss' undertook he accomplished. Now let's put that matter aside and learn how to handle a rifle." "Captain Lem" had made great preparations for his "shooting school." He had called upon his own company, as far as he could find it, to help him. Most of the "boys" had gone searching, but the few who were left soon had a row of benches set out, a target placed, and the finest guns available stacked in readiness. It was really a very business like arrangement and the would-be students soon found Lemuel's rule was business only. For the boys he had placed arm-rests and they were to fire from the ground, aided by these slight supports. "The females can stand and shoot, on account o' their petticoats worryin' 'em, lyin'. An' as I can't do nothin' unless it's by rule an' rod, I lay it this way: Mrs. Ford, bein' she's the eldest--though she don't look it, Ma'am!--she'll begin. Nobody can have more 'n two tries to a round. Then Number Two takes it. The schoolma'am next, an' mebbe I mistook in that matter of age. But that's not here nor there. Mrs. Ford, Number One; the schoolma'am, Two; the rest the females follerin' in order. Then the boys. One, two, three--attention! Step right here, lady, and I'll show you the first position--how to hold your rifle." Captain Lem had put on a rusty uniform, a relic of former grandeur "back home," and carried his bent shoulders with a military precision that quite transformed him. He gave Gray Lady a salute, moved forward and placed her "in position" and handed her the rifle. "Hold it just this way, scholar, and sight your bull's-eye. Keep your eye on that, allowin' for a little play in the carryin', and now--pull your trigger--let her go!" Mrs. Ford obeyed, or thought she did. The result was that the gun kicked, she screamed, and threw it as far from her as she could. What became of the bullet she never knew, but she firmly declined any further lessons in the fine art of sharpshooting. "Look at Lem's face!" whispered Herbert to Molly who giggled and returned: "Wait till it comes my turn, I'll show him something!" The Captain, as they henceforth called him tried to hide his look of disgust by turning his back upon the group, and asking in a sarcastic tone: "Any more females want to take a try? The schoolma'am lady, for instance?" She ignored his question and sat down by her hostess to soothe that now abashed person for her failure. Captain Lem had withered even the lady of the ranch by his contempt. "Helena next!" cried Molly, fairly dancing about in her impatience. So Helena tried and made out fairly well. That is she succeeded in keeping the rifle in hand, she did not scream at the discharge, and she came within a hundred feet of the target. The lads applauded, noisily, and she mocked back at their pretended admiration, though she made one effort only and subsided on the bench beside the ladies. "All the same it's wonderfully exciting! And I mean to try again, to-morrow, if they'll let me," she remarked. "Let some of the boys try before we do, so we can see how it's done. Or you, Captain Hunt, you show us!" begged Molly. This was what he had waited for. With a strut he marched across the space between them and the target and carried that much further back. He longed for a target bearing an arrangement of letters that he could hit and cause to disappear, as at his boasted Seagirt, instead of a plain affair such as this he had to use. Strutting back to them he lay down, wriggled himself into position, muttered something about the sun in his eyes, hemmed and hawed, took final aim and--let her go! But she didn't go--not in the least. All unconsciously, he had taken an unloaded piece! There was no strut left in him as he rose to his feet, rather slowly, and faced his laughing audience; but he rallied after a moment and good-naturedly joined in the laugh against himself. However, discipline was over for that lesson. Without regard to any rules the youngsters rushed to the stack and took whatever gun was fancied. Then began an indiscriminate firing till Mrs. Ford grew frightened and implored them to stop. They did so, all but Alfaretta and Molly, who had both been fascinated by the sport and felt sure that they could hit the bull's-eye--which nobody else had done. "Come on, Alfy! Let's get down on our tummy, same's all marksmen do, let's!" Down they flung themselves and now, as eager for their success as they were, old Lem handed each a fresh rifle and sang out: "Let her go! A silver dollar to the gal that wins!" They fired--and the unexpected happened. Alfaretta's untaught hands succeeded where greater skill had failed. Her bullet went straight into the bull's-eye, into its very centre. "By the Great Horned Spoon! What an eye you've got, child of mortality! Why I couldn't ha' done better myself! Glory be!" shouted the excited ranchman, fairly dancing in his pride and glee. Then he helped Alfy up from the ground, where she still lay, wondering at the excitement about her, and peered critically into her blue orbs. "However could you see it? That fur away?" "Why--why, I didn't see it at all. I got scared and shut my eyes when I pulled that thing on it!" Captain Lem staggered as if he had been hit instead of the target and softly marvelled: "Such--dum--luck! She done it--with her eyes--shut! She--done--it--with--her--eyes--shut! Somebody take me out and lay me down. I'm beat." His ludicrous manner amused the others but frightened the too successful Alfaretta. Also, her attention was claimed by Molly's expression. That ambitious young person was looking very white about the lips, and was clasping and unclasping her hands in evident distress. "Molly, what's the matter?" cried Alfy, shaking her partner in the affair. Molly lifted one shaking finger and pointed into the distance: "I--I hit something, too!" Other eyes than Alfy's followed the pointing finger and a groan of horror burst from more than one throat. Indeed, and all too surely, Molly had "hit something, too!" CHAPTER VIII A CONCERT IN THE MOONLIGHT Night fell on San Leon; and the searching party which had gone out in the morning, sure of prompt success, returned tired and dispirited. But their places were immediately taken by fresh recruits, Mr. Ford announcing that the matter would not be dropped, night or day, until all hope had to be given up. Except that Jim's clothes had been left in his room it might have seemed that the lad had run away, feeling himself out of place at San Leon. But the folded garments placed on the chair beside his empty bed told a different tale. "No, he has wandered off unknowing what he did. Well, when he comes back he shall find his place ready for him and the warmest of welcomes waiting. While we have tried--and will still--to visit every cabin and ranch within reasonable reach, there are many such little shacks dropped here and there among the mountains; and we have probably overlooked the one in which he is sheltered. Open hospitality is a feature of the west. Anybody who comes across the boy will be good to him. Now, let's have a little music and then to bed. A whole day in the saddle tires me, though I'm bound to get used to it yet, and so shall all of you. Come, Erminie, give me a song; and Dorothy dear, get out your violin." Thus said Mr. Ford, when their evening dinner had been enjoyed and they had all gone out to sit upon the wide veranda, the moonlight flooding the beautiful grounds, and the soft spring air playing about them. Dorothy felt that she could not play a note, and even Alfaretta was quietly crying in the retired corner she had sought, in the shadow of a pillar. But Mrs. Ford at once obeyed her husband's wish, and as her wonderful voice floated over them it banished every thought save the delight of listening. The "boys" came over from their "Barracks" and sprawled on the grass, entranced. Hitherto, their life on the ranch had been one of toil, lightened by sports almost as rough, with the evening diversion of swopping stories over their pipes. They hadn't been greatly pleased at the prospect of a lot of strangers living so near them, but already all that was changed; and though they didn't know, till Lemuel informed them, and this singer was one of a few famous _artistes_, they were moved and touched by the marvellous beauty of her voice. "You know, boys, it'd be worth ten dollars a ticket--gallery seats, at that--just to get into an opery house an' hark to yonder lady. An' now you're just gettin' it for nothin', free, clear gratis, take it or leave it, ary one. Fact. The 'Boss's' lady is an A 1 singer if she is a--I mean, a poor show at a rifle." The songs went on till the Gray Lady dared sing no more. Like all trained singers she was careful of her throat and unused, as yet, to the air of this region at night. But when she laughingly declared: "No more this time; not if I'm to sing again," there was a murmur of dissatisfaction from the group of men about the fountain; and old Captain Lem begged, in their name: "Just one more, lady, to sleep on. That kind o' music makes a feller hungry for more and sort-of-kind-of sets him thinkin' 'bout things back home." But Mr. Ford interposed: "No, Captain, not to-night! I want to have a lot of just such concerts so we mustn't put the _prima donna_ out of condition. But I've a little girl here with a fiddle and I tell you she can just make it talk! Come farther forward, Dolly dear, and stand close to me. Then 'rosin your bow' and get to work. Show these cowboys what a little girl-tenderfoot can do. Maybe, too, who knows? Maybe our Jim will hear it wherever he is and hurry back. At it, child, and call him!" Lady Gray feared this was a trifle unkind to the girl, who she wished might wholly forget the boy, but the master felt it not so. He knew that nothing would more thoroughly inspire her than this possibility. "Oh! do you think so? Then I'll play as I never did before--I will, I will!" She stepped out from the veranda upon the broad walk before it, and with the moonlight pouring down upon her white-clad little figure, her face uplifted to the sky, and her precious violin beneath her chin, she played, indeed, "as she had never done before." On and on she played; one ranchman after another softly suggesting some desired melody, and her eager little fingers rendering it upon the instant. The men ceased sprawling and sat up. If they had found the Gray Lady's voice a marvel, here was a greater. That any child--a despised "female" child--could evoke such music seemed past belief; and when, at length, Mr. Ford bade her render the beloved "Home, Sweet Home" as a finale, there was a reluctant rising of the audience to its feet, ordered to it by the Captain who, in rather husky tones, stated: "Ladies and gentlemen, and mostly the little gal, I give the sentiments o' my regiment, to a man, when I say all you tenderfoots is welcome to S' Leon. We wasn't very tickled before, thinkin' all our free livin's an' doin's was to be interfered with, but we are now. Three cheers for the company an' the treat they've give us, more especial for the Little One, and--Long may she wave! Hip, hip, hurrar!" The cheer was given with a will, and then again came the Captain's order: "Fall into line. Right about face. March! hep, hep, hep--hep!" But as they filed away Dorothy had another inspiration and, acting upon it, sent the delighted cowboys marching to the lively air of "Yankee, Doodle, Doodle Doo." "And now to bed!" advised the hostess. So within a very few moments all were in their rooms, tired and happy despite the worries of the day, and sure that all would come right at last. The four girls shared two rooms, facing one another and with two dainty beds in each. Milliken's chamber was at the end of the long passage beyond theirs, and those of the rest of the household across a wide hall which cut this wing of the house in two. In structure the building was very like _El Paraiso_, which the Gray Lady had admired and where the happiness of reunion had come to her; and it seemed to those who had wintered in the old adobe that they had but stepped into another home. Of course, sleep did not come at once. Four girls, even if together all day long, find much to chatter about at night, and this had been a day of "happenings" indeed. Dolly and Alfy came across to sit on Helena's bed and watch her dainty, slow preparations for retiring. Molly was already perched in the middle of her own white bed, hugging her knees and proclaiming for the twentieth time, at least: "Oh! I am such a thankful girl! After I fired that rifle and saw that purple mass of stuff lying on the ground I thought I was a murderer! I did so. Yet I was mad, too, to think Wun Sing had been such an idiot as to go between me and the target." "Herbert claims the safest place for others, when a girl shoots, is right behind the target. But it wasn't when Alfy hit the bull's-eye. How did you do it, child? It was wonderful and at that distance--which Captain Lemuel fixed for himself!" said Helena, brushing out her hair preparatory to loosely braiding it. "Oh! Nell, you're lovely that way! In that soft nightie--you do have such lovely, lacey things. I wish Aunt Betty would buy me some like them, but she won't. She's too sensible, and oh! dear! I wish I had my arms around her neck this minute!" "Put them around mine, Dolly Doodles, and quit wishin' for things you can't get. Do you s'pose I'll ever do it again?" asked Alfaretta, drawing one of Dorothy's arms about her own shoulder. "Do what again, child?" "Child, yourself. I mean fire right into the middle of the thing, and 'honest Injun', I did do it with my eyes shut. I wonder if that ain't the rightest way to sharpshoot, anyway. The rest of you couldn't hit it anywheres near, with your eyes open. What say?" Molly yawned and stretched herself luxuriously, and Helena remarked: "Molly, you make me think of a Persian kitten! She does just that when she feels particularly good." "Well, I ought to feel good. I didn't kill Wun Sing. I just made a hole in his old purple blouse and I can give him another new one. If I can find one like it, and have money enough, and--and other things. If I had shot him instead of his clothes what would they have done to me? Would I have been hung by the neck till you are dead and the Lord have mercy on your soul? Would I?" "Oh! Molly, how horrible and how wicked! That's swearing!" cried indignant Dorothy. "Well, I like that! I mean I don't! I never swore a swore in my life and you're horrid, just horrid, Dorothy Calvert, to say so," retorted Molly, suddenly sitting up and flashing a look of scorn at her beloved chum. "It was really swearing, you know, though you didn't mean it." "It's what the Judge says--my poor father's one--when a man is condemned to death." "Aunt Betty says that any taking of the Lord's name _in vain_ is swearing and--" Foreseeing a childish squabble, due to over-excitement and fatigue, Helena gently interposed: "That's enough. Neither of you knows what she is talking about. They don't hang people nowadays, they electrocute them, and Wun Sing wasn't hurt. He was only badly scared and will keep a good distance from our rifle-range hereafter. Alfy did hit the bull's-eye, no matter whether she meant to do it or not. We've had a perfectly lovely evening and a perfectly lovely summer is before us. I mean to get up, to-morrow, and see the sun rise, so--off with you, girls. Molly and I are sleepy. Good night to both of you. What friends we shall be before this summer ends!" "Why, I thought we was now. I'm sure I don't feel much above any of you, even if I can shoot better 'n the rest," said practical Alfaretta, moving slowly toward the door. A shout of laughter greeted her words and Molly indignantly retorted: "You aren't one bit smarter than I am. You only hit an old target and I hit a man, and we didn't either of us mean to do it. But good night, good night. Wake early, 'cause Leslie says we've a great doin's before us, to-morrow. Something better than waking up to see the sun rise. Helena'll get over that, though. Such fine resolutions don't last." "You'll see. I--I think I shall keep a diary. Take notes of what happens up here on the Rockies. If I succeed I may--I _may_ write a book, sometime," said Helena. Molly and Dolly stared, seized with sudden awe of this ambitious young person, and Alfy stared, too; but she was not impressed and her comment was a not unkindly but perfectly sincere remark: "Why, Nell, you couldn't do that. It takes brains to--" "Young ladies! I am amazed at your disturbing the house like this, after retiring hours! Lights out, or off, silence at once!" ordered Miss Milliken, appearing in their midst. And at this apparition silence did follow. Back in their own room, Dorothy and Alfaretta pushed their little beds close together and knelt down to say their prayers. In the heart of each was an earnest petition for "poor Jim," Dolly's ending with the words: "And let me see his face the first thing in the morning." But Alfy reproved this. "We haven't any right to set times for things to be done and prayers to be answered, Dolly Doodles, and don't say no more. It's sort of saucy seems if, to ask for things and then keep thinkin' in your insides that they won't be give. You've asked and the Lord's heard you--now get up and go to bed." "Oh! Alfy! I wish you had--had--a little more spiritually!" wailed Dorothy, rather stumbling over the long word but obediently rising from her knees and creeping between the snowy sheets. "And I don't feel as if there was any use going to bed, any way. I know I shan't sleep a wink." "Fiddlesticks! You just do beat the Dutch! As if great Jim Barlow hadn't a decent head on his shoulders and needed the use o' your 'n! He wouldn't thank you for makin' him out such a fool. Good night. I'm goin' to sleep." Dorothy felt that this was simply heartless and sighed: "I wish I could! But I can't!" Then she drew the covers about her shoulders, stared through the open window at the moonlit ground, felt the scene a trifle dazzling, and closed her lids just to rest her eyes a minute. When she opened them again Alfaretta's bed was empty and neatly spread. Except her own belongings the room was in perfect order for the day, the sun shone where the moonlight had been, and the cathedral clock on the cloister wall was striking-- "Oh! Oh! It's morning! It's _late_ morning, too, that's six, seven, nine o'clock! Oh! how could I sleep so? I never did before in all my life--except--well, sometimes, but I'm ashamed, I'm awfully ashamed of myself." As she sprang to her feet there was a tap at the door and a white-capped, white-aproned maid appeared, saying: "Good morning, Señorita. The Señora sent me to serve you and help you about your bath. It is ready, yes, and the other señoritas have breakfasted and gone out, _si_. By my Lady's orders you were not to be awakened till you roused yourself." "Oh! but I am sorry. I didn't mean to do this, for I know one of Mr. Ford's rules is early rising. I found that out at _El Paraiso_ and--yes, yes, please do help me. But tell me, what shall I call you?" "Anita, niña. Anita Mantez I am, from the dear City of the Angels, _si_. This way, _carita_, do not fear displeasure. They are all beloved, the fair young things, but you are nearest, dearest, so my Lady tells. For you will never be blamed, believe me." Dorothy made short work of her toilet and felt so refreshed by her night of sound sleep and her delightful morning bath, that the world outside seemed even lovelier than she remembered it. Also, she was hungry--so hungry! It was quite as Mr. Ford had said; that the mountain air made people almost ravenous, at first. Afterwards, one's appetite sank to the normal and to be out and doing was the one great desire of life. Anita led her to the refectory and served her with a dainty breakfast, disposed on exquisite "individual" dishes, and oddly enough, bearing the initial "D." Dolly lifted a cup and stared at it, wondering while Anita glibly explained in her patois of Spanish-English, that yes, indeed, it was the Señorita's own. Dorothy's heart was touched and grateful. Charming as her hosts were to all their guests, in many little ways they had singled her out as in this; and she understood without explanation from them that it was because of the part she had played in bringing together the once divided family. Very humbly and gravely she accepted these attentions, thankful in her deepest heart that she had been "inspired," on that past winter day, to lead the father and son across the mesa to the little cabin where Gray Lady dwelt alone. It had been a daring thing to do--an "assisting Providence"--such as wise Aunt Betty wholly disapproved; but that time it had been a fortunate one for all concerned. Now as the girl sipped her cocoa, turning the egg-shell like cup to catch the light, she wondered what she could still do to help her dear Gray Lady and to prove her own love. Then her dreaming was cut short by a hubbub of merry voices without, and, a moment later, a crowd of young folks tumbled through the big window, laughing, teasing, exhorting: "Lazy girl! Just eating breakfast and it's nearly time for lunch, seems if!" "Oh! The loveliest thing in the world!" cried Molly, clapping her hands. "Thank you," said Dolly, demurely, lifting her face for the other to kiss. "Oh! not you, Miss Vanity, but a beautiful thing on four legs!" "We're to take our choice and the white one's _mine_, for--" declared Alfaretta. "No white one for me! Dad says we're to do our own grooming and white ones have to be washed just like a poodle dog and--" began Leslie. "I had one once. His name was 'Goodenough,' and he was good enough, too. Could walk on its hind legs--" interrupted Herbert. "Oh, Dorothy! If you aren't going to finish that buttered toast, do give it to me! I never was so hungry in all my life. I simply can't get filled up, and--" "Montmorency Vavasour-Stark! You ought to be ashamed! After eating four chops, three boiled eggs, five helpings of potato, to say nothing of coffee enough for the regiment, and strawberries--" "Well, Mistress Molly Breckenridge, I don't know who set you to keep tally on my appetite! and I hate to see good things wasted. Want the rest of those berries, girlie? I know you don't. You're real unselfish, you are; and you wouldn't eat all the nice-ripe-red-strawberries- raised-under-glass-ripe-red-strawberries and give your neighbor none. And give your neighbor none, you-shan't-have-any-of-my-nice-ripe-red- strawberries-who-gives-his-neighbor--Molly, give it back! Aw, now, Molly! You wouldn't eat all the nice-ripe--Hold on! Bert Montaigne, that's a beastly shame! After I had to warble in that dulcet way for a plate of poor, left-over, second-hand strawberries, to have 'em grabbed by you and Molly--that's too much. Just one drop too much to fill my bucket, but I say, 'Little One,' I wish you'd get up late every morning, and have just such a superfine breakfast as this saved for you, and not be hungry at all yourself, but save it for a poor starved little boy who hasn't had a mouthful in an hour--" Monty was running on in this absurd way, yet holding his own in a three cornered scramble for possession of a dish of berries he had pre-empted from Dorothy's table; till, without saying anything, Helena calmly walked up, took the disputed dish from the contestants and, shoving Dolly aside to give up half her chair, sat down and began to eat them herself. "Two spoons with but a single dish! How touching!" cried Herbert, posing in pretended admiration of the pair, yet covertly watching his chance to add a third spoon to the two and get his own taste of the luxury. Not but that all had been served likewise, at the regular meal earlier in the day, and Monty's boasted appetite was but a part of the happy foolishness of their youth and high spirits. For they were all evidently greatly excited over something, and the talk fell back upon "choice" and "points" and "colors" with a comparison of manes and tails, till Dorothy sprang up, clapped her hands over her ears, and demanded: "One at a time! One at a time! Do tell me what you're all jabbering about and be quick! Just because I was lazy--I admit it, all right--I don't want to miss all the fun! Tell me!" But her answer did not come from any of the lively group about her. A shadow fell across the floor and Captain Lem appeared at the window. Leaning his elbows on the low sill he surveyed the interior with a quizzical smile, then observed: "If everybody's et all they can and has got time for somethin' elst, please to step over to the corral behind the Barracks. Time there was somethin' doin'! Come on, Little One. I'd like to have you head the procesh, for 'twas the Boss's orders, first pick for you. Hep, hep, hep--march!" CHAPTER IX A MODERN HORSE FAIR They departed as they had entered, by way of the window, Dorothy lifted through it by her admiring Captain Lem, whose heart she had wholly won by her music the night before, and by the deference she paid to his talk. She was eager to find out the cause of all this excitement and placed herself alongside him, as he led off with a military tread and tensely squared shoulders. It wasn't for him to admit that rheumatism commonly bowed those same shoulders, when he was "off duty" and secure in the shelter of his own room. "Hep, hep, hep,--hep," said the Captain marking time, and scowling at the irregular pace of the excited youngsters behind her. At which Dorothy promptly echoed his "Hep, hep, hep," and the others took the hint, pairing off into a compact little company and following their leader like soldiers on parade. Captain Lemuel smiled and nodded: "Good, Little One! 'Tis you has the head of sense, and fingers for the fiddle bow. The boys are all just proud to have you up at S' Leon, and anything you want done--say the word! All I want is to see you shoot well as you can fiddle. Ride, eh? Can you ride a horse, Little One?" "My name is Dorothy, Captain Lemuel, and I can--a little. Helena, too, is fine on horseback. She's the yellow-haired girl, you know. But why? What makes you ask?" They had come across the grass as far as the end of the Barracks, and still drilling his "awkward squad," the old ranchman wheeled about and ordered: "Halt! About--face!" Alfy giggled, but seeing the faces of all the rest, especially Dorothy's, sober and set in imitation of the Captain's, she stopped laughing and applied herself to the business in hand. "Hep, hep, hep--March!" They might have been veterans, instead of an awkward squad, so perfectly they now kept step and so fully they entered into the old man's whim. For only a whim they supposed this drilling to be, though in reality he had taken note of all their figures and, with the exception of Herbert's and Dorothy's, saw that each could be improved. Especially was there need of this in Leslie's case; and having been told of the lad's delicacy by his beloved "Boss," he had conceived this scheme of drill. "You see, Boss, I can easy enough cure that boy by 'whipping him over the others' shoulders,' so to speak. You've heard tell of that before, I 'low. He's all right. He's a real likely, well-growed lad; and that West Point 't he's hankerin' for'd be the best thing ever happened to him. Exceptin' course 't it would nigh break his mother's heart, so he told me. Well, that's no more here nor there. A little drillin' in this Colorady air'll do 'em all good and set him up to a dandy shape. Yes, siree! You or your lady best just drop the hint to that there little fiddler-girl, 't seems to lead the rest of 'em round by the nose--though they like it, they like it an' her too! Couldn't help it, you see. Nobody could; eh, what?" "Indeed not! A daughter of our own could scarcely be dearer than little Dorothy. I'll have Mrs. Ford speak to her, and I'll make it worth your while, Captain, to do your utmost for Leslie's improvement. He has lost his cough; he does seem to be well, now; but--there is still enough delicacy about his appearance to make us anxious. You do your best, Lem, and so will I." The captain had drawn himself up with a little pride, but with an adoring look in his old eyes, and had answered: "Drop that, Boss, drop it! Of all the unfortunate, down-on-their-luck fellers 't this S' Leon ranch shelters now, I was the downdest! I ain't never forgot what you done for me, takin' me out the gutter, so to speak, and settin' me on my pins again. And if there's a single mortal thing 't I can do for you--that debt's paid an' overpaid, a hundred thousand times. A hundred thousand times, sir, yes, sir." "A hundred thousand is a sizable number, Lem--but we understand each other. Shake hands and--God speed your efforts!" This little talk had taken place on the night before, and Lady Gray had taken an opportunity to relate it to Dorothy. This was why she so eagerly fell in with Captain Lemuel's idea, though she forebore to mention it to any of the other young folks at San Leon. Lady Gray had warned her: "I would rather Leslie did not himself know, and if the others did he'd be sure to find it out. It would make him conspicuous, maybe worry him and set him brooding over himself, so I'm trusting you to keep it secret. And, in any case, what better amusement could you have? The regular exercise in this perfect air will be as good for you girls as for the boys." Now as Dorothy fell into step with the Captain, she realized that here was one thing, however slight, that she could do to prove her love for sweet Lady Gray. She could use her influence to keep up what the others considered a temporary game, entered into merely to gratify the vanity of an ex-sharpshooter; and as she now marched along by his side, she begged: "Do please, Captain, set a regular hour for this drill, and make us stick to it, just as in the regular army. I promise I'll not oversleep again--I'll try not, I mean. Will you?" "Sure, Little One, and I'll app'int you First Leftenant, Company B, San Leon Life Guards. Halt!" He stopped and faced his followers: "It has been proposed 't we make this a regular company, same as Company A, of the boys. I second the proposition. I'd be proud to train ye, if so be you'll hold up your end the musket. I mean, no shirkin' duty and bein' marched to the guard house, or sentinel work, for bad behavior. Put on your thinkin' caps and keep 'em on a minute. Down to West Point, where some of us is hankerin' to be, they don't allow no lyin'. A broken promise is the worst kind of a lie. So before you pledge your word, gals and boys alike, you--_think_. Think hard, think deep. I'll time ye. When one minute is up, to the second, I'll call for your answer. Everybody turn their eyes inside themselves and--_think_." With that the wise and shrewd old fellow pulled his silver time-piece from his pocket and placed it in the hollow of his hand. Then he fixed his eyes upon its white face and stood motionless, watching the second hand make its little circuit. When the sixty seconds had been counted, he held up his hand with profound gravity and called: "All in favor of forming a new Company, say 'Aye!' Contrary 'No!'" Every hand went up--but Leslie's. Every voice uttered an earnest "Aye!" save his, and Dorothy flashed an indignant, as well as disappointed glance upon him, exclaiming: "Oh! What a mean--I mean, what a rude boy! When all your guests are just suffering to be soldiers, you go and spoil the whole business. Why do you do that?" The lad flushed. He had been duly instructed by both parents in the duties of a host, even a young one; and he knew it was his business to see that all his guests were helped to enjoy themselves as they, not he, desired. It was the first time that he had had any responsibility of this sort and it didn't greatly please him. Now when he found they were all looking at him in that aggrieved way he tossed his head, thrust his hands into his pockets, and answered: "I know I proposed it and thought I'd like it, but I've changed my mind and now think it would get to be a confounded nuisance. I've never done anything, regularly, as you talk about, and I don't see any use in beginning at this late day when--" "When you're getting so old and infirm, poor dear!" said Molly, interrupting. In reality she cared little what they did at San Leon, so long as they were all together and having a good time. But she saw on Dorothy's expressive face a keener disappointment than the affair seemed to warrant and loyally placed herself in support of her chum. Leslie went on as if she hadn't spoken, though he glanced her way with a promise in his eyes to "get even" with her for that mockery: "We're up here on the mountains for a summer holiday. What's the use of making it a work day, then? It would be work--sure enough. There'd be lots of mornings when every one of us would hate it. Oh! you needn't look that way. You all would, sure. What's fun when you feel like it is quite the other thing when you don't. And nine o'clock comes pretty early in the morning. Doesn't it, Miss Dorothy?" The laugh was upon her and she joined in it. Yet she hadn't one whit abandoned her plan of helping Leslie against himself. But there was no use in arguing, and, small woman that she was, she tried strategy instead. "Well, Leslie, you make me think of Mr. Seth Winter's story about the eleven contrary jurymen. All 'contrary' except the one who couldn't get his own way. No matter, nobody wants to force you into hard work. Though I suppose you'll be willing, we, your guests, shall do as we please?" "Certainly," he replied with an absurdly profound bow, to which Dorothy merrily returned a sweeping courtesy. "Then the rest of us who have given our word will keep it. We will be on hand every morning, Captain, to be drilled in the noble tactics of the soldier. Aunt Betty says everybody always finds use for all the knowledge he possesses. Aunt Betty knows. She's lived almost as long as all our ages put together, and she's the very happiest person I ever saw. I don't know anything about soldiering yet but I'm going to learn what I can with this splendid teacher to instruct me--" here she made another profound obeisance to Captain Lem, who returned the courtesy by his finest military salute, mentally appraising the earnest little girl as the best of them all. "So that I shall have one more thing to put in my knowledge-box, ready to use if I ever need it. And while we are drilling you can amuse yourself otherwise, Leslie dear. Now, Captain, can't we go on and find out what wonderful thing is hidden in that corral behind these Barracks?" "Sure. Forward, march!" He faced forward again and even Leslie fell into step behind the others, willing to join in such "foolishness" as a temporary amusement. In fine order they reached the further end of the long building, marched around its rear, and came upon what Dorothy thought was a most beautiful sight. Within the wide paddock, or corral, as these westerners called it, was a small herd of young, thoroughbred horses. From a little stand outside the paling, Mr. and Mrs. Ford were watching the handsome creatures and talking with the grooms that attended them, concerning their good, and possibly, bad qualities. But at the sound of the approaching "squad" Lady Gray turned an eager face and called out, reprovingly: "Oh! my dears, how slow you have been! If I were your age and had been promised a horse for my very own, I shouldn't have tarried on the way!" "Our very own? What do you mean, dear Mrs. Ford?" asked Dorothy, hastening to bid her tardy "Good morning," before she more than glanced across the fence. "Just what I say, dear. Mr. Ford has had eight horses brought in for you young folks to use. Each is to make a choice for herself or himself, subject to change if any necessity for it. Your choice is to be your own property and I hope will give you lots of pleasure. Captain Lem and some of the other good horsemen will teach you anything you need to know. Why, my dears! How astonished you look! Didn't you understand? Didn't Leslie tell you?" For, indeed, surprise had kept them silent. None had guessed of having a horse of her "own," supposing from Leslie's words that they were only to have the loan of an animal during their stay at San Leon. Alfaretta broke the silence, explaining: "No, he didn't say any such thing. He said we was to come choose horses to ride, and when he said one was white I picked that out at once. I--can't really believe you mean it, Mrs. Ford, though--course--Ma Babcock--I never heard o' such folks--never--never--in my life. It certainly does beat the Dutch. I--Alfy Babcock--Dolly Doodles--Jolly Molly--Helena--to have horses of our own--it makes me cry! I, Alfy Babcock, ownin' a whole horse! Oh! My!" "Then I shall be very, very sorry the idea ever entered my husband's mind, of making such a gift. We don't want tears--we just want happiness, perfect happiness, up here at San Leon!" said beautiful Gray Lady, smiling, and looking fairer than ever in this new delight of making gifts, as freely as she wished. Her own life had grown so much happier, these last months, that she longed only to "pass on" happiness to all whom she knew. Alfy's tears really hurt her, for a moment, till Dolly explained, with an arm about the weeper's waist: "I reckon these must be what I've heard of as 'happy tears,' dear Lady Gray. Alfy is too pleased to do anything else--even to say 'thank you'--yet." Queer little Alfy had dropped her head on Dorothy's shoulder and was repeating in a low tone: "A whole horse of my own! Mine, Alfy Babcock's! A whole horse--a whole--livin'--horse--A--whole--horse!" "Well, you wouldn't want a half one, would you, Miss Babcock? Nor one that wasn't living?" demanded Monty, laughing. "Quit crying and let's choose, for that's what Leslie said we were to do. Is that correct, Mr. Ford?" "Entirely. But--see to it that your choice falls each on a different animal! Suppose you begin, alphabetically. Alfaretta first." Such a group of radiant faces as now peered over the paling! while without a second's hesitation, Alfaretta announced: "I choose that pure white one for mine!" "All right. Captain Lem, lead out Blanca and put on her side saddle," directed Mr. Ford. A passage was opened in the paling and the beautiful Blanca was led forth, amid a murmur of admiration from everybody, except the girl herself. She could only stand, clasping and unclasping her hands, and gazing with dim eyes at this wonderful possession. The handsome saddle cloth was marked Blanca, and Mr. Ford explained that each animal was registered and its name had been chosen by its breeder. Most of these names were Spanish and suited well; as that Blanca meant "white," which the gentle little mare certainly was. To another corner of the saddle cloth, Captain Lem slowly attached the initial "A," as mark of ownership, then beckoned to Alfy that she should mount. All her mates watched her curiously, expecting to see her timid and reluctant. She treated them to a fine surprise; first by running to Lady Gray and rapturously kissing her hand, then returning to Lemuel, and letting him swing her up to the saddle, without an instant's hesitation. Dorothy stared, amazed; but she needn't have done so: Alfy was "her mother's daughter" as the saying goes, and inherited that good woman's love of horseflesh and fearlessness; and as she settled herself and received the bridle reins she kept murmuring the marvellous fact: "A whole horse--mine! And Ma Babcock's only got Barnaby!" "Who is 'Barnaby,' Alfy?" asked Leslie, going round to her side and critically inspecting her treasure. "Oh--he--Why, he's a mule!" A shout of laughter greeted this announcement and Lemuel moved away. He was disappointed that the beautiful Blanca had not fallen to Dorothy's share, for he believed the white filly to be the best as well as the handsomest creature in the corral. However, her turn was next, and he listened anxiously to hear what it might be. He wished she wouldn't be so over-generous in offering the choice to her mates, and in saying that if she disappointed them she wanted to change. "All are so fine. It can't make a bit of difference to me." "Choose! Choose! You dear old slow-poke, for I'm just dying to do so, too. I can't wait--do choose!" cried impatient Molly, skipping about and trying to cut short Dorothy's hesitation. "All right, then. I choose the 'calico'. She's so like another Portia that I used to ride 'back home.'" "Zaraza, for Dolly. A Spanish title, too, dear, and means 'chintz'--a 'calico', if you please. Lead her out, Lem!" The pretty creature was brought out, arching her graceful neck and lifting her dainty hoofs as if she were dancing to music, as she was now to the clapping of hands and lusty cheers of healthy young throats. Then she was saddled, a decorative "D" attached to her saddle-cloth, Dorothy put upon her back, to take her stand beside Alfaretta on Blanca, while the others chose and were mounted. "It has been a real ceremony and a delightful one! Here's to the health and happiness of our young equestrians! Hip, hip, hurra!" cried the master of the ranch, with a boyish heartiness that sent the hats of the ranchmen from their heads and their voices echoing the gay "Hip, hip, hurra!" But, despite her happiness, Dorothy's face was thoughtful. There had been eight horses in the corral, as there had been, at first, eight young guests at San Leon. To Helena had been allotted a fine bay, big and powerful as well as comely, by name Benito; to Herbert a black, chosen by him for its resemblance to his own "Bucephalus," "back home" where Portia was, and from a sentiment similar to Dolly's. Then Lady Gray was asked to choose for the absent James Barlow, and did so as calmly as if he had but stepped around the corner and had deputed her to act for him. But it was noticeable that of all the splendid thoroughbreds within the paddock one was by far the finest. That was a dappled gray, perfect in every, point, and looking as if he were king of that four-footed company. "For Jim, I choose Azul, the Gray! You all know I love gray in color and I love the 'blue,' as his Spanish owners named him. Captain Lemuel, please saddle Azul for Jim Barlow, and, Daniel, will you use him, please, till Jim comes back?" Dorothy flashed a grateful look upon her hostess, then glanced at Alfaretta, sure of finding sympathy in that girl's honest eyes. But Alfy nodded, well pleased, and Mr. Ford rode to the head of the little cavalcade and took his place at Dorothy's side, while the others followed, two by two, to make a circuit of the grounds and test their mounts. The men cheered again and again as the procession started, Mr. Ford and Dorothy leading; then Leslie on the sorrel, Cæsar, with Alfy on Blanca; Helena on Benito, with Monty on the chestnut, Juan--a mount well suited to his stature and requirements. Last rode Molly on Juana, another chestnut, and a perfect match for her brother--Monty's Juan; while Herbert's Blackamoor finished the caravan, last but by no means least in the creature's own proud estimation. They paced and they cantered, they trotted and they galloped, even the most inexperienced without fear, because of the vigilant attendants who raced beside them, as well as the high spirits of the others. Around and around the spacious grounds they rode, Captain Lem pointing out several fences and hedges he would have them leap, later on, and finally bringing up before the stately front of the house to dismount. As they did so Dorothy noticed a queerly dressed little boy sitting beside the fountain holding a basket in his hand and eagerly watching the cavalcade. Nobody else seemed to observe him, amid all the clatter and laughter. He looked to the sympathetic girl as if he were very tired and, leaving the rest, she crossed to him and asked: "Who are you, little boy? Do you want something?" Instantly, he offered her the basket, and as instantly vanished. CHAPTER X AN UNEXPECTED DEPARTURE Dorothy looked after the fleeing little figure as it disappeared behind a clump of shrubbery in the direction of the laundry. "A child of one of the workmen, I suppose, but such an odd, quaint looking child," she thought, and rejoined her mates. They were still standing beside the cloistered walk, talking, planning the wonderful trips which would be open to them now that they owned horses; comparing notes upon the points of each that they fancied they had already learned, while Mr. Ford declared: "This really is the most wonderful affair! Not that you have the horses, but that you show no jealousy about them. So far as I can see each of you is perfectly satisfied with his own choice and sure it was the wisest. I only hope our good James Barlow will like his Azul as well. Heigho, Dolly Doodles! What a quaint little basket! An Indian one and fine. Where did you get that?" "A little boy gave it to me. I suppose it is for Lady Gray, and here she comes." The lady had walked across from the Barracks, slowly, sauntering over the beautiful grounds, so fully in accord with them and the glorious day hat she was humming an aria from pure lightness of heart. She had not forgotten the missing lad for whom she had chosen the best horse in the herd, but it did not seem now that anything could be really amiss. He would surely soon be back, safe and well, and oh! how good life was! How dear the world, and how gracious that tender Providence which had crowned her life with joy! In this mood she came up to the group awaiting her and Dorothy put the basket into her hands. She hadn't expected anything of weight and nearly dropped it. "Why, dearie, what an exquisite basket! But how heavy it is! What--here--why? See how oddly it's fastened with rushes or something like them. I'll sit right here while one of you open it." She seated herself upon a carved bench beside a sun-dial and Leslie cut the rushes which were bound tightly about the basket. As he did so a plaintive little wail issued from it, and Lady Gray and he both jumped. "A baby! A foundling!" laughed Mr. Ford, pretending to be greatly frightened. "Open it, open it quick, please! I can't wait!" cried Molly. At the slightest touch now the lid fell off and there, lying on a mat of softest grass, was a tiny, new-born lamb. Ohs! and Ahs! and laughter greeted it, to which the small creature answered by another feeble "Ma-a-a!" then curled itself to sleep. "What a pretty present! Who could have sent it?" wondered Lady Gray. "One of the shepherds, likely; sheep herders they call them here. And it's the first time I ever saw a lamb 'snow white.' The comparison, 'white as a lamb' is generally wrong, for they're a dirty gray. This one has been washed within an inch of its life--literally. Some of you girls better take it to the dairy and give it some milk," said Mr. Ford. "Maybe there somebody will know about it or we'll find the little boy again. He was so cute! Like a small Indian, he looked." "He might easily be one, Dorothy. There are still many bands of them roaming the mountains. Quite often, the 'boys' say, some come to San Leon. A peaceable lot, though, mostly, unless they get hold of liquor. But liquor turns even cultivated white men into brutes. Not likely we shall see any of them at this time of year, when life in the forest is pleasant." "Oh! Daniel, don't talk of Indians at all! I don't like them," protested Mrs. Ford, with a little shudder. "I hope that child wasn't one." "Well, we don't know that he was. There are many people belonging to San Leon and other neighboring ranches and a child more or less isn't enough to set us worrying. Hmm. Here comes the operator with a telegram. I was in hopes that I might escape them for a few weeks. News, Mr. Robson?" The clerk's face was grave and the young folks walked away; Dorothy carrying the basket with the lamb, the others following--with mischievous Molly prodding the little creature with her forefinger "to make it talk." But the boys were not interested in "young mutton" as Monty called it, and sought the ranchmen at their quarters to learn when they could go fishing, or what was better, hunting. "I don't see what you want to kill things for!" pouted Molly, while Helena answered: "Because they are--just boys! I only hope they won't be allowed to handle firearms, except for rifle practice under the trainer's care. So this is the dairy! What a fine one and away up here, where Milliken said there was 'no civilization!' Do you know, Papa is getting quite anxious for a stock farm? We think it's so queer for a man who knows nothing but banking, but some doctor told him it would be fine for his health. If he has cattle, I suppose we'll have a dairy. I mean now to find out all I can about such things because I know whatever Mr. Ford does will be the best possible. Odd! up here the dairymaids are dairymen! How spotlessly clean that one yonder looks, in his white uniform! I'm going to ask what he is doing now." She left the other girls to do so and from another worker in this up-to-date, sweet-smelling place, Dorothy begged a basin of milk for their new pet. It still remained in the basket, which was so soft and of such exquisite fineness that it could be folded like a cloth. Alfaretta still held the soft cover, which had slipped off when Leslie cut the rushes binding it on, turning it idly in her hands. Suddenly she stopped and stared at its inner side, then excitedly stooped where Dorothy was feeding the lamb and pointed, exclaiming: "For the land sakes, Dolly Doodles, look at that!" "Take care, Alfy! You're scaring this timid little thing so it won't drink. It hardly knows how, anyway. What? What do you say?" "I say look a there! _Jim! Jim!_" Dorothy snatched the cover from Alfy's hand and there, surely enough, was the letter D done in the curious handwriting which James Barlow had acquired; quite different both girls knew from that of any other they had ever seen. Then they stared at one another, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry. "What does it mean?" cried Dorothy at last, while Molly drew near to learn what had happened to surprise them. For answer Alfaretta handed her the cover and fairly gasped out: "Jim--our Jim--wrote that--or painted it--or--or--It's Jim, true as preachin'!" "Huh! then all I can say is that this paragon of a Jim has a mighty poor style of writing. Looks more as if that lamb had bumped its itsy--witsy--heady--and made it bleed. That's some Indian 'mark' that the maker of the basket put on it. Don't try to get up any excitement over that." Alfy shook her head but Dorothy did not look up. She was searching the soft, wilted grass that lined the basket; and, in the bottom, tied to a bunch of faded flowers was a little glistening stone. The pebble was marked by another D, traced in the red juice of some plant. The basket went one way, the lamb another as Dorothy sprang to her feet and danced for very joy. "Yes, it's from Jim--it's from Jim! And he's alive--somewhere he is alive! Oh! I am so glad, so glad!" Alfy was glad, too, of this reminder of the lad's existence, but she was also ashamed of him. "Huh! I don't see what there's to be so tickled over, for my part! Jim Barlow's actin' like a regular simpleton. And he's mean, too. He's meaner 'n pussley, makin' everybody such a lot of trouble. Folks riding night and day to hunt for him--some out scourin' round this very minute--and him just stayin' away 'cause--'cause--" "'Cause what, Alfaretta Babcock?" demanded Molly sternly. As always she was loyal to her beloved Dorothy whose joy Alfy was rapidly spoiling by her contempt for the truant. "'Cause, I s'pose he hasn't any decent clothes to come home in. He didn't take his with him and clothes don't grow on trees, even in Colorado. But--if I knew where he was I'd take 'em to him and give him a piece o' my mind along with 'em." "Give it to me, instead, missy. I'm kind of sort of hungry for it!" said a familiar voice behind them, and there was Captain Lem leaning on the sill of the dairy window and looking at them with that amused expression of his. He seemed to find a lot of young folks the most entertaining company in the world. He had hated their coming and had instantly veered around to be thankful for it. Already his mates were teasing him about it and prophesying that Lem had done his last job on the ranch. Hereafter, if he was missed, all the "boys" would have to do would be to hunt up Dorothy, or her chums, and find him. "What's a doin', younkers? Hope your ridin' round didn't tire ye none. Hello! Gone to raisin' sheep, have ye? Mighty pretty little creatur', that one is. Where'd you find it?" Even Helena left off learning dairy work and hurried with the others to the window to learn his opinion. He took the cover and the stone and carefully studied the inscriptions on them. Cocked his head sidewise, put on his spectacles, screwed up his eyebrows and his lips, and ejaculated: "That's a poor fist--whoever done it!" "Maybe it is; but both Alfaretta and I recognized it at once. You see poor Jim almost taught himself to write. He'd begun that even before I first saw him and it's hard to unlearn things, you know. Else, Jim's so smart he'd have written better than any of us by this time. Yes, indeed! Poor Jim is very, very clever!" said Dolly warmly. Captain Lemuel shook his head, and remarked: "I 'low you call him that by way o' compliment. But back home when we called a feller 'clever' it meant he hadn't much sense. I've seen that sort, 'clever' souls 't scurcely knew enough to come in out the rain. This here one 'peared the same to me. Course, I hadn't been acquainted with him longer 'n next to no time but if he was so smart, as I s'pose you're meanin' to state, he hid it amazin' well. Hmm. But--but--if this is a handwrite o' his 'n, our business is to take it straight to the 'Boss.' What you goin' to name your lamb, Little One?" Dorothy lifted the little animal and gave it to him through the window. He caressed it tenderly enough in his strong hands, for he loved all animals, though horses best. "Why, I hadn't thought. I mean we hadn't. And it isn't ours, anyway, if it was sent to the Gray Lady." "Your Gray Lady's name don't begin with a D. It's plain as the nose on your face who it's meant for," he answered, promptly. "Then if it is really mine--how lovely!--I'll just call it Snowball." "Pshaw, Dolly Doodles! If I had a lamb sent to me by a poor lost feller like Jim, I'd name it after him and not so silly like that. Do call it Jim, junior," argued Alfy. "Yes, sissy, but--but it ain't that kind of a lamb," observed the Captain, siding with his favorite at once. Molly giggled and even Helena smiled, but Alfy simply pouted. "Huh! Well, then if Jim won't do, call her Jiminetta--that'd be after me and him, too, same's I'm Alfaretta." Dorothy laughed, too, now, and stopped studying the rude letters traced on the cover and the stone. They but deepened the mystery of Jim's disappearance and present whereabouts. She remarked: "We don't often enough take time to say your whole name, child. It's generally 'Alfy.' Let's compromise and call our lamb Netty." "Good enough! And if the little creatur' takes after most Colorady folks or flocks, she won't care a mite what name she has so she ain't called late to dinner. Haw, haw, haw!" Laughing at his own ancient witticism, Captain Lem started houseward with "Netty" in his arms, the little thing nestling down in them as if it knew it had found a friend. But his face was troubled. He didn't like this secret signal from the missing James and he liked less the fact that the lad's messenger had been a small Indian. However, this seemed a small matter to what was awaiting him, as Mr. Ford came toward him, walking rapidly, and, apparently, in deep thought. "Lem, do you think you can run San Leon without me for a few days?" Captain saluted his "chief" and replied, a trifle testily: "That's what I have been doin' for a purty consid'able spell, ain't it, Boss?" "Yes, but you hadn't eight youngsters on your hands then, to keep happy and out of mischief. Boys you know, Lem--" "I know. I've been one. Wish 't I was again. What's up, Boss?" The girls had followed the Captain, slowly, and eagerly discussing Jim's message--if it was such--and its probable meaning; but they paused at a little distance, not wishing to interrupt the men's interview which, from the expression of their faces, was a serious one. But Mr. Ford saw them and beckoned them to come up; and then explained to them as well as to the old ranchman: "We have had telegrams that call us east. Away east, as far as New York. I feel that we must leave you young folks--for a few days--as few as we can possibly make them. It isn't business or I'd depute somebody else to act for me. It's this: A wireless dispatch has been received that a very old lady, an aunt of Erminie's, will arrive in that city on the steamer which is due in just three days. She has lived abroad for many years and is now very feeble, helpless, in fact, from paralysis or something of that nature. She brought Erminie up and has been the best and truest friend my wife ever had. We owe her everything, and feel that we cannot leave her to land in a strange city, broken in mind and body, without her 'daughter' to care for her. We must go, for I don't want Lady Gray to take the trip and responsibility without me. If all goes well, we should be back in less than a fortnight--could be much sooner except that Lady Gray wants to bring Aunt Rachel to San Leon; and we will have to make the return journey by very easy stages, as her strength will allow. It is trying, too, that, having learned of our trip east, Miss Milliken insists upon returning with us. She hasn't been happy here and I find she's worrying about her heart. The altitude of San Leon is bad for her, she thinks, and since she puts it on that ground neither Erminie nor I can urge her to remain. But--" "'But,' don't you worry a minute, dear Uncle Dan!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands around his arm and using the title he had asked for many times, though she had rarely done so before. All along, despite his great generosity and kindness, she had stood just a little in awe of the "Railroad Boss," and he had been simply "Mr. Ford" to her as well as to all his other young guests. But it needed only one look of anxiety on his noble face to rouse all her loving sympathy. She repeated: "Don't you, nor sweet Lady Gray, worry one single minute about us or things up here at San Leon. We'll be as good as good! Helena, here, is a better caretaker than poor Miss Milly. Between ourselves, we're glad she's going. She's been a burden to Nell, all the time, instead of a help. I'm sorry about her heart but--I'm glad she's going. Now--when do you start? Isn't there something I--we--can do to help you off? Do let us help!" The gentleman's face had lightened. His girl guests had accepted the situation beautifully, and he could but hope as much for the lads. In any case he must go; and, indeed, at once. He was so pressed for time that they disliked to trouble him with the message the lamb had brought, and watched him walk swiftly away without a further word. "Huh! He needn't be afraid we'll do anything we oughtn't! And I don't see as we're going to be so much alone, after all. There's the trained nurse, and though the doctor's gone to Denver he'll come back." "She's sick herself, this last day or so, Alfy. We mustn't count on her nor on Dr. Jones. But there's Mr. Robson, Captain Lem, Anita, Wun Sing--and lots of ranchmen left. Oh! we'll be all right!" said Dorothy. "But the Captain has walked off with 'Netty'--forgotten all about her, I guess." "Well, I must go to poor Milly. She never can keep her head when anything happens suddenly, like this. She has complained, incessantly, that she could hardly breathe up here and I'm glad she has the chance to go now. But I can fancy my dear mother's face, when Milly walks into the Towers without me!" said Helena, hurrying away. A half-hour of activity followed, the girls taking Lady Gray's simple packing out of her hands, although that much-travelled _prima donna_ was never disturbed by sudden changes from place to place. Indeed, she was happy over this coming trip, under her husband's escort, and to meet her dearly loved Aunt Rachel. Jedediah had his master's suit-case ready in even shorter time and it was only Miss Milliken who delayed matters by her fussiness. However, the buckboard came around, Silent Pete holding the reins over the four-in-hand, and Captain Lem rather jealously regarding him; until his eye fell upon his "awkward squad" and he remembered the greater responsibility placed upon himself. Then he was reconciled to see another man drive his horses, reflecting: "Well, I needn't grumble, I'm the one Boss trusted most. Seven youngsters in hand and one in the bush--land knows where!--is a bigger job 'n just drivin' a four-footed team. I ain't no call to feel lonesome but just to feel sot up. Funny, ain't it, Lem! You a regular, dyed-in-the-wool old bach to find yourself suddenly playin' daddy to seven strappin' boys an' gals! Seven an' there'd ought to be eight. Ought to be--_must be_--that's what it spells to Captain Lemuel Hunt. For if--if--as I reasonably suspicion--that there Jim Barlow, poor writer, has fell into the hands of a passel of Injuns, his cake's dough, lessen I can rake it out their oven into mine." The departure of the buckboard, with solemn Silent Pete in charge, had a depressing effect upon the group left watching it. Everything would go on just as usual, of course. Why should there be any difference? But--how lonesome it was! How they would miss Lady Gray's sweet voice and presence, and the "Boss's" jokes and laughter! The thought was too much for tender-hearted Alfy, and after a spluttering, and sniffling to stem her own grief, she burst into an audible boo-hoo, that promptly started Molly's tears, though she shed them silently. All, indeed, were very sober and Leslie's face was pale. He hadn't realized till now how necessary his mother had become to his happiness, and he felt sorely inclined to follow the example of the weeping girls though rather indignant against them. It wasn't their Lady Gray who had left, nor their beloved Dad. He exclaimed, testily: "Girls, quit that! I'm your host now and I say--no crying! What I propose is--do something. Let's ride to Bald Eagle Peak--or Rock. You'll need clear eyes to follow that trail, but there'll be just time enough to do it before bedtime. Hurray for 'Boots and Saddles!'" Captain Lem answered quickly: "Lad, you can't do that! You mustn't take that road till you know more about ridin' 'n you do now, nor unless you start by daybreak. I wouldn't try it myself, old mountaineer as I am, at this hour, lessen it was a case of life and death. No, you can't go." Leslie's temper rose and he retorted: "I'm 'Boss' here now and don't you dare say 'mustn't' to me!" The sharpshooter laughed ironically; and this enraged the boy still further. His riding whip was in his hand and, with a furious look at the Captain, he lifted it and brought it down upon the old man's head--who staggered backward, then fell to the ground as if he were dead. "Leslie! Leslie!" shrieked the onlookers, "what have you done?" "Killed him--I--guess!" he gasped and threw himself beside the prostrate ranchman. CHAPTER XI THE SHEEP HERDER'S CABIN When, in the delirium of fever, Jim Barlow strayed from his room at San Leon, the one idea in his mind was that the mountains called him. One distant peak, in especial, seemed imbued with life, using human speech and gesture--warning him to come, and come at once, lest some terrible thing befall him. He must obey! He must--he must! He set off at a run, his bare feet unconsciously seeking the smooth driveway of the home-piece, and following it at breakneck speed till it ended in the road below the mesa. There the rougher going hindered him somewhat, but not greatly, and he kept to the highway till it reached a river and a bridge. Beyond the bridge the road divided into three forks, the northern one ascending steadily toward the peak to which his fancy still fixed itself and he struck off upon this. How long he travelled he did not know, though his unnatural strength due to his fever must have lasted for hours. Gradually, that fierce, inward excitement that drove him on gave place to a sudden weariness, and he dropped like a stone on the spot where it overcame him. As the morning rose, clear and bright, a company of horsemen, riding in single file toward a distant pass, came upon a prostrate, nearly naked figure lying in their path. The horsemen were Ute Indians, and like many of their white brothers, were prospecting for gold. All sorts of precious metals were to be found in these Rocky mountains, and were their own rightful inheritance. They were peaceably inclined to share and share alike with the pale faces. For years there had been friendship between them and the red men had learned many things from the white. Not the least had been this craving for gold; and where once they would have toiled only in the chase, to shoot and kill the game with which the mountains abounded, they now longed for the glittering stones hidden within them. But they were in no haste. The gold was hidden--it would keep, and they had ridden all night long. So, at sight of poor Jim, lying motionless, they dismounted and discussed him. "He is dead," said the foremost, in his own tongue which, of course, the lad would not have understood, even if he had heard. Another stooped down and turned the boy's face upward. It was scratched with the underbrush through which he had made his way and the light garments he wore were in shreds. His feet were swollen and bruised and the bandages had been torn from his arm. "Not dead. Might as well be. Heap bad," said another Indian, gravely shaking his head. There were four in the party and one of them filled a cup at a nearby spring and dashed the water over the lad's face. His fit of exhaustion was about over, anyway, and the shock of the ice-cold water revived him, so that he opened his eyes and looked into the dark face bent above him. But there was no intelligence in this look and presently his lids drooped and he was once more oblivious to all about him. The Indians held a consultation. Three were for going on, after they had breakfasted, and leaving the vagrant to his fate. One was for giving help and, being the leader of the party as well as a red-skinned "Good Samaritan," his counsel prevailed. When they resumed the trail, Jim Barlow was carried with them, very much like a sack of meal across a saddle bow. But carried--not left to die. When he again opened his eyes, and this time with consciousness in them, he was in a small shanty, rude in the extreme; and his bed a pile of hemlock boughs spread with a woollen blanket. He lay for some time trying to think where he was and what had happened to him, and idly watching the bent figure of a man sitting just outside the doorway of the hut. The man was smoking and a little boy was playing in the sand at his feet. Jim couldn't see anything interesting in these two strangers nor in the cabin itself and, with a feeling of great weakness, closed his eyes once more, and for many hours of sound, refreshing sleep. When for the third time he awoke his senses had returned and only the weakness remained. He tried to speak and after several efforts succeeded in asking, audibly: "Where am I?" At sound of his voice the man outside rose and came to the boy, nodding his head in satisfaction but in silence. "Where--am--I?" asked Jim, again. The man shook his head. By his appearance he was Mexican, but he wore an Indian costume of buckskin, once gaily decorated and fringed but now worn and very dirty. His straight black hair hung low over his forehead and his hands looked as if they had never seen water. His face was not ugly, neither was it kind; and he seemed more stolid than stupid. "Where--am--I? Who are you?" again demanded Jim, trying to get up, but instantly sinking back from utter weakness. There was no answer; but, after a long contemplation of his guest, the Mexican crossed to a little stove, wherein a few sticks were burning. From a rusty coffee pot which stood upon it, he poured some liquid into a tin cup and brought it to the lad. Jim tried to sit up and take the cup into his own hand but he could not; so, with unexpected gentleness, the man slipped his arm under his patient's shoulders and raised him to a half-sitting posture. Then he held the cup to Jim's lips, who drank eagerly, the muddy coffee seeming like nectar to his dry, parched throat. The drink refreshed him but he was still too weak to rise, or even care to do so. Dozing and waking, wondering a little over his situation yet mostly indifferent to everything, the hours passed. Jim's interest was next aroused by the man's dressing of his arm. He did this with real skill, removing the big leaves of some healing plant, with which it had been bound, and replacing these with fresh ones, confining them in place by long strips of split reeds. The soft, cool leaves were wonderfully comforting and with the easing of the pain serious thoughts came. To the injured lad everything now seemed a blank from the evening meal at San Leon, after his arrival there, until now. Why he had left that ranch and why he had come to this queer place he could not imagine; but the picture of the beautiful, mission-like house was distinct, and of Dorothy walking across its lawn beside him. Dorothy! It seemed a long time since he had seen her or heard her sweet voice chide him for his misdoings. Why--now he remembered--he hadn't said good-night to Dorothy, his first faithful friend. But it is needless to follow the gropings of Jim's mind back to the realization of his present situation. Yet the first and strongest feeling which possessed him was that he must tell Dorothy where he was. Dolly was such a hand to worry, silly Dolly! And she was his best, earliest friend. The Mexican brought him his breakfast of bacon and corn bread, with another cup of that coffee which always stood upon the stove. A child came with the man and gazed at Jim with solemn, wondering eyes. Jim returned the stare with interest. This was the first small Indian he had ever seen and to judge by the little fellow's face he might have been an old, old man--he was so grave and dignified. "How are you, sonny?" said Jim. The midget simply blinked. "Can't you talk, kid?" again questioned the stranger, holding out his hand. The little boy did not answer, save by placing his own chubby, extremely dirty hand on Jim's extended palm. "Good. You're friendly, if you are dumb. Sort of needs washin', don't it? Water. Can you bring me some water? I'm thirsty." The child walked to a big tank, or half-barrel, outside the door and dipped the tin coffee cup within it. But he was too short to reach the low supply and giving himself an extra hitch upwards, over the edge, the better to obtain the draught, he lost his balance and fell in head first. Jim's low bed commanded a view of this and he started to rescue the youngster, but the man was before him. He treated the accident as if it were an ordinary occurrence, pulling the child out by the seat of his leather breeches, shaking him as one might a wet puppy, and setting him on his feet without a word. Indeed, words seemed the most precious commodity in that queer shanty, so rarely were they used. But the father, if such he were, himself filled the cup with the stale water and gave it to the child, who carried it to Jim as calmly as if no trouble had attended his getting it. "Thank you, boy. What's your name?" "Name--José," said the man answering for him. He pronounced it "Ho-say," and Jim was pleased. Knowing that he might meet people who spoke Spanish, in this trip west, the studious lad had brought a Spanish grammar along with him on the train and had glanced into it whenever he had a chance. Of course, he could not speak it himself, nor understand it well, nor was the dialect here in use very much like the correct language of the grammar. "José, where is this place?" The child stared. Then suddenly went out of doors and returned with a baby lamb in his arms. He plumped this down upon Jim's breast and smiled for the first time. The lamb was his latest, greatest treasure and, in his childish sympathy, he offered it to the "hurted man." With his good arm, Jim made the little animal more comfortable, while José vanished without again. This time he returned with a fine basket of Indian workmanship, and this was filled in part by glittering stones and in part by flowers. All these he deposited on the bed beside the lamb, and folded his arms behind him in profound satisfaction. He had done his very best. He had given the sick one all his things. If that didn't cure him it would be no further business of José's. The man of the house had now seated himself beside the stove. He placed an earthen pan beside him on the clay floor and laid a bundle of rushes beside it. Also, he took down from a peg in the wall an unfinished basket, and reseating himself, proceeded to weave upon it. He used only the finest of splits, torn from the reeds, almost like thread in their delicacy and he worked very slowly. From time to time he held the basket from him, studying its appearance with half-closed eyes, as an artist studies a picture. Frequently, he lifted the coffee pot to his lips and drank from its spout. Jim watched him in silent admiration of his deftness with the weaving and in disgust at his use of the coffee pot--thinking he would want no more draughts from it himself. All the time his mind grew clearer and he began to form plans for telling Dorothy where he was--though he didn't know that, himself; but, at least, of letting her know he was alive. She would have to guess at the rest and she would surely trust him to come back when he could. When the weaver looked up again Jim beckoned him to approach. Rather reluctantly, he did so. For his own part he was getting tired of this helpless lad, left in his hut by White Feather, his Ute brother-in-law. If Moon Face were living, the Ute maiden who had been his wife and little José's mother, it wouldn't have mattered. To her would have fallen the care. Nothing had gone right with him, Alaric, the sheep herder, since Moon Face fell ill and died, though he went often to that far place in the forest where her body had been secretly buried in the crevice of a great rock. Moon Face had left him for a few days' visit to a camp of her relatives and there had taken the small-pox and died, despite the fact that she had been treated by the wisest medicine men and immersed in the sweat-box, the Indian cure for all ills. If he had been near enough to such a thing, or had had energy enough to prepare it up here at his home, Alaric would promptly have subjected poor Jim to similar treatment. As it was, the isolation of Alaric's hut and his laziness saved the wanderer from this. Now, as he obeyed the boy's summons, he was brooding over his misfortunes and was more grim even than usual. "Well, young man?" Jim was surprised. The man had been so silent, hitherto, that he imagined they two had no language in common. "So you speak English! That makes it easy. I want to send a message to the place I--I left. Will you take it?" Alaric shook his head, firmly declining. "Don't get ugly. If you won't go, will you send somebody?" The Mexican pretended that his English did not go so far as this. He obstinately would not understand. Then followed a long argument which greatly wearied Jim and simply failed of its object. At last, he named "San Leon" and Alaric's expression brightened. That was the place where there was plenty of money and the sheep herder loved money. He had been there. It was not far away, by a road he knew, yet he did not care to go there again, himself. There had been a transaction of horses that wasn't pleasant to remember. Old Lem Hunt had accused him of being a thief, once on a time, when some thoroughbreds had been missing from the San Leon corrals, and Alaric had had hard work to prove his innocence. He had been obliged to prove it because, in Colorado, men were still sometimes inclined to take justice in their own hands and not wait for the law to do it for them. The truth was that the sheep herder had not, personally, taken a single steed from San Leon. He had merely "assisted" some of his Indian friends to do so. He had even carefully kept all knowledge of the affair from the ears of his brother-in-law, White Feather; a man who indeed loved fine horseflesh, as all the Utes did, but preferred to increase his herds by legitimate trading. The other Indians, whom Alaric had "assisted," had paid their assistant in honest gold--he wouldn't take any other sort of payment--and there had been more gold changing hands in order to secure the real thieves. And because he loved the gold Alaric had thus assisted both sides and received double pay. Also, he had left an unsavory memory of himself at San Leon as well as offended his Ute relatives; and White Feather not only prevented harm being done to his Mexican brother-in-law, but also used the occasion to make Alaric subject to himself. Thus it was that he had made the sheep herder take in the sick lad he had found on the trail and swear to be kind to him. "San Lean? _Si_.... _En verdad_. Well, señor?" If this injured, half-naked youth had hailed from that rich man's ranch it might be worth while to hearken to what he wished. "I want to tell a girl there that I am not dead. I want to send just that message, till I can go there myself. Do this for me and I will--will pay you--when I can." Alaric considered. From present appearances there seemed small chance of Jim's ever paying anybody for any service. Yet--there was White Feather to please and there was possible payment at San Leon. He nodded acquiescence. "Then get me somethin' to write on!" begged Jim, vastly excited by this chance to set himself right with his friends. He might as well have asked for the moon. Writing was not an accomplishment of Alaric's and he had never owned a scrap of paper fit for such use. Yet the longer he pondered the matter the more willing the man became. Finally, he took José upon his knee, and, emphasizing each word of instruction by a stern forefinger and a threat of fearful punishment for disobedience, he instilled into the little fellow's mind the fact that he was to go to San Leon ranch; to find there a pretty girl in a white dress; a girl with big brown eyes and dark curly hair. A girl who was always laughing and who always wore a red bow on her head. He, Alaric, would go with his son as far as the cypress hedge, bordering the west side of the lake. There he would wait for the child to do his errand and return, and would himself be out of sight of that old sharpshooter, whom he feared. He had another inspiration--of generosity and greed commingled. That lamb of José's. He could afford to give that away because it wasn't his own, nor even really the little one's. It belonged to the rich ranch owner whose sheep he herded, up here on the lonely mountain. The girl for whom this sick boy wished a message might like the lamb and give the papoose money for it. Money would be far better for José than any pet. After this course of silent reasoning, Alaric bestirred himself to action. He had often had to make his "mark" upon some paper of agreement, the nearest to writing that he could come. He understood that Jim wished to make his own now. So, selecting a bit of glittering stone that was fairly smooth, he handed it to the lad, and afterward crushed the stem of a plant which exuded a red juice. With this other sharp pointed bit of stone dipped in this juice, anybody might make as many "marks" as he chose upon the flat stone. Jim was quick to understand the suggestion but real writing was out of the question. The best he could accomplish was that D which was in his peculiar hand. By signs, more than words, Alaric expressed the whole matter; and Jim eagerly caught at the suggestion. The lamb would be a pretty gift for Dorothy and would tell her better than words that he remembered her and was safe. Only--the little animal was like everything else seen in this cabin--so dirty! He couldn't send it to dainty Dorothy in such condition. In a few words he explained to the shepherd his ideas about it and was amused by the infinite contempt shown on Alaric's face. However, he made short work of that matter. He was now impatient to be off, the sooner to get that possible payment of gold; and remembered that White Feather had commanded him to serve the sick stranger to the best of his ability. With a flippant gesture he seized the lamb and carried it to the tank outside the door; and sousing it up and down till its dusty fleece was white and itself nearly drowned, he threw it on Jim's bed to dry. José found his voice and jabbered in a mixture of Spanish and Indian, expressing his pity for his pet; then brought handfuls of grass and leaves to rub it with. This vigorous attention, in which Jim used his own sound arm, soon restored the lambkin to a beauty that surprised them all. More grass and flowers were put in the bottom of the basket with the marked stone, the lamb upon this cushion, and the cover fastened on. Alaric informed Jim that such a basket was worth a great deal of money. He had learned the art of making such from Moon Face, who had travelled sometimes to the distant railway line and sold them to tourists. It was so tightly woven it would hold water; and in his pride over his handiwork the weaver would have poured a dipper of it into the basket to prove his statement. "No, no! The poor little thing has had more than its share of water! Best save the rest for yourself!" protested Jim, with a feeble attempt at a joke. Alaric desisted then, hung the dipper back on the tank, seized the basket in one hand and José in the other and strode away. The last glimpse Jim had of them showed poor little José's fat legs being swung along, touching the ground only now and then, as they utterly failed to keep up with his father's pace. Left alone, Jim lay still a long time, idly fingering some bits of rock which the child had scattered upon his blanket. He felt very cold; and again, in another moment, he seemed to be burning up. He thought of the water in the tank. He was desperately thirsty, his throat growing dry, his lips swelling; and alternately he longed to dip his head in that barrel and drink--drink--drink! then shivered with disgust remembering the various uses the stale fluid had been put to. Finally, sleep, or unconsciousness, overcame him and for many days he knew no more. CHAPTER XII PLAY THAT WAS WORK AND WORK THAT WAS PLAY The silence that followed Leslie's frightened cry, as he hurled himself to the ground beside the old man he had struck, lasted but an instant. Then, recovering their scattered wits, Herbert and Monty stooped and lifted the Captain's head. The movement roused him and he opened his eyes, drawing a long breath as he did so and trying to speak. But he couldn't do that yet; nor, indeed, till Dorothy had come back with a glass of water, for which she had instantly run to the house as Captain Lemuel fell. Dipping her fingers in the water she moistened his lips, and when he parted them as if demanding more, she gently dropped some between them. He swallowed with an effort but, presently, his strength returned and he tried to rise. The lads helped him and were overjoyed when he said, quite clearly and with a touch of his native humor: "Ain't so tough as I thought. Eh, what? Lessen a little tenderfoot like--Why, what's he down for? Tried it on himself?" At the sound of his victim's voice an infinite relief surged through Leslie's heart and he lifted a very white face to look at the ranchman. "Oh, Captain Lem! I--I was wild to do that! I beg your pardon--please forgive me--if you can!" The petition ended with a sob, that was really a gasp for breath, due to the excitement of his rage, and the anger of his mates changed to pity for him. "His weak heart! How ill he has made himself!" thought Helena, compassionately putting her hand under his arm and helping him to his feet, where he stood trembling and still breathing with much difficulty. Dorothy had told her of this weakness of the lad's and that his parents had been somewhat doubtful if he could endure the rarefied air of that high region. If he could it would cure that other weakness of his lungs and they hoped for the best. She was frightened by his appearance and inwardly resolved to oppose any sort of fun which might bring on a return of this attack. She had already heard her brother and Monty proposing a bear hunt on the more distant peaks of the mountains and decided that it should never take place. But Captain Lem was answering the boy and she listened to his words: "Course, sonny, I shan't lay it up again' you. An' I allow 't there's one thing decent about you: if you're quick to get r'iled you're just as quick to own yourself in fault. I'm willin' to wash the slate all clean now, an' start over again with any little problems we may meet, same's when I was a little shaver, an' 'tended deestrict school an' got my sums wrong, the teacher made me do. I'm no hand to lay up malice just 'cause a feller's got more 'n his share o' temper, specially not again' your father's son. Anybody 't spells his name Ford can do most as he's a mind to with Lemuel Hunt. Only--_don't you dast to do it again_; 'cause I'm some on the temper myself, an' I ain't much used to bein' struck. So--so--just don't show off any more o' that there little playfulness again. That's all." Too proud to show how really shaken and miserable he felt, the sharpshooter retired to his own quarters at the Barracks and was seen no more that night: but he sent word to Dorothy, the "Little One," that Netty, the lamb, had been given a soft bed close to his own and would be carefully attended. The hours passed quietly till bedtime, which all the young strangers at San Leon felt inclined to make early that night. Seven young people, with all the means of enjoyment at hand which these had, should have been very merry, but these were not. The absence of their hosts made the great house seem very empty. Nobody had heart for any music, though Dorothy bravely brought out her violin and Helena took her place at the piano, ready to accompany. But, unfortunately, the first melody which came to Dolly's mind was one that Father John, Aunt Betty, and poor Jim had each loved best--"Auld Lang Syne." She mastered a few strains and the tears rose to her eyes. She suddenly felt lonely and helpless, so far from all who had hitherto made her happy world. So, rather than break down completely and let the tears fall, she nodded to Helena and put her beloved Cremona "to bed," as she called its placing in its case. "Let's play 'Authors,'" suggested Molly. "'Authors' is the dullest game going," objected Monty. "That's because you're not well read. If you knew as much about books as Jim Barlow--" she retorted, teasing, then stopped abruptly. That was an unfortunate reference, for who, alas! could tell if that too studious youth were alive or dead? Alfaretta hurried to cover this mention by demanding: "Let's sing 'rounds,' 'Scotland's burning,' or 'Three Blind Mice.' Now don't stop to object or say nothin' but _just begin_. I will, and Nell, you follow. Then the boys, if any of 'em can sing a note. Sometimes their voices go 'way up in Q and sometimes 'way down suller. But they can try. Now--here she goes: 'Three Blind Mice--Three Blind Mice--For mercy's sake, Helena Montaigne, why don't you take it up? I sing one line, you know, then you sing the same one over--and we each do it three times then change to 'They--all--run--after--the--butcher's--wife--who-- cut--off--their--tails--with--a--carving--kni-i-ife!--You--never--see-- such--a--sight--in--your--life--as--Three--Blind Mice!' By that time Dolly'll be ready, over cryin'. She can sing real nice if she's a mind to. Listen! Everybody do it real solemn, no giggling, no forgettin' your parts, where you go in and come out at and doin' that part about the butcher's wife and the tails just as fast as you can speak it and the end--as--s-l-o-w--a-s--s-l-o-w. Begin!" Alfy's rich, though untrained voice, started the song and Helena followed on time, singing very sweetly, indeed, until she came to that tragic part about the tails, when she burst out in a giggle and a vain effort to race along as rapidly as Alfy had done. Herbert could sing well. He helped Alfaretta carry the thing through to a triumphant finale, they two alone; for all the others had laughed themselves out of place and tune, with Monty interspersing the melody by outrageous cat calls and screechings of "Maria Maouw, come and catch these Three Blind Mice!" "Maria! Maria! Pussy, pussy cat Maria--Come to supper!" echoed Leslie, laughing as he rarely laughed. To him this company of young people was wholly delightful--except when he felt it his duty to entertain them. When they were thus willing to entertain him everything was all right. He had had so few young intimates in his life that each of these youngsters seemed wonderful to him. Their nonsense and good natured chaffing of one another kept him amused at all times and was doubly pleasant to him that night. For, like Dorothy, he felt oddly forlorn and deserted in this great beautiful home that was practically his own; and he wished as he had done before that he might step into that cottage of the Babcock's, "up-mounting" where Alfaretta belonged and where she said everyone was as jolly as the day was long. He hadn't liked Alfy at first and he still rather looked down upon her. She wasn't of his station in life, she _would_ not see that money made such a great difference, whether one had it or had not. She was greatly lacking in delicacy of speech, but she was honest to a fault. Not honester than Dolly, perhaps, but in another way. She hadn't hesitated to give him one of those generous "pieces of her mind" with which she regaled anyone she considered at fault; and the "piece" she had cut for him that day had been: "Well, Leslie Ford, if bein' rich as Croesus--whoever he was--or havin' all creation to wait on you can't make you no better 'n a coward--I pity you. Yes, I do. That was the lowest-down, orneriest trick to hit an old man like Captain Lem, without givin' him a chance to help himself. Why, a boy that hadn't a cent, an' never looked to have, couldn't ha' been no meaner. An' just sayin' 'Forgive me' don't undo that job. Worst is, you raised a bigger welt on your own insides, on that thing Mr. Winters calls your conscience, 'n you did on his old head, an' it won't heal so quick, neither. I sure was ashamed of you, I sure was." This lecture had been in response to his appeal, as they chanced to stand together in the cloistered walk, waiting for supper: "You don't think very badly of me, do you, Alfaretta, for getting so angry?" The lad was very unhappy and very ashamed. He hoped to recover his own self-respect by hearing his mates declare the recent affair had been "nothing." Herbert had gone so far, indeed, as to say that he, too, would have resented being told "must" and "mustn't" by a mere hired man, but Leslie knew that Herbert would never have struck anybody under any provocation; and Monty had simply remarked: "Well, if you really liked to soil your hands that way, all right." Alfy was the first of the girls he had interviewed, though he had gratefully recognized Helena's compassion and Dorothy's distress--for himself. Molly--he guessed he wouldn't question Molly. That young person had a flippant tongue and she was always inclined to "call a spade a spade." He couldn't imagine her calling a coward a hero--and his own heart told him he had not been that. But Alfy was poor and intensely grateful for all his parents were doing for her. She would be the one to soothe his self-esteem and overlook the episode, he thought, and so he appealed to her. Alfy's opening remark had been: "I can't say I think very well. You might ha' done worse, course, you might have used that pistol I saw you cocking round, this morning, if you'd had it handy; and that you've got no more use for than a cat for two tails. You beat the Dutch, Leslie Ford. You're feelin' mean as pussley and you're coaxin' me to contradict you." Then had followed that larger "slice" of the girl's opinion, recorded above. It hadn't left a very pleasant "taste" in the lad's "mouth." Summons to supper was an agreeable sound, just then, and nobody referred to the event again. Yet, as has been told, the evening was a dull one for most of the party, the singing of the "rounds" its greatest amusement. Just as this ended, Dr. Jones appeared to read family prayers. Mrs. Ford had instituted this on her arrival at San Leon, and Mr. Ford had conducted the little service with a dignified sincerity which could not fail to impress his young guests. On leaving, he had requested the doctor to take his place, saying: "No ceremony that will help to bring a blessing on our home must be omitted just because I am away." But, to-night, they missed the master's earnest voice and Gray Lady's wonderful singing of just the familiar, common hymn which everybody knew. The house-servants, and such of the ranchmen as would, filed into the spacious music-room and took their seats in reverent quiet. This was new business to most of those rough westerners and they came partly from curiosity, partly from admiration of "Dan Ford, Railroad Boss"; so great a man in their opinion that whatever he did they felt must have some merit in it. Helena took her place at the piano and the other girls stood beside her; and Herbert, obeying a nod from Dorothy also came forward. Monty and Leslie reluctantly followed. They had grouped themselves thus when the master was present but had hesitated now from a foolish shame before these untutored workmen. Dorothy's face lighted with gratitude and between the lines of the hymn Molly murmured, "Good boys," while Alfy sang with even greater vim than her beloved "rounds." Then swift good nights and rest. It had been a busy, an exciting day; and Dorothy was soon asleep, though again her mind had been full of wonder concerning absent Jim and she had meant to lie awake and, as Alfy expressed it: "Cipher out where he could be." But still she could not worry greatly. The arrival of the lamb with his message assured her that he was alive and, she argued, must be well since he had not forgotten her. But in one room there was no desire for sleep. Leslie was still restless and excited. His heart bothered him. He missed his parents more than he would acknowledge even to himself. He was fractious and tried Mateo's patience sorely. "No, Mateo, I shan't go to bed till I get ready. No matter if my mother did say ten o'clock, it was because she didn't understand. You can't go, either. I want you to talk." "Certainly, señor." But when silence followed Leslie impatiently inquired: "Well, why don't you?" Poor Mateo sighed. Commonly his tongue would run so fast that his young master would order him to be quiet. Now, when requested, the valet could find no word to say. He stood behind his master's chair, idly turning with his foot the corners of a mighty bear skin which lay upon the floor. It was the skin of an enormous grizzly, that had been shot by Captain Lem and another _caballero_, or horse trainer and had been mounted by themselves with infinite care, as a gift to their employer. The head was stuffed to the contour of life, and the paws outspread and perfect. It was, indeed, a most valuable skin and Leslie had admired it so greatly that it had been spread as a rug upon his floor. It annoyed him now to see Mateo toying with it and he bade him stop. The Mexican flushed and sighed: "It is that _el señor_ is not well, _si_?" he suggested, suavely. "Yes, I am well, too," retorted the boy, who felt wretched, with a curious oppression on his chest. "Imagine, Señor Leslie, what it must be to kill, to slaughter such a monster!" "Ah! a monster, indeed! But I shall kill just such another, you'll see. What's the use of a ranch on the Rockies and not go bear hunting? They can't keep me done up in cotton wool just because I used to cough a little." "Certainly not, señor." "Oh! shut up with your everlasting 'certainly nots!' You're as tiresome as an old woman. I wish you'd stayed in San Diego, where you belong." Mateo was amazed. He was really devoted to Leslie and they had rarely disagreed. He scarcely knew the lad in such a mood as this and realized that something must be done to give a pleasanter turn to things. A bear hunt? Was that what the young señor had set his heart upon and been denied? An inspiration came to him. "_Caramba!_ Behold! I have a fine thought, me. Will it please _el señor_ to listen?" "Of course. That's what I said to do--to talk." Then Mateo did talk. For five, ten minutes, with many a gesture and mixture of Spanish and English, till his listener's face grew radiant and he sprang from his chair with a hip, hip, hurra! All his crossness was over and he now allowed Manuel to settle him for the night with a good nature not to be exceeded by anybody. The morning found all the young folks happier than they had been on the night before; and, nobody was late for breakfast. It had been explained to them that each one should attend the grooming of his or her own horse. There would be men to wait upon them, of course, and for the girls but little labor. Yet Mr. Ford believed that they would all be benefited in health by this pleasant task and that the intimacy which should exist between horse and rider would be thus furthered. Breakfast was scarcely over when Captain Lem appeared on the porch. He looked older than usual and uncommonly pale under his weather toughened skin, and he had put on his "specs," which he disliked. However, his manner was as gay as ever and he began: "You cert'nly are the laziest set o' youngsters I've met sence I was knee-high to a hop-toad. Reckon if anybody'd give me a horse when I was your ages I'd ha' beat the sun a-risin' to see if 't had lived over night. The boys is waiting in the stables, and gettin' pretty cross. Some on 'em sort-of-kind-of feel 's if they was playin' nurse to you kids, and the notion don't go down none too good even to oblige Dan Ford, Boss. They've lived in the open, most of the boys has, and are better used to roundin' up stock than to tendin' tenderfeet youngsters. Eh, Little One? Ain't you nowise curious to hear how Netty passed the night?" One thing was evident to them all--the sharpshooter's ready tongue had suffered no hurt from the unhappy incident of the day before. Dorothy ran to put her hand in his, exclaiming: "How dreadful of me! I had forgotten that darling thing. Actually forgotten. How could I when she came from Jim?" Away she sped toward the Barracks, her white frock and scarlet ribbons making a pretty spot of color on the wide shaven lawn; but practical Alfaretta remarked: "If that ain't just like Dolly Doodles! Make her think she's neglected somebody and off she flies, forgettin' things better worth rememberin'! The idea! She'll go right to cleanin' that calico filly, Zaraza, an' never think a mite about her clean clothes. Not till she gets 'em dirty--then nothing'll do but she must put on fresh. White frocks ain't so easy did up, either, so I'll go get our high aprons, that Mrs. Calvert had made for us to dust the house in, at Paradise. We've got quite a lot of 'em and, girls, if you'd like, I'll bring a couple for you, too." "You dear, thoughtful little caretaker! I'll be ever so obliged for the loan till I can make one for myself," answered Helena gratefully, giving her mate a smile that made Alfy happy. Eager to see their horses but not so pleased with the idea of grooming them, the lads sauntered toward the stables and corral, Leslie intimating that he thought "a quarter judiciously applied would be better than soiling himself by stable-work." Neither Herbert nor Monty knew Leslie well enough yet to understand this shirking of what they anticipated as a delightful task. Herbert had always been used to horses, and to fine ones. He loved his own Bucephalus, "back home," as a dear friend, and looked forward to equal enjoyment in his new Blackamoor. With a little laugh he glanced at his young host and remarked: "If I could help it I would never let another hand than mine touch that superb animal your father gave me. I hardly realize it yet, that it is truly my own. Why, I mean to train him to hurdles and high jumps, and when I go back east, this autumn, I'll get myself proposed for the Highland Valley Hunt and--elected, if I can. I say, this is just a glorious chance to learn what I couldn't at home, where houses are thick and farmers so stubborn they will object to one's riding to hounds across their property. Howev--" Monty interrupted, rather jealously: "Oh! Quit that riding-to-hounds talk! I don't know a thing about horses--except a saw-horse, that my mother insisted I should work on to reduce my--" "'Too, too solid flesh!'" broke in Leslie, laughing now and eager to watch the inexperienced "fat boy" make his first attempt at grooming a spirited beast. But they were apt to break in thus upon each other's remarks and no offence taken, and they were soon at the stables, where the girls were already assembled. One glance at his sister, covered from neck to foot by a brown gingham apron, reminded the fastidious Herbert that he was not fixed for dirty work, and he promptly begged a set of overalls from the nearest workman. The other lads followed his example, discarding jackets and vests, and beginning on their new tasks with a zeal that was almost too eager. Even Leslie had done the same, willing for once to try this new game and see if there was any fun in it, as Herbert seemed to think. But his fingers shrank from handling the curry comb and brushes, absolutely new and clean though they were, and the best he accomplished was a roughening of Cæsar's coat which disgusted him as well as the horse. At last, with a remark that "looking on was good enough for him," he tossed his brushes aside and signalled an attendant to finish the task so badly begun. To his amazement, the hostler declined: "Sorry, Master Leslie, but the Boss's express orders was--have you do it yourself." Leslie's eyes flashed. This was insubordination, indeed! Wasn't he master at San Leon, now? Then Captain Lem drew near, to pick up the brush and explain in a matter-of-fact way: "Best never rub anything--nor anybody--the wrong way, lad! This sorrel, here, 'd be sp'iled in next to no time if his hair ain't smoothed the way natur' meant it should lie. There. That's how. See how it shines? And just look at Herbert and his black! By the great horned spoon! Them two is cronies a'ready--hand-in-glove, pals! And let me say right here an' now; there ain't no comfortabler love nowhere in this world than that 'twixt a horse and his owner--if the last has got sense. Now pitch in, sonny, and don't let nobody get ahead of you on that line. No, siree! What'd the Boss say?" Then turning toward Monty, valiantly struggling with this new business, he inquired in real kindness: "Want me to lend a hand, youngster?" Poor Monty would have given many "quarters" to say "yes." But he was too plucky. His face was streaming with perspiration, he had worried the chestnut, Juan, till the creature threatened to kick, and he ached from head to foot. But he had glanced across to that open space where four girls were making a frolic of this "horrible mess" and manliness held him to his duty. But he couldn't refrain from a snappy: "No, I don't! And how long at a time does a fellow keep at it? How tell whether a horse is groomed or isn't?" "Ginger! Do you know when your shirt's buttoned or when it ain't? Just look at Herbert's piece o' work an' do accordin'. But keep cool, Monty. Don't get r'iled an' don't rile your nag. You'll do all right--you've got the makin' of a horseman in ye!" Thus encouraged, Montmorency Vavasour-Stark renewed his efforts, though with less force and better judgment. There is always a right and a wrong way to everything and the worried lad had, at last, fallen upon the right. He "would be a horseman!" Hurray! That opinion from such a source was worth lots! Well, that first lesson was over at last. Seven tired youngsters stripped off aprons and overalls and proceeded to mount the horses they had groomed and most of them were happy. It had been worth while, after all, to get thus familiar with the animals; and the girls, at least, remembered that their hosts had spoken of how beneficial it would be for their beloved son to be with such creatures as much as possible. Like the rifle practice, it was all for Leslie and Leslie's health; and they would have been willing enough to help this good work along, even if they had not got all the fun out of it for themselves, which they did. They rode "off bounds," that morning; following Captain Lem, with a couple of trained horsemen riding at their rear. Perhaps of all the company, Herbert and Molly were happiest. They were as much at home in the saddle as any cowboy of them all, and their high spirits spread to their mates, so that even they regretted the order that the leader gave: "Right about, face! Rifle practice--nine o'clock, sharp!" They hadn't a minute to lose; yet when the "awkward squad" repaired to the Barracks only the four girls answered to roll call. The lads came straggling up, later, their heads close together, an air of profound mischief and mystery about them, and Dorothy heard the words "Bear Hunt" escape from one of them. Her heart sank. Leslie was, indeed, coming to take the place he had declined in the "ranks," rather going with the crowd than be left out alone; but there was something in his manner that Dolly did not like. Were the three boys planning to steal off by themselves, despite Captain Lemuel's warnings? CHAPTER XIII THE HEN OF WUN SING But whatever wild schemes were hatching in the heads of the three lads nothing seemed to come of them. Days followed one another in such peaceful routine that Dorothy felt ashamed of her fears, as well as ashamed of her composure regarding Jim Barlow. The longer he was absent the less they spoke of him. That he was alive, somewhere, all were sure, and that he would return sometime or "when he gets good and ready," as Alfaretta coolly observed. "He seemed like a very odd chap, the little I saw of him," said Leslie, and did not regret the stranger's absence. Herbert was loyal and insisted that "Jim was a royal chap--once he shook off his awkward shyness a bit. Why, the yarns Jim Barlow could spin about woodsy things and habits of wild creatures would make you sit right up and take notice. Oh, Jim's all right--only bashful." "That's so. Why, that fellow, don't you know, that fellow really plans to go sometime, to Africa, or some other place and live with monkeys just to hear them talk. He--" "He might have stayed right here with us--or you, Monty dear," said Molly, sweetly. Monty merely frowned at her but continued: "There is a man did that. True. Went into the woods and lived in a cage--" "All that trouble and expense for nothing," again remarked Molly; and this time Monty changed the subject, asking: "Have you heard about Wun Sing and his hen?" "Oh! never mind hens. What do you say, folks? Suppose we get old Lem to go with us into the mountains yonder and look for Jim?" said Herbert. "You needn't do that. You'd not find him. He's hidden himself on purpose, I believe, and only sent back Netty to let us know he was alive and well. Even Molly thinks that," said Helena; "and I, for one don't care to hunt up boys who don't want to be found. I think Jim's shyness is at the bottom of the matter. It's kindness to let him alone and--" Dolly looked serious and shook her head while Monty again demanded: "Have you heard about Wun Sing's hen?" "I wonder what he's going to give us for supper! I'm nearly starved. There never was such a place for appetites--eating doesn't stop that hollow, all-gone feeling a bit!" calmly stated Alfy, with a tragic air. "Alfy, you little pig! It isn't more than an hour since we finished dinner," reproved Molly, laughing. "Well, I can't help that. I wish 'twas supper-time. Let's go in the kitchen and ask for a piece--like the children home do, bless 'em!" "I say, you better not! Wun Sing's hen--" "Monty--quit! Let's all go ask for a 'piece'!" cried Leslie, throwing his arm around the "fat boy's" shoulder and forcing him along with the others. Herbert pulled out a jew's-harp--procured nobody knew where--and headed the procession with a vain attempt to render "Yankee Doodle" so that it could be recognized for itself. Then all fell into line, with the laughter and nonsense natural to a company of care free "youngsters" as they were now known all over the premises. But as they passed a room just beyond Leslie's own, he poked his head through the window, to demand of Mateo, lying within: "Any better, boy?" "_Gracias_, Señor Leslie. Much better. Only, the hen of Wun Sing; the omelette--Ah! I suffer, _si_. I groan--I am on fire. The heathen creature and his foul fowl!" "What's the matter, Les? Is that your pert valet laid up in yon? What's up?" "Rather--what's down? The boy hasn't been well, or says he hasn't these three days. That's why I had to put off the bear--" "Mum! Dorothy's just behind us and she has ears all round her head! But we'll do it, yet; either with or without him. It'll be rippin' fun, but if that girl gets wind of it she'll stop it, sure." "I wonder if we'll see Wun Sing's hen!" said Monty again. "Stark! I tell you if you mention that fowl again I'll stuff her down your throat!" cried Herbert, dropping his jew's-harp and engaging with Monty. But the latter was round and easily slipped through Bert's fingers, and the scrimmage was playful, anyway. Resuming their march they entered the great kitchen, now wholly deserted save by the Chinaman, who cowered in a corner, praying lustily to his honorable forefathers and burning some sort of stuff before a little image on the floor beside him. Like a good many others of his race, Wun Sing was "good Chlistian" when it suited him to be, but a much better devotee of his ancient gods when real trouble overtook him. Wun Sing was in trouble now. Bottomless trouble, he feared, and so wholly engaged in his devotions that he didn't take any notice of the noisy youngsters foraging his stores. Until, from the corner of his eye, he saw Alfy poking into a little wall-cupboard that was his own property and used to shelter his dearest treasures. "No, no, Missee Alfaletta! No, no. Wun Sing's chalm no wolkee if lill gels meddle!" He rose from his prostration on the floor and fairly flew to the girl's side, pushing her hand aside from the key she had almost turned, his whole manner expressing great agitation. Of course, she desisted at once, even apologized for her action, but her old co-worker in Mrs. Calvert's kitchen begged pardon in his own turn and after his foreign fashion. In his broken English he eagerly explained that he and his belongings had been _bewitched_. His hen--the so beloved hen of Wun Sing, that he had brought from far away California, along with some garden seeds and roots, the hen had been entered by an evil spirit and the days of Wun Sing were numbered. Already he felt the dread sickness stealing over him, as it had already stolen upon his old neighbor of San Diego--the so afflicted Mateo. He had been praying and offering gifts to his little clay god but so far no good had come. Within the cupboard on the wall he had placed a "charm"--a terrible charm, in his opinion and if that failed not only he but all at San Leon were doomed. Would that he had never heard of the place, even for the extra big wages the rich owner had offered. He-- When he had reached this point, Alfy shook him demanding: "What makes you such a fool, Wunny? That little old image on the floor is enough to make you sick, course, it's so filthy dirty. I hope you'll scrub your hands good with soap before you touch any food for other folks to eat. What's the matter with the hen, anyway?" Having put this question, Alfaretta walked to the sink and turned the spigot over her own hand, which suddenly felt soiled by contact with the Chinaman's shoulder. Then she remarked: "We're all hungry. Tell us where we can find something to eat." The cook shook his head and Alfy foraged for herself: presently securing from the pantry a box of crackers and a jar of cheese. Armed with these refreshments she felt she would be sustained until the regular supper time, and invited her mates to accompany her on a visit to this wonderful hen whose name was in everybody's mouth. Wun Sing protested; but when they were determined, he tremblingly presented each of the youngsters with a bit of red paper, inscribed in black with a few Chinese characters. Laughingly, they pinned these on and so protected from "evil chalms" sought the little wire enclosure which the Chinaman had made for his petted fowl, upon his first coming to San Leon. The hen had been the gift of his opulent kinsman, Der Doo, and was far too precious to its new owner to be allowed with the other poultry. It had lived in state within its little wire-covered yard, supplied with fresh grass each day and fattening upon the best of food. For its night accommodation, Wun Sing had constructed a tiny pagoda-like house imitating a temple of his native land. Here the pampered fowl slept luxuriously, and for a time had been the delight of its owner's eyes. "Let's sit down on the grass and watch it awhile. We can eat our crackers here, first rate, 'cause if we get thirsty we can drink out of the spigot o' running water that cooky has fixed for the hen," suggested Alfy. So they ranged themselves in a semi-circle, with the crackers and cheese in the centre and awaited developments. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Herbert, in excellent imitation of a rooster. "Oh! hush! Hens don't do _that_; they just say--cut-cut-cut-cut--cut-tarket!" corrected Molly. Immediately the rest took up the mocking cries, to the evident distress of poor Wun Sing, who stood in the background, his face yellower than common and his hands clasping and unclasping nervously. But neither cat-calls, crowings, nor cacklings, coaxed the invisible fowl from her palace-like retreat. So, soon tiring of this, they fell to talking of other things and forgot the creature; till, suddenly, from within the temple came a crow that beat even Herbert's noisy ones. It was so loud and so sudden, and was so closely followed by a jubilant cackle, that all of them were a trifle startled while Wun Sing threw himself down in real terror. The cackling continued a longer time than is usual and ended in another masculine crow. Then there solemnly stalked into the little yard a very handsome fowl, of the Plymouth Rock species, who strutted about as if she were the queen of all hens. "Huh! Nothing the matter with that biddy, Wun Sing! I wish 't Ma Babcock had her in our hennery, up-mounting. What's wrong with her, you think, Wunny?" "Missee Alfletta--_eggs_!" "Well, what's a hen's business in life but to lay eggs?" demanded Herbert, laughing at the Chinaman's curious expression. Then it came out. That hen did lay eggs--such eggs! She was a big hen and her eggs so small, and so many! Ah! she was bewitched. She was bewitching Wun Sing. She had already bewitched Mateo, yes. It began the very day the master left. On that sorrowful, august occasion that pent up, solitary fowl deposited two eggs in her softly lined nest. "That might be. Ma's hens do that, sometimes, good breeds," said Alfy, in answer to the Chinaman's impressive statement. With all this company of doubters around him Wun Sing felt secure enough to go on and state that on the day following there had been four eggs! Then one--then again seven--the mystic number. Latterly there had been eight, nine, as high as ten! All in one twenty-four hours! Could a fowl, free from an evil spirit, so conduct itself? No. No, indeed. Wun Sing knew what he knew. Disaster was coming. There was trouble on the wing. It would light upon San Leon. They were doomed--doomed--doomed! "I don't believe it!" declared Leslie. "But a hen of that character _ought_ to crow as well as cackle. How much'll you take for her, cooky? I'll buy and start a hennery to stump the world. Anybody want to go in with me on this deal? San Leon Chinese Poultry--Warranted to Make Possessors Rich! The Egg Trust of San Leon! I say, boys, the thing's just rippin'!" "Undo that little gate, Wunny. I'm going in to collect the eggs. Come on, Alfy, or anybody," cried Dorothy, laughing. "That empty cracker box to hold them in. By the way, Wunny, when did you empty the nest?" He assured her that he had done so the last thing before retiring on the night before. He had already taken two from it this day. Now by the cackle--there must be--Ah! he finished his speech with a wild flourish of his hands, then put them before his eyes to shield them from an uncanny sight. Those outside the little poultry yard waited in curiosity for the others to come back. The two girls within it had their heads close together peering into the hen-temple, while Monty had squeezed his plump body through its little door with the cracker box in hand. "Oh! I say, come out of there! How many have you found?" called Herbert. "Hurry up! Nell and Molly are getting scared. Fact!" "I'm not," denied Molly, but Helena said nothing. It was absurd, but she was actually catching some of the Chinaman's nervousness over this most uncanny fowl. And a moment later, she was relieved to see the egg-hunters turn around and Monty emerge from that "heathen temple," the cracker box held tightly in his hand. He carried it as if it were heavy and his face was almost as solemn as the Chinaman's. The box contained eleven eggs! Wun Sing gave one glance and fled, and trying to take the box into his own hands, Leslie dropped it--with the natural result. "Well, they may be bewitched eggs but they can break 'allee samee!' I'm sorry, Wun Sing, but I'll pay for them! And say, did anybody ever hear of such a thing before?" asked Leslie, astonished. Nobody had; and seeing Dr. Jones crossing the grounds at a little distance they ran to him with the marvellous tale. He listened attentively and even walked back with them to see the hen for himself. His decision put bewitchment out of the question. "The bird is a freak of nature. I have read of such before, but they are rare. Either that--or--are you quite sure that no practical joke has been played by any of the boys--or by yourselves?" His keen study of their faces revealed nothing mischievous on any. They were all as honestly surprised as himself, and he then made a close inspection of the little place. The pagoda stood exactly in the centre of the yard, so far from the wire-netting on every side that no arm would be long enough to reach it and drop eggs into the nest at the back. Wun Sing always kept the key of the Chinese padlock on the wire gate and entrance through it without his consent could not be made. "It doesn't look like a hoax, and it's not to be wondered at that the Chinaman was scared. We all are--at the unusual and unexplainable. But this is simple. It is a freak of nature and the hen will probably die soon, of exhaustion." The Doctor walked away and Molly made a funny little face behind his back. "I call that real mean, to take the mystery out of it in that way! I've been getting delightfully goose-fleshy and creepy, just to find the spook is nothing but a silly old hen that's outdone herself. I hate to be disappointed like that. I wish something would happen, real hair-raising, as Indians, or bears, or even a few catamounts!" "If they did, I'd like to be on the spot. I bet you, Molly Breckenridge, you'd run faster than anybody if those things did happen," teased Monty. Saying that, he exchanged an odd glance with Leslie, who nodded and said: "Come along, boys, let's visit Mateo in a body. Force of numbers you know. He lays it to eggs--Wunny's bewitched eggs, but I lay it to cowardice. There's nothing the matter with my valiant valet but downright scare. After proposing the thing, too, and being the best figure of all to do it. Ta, ta, ladies! We shall meet again--at feeding time. Eh, Alfy? I mean Miss Babcock!" "Huh! Don't you think I didn't notice 't you ate more 'n anybody else of the crackers and cheese. Good-by!" They separated, the girls to their own rooms to freshen themselves for the evening and for a long talk over the delights of this wonderful summer; yet in all their happiness, a deep regret was in their warm hearts for Jim Barlow's absence and the wish that they might know where he was and that he was well. The lads sought Mateo in his room, and though the valet pretended slumber he was promptly roused by the energetic attentions of his visitors. "Look here, Mateo, we know you're shamming. The fact is that after getting us all wrought up to this bear business and agreeing to take the chief part, you're afraid. Either you think the 'boys'll' get lively with their shooting-irons and hunt the bear too well, or else--I don't know what else. Only this, you can't pretend to be hoodooed or 'bewitched' with any of Wun Sing's omelettes. That's all up. The doctor's taken a hand in that and I know it isn't indigestion you're bewitched with--it's plain sneak. Now, boy, get up!" After Leslie's long speech, that ended in the terse command, Mateo raised himself on elbow and protested: "But it is of the illness, I, señor, _en verdad_. The omelette of Wun Sing--" "May have been a little too rich for you, Matty lad, but don't worry. That wonderful fowl has shortened her life by her own ambition. I suppose she had a certain number of eggs to lay during her earthly career and she concluded to get the job over with. She's an all right Chinee hen, but _she's_ the one that'll die, not you nor Wunny Sing. Doctor Jones said so. We've interviewed him on the subject. Doctors know a lot. So, be decent! Get up and practise a bit." Thus adjured by Herbert, for whom the valet had a great admiration, Mateo threw off the light covers and rose to his feet--fully dressed. He had only lain down, professing himself ill, whenever there was danger of his young master appearing. With a swift change of front, he now fell in with the lads' notions, and thereafter followed an hour of "practice," accompanied by curious sounds and growlings. All this behind locked door and tightly shuttered windows--something almost unknown at peaceful San Leon. At supper time there was a subdued air of mystery about the three lads, which Dorothy noticed, if none of the other girls did. Also, they were so extremely courteous and thoughtful that it was rather overdone. However, politeness was agreeable, and there followed the happiest evening the young guests had spent since the departure of Gray Lady for the east. The fading moonlight was now supplemented by the electric lights, making the wide lawns brilliant as day, save where the deep shadows fell, black in contrast. At midnight, Dorothy awoke. Something had startled her and she sat up in bed, shivering in fear. How queer! she thought and peered through the window as if expecting some unwelcome sight. There was nothing unusual visible and, except for a curious creeping sound, as of some large body moving stealthily on the veranda floor, nothing to hear. Strange that brave Dorothy's heart should beat so fast and she turn so cold. She wished Alfy would awake. She wanted to hear somebody speak. Then she scorned herself for her foolishness, wondering if she, too, had caught the Chinaman's terror of "bewitchment." Oh! this was horrid! Alfy would go right to sleep again, even if she were awakened, and she must, she must hear somebody human! She opened her trembling lips to call: "Alfy! Alfy dear, please wake up!" But the words were never uttered. Something had come into view at her open window which froze them on her lips. CHAPTER XIV THE GRIZZLY AND THE INDIANS For a moment Dorothy sat still in bed, afraid to move or cry out while the great animal at the window remained equally motionless. Then she was able to shriek: "Alf! Helena! Somebody--help--help! HELP!" Alfy leapt from her little bed with an answering cry, frightened by Dorothy's screech, and hurriedly demanding: "Why--why--what?" then rubbed her eyes and stood transfixed with horror. A moment later the whole house was in an uproar. The lads came running from their rooms, yelling in sympathy with the cries of the girls, the doctor rushed from his office-bedroom clad only in pajamas; the nurse forsook her sick bed--which she had not left before since first stricken with a chest attack; Anita--Wun Sing--kitchen boy--all the household gathered in the great corridor upon which the girls' rooms opened. Such an uproar had never been heard at peaceful San Leon since its foundation stone was laid; and the sounds carrying clearly in that night air, out from the Barracks rushed a horde of cowboys and workmen with Captain Lem in lead. "A bear!" "The Grizzly! The Grizzly!" A grizzly it was sure enough. All the feminine portion of the household retreated to the empty chamber of Miss Milliken, slammed down its window and locked themselves within; then from curiosity opened the door a little way, to peek through the crack. "Oh! Oh! It's coming this way--why doesn't somebody shoot it!" cried Helena, running back to look through the window panes. The great animal had now dropped from its upright position at Dolly's window and was crawling on all fours back along the wide porch. It certainly was coming that way but--it couldn't get in! "Could it? Can bears--open--open--things?" gasped Molly, retreating to a wardrobe and hiding within it, whence she demanded in a torrent of questions information of all sorts concerning bears and why nobody killed it before it killed them! Oddly enough, nobody had interfered with the creature's movements thus far, though some of the men had run back to the Barracks for firearms, and just then unlucky Wun Sing came round the corner of the building and met it face to face. He had run at top speed in the opposite direction from that the beast seemed taking when he had first espied it, issuing from his room beyond the kitchen. Seeing it headed that way he had instinctively chosen the other, not reckoning that even bears can change routes. Then the yell that rose belittled all which had gone before. Grizzly uprose on his hind feet and rushed to meet poor Wunny, squeezing him in a terrible embrace that checked the Chinaman's yell instantly. Until a touch of Bruin's teeth upon his thinly clad shoulder and a bite of sharp teeth awoke it again. A clutch of his queue from the great paw brought forth greater shrieks and seemed to give the victim an extraordinary strength. By some means he wrenched himself free and escaped, the grizzly pursuing on all fours again--and both headed toward the lake. Whether Wun Sing's purpose was to throw himself within it he didn't know himself, but the road toward it was the clearest and offered his best chance. Half way to the water his feet caught in his long night blouse and he tripped. Instantly the grizzly was upon him. The great furry creature sprawled over the prostrate cook, growling and snapping his teeth but as yet inflicting no further injury, and the man underneath no longer knowing anything, for his terrified senses had taken leave of his quivering body. Slowly the bear got upright again and, for a moment towered above his helpless victim. Then seeming to have satisfied his rage in that direction, he resumed his natural position and moved back toward the house. He kept his great head well lowered, wagging it from side to side and, altogether, conducting himself like a half-blind or greatly bewildered bear. By this time the men from the Barracks had reappeared, well armed; but as the grizzly climbed upon the veranda floor again they hesitated to fire because the low windows opening upon it were full of peeping faces. Silent Pete, alone, dared approach the creature as near as the other end of the veranda. This man had been a mighty hunter in his youth, when Colorado was an almost unknown country with few settlers and big game plentiful. His old blood had warmed to the conflict now, though he was silent as ever and paid no heed to the warnings called to him by his ranch mates. Creeping stealthily forward toward the encounter he watched his grizzly enemy with exultation, his thought being: "He's tough! He's an old one! His hide's thick--I must make no mistake. When I get nigh enough to hit him through the heart--wish he'd rise up again--queerest actin' grizzly I ever met--likely my last one--so anxious to meet me he come a-visitin'--he, he, he! Ah! he's risin'--I'll--" Out on the electric lighted grounds the men were grouped with their rifles, all anxious to fire and all eager to delay till the last moment, watching this wild beast so uncommonly near at hand. Why, from its movements it might almost have been a tame animal escaped from some menagerie. Besides, the trophy belonged to Silent Pete. He was first and hardiest to face the brute and only if his famously sure shot failed would they fire to the rescue. Yes, the bear was the old hunter's legitimate prize--they'd wait, guns ready-- "Don't shoot! Oh! men, don't shoot! DON'T SHOOT!" To the utter amazement of everyone, up flew Dorothy's window and out she leaped, so close behind the creeping grizzly that she almost touched him: she was gesticulating wildly and her repeated cries of "Don't shoot!" startled old Captain Lem almost to numbness. What was that she was saying? "He isn't a bear! I see his feet! Bears don't wear--SHOES!" Alas! Her cry came too late. As bruin reared himself old Peter's shot rang out. An instant later, with such a cry as never issued from the throat of any bear, he dropped to the veranda floor and lay there motionless. The great bear hunt was over. Five minutes later the grizzly rug was back on the floor of Leslie's room and the lad who had masqueraded in it to frighten a few girls, the over-zealous Mateo, lay on his own little bed with Doctor Jones probing for the bullet which had entered his shoulder. Fortunately, it had not lodged there but passed straight through leaving a clean flesh wound which would promptly heal, the doctor said, but that would keep unhappy Mateo in bed for a few days. He had feigned sickness when there was none, dreading to act the part he had just so unfortunately done. But the young master's will had been too strong and the suggestion had been Mateo's own. "The punishment, for once, has fallen upon the guilty person. You'll have time to reflect, Mateo, that frightening timid people is scarcely a manly pastime. I trust there'll be no more skylarking till Mr. Ford is home. You will be kept upon a rigid diet till I order otherwise, and good night." So said the doctor, leaving his patient to his own thoughts and assuring himself that all the young folks had retired to their rooms again. He had administered no further reproofs--nor needed to do so. It was an exceedingly crest-fallen trio of lads who disappeared from view, when once the extent of Mateo's injury was learned, and a very quiet one. But the excited girls were not so quiet. They had to talk it over, simply had to! "I thought it was queer all the boys were in their day clothes," said Helena, with her arm about Molly, who was still shaking with fright, now and then, despite the fact that the affair was all over. "I noticed, too, but I thought they'd just dressed awful quick. But suppose it _had_ been a real one--would it have eaten us up?" she begged to know. To which Alfy replied from her own room: "No, Molly Breckenridge, don't be a goose. _We'd_ have eaten _him_ up, course. We'd have had bear steak for breakfast--Some say it's good. Don't s'pose with all them men around they'd have let it live very long? No, indeedy. But Matty did it real cute, after all, didn't he? Must ha' been terrible hot, trampin' around under all that skin. Well, we ought to go to sleep, but seems if I'd never catch another wink. I wonder what became of Wunny! Last I saw him he was lyin' flat on the ground--thinkin' he was et up, I guess. Dolly--My heart! Dolly Doodles is asleep a'ready. Did you ever see such a sleepy head, Nell?" There was no answer from the room across the hall, so Alfy curled down among her pillows and composed herself to sleep. But her mind wasn't at rest. She kept seeing, in her fancy, the prostrate figure of Wun Sing, and hoped some of the men from the Barracks had looked after him. She felt as if she must get up again and go to see for herself. But--out of doors at night didn't seem quite the same, even to this sensible girl, as it had done before the bear scare. Besides--something really was the matter with her eyes. They felt as if they were full of sand--she'd just shut them a minute to-- She was asleep at once. A body simply could not stay awake after bedtime, in that Colorado air! And it was well she could not. Else, the warm-hearted girl would have suffered fresh alarm. It was a belated household which struggled out of heavy slumber the next day, and as Dorothy lazily yawned and stretched her arms above her head it seemed as if all the exciting events of the night must be part of her dreams. Alfy woke, too, as reluctantly as her mate and just as Helena appeared from her own room, looking a little heavy-eyed but fully dressed. She bade them good morning, but waited for no response before she added: "The house seems unusually still, and I don't smell coffee. I generally do, the first thing. I sometimes think it's the odor of that wakes me. I wonder if Wun Sing's fright and his worry about his poor hen has made him ill! I'll go and see; and if the boys aren't up I'll call them." The lads answered sleepily to Helena's summons, yet were not long in appearing on the porch, where the other girls promptly joined them. As if by common consent nobody mentioned the escapade of the night, though it was in the minds of all and all were really longing to discuss it. The boys because they wished to "explain," and the girls thinking that to treat the "joke" with silent contempt would be their severest punishment. Nobody even mentioned unlucky Mateo, who had lent himself to the furtherance of the affair, only to be the one to suffer most from it. "Hmm. Isn't it past breakfast time?" asked Monty, at last. Herbert looked at his watch, and exclaimed: "Ten minutes to nine! Who'd have believed it? Horses to be groomed before drill, and time up already. I wonder--But here's Nell. She's coming from the kitchen and looks important. What's up, Sis?" "Several things. First, the hen of Wun Sing lies dead in her coop." "O-oh!" "Ah!" "Unwise, ambitious hen!" were the exclamations which responded; and Molly added: "That isn't all. There's something worse on Helena's mind than the death of a bewitched hen! Out with it, child! After--I mean--my nerves won't stand any more." "Didn't know you had nerves," laughed Alfy. "What's happened, Helena?" "Wun Sing has disappeared." "W-h-a-t?" "It is true. He has gone, nobody knows where. There's a man from the Barracks, the one who does the cooking over there, getting breakfast. Captain Lem is flying around in a terrible state of mind. He's angry with you boys, says there'll be neither drill nor rifle practice to-day, but the horses _must_ be groomed just as soon as we get our breakfasts. He's sent a half-dozen men looking for the cook, now, and they expect to find him soon." "So they did Jim! Seems if there wasn't anything doing on this ranch but just getting lost," wailed Alfaretta, turning a little pale; while Molly nervously begged: "Somebody tie me fast! Tie me fast! It'll break my father's heart if I get lost, too!" Captain Lem came up at that moment. He looked so stern and unlike himself that the young folks were all of them awed by his manner. Even light hearted Monty slunk back, "shaking in his shoes," while Leslie dropped his eyes and lost all his bravado. "Hark to me, Squad! Every mortal son an' gal of ye! I'm riled--I'm mad. Here am I left in charge, so to speak, of your doin's, and of the work on the ranch, anyways. Your smart-aleck work has turned everything topsy-turvy. Men took from their reg'lar jobs to go hunt worthless Chinamen, and take his place a-cookin'. Hens dyin' to right an' left--pizened by some your doses, likely--" "Oh, no! Captain, I'm sure nobody would do such a cruel thing as poison helpless creatures!" protested Dorothy, running to clasp his hand. He had on his "specs," which they had already learned he used mostly when he was angry, and they were very glittering just then. But Dorothy would not be put aside. She clung to him till his mood softened and removing the menacing "specs," dropped them in his blouse pocket. Then he smiled upon her, rather shamefacedly, though he felt that he still had good cause for offence. "Well, Little One, you've got ways to win a feller, 'spite of himself. If they was all as good as you--" "Oh! they are, and even lots better! 'Twas just lads' foolishness that they mistook for smartness. And they, we, all of us will do all we can to help. Where can we look for Wunny? He's the first one to be thought of. And I'm sorry he was so scared. Also, he'll be sorry himself over the poor hen. What can I do?" "Go along an' eat what breakfast you can get. Then tend to your horses. Likely, they're hungrier 'n you are and I'll go see 't they're fed. But hear me! Not another mite o' foolin' with serious things till Dan Ford gets back an' takes the reins into his own hands. 'Twas the mercy of Providence--nothin' else--that that jabberin' shallow-pate Mateo wasn't killed plumb out. Silent Pete's used to grizzlies. He's used to _killin'_ 'em. It's his trade, a deal more 'n 'tis to tend horseflesh. I wouldn't like to stand as nigh hand to his gun as that Greaser did last night. Now, hurry up and eat. Then report for duty. I'm off to mine." "Where do you suppose Wun Sing is?" asked Helena, of anybody who chose to answer. Nobody did: it may be stated right here that he was never again seen at San Leon. The "bewitched dead fowl" was duly buried in her own courtyard, the little gate to this locked, and its key hung up in the cook's wall-cupboard. But Wun Sing came no more. Everything belonging to him was left as if he meant to return at any minute, but he did not come. They searched the pebbly bottom of the lake, thinking he might have drowned himself in his superstitious fear, but he was not there: and after days had been wasted in the fruitless search, Captain Lem had his belongings packed together and sent to his relative, Der Doo, in San Diego. Whence, at the very end of the summer word came back that he had reappeared in that city, a wreck of himself, but it was hoped that with time and good Chinese cooking he would recover his scattered wits and his own culinary skill. Meanwhile, many messages came from the travellers in the east. The expected old aunt had duly arrived but in no fit condition to travel further for the present. Gray Lady sent dearest love and hoped all her big, new family would find San Leon the happiest place in the world, and the most peaceful. She had lived long enough to understand that peace and harmony were the most precious things in life. She longed to be with them and would be as soon as it was right. Meanwhile, let all be patient as possible over her enforced absence and just feel that she was with them in spirit all the time. "Odd, isn't it? That she who so longed to have this home and so enjoyed it should have to leave it to us, a lot of strange youngsters, to use instead?" said Helena, one evening some time later, as they all had gathered about the fountain in the soft sunset light, to talk over happenings and plan things for the coming day. Since the escapade of the false bear hunt there had been a notable absence of pranks. An ominous peace had settled over the whole young company, remarked by the astute Captain Lem as the "'ca'm before a storm.' 'Tain't in natur' for 'em to be so demure an' tractable. No siree. They've 'tended to their groomin' like reg'lar saints, an' they've learned to drill amazin' well. They don't shoot none to hurt, yet, 'ceptin' that Leslie himself. Sence he's waked up an' took an interest he's done fine. He's the best o' the lot and his knowin' that is what inspires him to do better yet. That, an' hopin' to please the Boss. But--I hope the storm'll blow over--the one they're brewin'. And I wonder what in creation ever did become o' that first boy, or of Wunny." For as yet no news had come of the latter and the former had almost dropped out of thought--save now and then in Alfy's, and always in faithful Dorothy's. Now that they were better riders and had become what their teacher called "pals" with their horses, they were daily given larger liberty. In company with him, and sometimes without him, they rode long distances over the roads, the narrow trails, and the almost imperceptible paths which led over the mountains and through the forests. The wild flowers of Colorado are innumerable, almost, and most of them were new to Dorothy, the flower-lover. In search of these she was tireless and many hours were spent after her return from her rides, in pressing her "specimens" and preparing herbariums. In this delightful work she had the company and help of Dr. Jones, himself a well-read and enthusiastic botanist. Helena spent hours over her journal: "taking notes" for future literary labors. Alfy and Molly were content to do nothing save be happy. As Alfy expressed it: "I never was so lazy and I likely never will have a chance to be again. I can work when I have to and I can play just as hard." The lads fished, rode, hunted small game, and tried various feats of horsemanship, lariat casting, and even--when they were especially energetic, played ball. There was a fairly good team among the ranchmen and they entered into the sport with vim. Only Leslie found the exercise too violent and was content to lounge and watch the rest. This evening, sitting together so cosily, the peace of the beautiful scene gradually soothed them all to quiet. They had settled the plans for the morrow and were as happy as such care-free children could be. Helena picked up her guitar and played soft melodies upon it, the others humming them under their breaths--not to disturb the player, only Alfy presuming to fit real words to the music but not interfering with it. Suddenly Dorothy raised her eyes from the playing fountain, on which she had been dreamily gazing and thinking of lost Jim. A sound, faint, of horses' footfalls had entered her dream. With a silent gesture of alarm she sprang to her feet, staring with wide eyes at a company of Indians ascending the hill. They avoided the hard driveway, their horses treading with velvety softness upon the shaven lawn. They were many in number, twenty perhaps, and they were in gala dress. Head-dresses of eagles' feathers, gaily colored, hung from their crowns over the sides of their mounts, to the length of a man's height. They uttered no sounds, looked neither to the right nor left, but like a dreadful, phantom procession moved straight forward toward the fountain. CHAPTER XV A TRIP TO BALD EAGLE ROCK Molly gave one glance and screamed. Then flung herself to her knees and buried her face in Helena's lap, who pityingly drew her light skirt over the child's head. Nobody else moved nor spoke. All felt their last hour had come. "An Indian raid!" This was their thought and then of their helplessness. This company was only the forerunner of more! "Massacre! Oh! to die like this!" Even the lads' faces blanched, but resolution flashed from their observant eyes, and these beheld a strange spectacle. The superbly mounted Indians, in their gaudiest attire, bead-decked shirts and fringed leggings, their supple feet clad in embroidered moccasins, outshone even the most magnificent of "Wild West" shows; and without a spoken word each understood the desire of their Chief. They rode to the semi-circle of concrete before the main entrance to the great house and ranged themselves around it, the Chief in front, alone, and as the last hoof fell into position where the rider wished, they became as rigid as a company of warriors carved in stone. "What will they do next!" was the wonder in all the observers' minds, as they gazed in fascination at this curious sight. What they would do next seemed long in coming. Though it was but a few moments it seemed like ages while the redskins waited, stolid, immovable before the doorway of the mansion. But, at last, the spell was broken. Across from the Barracks, around the corner, through the cloistered walk, came Captain Lemuel, whistling. He was in good spirits; ready to join his "Squad" beside the fountain and have an evening's "gabble" with the youngsters. They had been abnormally good that day. Wholly obedient to his restrictions in the length of their rides, eager to improve in their shooting--which was so far removed from "sharp"; and in every respect so "decent" that he puzzled his brain to find the best story to tell them of old days in Colorado and of his own prowess therein. But, as he passed the corner, his whistling ceased. The story was told! And a far better one than any his memory could furnish. The young watchers caught their breath. Poor Captain Lem! Rushing thus to his own undoing! But still they had to gaze and gaze--they could not turn their eyes away; and gazing they beheld a stranger thing than any which had gone before. That was the jolly Captain clapping his hands as if in glee, bowing before the silent Chief, almost prostrating himself, in fact. Afterward a brief clasping of hands between the two and the Captain beginning a long harangue in a strange tongue, interrupted now and then by grunts and gutturals from the attentive Indians. Then giving the Chief his finest military salute, the Captain "right faced" and silently marched away. The Indians as silently followed him, the Chief first, and the others in single file, till they all disappeared toward the Barracks, and the youngsters were left gasping in amazement. A sigh of relief rose from them in unison and, hearing it, Molly lifted her face. She only had seen nothing of the pantomime, or such it seemed which had been enacted, though she had heard through her terror the whistling of the Captain and its abrupt ceasing. "Is--is--he--dead?" she whispered. "He's the liveliest dead man I ever saw. Come on, boys! That's the sight of our lives! Who's afraid?" cried Herbert, springing up and eager. But his sister clutched his arm. "No, no, Bert! You mustn't! You shan't!" "I shall and will! So should you--all! Whoever they are they're friendly. Else old Lem wouldn't have seemed so pleased and led 'em off with his best 'hep, hep, hep,' that way. I'll bet they're Utes, good neighbors of the white ranchers, but they're genuine Indians all the same and I'm going to see them. My! But I did feel mighty weak in the knees for a minute! I thought it was all up with yours truly. Come on, I say!" He really wished to follow but, evidently, he also wished to have his courage bolstered by the presence of his mates. Oddly enough it was Monty who first joined Herbert. He was still half afraid, yet also wild with curiosity. His was the least war-like spirit there, but he couldn't withstand this knowledge at first hand of real, live Indians. One after another they all followed. In any case they would be safer among the ranchmen than here in this lonelier spot, and Lemuel's manner had been quite different from fear. As they slowly passed around the house, whose corner hid the Barracks front view, they were wholly reassured. The lawn was wide and a good distance was still between them and the red-skinned visitors, but they could see all that was going on. The Indians had all dismounted, a lot of the cowboys had come forward to meet them, and the fine horses they rode were being led off to a still more distant and disused corral. Here the animals were turned loose, their blankets and trappings removed, and the ranchmen themselves at once setting to work to rub the fine creatures down and to supply them with ample fodder for the night. A big trough in the corral, through which running water was always piped furnished them with drink; and the entrance being secured, the attendants went back to the Barracks' porch, that extended from one end to the other of the long, low building. Upon the porch floor the blankets were spread and the Utes squatted on them, greatly pleased at their reception. Pipes were lighted and smoked, Captain Lem and several others joining in what looked to be a ceremony of welcome. A few of the ranchmen hurried to the Barracks' kitchen and prepared supper for the visitors, and after this was eaten by the strange guests, sitting where they were under the porch roof, the discarded pipes were again resumed and some sort of palaver followed. In this talk Silent Peter took the leading part. He was escorted by Captain Lem to the side of the Chief, none other than White Feather, and placed upon another blanket, handed a fresh pipe, and left to do the honors of the occasion. Meantime Captain Lem sent a messenger across to the watching youngsters, that they should come quietly to his own room at the Barracks and observe matters from that nearer point. "But--is it safe? What does it all mean?" demanded Leslie of the man. "Safe as can be. Why, that's White Feather, Chief of a band of Utes and one of the best friends your father has. Fact. He's awful disappointed, too, to find the Boss away. Came on a visit of ceremony, with the finest bucks in his band, to get acquainted and do a little horse-trading. That's all. Silent Pete can talk Injun and has travelled not a little with this crowd, afore he settled at San Leon. Huh! Did you think they was from the Plains?" "What's the difference? An Indian is an Indian, isn't he? Not to be trusted, any of them. I don't think my father would like to have the boys treat those fellows as they're doing. You men ought to arm yourselves and drive them off the ranch." The young ranchman regarded Leslie with a look of amused contempt, then retorted: "Well, you may be a rich man's son but what you don't know about your own country'd fill books! All the rest afraid, too? 'Cause if you are, you'd better get out o' sight. Captain Lem has asked White Feather to let him bring you over to meet him an' the old feller's said yes. He said it as if he hated to but was willin' for Lem's sake to do you the honor. Great Scott! Why, you young idiot, White Feather's a great Chief, a king among his people, feels he ranks with our President, or the Czar of all the Russias! Well,--well, I'm beat. I thought 't they had schools back east where you tenderfeet come from. I supposed you'd learned that there's more 'n one kind of Indian in this big country. Why, sir, the difference 'twixt the Arapahoes, or the Cheyennes, and them peaceable Utes yonder--humph! Well, are you comin' or not?" Leslie had resented the talkative ranchman's comments on his own ignorance but had the grace to conceal it. He had even jested a little at his own expense and said that he must "read up on Indians." Then he led off his party toward the Barracks and, arrived there, found Captain Lem vastly relieved. It was greatly to Mr. Ford's advantage to be on cordial terms with all his neighbors, in that isolated region, and the loyal Captain realized this. Both he and Silent Pete had to regret the fact that, at present and in their employer's absence, they could not venture on the trading; but at the old hunter's suggestion they had assumed the responsibility of giving White Feather the finest horse in stock. This was a magnificent black stallion which had never been broken to harness and with a temper that threatened ill to any man who undertook the task. The youngsters came up and filed before White Feather, standing now, and gravely accepting their timidly proffered hands, as the name of each was mentioned. His own response was a friendly grunt but he was evidently bored by the affair and passed the girls over with the slightest notice. His eye lingered a bit longer upon the lads and it seemed that he was measuring their heights with his eye. But he let them go, almost as soon as he had the girls, and as Molly exclaimed when they had retreated to Captain Lem's room: "I never felt I was such a litty-bitty-no-account creature in all my life! I wouldn't be an Indian squaw for anything! But wasn't he just grand--and hideous?" Then Captain signalled to them that they would better return to the house. The Chief evidently considered the presence of females an intrusion and that of such slender, white-faced lads but little better. Upon Leslie, as son of the ranch owner, he bestowed several grave stares but no more speech than on the others. So from the unlighted music-room they watched for a time in silence; till everything grew quiet at the Barracks, all lights out, and the strange guests asleep on their blankets upon the porch. Then they, too, went to bed, greatly stirred by the fact of such uncommon acquaintances so close at hand, and with entirely new ideas of Colorado red men. By daylight the visitors had gone, so silently that nobody in the house itself had heard their departure. With them, too, had gone Rob Roy, the black stallion; and, what seemed valueless to the givers some old garments of the ranchmen. From one a coat, another a sombrero, a blanket, shoes, underwear, and from Silent Pete himself a complete hunter's outfit. All his comrades were surprised at this, for he kept the buckskin suit as a souvenir of earlier days, when he was as free to roam the forests as any Indian of them all and the blood still ran hot and wild in his veins. He was an old man now. He pondered much on the past and he spoke little to any man. But he talked with the Chief in that warrior's own tongue and in tones not to be overheard by any others. When that bit of talk was over he had brought out the precious suit, neatly folded and bound about with a marvellous lariat--also another dear possession--and had placed them in White Feather's hands. Then he relapsed into his usual quiet and the life at San Leon resumed its usual routine. The visit of the Indians became as a dream, but news of the early return of the absent hosts sent new life and ambition into the minds of all their young guests. Drills no longer were irksome. Were they not to show Mr. Ford how well they could carry themselves? As for rifle practice, there was such prolonged and continual popping of guns that Dr. Jones lamented his disturbed quiet and Nurse Melton had often to seek the most remote quarters to escape the startling sounds. Riding, also, was kept up with great zest. It had proved true that the more one learned of his horse, the better he loved it, the greater the silent understanding between it and himself. They now had races of all sorts and daily. Hurdles had given place to great hedges and ditches, which most of the animals distinguished themselves in leaping. Monty was still the hindmost in everything, yet showed his pluck in sticking to his saddle at all risks, and sometimes with startling success. So well, indeed, had they learned horsemanship that on a certain glorious morning before sunrise, the seven youngsters were already in saddle, alert for the long-coveted ride to Bald Eagle Rock, under the guidance of Captain Lem himself, with Silent Pete and another ranchman to carry the luncheon upon two soberer steeds. It was to be an all-day's outing and a goodly little company which would enjoy it. As soon as possible after arrival in New York Mrs. Ford had procured and sent back to San Leon, readymade habits and riding clothes for her girls and boys, not forgetting to include one for absent Jim, which Dorothy had carefully placed along with his other belongings in his own room; so that now arrayed in these gifts they all looked fine and fit. "We might be going for a ride in the Park instead of a climb through woods and over rocks! I do hope we won't tear our clothes!" said careful Helena; while Molly returned with native carelessness: "Well, I think a ride to the top of the Rockies is worth at least one habit!" "I shan't spoil mine, not 'nless I get tumbled off Blanca, someway. I've got dozens of safety-pins and I shall pin my skirt--I mean drawers--whatever they call these 'divided' things--so tight they can't get torn. I never had a habit before. Course not. I never even had a horse," said Alfaretta. "Well, without the horse you wouldn't have needed the habit, dearie. But I do like this riding astride, as Lady Gray thought best we should do on hard trips. And aren't we happy? Only--only--if poor Jim was here!" answered Dorothy, with a little cry of delight that ended rather drearily. But now they were off! And no further thought of anything or anybody except the pleasure of the moment rose in any mind. Captain Lem had not over-rated the difficulties of that trip. The beginning was fairly easy, the road or trail wide enough for two to ride side by side, and one had leisure to admire the surroundings. But when they came to that same turn of the roads, beyond the river, and took the route which unhappy James had followed in his delirium, they could no longer travel in pairs. And now was proved the good judgment of Captain Lem in training them to a familiar knowledge of their horses and in their close friendship. "Guide 'em--point out the way you want 'em to go--then trust the creatur's to do the best for them and you!" advised the old sharpshooter, halting at the top of the first steep climb, to breathe his own horse and let the stragglers come up. "More 'n that you can't maybe all follow just the same track. Blanca there, is goin' to pick her way, cautious an' careful as a gal in a nice new white frock, like them the Little One wears. She ain't goin' to tear her white dress, Alfaretty, so don't you get scared if she falls a good ways behind the rest. She's a sociable beast, is Blanca, and she'll get to the top all right, give her time. But Dolly's calico'll nigh bust herself to be first. More 'n that she's the keenest nose for a shortcut of any horse in the batch. She's little and she's light, and she'll trust herself in places 't no bigger creatur' would tackle. All right, everybody? Girths tight? Stirrups to suit? Then--trust your horses' wits and--let her go!" It had been planned to have lunch on the Rock itself, and to be back at San Leon in time for a late supper. An early breakfast had been taken, of course, but not with the usual heartiness, for they were all too excited to eat. Bald Eagle Rock was the highest point in that region and it would be a fine thing to remember if they held out to reach its summit. Meanwhile the road thither lay through a deep forest; down and along ravines; steep climbs of slippery rocks; and over masses of ferns and underbrush. After Captain Lem's halt and harangue they all became silent. They had all they could do to keep in their saddles, and, as he had prophesied, the animals they rode chose each a slightly diverging route. However, they frequently called out to one another, their gay halloos and yodels echoing along the mountain side, to the glad assurance of themselves and the affright of the forest wildings. But the lads who had hoped to sight some big game, preferably a live grizzly and had brought their guns with them, were disappointed in that. Nothing fiercer than a coyote crossed their path. It was as if the forest had anticipated their invasion and put itself on guard. Dorothy obeyed Captain Lem's advice implicitly. She did not try to guide Zaraza but let the pretty creature follow her own will, so long as that will pointed straight upward. This gave the girl time to study the flowers and ferns along the way and sometimes she slipped from her saddle to gather and closely inspect them. She did not herself call out but contented herself with listening to the shouts of the others, and, for some reason, her thoughts were more upon the missing Jim than they had been of late. "Oh! how that boy would like this ride! How he'd pull out his little hammer and peg away at these wonderful rocks! What specimens he'd collect! and how his sharp eyes would see every little bird and beast that moves through this wilderness! Oh! I hope, I hope, he is still alive and safe. If I could only see him!" Suddenly, the forest seemed strangely still. Zaraza stopped to breathe and Dorothy listened keenly for the halloo of her mates. Hearing none she ventured on a little shout herself which, low as it was, awoke a thousand deafening echoes all about her. Or so it seemed. With a thrill of horror, she remembered how Molly had once been lost in a far away Nova Scotian wood, and the girl's description of her terror. She wished she hadn't thought of that tale now. But, of course, this was quite different. They were many in this company, ten all told, and somebody must be very near. It would all come right. She mustn't be a goose and get frightened just because, for a moment, she heard nobody. Yet, Alfy's words rang in her head: "Seems if there was nothing happens but somebody gets lost up here at San Leon!" and Molly's absurd appeal: "Tie me tight!" After a moment when Zaraza seemed rested she urged the docile creature forward, and now the "calico" had certainly discovered a smooth and easy way. That was good. It must be a well-traveled road, though it was still but a "trail" to her eyes. Probably this was the final stretch of the trip, and in a moment she would come face to face with the gigantic Rock. Instead, the way grew smoother all the time and now quite level. A little way farther she could see a wide plain, or mesa, with sheep grazing. How odd! that anybody should feed sheep upon a mountain that looked all rock and forest, seen from below. The sun was hot. It must be noon. She hoped she wouldn't be late for that famous lunch they had talked about so much. Zaraza trotted around a last clump of trees, as if she knew her task was ended, and her own feeding time at hand. Then Dorothy brought her up with a sharp, silent tug upon the reins. Yonder in that open space was a small hut, or cabin; and sitting on the ground before it was an Indian, with a little Indian child beside him. Evidently, they also were having a mid-day meal, for she saw the child lift a tin dipper to his lips and drink. Zaraza whinnied. She was thirsty and scented water, and at that sound the man sprang up and turned around. For one astonished moment he gazed at that girlish apparition and Dorothy at him. Then with a cry of ecstasy she sprang to the ground and sped toward him. "Jim! O Jim!" "Why--Dorothy!" CHAPTER XVI PROSPERITY AND PARTING They were both so excited that at first they couldn't talk, but could only stare at each other in speechless delight. Jim was trembling, for he was still weak from his long illness, and he steadied himself by attentions to Zaraza and by bidding José in Spanish to bring the stranger a drink. Dorothy dropped down upon the stones where they had been sitting and watched the child. He did not now dip water from the tank at the cabin door but from a nearby spring, which Jim had found and cleared of rubbish. The spring had always been there; but it had been easier for lazy Alaric, the herder, to fill the barrel now and then--or let the rain do it for him--and use from that till the supply failed. He did not yet understand how the stagnant water had had anything to do with his own fever, that had followed on Jim's partial recovery. Children are quick witted. José came running back with the dipper, after having carefully rinsed and filled it at the spring, as Jim had taught him. His eyes were bright and there was a winning smile on his chubby face, now clean. He recognized Dorothy as the girl to whom he had given his pet lamb and promptly demanded: "_El cordero? Donde?_" Dorothy stared at him, then put her hands on each side his chubby face and kissed him. The child screamed with delight and repeated his question. At which the girl also laughed and turned to Jim, asking: "What does he say? What does he want?" "I reckon he wants his lamb. He's asking you where it is," answered the lad, gladly using this chance to air his own new knowledge. That broke the spell of not knowing how to begin and their loosened tongues wagged fast enough after that. Dorothy forgot all about her lost company and seizing a piece of the coarse bread her old friend had been eating devoured it as if it had been a great delicacy. Jim laughed, glad to see her so hungry and so eager, and obeyed her command: "Now begin just as we used to do at home at Deerhurst. 'I went from here' and don't you miss a single thing until you come to 'and here I am.' I'll help you start. You went from San Leon the very night you got there. Now why?" "I shall never know why, girlie. I was crazy with fever, I guess. I hadn't been real well before I came west and that was one reason Dr. Sterling made me come. He thought the change would cure me. It didn't. I must have got out the window but I don't really know, only I half remember that. Then the next thing I did know I was in Alaric's cabin yonder with him and little José here. I was pretty sick. I couldn't write but I was wild to tell you where I was and not to worry nor think me terrible mean. I didn't want to act that way, you know, even though I did find myself in the wrong box with those other rich boys----" "No such thing, Jim Barlow! That was all your own self-consciousness. They're the nicest boys in the world and the friendliest. And it seems you can remember some things--bad ones--even if not how you ran away and got away up here to this peak. Jim, I'm ashamed of you. I certainly am!" But the way in which she reached out and clasped his hand in both of hers disarmed the words of all offence. Jim threw back his head and laughed as he hadn't done in many a day. It was just glorious to be scolded again by his old comrade! It was so homelike that he felt "more himself" than any softer speech would have made him. "Well, go on! Do go on!" "Alaric isn't half bad. I reckon I'd have died but for him. An old Indian chief, of the Utes, White Feather Alaric called him--his brother-in-law----" "Oh! I'm well acquainted with him. Don't stop to tell that part, but just do go on." Jim stared and retorted: "Oh! you are, eh? But I've got to tell about him 'cause it was he who found me and brought me here. Picked me up on the road somewhere. I've had a suspicion--just a suspicion, don't you know?--that Alaric wasn't any too glad to see me. It's a mighty little house and he's a mighty lazy man. But he had to do it. He's afraid of White Feather, though I tell you, Dolly Doodles, he's a splendid Indian. If all red men were like him----" "I don't care at all about Indians. Go on." "Alaric dressed my arm with leaves and stuff and fed me the best he could, but after I'd got that basket sent to you with the lamb and the stones--Did you get it? Did you understand?" "Yes, I understood--part. I knew that only Jim Barlow could make such a curious D as was on the stone and the basket. I supposed you were alive somewhere and I tried to think you were all right. By the way, the lambkin is thriving and we've named it after you--Netty!" "What? Why Netty, if you please?" Dorothy laughed and explained. She was ready now to laugh at anything and so was he: she made him finish his story, which he promptly did. After he had sent the basket-message he had grown worse. He was delirious and did not know what went on about him. He thought it was the bad water from the old tank that increased his fever, and was sure it was that which had made the sheep herder himself fall ill. So before his strength came back he had to turn nurse himself and attend upon Alaric. He had now recovered enough to go away to his employer's ranch for a few days. Meanwhile Jim was keeping the sheep for his host with little José for company. Dorothy listened, asking questions now and then, and finally inquired: "Is this Alaric an Indian?" "No. A Mexican, a Greaser. He married an Indian princess, the sister of White Feather." "How came you by that Indian rig? costume, I mean." Jim laughed. "White Feather again. At first I hadn't anything to wear but a ragged pair of trousers which Alaric lent me, though he hated to, and a blanket for a coat. But a few days ago White Feather and his braves came this way again. He brought quite a collection of old duds and gave 'em to Alaric. That paid him for what he'd lent me, I guess. And some of White Feather's folks have always given little José his Indian fixings, too. Else--Well, he wouldn't have had much to wear. Ain't he cute?" "Indeed, he is. Looks exactly like a tiny White Feather himself. The dear!" answered Dorothy, helping herself to another piece of bread and breaking it in bits to feed the child, who smiled and swallowed in great glee. "But your suit? You haven't told about that yet." "Isn't it fine? I begin to feel like a red man myself, wearing it. White Feather gave this to me with his own hands. It looks as if it had been worn a long time but it's a mighty comfortable rig, especially after a fellow's had--nothing at all." Then Dorothy talked, her words fairly tumbling over each other in her haste to tell all that had happened at San Leon while he was gone. She ended with the question: "Will you go back with me now, Jim? or with all of us, when we find them! My heart! How glad, how glad they'll be!" Jim shook his head. "I can't, Dolly, not yet. I've got to stay till Alaric comes. Nobody knows when that'll be, he's so lazy; and so sure now that I'll do his work for him. Besides--I've got something on my mind. Even if--even if--Well, I shan't go back to San Leon till I take a peace offering with me. I think--anyway I hope--I've--No matter. Where are the others, do you think? How did you get so far away from 'em, alone?" "I don't know. But I wish--I wish they'd come. Ah! Hark!" Dorothy stood up and listened. They could hear a horse moving somewhere, the dull thud of hoofs on soft ground, and a whinny of recognition to Zaraza feeding near. A moment later Silent Pete came into sight, and in another moment had dismounted beside them. He hadn't a word to say but stared at Jim with what would seem reproach except for a kindly gleam in his blue eyes. Up and down the lad's tall form the old man's eyes roved many times and then he gave one of his rare laughs. "Fits good, hey?" "First class! Did you ever wear an Indian costume?" asked Jim. "Huh! I've wore that one more years 'n you're old," said the ex-hunter, and sitting down helped himself to the bread. Perhaps the man had never talked so freely as he did now. Of hunting, of savage fights, and of mining--of anything and everything connected with Colorado's past as he had known it. Because he had never had such interested listeners. Jim's eyes shone, and when the subject touched on mining, he got up and went into the shack, coming back a moment later with some bits of stones lying on his palm. He held these out to Silent Pete who accepted them with sudden interest. Until he finally exclaimed: "Glory! Where?" Jim walked a little distance from that point of the mesa and the others followed him wondering. Then digging away some earth from the small hillock where he had paused, pointed downward. Silent Pete gazed without speaking for a full moment. Then he stooped and gathered a few fragments of insignificant stone, while Dorothy watched him wondering. Presently the hunter looked up--his face transformed--the brilliancy of youth restored to his faded eyes. "Silver! by gum! And--and--_all the land this side that shack belongs to San Leon_! Of all the dum luck--Let's go home! Let's go home!" He couldn't move fast enough. The youngsters followed him at an equal pace so excited that they scarcely knew what they were doing. Jim had found silver! Jim had discovered a mine! This meant untold wealth to their beloved host! There was no thought in their minds of a possible mistake. It could not be. It was all as clear as daylight to Dorothy, whose reverent heart always traced "leadings" in that chain of events which we call life. Jim had been "led" to all and through all that had happened. If he hadn't wandered here--no use thinking about that. He _had_ wandered, he _had_ found the silver, it _had_ been ordered, even the pain and suffering and grief. Oh! to get back to where they could send the good news flying to the absent owner of San Leon! "Let's go home!" cried the girl, running to the Zaraza's side and trying to saddle her. But Jim would not let her do that, though he did not seek to hinder her from going, and when she had sprung to her seat upon the filly's back, he held out his hand, saying: "I'll come soon's I can, Dolly Doodles! This is a big day for me!" "Why--why--aren't you coming too? You can ride part of the way and I part." "No, girlie. I promised Alaric I'd take care of José and the sheep. I've got to--duty, you know." "Oh! Duty! I hate duty! Oh! Jim, you ought to be the one, the very one to carry the good news straight to 'Boss Dan!' It should be you to send this glorious message!" But Jim shook his stubborn head. "I'd like to--shucks! But I ain't never seen how neglectin' the duty 't lies to hand helps a fellow to do the one 't is further off. It's all right, Dolly. You speed the good word and watch out for Jim. He'll be coming--sure. Good-by--good-by." Meanwhile Peter had placed the lunch baskets on the ground, leaving them for Jim and the child. Not until they had passed out of sight and were well on the downward trail did Dorothy remember her absent mates and to ask how Silent Pete had chanced to find her. He scarcely paused to reply; for though he spoke no word, except to answer her questions, he was fairly quivering with excitement. It isn't every day one stumbles on a silver mine, even in Colorado! "Oh! I saw where you'd passed by the trompled brush. I knew the calico's tread. I saw 't you was off the line an' I blazed that so's the rest'd see and not get scared. We shan't see no more o' them till nightfall, only you an' me--we must get home. Don't waste breath talkin'--_just travel_." Travel they did and, their own dispatches sent from San Leon, another came flashing back--crossed each other on the way, so to speak. "Reach the ranch to-morrow. D. F." Well, this story is about told. Such a wonderful home-coming that was! Messengers had been quickly sent to the sheep herder's hut to act as substitutes for Jim in his "duty" and to bring him and José "home," where he found himself welcomed as a hero--he who had thought himself despised. Thus was discovered the famous "Bygum Mine," so named for the first words uttered by Silent Pete, when Jim showed him the site. Those who remember the energy of "Dan Ford, Railroad Boss" will understand how promptly matters were set in motion for the opening of "Bygum;" and those who know his generosity will guess how he made each young guest a sharer, to some degree, in this fresh prosperity. All except Jim Barlow: for that too independent youth promptly refused any further benefit from his great discovery than a simple "Thank you." How that refusal affected the lad's pursuit of "knowledge" will be told in another story of "Dorothy's House Boat," upon which, a few weeks later, he had to "work his passage." But now, with Lady Gray's dear presence among them and the master's hand at the helm, there was nothing but happiness for all at San Leon: until, all suddenly it seemed, the three months of their stay had passed and the parting came. If there was sadness in their hearts that morning, when they mounted the buckboards for their journey back to Denver, there was also anticipation and delight; for, to quote the words of their genial host: "The world is but a little place. We have met and loved each other--we shall meet and love again." THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author' words and intent. 
32556	----	DOROTHY'S TOUR BY EVELYN RAYMOND NEW YORK HURST & CO., INC. PUBLISHERS THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour _Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth Price per Volume, 50 Cents_ COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER. PAGE. I. AT BELLEVIEU 9 II. ALFARETTA'S LETTER 18 III. THE PREPARATIONS 28 IV. IN NEW YORK 40 V. THE CARNEGIE CONCERT 52 VI. THE OPERA 65 VII. AN EPISODE 82 VIII. "AMERICA" 95 IX. A DREAD CALL IN THE NIGHT 106 X. THE LOCKET 118 XI. THE TOUR BEGINS 129 XII. IN WASHINGTON 150 XIII. SIGHT-SEEING 166 XIV. HIGH HONOR 187 XV. MT. VERNON 203 XVI. THE LAKE CITY 214 XVII. THE ACCIDENT 230 XVIII. CONCLUSION 245 DOROTHY'S TOUR CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVIEU. "Dorothy!" called Jim as he quickly searched the garden at Bellevieu for her. "Yes," answered Dorothy, "I am here sitting under the big oak tree." "I have something for you," cried Jim. "Guess what?" "Guess what?" echoed Dorothy. "Well it might be--Oh! there are so many, many things it could be." "Here, take it. Its only a letter from New York, and never mind what might be in it, read it--" said Jim, who was altogether too practical and never cared to imagine or suppose anything. All he wanted was real facts and true and useful facts at that, which is not a bad trait in a youth's character. Dorothy broke the seal carefully and read the letter through once and then started to read it all over again, exclaiming every once in a while to herself, "Oh, oh, dear. I am so glad!" and finally, "I must tell Aunt Betty at once." Jim, who had been standing there forgotten all this time, broke in: "Oh, I say, Dolly Doodles, can you tell me what this message is that so excites you that you have clear forgotten me?" "Oh, Jim dear," said Dorothy, "it's too wonderful. Just think, I am to start in two weeks for New York, where Mr. Ludlow will meet Aunt Betty and I." By this time Jim and Dorothy were walking rapidly toward the house, where at once they sought Aunt Betty to tell her the news, only to find that Mrs. Calvert had gone visiting. Seeing Old Ephraim in the hall, Dorothy ran up to him and said: "Ephraim, do tell us where Aunt Betty has gone." "Ah certainly does know, Misses," answered old Ephraim. "She o'de'd Metty" (whom we remember as Methuselah Bonapart Washington from the previous books, Dorothy's Triumph, House Boat and Oak Knowe, and other volumes wherein our little heroine's story is told). "Metty, he 'lowed he take her see dat lil lady. De man what gibs de music lessons' wife." "Oh, I know now, Ephy," said Dorothy, "Aunty went to see Frau Deichenberg. Well, Jim, we shall have to wait till Aunt Betty comes back to tell her our wonderful news. But dear me, what a forgetful girl I am. I haven't told you all yet. Well, Jim, it's a long story, so let's go back to the garden and I will tell you all there." So back to the old oak tree with the rustic seat beneath it they went. The garden in Bellevieu looked its loveliest. It was early in September and all the fall flowers with their wondrous hues made the garden a regular fairy land. And Lem, the little boy the campers had found on a memorable night, had been true to his word and had tended the garden faithfully. You will remember how Lem Haley had cried out at night and when found and protected by the little camping party had ridden back to Bellevieu in the huge automobile. He, like all who knew Aunt Betty, Mrs. Cecil Somerset Calvert, had grown to love her and now tried hard to please her by keeping the garden at old Bellevieu a feast for the eyes and a delight to all who came there. Dorothy and Jim seated themselves beneath the tree and Dorothy started out by saying: "Oh, Jim, dear, I really am dreadfully nervous every time I think of starting out on that long trip through the United States and Canada, as Mr. Ludlow says I must. You see this letter says that Mr. Ludlow will expect Aunt Betty and I to be at the Pennsylvania station on September 27. That's, let's see----. Oh, Jim, what day does the 27th of September fall on?" Dorothy at this period was a winsome girl indeed. She had good looks, which is always a worthy asset, then her artistic temperament and perhaps her musical training had combined with other natural attributes in the building of a character charmingly responsive. She had been frequently complimented for her musical talent, but bore her honor simply and unaffectedly. As a protege of Mrs. Calvert, Jim had grown to be a fellow of manly aspect, and while in no way related to her, filled in some degree the place of a son in her heart and was a brother to every one else in the household. Jim, who had been calculating the same while Dorothy was talking, quickly responded, "Tuesday." "Oh, dear, I might have known that myself if I had only read on a ways instead of stopping just in the wrong place. Mr. Ludlow said that he would like me to play at a concert or two in New York before I start traveling for good. Oh, I must play at a concert on Thursday, the 29th. That is why he wants me to be in New York on Tuesday so I can have one day to rest in. Dear, thoughtful man to think of giving me a rest after my trip. Oh, Jim, if you could only come to New York with us!" "I can," said Jim. "In fact I was going to keep that as a surprise, but I have saved enough money this summer to go to New York and be near you and with Aunt Betty when you play for the first time under this new contract." "Jim," Dorothy said, "you are just as thoughtful and kind as you can be and it will be so nice to have you with Aunt Betty, and I shall play all the better for knowing that out in the big, big audience there are you two whom I really care to please more than anyone else in the wide, wide world. Jim, every one is so good to me and so kind in all things. Oh, dear, oh, dear; do you really suppose that I will be a very great violinist?" "Why Dorothy Calvert!" Jim reproached. "You funny girl. You are a great violinist already, and in time you will be a very, very great violinist perhaps--who knows but what you might be the most famous violinist in the world? Why, Herr Deichenberg thinks you are doing very wonderfully now, and you will practice just the same even if you are going on a concert tour. In fact you will have to practice harder----" "Oh, Jim, I must do my very best all the time and you can trust me to do that. But, come, let's go inside now. It's getting dark and Aunt Betty will soon be back." But the boy did not move, and finally said: "You stay here and finish telling me your plans and then we will go in." So Dorothy reseated herself and told Jim how Mr. Ludlow would tell her when she got to New York her future plans and that now all that he had written was for her to get ready for her trip, and on Tuesday, the 27th of September, for her and her Aunt Betty to be in New York. "To think, Jim," said Dorothy, "that my one ambition in life has commenced to be realized. I have always longed for this day to come when I could really play to people, and now to be in a company with so many other artists and to tour all over. There are so many, many people who can play the violin better than I can, and for me to be chosen!" "Dorothy, girl, it was because you worked so very, very hard, and as Herr Deichenberg, you know says, 'You have, mine girl, accomplished the impossible,' and now we are all so proud of you," Jim gladly responded. "I tried so hard and all for dear, darling Aunt Betty, and she has been so good to me and to you and to everybody, no wonder everyone loves her," added Dorothy. "Jim, I am worried about Aunt Betty. You know how she lost so much money last year in those old investments that foolish lawyer made for her. Well, she has always done so much for me that I am going to show her that I can take care of myself, and her too. Just think, $200 a week and all my expenses paid. And a private car for the party, Aunt Betty, and an attendant. I just couldn't go and leave aunty, so they managed to let me take her with me. Do you think, Jim, that traveling will hurt Aunt Betty?" "Hurt her? Indeed I do not," the boy said gravely, for he was thinking that Aunt Betty was no longer young and that she had been worried and tired most all summer, for she had insisted on staying near Dorothy who couldn't leave Baltimore because of her lessons and preparations for the fall, as Herr Deichenberg was working hard over his little protege so as to have a great success come of the tour. "You know, Dorothy, the change will be good for her," Jim volunteered. "And Aunt Betty enjoys nothing more than travel. She will enjoy the music, too, and most of all the very one thing that will give her most pleasure is the fact that she will be with you and near you to keep you from all kinds of harm and such things as are apt to go with such a trip. But, Dorothy, dear girlie, don't think I mean that anything is going to hurt you or harm you in any way, but you see I mean Aunt Betty will be with you and it's not many a girl who has an Aunt Betty like yours." "Jim, what a long, long speech for you. Let's go inside," said Dorothy. The two slowly walked around the garden, exclaiming at its beauty, till they reached the house. Dorothy led Jim into the music room, pushed him playfully into a chair, and taking her violin in her hand, said, "Listen." Jim sat there listening to what he thought was the most wonderful music in all the world. Piece after piece the girl played, bringing out with clear, vibrating tones, the tunes she loved best, her body swaying to the music's rhythm. "Surely," thought Jim, "if the audiences do not care for Dorothy's playing, and how they can help that I cannot see, they will immediately fall and worship at her personal charm and beauty," of which, thanks to Aunt Betty and the good Mother Martha's training, Dorothy was wholly unconscious. How long they stayed there, neither of them could have told. And Aunt Betty, who had entered quite unseen, remained till old Ephraim said from the doorway, "Ah most surely wanted to excuse myself, but ah has been dere standing for most a hour and more than likely the dinner is spoilt, cause ah simply couldn't interrup' dat beautiful music." Dorothy carefully put away her violin and ran to Aunt Betty telling her she had some brand new news. "Let it wait, Dorothy," said Aunt Betty, "till we are all at the dinner table. Come, Jim," and then they all went to the table, Jim saying as he did that music sure did give him an appetite, and that that must be the reason they had music at so many of the New York hotels at meal time, or, as Dorothy corrected him, at dinner. CHAPTER II. ALFARETTA'S LETTER. "Alfa, Alfy," called Ma Babcock. "Come 'ere quick, there's something 'ere fer ye." "Ma, where are you," yelled Alfy from the barnyard. "'Ere in the kitchen," answered Ma Babcock. "All right," said Alfy. "Dunno as I know what you want," she continued to herself. "What is it, ma?" "'Ere's a letter fer ye," Ma Babcock rejoined. "Must be from Dorothy. Can't think of anyone else writing me, can you? I'll open it and see. "Oh, ma! Listen, listen! Dear Dorothy wants me right away. Oh, how can I get to her; you couldn't get on without me, now. Oh, dear, oh dear," wailed Alfy, most in tears. "Alfaretta Babcock, come to your senses. A big girl like you, crying," scolded Ma Babcock. "Tell me what Dorothy says in her letter." Alfaretta, reading-- "Dear, dear Alfy-- "In two weeks I start on my concert tour, and as I had not expected to go for more than a month at least, I want you to come and stay with me and I've got such a good proposition to make you. I will be very busy and will need you to help me get my clothes and things together. Oh, Alfy, dear, please, please come. Don't you disappoint me. I just must see you again. It's been such an awful long time since you have stayed with me. Tell Ma Babcock she simply must let you come. Metty will meet you at the station. Take the noon train. Give my love to all the little Babcocks and to ma. Tell ma, Baretta and Claretta can help her while you are away, and I am sure that Matthew will help too. Oh, Alfy, do, do come. With love, "Ever your affectionate, "DOROTHY. "There, ma, that's what she says." "Well, well, things do come sudden always. I must get my things on and drive down and tell 'em all at Liza Jane's Thread and Needle Store to start the news a-spreadin'." "Then I may go?" "Matthew, hitch up Barnabas, quick now," responded Mrs. Babcock, by way of response. "You, Alfy, go inside in the front room and get your clothes out so we can see what's clean and what ain't." "Ma! Then I can go! Oh, goody, goody! I am so glad. And I can start to-morrow--yes? Oh please say yes!" coaxed Alfy. Inside in the front room, Alfy working quickly, sorted things out and before Ma Babcock got back with a new pair of shoes for her, she had most of her things mended (as she was real handy with the needle), and nearly all packed in the old suit case Pa Babcock brought home with him from Chicago. "Alfy!" called ma from the kitchen. "Try on these shoes and see as they're all right." "Yes, ma," answered Alfy, coming into the kitchen with thread and needle in one hand and shirt-waist in the other. "What shall I do with these? I can't take those shoes with these in my hand." "Go back and take those things in and put them on the bed," said ma, getting vexed at Alfy's excitement and trying to calm her down. Alfy, after laying the things down, came back and took the shoes and some new ribbons ma had brought her from Liza Jane's and went back to the front room. "My, but these shoes are real smart. I think that they are and hope Dorothy will. And shucks, no one has such pretty ribbons. Black, that's kind of old and dull looking. I like the red much the best. The blue ones are real pretty, too. And my, but those red ribbons are pretty." And thus Alfy talked to herself as she fussed around and tried to remember all the little things she wanted. "Ma, ma," and Alfy ran in the kitchen calling louder as she went: "Where did you put my raincoat? You know I haven't used that one--the good one--since I was to California with Dorothy." "Well, let me see. Reckon I did see you have it. So long ago I can't just remember. Must a been last year some time. Oh, did you look in the closet in the barn? Upstairs in the room I had fixed for the boys to sleep in, but they got scared and wouldn't. You remember I put all the things we didn't use much up there." "I'll look. Maybe it's up there," and Alfy went out still talking to herself, while ma went all over the house, in all the closets, looking for that raincoat. It was a very fine raincoat, one just like Dorothy's, only Alfaretta's was red while Dorothy's was gray. Mrs. Calvert had bought one for each of the girls in San Francisco. Alfy had put hers away when she reached home, hoping to be able to use it some time again, thinking it was too good for use "up mounting." Alfy was now in the barn and had just reached the closed door when she heard a curious "tap-tap." Alfy was not afraid. She never had been what the boys call a "scare-cat," but it seemed kind of funny, so she stood still and listened. "Tap-tap." "My," thought Alfy. "What's that? Oh, it's----" "Tap-tap," again and this time the sound came from right over Alfaretta's head, making her start and her heart go thump, thump so loud she thought whoever it was tapping could hear it. She tried to move, but stood rooted to the spot. "Tap-tap." This time to the right of the girl. Then Alfy summoned her lost courage and said as calmly as she could, "Who's there?" No one responded, and in a few seconds, "Tap-tap," came the sound to the left of the girl. Then thoroughly scared, as the room was half dark and rapidly growing darker, Alfy turned and ran, stumbling over an old stool as she tried to make the door in great haste. Matthew heard her and came running up, saying: "What's the matter, sis?" He had been unhitching Barnabas, as Ma Babcock was through with him now. "Oh!" moaned Alfy. "It's some one in the closet. I heard them tap-tapping and got scared and ran. Gosh, my shin hurts! There!" giving the stool that had caused the disaster a vicious kick. "Maybe--oh, Alfy! Maybe----" chimed in Matthew. "Maybe its a ghost." "Ma! Ma!" screached Alfy. "Ma! Ma!" yelled Matthew. Both by this time were rapidly approaching the kitchen. "Well," said Ma Babcock, "You--land o' livin'--you look as though you'd seen a ghost." "Ma," murmured Alfy, "we didn't see him, I heard him. He's in the closet in the barn." And then both children started in to talk and explain at the same time so that ma couldn't understand a word. "Here, you--you Alfy, tell me all. You, Matthew, keep still," she exclaimed. Then Alfy told her how she heard the tapping on the door of the closet. "Come, we'll all go back and see," said Ma Babcock, and with that they all started for the barn, Alfy limping after ma and Matthew. When they reached the upstairs room they tip-toed to the closet and listened, and after waiting a few minutes and hearing nothing, ma called loudly, "Is anyone in there?" No answer came. Then she quickly flung open the closet door, and what did they hear but the flutter, flutter of wings, and then they saw, perched high on the lintel of the door, a little wood-pecker. "There," said Ma Babcock, "there is what made those tap-taps, a wood-pecker. Just as if I didn't know there couldn't be any ghosts. And a great big girl like you, Alfaretta, being scared of a little bird." With that they all breathed a sigh of relief, and Matthew and ma went down out of the barn, leaving Alfaretta to look over the contents of the well packed closet, to find, if possible, her raincoat. "My, my, just think what a lot I shall have to tell Dorothy. I wonder what she will say. Just a bird. Shucks. I thought it was a real ghost. But ma says there are no really real ghosts. But, well, I don't know." All this time Alfy had been opening boxes and shutting them, putting them back where she had found them, when suddenly she came across an old sampler about a foot square. Alfy looked at it, then brought it to the lamp and could see lots of new and hard stitches she had never learned. She didn't see how anyone could sew them at all. And, my--what was that in the corner? A name. "Well," thought Alfy, "here is a find. Maybe I can beg it off ma, and then I can take it to Dorothy." She had almost forgotten her raincoat, when she went back to the closet and looked in the box again to see if there was anything else new there, and then discovered her precious raincoat in the bottom of the big box. Hastily closing the box and shoving things back in the closet, with her raincoat and the queer old sampler, Alfy ran hurriedly downstairs and through the yard and into the kitchen. Ma Babcock had by this time prepared dinner and just as Alfy came in she called all the children to the dinner table. "Ma," exclaimed Alfy, "I found my raincoat, and this, too. What is it?" "Let me see." "Let me see." "And me," chimed in all the little Babcocks, trying to get possession of what Alfy was holding. "Be quiet," said ma, sternly. "Give it to me, Alfy." Alfy handed her the sampler and Ma Babcock exclaimed: "Poor Hannah! Poor Hannah!" "What Hannah? And was she very poor--poorer than we?" lisped little Luke, the youngest of the Babcocks. "Ma, who did you say?" demanded Alfaretta. "Why, Alfy, this is a sampler made by one of my little playmates years and years ago. A delicate little girl was Hannah Woodrow. She came up here summering, and then 'cause she was broken in health stayed all one year with me. She could sew so very well. She made that sampler and left it with me when the folks did take her back to Baltimore with them. She married--deary me--maybe she married some one named--Haley, I think. That's what it was; and I ain't heard from her since." "Ma, can I have the sampler?" asked Alfy. "I would like to take it to Baltimore to show Dorothy." "Well, I s'pose I must say yes, if you want to show it to Dorothy Calvert, and 'pears to me Mrs. Calvert might like to see it, too," remarked ma. "But come now, dinner is getting cold and you must get to bed early, Alfaretta, if you want to catch that early train for Baltimore, and like as not you've fooled your time away and haven't packed a single thing." But Alfy showed her mother she had been very busy and had all her things ready to start. So she went off gladly to bed, dreaming that all was ready and that she had departed for Dorothy, which, indeed, the next morning was a reality. CHAPTER III. THE PREPARATIONS. "You dear, dear Alfy," piped Dorothy, joyously as she ran to meet Alfy, whom Metty had just brought up from the station to the house. "Oh, Dorothy, I am so glad to see you," rejoined Alfy with none the less joy than Dorothy had displayed. "I just must kiss you again." "Did you have an uneventful trip?" asked Dorothy, drawing her friend into the house. "Just simply took train and arrived, that was all." "Metty, you see that Alfy's things are taken up to the blue room." Then turning to Alfaretta again, "Aunt Betty is upstairs in the sewing room. We shall go straight to her. I believe she is just longing to get a sight of you again, just as much as I was when I wrote you." "Oh, Mrs. Calvert, I am so glad to see you again--Aunt Betty," said Alfy, going over to Aunt Betty's chair and putting both arms around her and kissing her several times. "Why, Jim, I do declare. You here, too? Dorothy didn't say you were here in her letter." Alfy then went to the doorway where Jim was standing and gave him a hard hug. "Oh, it's just like the old times." Jim blushed a rosy red and said awkwardly, "I'm so glad to see you, Alfy. It's been more than a year since you have seen me, isn't it?" Jim decidedly disliked to be fussed over, and although he had known Alfy all his life just as he had Dorothy, he always felt confused and ill at ease when either of the girls kissed him or embraced him in any way. Now all the other boys, so Gerald often told him, would only be too glad to stand in his shoes. "Come, Alfy," said Dorothy, leading Alfaretta upstairs one more flight. "Here is your room. And see, here are all your things. Now hurry and clear up, and put your things where they belong. When you have finished, come down to the sewing room and we will talk as we work." "I'll be there in less than no time," called Alfy. Dorothy then went back to the sewing room and picked up her sewing. There she and Aunt Betty worked till Alfy put in an appearance. "See, I have my needles, thimble, thread and all, all in this little apron pocket. And this apron will save me lots of time, for when I'm through sewing all I have to do is take the apron off and shake the threads into the waste basket and not have to spend most half an hour picking threads off my dress," said practical Alfy. "Well, Alfy," said Mrs. Calvert, "that is surely a very good idea. What can I give you to sew? We must all be kept busy, and then Dorothy will tell you her plans. Maybe you could baste up the seams of this skirt," handing the skirt to Alfaretta, who immediately began to sew up the seams. Dorothy then unburdened herself of the good news and told Alfy how Mr. Ludlow, her manager, had written for her to be in New York on Tuesday, the 27th, and be ready to play at a concert on Thursday, and shortly after to start on her trip. Then, best of all, how besides a very liberal salary, she could have accompanying her, with all charges paid, her dear Aunt Betty and a companion. Would Alfy be the companion? Alfaretta was astonished and delighted, and her joy knew no bounds. She felt sure Ma Babcock would allow her to go. Such wonderful vistas of happiness the plan suggested, it was long before the subject was exhausted. Aunt Betty then told Alfaretta that she and Dorothy were making some simple little dresses for Dorothy's use while away. "But, Aunt Betty," asked Alfy, "what are you going to wear?" "Why, Alfy," replied Aunt Betty. "I have ordered a black serge suit for traveling, and some neat white waists. Then I am having Mrs. Lenox, Frau Deichenberg's dressmaker, make me a couple of fancy dresses, too, both of them black, but one trimmed more than the other." "And Alfy, Mrs. Lenox is making me a couple of dresses, too. One pink one for the very best, and one white one for the next best. These I shall have to wear at some of the concerts," added Dorothy. "I would like to know what these are that we are sewing on," demanded Alfy. "Why," answered Dorothy, "these are simple white dresses, the kind I have always worn, and most always shall." "Dorothy Calvert," remarked Alfy, very sternly, "they are as pretty as they can be, even if they are plain. They are very substantial and can be washed and worn many times without hurting the dress. You know very well fancy dresses are so hard to launder." "And, dear," said Aunt Betty, "you know, Dorothy, the people go to the concerts to hear you play, not to see what you wear and I have always liked my little girl best in just this kind of white dress. Now, dear, go down and practice awhile so as you will be able to play just the best you know how to when you go to Herr Deichenberg to take your lesson. For, Dorothy, you will not have many more lessons from Herr before you go away. And maybe if we finish up some of this sewing I will let Alfaretta go with you to Herr's for your lesson. Frau Deichenberg said that Herr was not feeling very well and had a bad cough, so that when I was there night before last she said, 'Maybe Miss Dorothy would not mind coming here for her lesson.' I told her you would come." With that Dorothy walked slowly from the room, very much worried about her dear Herr Deichenberg, as she knew he was getting old and was afraid his cough might develop into something worse. She reached the music room and practiced faithfully for more than an hour. When she had put the violin away and was about to leave the music room, some one called her. She turned and saw Jim on the veranda outside the window, and crossing the room and lifting up the French sash she said, "What is it, Jim?" "I just wanted to tell you something," the boy answered. "While you were practicing, Gerald Banks came up here in his automobile. He wanted to see you. I told him he couldn't as you were very busy practicing." Dorothy liked to have Jim assume authority over her in this manner, and questioned gayly: "Well, Father Jim, what did he want?" "He just wanted to take you autoing in the morning," Jim replied, "so I went upstairs to Aunt Betty and told her." "Dear, thoughtful Jim," interrupted Dorothy. "What did Aunt Betty have to say?" "Aunt Betty said," replied Jim, "that he could come around about ten o'clock to-morrow morning and take you and Alfy to Herr Deichenberg's when you could take your lesson. Then--well, I guess I won't tell you. I will let you be surprised. You wait and see!" "Oh, Jim! Please, please tell me? I must know now, really I must. Please, please," begged Dorothy. "I shan't tell," remarked Jim, slowly walking away from her. "Jim! Jim!" called Dorothy, running after him. "Dear Jim, please, please tell me." "Girls certainly are curious creatures," soliloquized Jim, as Dorothy had turned on her heel and was walking quickly toward the door, saying to herself, but loud enough for Jim to hear, "Well, Aunt Betty will tell me, I'm sure." "Aunt Betty. Oh, Aunt Betty!" called Dorothy as she burst into the sewing room where Aunt Betty and Alfy were still sewing. "Jim says--oh, I mean, you must tell me what the surprise is for to-morrow. He said Gerald would take me to Herr Deichenberg's for my lesson in the morning and then he wouldn't tell me any more." "Well, can't my little girl wait till then and see what more, for herself? That's much better than having some one tell you," remonstrated Aunt Betty. "I'll tell you, Dorothy," said Alfy. "You will?" interrupted Dorothy, "you dear." "Don't interrupt me, Dorothy. I was going to say--what was I going to say?" said Alfy. "I know. I said I'd tell you--well, I meant to say I would tell you that a surprise isn't a surprise if you know beforehand." "I thought you were going to tell me," remarked Dorothy, "but you didn't even intend to." "I guess my little girl will have to wait," severely murmured Aunt Betty, kissing Dorothy, who by this time was standing very near her aunt's chair. "Well," said Dorothy, "I guess I shall have to." So she sat down and took up her sewing again. All three carefully sewed in silence for some time till Aunt Betty said: "Dorothy, girl, I think you could try on this dress, now." "Certainly," replied Dorothy. "I am sure I ought to be quite willing." Aunt Betty and Alfy fitted the dress carefully, altering the seams in the shoulders and cutting out the neck some. Before they had stopped sewing they had nearly finished this dress and had two others well under way. Putting away their sewing carefully so as they could start again early in the morning, they all went to their rooms to dress for dinner. They had a quiet meal after which Dorothy played for them awhile, and then they all sang songs, each choosing the songs they liked best. Thus they spent a quiet but most enjoyable evening. They retired early as Alfy was quite tired after her long journey and wanted to get a good night's sleep. They had an early breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup of which Alfy was very fond, and soon after, the three were busy again in the sewing room. There they stayed, quietly working and talking, Alfy telling of the little Babcocks, till it was time for the girls to get ready for the automobile ride. Dorothy had apparently forgotten all about the surprise for she never even mentioned it at all. "Alfy," said Dorothy, when they were most ready, "when we get to Herr Deichenberg's you must be very quiet as I take my lesson and not say anything at all. You know Herr does not like to be disturbed while he gives a lesson. You will find many curious things to look at, and if you want to ask about any of them, you just remember what you want to ask about and tell me after." Alfy promised, and in a few minutes the girls heard Gerald toot his automobile horn. Quickly they ran, waving good-bye and throwing kisses to Aunt Betty, who was looking out of the second story window. With Jim seated beside Gerald, they started. Dorothy told Gerald the direction to take and after a very short time they drew up at Herr Deichenberg's little cottage. The girls descended and bade Jim and Gerald good-bye. "Oh, Dorothy," Gerald called back, "when shall I return for you?" Dorothy, greatly surprised, questioned, "You are coming back, Gerald?" "Surely." "Oh, goody, goody. Be here at twelve o'clock. That will bring us back home in time for lunch at one o'clock." Alfy, who thought the previous ride had been to short altogether, exclaimed "Oh, I'm so, so, so glad. We can have another ride. Oh, Dorothy, I do just love automobiling, I really do." Frau Deichenberg came to the door just then and ushered the two girls into the cozy living-room where they laid aside their wraps. "Herr is in the studio," murmured Frau. "He is awaiting you there, Miss Dorothy." "I'll go right up," answered Dorothy. "Now Frau Deichenberg, do not bother with Alfy at all. She can amuse herself till I finish." With that Dorothy ascended the stairs and Frau, after excusing herself by saying she must tend dinner as they always had dinner at noon--Herr wanted it so--left Alfy alone. Alfy roamed about the room and examined all kinds of curios,--queer baskets, curious vases, old fans and precious paintings and etchings. So quickly did the time pass that she never noticed Dorothy as she came into the room. "Well, Alfy, all ready to go home?" chirped Dorothy from behind her. "Well, well, I never knew you were through. When did you come into the room, just now?" asked Alfy. "Yes, Alfy, just now, and if I'm not mistaken, there is Gerald tooting his horn outside--he must be hailing us," remarked Dorothy. The girls quickly donned their coats, bid good-bye to Frau, and departed. Dorothy exclaimed in delight, "Look, look, Alfy, its dear Aurora, she must have come too! Oh, you dear, dear girl, I am so glad to see you!" And Dorothy embraced her, fondly kissing her several times. "Alfy, this is Aurora Banks, Gerald's sister. Aurora, you have heard me speak of Alfaretta many times, I am sure." "Oh, I am so glad to know you," heartily responded Aurora, "Dorothy is always talking of you." "Well, Jim, now I know what the surprise is," laughed Dorothy, "its Aurora." "Now, that's all wrong," warned Gerald, "altogether wrong." "No it isn't, is it Jim?" remarked Dorothy. "Well, yes and no," tactfully put in Jim. "The real surprise is this,--Aunt Betty has ordered a luncheon for all of us, a farewell luncheon for you, Dorothy, and we are all invited; so let's hurry home. I'm hungry for one." "And I--I am most near starved," cried Alfy. The young people reached home just as luncheon was ready, and my! what a luncheon it was; all declared there never was a finer. CHAPTER IV. IN NEW YORK. "Good-bye--good-bye--dear old Bellevieu," sang Dorothy. "Good-bye all for a long, long time, for to-day has my career begun." Aunt Betty looked sadly at the dear old home and felt very loathe to part from it and its comforts. Then all, Dorothy, Alfaretta, Jim and Aunt Betty, waved fond farewells to the faithful old force of servitors who stood lined up in the doorway. "Oh, Jim, boy," wailed Alfaretta, "we will soon be in New York and then I shall have to say good-bye to you for, goodness only knows how long it will be before I see you again." "That's right, Alfy dear," replied Jim, "always look for trouble. Just think of the good times we'll all have in New York before Dorothy really starts to travel." "Well, I suppose I might have thought of that, but I didn't," answered Alfy. "There is only a short drive now to the station," added Aunt Betty, "and I think you could get our tickets, Jim. Take this money and get four tickets for New York on the noon train, I think we have plenty of time to catch it." "I am so sorry that Herr and Frau are not with us. I just hate to go without him. It hardly seems right, does it, Aunty," asked Dorothy. "You know, Dorothy, that Herr has a very bad cold, and such a cough, I am quite worried about him. He would have come in spite of all that but Frau would not let him. I think Frau Deichenberg did a wise thing in keeping him home," replied Aunt Betty. "Seems as if I am not going to have a very happy start," lamented Dorothy. "I wanted Herr to hear me play and criticise." "Dorothy, girl, cheer up. That's no way to be when you are about to start on a career," sternly admonished Jim. "You have every reason to be happy." In the rush and excitement of getting the tickets and finding out just when and where the train came in, Dorothy forgot her sorrow. They all bid good-bye to Metty, who had driven them to the station and who drove away mourning to himself as he went, "Deedy, deedy. Lonesome, ve'y, ve'y lonesome will ole Bellevieu be wi'out de Misses and de li'le Misses dere." They were at last all seated on the train and quickly were speeding toward New York. Dorothy and Alfaretta were sitting together talking happily of the people in the car and of the passing, ever changing scenery. Aunt Betty and Jim were in the seat just in back of them. Suddenly the latter reached into his pocket and procured a letter, handing it to Aunt Betty to read, explaining he had written the Edison Co., of New York, and that that was their answer. Aunt Betty carefully read the letter through and turning to Jim, asked, "What are you going to do about it, my boy?" "That's just what I would like to know," answered Jim. "I always wanted to go to college, and have saved as much as I could, but I can't quite see my way clear to go there yet. I have studied very hard all along and have learned a great deal about electricity. The books Mr. Winters left me have helped me very much, but I am very far behind in some subjects required for entrance to college. My languages are very poor as is my history, and I write a very poor hand." "Well, Jim," answered Aunt Betty, "I am sure I do not know just what I would have you do in this case. The offer is for work in the--what department is it?" "The position is in the department of installation as assistant to the superintendent. The company is a very desirable one to be in. I have heard that they are very fair and that one who works well stands good chances," replied Jim. "I think we had better talk this over with someone before you decide one way or the other," added Aunt Betty. "Maybe Mr. Ludlow could tell us something of it." "I would have to live in New York," remarked Jim, "and where I do not know." "I should see that you were well established in your new place before I left New York," Aunt Betty said. "You are always so good, Aunt Betty," answered Jim. "The salary they have offered me is not very large, but is is twenty-five dollars a week." "Did Mr. Sterling have anything to do with trying to get you the place, Jim?" asked Aunt Betty. "Yes and no," responded Jim. "I used a letter from him for reference." "Well," rejoined Aunt Betty, "I think we had better leave the matter open and not say anything more about it till we talk it over with Mr. Ludlow. Don't say anything to the girls as yet for it will be quite a surprise for them." By this time the train was nearing New York and Dorothy asked Aunt Betty if they had not better get fixed up. Quickly gathering their things together, they left the train to find Mr. Ludlow waiting for them. Mr. Ludlow expected to take Aunt Betty and Dorothy right to the Martha Washington, where they could stay till Dorothy was ready to start on her tour, but Jim presented a new problem for the Martha Washington was a hotel for ladies only and no men can stay there. So calling a couple of taxicabs, he hustled Dorothy, Aunt Betty and Alfaretta in one, and taking the other with Jim he ordered the man to drive to the Prince Arthur. They reached their destination very quickly and Mr. Ludlow arranged for rooms for all. Leaving them in the possession, so to speak, of a bell-boy, he departed, saying he would see them early in the morning for a little while to tell Dorothy briefly what she would have to do for the next few days. The bell-boy conducted Alfaretta, Dorothy and Aunt Betty to the seventh floor, where, unlocking a door, he disclosed to them three very nice connecting rooms, and leaving them there he took Jim down the hall a few doors and showed him his room. Once inside the room, Alfy murmured faintly three or four times, "Oh!" "What's the matter, Alfy?" asked Dorothy. "I just can't get used to elevators," replied Alfy. "What nice rooms"--walking through them--"three rooms"--looking at them again--"two bedrooms--one parlor." "Two bedrooms and one sitting room," corrected Dorothy. "You take the single bedroom, Aunt Betty, and Alfy and I can use the double one." Alfy picked up her things and took them to the smaller bedroom and taking off her hat and coat and hanging them in the closet, she started immediately to unpack. "What a lovely room ours is," remarked Alfy, "it's such a pretty pink and white." Aunt Betty took off her things and Dorothy insisted she go in the sitting room and stay there till they had unpacked everything. Shortly they heard a knock at the door. Alfy ran to open it. It was Jim. Coming into the room, he said, "I have a nice little room, but as I finished unpacking my things I thought I would come in here and see how you were." "We are all settled now," said Aunt Betty. "Dorothy and Alfy have been quite busy. But children, come now, we must all dress for dinner. When you are ready, Jim, come back here." Jim was ready in no time, so he went into Dorothy's sitting room and waited there, reading a magazine. Very shortly the girls were ready and they all descended into the large dining room. Alfy, clinging to Dorothy's hand, said, "Oh, Dorothy dear, I am quite scared. What shall I do?" "Do just as I do," whispered the more experienced Dorothy, quietly leading Alfy into the room. Odd it is that those accustomed to hotel life are inapt to think of the trepidation of the novice or new comer. The head waiter conducted them to a table in the corner, then handed them his bill of fare. "What would you like to have?" Aunt Betty asked Alfaretta. "Oh, dear, most anything suits me, just what I would like to have I can't think. I want just what Dorothy orders," answered Alfy. "Well, Dorothy girl," said Aunt Betty, turning to her, "what will it be?" "I would like--oh, let me see. Can we have oysters, Aunt Betty?" asked Dorothy. "Then steak and baked potatoes. For salad just plain lettuce with French dressing." "Yes, that will do very nicely, dear, and we can have ice cream for dessert," answered Aunt Betty, who gave the order to the waiter. Shortly after they were served and all voted that they were enjoying a delightful repast. "What kind of ice cream would you like, Alfy?" asked Aunt Betty. "Strawberry," promptly answered Alfy, "it's so nice and pink." "Chocolate for me," cried Dorothy. "And for me, too," joined in Jim. "I think I shall have plain vanilla," added Aunt Betty, laughing. When dinner was over and a very pleasant meal it was, they all went up to Dorothy's sitting room for a quiet evening. "Oh, Dorothy and Aunt Betty, I had just the best dinner I have ever had. I must, I just must write it all to Ma Babcock, she will sure want to tell it at Liza Jane's." With that Alfy crossed the floor and entered her room where she wrote a long, long letter home telling her mother of the wonders of a New York hotel. "Ting-ling-ling-ling," bussed the telephone in the hall. Dorothy answered the call saying, "Hello. Oh! Why we are all up here. Where? Oh, yes, in the sitting room. Yes. Yes. Now? All right. Good-bye." Turning to Aunt Betty, Dorothy said, "It's Mr. Ludlow." "What did he want, dear?" asked Aunt Betty. "He is coming right up here," replied Dorothy. "There, that's him now. Didn't you hear a knock?" Opening the door she found Mr. Ludlow there. "Come in, Mr. Ludlow." Mr. Ludlow came in and deposited his gloves, cane and hat on a vacant space upon the table, then he sat down and turning to Dorothy said: "I suppose, little girl, you are very, very curious to know where you are going to play to-morrow--no, not to-morrow--the next day." "Yes, I am," timidly responded Dorothy. "Well, I am going to give you a treat. To-morrow I am going to ask Aunt Betty to take all you young folks to a matinee. I hope I have picked out a play that will suit you all. I have chosen 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.' I suppose you are quite familiar with the little heroine, Dorothy." "No, Mr. Ludlow, I am sorry to say I do not know her." "Oh dear, Dorothy didn't I get you the book to read?" asked Aunt Betty. "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, "but Molly took it home with her. She wanted something to read on the cars." "Well, well, never mind, you will enjoy the play all the more for not having read the story. Here are the seats, Mrs. Calvert. And, Dorothy, I would like you to notice the naturalness of the characters in the play, and profit by it. Naturalness and ease mean a great deal for you,--self possession--poise, my dear." "What about the concert? Where is that? When? Here I am asking questions faster than you can answer them," remarked Dorothy. "In time, in time, my dear," responded Mr. Ludlow. "Thursday I will call for you here and take you with me to Carnegie Hall, where, my dear, you will render two pieces. The rest of the concert has been arranged for, and the small part left for you will not scare you, but only help to get you used to playing before large audiences. Now, Dorothy child, what would you like to play? This time you can choose your own pieces." "I should like to play what Aunt Betty and Jim like best," answered Dorothy; "they hear me play oftener than anyone else." "My choice is 'Das Gude vom Lied,' by Schuman," replied Aunt Betty. "And mine is 'Rondo a capriccio,' by Beethoven," said Jim. "All right, all right, they will suit exactly," added Mr. Ludlow. "Mr. Ludlow," remarked Aunt Betty, "I would like to take up a few minutes of your time when you are finished with Dorothy." "I shall be through in just a few minutes, madam," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Do you want me to play again in New York?" questioned Dorothy. "Yes, just once more, my dear," answered Mr. Ludlow. "That is on Saturday night at the Hippodrome, at 8.15 p. m. It's a benefit concert for the blind babies of New York. Many famous people are offering their talent. You do not mind playing there, do you? Your future plans we will discuss later, but that will be all for now. No--I shall have to know what you are going to play there. May I suggest that 'Southern Medley' you play so well, and one other piece, say Shubert's 'Serenade.' Now have a good time to-morrow and be ready at one o'clock sharp, on Thursday." "What I wanted to say, Mr. Ludlow, was concerning Jim. He is thinking of taking a business proposition with the Edison Company as assistant in the department of installation," added Aunt Betty. "Why, really, Mrs. Calvert, I hardly know much about that line of business, but judging from hearsay I should say that Jim was very lucky indeed to get such an offer," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Haven't you any business friends in New York?" "Why Mr. Ford, the railroad man might help," announced Jim from his corner. "By all means see Mr. Ford," said Mr. Ludlow. "It's getting very late and I must go." "I will be ready for you in time on Thursday. And thank you, oh so much, for the tickets for to-morrow," replied Dorothy. CHAPTER V. THE CARNEGIE HALL CONCERT. "Oh, dear, what a lazy girl I am. Nine o'clock and I have not had breakfast. What day is it? Thursday,--and Mr. Ludlow coming here at one o'clock. I must hurry for I must practice some," murmured Dorothy to herself. "Dorothy girl, are you still in bed?" called Aunt Betty from the next room. "I'll be with you in just a minute, Aunty dear. I'm most ready. Oh, Alfy, please help me,--please," called Dorothy. "All right," replied Alfy, "do you need me to do up the back of your dress?" "Yes, and that's all. I'm so late. I did want to write Frau this morning, too," said Dorothy crossly. "Come, let's go to breakfast." After breakfast Dorothy practiced and Aunt Betty and Alfaretta took a walk and visited some of the large stores where they did a little shopping, Aunt Betty buying the girls each a pair of long white gloves and an Irish-lawn collar at Altman's. Dorothy was all dressed and waiting for them when they got home. She had on a very simple white dress, one they had made, with just a touch of pink, a small pink bow, at the waist, and a pink hair ribbon. She had practiced the two compositions thoroughly and felt that she knew them perfectly. True, she did feel a slight bit nervous, but in her past experience when she had her violin in her hands she lost self-consciousness and became wrapped up in her music. "Dorothy," called Alfy, "we are home, and, see, Aunt Betty bought me these. They are so pretty and I always did want them. I'm so glad I have them. But you go to Aunt Betty, she has something for you." "You are a funny girl, Alf," answered Dorothy. "You have been talking away and I haven't any idea what you were trying to get at. Aunt Betty, where are you?" "In the sitting room, dear," answered Aunt Betty. "What is Alfy talking about, Aunt Betty?" asked Dorothy, walking into the room. "This and this," replied Aunt Betty, holding up two packages. "These are for you, dear." Dorothy, taking the two packages and kissing her aunt, murmured: "You dear, dear Aunt Betty. I must see what's inside." She carefully opened the first and exclaimed as she drew forth a long pair of white gloves, "Oh, goody, goody. Just what I have been longing for." And then opening the second package she found it contained a very beautiful Irish crochetted collar. "Aunt Betty! You dear, dear Aunt Betty. Just think how fine this will look with my gray coat. Just like all the girls we see here in New York. You are the best aunt ever a girl had." Dorothy then gathered up her treasures and took them with her into the next room to put them away. Aunt Betty went into Alfy's room and said, "Alfy dear, if you will give me your coat I will help you sew the collar on it so you can wear it this afternoon." "Oh! that will be fine! I can wear it to the concert. And can I wear the red hair ribbon Ma Babcock bought me from Liza Jane's?" said Alfy. "Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling," rang the telephone bell. Dorothy rushed across the room to answer it and found that Mr. Ludlow was waiting for her below in a taxicab. "Good-bye, Aunt Betty, dear," called Dorothy; then running into her Aunt's room she kissed her several times. "You will all surely come. I do need you all there." "We'll be there in plenty of time, Dorothy dear," answered Aunt Betty. "Now run along girlie, and don't forget your violin." "Here it is," cried Alfy from the next room, "I'll bring it to you." "You're a dear, Alfy," called Dorothy, who by this time was already in the hall. Mr. Ludlow escorted Dorothy to the taxicab, getting in with her and, shutting the door, he directed the driver to go to Carnegie Hall. "Well, Dorothy, child," asked Mr. Ludlow, "is everything all right? You are not scared, are you? You just try to do your best and everything will be fine." "I'm not scared, I'm sure of that; but do you think the people will like me?" questioned Dorothy. "Sure of that, my dear, sure of that. All you must do is just be your very own self," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "But here we are and we must get out." The driver stopped the cab and they quickly descended and walked into the building. "Now, Dorothy, I am going to show you around the place. Just follow me," directed Mr. Ludlow. Dorothy looked at the large room and the many chairs and said hesitatingly, "Will it be crowded?"--and when Mr. Ludlow said he hoped so, she sighed and murmured: "My, what a lot of people I shall have to please!" then she added softly to herself, "Jim, Alfy and Aunt Betty; they will surely be pleased and the rest will, too, if I can make them." Mr. Ludlow then led Dorothy to the stage and made her walk up and down and all over the place so that she would get familiar with it. "Mr. Ludlow," asked Dorothy, "where shall I stand?" "Right about here," answered Mr. Ludlow, walking to the front of the stage and a little to the left. "Don't face directly front." "Is this right?" asked Dorothy, taking the position Mr. Ludlow requested. "That will do,--that will do just right," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Now come inside and I will take you to see some of the noted artists who are going to play or sing." He led Dorothy in from the stage and through a long narrow passage which terminated in a large room where there were numerous chairs, tables and couches. Dorothy noticed three or four girls talking together in the center of the room but those in other groups all seemed to be older. Mr. Ludlow walked over to the group in the center of the room and addressing a small, fair girl, said, "Good afternoon, Miss Boothington." The girl turned and seeing Mr. Ludlow, exclaimed, "Mr. Ludlow, I am so glad you are here. I did want you to hear my singing and criticize. You will, will you not?" "Miss Boothington, that shall be as you please. But now let me present you to a little friend of mine. This," remarked Mr. Ludlow, turning to Dorothy, "is Miss Dorothy Calvert, and Dorothy, this is my ward, Miss Ruth Boothington. Miss Boothington sings, and will be one of our companions on your trip." "I am so glad to meet you, Miss Calvert," replied Miss Boothington. "As we are to be so much together, please call me Dorothy if you will," interrupted Dorothy. "And you will call me Ruth," Miss Boothington remarked. "I know we shall have some very fine times together. And you are a solo violinist?" "Yes, I play the violin," answered Dorothy. "Are you going to sing to-day?" "Yes," answered Ruth. "At least I am going to try to." "Here, here. That will never do, Miss Ruth. You should have said that you would sing. Of course you would sing," remarked Mr. Ludlow. Turning to Dorothy, he said, "Well, Dorothy, I think I shall leave you here with Miss Boothington. I guess she can take care of you. I am going to the front and will sit with your Aunt Betty." With that Mr. Ludlow left the two girls and walked out and around front where he looked for Aunt Betty. "Is this the place? My, ain't it big!" exclaimed Alfy, as Aunt Betty and Jim followed her to the door. "I have our tickets here," remarked Jim, presenting them to the doorkeeper. "I guess we shall have to go right in and get our seats," added Aunt Betty. "Keep close to me, Alfy, and Jim, you see that Alfy doesn't get lost." They were at last ushered into a large box on the right side of the house. "My, what a lot of seats. Is there going to be people in all of them?" asked Alfy, leaning so far out of the box that she almost fell over the rail. "Here! You sit still," sharply corrected Jim. "And, Alfy, try to act like a young lady, not like a back-woods little girl. Sit still." Alfy reluctantly subsided and appeared to be rather angry. Aunt Betty, noticing this said, "Watch me, Alfy, and do as I do and you will be all right." "Good-afternoon, Mr. Ludlow," said Jim, making room for him. "Good-afternoon, all," answered Mr. Ludlow, seating himself next Aunt Betty. "Did you come to keep us company all the afternoon?" asked Aunt Betty. "Or did you just wish to hear Dorothy play?" "I thought you wouldn't mind if I sat with you," replied Mr. Ludlow. "I have quite a few young friends who are to help entertain us this afternoon. I do hope you shall enjoy them." Ruth had, in the meantime, presented Dorothy to the other girls in the group, and they all chattered gayly for a while. Ruth glanced at her watch, and drawing Dorothy aside, said, "Let's sit down quietly for a few minutes, and say nothing at all. It always helps to calm you and give you self-possession." The girls walked to a far end of the room and sat down, keeping silent for several minutes. Then Ruth broke the silence by asking, "Where is your violin, Dorothy?" "I guess it's over there where we were standing before," replied Dorothy, rising and making her way quickly to the spot. But no violin was visible. "My!" exclaimed Ruth. "What did you do with it?" "Oh," lamented Dorothy, "I don't know." "Where did you have it last?" questioned Ruth. "I had it home in the hotel," moaned Dorothy, most in tears. "I remember I did bring it. Alfy handed it to me and I took it in the taxi." "In the taxi? That's where you left it, you foolish child," interrupted Ruth. "How, oh how, can I get it? I must have it. I have to play," groaned Dorothy. "Run! Run and telephone. Call up the New York Taxicab Company," breathlessly exclaimed Ruth. "Oh, oh, Dorothy, I must go! I must! I just must, yet how can I leave you here--but I have got to sing now. Oh, I am all out of breath." "Stop talking, you dear girl, and go and sing your best so as to make them give you an encore, anything to gain more time for me. Now go!" And Dorothy kissed her and pushed her forward. Running down the length of the room, she flew into a telephone booth, and hastily searching out the number called up Columbus 6,000. "Hello, hello," called Dorothy, frantically. "Hello! Is--has--a man come back with a violin in his taxicab--I must have it! I have to play! Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Good-bye." She hung up the receiver, and sat back despondently. The cab had not returned in which she had ridden to the hall. "Oh, what shall I do! No violin and my turn to play next. What shall I do, oh, what shall I do?" "Miss Calvert," called the boy. "Your turn next." "Oh, dear," moaned Dorothy, "see if you can borrow an instrument for me from one of the musicians in the orchestra." Just then a man rushed into the room carrying a violin under his arm. Dorothy ran up to him and fairly snatched the precious thing out of his arms, exclaiming, "I can play now. I can. I can! Oh, thank you, thank you! But I must go. Please come to the Prince Arthur to-night at 8.30 p. m. I will see you then." With that she dashed off, and trying to calm herself, walked upon the stage. She carefully positioned herself just where Mr. Ludlow had told her to stand, and waiting for the introduction to be played by the orchestra, looked around the house, and discovering the box party, smiled at them gayly. When the last few bars of the music were played, gracefully placing her violin in position she commenced to draw her bow gently across the strings and produced clear, vibrant tones. Her body moved rhythmically, swaying back and forward in perfect accord with the music. The audience listened spellbound, and when she had finished the whole house echoed with applause. She then walked slowly off the stage, only to be motioned back again to play an encore which she did with as much success as she had scored with her first piece. When she turned from the stage the second time Ruth, who was waiting in the wings, whispered in her ear, "Dorothy dear, you did just splendidly, and you will surely be a great success. The people applauded you so very much I thought they would never stop." "Oh, I'm so glad. I do hope Mr. Ludlow liked it, and is satisfied with me," murmured Dorothy. "I can answer that, Dorothy," said a voice in back of her that belonged to Mr. Ludlow, who had left the box just as Dorothy had finished playing and come to speak to them. "Both of you girls did very well indeed. Very well indeed. But come now with me and we'll go around and sit in the box and listen to the rest of the concert. I want to hear it all." With that they traced their way back and soon were seated with the rest of the party. Dorothy told them all about how she had lost her violin and at the last minute recovering it vowed that she would be more careful of it in the future. The little party was loud in its praises of Dorothy's playing and Ruth's singing, for Dorothy presented her new friend to them as soon as she could. That evening they learned that it was the chauffeur of the taxicab who had found the violin in the auto before he had returned to the garage, and he had immediately started back for the hall with it, knowing it would be needed. Dorothy sent a letter of thanks and a reward, and Aunt Betty, learning the next day that he had a little boy with a broken leg in the hospital, sent a large basket of fruit for the young sufferer. CHAPTER VI. THE OPERA. The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered. "Dorothy, I have written and 'phoned Mr. Ford and I can't seem to get any answer from him," announced Jim. "What did you want him for, Jim?" questioned Dorothy. "Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with the Edison Co.," answered Jim. "I have it!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Send him a telegram." "I might try that, though I have about made up my mind----" Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, "Dorothy, Dorothy, girl!" "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, going to her aunt's door. "What may you want?" "Don't you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive this afternoon? It's a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth avenue and into the park," suggested Aunt Betty. "That will be fine. I'll run and tell Alfy and we'll get ready," responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. "Alfy! Alfy! Where are you?" "In here," called Alfy from her room. Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, "Alfy dear, just think, we are going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are going driving--driving." "Oh, that's just great," exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. "It's fun to go driving in a big city." "Let's get ready right away," said Dorothy, taking Alfy's hand and dancing round in a circle with her, singing, "Let's get ready, let's get ready, let's get ready right away." And then they let go of each other's hands and danced away to accomplish the art of "getting ready right away." Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt Betty. Just then Jim burst into the room crying, "Dorothy, I can't get a horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for us, so hustle into your things." "An auto ride! That's better still," responded Alfy as she rushed to put on her hat and coat. "I am all ready, dear," called Aunt Betty from the next room. "Well, then, come on," answered Jim. "All come with me." And they followed him down and out to the automobile. They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his place with the driver. Aunt Betty called, "Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive slowly and to go up Fifth avenue." Away they went. "Oh, oh, oh!" gasped Alfy at the first corner. "Oh, I most thought we would bump into that trolley car!" "Well," said Jim, "we didn't, but it was a pretty close shave." "Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had," said Dorothy. "I guess," replied Jim, "that the only ones hurt would have been ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn't have bothered that much." Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and down that old thoroughfare. "Dorothy and Alfy," said Aunt Betty, "in those large houses live the very rich of New York." "Oh, I wouldn't live in a house like that," said Alfy, "if I was rich. I couldn't, I just could never be happy in one like that," pointing to a large gray stone mansion. "It hasn't any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other." "Don't the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?" questioned Dorothy. "Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes," laughed Aunt Betty. "They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter." "Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time," said practical Jim. "A real home, like Bellevieu." "Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn't exchange it either for all of these places," whispered Dorothy. "And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted." Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy's trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last. Then answering Dorothy, she said, "Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear." "But I do," whispered Dorothy in her ear, "because I love you more than anyone else in the world." "Yes, dear, maybe now you do," rejoined Aunt Betty, "but some day, some day wait and see." They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty. From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant's Tomb. Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen. "Well, what next, Dorothy girl?" exclaimed Aunt Betty. "Why, I don't quite know. Let me see--just what day is this?" said Dorothy to herself. "It's--it's--oh, yes, it's Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry--dress right at once." "Dorothy, child, what ails you?" laughed Aunt Betty. "Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?" "Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It's Friday, and we promised--I mean I promised--but I forgot all about it," continued Dorothy. Just then Alfy interrupted. "Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please." "Well," rejoined Dorothy, "it's just this. You see, I promised--" "You said all that before," interrupted Alfy again. "Be still, Alfy, or I just won't tell," scolded Dorothy. "Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o'clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don't see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it's a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up 'cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera." "Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?" asked Aunt Betty. "Guess 'cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn't that so?" chimed in Alfy. "That doesn't excuse my little girl," remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, "What is it we are going to hear, dearest?" "I think Mr. Ludlow said 'Koenigskinder'," answered Dorothy. "I am not sure but that's what I think he said." "Ah, yes," said Aunt Betty, "that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us." "Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?" called Dorothy. "Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore," said Aunt Betty. "All right," called back Dorothy. It didn't take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren't two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, "In all the world," thinking only of Dorothy then. Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as possible. They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves--for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then--they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow. "Well, well," said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, "all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late." "Well," replied Ruth, "somehow I always try but just can't seem to get dressed in time. I didn't keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?" "Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals," rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, "Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early." The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer. It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage. They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory's convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary: The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain. Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King's Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown. The King's Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King's service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl's wreath away. The King's Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King's Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King's mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near. The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape. A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King's Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman's daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act. In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper's Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King's Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper's Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl's anger. The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King's Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper's table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved. One of the Broom-maker's daughters asks the King's Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in the woods. The King's Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter's account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King's Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King's Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King's Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne. This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act. Winter has come. Since the expulsion of the King's Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch's hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King's Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked. Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King's Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King's Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King's Son's old home. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King's Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs "I love thee, dear!" The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor "Kingly Children." After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were driven straight home. "Alfy," said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, "you are such a funny girl. You didn't half pay attention to the opera at all. All I saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes." "I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the one that glistened all over with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice low neck and long train," said Alfy. "Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?" laughed Dorothy. "Oh, oh! Just imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It's so funny." "Why, Dorothy!" angrily added Alfy, "why couldn't ma have a dress like that? And anyway, I couldn't understand a word they were singing. I am going right to bed, I am, so there!" "Alfy, dear, don't you know that people only wear dresses like that to evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn't understand, it was all in German. Here, kiss me good-night." The girls kissed each other and were soon fast asleep. CHAPTER VII. AN EPISODE. The next morning no one arose very early. They were all quite willing to rest. Jim, first of all, was up and out. He had been working over a list of boarding houses as he had quite decided to take the position, and his salary would not permit him to live in an expensive hotel. He had not been very successful and on returning to the hotel found Aunt Betty reading in their sitting room. "Aunt Betty," said Jim. "Yes," answered Aunt Betty, "what is it? Do you want to talk business with me?" "Yes, business," responded Jim, doubtfully. "I have been out all the morning trying to find a boarding house." "A boarding house?" echoed Aunt Betty. "Yes, a boarding house," answered Jim. "You see I have quite decided to take the position. I received a letter from Mr. Ford's secretary saying Mr. Ford is abroad, and not expected back for some time. And if I work there at the Edison, I must live in a boarding house not too far away from there. I didn't have much luck." "Why not ask Mr. Ludlow? He might know of a place," suggested Aunt Betty. "Or maybe you could see if there is a room at that place where Ruth, Miss Boothington, is staying. You remember her saying that she was tired of boarding house meals, do you not?" "I never thought of that," added Jim. "Suppose I ask Dorothy where she lives, maybe she knows." "Yes, call her," replied Aunt Betty. "Dorothy! Dorothy! Where are you?" called Jim. "Here, in Alfy's room, I have been writing in my diary," answered the girl. "I will be there in just a minute. Oh, dear," she continued to herself, "I just can't seem to ever write to Frau. Every time I start on that letter someone calls, and then I stop writing, and it is so long before I can get at it again. I have to begin all over." "Well, young man, what is it this time?" she said, turning to Jim as she entered the room. "It's just this, Dorothy. You see, I am going to take the position in New York and I must live here," started Jim. "Ah, Jim, you never told me anything about really taking a position. I just supposed that--well, I don't quite know--but I didn't think you really meant to do it," interrupted Dorothy. "I do, Dorothy, mean it. And I have made up my mind to take it and work, so hard that some day I can make a man out of myself like Dr. Sterling and some others I know," replied Jim. "But to get down to the point why we called you, Aunt Betty thought you might help in finding a boarding place for me. You see, I must live here in the city, and it's hard to find a good boarding place. Miss Ruth, last night, said something about her place. Do you know where it is?" "No, Jim, I can't say that I do, but I heard her say that it was down on lower Fifth avenue--way downtown, she said. I might call up Mr. Ludlow and find out right now, or you can wait till to-night, for I play at that concert at the Hippodrome this evening, you know." "Call him up now, dear," suggested Aunt Betty from her corner. "Then you and Jim can take a walk there this afternoon. Alfy and I can find something to amuse ourselves with. We could take one of those stages and ride up Fifth avenue on it. It's a fine ride on a nice day like this." "Very well," answered Dorothy, immediately going to the telephone, and acting on her aunt's suggestion. Jim and Aunt Betty sat quietly by till she had finished her conversation at the telephone. "Mr. Ludlow says that Ruth lives on Fifth avenue, near Washington square, and it's a very large, old-fashioned boarding house run by an elderly southern lady, who, being in very adverse circumstances, had to take hold and do something. He said that the rooms were fairly large, the meals first rate and the charges moderate, and that we had better see her at once because she has usually a pretty full house," added Dorothy. "Why not start at once, dear," replied Aunt Betty. "Then you can come home and practice this afternoon, and as Alfy and I will be out there will be nothing to distract you." "Yes, let's go now, Dorothy, if you can spare the time to go with me," pleaded Jim. "Where is it near?" "He says it is near Ninth street," replied Dorothy. "All right, Jim, I will be ready in a few minutes. Oh dear," she sighed to herself, "poor Frau will not get her letter very soon, I guess. Well, I can write this afternoon, after I practice, and I will make the letter extra long so as to make up for the time I have taken to write her." "Good-bye, Aunt Betty," called Dorothy a short time later. "Good-bye, Aunt Betty," echoed Jim. "We'll be back soon." With that the two disappeared and Aunt Betty from her corner sighed as she thought of what a charming pair the pretty Dorothy and the tall youth made. "Shall we ride?" asked Jim. "No. Let's walk, it is not far, only a few blocks," said Dorothy. "That's just what I wanted to do," replied Jim, "only I was most afraid you would not care to. We haven't had a good walk in a long time." They walked on silently as the streets were so crowded and there was lots to see, and the crossings required much attention, these two not being used to the busy streets of New York, where one has to look in all directions at once and keep moving lively to avoid being run into by the many automobiles or trucks that are hurrying along. Finally Dorothy, observing the number on the houses, said: "Here we are, this is the house." Up the steps they ran and Jim gave the old-fashioned bell a vigorous pull. "Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling," vaguely sounded from somewhere within and presently a pleasant faced young girl with white cap and apron and dark dress, said in a low voice, "Whom do you wish to see?" Jim answered, "Will you tell Miss Boothington that Miss Dorothy Calvert wishes to see her?" Slowly they followed the neat maid into the old fashioned parlor and waited there for her to take the message to Ruth. "Oh, Jim," whispered Dorothy, very softly putting her hand on Jim's arm. "Jim, if I were you I should love to stay here. It is more like a home, a real home than any place I have been in, in the big city." "Yes, it is. And it is so quiet and restful. I do hope there will be room for me here," answered Jim. Just then they heard foot-steps on the stairs and in a second Ruth's cheery voice greeted them with a "Hello!" from the hall. "Well, this is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you till to-night, Dorothy. Have I you to thank for bringing her to me?" she asked, smiling at Jim. "Yes, I guess so," replied Dorothy. "We came on business." "On business!" echoed Ruth. "Yes, on business," answered Jim. "It's just this: You see I have taken a position in New York and I have to board here. We didn't know of any place and Aunt Betty thought of something you had said the night before about boarding-house meals." "Yes," continued Dorothy, "and I called Mr. Ludlow up and he recommended this place and we came right down here, and we have just fallen in love with the place at first sight. Haven't we, Jim?" "Wait. Let me see. You want to see Mrs. Quarren. She is out just now, but she is such a dear. I know! You must both stay to lunch. It is just eleven forty-five and we lunch here at twelve. You see so many of the boarders here do not come home at noon-time, they work too far to come back, so that there will be plenty of room. And then you can see how the table suits you. Mrs. Quarren is always in for meals. You see she is just a great dear mother to us all. I won't know what to do without her." "I will lend you Aunt Betty when you are with us," volunteered Dorothy. "But we must let her know we are going to stay here for lunch." "I'll telephone her if you will show me where the 'phone is," spoke up Jim. "Right this way, please," said Ruth, leading Jim into the hall where he saw the little table and 'phone. "Come back to the parlor when you are through," and Ruth went back to Dorothy. "You are to play to-night, are you not?" she inquired. "Yes, and are you to sing?" questioned Dorothy. "Right after you play. We are each to do just one thing to-night. I am going to sing 'Still vie de Nochte,' or in English, 'Still as the Night,' you see it's just a little German song. What are you to play?" asked Ruth. "I thought I was to play two selections--Mr. Ludlow said so----" started Dorothy. "Yes, dear, you were," interrupted Ruth, "but he changed his mind after I had coaxed him and he has consented to let me sing so we each can have one number then." "Well, then I will play that old medley, 'Southern Airs.' I like that best of all. It makes me think of home," answered Dorothy. "And I always can just fairly see old Bellevieu when you play that piece," added Jim from the doorway. "Aunt Betty said it was satisfactory, and that she and Alfy would go out this afternoon and for you to come home soon and practice." Just then the luncheon bell sounded and the three went quickly down stairs. They were seated at a small table near the window. Ruth always sat there and as the other guests at that table were never present for luncheon, Dorothy and Jim could sit there too. So the three had the little table all to themselves. Just as soon as she could, Mrs. Quarren came over to the table, for she had returned from her duties outside. Ruth presented Dorothy and Jim to her, and as she sat pleasantly chatting, Jim told her of his want. She said she would see him after dinner in the library. "Well, Dorothy, you come to my room with me while Jim sees Mrs. Quarren in the library," said Ruth, rising and carefully pushing her chair back under the table. "You are very kind. I would like to see your room. You lead and I will follow," answered Dorothy. "Oh, the room is not much. You come too, Jim, and I will show you where the library is," said Ruth, leading the way upstairs. "Right in there, Jim." Jim entered the library and the girls ascended to the floors above. "I am going out this afternoon with a friend," said Ruth. "I promised I would go shopping with her," and she opened the door of her room. The room was a large, sunny one with simple furnishings. "I'll sit here," announced Dorothy, "till you are ready to go." "I will just hustle with my things and be ready in a moment," replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words. In a very few minutes the girls were ready and slowly descended the stairs again to wait for Jim in the parlor. "Well, here I am. Room engaged and all," said a cheery voice from the hall which they knew as Jim's. "Where is it?" questioned Ruth. "Yes, where?" echoed Dorothy. "Where do you suppose?" mocked Jim. "Well, I will tell you. Ruth it is your room." "My room!" exclaimed the girl. "Yes, your room," laughed Jim. "I am to have it next Wednesday. Mrs. Quarren said you were to leave it Tuesday." "Tuesday!" interrupted Dorothy, in a very much surprised tone of voice. "Yes, dear, Tuesday. Didn't Mr. Ludlow tell you?" added Ruth. "Tuesday we go to Washington on the noon train." "Ah, is it so soon? I didn't know it. It makes me feel so sad. I hate to leave New York now, just as I am becoming used to it," wailed Dorothy. "Oh, I just must go back to the hotel. I have to practice and it is getting late." "Come on, Dorothy," said Jim, rising and walking to the door. "Good-bye till to-night," said Dorothy. "Good-bye, dear, till to-night," answered Ruth. With that Dorothy and Jim made their departure for home. The way back was rather quiet, for the news that the girls were to start so soon had made Jim sad. And Dorothy couldn't help but feel the same way. When at last they had silently reached the hotel and had gone up to the rooms, Dorothy spoke. "Jim, do you want to stay here and be my audience while I practice and tell me what you think of my playing?" "Yes, indeed I do," answered Jim, gladly grasping the opportunity to be near the girl, and when he had seated himself in a great chair added, "I'll be more than audience, I'll be newspaper reporter and a very exacting and critical one at that. And then, when you finish I will tell you what I would put in the paper about you and your playing." "That's a bargain," answered Dorothy, taking her violin in hand. "I will start right now." So saying she commenced playing slowly at first, anon faster and faster, then again more slowly that beautiful composition, "A Medley of Southern Airs," putting all her love and yearning for her own southern home into the effort. Jim from his chair by the window could picture each phase of the piece, and when she had finished with the beautiful sad strains of "Home, Sweet Home," he could hardly control himself, and man that he was, he could not keep the tears from his eyes. For a brief moment neither spoke. Dorothy laid down her violin and came over to him. Jim arose and took both her hands, saying softly, "Dorothy girl, it was wonderful, but it makes me so sad. I just can't bear to think of parting from you." "Jim, dear, you too feel sad?" she questioned softly, but withdrawing her hands. Jim let the little hands slowly drop but took her by the shoulders, looking eagerly into her eyes. "You will miss me?" he questioned, "really miss me?" "Of course I will, dreadfully so," she answered. Then without a word of warning he drew her gently to him and kissed her full on the lips. For one brief moment they clung together, then Dorothy withdrew his arms. "Jim, oh, Jim! what have you done?" she sobbed. "Girl, I just couldn't help it," answered Jim, gently drawing her into his embrace again. "Dorothy, little Dorothy, didn't you know before? Couldn't you guess?" "Jim, dear, I never thought of you that way, and it's so new and strange. I can't realize it all." And with that Dorothy rushed away and into her own room. CHAPTER VIII. "AMERICA." Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist. She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair "up," and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room. "Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear," he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her. Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always was accustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. "What is it you want to say?" she asked, seating herself leisurely. "It's about what happened this afternoon," Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child. "Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can't make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can't help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn't mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness," he added, bitterly. Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: "Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can't we?" "Yes, and no, Jim," quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn't realize and even now didn't understand. Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, "Could you love me? Could you? You don't know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don't leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?" "Jim, I do, a little," was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips. "Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up," she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, "I just can't let you go now. I just can't." "Jim, dear, you must or I won't even love you a little," she laughed. "Well, if I must, I must," he said, kissing her just once again. "My girl, my own girl," he added. "Jim, I haven't promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I'd have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn't call me yours. If, when I come back from my trip, and that's a long time from now, I do love you----" added Dorothy. "You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!" cried Jim. "I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?" "I said if I did love you then," teased Dorothy, "and that's if----" "You little tease," interrupted Jim. "I will punish you." "No you won't," Dorothy added quickly. "And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I'll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn't disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it." "Very well," acquiesced Jim, sadly, "it will be very hard though. I'll promise if you will write me every day while you are away." "Every day!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Not every day. I wouldn't know what to say." "All you would have to say to me would be, 'I love you,' over and over again," laughed Jim. "But I can't, cause maybe I don't," teased Dorothy, "but I'll write sometimes." "Sometimes," complained Jim, mournfully. "Sometimes is better than never," laughed the girl. "Very well. I'll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day," said Jim. "Kiss me once more, then I won't bother you again." Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck's comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played. While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, "Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?" "Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up to Ninety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again," answered Aunt Betty. "And what did you think of it, Alfy?" asked Jim, turning to the girl. "I just couldn't keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels--afternoon tea--and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah," and Alfy heaved a great sigh, "I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get--oh, I just couldn't tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad." And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her. Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, "Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlow at the Hotel Astor at six o'clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts." "Certainly, if you wish it," answered Aunt Betty. So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, "Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they--Ruth and Mr. Ludlow--would call for me--about six o'clock. What shall I wear?" "The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion," answered Aunt Betty. "I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim." "Oh, Aunt Betty," interrupted Dorothy. "I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth's, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday--the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress." "And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?" questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned. "Take your violin, dear, and hurry. The 'phone is ringing now and I guess that is them. Yes, it is," said Aunt Betty, answering the call. "Good-bye, all, for just a little while. You all be early," called Dorothy, as she left the room. After a remarkably fine dinner at the Hotel Astor, which the girls enjoyed immensely, they all drove to the Hippodrome. Mr. Ludlow led the girls inside and showed them where they were to sit while they waited for their turn to play or sing. There were many, many people in a large room and Mr. Ludlow told them they were the artists and their friends, but that presently all that were to take part would meet in the room where the girls were. He left them there for a few minutes and went away to find out if they had been given their places on the list. He found their numbers were five and six, Ruth being five. He came back, told the girls this and then left them to themselves till their turns came. They sat still, not saying much but enjoying all the people about them,--some of them seemed to them so queer. Finally it was Ruth's turn to sing. Slowly she got up, walked to the entrance and on the stage. She rendered her simple song, "Still vie die Nochte" very well, and amid a volley of applause, left the stage. She could not give an encore so she simply walked to the front again and bowed. Dorothy, listening, had heard all and was preparing for her task, tuning her violin. Just then Ruth, returning, whispered in her ear, "Good luck," as she passed her. Dorothy turned and smiled at her new friend, and then proceeded forward to the stage, violin in hand. One brief glimpse she caught of the crowded house, and she thought she had never seen so many, many people before. The Hippodrome is very large, the stage being one of the largest in the world, and the seating capacity being many thousands. So you see there were a great number of people there. The house was over-crowded, as naturally every one was interested in the home for blind babies, and the talent of the evening had called forth a very large attendance. Slowly Dorothy raised her violin and started the initial strain of the melody. The beautiful "Southern Airs" appealed to many, as there were a large number of southerners present that night. Played by the beautiful girl, it made the old go back in memory to days that were the happiest in their lives. They longed for the South; the large plantations, the beautiful gardens, the spacious, old, rambling houses, the darkies playing on their violins in the moonlight, the cabins with the little pickaninies disporting in front--all of these and more dreams floated vividly before them, inspired by the wonderful music. Then softly, very softly the music fell from the violin, the sweet strains of "Dixie," when suddenly a piercing shriek, another, still another, rent the air. People turned pale. Some started to rise from their seats. A woman or two fainted. Then another and more awful shriek, which sounded as if some one was being murdered. The people in their seats hesitated! Was it fire? Was someone being robbed, or murdered, or what? In a single second a great restlessness took possession of them all, tending to make of the crowd an angry mob, and panic a possible result. Dorothy from her place on the stage for a moment was rooted immovable to the spot. She looked in the direction from which the screams came and saw a man throw up his hands and shriek again. It was the man who played the trombone in the orchestra. He threw his instrument in the air and turned as white as chalk, then stiffened out and began to froth at the mouth. In a moment she knew that the man had convulsions. She had somewhere seen someone in a similar state. The orchestra had suddenly stopped playing. Out in the audience she saw a sight that terrified her more than she would admit to herself. One thought raced through her brain. She, she alone might--nay must--prevent a panic; people were becoming more excited every moment. Instinct of some sort made her grasp her violin and raise it. Then she knew what to do. Without accompaniment, in clear, sweet tones she played "America." Slowly the people rose, rose to pay their respects to their national hymn, patriotism immediately conquering all fear. While she played the poor trombone player was carried out to receive medical attention. All through the three verses of the hymn Dorothy held the audience, and then as she finished and the curtain fell, the house broke out in thunderous applause, for now they realized what this girl had done, what possibilities she had saved them from. So insistent was the applause that Dorothy had to stop in front of the curtain again and again. CHAPTER IX. A DREAD CALL IN THE NIGHT. The next day Dorothy was ill as the result of the strain of the previous evening, and when Mr. Ludlow and Ruth called they found her resting on the couch in the living room. Ruth was eager to talk of the happenings of the night before, but Mr. Ludlow restrained her, saying: "Dorothy, I am very proud of you, and I want to thank you for what you did last night. The morning papers are full of the news of the events of last night, and now every place you go you will be doubly welcomed and given hearty receptions. It was a very good thing for us as it has given you advance press notices, which are superior and more convincing than anything I could put in for you. You will probably get all kinds of letters from people wanting you to play at private concerts, but keep them, my dear, as sometimes they come in very handy, and you never can tell when you can use them. "But for the present you must rest, that is, to-day and to-morrow. Tuesday we start on the noon train for Washington, so be prepared and on time. Ruth has much packing to do likewise, so we will go now and leave you to yourself." "Oh, can't I stay and talk?" interrupted Ruth eagerly. "There are so many things I want to talk to Dorothy about." "No. I guess you had better go home and pack up. You know I want you to go to church to-night. There is to be a musical service at St. Bartholomew's that I want you to hear," added Mr. Ludlow. "Can't we all go?" questioned Ruth. "I think Dorothy is better off home, here," rejoined Aunt Betty. "She had better stay here and rest, just for to-day. Then you see, she has to pack and shop a little to-morrow." "I would like to go," Alfy chimed in. "I just love church music, it is so grand, so very impressive and kind of awe inspiring." "All right," answered Mr. Ludlow, "suppose you do. You can bring Jim with you, if he would care to come." "I know I should enjoy the services very much," responded Jim, not very enthusiastically, but so long as he couldn't be with Dorothy he could sit there and think of her, and Alfy was so anxious to go it would be unkind to refuse. "Well, you two meet us there," said Mr. Ludlow, and turning to Ruth, "Come along, my dear." "Good-bye, all," said Ruth, and they departed. Dorothy and Aunt Betty stayed home as arranged, while Jim and Alfy attended church, returning to the hotel just as Aunt Betty and Dorothy were about to retire. "Oh, Dorothy," exclaimed Alfy, eagerly, "you ought to have gone, you missed such a lot. The music was so beautiful. I just know that an organ has locked up in those big pipes the finest music in the world. It's so solemn and impressive it most made me cry." "But you forget the wonderful singing," interrupted Jim. "They had a full choir, and the voices of so many young boys sounded like the voices of angels. And as they played the recessional and marched out, the singing grew softer and softer, and sounded as if it were coming from Heaven indeed." Dorothy did not say anything at this, but looked at Jim earnestly. "I am glad you enjoyed the services. Yes, the Episcopal services, I do think, are the most impressive of all denominations," said Aunt Betty. "Did you see Ruth and Mr. Ludlow?" asked Dorothy, turning to Alfy. She was afraid to look at Jim for fear of seeing something in his eyes she felt she had no right at that time to see. "Yes, we met them in time, and they both wished to be remembered to you and Aunt Betty, and hoped you were feeling rested now," answered Alfy. "Come, let's go to bed now, dears," said Aunt Betty. "We all have to do a lot to-morrow and must get up real early." With that they all retired to rest till the morrow. That at least was their expectation, but soon there was to materialize a different aspect to affairs. New York, even at night, is a noisy place, so it is little wonder that when the cries of "Fire," "Fire," rent the air, few heard and the few who did hear paid not much attention. But when someone knocked on Mrs. Calvert's door with a terrific thud, and yelled, "Fire! Fire! All out! Use stairs to the left!" all three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, were out of their beds with unhesitating promptness, and remarkably scared at that. "Fire! Fire!" rang through the air, and they could hear the bell-boys thump, thump, thump on each door. "Put on your slippers and kimona and come at once!" commanded Aunt Betty, suiting actions to her words. "Come, Alfy, Dorothy, this way out!" Very quickly, indeed, the girls, too bewildered to do much else but obey orders, followed close by, Alfy picking up her hat and a few other articles as she ran through her room. "This way, ladies," called the bell-boy. "This way. No danger, only it's best to get out. Use this stair." Aunt Betty and the girls quickly gained the stairs, and ran down as fast as they could, one after the other. On reaching the main floor they heard the call of another attendant. "All step outside and across the street." So they followed quietly on and outside till they stood on the opposite side of the street. There were assembled a couple of hundred people, mainly guests of the hotel, most of them more or less asleep and very scantily clothed in garments hastily assumed. Some of the women and children were sobbing, and most of them shivering. Looking up at the hotel, Dorothy tried to locate just where the fire was. She finally discovered a little flame and smoke curling up from the wing of the hotel, not where their rooms were, but far above, near the top floors. Quickly she ran her eye down and counted the floors, finding that the fire was on the tenth and eleventh floors. Suddenly it came to her that her priceless violin, her precious Cremona, was back there in their rooms on the seventh floor. Suddenly she slipped away from Aunt Betty and started toward the building. Swiftly she made her way through the crowd, and very quietly passed the firemen and bell-boys who stood about the entrance to the burning building. In a second she was past them, and on her way up the long stairs as she knew that the elevators were not running, and would not take her up if they were. She felt sure that she could get to the room and return with safety without being missed. In the meantime, Jim, who had not awakened at the first alarm, almost frantic at not being able to discover Aunt Betty and the girls, was wandering in and out of the crowd, scanning the faces of everyone very carefully, trying vainly to find the ones he loved best in all this wide, wide world. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm and a voice said, "Jim, Jim, we have been looking for you. Where have you been?" and Jim turned and saw it was Aunt Betty that spoke. "What do you think of the fire?" she continued. "Do you think it is going to be real serious?" "No. But one can hardly tell. I should judge that with the capable fire service that New York has, so fully equipped and strictly up-to-date, that they could get it under entire control with possible danger to only a couple of floors," answered Jim. "Then, maybe our floor will not be burned at all?" inquired Alfy. "I hope not," answered Aunt Betty. Just then Jim turned to look at the girl, for she stood directly in back of Aunt Betty, and catching sight of her he laughed outright. "Why, Alfy, what have you there?" he exclaimed. A funny sight, indeed, was Alfy, her little bedroom slippers of red just peeping out from under her bright pink kimona which she had slipped on over her night dress, and a bright red hat in her hand. "My hat," answered Alfy. "My best new hat. I saw it lying on the table so I picked it up as I passed. I couldn't bear to think of losing it. It's my favorite color and here it is." She placed the hat on her head and laughed as she did so. Aunt Betty turned and laughed, too, and so did many of the people around them. The girl looked funny indeed with the kimona and the hat. Her long, abundant growth of hair was braided down her back in two huge braids tied at the ends with blue hair ribbons which had long been discarded from day use. The red hat topping all looked as if the fire itself was there in their midst. "Great heavens!" exclaimed Aunt Betty, suddenly. "Where is Dorothy? Where is she?" Whereat faintness overcame her, and she dropped helpless upon the sidewalk. Jim caught and held her in his young strong arms, and carried her over to a chair that had been brought out of the hotel. Here he put her in the care of a young matron, who had kindly offered assistance, and was aiding Alfy. Being sure that she was safe and well cared for, he quickly began to look for Dorothy. In a few seconds he ran through the crowd, his heart sinking, as he could not locate her anywhere. Then he thought she might have gone back to the burning building. The thought of her, the girl he loved, up there in that dangerous place nearly drove him frantic. Quickly he rushed past the fire lines, yelling to the policemen who would have delayed him perhaps, when every moment was precious. He must find her. His Dorothy must be saved. "There is someone in there I must save!" he shouted to those he passed. He hurried on and ran into the building. First he went toward the elevator, but seeing no one there, turned and ran for the stairs. Quickly he mounted them quickly--indeed he ran! Up those seven long flights of stairs he went with an energy he never called forth before. As he neared their floor he saw that the fire had in some few places broken through to the seventh floor, and realized that he could go no higher, and had but a few moments more. "Dorothy! Dorothy!" he called out. He thought he heard a very faint answer from her and rushed madly onward. He could not see, and was choked by the thickening smoke. Finding his way into the bath room he opened the window, then he picked up two large towels and hastily wet them with cold water. One of those he wrapped about his head, and then he called again. She answered faintly, and then he found the girl, her precious violin in her hands. She choked with the smoke, and was all out of breath from her long race up the many flights of stairs. "Jim," she sobbed. "I just had to get this. I couldn't leave my violin up here," and fell into his arms. "Come girl," said Jim, sternly. "Here, put this around your face, so," and he carefully adjusted the wet towel he had provided for the purpose. "Now, follow me, and give me your hand." Just outside the doors the smoke was very dense. "Lay down and creep!" ordered Jim, "and give me your violin." He took the violin and forced Dorothy down and beside him so that their heads would be close to the floor. As you doubtless know, smoke rises, and the place freest from smoke would be the lowest possible one. Thus they crept until they reached the stair. "Stand up, now," commanded Jim, "and take the violin again." Then he took her in his arms and rapidly made his way down, till they had passed the zone of danger. Here for one brief moment he held the girl in his arms, murmuring lowly, "Thank God, darling, you are safe now." Then they quickly made their way to the place where he had left Aunt Betty and Alfy. There sat Mrs. Calvert, pale but calm. On seeing her, Dorothy rushed into her aunt's arms, and explained, "Dear Aunt Betty, I just went back after my violin. I couldn't let it stay in there and get burned. And Jim came after me and saved me." "Dear, dear child, don't you know how foolish that was to do? Why you are far more precious to me than any violin, no matter how priceless it may be." Just then they heard a voice calling the crowd to attention. It was the manager of the hotel, making an announcement. He told the people that while the firemen had the fire well in control, it was considered safest for none of the guests to return to their rooms until the morning, when it would be entirely safe. The Hotel Breslin, he informed them, would accommodate them for the night, and was but a few doors away. The people began to follow his instructions at once, and the clerks at the Hotel Breslin were soon very busy apportioning rooms to them. All were very shortly trying to overcome their worries sufficiently to enable them to regain the sleep they had lost. The fire had been caused by the carelessness of some of the servants of the hotel in dropping lighted matches on the floor, the servants' apartments being in the top of the building. It was therefore hoped that little damage had been done to the property of the guests. CHAPTER X. THE LOCKET. The next morning, quite late, for it was nearly ten o'clock, Aunt Betty and the two girls arose. The hotel people had arranged to have the breakfasts sent up to all the unfortunate ones, and otherwise made them as comfortable as possible. The trio breakfasted and Aunt Betty suggested, "Dorothy, dear, I think it would be a wise idea to telephone over to the hotel and find out if any of our things were left unharmed by the fire, and ask, too, if we might come back there now." "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, as she started for the 'phone. She talked over the wire for several minutes, then returning to her aunt and Alfy said, "They say that some of our things have not been spoiled at all, but that the rooms are a complete wreck, because the firemen broke all the windows when they stopped the fire at that point. We have been given a suite on the second floor, and all the things which belong to us have been moved down there." "Ah," interrupted Alfy. "I am so glad there are some things left. I was afraid we would have to go about all day in blankets and look like Indian squaws." "No, indeed," answered Dorothy. "They are going to send us in our coats, so that we can get to the carriage that they have placed at the disposal of the guests and be driven right to the door." "They have certainly tried to be as considerate as possible to all their guests," said Mrs. Calvert. "Here," said Dorothy, answering a loud knock at the door, "here are our coats now." "Come, let us see what we have left, for I feel sure that we will have to hurry and get more clothes for you girls if we have to start for Washington very soon," rejoined Mrs. Calvert. They all slipped on their outer garments, and very quickly were carried downstairs by the elevator. They hurried into their carriage and very soon were located in their new suite of rooms. "Oh, just look, Aunt Betty!" exclaimed Dorothy. "See, the trunks we packed last night with all our good things are all right. The water never leaked through at all." "That saves us a good deal of trouble and expense, doesn't it? I certainly thought that all three of us would have to be fitted out entirely again. I am very, very glad that we were so fortunate," answered Aunt Betty. "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Alfy. "Oh, dear, just see! Isn't it too bad that I didn't stay home and pack instead of going to church with Jim last night. All I have in my trunk is the two white dresses you made me at Bellevieu before we started on the trip, and my raincoat. Oh! Oh! Oh! And I forgot all about it. I intended to show it to you right away as soon as I reached Bellevieu. I begged Ma Babcock so for it, and then to think I clean forgot it! Ah, she will be so disappointed to know I forgot it." "Why, Alfy child," remonstrated Aunt Betty. "What are you talking about? There now, calm yourself and tell me." "It's this," replied Alfy, holding up a piece of linen about a foot square, "this sampler. I found it in an old box in the closet of the spare room Ma had fixed up in the barn, when I was searching for my raincoat just before I left home. Ma said a school friend, a little Baltimore girl who was 'up Mounting' summering, and who fell ill and stayed all winter and went to school with Ma, made it for her." And Alfy handed the square of linen to Mrs. Calvert. Aunt Betty took it up and carefully examined it while Dorothy looked over her shoulder and tried to see it too. "Why," exclaimed Mrs. Calvert, "this is beautiful work! Just beautiful! And what is the name? Dorothy dear, will you see if you can find my glasses? I put them in my work bag, which I put in the tray of the trunk. Yes, way down in the right hand corner." Dorothy crossed over to the trunk and immediately found the desired bag, and opening it took out the glasses. "Here they are, Aunt Betty," she said, handing them to her. Aunt Betty put the glasses on and proceeded carefully to examine the sampler. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I have it now! The name is in this corner, and as far as I can make it out is 'Hannah.' 'Hannah' something. 'Morrow.' Maybe that's it." "Let me see," interrupted Dorothy, "maybe I can make it out. I think the first letter is 'W,' not 'M,'" and turning to Alfy, "what did Ma Babcock say about the name?" "Ma said that it was Hannah somebody, and that she was a poor sickly girl. She lived in Baltimore and married a man who did not treat her well, and died shortly after. I forget what she said her last name was. But she said she married a man whose name was 'Halley' or 'Haley,'" answered Alfy. "Oh, Aunt Betty, I have it!" exclaimed Dorothy joyously. "I have it! It's 'Woodrow,' 'W-o-o-d-r-o-w, Woodrow.'" "Yes, that's it. I recollect, now, ma saying, 'Hannah Woodrow,'" chimed in Alfy. "I wonder," said Aunt Betty, slowly, for she had been thinking, "I wonder if it could be? You see, little Lem, Lem Haley, had no mother or father, and just lived with his uncle, who abused him terribly. It was he we found that night in the forest when we were camping. Do you think it could be possible that this sampler was made by his mother? Poor, unfortunate woman." "Maybe we have some clue to work on now," said Dorothy. "Wouldn't it be odd if it was his mother who made this sampler? She could sew well if it was, for there are many hard and difficult stitches in that." "And," added Alfy, "Ma said she was a rich girl; her folks had lots of money, 'cause she dressed so nicely. And they paid Grandma Brown good board, so ma said." "May I have the sampler, Alfy?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Yes, indeed," answered Alfy. "Ma Babcock said for me to give it to you, as maybe you would be interested in it." "I am going to take it to my lawyer and see what he says about it. You say you think that Mrs. Haley, or Hannah Woodrow, is dead?" added Aunt Betty. "Yes, ma said that she had not heard from her in so long that she was sure that the poor unfortunate lady was dead," answered Alfaretta. "I have felt all along that there was some dreadful catastrophe or mystery about little Lem. His uncle was such a hard, cruel man, and little Lem knew very little or nothing about his early life or parents. All that he knew was that he was bound out to this harsh and cruel man whom he called uncle, and made to work very hard, too hard, indeed, for a child, for his board," remarked Aunt Betty. "I do hope we can find out something about his people. He is such a good boy, and now he goes to school and he is such an apt pupil," added Dorothy. "Come now, we must dress and arrange our things and see what we need. You girls please dress as quickly as possible and each make out a list of what you have lost. In that way I can tell at a glance what is needed, and we can go shopping this afternoon. I will also send Jim to my lawyer with a note, and this sampler," remarked Aunt Betty. And they all hurried away to dress. Aunt Betty, finishing first, rang for Jim. Jim came to her and she said, "Jim, here is a sampler that Ma Babcock had and let Alfy bring to me. It was made by a girl named Hannah Woodrow, who married a man named Haley, who was cruel to her. It is supposed that the unfortunate woman died. The girl was a Baltimore girl who spent a year with Mrs. Babcock's mother and attended school with Ma Babcock. She is thought to have been rich. I wonder if in any way she could have been related to little Lem Haley. We must try to trace up all facts and get to the bottom of things. I have written a letter, and I thought you would not mind taking it and the sampler to my lawyer." "Where is it?" asked Jim. "I will go gladly." "You go to Mr. Van Zandt, at 115 Broadway," replied Mrs. Calvert. "Give him the package and the letter and tell him I am going out of town to-morrow at noon to Washington, and that I will send him a complete route list later on as soon as all our plans are made." "All right," answered Jim, taking the package and putting the letter into his coat pocket. "I will not be back directly, if that makes no difference to you. I have a little shopping I should like to do this afternoon." So saying, Jim left on his errand. At Mrs. Calvert's suggestion the girls began making out a list of things that were missing so that they could replace them that afternoon if possible. Suddenly Dorothy rushed into the room where Aunt Betty was quietly seated reading and trying to collect her nerves that she said had been shattered by the experiences of the night before. "Aunt Betty, dear Aunt Betty, I can't find my locket!" she cried. "Alfy and I have hunted all over. We searched everything before we came to you with the news. We didn't want to bother you till we were sure that we hadn't merely mislaid it." "Are you sure, dear, you have looked all over everything you have?" questioned Aunt Betty. "Yes, and there is no trace of it anywhere," replied the girl. "And it's the only locket I have and has the pictures of mother and father in it. The only pictures we have of them." "Well, dear, don't let's give up hope yet. Let me go with you and look," answered her aunt. "Dear Aunt Betty, I am sure it isn't in there. I always wear it. You know I do. Ever since you gave it to me it has been my most cherished possession," bewailed Dorothy. "No, it isn't anywhere in there," said Alfy, decidedly, walking into the room at that moment. "I, myself, have searched everywhere, and you know how thorough I am, Mrs. Calvert." "Maybe it's upstairs in our old rooms," suggested Aunt Betty. "They might have mislaid it." "I will ring for a maid and then Alfy and I will go up with her and look," answered Dorothy, immediately acting on the suggestion. "It must be up there, dear, as everything else came down safely, and all my jewelry is intact," added Mrs. Calvert. "I do hope it is. It has given me such a scare," rejoined Alfy. "Come along, Alfy; we are going up now," said Dorothy, as the maid appeared in answer to her summons. "We'll be right down, Aunt Betty." And with that the girls departed. In a few moments they came back, and by just glancing at them Aunt Betty knew that the quest had failed. "No, it is nowhere there," said Dorothy sadly, "nowhere there." "Ring for the manager, dear, and I will see him and see what he suggests doing. The locket is of no value to anyone else. Its main value is in the pictures. I am very sorry I have no other copy of them. I have a picture of your father when he was younger, a mere boy at our Baltimore home, Bellevieu, but I never had another picture of your mother, dear," said Aunt Betty. The manager came now in response to their call, and Aunt Betty told him of the loss of the locket, and wherein its value lay. He was very sorry indeed to hear of the loss, but felt hopeful that he could restore the locket to them in the course of an hour or two. Dorothy turned to Aunt Betty as the manager left the room, and flung herself weeping into her lap. "Dear, dear child," soothed Aunt Betty, "don't be foolish, dear. There are still hopes of its being found." "But they are the only pictures I ever had of them," bemoaned the little girl. The dear old lady took the young girl in her arms and comforted her with hopeful suggestion and loving words of encouragement. CHAPTER XI. THE TOUR BEGINS. On his way downtown, Jim paused in front of Lebolt's on Fifth avenue, one of New York's biggest jewelry houses. The windows were full of attractive pieces of jewelry. One thing in particular caught his eye, a little pendant of gold and pearls. He thought at once of Dorothy and wanted very much to give her something--something nice because of the previous day's happenings--something that would help her to remember him very often--a little token of his regard. He went inside and inquired of a clerk where he could see pendants, and was directed to a near counter. He was shown many, and after having quite a hard time choosing which he liked best at a price he could afford to pay he finally decided on a little bunch of grapes formed of a cluster of pearls, with the leaves and vine of gold hung on a slender chain--altogether a very dainty and appropriate gift. And he left the store thinking of how he would present this to Dorothy, for he wanted no one to know of his reasons for giving it to her but himself--and she. Taking a car he soon came to the vicinity of the lawyer's office and looking over the bulletin at the entrance he located a sign with his name upon it. On reaching a small outer office he asked of a pleasant faced girl sitting there, "Can I see Mr. Van Zandt? I have a package and letter to deliver to him personally." "Mr. Van Zandt," answered the girl, "is just now very busy. He is conferring with another lawyer, and I cannot disturb him, as he left word that on no account and for no one should I bother him. He will not be much longer, and if you would care to wait for a half hour, I am sure that you could see him then." "I will wait," said Jim in reply. The girl then showed him into a little library off to one side of the office where there were some easy chairs. Picking out one that looked particularly comfortable to him he took up a magazine from the well laden table, and seating himself started to read. After waiting half an hour or more, he was finally admitted into a room wherein sat Mr. Van Zandt, at a desk strewn entirely with legal papers. "Mr. Van Zandt, I am from Mrs. Calvert. She sent me here with a letter and package for you," said Jim. "Most opportune, most opportune," answered Mr. Van Zandt, gravely, taking the letter and package from Jim. "Excuse me, young man, excuse me, while I see what Mrs. Calvert has to say," he added, breaking the seal of Aunt Betty's letter and slowly reading its contents. "Ah! So you are the Jim she speaks of in the letter, and says I may question concerning these matters?" "Yes, indeed," responded Jim. "Is there anything you would like to ask me?" "No. Not that I just think of now. But I have a little story to tell you. Listen carefully and see if you can repeat the same to Mrs. Calvert, when you see her later this afternoon," replied Mr. Van Zandt. "This was told me by a fellow colleague, the man you no doubt saw leave this office as you entered it. Strange how things come about. Long years ago there was an English family named Winchester, a father and mother and six children, four of them girls and two boys. The parents were very strict with their children, and one boy, the oldest, ran away from home, and was never heard of by the old people again. The youngest girl had a very pretty love affair, but because her parents disapproved, and I believe they would have disapproved of a saint from heaven if he wished to marry their child Marrie, she took the vows and became a sister. Two died very young, and the other two daughters lived to be old maids, and in time all died. "The runaway son married, so much we have learned, and had one very beautiful daughter, who after, mother fashion, also ran away and married. The daughter's name was Dorothy Winchester. The man she married was a Calvert. These two died early deaths, leaving behind, so 'tis said, a little daughter named after the mother, Dorothy Winchester Calvert." "Our Dorothy," whispered Jim. "Now, it seems to me that Mrs. Calvert was sister-in-law to the Calvert that married the beautiful Dorothy Winchester. And from what I know, Dorothy Calvert, Mrs. Calvert's ward, is the child of the former two. But as a large estate, consisting of much property in England and a great deal of money, is left to the heir or heirs of this Dorothy Winchester, we shall have to have legal proof that this girl is the right child. And when the right proof is found, my colleague will turn over to me the various papers and deeds to the estate. And after proving herself the legal heir of this estate, Miss Calvert may have to take a trip to England to see the London solicitors and straighten matters out there. They have been working on this estate for many years now, and finally, but only recently traced the son to America. That is how things have come to this point now. Will you tell Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy that I would like to see them at their earliest convenience, bringing letters, pictures and any other form of proof they may have with them?" "I will tell them that, sir." "Very well. Good afternoon, young man, good afternoon," and Mr. Van Zandt closed the interview. Jim, after leaving Mr. Van Zandt, hurried back to the hotel, all the time thinking of the wonderful story he had to tell to Dorothy. He also wondered just how things would stand between them if Dorothy became a great English heiress. On reaching the hotel he went straight up to the girl's rooms and there found Dorothy weeping in Aunt Betty's lap. "I have such good news, such wonderful news," cried Jim. "I can't wait to tell you. Why, Dorothy, what has happened? Tell me," he added, catching sight of Dorothy at her aunt's feet, her face in her lap. Just then Dorothy smiled up at him and said, "Nothing. I was just a little foolish. Go on and tell us all your wonderful news. I would rather hear good news than tell sad, any day." "I have just come from your lawyer's, Mr. Van Zandt's, where I heard a most wonderful story. I gave him the letter and package. He read the former, and said he would give the matter attention. I had to wait for over a half hour. He was conferring with a colleague," continued Jim. "Oh, do hurry and get to the real story part," said the ever impatient Alfaretta. "Be still, Alfy. How can Jim tell us while you are talking?" commanded Dorothy. "To go on where I left off," continued Jim, "Mr. Van Zandt said that his colleague told him a story which he would tell me and which I was to repeat to you. "It seems that many years ago a family named Winchester had a large estate and plenty of money in England. They had children, and one, the eldest, ran away, came to America and married. He had a little daughter who grew up to be very beautiful. Her name was Dorothy Winchester." At this point in the story, Aunt Betty heaved a great sigh, and grew quite pale. "The beautiful young girl ran off with a handsome young man whose name was Calvert. And, Mrs. Calvert, the lawyer thought that to be your brother-in-law. The young couple suffered early deaths, leaving a child, a girl named after the mother, Dorothy Winchester Calvert. That, dear, is you," and Jim paused to see the effect of his words. Dorothy had risen, and coming to him, placed her hands in his and said, "Is this all true or just a joke?" looking eagerly in his eyes for the answer. "Yes," answered Jim, with an attempt at gaiety, "yes, all true." "Then do I understand that all Dorothy has to do is to prove she is Dorothy Winchester Calvert and she will come into this inheritance?" said Aunt Betty. "Yes. Mr. Van Zandt said for me to tell you that he would like to see you and Dorothy as early as possible in the morning, and for you to bring with you any proofs, such as letters, pictures, etc., which you have handy in your possession," instructed Jim. The word pictures immediately recalled to Dorothy her late misfortune, and she turned to Aunt Betty, saying, "Dear Aunt Betty, there is all my proof gone--the pictures in that locket. They would have been just what was needed, and now the locket is gone." "Why has the locket gone?" questioned Jim. "That is the sad news we had to tell you when you came in with the good news," said Mrs. Calvert. "Dorothy has either mislaid or someone has stolen her locket, the one I gave her with the pictures of her father and mother in it." "There," interrupted Alfy. "There is someone knocking. Maybe it is the manager returning with the locket. It's an hour since he said that he would have it back to Dorothy in that time." The manager entered and came over to Mrs. Calvert's chair, and said, "I am very sorry, madam, but I have not been able to recover mademoiselle's trinket. It is nowhere to be found. I have had three maids searched, three of them, who readily admitted going into the suite upstairs. The maids were very angry, and threatened to leave my employ. Nothing could be found. We have found no trace of it at all. All we can do, madam, is to hope. I will get a detective and have him try to locate the thief. Is it of great value?" "Just now we have had news that makes the locket of precious value. An estate, a large inheritance, hangs upon its recovery, as therein lies the only proof we have, or, I should say, did have," answered Mrs. Calvert. "We will do all we can," continued the manager, "and make every effort to restore the locket as quickly as possible." He then departed, and prepared to have the lost article traced without any delay. "I have my list of clothes and things that are missing and will have to be replaced all made out," said Alfy to Mrs. Calvert. "Very good," answered Aunt Betty. "Come into your room and I will look over your things and verify the list and see if you need anything else beside what you have written down." Alfy and Aunt Betty went off to see about the outlay necessary to replace the loss Alfy sustained from the fire. No sooner had they gone than Jim came over to Dorothy, looked into her eyes and said, "Girl, will this--this estate, make any difference--if the large fortune comes to you? I was so glad to hear the news, and be the one to tell you of it while I was there with Mr. Van Zandt, but somehow on my way back to the hotel I became sorry, sorry because it will mean that you will be a great English heiress, and I--I--" "You, Jim? You will always be my great big Jim," said Dorothy, with a sweet, sincere smile. "But isn't it too bad that the locket just disappeared when we needed it? And, fortune or no fortune, it's the only picture I had of my own mother." "Girl," said Jim, softly, taking the small purple velvet box out of his vest pocket, "I brought you this. It's only a little remembrance of what has gone between us. Just a little token of my eternal regard for you. I wish it could have been more." And he placed the little jewel box in Dorothy's hands. He watched her carefully, noting the pleasure in her face when she opened the box and saw the dainty pendant encased in the white satin. Carefully she drew it out. "Oh, what a beauty!" exclaimed the girl. "Jim, dear, you are so good and thoughtful. It's just as good and dainty as it can be, and far too good for me." "Let me clasp it around your neck for you," he replied. "I am glad you like it." But when he had his arms around the girl's neck, clasping the slender chain in place, Jim could not resist the temptation of drawing her close to him. She did not resist, so he held her closer for a moment in a fond embrace, and then raising her head, their lips met in a loving kiss. "My little girl," murmured Jim. "My dear little girl." Then releasing her he said, "I chose this pendant because I knew you would not accept a ring." Dorothy shook her head, but made no audible response. "Not until you have had plenty of time to know your own mind, but that you should have by the time you have returned from your trip. Then, Dorothy girl, you will give me my answer?" "Perhaps, Jim," whispered Dorothy. "Perhaps then I will." "Can't we keep the reason, the real reason, secret. We can have this one secret from everyone else, can't we? Tell them all it is a little parting gift from me. Then when you come back, girl, you can tell them, if you decide to--if you can love me enough. Until then it's our secret," said Jim. "I must go show it to Aunt Betty and Alfy. It's such a beautiful pendant I want everyone to see it," said Dorothy. "And I must get my things collected, for you see I have a lot to do. I wonder if I can prove anything without the locket." "Maybe they will accept Aunt Betty's word for things. But the hard part of it all is that you go away to-morrow for such a long trip," said Jim. "And, Dorothy, how I shall miss you! I won't know what to do without you." "Yes, you will," responded Dorothy. "You will have to work and work very hard at your new position." "Yes, indeed I will," laughed Jim, "very hard indeed. If I want to get married soon, I shall have to economize and save all I can." "Foolish boy," said Dorothy. "Good-bye; I am going to leave you here all, all alone," and she ran over to Jim, put her hands in his and looked up at him, saying, "You are a dear, good boy, and I shall prize my pendant highly, and wear it always, and when I do think of you." "That's all I could ask," answered Jim. "And, girl, please do take care of yourself and be careful all through this trip. I regret so much that I can't be along with you." "Dorothy! Dorothy!" called Aunt Betty, from the girl's room. "Yes, Aunt Betty, I am coming," answered Dorothy. As she left the room she threw a kiss with her dainty finger tips to Jim. That afternoon was spent in ordering things they all needed, and as time saving and convenient much was done by telephone. Then in trying on various things as they came all wrapped up in attractive bundles from the stores. Aunt Betty bought Alfy a complete new outfit, as her things were entirely ruined, and she was more than delighted with each new article. There was a plain gray suit, and one just like it for Dorothy. Alfy insisted that they would be mistaken for twins in them. And Aunt Betty ordered as a surprise to the girl a plain grey felt outing hat, which was to come in the morning. Dorothy had a few new shirt waists and a couple of pairs of slippers; also two new gowns, one pale yellow chiffon trimmed with a little gold lace; the other a very pale shell pink crepe de chine and shadow lace. These were for her to use on the stage, and at any private affairs that might come up. Alfy was very much pleased with a pale blue evening dress, as she had never had one before in all her life. This pretty little party dress was very simple, being made of pale blue chiffon over a shell pink satin slip, and the only trimming it had was one large rose of pink shade, catching the skirt in a dainty fold, and a few dainty pink rose buds edging the neck and sleeves. When she tried it on she ran carefully to Dorothy and exclaimed, "Dorothy, dear, just see my new dress! Isn't it wonderful? Do you like it? Do you think it is becoming? And look at these!" and she held up a new pair of pink satin slippers, and gloves to match. Dorothy laughed gayly, saying, "Dear, dear Alfy, they are beautiful things, and I have never seen you look quite so fine before." "I must show Jim," she answered. And off she went to the next room, where Jim sat thinking and dreaming. "What do you think of me?" she asked him. Jim looked up, saw Alfy, and said, "You look like a very fine young lady who has just stepped out of a picture." And he made a mental note of the fact that the girl had no ornament about her neck, and made a resolution to get up early and go out the next morning and buy Alfy a string of coral beads that he thought were just needed to finish her costume. These he would give Alfy for her parting gift. The next morning Jim carried out his purpose and bought the string of corals, pale pink, graduated beads, a string just long enough to go around the girl's neck. And for Mrs. Calvert he bought a set of collar and belt pins to match in heavy dull gold. These two gifts he labeled and sent up to them. He was busy that morning moving his possessions to Mrs. Quarren's so that he would be all ready to occupy his room there that evening. He was to meet Dorothy and the rest of her party at the Pennsylvania station at noon time. Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy and Alfaretta, as early as possible, went down to the lawyer's office. "Mr. Van Zandt will receive you in his room right away. He expected you," said the pleasant faced girl, as Aunt Betty and the two girls walked into the office. "Mr. Van Zandt, this is my ward and niece, Miss Dorothy Winchester Calvert and her friend, Miss Alfaretta Babcock," said Aunt Betty, introducing the two girls. "So you are the fortunate Miss Dorothy Winchester Calvert," the lawyer gravely said. "Let me see, little miss, how about the proof I must have? Proof is what is needed now. My colleague has to be satisfied. So do the London solicitors." "Until yesterday, Mr. Van Zandt, Dorothy always wore a locket around her neck in which were her mother's and father's pictures. We were unfortunately caught in a hotel fire, and some of our things were destroyed. This locket has been missing since the fire. The hotel people have since then done their utmost to trace the missing article, whose value now is priceless, and nothing has been seen of it. Detectives are now working on the case." "Most unfortunate--most unfortunate," commented Mr. Van Zandt. "Have you no other proof?" "There is my word, some old letters, and a picture of Dorothy's father taken when he was quite young, which I have at Bellevieu. I will send for them and have Jim bring them to you. In the meantime, he has promised to attend to the tracing of the locket, and will report to you about it," answered Aunt Betty. "I will let you know, too, Mrs. Calvert, how my colleague takes this news, and," added the lawyer, "I would like you and Miss Dorothy to sign a number of papers, and Miss Babcock can sign as a witness for Miss Dorothy." Before long they had all affixed their signatures to quite a number of important looking papers. Alfaretta felt very consequential and trembled visibly. This did not take long, and, bidding Mr. Van Zandt good-bye, they were soon hastening to the Pennsylvania depot, to await the coming of Jim, and the others of the troupe who were to travel with them. Dorothy hoped that Mr. Ludlow would not forget their private car, as she was anxious to see it. Aunt Betty was to have charge of it, Ruth, Alfy, and Dorothy being in her care for the entire trip. Alfy was slowly counting the minutes off. She wanted to thank Jim, as she thought more of the little string of corals than anything else in the world just then. They had pleased her beyond words. Dorothy was glad, too, because in giving Alfy the string of corals and Aunt Betty the pins it detracted from the strangeness of his giving such a lovely present to her. Aunt Betty and Alfy were both hearty in praise of Dorothy's new ornament, and commented on Jim's taste in selecting it. At the Pennsylvania station they found Jim waiting. "What did Mr. Van Zandt say?" he questioned, coming to meet them. "I have tended to your trunks, and put them and your suit cases in your private car. Mr. Ludlow and his gathering party are over in the other side of the station, and I will take you over to them in a few minutes." "We can't very well prove Dorothy's identity without that locket. It is most necessary for Mr. Van Zandt to have it. I told him," informed Mrs. Calvert, "that you would keep track of the search, and bring it to him immediately it is found. Also, Jim, I must write to Bellevieu and have some things, a picture of Mr. Calvert and one or two letters I have there, forwarded to you. Will you see that they are placed in Mr. Van Zandt's hands safely? We had to sign a great many papers. The trouble is in convincing Mr. Van Zandt's colleague and the London solicitors who have the property in their hands." "I will certainly do my level best," answered Jim, "to get the locket back, and will let you know of everything that comes up." Then they all walked slowly across the immense waiting room of the station, and in a far secluded corner found Mr. Ludlow and Ruth, among a group of chattering people, some old, some young, and Dorothy wondered just who belonged to the company and who did not. Mr. Ludlow came forward. With him was a tall, dark young man. "Mrs. Calvert," said he, "let me introduce Mr. Dauntrey. Mr. Dauntrey is our treasurer. This is Miss Dorothy Calvert, of whom you have often heard me speak, and her friend, Miss Babcock. Mr. Dauntrey, ladies." "I am sure I am very pleased to meet you all, and I am sure we shall all be firm friends before long," said Mr. Dauntrey, pleasantly, his eyes lingering longer on Dorothy than any of the rest. Just then Ruth rushed up to Dorothy and exclaimed, "Dear, dear Dorothy, I have been hearing wonderful tales about you--about how you saved your precious violin from the fire, and then were gallantly rescued by Jim, our new hero. Oh, tell me all about it! I am dying to hear it all from you! It must have been very thrilling. Oh, why is it I never get into any such wonderful adventures?" "I will tell you what little there is to tell when we get started on our trip. We shall have lots of time on the train," answered the girl. "Yes, indeed," said Ruth, "and I shall see that you do not forget your promise. Come over here and let me introduce you to some of the members of our company. I sing. You play the violin. That blonde lady over there, Miss Mary Robbia, has a wonderful contralto voice. The little girl over there, Florence Winter, is a dancer. She does all kinds of classical dances and is considered very wonderful. And Mr. Carlton is the pianist. He is the man standing over there talking to the lady in black." Dorothy looked at each person as Ruth pointed them out, and felt that she would enjoy her trip very much, for they all looked like nice, congenial people. Mr. Ludlow came up to her then and presented Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy and Alfy to all the members of the company, each in turn, Miss Robbia, Miss Winter and Mr. Carlton. They then all said good-bye to all their friends and relatives who had come to see them off, and hastened to board their car, which was to start in a few minutes. "Good-bye, my little girl," whispered Jim, kissing a stray lock of Dorothy's hair as he swung off the car. The car gave one jerk and then started out. The girls waved good-bye from the car windows till they could no longer see the ones they were leaving behind. It would take the remainder of the afternoon to reach Washington, and there they were to meet one or two more members of the company, and to learn of the final plans for the whole trip. CHAPTER XII. IN WASHINGTON. The train ride passed quickly enough, and just gave Aunt Betty time for a rest. Between intervals of reading, Dorothy told Ruth of all the previous day's happenings, and before they knew it they had arrived in Washington. Mr. Dauntrey came to Dorothy and volunteered to take care of their baggage. Aunt Betty had packed the suit cases for all three of them, so she gave him these, saying, "If you will have these in the hotel bus, Mr. Dauntrey, I will be obliged. We shall not get our trunk up to the hotel till late this evening, I heard Mr. Ludlow say." "What hotel do we stop at, Mr. Dauntrey?" inquired Ruth. "At the Willard, Miss Boothington," he answered, politely adding, "I will come back for your suit cases and tend to you in just a few seconds if you will wait in the car for me." "Thank you," the girl answered, going back into the car to gather her things together. "There, that is all, I guess, a bag, a hat box and one suit case. I can manage to exist with that much for a few days." "Come along. Just follow me," cried Mr. Ludlow, just loud enough for all to hear him. "This way. I want to get you all taken care of and over to the hotel as quickly as possible. I have made reservations and I hope everything will be ready at once for us." "Come Ruth," sang out Dorothy, as she and Aunt Betty and Alfaretta made their way after Mr. Ludlow. "Come or you will be left behind." "I promised I'd wait here for Mr. Dauntrey," answered Ruth. "He is coming back for me. My luggage is all here, and I can't manage it." "Very well, we will wait for you in the stage," answered Dorothy, and linking her arm in Alfaretta's, followed close after Mrs. Calvert, who was walking just in front with Mr. Ludlow. "There's Mr. Dauntrey," whispered Alfaretta. "He's with that little dancer, Miss Winters." "So he is," whispered Dorothy, "I hope he has not forgotten Ruth. Mr. Ludlow usually attends to Ruth himself; I wonder why he has not thought of her?" "Maybe he is provoked at her," answered Alfy, very softly so as the couple just in front would not hear them. "He looked at her real cross like, at the Pennsylvania station to-day. She was standing, talking very earnestly with Mr. Dauntrey, and Mr. Ludlow called to her twice and she never heard him." "Maybe that's why. But see, there he goes back. I guess he has gone after Ruth now," replied Dorothy. "Here we are. Now all get in. We must hurry," announced Mr. Ludlow. "Are we all here? Let me see--Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy, Alfaretta, Miss Winters, Miss Robbia and Mr. Carleton," as the pianist came in sight carrying two suit cases, "but where is Ruth? Ruth and Mr. Dauntrey, where are they?" "Mr. Dauntrey has just gone back after Ruth. She was gathering her luggage together as I left the car. Mr. Dauntrey said he would hurry back and get her if she would wait," answered Dorothy. Just then Ruth and Mr. Dauntrey came in sight. The girl held his arm and was looking up into his face, chatting pleasantly, while in back a porter, very much laden down with Ruth's belongings, trailed along after them. The occupants of the bus caught just then a sentence spoken by a passing couple. "See the little bride and groom here on their honeymoon." At these words Mr. Ludlow frowned deeply and looked very cross indeed. He spoke not a word to Ruth as she was handed into the bus by Mr. Dauntrey, but quickly got in and shut the door behind him. In a few minutes they had reached the hotel. Mr. Ludlow registered for the party and then the keys were supplied for the rooms assigned to them. Mrs. Calvert and the girls went quickly upstairs and dressed for dinner. The evening meal is always quite a function in Washington. The people for the most part dress in evening clothes. The hotels are almost always crowded with the government people, senators, representatives and officers of various degrees. Mrs. Calvert went down first and sent a card to Jim telling him of their safe arrival, then the girls joined her. Mr. Ludlow had arranged for a dinner party. They found some of the company waiting in the lounging room. Soon they were all assembled and Mr. Ludlow and Mrs. Calvert led them into the brilliant dining room where they all had a very gay dinner. Mr. Ludlow suggested that they visit the Library of Congress, as the evening was a very favorable hour for such a visit. At that time the beautiful interior decorations were seen to great advantage under the brilliant illumination. "Come, let us get our wraps," said Mrs. Calvert. "The building closes about ten and there is much of interest to be seen there." "Very well," answered Dorothy. "Do you want your black wrap? I will get it. You sit here." "Yes, dear. The black one," answered Aunt Betty, seating herself and waiting for Dorothy to return. "Come Alfy," called Dorothy, and the girls quickly disappeared down the long, brilliantly lighted corridor which was crowded with guests. They were gone but a few moments and returned with their wraps securely fastened and carrying Aunt Betty's. "Let me help you into it," said a cheery voice behind them. Turning, they saw, much to their surprise, Mr. Dauntrey. "Come with me. I have already secured a taxi, and it will just hold four. The others can follow." He took Mrs. Calvert's arm and gallantly helped her into the taxicab, then Dorothy, and then Alfaretta, each with the same niceness of manner. He then quickly got in himself, taking the one vacant seat beside Dorothy. He closed the door and off they started. The entrances to the library are in the front, facing the Capitol. A grand staircase leads up to the doorways of the central pavilion, giving access to the main floor. Up this staircase the quartette slowly climbed. "Just look!" exclaimed Dorothy, when they had reached the top. "Just look around. See all the lights of the Capitol over there. Isn't it all very beautiful?" "And look down at the fountain!" cried Alfy. "See how the sea-creatures are blowing water from their mouths, and in the centre 'Apollo.'" "No, if I may correct you, that is Neptune," said Mr. Dauntrey. "I have a guide book here. It is freely placed at your disposal, ladies." "I think every one that visits the Capitol should have a guide book," said Aunt Betty. "It adds immeasurably to one's pleasure. I have an old one at the hotel, and I have been looking it over. I read it through the last time I was here, not so many years ago. I do not recall the publisher's name." "The one I have here is Rand, McNally Company's," said Mr. Dauntrey. "And so was mine, I remember now, and it was fine, too," replied Aunt Betty. "Although that is not Apollo," said Mr. Dauntrey, "your mention of the name reminds me of a western politician who once visited here. He had great wealth, but little education, and when someone in his presence spoke of a statue of Apollo, he said, 'Oh, yes, I have one on my parlor mantle. On one end I have Apollo, and on the other, Appolinaris.'" "An amusing anecdote, and I don't doubt a real one," said Aunt Betty, laughing with the others, "but isn't that a wonderful old fountain? See the beautiful effects produced by the water as it is thrown in cross lines from all those miniature turtles, sea serpents and what not, that are supposed to populate ocean and stream." They stepped up the last tread and entered a long corridor, stretching along the front and forming an exaggerated vestibule. They gazed between piers of Italian marble supporting arches, an entrancing vista. In heavy brackets they noted pairs of figures, advanced somewhat from the walls, "Minerva in War," armed with sword and torch, and "Minerva in Peace," equipped with scroll and globe. Before these, greatly admiring them, the girls stood, and Mrs. Calvert said, "Dorothy, those are the most admired ornaments in the whole building, but you can see them again as you pass out. Come, let's go inside." "Yes, if you enjoy great art, Miss Dorothy," spoke up Mr. Dauntrey, "I will be pleased to personally conduct you through the Art Museum. Art, too, is my one hobby. To be happy I must always have the beautiful, always the beautiful." Passing on through the screen of arches, they entered the main hall, in the centre of which ran a magnificent stairway leading to the second floor and rotunda gallery. "Oh!" gasped Alfaretta. "Isn't the floor lovely? All little colored marbles. I hate to step on it. What is that brass disk for?" "Those little pieces of colored marbles are the essential materials for mosaic work, and the brass rayed disk is to show the points of the compass," said Mr. Dauntrey, kindly looking at the girl with an amused expression. "Look!" cried Dorothy, "over that way, way far back. See the carved figures?" "Yes," answered Aunt Betty. "The one thing the arch typifies is study. The youth eager to learn and the aged man contemplating the fruits of knowledge. It is a very famous group. I have a postcard picture of it that a relative sent me and I always remembered and liked it." "Here is something I always thought was interesting, on this side," said Mr. Dauntrey, leading them to the other side of the hall. "These two boys sitting beside the map of Africa and America. The one in the feathered head-dress and other accoutrements represents the original inhabitants of our country, the American Indian, the other, showing the lack of dress and the war equipment of the ignorant African. Then those two opposite, the one typifying the Mongolian tribes of Asia, the other in classic gown, surrounded by types of civilization indicating the pre-eminence of the Caucasian race in all things, such, for instance, as your chosen profession, music." "That would be a good way to study geography," said Alfy. "Then you would hardly ever fail if you had those interesting figures to look at." Aunt Betty then called their attention to the ceiling which was elaborately ornamented with carvings and stucco work with symbols of arts and sciences. The southern walls were full of rare and beautiful paintings, the most striking of these being, "Lyric Poetry," painted by Walker. It represents Lyric Poetry in an encompassing forest, striking a lyre and surrounded by Pathos, Beauty, Truth, Devotion, and playful Mirth. The east end of this hall which looks out on the reading rooms is reserved for Senators and members of the House of Representatives. It is decorated in subjects chosen from Greek mythology. "Come in here," said Dorothy, entering the periodical or public reading room. "See here, any one, no matter where he is from, can find one of his home papers." "Can any one stay here and read anything they want, and as long as they want?" inquired Alfy. "Yes. It is free to anyone," answered Mrs. Calvert. Next they passed into an exhibition hall, where in cases of glass made like a table they saw a great number of rare and curious books representing the beginning time of printing and bookmaking. There were a great many early printed Bibles and specimens of famous special editions of Bibles. Some of them, so they learned, dated back to the fifteenth century and were of much value on account of their rarity. One table in this room especially interested Dorothy. It contained manuscripts, autographs and curious prints relating to the history of our United States. The print room interested Alfy greatly. This room is devoted to an extensive exhibit of the art of making pictures mechanically. Here are a great series of prints illustrating the development of lithography, and the processes a lithograph goes through whether printed in one or in varied color. Also here are examples of every sort of engraving upon wood, copper and steel. About the walls hang examples of etchings and engravings. They then entered the Rotunda Galleries. They paused for a moment to look at two paintings there, one of Joy and the other of Sadness. "I like Joy the best by far," exclaimed Alfy. Joy, here, was represented by a light-haired, cheerful woman, amid flowers and happy in the sunshine. She went nearer the picture and read out loud the beautiful words of Milton's famous "L'Allegro." "Come thou goddess, fair and free, In Heaven ycleped Euphroysine, And by men, heart-easing Mirth. Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek." "I learned most of that poem by heart when I went to school at Oak Knowe," said Dorothy. "Indeed, and so did I," answered Mr. Dauntrey, "at school but not at Oak Knowe," he laughed. "But my favorite was the other poem, 'Il Penserose.'" "The other picture represents that," said Mrs. Calvert. "Listen while I recite to you the lines that inspired that picture," said Mr. Dauntrey, and in a wonderful voice he brought out each shade of meaning: "Hail, thou goddess, sage and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy! Come; but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in their eyes, There held in holy passion still Forget thyself to marble...." The stack rooms or apartments where the books are kept open out on each side of the rotunda. The cases rise way up to the roof and are filled with adjustable shelves. There are decks at intervals of every few feet from top to bottom by which the attendants reach the books. Each of these stacks will hold eight hundred thousand books, and although they may be consulted by any one, very few are ever lost, for only members of Congress and about thirty other officials can take books out of the library. "As there is a constant call for books of reference from the Capitol when legislators often want a volume for instant use, an underground tunnel has been made between the two buildings. This contains a cable carrier upon which books can be sent back and forth," explained Mr. Dauntrey. "But haven't you seen enough of the library now?" "There is Mr. Ludlow!" exclaimed Dorothy, "and I think he is calling us." "Yes, let us go over to him," added Mrs. Calvert. "Come." "Ah, here you all are," said Mr. Ludlow. "I called to you just now because there is one painting I would like to have you all see before you go upstairs to the restaurant." "Is it here?" questioned Dorothy. "No. You follow me and I will bring you to it in just a few seconds," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Here we are. I want you all to follow this series of pictures." "It is called the evolution of the book," added Mrs. Calvert. The series begins with a picture representing the means that the prehistoric men took to commemorate an event singly--the creation of the cairn, nothing more nor less than the piling up of stones. Then comes a picture illustrating oral tradition--an Arab story writer of the desert. The third represents an Egyptian carving hyroglyphics on a tomb. These are the forerunners and the next is picture writing, represented by an American Indian painting some tribal story or event. In lieu of paper he uses a skin. The fifth is shown by a figure of a monk sitting by the embrasure of his cell, laboriously decorating the pages of some sacred book of the Middle Ages. And finally, the initial attainment of modern methods is shown by a scene in the shop of Guttenburg, where the original printer is seen examining a proof sheet, while an employe looks over his shoulder, and another assistant has the lever of a crudely constructed press in hand. They all thought this series of pictures a beautiful one, and very interesting. Dorothy commented, "If they had not discovered how to print and make books, I wonder if we would have had a library like this one here, filled with stones all covered with hyroglyphics?" "I hardly think so," answered Mr. Ludlow, "for we could never get so much stone in a building. But come now. We will go upstairs to the little restaurant and sit down and rest for a few minutes." So taking the elevator they reached the restaurant which is located in the upper floor of the building, and finding a large table, they seated themselves. They ordered ice cream for the girls, and the men took lemonade. While refreshing themselves, Mr. Ludlow said, "I would like to see you all in the morning at ten o'clock. I will then disclose our plans to you for the next few weeks. Also, to-morrow, our number will be increased by three more singers who will join us here. They are Miss Dozzi and Mrs. Helmholz and Signor de Reinzzi." Every one said they would be on time in the morning, and started to go back to the hotel. On the way out from the library, Dorothy asked, "Mr. Ludlow, are all these pictures and pieces of statuary done by Italians and other foreigners?" "No, indeed," he answered. "The decorations are wholly the work of American architects, painters and sculptors, more than fifty of whom participated in the work. So that, you see, the library is an exhibit of the native art and ability of the citizens of the United States and a memorial to them." CHAPTER XIII. SIGHT-SEEING. The next morning they all hurried to the private sitting room of Mr. Ludlow's suite, where he had asked them to assemble. "Aunt Betty and Alfy," called Dorothy, "both of you must come too, so you can hear what Mr. Ludlow has to say, for you know you belong to the company, too." Ruth rushed up to Dorothy and whispered, "I think you were very mean, keeping Mr. Dauntrey all to yourself last night, and making me stay with Mr. Ludlow. He was so cross. I hope he is better natured to-day, or when we rehearse this afternoon we will all have trouble." "I didn't take Mr. Dauntrey," answered Dorothy in a very surprised tone of voice. "I didn't seek his company. He just took us and put us in a taxicab and that's all." "Sh!" whispered Ruth, "here he is now. Isn't he a handsome man?" "I don't particularly care for his style. He is too effeminate looking. Come over here and sit down by Aunt Betty and I," and Dorothy started to walk over to where the others sat. Ruth did not follow her, however, but remained just where she was. "And how is Miss Ruth, to-day?" inquired Mr. Dauntrey. "I am quite longing for our real work to start so I can hear you sing. I am sure it will be a great pleasure." Mr. Ludlow entered just then as Ruth looked up to Mr. Dauntrey, and murmured, "Ah, that was so nice of you to say." "Are you all here?" inquired Mr. Ludlow. "Let me take a little account of you." Mentally he ran over the small list of people. "All ready then. All sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I will only detain you a few minutes now. We are going to have a very important recital in the new National Theatre to-morrow night. I have a little typewritten letter for each of you. I will give these to Mr. Dauntrey and he will hand them to you." Turning to Mr. Dauntrey he handed him a number of white envelopes, saying: "There now, don't neglect to give each one the proper envelope." Turning once more to the rest of them, he continued, "If by any chance you don't happen to like the instructions contained in those envelopes, report at once to Mr. Dauntrey and he will take up the matter with me, or refer you to me." Mr. Ludlow had had many dealings with performers before, and he knew from experience that it was better to give instructions this way. It avoided open contentions which were likely when one artist thought he or she was slighted, and enabled each one to know exactly what they had to do, for there was no mistaking written orders. "The new National Theatre," continued Mr. Ludlow, "is on Pennsylvania avenue near Thirteenth street, and is of great capacity and comfort. I hope you will all do your best for I have written to the President, and have asked him to accept, as a token of our respect, a box for that night. I hope he honors us with his presence, and it may afford you all an opportunity to meet him personally. I expect this concert to be a big thing for us. This city is favorably disposed toward classical concerts, and Mr. Dauntrey has worked hard sending out special announcements for us. "I expect each of you to do your very best and look your very best. Always look your best. Looks go a great way. If people see you enter the stage confidently and look nice--nice and neat, not gaudy, not cheap or overdressed, just good simple dresses, and not made in outlandish styles--their first impression is very apt to be a lasting one. There, I think that is enough of a lecture. I plan to go from here to Pittsburgh, and, with several stops, on to Chicago. From Chicago on to St. Louis, and from there with a half dozen stops, if we are successful, to San Francisco. Just what we will do then I can't tell now. But I think that is enough to know now." "But what hotels are we to stop in at those places, Mr. Ludlow?" inquired Miss Winters. "I suppose all you fair ladies will want to have a list of the hotels in advance," laughed Mr. Ludlow, "and you shall have duplicate route lists with dates, which you can send to your friends so you can have mail each morning. I may want you to give two concerts here in Washington, but I am not sure yet," added Mr. Ludlow. "We also may have to run down to Mount Vernon and give a concert there, so I want you all to be ready to render something different than what you are to use to-morrow. You can each select your own piece. Is there anything now you want to ask me?" he said finally, turning so as to see them all. "Well," he continued, "if there is nothing else we will adjourn till this afternoon when I have made appointments with some of you to come here alone so that I may have an idea of how you are doing. If you all would care to, I think it would be a good thing if we visited the Capitol now. You are privileged in each city to do as much sight-seeing as you can and care to without getting over tired." They were all appreciative of this courtesy, and thought that that would make their tour a very very pleasant one. Just as soon as Mr. Dauntrey had handed them their envelopes, they departed for their rooms to get hats and coats and be ready to start at once. Aunt Betty also had her guide book, and in a very short time they were all ready for a visit to the Capitol. The Capitol building commands a central and slightly hilltop position. The grounds in front of the building are perfectly level, but in the rear slope downwards towards the Potomac flats. In the northwestern part of the park is an ivy-covered rest-house, one window of which looks into a grotto. Ruth thought this a pretty spot indeed, and exclaimed, "Oh, just see here, isn't this a romantic spot? I could sit here for hours and dream." "Wouldn't that be rather lonesome, Miss Ruth?" said Mr. Dauntrey to her, softly. "Wouldn't you rather have someone else here with you?" Ruth did not answer this question, but just gave him an adorable little glance. "The ground immediately in front of the Capitol is the plaza," said Mr. Ludlow. "Here vast crowds assemble to witness presidential inaugurations." Three flights of broad steps led up to the main entrance, an architecturally effective feature. The southern wing contains the House of Representatives and the northern one the Senate chamber. "The central portico," remarked Mrs. Calvert, "I would like to have you notice particularly. It dates back from 1825. The allegorical group cut in sandstone was designed by the President, John Quincy Adams." "What does it represent?" questioned Alfy. "The group represents the genius of our beloved America," answered Mrs. Calvert. "America is resting her shield upon an altar, while an eagle rests at her feet. She is listening to hope, and points in response to Justice." "I think you have told us a very good story of that piece, Mrs. Calvert, and as you are just as well, perhaps better acquainted with this place than I am, do you mind explaining the things occasionally, so as to help me out?" asked Mr. Ludlow. "Why, it is a pleasure to me, I assure you," answered Mrs. Calvert, gracefully. "You see I have been here often and I have my indispensable Rand, McNally guide book." "Right here where you are standing," interrupted Mr. Dauntrey, for he wished them to understand that he had been to Washington before and knew something of the place, "is where all the presidents of the United States since the time of Jackson have been inaugurated, the chief justice adminstrating the oath of office here in full view of the onlookers." The large bronze doors were thrown back, and all entered the building itself. The entrance takes one immediately into the rotunda, which is of enormous size. The floor is of sandstone, the rotunda being nearly 100 feet in diameter, and almost twice that high. A balcony runs around it, and strangely interesting is the fact that this balcony has a very good whispering echo. The decoration of this huge place is confined mostly to the walls, but there are a few pieces of statuary on the floor. The great wall space is given to historical pictures of considerable size, and all are familiar to everyone through their reproduction on postals, currency and postage stamps. The whole party made a tour of the room with much interest, viewing the canvases. "We might divide these pictures into two classes," said Mr. Ludlow, "the early historical and revolutionary. The former are, I suspect, to a degree imaginative, but the latter are accurately true to the times and scenes they depict. In the first group are the following: 'The Landing of Columbus at San Salvador in 1492,' 'The Discovery of the Mississippi by De Soto in 1541,' 'The Baptism of Pocahontas at Jamestown in 1613,' and, the last of this group, 'The Farewell Service on Board the Speedwell.' This shows an unseaworthy old port now called Lyden, Holland--for America, bearing the first colony of pilgrims who were finally landed on Plymouth Rock by the Mayflower." "Then," Mrs. Calvert pointed out, "there follows the group of Revolutionary pictures. Beside each picture of this group is an outline key which gives the names of the people shown. The first is 'The Signing of the Declaration of Independence' in the old hall in Philadelphia in 1776. The second one is the 'Surrender of Burgoyne at Saratoga' to General Gates. This picture was made from sketches made on the very spot by Colonel Trumbull, who was a close friend of Washington. He was present at the scene of the next picture also, 'The Surrender of Lord Cornwallis.' The British are seen marching between the lines of the Americans and their French allies. "The fourth is the 'Resignation of Washington' as commander-in-chief of his well-tried army, always a rather pathetic scene, it seems to me." "How interesting. I could spend hours here, but suppose we must not." "Where next?" inquired Dorothy. "We will go through this door and into what was the original Hall of Representatives, and is now the Statuary Hall," answered Mrs. Calvert. The room which they now entered was semi-circular in shape, and whose ceiling is half a dome beneath which is a spacious gallery now filled with a library. "The House of Representatives used this hall quite generally for fifty years, from 1808 on," said Mr. Ludlow. "Here Clay, Webster, Adams, Calhoun, Randolph, Cass, and many others won world-wide fame, and made the walls ring with their fiery eloquence. Here were many fierce and bitter wrangles over vexed questions, turbulent scenes, displays of sectional feelings. Too bad they had no talking machines in those days to deal out impassioned oratory for future generations." "What is that star set in the floor for?" inquired Ruth; whose interest in oratory of past ages was limited. "That marks the spot where John Quincy Adams, then a representative from his home, Massachusetts, was prostrated at his desk. See, the date is February 1, 1848," read Dorothy. "Where did all these statues come from?" questioned Alfaretta. "Most of them were bought and placed here, and some of them, I think, were donated," answered Aunt Betty. "This statuary hall," continued Mr. Ludlow, "has great acoustic properties." "Shall we get a Capitol guide?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "They say they can amuse one greatly, for they know each place where these strange things can be heard." "Yes, I will go and find one. You stay here till I come back," added Mr. Ludlow, turning to the others. In a few moments he was back, accompanied by a young man in uniform. The guide showed them where they could hear curious echoes, whispers distinct at a distance, and the ability to hear slight sounds that are inaudible at your elbow. They all tried these experiments. Ruth took her place at one corner of the room and Dorothy in the other corner at the same side of the room. The guide told them that they could converse in a low tone, yet each heard distinctly what the other said. Ruth started off by saying, "Dorothy, do you believe what this guide is telling us or do you think he is fooling us?" Dorothy was greatly surprised when she found she could hear quite plainly what Ruth said, and answered, "I am surprised to say I do." At this ambiguous answer they all laughed. Then, one by one, they tried the experiment, each finding how perfectly it worked out. Leaving Statuary Hall by the door under the arch, they traversed the corridor to the present Hall of Representatives. It is an oblong room of liberal size. The ceiling is a framework of iron, bronzed and gilded, and inlaid with glass upon which the coats-of-arms of the States are painted. The light effect is beautiful; the colors are mellowed rather than obscured. The Speaker's raised desk is against the southern wall and below this are the marble desks of the official reporters. The latter keep a stenographic record of everything done or said, to be published the next morning so that those who are absent or pay little attention to what is going on may still keep posted on the progress of events. The sergeant-at-arms is within easy call. This latter officer is called the Speaker's policeman--the representative of the physical force, and his symbol of authority is the mace, which reposes on a marble pedestal at the right of the speaker. "The mace was adopted by the House in the first Congress," explained Mr. Ludlow. "It has been in use ever since." "How do they use it?" questioned Dorothy. "When it is placed upon its pedestal," he answered, "it signifies that the House is in session, and under the Speaker's authority." "I suppose I ought to know, but who is the Speaker, and what does he do?" asked Alfaretta. "The Speaker," continued Mr. Ludlow, "is the head of the House, elected by vote of the members." "And I have a question," said Ruth. "What is a mace?" "In this case, the mace is a bundle of black rods fastened with transverse bands of silver. On its top is a silver globe, surmounted by a silver eagle," answered Mr. Ludlow, "and when the sergeant-at-arms is executing the commands of the Speaker, he is required to bear aloft the mace in his hands, unlike the House of Parliament, where there is much form and ceremony, there is little else here than quiet dignity." Grouped in concentric semi-circles are the desks of the Representatives, all small, uniform and handsome. "The Republican party all sit on the Speaker's left and the Democrats on the right," volunteered Mr. Dauntrey. "My, but there are a lot of seats," said Alfy. "Who uses them?" "In the galleries," said Mr. Ludlow. "Those over the Speaker's head are for the press. The others are for onlookers, some for diplomats, friends of the Congressmen, and some for ladies. They hold more than a thousand people, I think." Going downstairs they came to the House lobby. This apartment is richly furnished and contains many portraits, most of them being crayon drawings of the Speakers of the past. Passing through this room and out, one comes to the committee rooms in one of which is hung a notable collection of paintings of the principal forts of the United States. From this corridor, the party descended the eastern grand staircase to a basement corridor which extends from end to end of the Capitol on this ground floor. This they traversed till they came to the Senate chamber. The white marble pillars in this at once attracted their attention. Mr. Ludlow said, "I want you all to examine these marble pillars carefully and notice that though they are of Corinthian mold, their floriated capitals represent leaves of American plants, the one most used being the tobacco leaf." Passing onward, to the right, they saw the old Supreme Court chamber, now used as a law library. All the corridors at this end are bright, and the walls and ceilings are very elaborately decorated with mural designs in the Italian manner, being daintily drawn and brightly colored. Among them are many portraits of early men of note, in medallions, and a long series of charming drawings in colors of American birds and flowers. The vestibule of the Senate post office is particularly picturesque, having over the post office door a large painting of Fulton, indicating his first steamboat, "The Claremont," passing the palisades of the Hudson. A stairway leads on up to the main floor, where corridors completely extend around the Senate chamber, which occupies the center of its wing. Here the ceiling, in contrast with the one of the House, is flat, with broad panels of glass, painted with emblems of the army, the navy and the arts. The walls are of marble, paneled, the doors of choice mahogany, the carpet green, which sets off well the mahogany desks of quaint pattern. Each desk bears a silver plate with the occupant's name engraved upon it. "Do the Republicans sit on the left of the Speaker here, and the Democrats on the right, as in the House?" questioned Alfaretta, very proud of herself for having remembered what had been told her in the other room. "Yes, but there is no Speaker in the Senate," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Who is it, then, that uses that beautifully carved high backed chair on that little platform there?" asked Dorothy. "The president of the Senate is the Vice-President of the United States," said Mrs. Calvert, smiling and thinking that the girls ought to know more about these things, for they were shockingly lacking in knowledge of all the fundamental principles of the workings of the government. "Who are all these statues of?" asked Alfaretta, pointing to the niches in the walls. "These are statues of all the vice-presidents," answered Mrs. Calvert again. "Outside here are many interesting things that you will all like to see," said Mr. Ludlow. "To the right here is the famous portrait of Washington, and opposite, one of John Adams." "Is that Benjamin Franklin?" inquired Ruth, looking at a large marble statue at the foot of the eastern staircase, when they had passed through the door situated between the two portraits. "Yes, and the picture on the wall of the stair landing is a very famous one. It is of Commander Perry at the battle of Lake Erie. Perry is seen transferring himself and his flag from his sinking flagship 'Lawrence' to the 'Niagara,' when he won that great victory. This transfer was made under fire. Perry's younger brother, Matthew, then a midshipman, is depicted here as entreating his brother and commander not to expose himself too recklessly," said Mr. Ludlow in the way of explaining this picture. "And the faces of the sailors are drawn from once well-known employes about the Capitol," added Aunt Betty. "My guide book tells me that." "This vestibule opens at its inner end into the Senate reception room. The one thing of interest in this room," said Mr. Ludlow, when they had entered, "is the picture on the south wall. It is of Washington, in conference with Jefferson and Hamilton." "Isn't the room pretty! What luxurious chairs, soft sofas, beautiful rugs, and those cream colored curtains!" exclaimed Ruth. "Whose room is this?" asked Dorothy, who was becoming tired, and, wanting to move on more rapidly, had gone ahead. "This next room is the President's room," answered Aunt Betty. "It is the custom of the President to sit here during the last day of a Congressional session in order to be ready to sign bills requiring immediate attention. The portraits are those of Washington and his first cabinet members." From here they ascended to the gallery floor by way of the western grand staircase, at the foot of which stands the statue of John Hancock. In the wall of the landing is Walker's painting, "The Storming of Chepultepec." The scene is during the Mexican War, when it was captured by Scott's army. The rooms here in the gallery are numerous committee rooms not open to the public, so they all passed on down the corridor to the interesting rooms that contain Morau's celebrated pictures of the canyons of the Colorado and of the Yellowstone, which were painted by actual study of the scenes. Those familiar with these marvelous regions of the country recognize that the coloring is by no means overly vivid, and that the drawings are most accurate and natural. In the adjoining hall is the painting of the encounter between the Monitor and the Merrimac. This picture is the only exception to the rule that no reminder of the Civil War should be placed in the Capitol; an exception due to the fact that this was in reality a drawn battle, where the courage of the contestants was conspicuously equal, and where the naval methods of old found their grave. Its historic interest is, therefore, world-wide. "The bust, there, Dorothy," said Aunty Betty, "is of John A. Dix, afterward a major general. It was he, who, when he was Secretary of the Treasury early in the uncivil war, sent to one of his special representatives in a Southern State the famous order containing the words, 'If anyone attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot,' which so thrilled patriotic hearts." "From here let us go to the Supreme Court," said Mr. Ludlow. "That will finish our tour of the Capitol." A small elevator took them down to the main floor, where they walked along the corridor, viewing the portraits of Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry. The Supreme Court of the United States now uses the chamber in the old Capitol which was originally designed for the Senate. The background is a row of columns of variegated gray Potomac marble, with white Ionic capitals. In the centre is the chair of the chief justice, behind which are draped crimson curtains surmounted by a hovering eagle. On the dias below is the long "bench" of the most august court in the land. "One formal custom here will be of interest," said Mr. Dauntrey. "On court days the justices enter the room in procession precisely at noon. They wear voluminous black silk gowns, and sit in a prescribed order with the chief justice, of course, in the centre." "There. I think we have made a very careful tour of the Capitol. I think we have missed nothing at all of importance," said Mr. Ludlow. "But I guess by now, you are all tired and anxious to be back to the hotel." "What time is it, I wonder?" said Dorothy to herself, and turning to Mr. Ludlow said, "Mr. Ludlow, I feel as if it were time for lunch." "Why, it's one-thirty o'clock," said Mr. Ludlow. "I am surprised that the time has gone so quickly, so let's hurry back to the hotel, for we are already late." All were hungry and anxious to get back to their luncheon, but no one regretted a single moment spent in this most interesting place. CHAPTER XIV. HIGH HONOR. That afternoon Dorothy devoted to practice, giving special attention to the three pieces she was to play at the concert, two of which had been given place on the program. The third was to be held in readiness in case she needed to respond to an encore. Aunt Betty and Alfy listened to her and expressed their approval. They were never limited in their praise of her work, which always seemed to them beyond criticism. "Good-bye, for a while," called Dorothy, at the end of a stanza. "I will only be gone a few minutes, I hope. Mr. Ludlow, in my letter of instructions, told me to come to him at four o'clock. I have to play over my selections to him so he can criticize them." Dorothy walked slowly down the hall and knocked on the sitting room door. In a moment, to her surprise, Mr. Dauntrey opened it. "Good afternoon," said he. "Now, I shall have the pleasure of listening to you play, I hope." "Mr. Ludlow said that I was to come here at four o'clock. I think he wants me to play my selections over for him," answered Dorothy. "Yes, you are right," said Mr. Ludlow, from his large easy rocking chair by the open window, which overlooked a court. "Yes. Stand over there and start in at once." Dorothy, thus enjoined, took up her violin and began playing. She finished her first piece without any interruptions on the part of Mr. Ludlow. She was about to start the second piece when he called to her to stop. "Play the introduction to that piece again and a little louder, also a little firmer," he ordered. She did as she was told. "That's a little better," he said, when she had finished. "But I should play the introduction still louder, so as to make a marked contrast when the melody proper starts in, by playing that very softly, like someone singing way off in the distance. And one more thing; in the last part, when you have that staccato melody, play that sharper. Now, try the piece all over again." Dorothy answered, "Yes," and then played again, trying to do just as Mr. Ludlow asked her to, and when she finished she stood still, saying nothing, just waiting to hear what Mr. Ludlow would say. If she expected a word of praise she was to be disappointed. "Very well, try the next one," was all Mr. Ludlow said. So the girl once more took up her violin, and filled the room with melody. This time she played her piece, so she thought, very poorly, in part, because of Mr. Dauntrey. She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and it made her nervous. "Very well," said Mr. Ludlow, much to her surprise. "That will be all for this afternoon. And, Miss Dorothy, try not to get nervous or excited to-night. I expect you to do your very best." "I will try," smiled back Dorothy. "Good afternoon." Just as she reached the door, she saw Ruth, who stepped back into the shadow of the hall. Ruth questioned, "Is he cross? And is Mr. Dauntrey there?" "Mr. Ludlow isn't cross, but he's very business-like. And Mr. Dauntrey is in there, and I wish he hadn't been," answered Dorothy. "Oh, dear," exclaimed Ruth, "I just know he will be so cross with me, for if Mr. Dauntrey is in there I just can't sing. He thinks I am a wonderful singer, and I know that I'm not. Still, I hate to have him think that I can't sing at all." "You will do all right, dear," comforted Dorothy. "Just think you are alone, and forget everything and everybody." "Very well," answered Ruth, "and good-bye. I must go in and bear it," saying which she walked up to the door and knocked. Dorothy walked down the hall toward her own rooms, then she turned, took the elevator downstairs, and bought a postal, one showing a picture of the capitol. This she took to her writing desk, addressed it, and wrote just this, "Arrived safe. Visited the capitol this morning. Will write later. With love, Dorothy." She placed a stamp on it and mailed it, then hurried upstairs to her room again. "I am rather tired," she said to her aunt and Alfy, who were reading, "I think I shall rest a few minutes before I dress for dinner. We need to have dinner real early to-night, as we are expected to be at the National Theater at 7.30 p. m. Mr. Ludlow is to give us each a program, then, and tell us of any last orders he may have for us." "Shall I get your things all out and have everything all ready for you?" inquired Alfy. "Yes, please." "What dress do you want to wear?" asked Alfy. "I think you had better wear the pink one, dear," suggested Mrs. Calvert. "Very well, the pink one, Alfy," called Dorothy. "I will have all the things you need ready; shoes--I mean slippers, stockings, handkerchiefs, and gloves," called back Alfy, as by this time Dorothy had reached her room, and was preparing for her rest. Both Mrs. Calvert and Alfaretta continued to read for quite some time, and finally when she thought it was time for Alfy to get dressed, Aunt Betty said: "Alfy, I think you had better start to get dressed, now, and as you are to lay out Dorothy's things for her, I do not think you will have any too much time." "Surely, Aunt Betty, I will begin at once. I was so interested in my book that I forgot my duties," answered Alfy, and she started into the next room and commenced getting Dorothy's things ready first. When she had finished this task, she walked back into the sitting room again and inquired, "Aunt Betty, I have finished getting Dorothy's things ready. Will you please now tell me what you would like to have me wear?" "I think you might wear your little white dress, with the pretty blue sash and ribbon of the same color, for your hair," answered Mrs. Calvert. "And you might wear white shoes and stockings. We are merely going to be part of the audience, to-night, so I hardly think we need dress very much." "All right," answered Alfy, cheerily, and started away again, humming a little tune under her breath. She was pleased to think she could wear her new white dress, with the pretty blue sash. And she thought she would ask Dorothy to tie the blue ribbon around her hair, as Dorothy always did such things so much daintier than she did. Still singing, she started to dress in earnest. It wasn't long before Dorothy awoke from her nap, and soon the two girls were dressed and ready to help each other with the finishing touches. Together they made short and quick work of this. Mrs. Calvert looked up as they entered the room, and said, "Come here, and kiss me, dears. You both look very sweet; very pretty, indeed." "Do you and Alfy want to be audience again, while I play over my pieces once more?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sure Mr. Ludlow didn't quite like the way I played one of them this afternoon." "Of course we do," answered Aunt Betty. "We will each sit down and listen very attentively." "I will play first the last piece on the program," announced Dorothy. "Very well," said Mrs. Calvert, smiling encouragingly at the girl. Dorothy gave careful attention to her work, and played one after the other of the three selections through, pausing long enough between each piece so that they might know she was about to begin the next. The one Mr. Ludlow had taken exception to and criticised, that afternoon, she played last, paying strict attention to the parts he had indicated as needing correction. When she had finished, she laid down her violin, and came and stood in front of her aunt, questioning: "Do you think I played them well enough? Did I do better than I did this afternoon before I went in to see Mr. Ludlow, and did you notice the difference in the playing of the last piece?" "My, what a lot of questions," said Aunt Betty, laughing. "Now, to answer them all: Yes, I do think you played much better just now than you did before. And I think Mr. Ludlow's corrections in that last piece improve it greatly. You see, he considers your work from the viewpoint of the audience." "I am glad you like the correction. I think it is better by far, myself. But I just wanted to get your opinion on it before I was quite satisfied," replied Dorothy. "I guess, to change the subject, that we are all ready for dinner, so let's go down; maybe some of the others are ready also." They found that all of the party were already at dinner, so they joined them in a quiet meal. Each seemed imbued with the responsibility that rested on their shoulders. Dorothy, leaving her aunt and Alfaretta to follow her to the theater, started early with Ruth and Mr. Ludlow. On the way to the theater, Mr. Ludlow said, "Just one final word of instruction: Stand either a little to the right or a little to the left of the centre of the stage; never just in the centre. It looks better from the house side. And try not to get nervous. Mr. Dauntrey will give you each a program. And now, I think you are all right." Mr. Dauntrey, joining them on their arrival, gave each a program. Dorothy noted that she was to be the third, and was quite pleased to find that she came in the first half of the program. She always liked to play and then go out and sit with her aunt and listen to the remainder of the recital. The programs were beautifully printed in gold and color, on a heavy white paper, on the cover of which was an eagle. The sheets were tied together with a red, white and blue ribbon. The contents read as follows: PART I. 1. Songs-- "Ave Maria" Gounod "La Palonia" Gradier Miss Mary Robbia. 2. Piano Solo-- "Am Meer" Schubert "Caprice Brilliant" Leybach Mr. C. B. Carleton. 3. Violin Solo-- Adagio from "Moonlight Sonata" Beethoven Meistersinger Wagner Miss Dorothy Calvert. 4. Songs-- "Chanson de Florian" Godard "Ah, That We Two Were a-Maying" Smith Miss Ruth Boothington. PART II. 5. Classical Dances-- "Hungarian Dance" Brahms "Dance of the Sylphs" Berlioz Miss Florence Winter. 6. Trio Songs-- "The Psalms" Faure "Serenade" Schubert "Song of the Toreador" Bizet "Lost Chord" Sullivan Rendered by Trio: Miss Dozzi, Mrs. Helmholz, Signor de Peiuzzi. "Are you going out in front to sit with your aunt and Alfaretta, after you have finished?" inquired Ruth, who was standing beside Dorothy. "Yes, do you want to come out with me?" Dorothy asked. "Yes. If I may," answered Ruth. "Will you wait here in the wings till I have finished singing, and then we can go out together. I come right after you on the program." "I am anxious to see Miss Winter's dance," said Dorothy. "And so am I, and to hear that trio sing," answered Ruth. "Do you want to see the stage?" called Mr. Dauntrey. "Come now, if you do. Mr. Ludlow wants you all to go and try it out; that is, I mean, practice making an entrance." The girls walked over in the direction in which Mr. Dauntrey led. "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, when the vista of the stage came into view. "Isn't it pretty!" "It is, indeed," acquiesced Dorothy. The stage was a spacious one. To the right was placed the grand piano, around which palms were artistically arranged. In the centre, and way to the rear, as a background, hung a large American flag. On each side of the flag ran a regular column of palms. Little plants and flowers were on the stage in such profusion as to transform it into a veritable fairyland. "Wasn't that a nice idea to put the flag back there?" said Ruth. "I think the stage decorations are very artistic, and I am sure with such surroundings, everyone should do their very best," said Mr. Dauntrey. Just then they looked at the clock in the wings and saw that it was 8.15 p. m., the time announced to commence. They all walked off the stage and back into the wings. As the curtain arose, Miss Robbia advanced to do her part. Just then Dorothy heard Mr. Ludlow say, "I think the President is here." "Oh, I hope he does come," answered Miss Ruth. But Dorothy, as she went back to await her turn, was not quite so sure. It seemed a serious thing to play before the greatest dignitary in the land. The first number at last was finished, then the second, then it was Dorothy's turn. When she was on the stage, she looked out into the audience and there, sure enough, in the large, beautifully decorated box, sat the President and his party. Surely the presence of such a notable guest should prompt her to do her best. She wondered if the fact of his being there would make her nervous. Then she thought of Jim and of what he would say, and then once launched upon her theme, she forgot everything else. Her whole soul, it seemed to the audience, was engulfed in her art. Never had instrument fashioned by hand been more responsive to human touch. When she had finished playing, she heard vaguely the applause, and went out again before the curtain to bow her acknowledgment. Then a large bunch of American beauty roses were handed to her. A very pretty picture indeed did she make with the large bouquet of flowers in her arms. When the first half of the concert was over, Mr. Ludlow came back and said: "The President would like Miss Ruth and Miss Dorothy to come to his box; he would like to congratulate you both." "Ah, that is pleasing, indeed," exclaimed Dorothy. "Surely we are honored," added Ruth. They followed Mr. Ludlow out to the President's box, where he and his family and a few friends sat. When they reached the box, the President rose and said, smilingly: "I want to congratulate you young people on your success. It has been a great pleasure for me to hear you. Your playing, Miss Calvert, was entrancing." All the eyes of the audience were now turned on the presidential box, and there was a craning of necks, trying to see what was going on there. The incident was soon over, the President had shaken hands with each, and Dorothy at last found time to look at the card attached to her roses. She imagined Aunt Betty had sent them to her. But she was very much surprised and greatly pleased when she saw Jim's name on them, and wondered how he could have sent them. She hugged them close to her and kissed each pretty rose. Just then Ruth came up and said, "I am ready now, dear, let's go out in front. My! What beautiful flowers you have. Who sent them to you?" "A friend," answered Dorothy, blushing. "Wasn't _he_ thoughtful to remember to telegraph them here for you," laughed Ruth. "I wish I had a friend to send me beautiful flowers," she added. "Who gave you those beautiful violets you are wearing, that just match your eyes?" questioned Dorothy. "Oh, Mr. Ludlow sent them. He always does, because he knows I love violets, but that's different from having American beauty roses sent to one," Ruth replied. By this time they were around in front and had quietly sat down in the two seats reserved for them beside Aunt Betty and Alfaretta. Miss Winter had come on the stage preparatory to performing her dances. She was a very pretty little girl, with blonde hair, and had a small, but well formed figure. The stage was cleared and the lights dull. She danced about the stage in such a light, breezy way that it seemed to the audience that she was wafted about by a spring breeze. She danced most artistically, and her rendering of the two dances was so perfect that the audience applauded again and again, though in response, she just made some curtain bows and retired. The trio, which Ruth so wished to hear, came next. Their rendition was a long and exquisite one, and Ruth now realized why Mr. Ludlow had put them last. She turned to Dorothy and whispered, "Aren't they wonderful!" "Yes," answered Dorothy. "They are the best we have." "That's why," explained Ruth, "Mr. Ludlow put them last, so they would leave a good impression of the whole concert in the people's mind. I feel as if I just couldn't sing at all." The concert was now over, and the audience indicated by the volume of applause that rang out that it was a great success. Everyone had done just what they thought was their very best, and many had received beautiful flowers. It wasn't long before they were all home. CHAPTER XV. MT. VERNON. As Mr. Ludlow had planned for them to visit Mount Vernon and the White House the next day it necessitated their packing partly, so as to be ready to take the train for the next city in which they were to give a concert. As the concert had been such a great success here, they were very hopeful regarding the rest of the tour. The next morning they were all ready in time for the 10 a. m. boat for Mount Vernon. They had agreed the night before to see Mount Vernon first and leave the White House till last, as the majority cared more to see the former. On their way they passed the City of Alexandria, and were told that here the Union troops began the invasion of Virginia soil, and here fell Elsworth the first notable victim of the war. The old red brick hotel, where he pulled down the flag of the Confederates was pointed out to the party by the guide. Also the guide pointed out to them Christ Church, which Washington and his family had attended. Then, a little further on, among some peach orchards, begins the Mount Vernon estate, which in Washington's time contained about eight thousand acres. The estate is on the right bank of the Potomac, just sixteen miles below Washington. The land was part of an extensive grant to John Washington, the first of the family who came to America in middle of the seventeenth century. The estate descended to George, when he was barely more than a boy. He continued to develop and beautify the property until the breaking out of the war of 1776. Then the ability he had shown in the Virginia militia called him to the service of the United Colonies. He returned to Mount Vernon at the close of the war, but had to leave it, and take up his duties as first President of the Republic. He was buried upon his estate and the family declined to accept the subsequent invitation of Congress to transfer the body to the undercroft of the Capitol. After Mrs. Washington's death, the property descended finally to John Augustine Washington, who proposed to dispose of it. A Southern lady, Miss Ann Pamela Cunningham, secured the refusal, and after failing to interest Congress in her proposal that the Government should buy and preserve it as a memorial, succeeded in arousing the women of the country. An association of these women, named the "Mount Vernon Ladies' Association of the Union," with representatives from every State was incorporated, and in 1858 paid $200,000 for the central portion of the property, some 200 acres, covenanting to hold it in perpetuity. An admission fee of 25 cents charged all visitors goes to the payment of current expenses. The tomb of Washington is the first object of attention. It stands immediately at the head of the path from the landing. Its position, small dimensions, and plain form of brick, were indicated by Washington in his will. The front part, closed by plain iron gates, through which anyone may look, contains two plain sarcophagi, each excavated from a single block of marble. The one in the centre of the little enclosure contains the remains of the Father of His Country, within the little mahogany coffin in which they were originally put. At the left is that of Martha Washington. Four times a year these iron gates are opened by the authorities, and wreaths and other floral offerings are deposited therein. The mansion itself, stands upon considerable eminence, overlooking broad reaches of the historic Potomac. It is built of oak and pictures have made its architectural features familiar everywhere. When Mount Vernon was acquired by the ladies' association, it was not only out of repair, but the furniture had been distributed to various heirs, or sold and scattered. An effort was made to preserve as much as possible, and to restore as closely as might be the original homelike appearance of the house. It has been impossible to do this absolutely, and a great many other articles of furniture, adornment and historical interest have been added. In order to do this, the various State branches of the association were invited to undertake to furnish one room each, and many have done so. The names of these States are associated with the apartments they have taken charge of. A considerable quantity of furniture, as well as personal relics of George and Martha Washington, are here, however, especially in the bedrooms where they died. "Ah," exclaimed Dorothy as she entered the hall. "Just look at those swords. Did they all belong to Washington?" "Yes, dear, the one in the middle of the three," answered Mrs. Calvert, "was the one he wore when he resigned his commission at Annapolis, and when he was inaugurated at New York." "And what is this key hanging here for?" asked Alfaretta. "That key has a most interesting history," answered Mr. Ludlow. "That is the key to the Bastile, that prison in Paris, which was so justly hated by the people, and which was demolished by the mob. Lafayette sent it to Washington in a letter." Next they turned to the east and entered the music room. This room is under the care of the State of Ohio. "Oh, just see all the things in here!" cried Dorothy. "Look at that dear harpsichord." "That harpsichord was given to Nellie Custis by Washington," answered Aunt Betty. They next entered the west parlor. Above the mantel piece is carved the coat-of-arms of the family. The carpet here is a rug presented by Louis XVI to Washington. It was woven to order, in dark green with orange stars; its center piece is the seal of the United States, and the border is a floriated design. This room was refurnished by the State of Illinois. "Look, dear, see the spinet there," said Mrs. Calvert to Dorothy. "Yes, and what beautiful candlesticks those are standing there on that queer table," answered Dorothy. "What is this next room?" inquired Alfaretta. "This room," answered Aunt Betty, "was Mrs. Washington's sitting room, and was refurnished in the manner of the period by Georgia. But the dining room is what I want you to especially notice. The furniture here was that originally used by Washington--" "Next is Washington's library, for I see books in there," announced Ruth. "This is one of the most important rooms in the house," said Mr. Ludlow, as they entered the banquet hall. Its length is the whole width of the mansion, and its richly decorated ceiling is full two stories high. "The ornate fireplace and mantel of Italian marble and workmanship once occupied a place in a country home in England," said Mrs. Calvert; "someone brought it over the ocean and gave it to Washington, and it is worth examining." They now ascended the stairs to the second floor to visit the bedrooms. "Let's go first to the bedroom where Washington died," said Mr. Ludlow. "It is almost exactly as it was when he lived here." "There is the large four-poster," said Dorothy. "Yes, dear, and these pillows here on the chairs were worked by Martha Washington herself," added Aunt Betty. They next went to see the room where Martha Washington died. It is directly above the one occupied by Washington. This is fitted up as nearly as possible as it was when occupied by Martha, but only the corner washstand really belonged to her. They visited the other bedrooms, noticing the important things of interest in them, and then started back to the city, where they had late luncheon and went out immediately after to visit the White House. They had very little time left and wanted to get just a glimpse of the President's home. Everyone is familiar with the appearance of the White House. The grounds consist of some eight acres sloping down to the Potomac. The immediate gardens were early attended to as is shown by the size of the trees. One park, near the house, known as the white lot, is open to the public, and here, in warm weather, the marine band gives outdoor concerts. Here also is the sloping terrace just behind the White House, that the children of the city gather upon on Easter to roll their colored eggs. Coming up from Pennsylvania avenue along the semi-circular drive that leads up from the open gates, they entered the stately vestibule through the front portico. The middle upper window from which Lincoln made so many impromptu but memorable addresses during the war was pointed out. The doorkeepers here direct callers upon the President up the broad staircase. They formed the company into one party and conducted them, under their guidance, around the building. They were taken into the East room, originally designed for a banquet hall, which is used now as a state reception room. It has eight beautiful marble mantels, surmounted by tall mirrors, and large crystal chandeliers from each of the three great panels of the ceiling. Full length portraits of George and Martha Washington are among the pictures on the wall. Every visitor is told that Mrs. Madison cut the former painting from out the frame with a pair of shears to preserve it from the enemy when she fled from the town in 1814. But in her own letters describing her flight she says that Mr. Custis, the nephew of Washington, hastened over from Arlington to save the precious portrait and that a servant cut the outer frame with an axe so the canvas could be removed, stretched on the inner frame. Adjoining the East room is the Green room, named so from the general color scheme which has been traditional. The ceiling is ornamented with an exquisite design in which musical instruments are entwined in a garland with cherubs and flowers. Next to this, and somewhat larger and oval, is the Blue room. The ornaments here are presents from the French. The mantel clock was a present from Napoleon to Lafayette, and was given by the latter to the United States. The fine vases were presented by the president of the French Republic, on the occasion of the opening of the Franco-American cable. It is here the President stands when holding receptions and ceremonials. The Red room, west of the Blue room, is square and the same size as the Green parlor. It is more homelike than the others because of its piano and mantel ornaments, abundant furniture and pictures. It is used as a reception room and private parlor by the ladies of the mansion. In the State dining room at the end of the corridor, elaborate dinners are usually given once or twice a week, during the winter, and they are brilliant affairs. Plants and flowers from the conservatories are supplied in limitless quantities and the table is laden with a rare display of plate, porcelain and cut glass. It presents a beautiful appearance and is an effective setting for the elaborate toilets of the ladies and their glittering jewels. The table service is exceedingly beautiful and is adorned with various representations of the flora and fauna of America. The new set of cut glass, consisting of five hundred and twenty separate pieces, was made especially for the White House, and on each piece, from the mammoth centerpiece and punch bowl to the tiny salt cellars, is engraved the coat-of-arms of the United States. The table can be made to accommodate as many as fifty-four persons, but the usual number of guests is from thirty to forty. A door leads into the conservatory, which is always a beauty spot. Just opposite the state dining room is the private or family dining room. The offices of the President and his secretaries are on the second floor at the eastern end. The President's room and Cabinet room are in the executive office west of the White House, so the guide told them, and a large force of watchmen including police officers are on duty inside the mansion at all hours, and a continuous patrol is maintained by the local police of the grounds immediately surrounding the mansion. Thinking they had seen as much as they could safely spare time for, they hurried away back to the hotel, where they all hastily packed the rest of their things and sent them at once to the station. They soon started on their considerable journey, and almost nightly concerts till they should reach Chicago. CHAPTER XV. THE LAKE CITY. About a week later, they arrived one day, late in the afternoon, in Chicago, and at once took a bus from the station to the hotel, the Blackstone. They were to sing at the Auditorium that evening. The concert they gave originally in Washington was to be repeated. As all were now familiar with their task, they did not have to practice unless so disposed. Mr. Ludlow and his assistant hurried off to the Auditorium to see about decorations and to meet the committee that had charge of selling tickets there. Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy, and Alfaretta hurried up to their rooms to get their things straightened out. Alfy found, having packed hurriedly that morning, that their dresses were badly wrinkled. She said to Mrs. Calvert: "Aunt Betty, what shall I do? My dresses are very much mussed, and I guess Dorothy's are in the same condition." "I have a little electric iron in my trunk that I always carry with me for just that purpose, when I travel, because one's things are very apt to get wrinkled no matter how much care one takes of them," answered Aunt Betty. "May I have it?" questioned Alfaretta, eagerly, for she was always very fond of ironing, and always was very proud of her skill in that direction, for more than once Ma Babcock had praised her by saying even she couldn't have done as well herself. "I would love to iron the things all out nice, and make them look like new." "Certainly, I will get it for you. You unscrew the electric light bulb and take it out, and then put the small disk in place and screw it tight. Then turn on the current, and place the piece with the wire attached into the socket. Then in a few minutes the iron will be hot enough to use," directed Aunt Betty. Alfy started off to look for things to press; ribbons, belts, ties, collars and the dresses that they wished to wear that night. These she laid on the bed, and Aunt Betty left her there, as happy and content as she could be in having found some way in which she could be useful. When Dorothy was all alone at last, she opened a letter that the clerk had given her when she arrived, and read as follows: DEAR, DEAR GIRL: I received your postal and letter from Washington, but was rather disappointed not to have had another letter from you ere this. But I suppose you have been very busy sight-seeing in all the places you have been, and then you must have given up considerable time to practicing for your concerts. I know that you have little time while you are traveling about. I read the accounts of the first concert in the New York papers, and they all referred to it as being a great success. I am very proud of you, dear. As yet I have heard nothing at all from the detectives concerning your locket and chain, but I have heard of a new detective, a private man. A fellow in the office was telling me about his good work in many cases; it seems that he is a friend of this fellow's. The chap is a nice boy and is under me in my work. His name is Billie Clarke, and he lives uptown in New York. He has invited me up to his home to meet his mother and sister, some time next week. I shall go because it is very lonely here in this big city without you, dear. I miss you, little sweetheart, in a hundred different ways. Mr. Van Zandt telephoned me and said that he had submitted the proof he had concerning you, to his colleague, who would comment upon it a little later, and would submit it to the London solicitors; and just as soon as I hear anything about the result I will write to you. I asked him if he had been able to do anything in the line of tracing up little Lem's people, but he said that he couldn't say much as he had just started, and had found but very few traces. So that is something we will still have to hope for, though I am sure he will do his best to solve that mystery. I like my new work very much indeed. There is a lot to learn, and I spend all my evenings reading up on matters I am not quite strong in, but, in time, I certainly hope to make good. And, dearest, I hope to save up all I can, against that day when I will surely be the happiest man on earth. You know what day I mean, dear girl. Mrs. Quarren has been just great to me, and has done everything she could to make my room seem homelike. The meals here are wonderful, and if I keep on eating as much as I have this last week, I shall be fat when you come back here again. Now, dear, please, please write to me. You know how very lonely I am, and how anxious I am about you. Write and tell me all the news. I love you, girl, always. Your own, JIM Dorothy read the letter once, and sighed, "Dear, dear Jim," and then she slowly read the letter through again, kissed the signature, blushing as she did so. She then got up, walked to the writing desk, a pretty little mahogany one, fitted out nicely, selected some paper and started to write. She thought, "I will just write a little note to Jim to thank him for sending me those beautiful American beauty roses that everyone admired. I ought to have done so before." Her letter was as follows: DEAR JIM: The clerk just handed me your letter as I came into the hotel, for we just arrived in Chicago. I was very glad to hear from you. Most of all, I want to thank you so very much for those flowers. They were just beautiful, and it pleased me so, to think of your remembering that we were to have the concert, and then sending those flowers to me by telegraph. The President was at the concert, and in the intermission we went to his box, spoke to him, and shook hands with him. I carried your flowers with me all the time. I am going to rest for a while after I write this letter, as we give a concert here to-night at the Auditorium. The members of the company that joined us at Washington are very fine. There is a trio, and their singing is exquisite; also a Miss Winters, who is a wonderful dancer. She fairly floats about the stage, and makes a very pretty picture. The whole company is very good, indeed, and I guess we are doing very well, judging from the applause we earn. Mr. Ludlow seems pleased with the finances. You know Mr. Dauntrey takes care of those and helps Mr. Ludlow in general. Although the latter is very considerate and helpful, I don't know just why it is, but there is something I don't quite like about him. He is so very handsome that most girls, including Ruth, are raving about him. We have a few busy days. A concert every night and train by day. We go from here to St. Louis, and then to the Coast. I am anxious to get to San Francisco. I want to look up that old house there on the bluff that we had that year we took Aunt Betty there for her health when Monty Sharp was with us. Do you remember, Jim? I am so sorry about that locket, but I know that you will find it, and then we can clear up the whole affair. And so you think that perhaps Mr. Van Zandt will find out all about poor little Lem's parents just from that sampler that Alfy found in the attic? I do so hope so. Aunt Betty and Alfy, I know, would wish to be remembered, if they knew I was writing, so I will send their love anyway. Now, isn't this a nice, long, newsy letter? I have to practice a little now, so I will stop. I am yours, as ever, DOROTHY. She read the letter she had just written over again, and then sealed it. She then opened the door, stepped into the hall and dropped it into the mail box chute near the elevator. Then she returned to the room to dress and rest before the concert. In a little while Alfy entered and found her dressing. "See what I have been doing," she said, gayly, holding up the dresses she had just finished pressing so that Dorothy could see and admire them. "You dear girl," commented Dorothy, going over and kissing her. "You are always doing something for me. Thank you, dear, for pressing my dress. Doesn't it look nice now?--like new again." "Is there anything else that you would like to have pressed, now that I am working?" Alfy inquired. "Why, there is that blue waist that I have been wearing in the train. It is very mussy," added Dorothy, "but if you are in a hurry, don't bother with it; I really can get along without it." "Give it to me," responded Alfy. "I just love ironing, and will have it done in no time. I might as well press mine while I am about it, too." And taking Dorothy's waist from her, she quickly found her own, and started off with them. The girls were soon ready, and then went down the stair with Mrs. Calvert. Mr. Ludlow called for Dorothy at seven o'clock that evening, and they started for the Auditorium. The stage, this time, was decorated with huge bunches of chrysanthemums, and large green palms that hung their great, fan-like leaves in a regular bower effect over the stage, making a very effective background for the performance. The programs here were, of course, inside much like the Washington ones, but this time the cover was of heavy, dark brown manila paper, embossed into a large dull gold chrysanthemum, and tied with a yellow ribbon bow at the top end. They were very pretty and effective. The committee of ladies that had charge of selling the seats here in Chicago had arranged to have the programs sold. They had selected ten very pretty and charming debutantes, and had provided them with pretty little dainty satin bags, with yellow chrysanthemums handpainted on them. These bags were hung over their shoulders by yellow ribbons. The whole effect was very pretty and artistic. The girls were to charge twenty-five cents for the programs, and the money they slipped into a little pocket in the bag which held them. During the intermission, most of the people retired to the cosy little tea-room in front of the place, where cool and refreshing drinks as well as ice creams and ices were served at a moderately low fee. There the girls met many charming Chicago people, and the committee of ladies made it very pleasant for them by introducing them to almost everyone. A most informal and successful evening, they all agreed they had spent. The next day was Sunday, and as a few of their number were visiting friends in Chicago, the rest of them decided to spend the day sight-seeing. The trio, for so they were always called by the rest, all had gone to visit relatives, and little Miss Winter had promised to visit a friend who lived in a suburb of the city. So the rest of the company felt quite lost, and thought the best way to amuse themselves in this large, strange city was to go sight-seeing and become acquainted with it. "Did you know," said Mr. Ludlow as the little party started out on a tour of the city, "that Chicago is especially famous for its highly developed and extensive boulevard systems and parks? The public parks cover an area of over four thousand acres and are being added to every year." "Yes," responded Mrs. Calvert, "and the great boulevards of the city encircle the metropolis and connect parks and squares. These great roads, splendidly paved and shaded by trees, and lined with ornamental lamp posts, are throughout the year favorite highways for the automobilists." About ten minutes' walk from the hotel brought them to Grant Park on the lake front. There the Art Institute attracted their attention, and they found the building open. "The center of art interests in Chicago is located here," said Mr. Ludlow. "This building contains the Museum of Fine Arts and the School of Design. Its collections and the building and its work are entirely conducted on voluntary subscriptions." "I have heard that the Art School here is the largest one in America," said Mrs. Calvert. They visited the various rooms in the museum, including the Hall collection of casts of ancient and modern sculpture, and the Higinbotham collection of Naples bronzes, the rooms containing French sculpture and musical instruments, scarabæae, Egyptian antiques, Greek vases of glass and terra-cotta, and found all very interesting. They then visited Blackstone Hall, containing the great Blackstone collection of architectural casts chiefly from French subjects. Then the paintings of George Inness. These canvases are so diverse and representative that it is highly improbable that another equally significant group of works by Inness will ever come into market again. From the north side of Grant Park and extending south to Garfield boulevard near Washington Park is Michigan Boulevard. This historic drive, part of which was once an Indian trail, is a main artery of automobile travel from the lake front hotel districts to the south parks. The party then took a surface car to Jackson Park, which was a short distance. It was the site of the world's Columbian Exposition. "The Field Museum of Natural History was the Fine Arts Building in the Exposition of 1893," said Mr. Ludlow. "Let's visit that part first." This museum was established soon after the close of the world's Columbian Exposition, and occupies one of the largest and most beautiful buildings in the whole exposition group covering two acres. The building is classic Greek in style, constructed with brick and steel, covered with ornamental stucco, in imitation of marble. Marshall Field, whose name the institution perpetuates, was the person who made the building possible by his generosity. He gave about one and a half million dollars. Then at his death in 1906, he left the institution eight million dollars, one-half for endowment, and the other half for a magnificent permanent building, worthy of the unrivaled scientific collections which it contains. The nucleus of the material now on view was gathered by gift and purchase from exhibitions at the World's Columbian Exposition. From here they walked to the Wooded Island, an interesting feature of which is the Cahokia Court House, reputed to be the oldest public building in the whole Mississippi valley. It was built, it is said, about the year 1716, at Cahokia, Illinois, and has served in various public capacities. At different periods it was employed for both civil and military purposes, and is recognized as the oldest county seat building (Saint Clair County, Illinois) in the original Northwest Territory. The building is constructed of squared walnut logs, set on end in the early French manner of stockade construction, the logs being held together with wooden pins. Three flags, French, English and American, float from the flagstaff of the Old Cahokia Court House, daily. Within the building are a number of photographs of the original documents which pertain to its interesting history. The Japanese buildings, representing three periods of Japanese history, remain in their original site at the north end of Wooded Island, and near them is a tiny garden in formal Japanese style. The United States Life Saving Station is near the lake shore and was one of the interesting government exhibitions, and has ever since been maintained as a regular life saving station. La Rabida, at the south end of the park on the lake shore is an exact reproduction of an ancient Spanish convent, where Columbus was at one time sheltered and befriended, in the days before he was able to secure aid from the Spanish court. "And an interesting reminder of Columbus can be seen in those three small caravels," said Mr. Ludlow. "Do you know their names? They are reproductions of the small craft that brought Columbus and his followers on their first voyage to the New World." Dorothy, who had remembered reading an article on Columbus in a recent magazine, exclaimed joyfully, "I know, the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria." "Right," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "Oh, I am hungry," said Alfy, suddenly, "I am most starved. What time is it, I wonder? I feel as if it were way past dinner time." Mr. Ludlow consulted his watch and said, "It is just six forty-five." "I guess we had better start back to the hotel, now," broke in Mrs. Calvert. "I am rather tired and hungry, too." "We have seen quite a lot of the city and we can go into the shopping district and see that in the morning. There are some few things I would like to purchase," remarked Dorothy. "I would like to visit Marshall Field's. I have always heard so much about it and I would like to see if these Chicagoans really know what a good store is." "You will find that Marshall Field's is indeed a very wonderful store. Just like our New York stores, though, but a trifle better, anyway," said Mrs. Calvert. "Yes, I think you will all agree with me, when you visit that wonderful store in the morning." They hurried back to the hotel and prepared for dinner, after which Mr. Ludlow took Ruth, Dorothy and Alfaretta to church. Aunt Betty stayed home, being too tired to go out. CHAPTER XVI. THE ACCIDENT. On Monday morning the company divided into little parties and went shopping, each to secure their own special needs. Dorothy, Ruth, Alfaretta and Mrs. Calvert made one party. They went direct to Marshall Field's and were admittedly amazed by what they saw, so stupendous is the place. They were surprised to find the store's capacity so large and everything so fine, of such good quality, reasonably priced and conveniently arranged. Mrs. Calvert bought a belt and a pair of gloves, and met such courteous attention and carefulness among the shop-girls as to be very much impressed. She said to Dorothy: "Dear, I never before found shopping so pleasant. I wish I could always get everything I wished at Chicago, and especially here in this store, for it is directed wonderfully well." "I would like to send some souvenir postcards," broke in Alfy. "Do you suppose I can get them here?" "Yes, indeed," answered Dorothy. "I saw them, a large counter full of all kinds of views in and around the city; they were near the door which we entered." "You can write them right here, and send them off from the store," added Aunt Betty. "Come along then," directed Ruth. "All this way who want post cards." They made their way to the counter where the cards were displayed and immediately were engaged in selecting views of the things and places they had seen in the city. "Here is a very pretty card," said Ruth. "It has the La Rabida on it. You remember the convent we saw in Jackson Park yesterday, where they had all of those Columbus relics?" "Yes, and did you see this one?" asked Dorothy, holding up a card to view. "It's the little Japanese Garden on the Wooded Island in the same park." "Look!" exclaimed Alfy, showing them all another card, "here is one of the Art Institute!" Mrs. Calvert, who had been searching through the various cards, said, "I think these three are very interesting, this of the store, this one of our hotel, and this other of the Life Saving Station in the park." "Well, have you all selected those you wish?" said Dorothy. "Because, if you have, we can all go over there to the writing room and send them all right off." "What a beautifully appointed room," said Mrs. Calvert, as they entered the spacious, well lighted writing room, with the mahogany desks and generous supply of good quality writing paper, pens, ink-wells, etc. There was also in the corner a stamp machine, in which one deposits the right change and secures the desired number of stamps in return. "I want to send cards to Ma and Pa Babcock. Ma always likes me to, so she can show them down at Liza Jane's," said Alfy. "I would like to send one to Gerald Banks and his sister, and, of course, to Jim," said Dorothy. "I think there are just two I wish to send. I want to send one to Mrs. Quarren," rejoined Ruth, "and if you do not mind, I think I should like to send one to Jim, also." "Of course I don't object," laughed Dorothy. "Jim would be pleased to think you had remembered him. But let me see which one you are going to send him so I may send him a different one." "Very well," answered Ruth. "I will send the one of the hotel." "And I," responded Dorothy, "will send the one of the lake and Wooded Island in Jackson Park." "I think I shall send Jim a card also," said Mrs. Calvert. "But I shall send him the one of the store. My list is just a little longer than all you girls' lists. I shall send cards to Frau and Herr Deichenberg, little Lemuel and old Ephraim, and Jim, whom I mentioned before." "Shall I get the stamps?" said Ruth. "Can I go with you?" asked Alfy. "I want to see how the machine works." "Certainly, come on," added Ruth. "How many shall we need?" "You had better get fifteen," answered Mrs. Calvert. "You see," remarked Ruth to Alfaretta, "that one can only deposit nickels and dimes in the slot." "What are you going to put in?" questioned Alfy. "I am going to deposit first a dime and then a nickel in the slot that's marked for one cent stamps," replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words and picking up the stamps which the machine dropped into the receiving tray. "That's real fun," said Alfaretta. "I'd always buy stamps here, but Ma Babcock would not like it." "Why not?" asked Ruth. "Because Ma always wants to talk, and would not think she had her money's worth without it." They put the stamps on the cards and then mailed them in the large gilt mail box near the door in the corner. "I guess it's most time for us to go back to the hotel for luncheon," said Aunt Betty. "Almost," replied Ruth, looking at her small gold watch. "It's now just eleven-thirty." "I want to get some blue ribbon," said Dorothy, "before we leave for the hotel." "And I must get a veil," added Ruth. The girls departed on their quests and in less than two minutes met Mrs. Calvert at the door and all went back together to the hotel for luncheon. It was a quiet mid-day meal, and as soon as it was over they had to devote their attention to their trunks, as they were to leave that afternoon for their next stopping place. Mr. Dauntrey and Mr. Ludlow attended to the baggage and the tickets and very soon all were ready. Just as they were leaving the hotel to go to the station, Mr. Dauntrey singled Ruth out, and approaching her, said, "Will you come and walk down with me?" "With pleasure," said the girl, suiting her steps to his, and they started slowly to stroll down to the station. "I have a box of Huyler's here for you," remarked Mr. Dauntrey. "I thought perhaps you would like it. I thought it would be nice for you to have on the train." "Why thank you ever so much. You are very kind." "Not half as kind as I would like to be, if you would only afford me the opportunity." Ruth made some answer that turned the conversation to some less personal subject. She kept up a run of chatter about indifferent matters. So many people were upon the streets and so many conveyances on the roadways that progress was slow, and when they reached the station they found Mr. Ludlow very much provoked that Ruth should have kept them all waiting, nearly causing the loss of their train. "Couldn't you have walked a little faster, Ruth?" Mr. Ludlow asked. "Or taken the stage to the station if you were so tired? This must not happen again." Ruth, who disliked being reprimanded before everybody, angrily exclaimed, "Well, you didn't have to wait here for me, I am sure, for you might have known that Mr. Dauntrey is capable of taking care of me, and, aside from that, I think I can take pretty good care of myself." Mr. Ludlow did not reply, but hurried them to their private car, the others of the party having preceded him. Very shortly they were speeding on their way. Mrs. Calvert read a book, and Dorothy and Alfy were merrily chatting over their trip, so Ruth turned away from Mr. Ludlow and busied herself talking to Mr. Dauntrey and nibbling his chocolates and bon bons. Mr. Ludlow, who had most of the time been looking out of the window, turned to Mrs. Calvert and said, "I think it looks as if we were going to have a bad storm. It looks to me as if the clouds have been following us up, and I'm afraid we are going to get it in a little while good and plenty." Mrs. Calvert looked out of the window and saw the storm clouds approaching and gathering for the downpour, and then her eyes wandered to the river beside which the train ran. "Just look!" she exclaimed, pointing to the water. "Look, quick, at the river!" "That is quite remarkable," said Mr. Ludlow. "Just see how high the water is and how fast it is flowing." "Why it seems to be rising higher and higher by the minute as we go along," responded Mrs. Calvert. "I can't understand it, can you?" "Oh!" shrieked Ruth at this moment, clinging to Mr. Dauntrey's hand. "Oh, what an awful flash of lightning! Oh, how I hate an electric storm! Lightning scares me half to death." "I like it," replied Alfy, looking across the dark, turbulent, swiftly moving stream. "I always like to watch it. And 'up mounting' we do have some awful storms. You remember them, don't you, Dorothy?" "Of course I do. Sometimes, though, I used to get a little scared. They used to be so very bad," said the girl, and all the people in the car jumped as a loud crash of thunder followed a blazing streak of lightning. The thunder seemed right under their feet and was so loud and so sudden that all were startled for a minute. Ruth jumped up and grabbed Mr. Ludlow around the neck and hid her face in his shoulder, moaning, "Oh, oh, I don't like this at all." Mr. Ludlow, although he did not like to see the girl so overcome with nervousness, was decidedly happy that she should turn to him, and hoped perhaps that the storm would last forever, if he could continue to hold Ruth to him. This awful clap was followed by another flash of lightning which lit up the car brighter than daylight. Mrs. Calvert, who was facing the window, looked out and gasped, "Oh, why don't they stop the train?" Then they all heard a mighty splash and the train gave a terrible lurch and threw those standing over on the floor and those sitting had a hard time to keep their places. All the lights immediately went out and Alfy shouted, "We are struck!" Some of the party shrieked and one or two fainted dead away. None could see the others in the terrible, black darkness in which they were enveloped. At last, after a prolonged silence that seemed ages, Mrs. Calvert said. "Is any one hurt?" Everyone began to collect their scattered thoughts by this time, and Mr. Ludlow had managed to rise from his fallen position and get Ruth up and into a seat. He grouped about in the pitch blackness into which they had been plunged and finally found his chair. He deftly managed to retain Ruth's hand in his, in order to reassure her. The answer Mrs. Calvert received in general was that everyone was safe and physically unharmed and mentally as near right as could be expected. Mrs. Calvert then asked, "Did anyone see out of the window when the flash of lightning lit up this car?" And when she had received answer that no one had, she continued: "I happened to be sitting facing the window and when the flash came I saw out very plainly." "What did you see?" questioned Mr. Ludlow, in a firm voice. "The river," responded Mrs. Calvert. "The river was up to the tracks." The fact was suggestive of further danger, and then Dorothy questioned, "What was the crash? And why did the train lurch so? And why are all the lights out?" "Maybe," suggested Alfy, "maybe we were struck with lightning. Do you think so, Aunt Betty?" "I don't know," she replied. "I can't understand where the train hands can be. They should be here to tell us what has happened." "Do you suppose we have struck another train?" questioned Dorothy. "Oh," groaned Ruth. "I wish we could have some lights. It's so dark I am afraid something will happen, and maybe some one will be killed." "Hush, child," remarked Mr. Ludlow. "Just be thankful things are no worse than they are, that we are all safe alive and none of us are hurt." Ruth subsided to silence and sobbed beneath her breath. Just then, George, the old negro porter, broke in on the excited party and endeavored to tell what was the matter. "Lord o' Mercy, massa!" he exclaimed. "De train am wrecked. The ingin and one ob de baggage cars did fall off these track, plump, splash, right in de water." "That's what the crash and splash and jerk was that we felt. The water was so high that it probably came up on the tracks here, and the engine and baggage car jumped the weakened trestle into the water. I wonder how it was it didn't pull the rest of the train into the water also," said Mr. Ludlow. Just then the conductor and a brakeman passing from the next car through their own explained what had occurred to Mr. Ludlow and the other interested listeners. First lighting the gas lamps to dispel the semi-darkness, the conductor said, "Sir, you see the lightning struck the train right between the first passenger car and the baggage, severing the connection, and leaving the engine and baggage car free to go ahead. They did, and running a little farther ahead it jumped the track, but no one was hurt. The shock somehow set the brakes, and brought the remaining cars to a stop. It's lucky we held to the tracks, sir, it is indeed." "Did anyone in the passenger cars get hurt?" questioned Mr. Ludlow. "No, sir, only a few fainted," answered the conductor. "What are we going to do now? We have no power to go ahead, and we can't even go back. We can't move. Are we to stay right where we are, conductor?" "For a time, we must," was the answer. "When is another train due here?" questioned Mrs. Calvert. "A train is due to come through this way in an hour and a half, madam," said the conductor. "But that will not help us any to go ahead. We have sent word back and may expect help from the nearest station. Some arrangement can likely be made to switch us off on a branch road, and by a circuitous route we can get back again to our line." "And how about our concert to-night?" "If help is promptly sent we may get you there on time." "We were due at five o'clock," said Mr. Ludlow. "We can't promise you anything definite now," said the conductor, as he went about his duties. "All we can do is to just sit still and hope for aid, and that it will come in time," said Mrs. Calvert. "I'm afraid that's all, except to be thankful that we were not killed," suggested Mr. Ludlow. The exact idea of their position was finally grasped by all, and everyone breathed a little prayer for having been saved so miraculously. They all quieted down and prepared to sit there and wait, and hope for the arrival of a train bringing aid. An hour an a half, so they had been told, and that hour and a half seemed the longest hour and a half that most of them had ever experienced. Finally they heard a shout from one of the brakemen, a glad shout, a joyous sign, they thought, and then the conductor came through and announced, "Sir, a small repair train has just come up to us. They sent it out very promptly, as they thought that we might be in even more serious need than we are." "Can it take us back, then?" asked Mr. Ludlow, and the rest of the company sighed in relief, because they now knew that they were safe and would eventually be pulled out of their present position. "It can take back two cars, sir," answered the conductor, "and would you object, sir, if I put some other passengers in here with you?" "Not at all," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Bring in as many as you wish. We will be only too glad to have them." The conductor departed, returning in a little time, accompanied by about a dozen women and half as many small children, saying, "I brought the women and young ones, as I thought that they would be more comfortable in here." Dorothy and Ruth, alert and interested, forgot their own discomfort in rendering aid to others, anxious and in distress. "They have connected the little repair train engine to the two cars," the conductor announced, "and we will be off in a short time now. We are going back up the road a little way and branch off, and so recover the main line. We think we will get you to your destination in time for your concert." This was done, but with little time to spare, and if all the artists were not quite up to their usual standard of excellence that night, the experience of the afternoon was quite sufficient excuse. The remainder of the trip to St. Louis was without event of note. The accident on the train was not without its advantages in the way of publicity, and their concerts drew large audiences. In St. Louis two concerts were given, both being very successful. CHAPTER XVII. CONCLUSION. In the sequence of events the tour came to an end. A twenty-weeks' season had been successfully carried through. There had been, of course, hampering and untoward conditions to surmount. An occasional discordant note was struck. Mr. Carleton, who acted as accompanist when no orchestra was employed, turned out to be rather an arbitrary individual, and had caused Ruth, particularly, many a heart-ache. Dorothy, with her winning responsiveness to an artistic temperament, felt that she had less cause to complain. Her affair with Jim had not of late been plain sailing. She had not written to him very often or a bit regularly, and he had entered a rather arbitrary protest, so she thought, and one letter at least, that she had addressed to him had gone astray. Then Jim reached the conclusion that his letters were not appreciated, and that absence had caused an estrangement. He nursed his resentment into a cauldron of bitterness, and with the perverseness of lovers built mountains of molehills. Not but that such ephemeral erections may, and oftimes do, cast a shadow that will blot out true regard. Without a tried and certain knowledge of her heart as concerned Jim, Dorothy had found the ever gentlemanly attentions of Mr. Dauntrey very agreeable. Ruth, on such occasions, was inclined to resentful looks and acts, of which, however, Dorothy was sublimely ignorant. One day, journeying from Sacramento to San Francisco, it had been observed that Mr. Dauntrey and Alfy were in close consultation, an unusual event for those two to find a subject of mutual interest. Later, in a spirit of fun, Dorothy chided her companion. "So you have won over Mr. Dauntrey," cried Dorothy, laughing. "Nonsense," said Alfy, but blushing rosily. "But for two hours on the train you monopolized him entirely. What did you find to talk about?" "Well, for one thing, we were talking about you," was the defensive response. "About me, Alfy, what could you have been saying about me?" "I was telling him," said Alfy, hesitatingly, "about your English inheritance." "Oh, but I wonder you did that. I asked that nothing be said about it. For, as you know, nothing has ever come of the matter, and nothing may. The locket has never been found, and the lawyer says that there are other 'seemingly insurmountable requirements.' My, what big words. I wonder I could string them all together." "Well," went on Alfy, in her further defense, "he asked about you, and I couldn't see that there was any harm." "No real harm, Alfy. And I hoped for Aunt Betty's sake that there was an inheritance assured. She is so worried about Bellevieu. The mortgages and taxes seem to eat up everything. I have given her, of course, all of my earnings, but she says things are still going badly." "What are we to do now?" asked Alfy, seeking another subject. "Go home?" "Mr. Ludlow has made some arrangements for Ruth to sing and for me to play here in San Francisco, at private houses of the rich. As you know, all of the others except Mr. Dauntrey, have gone east, their contracts expired." Their conversation was interrupted, now, by Aunt Betty, who came into the room. "Here is a much belated letter," she exclaimed, "the envelope all marked up with forwarding addresses. It must have been traveling about for quite some time." "It's from Jim," cried Dorothy, and quickly broke the seal. The postmark the letter bore was a date fully two months back, and the first few lines were, to the recipient very pleasing ones, till she remembered that they were written before their late disagreement. But the major part of the letter bore upon a subject that concerned them all, and this she read aloud. "It's about Lem," cried Dorothy. "Mr. Van Zandt has made some quite wonderful discoveries. And just to think, it all comes about through that sampler you found, Alfy. But let me read: "I have some interesting news concerning Lemuel Haley, the boy your camping party found in the thick woods crying that night. It was a lucky thing for the boy that Mrs. Babcock gave Alfaretta that sampler, for from just such a simple little thing as that, we have been able to trace all of Lem's family history, bringing out a sufficient, although I will not say good, reason for his uncle's mistreatment of him. "Lemuel Haley's mother was Hannah Woodrow. The very same girl that summered with Mrs. Babcock, and remained there attending the little village school for one whole year. She was a very delicate girl, not particularly pretty and very shy. She had large limpid brown eyes, and was of small build. "She returned to Baltimore, after her year in the mountains, and lived the regulation life of a wealthy farmer's daughter. There Mr. Haley, a traveling salesman, so he told her family, fell in love with her or--her money, and when both her father and mother died quite suddenly, the traveling salesman made it his business to woo the lonely girl. He wished to marry her immediately and protect her, so he told her, and was so persistent that the poor distracted, grief-stricken girl finally gave him her promise, and within a month of her parents' death married him. At once he proceeded to dissipate her fortune, and, to make a long story short, the poor girl died when Lem was born. The father was later killed by an accident. "Lem's only relative, it was found, was an uncle who lived in the South. This man volunteered to take the little one, and was made legal guardian and controller of the remnant of the fortune. The child was a weak, delicate boy, and this uncle, a cruel, planning man, figured that if he worked Lem very hard all the time, he would eventually break down, and then he would come in for the child's money. Thus, the poor boy was driven to desperation, and finally ran away. You know better than I do, the incidents connected with his rescue. "I have prepared all necessary legal papers as to the facts, to prove that Mr. Haley was and is an unfit guardian for the child, and will present these to the court." This pleasing news was interestedly discussed, and a happy future argued for the boy. The following morning, Mr. Dauntrey was early at the breakfast table, with a proposition that the party should visit Tamalpais. The day was beautifully clear, and on no other is a trip to the mountain's summit interesting. Mr. Ludlow could not go, but the ladies accepted with alacrity, and a prompt start was made. Glorious sights indeed are revealed, as the railroad winds its way to the apex of this peak, the highest so near an American city. Lunch was served at the summit house, but Dorothy was so interested in the views obtainable from the various vantage points that she wandered away from the others while they were still seated at the table. When her absence was noted, Mr. Dauntrey sought her out, at first unsuccessfully, then seeking for her in a secluded view point seldom visited, he heard her voice, and found that, in her anxiety to attain a high rock, she had lost her footing, and catching for a support had sprained her ankle. She had as well badly torn her dress. Her rescuer was all gallantry and courtesy, and assisted her to a seat near at hand. He would have carried her to the train platform, but this proffer Dorothy declined. "I shall be able to walk, shortly," she explained. "It is not a severe sprain and the pain is bearable, and only acute when I put my weight on my foot." "A few moments' rest will help to set you right," said Mr. Dauntrey, and then added, looking into her eyes, "Do you know, I wish you had been in some real serious danger, and that I had been privileged to render aid." "I thank you for what you have done, and now let's go to the others," quickly interposed the girl. But one effort to rest her weight upon her foot dissuaded her from any further immediate endeavor, and so she sought, unsuccessfully, to turn the conversation in other directions. "Do you know," he repeated, "that I would like to render such service that you would never wish for any other servitor?" "Please," said Dorothy, "let's talk about the wonderful view of sea and forest and the heaven above." "I am intense in my admiration of all that is beautiful, and above all, permit me to say that I admire the beautiful Dorothy." She raised her hand in protest, but he continued. "May I quote for you a little gem that is aptly expressive of my sentiments?" "Well," laughed Dorothy, quizzically looking at her foot, "I am at your mercy." The man by her side did not venture to touch her hand, which rested on the bench almost beside his own, but, with earnest intensity of his manner, he leaned forward and looked longingly, nay lovingly, into her eyes till they fell before his gaze. His face, handsome and animated, his voice musical and well modulated. Every word was spoken slowly as if to admit of certain assimilation. "May my Heaven be A rosary bower, With one sweet angel, And that one--Thee!" There was a moment's pause. "Miss Calvert," he went on, "I would that my heaven might begin on earth. It will, if you will be mine." Dorothy, like all other girls, under similar circumstances, had felt for a moment the compliment of a man's love, then all at once she recalled the conversation between Alfy and her quondam lover, and with her quick intuition, she had recognized her possible inheritance as the probable cause of Mr. Dauntrey's sudden declaration. Still she would not be unkind. "Oh, my foot pains me unbearably. Please, Mr. Dauntrey, get Alfy to come and help me." "Just one little word of hope and I fly." "No, Mr. Dauntrey, I can but say at once, and frankly and firmly, too, no," and with that she made pretense to such suffering from the injured foot that the suppliant for her hand had but, with the best grace he could muster, to comply with her very reasonable request. Dorothy, when the others came, was able, leaning lightly on Alfy's arm, to accompany them to the train, and soon was happily interested in the wonderful panorama spread before their eyes on the return journey. The base of the mountain reached, there was some delay, and Mr. Dauntrey walked about with Ruth, the two in earnest conversation. Aunt Betty and Dorothy sat quietly, while the former made as presentable as she could the torn garment worn by the girl. "You will have to discard this gown, and substitute for traveling your light mohair. Fortunately, the weather is warm enough now. You have not had it on for a long time." To Alfy was referred this decision, with results that will develop later. Alfy was interested, albeit horrified, and held irresistibly spellbound, by the "sausage" man, selling, as the placard said, "Hot Dogs." A half dozen wooley canines were exhibited on the counter and elsewhere about, and when an order for a frankfurter sandwich was given, one of the dogs was grabbed up and caused to disappear into a mechanical contrivance with a large wheel, which was then turned and there were barkings and such grumblings as might be expected from an animal suffering dire and distressing annihilation. Then from an opening, the much aproned proprietor handed forth the promised sandwich. At the hotel that afternoon, the girl's injured foot was cared for by her aunt. "We want no medicine-man," she said, "for I know of the most effective home remedy, guaranteed to cure in twenty-four hours. I have secured the ingredients from the hotel kitchen." "What may they be?" inquired Dorothy. "Lard and salt. The former spread on, and about the injured ankle, and liberally sprinkled with salt. Then securely bandaged." "It certainly is simple, and I will surely be able to play at the reception to-morrow afternoon?" "I have no doubt of it." "Aunty, we are so seldom by ourselves, and Ruth and Alfy have gone out. I want to have a long talk with you." Dorothy lay resting, her injured foot supported, while her aunt sat beside her, caressingly stroking her hair and forehead. First, the young girl spoke of Mr. Dauntrey and of her experience of that day. The humorous aspect of the circumstances appealed alike to both. Then the inheritance was discussed, and Aunt Betty deplored again the unfortunate loss of the locket and the lacking "insurmountable requirements," in the way of some missing papers. Concerning the latter, Aunt Betty had some hopes that among her accumulated correspondence and documents at Bellevieu, there might be found helpful data bearing on the subject. "Unless some good fortune is happily vouchsafed us," deplored Aunt Betty sorrowfully, "I greatly fear that Bellevieu will be lost." "Mr. Van Zandt wrote, however," encouraged Dorothy, "that it would be well worth while for us to go to England, and that personally presenting myself might 'achieve results otherwise unattainable.' You see, I have remembered his words." "I am determined upon that," responded Aunt Betty, "and I am arranging that we shall go within a month after we get back east. I have a little surprise for you, too. Molly Breckenridge is going also. The judge has arranged for her expenses." The reader, who would wish to still further follow the fortunes of our heroine will find in "Dorothy in England," a volume of startling interest and sweet sentiment. Dorothy was most appreciative of her aunt's thoughtfulness, and now she unburdened her mind of her secret. She told her of her strong regard for Jim, of his expressed love for her, and of her own inability to just exactly determine if her feelings were the equivalent of his. She wished for Jim every happiness, and she shared in his ambitions. They had had a difference, and she was most unhappy, and yet there was an intangible something that restrained her from seeking a reconciliation. The good, motherly woman, who was her confessor, knew perhaps better than the girl herself, the strength of her regard for Jim, and knew that the heart's promptings are seldom influenced. With this wisdom for a guide, she counselled wisely and satisfyingly. Time, and right doing, would remedy and set square all that was untoward. Folded in each other's arms in harmony of feeling, they were suddenly broken in upon by Alfy. "What do you think," she cried. "You told me to get out your light traveling dress. You had not worn it since that day of the fire in New York, and what do you think!" she excitedly repeated, "in the fold of the skirt I found this!" and she held forth the long missing locket. So it unquestionably was. The gown had been put away, and in the folds of the skirt had been caught, and so long retained, the locket. A word more and our story ends. The journey east was uneventful. At Baltimore, Aunt Betty and the girls said good-bye to Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Dauntrey. Ruth was to visit a day at Bellevieu and then go on with Alfy to New York. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
32310	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32310-h.htm or 32310-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h/32310-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h.zip) DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE by EVELYN RAYMOND New York Hurst & Co., Inc. Publishers * * * * * THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. * * * * * [Illustration: "EVER RIDE IN AN OX-CART"? _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE 9 II. UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS 24 III. PEERS AND COMMONS 39 IV. THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY 55 V. THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS 69 VI. AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH 85 VII. ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES 102 VIII. PEER AND COMMONER 117 IX. THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED 133 X. OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL 148 XI. WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE 164 XII. JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT 182 XIII. A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN 193 XIV. EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER 206 XV. MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS 221 XVI. A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE 232 XVII. COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION 249 DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE CHAPTER I ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE "This way for the Queen!" "Here you are for the Duke of Connaught! Right this way!" "Want the Metropole, Miss?" "Room there, stupid! She's from the States--any fool could see that! I'm from your hotel, little lady, the American. Your luggage, Miss, allow me?" If Dorothy's hands hadn't been too full, she would have clapped them over her ears, to drown the cries of the hackmen who swarmed about her as she stepped from the train at the railway station in Toronto. As it was, she clung desperately to her bag and shawlstrap, which the man from the American hotel seemed bound to seize, whether or no. But her heart sank and it was a forlorn little girl, indeed, who looked anxiously around seeking some face on which might be a smile of welcome. But nobody paid any attention to her, except the obstreperous hackmen, and in a sudden fright she let fall the tears she had so bravely kept back until then. It had been a long and lonely journey, but she had been assured that she would be promptly met and cared for when it ended. Now, amid all the throng of travelers and those who awaited them, not one was looking for a "dark haired girl in navy blue" and the tears fell faster as she cried aloud: "Oh! what shall I do! What shall I do!" Even the hackmen had forsaken her in pursuit of other, more promising patrons. The short autumn day was at its close and in the growing darkness her fright increased and her usual common sense left her. But, as she spoke, a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a rather gruff voice demanded: "Why, little stranger, what's a-troublin' ye?" Dorothy winked her tears away and looked up into the face of an old man, whose gray beard swept his breast while his head was entirely bald. He wore a long blue smock, carried an ox-goad in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked as kind as he was homely and Dorothy answered quickly: "I'm lost, I guess. Or forgotten, and that's just as bad! I--I--" "Lost? Right here in this town? Well, that couldn't hardly be. Though I own it's a biggish place. But if you be, I'll see to it that you get found again, immediate. First start--who be ye?" "I'm Dorothy Calvert, from Baltimore. I came to the Oak Knowe School for Girls. Somebody was to meet me. Nobody has and--and--I don't know what to do." John Gilpin whistled and exclaimed: "No! Never! I saw at a glance you was no Cannuck! The little maids we raise in our Province have redder cheeks 'an yours. An' we don't let 'em go traversin' round the universe without their mothers or leastways nurses to look after 'em. But bless my soul, you've fell into safe hands. I know old Oak Knowe well. No better school in the whole Empire nor that. Moresomever, there's been some miscarry betwixt your folks and the Lady Principal or she'd never let you come to this pass. But my road lies same as yours. I'll just step-an'-fetch my oxen and head 'em straight for home. We'll get to the School in next to no time. Leastways, betwixt now and bedding-bell--they ring it about half-past nine." "Is it so far? Why, it must be hours till then!" At the cheerful sound of this old teamster's voice Dorothy forgot her fear. She didn't stop to reflect that she should have waited quietly in the station till somebody called for her, nor that she might have telephoned to her teachers to announce her arrival. All she realized was that here was a friend in need and that he was a quaintly interesting person. "'Tis a matter of some miles, lassie, and my old oxen are no electric tram. Slow and sure's their motto and what's an hour, more or less, in a little girl's lifetime? You got a box?" Dorothy glanced at the rug and magazine, tightly strapped together, and at the handbag she had set down upon the platform and replied: "No, Mr.--I don't know your name yet--I haven't now. I had one, but I ate the lunch out of it and tossed it from the car window." The old man stared as if she had spoken nonsense, but informed her: "Gilpin's my name. John Gilpin; but my dame says I'm no descendant of him that took that famous ride as is in the story books. I'm too slow, Dame says. But is all your clothes in that satchel?" It was Dorothy's turn to stare and to laugh. "Oh! no, indeed! They're in my trunk. Here is my check. Number 70777. I put that down in my little notebook, though it's easy to remember." "Humph! I've heard that in the States they call a box a 'trunk,' same's if it was an elephant. Well, give me the check. I'll just step-an'-fetch it and we'll be jogging." Mr. Gilpin took the check and lumbered away, dragging one leg stiffly as if he could not bend the knee, while Dorothy's spirits rose as she watched him. After all, this was a real adventure; and when it was over and she was safe at her fine school, she could write all about it to the friends at home. Thinking about them, she forgot how long John Gilpin tarried and roused from her reverie with a start when his hearty voice, guiding his oxen, came around the corner of the station. "Here we be, lassie! Ever ride in an ox-cart? Ever see a neater yoke o' cattle? That's an unco big box for a small maid to own and hefty, to boot. Step right in, for it's gathering clouds, I see, and we can't have that tidy dress of yours get spoiled while it's new." It was easy to "step in" to the low-hung vehicle and Dorothy nestled against her new friend on his spring-seat forward; all the back part of the wagon being filled with empty barrels and her own trunk. It had been some sort of holiday in the city and the streets were gay with flags and bunting, causing Dorothy to exclaim: "Why, it's just like Halifax, that time Earl Grey was coming! It's just as English as that was--even more so, for I don't see Old Glory anywhere, and there I did." Old John turned his bare, bald head toward her and demanded: "What do you know about Halifax? Or the Governor General? I thought you was United States." "So I am, so I am! But people may travel once in a while, mayn't they? I can tell you lots about Halifax, even though I was there but a little while. That was on a vacation journey and it was delight-ful!" Then, finding the farmer so interested, Dorothy eagerly recited the story of her "Travels" and their happy ending at her rightful home at Deerhurst and in the love of her Great-Aunt Betty. "Sounds like a story book, now don't it! And to think after all that the old lady should be willin' to despatch you up here to our Province, just to get a mite of education. Should ha' thought there'd be institooshuns of learning nigher hand 'an Oak Knowe, where she could ha' clapped eyes on ye, now and again. She--" "Oh! don't misjudge my darling aunt! She hated to have me come as badly as I hated to leave her; but, though I've never been really ill, she fancied that this climate would make me very, very strong. Besides, the minister who founded Oak Knowe--he was a bishop, I believe--was one of her girlhood friends, and so she chose it for that, too. Anyway, to her who has traveled so much, Canada and Maryland seem but a little way apart." "That's right, lassie. That's right. Be loyal to your friends, whether they be right or wrong. An' talk about travel, there beant many corners of this earth that I haven't took a glance at. I've not always been a farmer, though you mightn't think it now." They had passed out of the city streets into the open country, the oxen swaying and pacing sedately along, as if it mattered nothing how late they might reach home. To pass the time, Dorothy asked the old man to talk about his own travels, and he promptly answered: "In course, and obleeged for anybody to care to listen. Dame has heard my yarns so often, she scoffs 'em; but I've seen a power o' things in my day, a power o' things. I was born in Lunnon, raised in Glasgo', run away to Liverpool and shipped afore the mast. From sailor I turned soldier under Chinese Gordon--Ah! the man he wus! Miner, constable, me Lord's butler, then his cook, and now, at the fag end of my days, settled down to be my Dame's right-hand-man. She was a likely widow, coming from England to take up land here, and I met her aboard ship, last time I crossed seas. Didn't take us long to strike a bargain. She needed a man to till her farm; I needed a good woman to mend me and do for me, for I was that tired of rovin'--my hearties! We get along well. We get along prime. I do the talking and her does the thinking. She's that uncommon thing--a silent woman. Like to hear how I come nigh-hand to death along of a devil fish? Want to feel your hair rise on end and your arms get reg'lar goose-fleshy? Makes me nigh get that way myself, every time I recall--Whist! If that ain't thunder I'm a-dreamin', sure! Thunder this season of the year! Now that's fair ridic'lous. But mentionin' devil fish, yon comes one them red go-devils, Dame calls 'em, as squawkin', blazing-eyed automobeelyers--comin' this minute. No marvel natur' gets topsy-turvy with them wild things ramsaging round. But, quick, lassie! Do your young eyes see something or somebody lying beyond in the middle of the road?" The old man checked his garrulous tongue to rise and peer into the darkness, while Dorothy sprang to her feet beside him, straining her own eyes to follow his pointing finger. "There is, there is! Looks like a man or boy or bicycle or something and that horrid car is coming right toward it! Make 'em stop! Holloa! Loud, loud, for they don't see him! they'll run over him--he'll be killed!" But still the gay occupants of the car observed nothing; till at last a fiercer shriek from Dorothy sounded above their laughter and instantly hushed it, while the driver of the machine looked curiously at the cart which the wise oxen, perceiving their own danger, had drawn out of harm on the roadside. But the stop had been too late. Though the motor was swerved aside, it had already collided with the objects in its path, and it was in a terrified silence that the merrymakers descended from it. But even old John had been quicker than they and was now bending above the lad crushed beneath the forward wheels of this hated "go-devil." "Oh! my poor lad! Oh! my sunny Robin!" he groaned: then in a fury of anger at the great machine, tried his strength to lift it from its victim. Fortunately there were several men in the party, and the car well equipped against mischance, and so it was swiftly forced away, while the farmer again stooped over the motionless lad beneath and tenderly raised him in his arms. For a moment the group gathered about the pair believed that the boy was dead; then a low moan from his white lips mingled with the lamentations of John Gilpin and brought relief to everyone. Again came flashes of lightning and the growls of thunder, and the owner of the car exclaimed: "Lay the boy in the motor and we'll get him to a hospital at once. Maybe he isn't so badly hurt as seems. Pile up the cushions, somebody, and give him to me, old man. I'm stronger than you and better used to sick folks. Doctor Winston is my name." "The more shame to you then for what you've done this night!" hotly retorted old John, clasping his burden the closer and moving slowly toward his own humble cart. "Idiot! Don't put him in that shaky wagon. Delay may cost his life. Hospital's the place and the car is swiftest!" cried another of the gentlemen, indignantly. "Of course we'll see to it that he has the best of care with no expense spared." As if he had not heard, old John still moved away, quietly ordering Dorothy: "Undo that shawl of yours. Roll them barrels out of the wagon. Take off your jacket and make a piller of it. Spread the shawl out and cover him with part of it whilst I lay him down. Poor little Robin! The 'only son of his mother and she was a widow.'" Dorothy was glad to obey this strange old man who had been so genial and was now so stern, and it relieved her distress to be doing something to help. But as she tried to roll the barrels out, a hand fell on her arm and the doctor said: "I'll do that, Miss. They're too heavy for you. I wish you'd persuade your grandfather to trust me with this poor boy. It would be so much better." "He isn't my grandfather. I don't know him--I mean he was taking me--" But her words fell upon deaf ears, apparently. Having sent the empty barrels flying where they would, the doctor had now taken the pile of cushions somebody had brought him and arranged them on the wagon bottom. Next he calmly relieved John Gilpin of the injured boy and laid him gently down. Shaking out Dorothy's thick steamer rug, her "shawl," he carefully covered Robin and, sitting down beside him, ordered: "Drive on, farmer! Chauffeur, follow with the car. Lady Jane, the medicine case. To the nearest house at once." There was no resisting the firm authority of the physician and John Gilpin climbed meekly to his seat and at his urgent "gee-ho" the oxen started onward at a steady gait. But despite his anxiety there was a satisfaction in their owner's mind that the "nearest house" would be his own and that it would be his capable "Dame" who would care for Robin and not a hospital nurse. Meanwhile Dorothy seemed forgotten both by the people who had returned to their car and Mr. Gilpin; so, fearing that she would be left alone by the roadside, she sprang upon the end of the cart and sat there, her feet dangling over its edge. Now, indeed, her adventure was proving anything but amusing. What would Aunt Betty think of her heedless action? Or her dear guardian, Seth Winters, the "learned Blacksmith," wisest of men, whom the reader of this series will recall in "Dorothy's Schooling." Would she ever reach Oak Knowe, and how would this escapade be regarded there? Into her troubled thoughts now broke a sound of pain, that drove everything save pity from her mind. The rain was now falling fast and drenching her new clothes, but her anxiety was only that the injured boy should not get wet and she was glad that her rug was so thick and warm. It had been a parting gift from her "House-Boat" guests and held almost sacred as a memento of their happy trip together. But now the oxen were turning into a lane. She could dimly see the hedgerows on either side, that now and then the lightning flashes showed more plainly; and, after a time, something big and white seemed to block their way. A moment more and the white obstruction proved to be a cottage with a lamp shining through its window. Then a door opened and a woman's voice called cheerily: "Welcome home, my man! You're late the night. Met you up with any trouble? Didn't the apples sell well?" "More trouble than you dream, Dame, and I've fetched it for you to share. Light the bedroom to once. 'Tis the dead--or dyin'--is here." Without a word the woman turned away, moving heavily because of her great size, and an inner door opened, showing a comfortable bed, its covers already invitingly spread back. Lighting more candles the dame stood quietly aside, waiting her unexpected guest. The doctor brought the boy in, still wrapped in the rug and, tossing that to the floor, gently laid him down. John followed close behind, announcing: "'Tis Robin, Dame, our bonny Robin of the Glen. The heart of the mother will break. He--" "Help here. Hot water, please. More light. An old sheet for bandages. Don't dally. Undress him, Lady Jane." "But, doctor, I'm afraid!" objected that lady who, partly from curiosity, partly to avoid the rain, had followed the physician into the house. Indeed, all the motoring party had now swarmed into the kitchen, intending to be quiet yet really chattering noisily, and some of them sniffing covetously the odors from a great pot of soup, steaming away on the stove. But nobody was quite ready to respond to the doctor's appeals for help, even Mrs. Gilpin being confused and stupid before these strangers who had taken possession of her home. As for old John, he could simply stand and stare at the unconscious lad on the bed, too dazed and grieved to be of any use whatever. Not so Dorothy, who had entered with the rest and who noticed Dr. Winston's impatience--who knew that a hospital was where his patient should be and not this ill-equipped cottage. Throwing off her dripping jacket, she cried: "I'll help." A teakettle was singing beside the soup-pot on the stove and a dishpan was hanging near. To empty the kettle into the pan and to carry it to the chair beside the bed was an instant's task. Then, seizing the upper sheet and using her teeth for scissors, she swiftly tore it into strips; and by this time the dame had regained her own presence of mind. Without troubling to ask who Dorothy was or how she came to be there, she now took charge of things, saying: "You'll find clean towels in that chest of drawers. Fetch the doctor a pile. Shears are yon in that work-basket. You're spry on your feet as I can't be, but I do know how to take the clothes off this poor Robin. My, what's this he clenches so tight in hand? One of them telegraph letters 'tis his errand to deliver. All over the countryside the laddie rode on his wheel to earn the bit money would pay his mother's rent. Brave, bonny lad that he was!" Gently releasing the telegram from his fingers, Mrs. Gilpin held it up for the doctor to see. "For Oak Knowe. Open it, little girl, and read if it's important." She obeyed, but her voice trembled as she read. It was the belated message that announced her own coming and the hour of her arrival. It explained why she had not been met at the station, but she felt both shocked and guilty as she exclaimed: "Oh! it is my fault! It's all my fault that he is killed! Just about me it happened! What shall I do--what shall I do?" "Stop that sort of talk and see how your dead boy stares at you! Look well, Robin, you see a real live Yankee girl!" CHAPTER II UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS Even the most cultured Lady Principals do not enjoy being roused from their slumbers, an hour after midnight, by the tooting of a motor car beneath their bedroom windows. It was annoying to have to dress again and descend to a dimly-lighted reception room to receive a new pupil who had missed a train, on the route, and misdirected her telegram. Nor was there anything prepossessing about this especial girl, whose clothes steamed with moisture and whose travel-soiled cheeks were streaked by raindrops and tears. So it was small wonder that Dorothy's reception by Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon was decidedly cool and crisp. "This is really unprecedented, Miss Calvert. I cannot understand how any young lady, whose friends consider her intelligent enough to travel alone, could have made such stupid blunders, as you have. At the point where you knew you were to change trains, why did you not keep watch and inquire for direction?" "Well, you see there was a military parade and the soldiers looked so queer in their red uniforms and their funny little caps on the sides of their heads that--that--that I forgot. I mean the timetable told the right hour, course, but the first train was behind and so--and so--" It was a very lame excuse and Dolly knew it. But it was the truth and as such she gave it. Miss Tross-Kingdon made no reply. Inwardly she was commenting upon Dorothy's pronunciation of certain words, which was wholly at fault according to English custom, and realizing that here was the first fault to be corrected in her new pupil. Dorothy's heart sank. Uncle Seth's last advice to her had been: "Whenever you feel blue, just wave your flag of high courage and march ahead. Don't stop to think! March, march, march--toward the better time that will surely come." But that high-courage flag hung limply now and she felt she could never again wave it at all. But, fortunately, the Lady Principal now rose to terminate the interview. Touching an electric bell for the maid on night duty, she said: "It is very late and you are tired. Dawkins will show you to your cubicle and assist you in undressing. You may omit your bath, to-night, and are allowed an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Where are your suit case and hand bag?" Dorothy rose, as the lady did, but a fresh feeling of guilt made her eyes fall as she murmured: "I--don't--know." "Don't know!" echoed the Lady Principal, in amazement. Then directing Dawkins to supply what was needed, she returned to her interrupted repose, while Dorothy wearily followed the stern-faced maid; being cautioned, meanwhile: "Do not dare to make a noise and arouse the young ladies." Yet arrived at the cubicle, or small division of the great dormitory which had been assigned her, Dorothy realized that Dawkins was kinder than she looked. For presently she was being undressed, her face and hands sponged with cool water, and herself reclothed with the freshest of gowns. Then she was bodily lifted into the dainty little bed as if she were a baby. This unexpected gentleness touched her heart and, flinging her arms about the maid's neck, she sobbed: "Oh! do be good to me! I am so desolate!" "Whist, child! We must no be wakin' the troublesome girls around. And sure the lonesomeness'll pass, like the dew afore sun, once you get a good sleep and meet up with your mates. Good night, child, and sleep well." Then, since there was nobody to witness her unusual demonstration, maid Dawkins stooped and kissed the tired eyes of her new charge, and went quietly away. But there had been one observer of this caress. Peeping from her own compartment stood a girl whose keen eyes had noticed everything, and who felt she could scarcely wait until morning to spread the news. Creeping back to her own bed, she lay long awake, thinking the matter over. For this schoolgirl, who rejoiced in the title of the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, had a deal of curiosity that was wholly roused now. "Never saw old Dawkins kiss anybody. Dawkins, of all creatures! Never knew a new girl come at this time of night--and she certainly was new. And she hadn't any clothes, I know, because that was one of the school hampers Dawkins had. Must be somebody very poor. I wonder who! Maybe--for goodness sake! Maybe she's some relation to old Dawk! Else why should she kiss her? Humph! I thought this was a school for young ladies, not for the poor relations of servants. There's one thing certain, mamma will never allow me to remain where there are paupers. Never in this world. Neither would Lord Christopher let Marjorie. No, indeed. So will Miss Tross-Kingdon find out. Why! one charity pupil at Oak Knowe would ruin it! Anyhow, I mean to hurry round in the morning and warn all my set against noticing the beggar and what our set does surely goes. Mamma gets odd notions about things, sometimes, like saying I must sleep in this old dormitory instead of having a private room, and that I have silly feelings about rank. Wanted the Lady Principal to make me more democratic: but even she couldn't wish me to sleep among paupers. Heigho! I wish it was morning! But I'll take a nap now and that will pass the time." Exhausted by the long journey she had taken, and by the startling events of the night, unconscious Dorothy slept calmly on, little dreaming of Gwendolyn's fancies about her; nor did she wake till long after all her dormitory mates had dressed and gone below to breakfast. When she did arouse it was to wonder about this strange place in which she found herself and at an elfish-looking child perched on the foot of her little bed, staring at her with wide eyes and keen impatience, and who greeted her first movement with the exclamation: "Well, old sleepy-head, I thought you never would wake up! Who are you, anyway, and what makes you stay in cubicle so long after breakfast? Won't you catch a lecture, though! I wouldn't be in your shoes for a sovereign!" "Don't believe you could be in them. You're so small they'd fall off," answered Dorothy laughing. "No, they wouldn't. I'd tie them on. If I wanted to. Who are you? When'd you come? How dare you stay in bed so?" Dolly laughed again. She had fallen asleep convinced that she could never laugh again, so tired and homesick had she been. But now, refreshed by rest and with the sunlight streaming through the windows, the world seemed a very different place. Besides, there was something so winning about this inquisitive little maid, that the stranger's heart was comforted that she had found a friend already. "Well, dearie, I suppose I dare because Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "Did she say you could? Isn't that odd! She's my aunt. I haven't any folks 'cept her, I'm a norphan. I'm Millikins-Pillikins, my brother Hugh calls me; and the girls, too. But I'm not, really. I'm Grace Adelaide Victoria Tross-Kingdon. That's my truly name. Nobody could call me all that, could they? Wouldn't be time. Auntie Princie calls me just plain 'darling' or 'dear.' I'm a Minim. I don't have to do lessons and things. I'm in the 'kindy.' Auntie Princie doesn't approve of a kindergarten in this School for Young Ladies; but it's a speriment the Board of Directioners wanted to try. Them's the gentlemen auntie has to mind. Fancy! My great big grown-up Auntie Prin having to mind them, same's I have to mind her! My Lord Bishop, he's the head Directioner, but he's the jolliest! I just love him! He knew my papa and mamma before they got drowned in the sea. My brother Hugh lives with the Bishop and writes things for him. They call him a seckeratary. He gets money for doing it. Think of that! Sometimes he gives me pennies and even six-pences. Sometimes--not often. You see he wants to earn enough to buy a cottage for him and me. I'm to be the lady of it--the mistress! Fancy! But Auntie Princie says I have lots to learn before then. I will have to make his bread, 'cause he won't have money enough to keep me and a cook, too. I'll have to have a housemaid to help me, but you know housemaids never do the cooking. But say, girl, you haven't told me your name yet?" Dorothy sat up in bed and drew the child toward her: "My dear, you haven't given me a chance yet, you've been so busy telling me who you are. But I've enjoyed it and I thank you for coming to wake me up. Now I must get up and dress. Maybe you will show me to the bathroom, though I don't like to go about in this way." "That's a school nightie you've got on. Where's your bath robe?" "In my trunk." "Where's your trunk?" "I suppose it's at John Gilpin's house. That is, if he didn't throw it out of the cart with the empty barrels." "Why did he throw out the barrels?" "To make a place for Robin to lie on." "What Robin?" "The messenger boy who was hurt. He was bringing my telegram and he fainted and fell and the motor car--but I mustn't stop now to talk. I must get dressed." "Couldn't you talk without stopping? I could." "I believe you, child. Will you show me?" "Of course--if you'll tell the rest. Wait. If you want a robe I'll get Gwendolyn's. It's right yonder." So it happened that the first act of the supposed charity pupil was to borrow a garment of the very girl who had so misjudged her, and who entered the dormitory just as Dorothy was leaving it for the lavatory. Curiosity had sent Gwendolyn and Laura Griswold, her chum and "shadow," back to this apartment at this unusual hour, but at sight of Dorothy disappearing toward the bath wearing Gwendolyn's robe, its owner forgot her curiosity in indignation. Stopping short, midway the great room, she clasped her hands in a tragic manner and demanded of Laura: "Did you ever in your life see anything so cool as that? The impudent girl! How dare she? I wonder what else she's taken! And that mischievous little Pill with her. That child's the nuisance of this school. Even if she is Lady Principal's niece, she shouldn't be given the liberty she has. But I'll report." "Yes, indeed, I'd report!" echoed Laura. "First, have to sleep in the school things; then help herself to yours. It's simply outrageous. Why not go right away? It's recess and Miss Tross-Kingdon has no class." "She has worse. The Bishop's in the reception-room, and Dr. Winston, too. They were all talking very fast and I wanted to stop and listen. But I didn't quite dare, for she was facing the door and might see me. But I did hear the Bishop say that if she was a Calvert she could hardly fail to be all right. She came of good stock--none better. I wondered who he meant; but Lady Principal saw me looking in and asked me if 'I wished anything?' Hateful woman! She has the most disagreeable manners!" "Never mind. Anyway, let's go tell her!" advised Laura, and the pair departed. However, the electric bell rang just then, announcing that recess was over and the telling had to be postponed to a better season. A few moments later a maid came to say that as soon as Dorothy was ready the Lady Principal would receive her in the west parlor. But she might stop in the breakfast-room on the way, where a dish of cereal and a bowl of hot milk was awaiting her. The maid added to the "Little Pill": "As for you, Miss Grace, the Minims are ready for their calisthenics and your teacher wants you." "But I don't want her. I want to go with Dolly." "You're too big a girl for dolls, Miss Grace, and quite big enough to obey orders." Grace's sharp little face darkened and she made a mocking grimace to the maid, retorting: "You don't know anything, Dora Bond! You don't know that the Dolly I play with is this new girl. I shall go with her. I hate them exercises. They make my back ache. I'm excused to-day, anyhow. I heard Auntie Princie tell a lady how I wasn't a bit strong and that she had to indulge me a lot. I shall do as I please. I shall go where I like. I shall, so, old Bondy! So there!" Dorothy was surprised by the unpleasant expression which had settled on the little girl's face, but said nothing. Following Bond's direction, she hurried through a long hall to a sunshiny breakfast-room and the simple meal prepared for her. She hastily drank the milk, but had no appetite for the cereal. Her heart was in a flutter of anxiety about the coming interview with Miss Tross-Kingdon. She had at once disliked and feared that lady, on the night before, and felt that her present appearance, in a rain-spotted frock and with her hair so hastily brushed, must only add to the sternness of this unknown Lady Principal. However, the clinging hand of Millikins-Pillikins gave a little comfort. She didn't feel quite so lonely and timid with the child beside her and, as she made her graceful curtsey at the open door, all her fear vanished and she became once more the self-possessed Dorothy of old. For, rising and crossing the room to meet her was her acquaintance of the night, who had brought her to Oak Knowe in his own car from John Gilpin's cottage. With extended hands he grasped hers and, turning to Miss Muriel, remarked: "Any time you need a nurse, madam, just call upon this little lady. She was the best helper I had last night. Quick and quiet and intelligent. She must train herself for that vocation when she is older." The color flew to Dorothy's cheeks and she flashed him a grateful smile, for the kind words that so soothed her homesick heart. The other gentleman in the room did not rise, but held out a beckoning hand and, with another curtsey to Doctor Winston, Dorothy excused herself to him and obeyed the summons. This other was a venerable man with a queer-shaped cap upon his white head and wearing knee breeches and gaiters, which made the young American remember some pictures of old Continental statesmen. "So this is my old friend Betty Calvert's child, is it? Well, well! You're as like her as possible--yet only her great-niece. Ha, hum! Little lady, you carry me straight back to the days of my boyhood, when my parents came from England--strangers to your Baltimore. But we were not strangers for long. There's a distant blood relation between our house and yours and we youngsters found in beautiful Bellevieu a second home. So you must remember that, since your aunt has done me the honor to send you away up here to this school of mine--of ours, I should say--you have come to another home just as I did then. Dear little Betty! What a mischief she was! Are you mischievous, too, I wonder?" Then he turned to the Lady Principal, warning her: "Look out for this little miss, Miss Tross-Kingdon! She looks as meek as a lamb, just now, but blood will tell and she'll bear watching, I believe." The dear old man had drawn Dorothy close to his side and was smiling upon her in a manner to win the heart of any girl and to cure her of her homesickness--at least for the time being. When he released her, he rose to depart, resuming for a moment the business talk with the Lady Principal, which Dorothy's entrance had interrupted. Both she and the doctor also arose and stood respectfully waiting till the Bishop disappeared. Then said Dr. Winston: "You'll like to hear about your boy patient, I suppose, Miss Calvert. Well, I think he's all right, or will be as soon as his bones and bruises mend. What I suspect is that the brave lad is about half-starved--or was. He's in danger of being overfed now, since he has fallen into Dame Gilpin's hands." "Half-starved, sir? How dreadful!" cried Dorothy, while Miss Tross-Kingdon exclaimed: "Can that be possible!" "Quite possible, indeed. His mother is a widow and very frail, old John tells me. Her husband was a carpenter who worked in town and was trying to pay for the little place he'd bought out here in the suburbs, hoping the open-air life might cure her. She'd gone into chicken and flower culture, thinking she could help in the payment. They were proud of Robin, the 'brightest, merriest, best boy in the Glen,' John claims, and had somehow got a second-hand bicycle for him to ride into school for the 'grand eddication' they wanted he should have. Then the father died and Robin got a position as messenger boy. Every cent he earned he gave his mother and she took in sewing. They ate just as little as they could and the result has been disastrous. A growing boy can't work all day and half the night, sometimes, on a diet of bread and water. So last night he fainted on his trip and fell off his wheel in the middle of the road. Then I came speeding along toward home and smashed them both up. But it's an ill wind that blows nobody good and the lad's accident may turn out his blessing. Dorothy and I and the Dame have mended a collar bone and a couple of ribs and my ambitious young 'Mercury' is laid up for repairs. John 'step-and-fetched' the mother, Mrs. Locke, and she, too, will get some rest and nourishment. She's worrying a good deal, but has no need. Plucky little Robin will soon be chirping again, 'fine as silk.' Maybe, after school hours, Miss Tross-Kingdon will permit me to take Dorothy with me in the car to visit her patient. May I, Madam?" The Lady Principal did not look pleased. The Bishop's and the doctor's treatment of the new pupil had really softened her heart toward the girl, but she was a stickler for "rules" and "discipline," and remembered that this was not the day on which her "young ladies" were allowed to pay visits. "Thank you, Doctor Winston, but I am obliged to decline the invitation for to-day. She has entered Oak Knowe some time after the opening of term and must pass examination, that I may understand for which Form she is best fitted. Nor have I yet been advised of such houses as her guardians desire her to visit. Commonly, the young ladies of Oak Knowe do not consort with laborers and messenger boys. But I thank you for your courtesy toward her; and, as that is the bell for my class in Greek, I must beg you to excuse me and I wish you good morning, Dr. Winston. Come, Miss Calvert, I will have your examination begin at once. Make your obeisance to the doctor." Dolly's heart sank. Why should she be made to feel so guilty and insignificant? Still, as she turned to follow the teacher, she obediently saluted the physician and, glancing up into his face, saw--was it possible that he winked? Though she felt as she were going to be tried for her life, this sight so surprised her, that she giggled hysterically and thus irreverently followed the haughty instructress out of the room. So doing, she added one more to the list of misdemeanors that lady had already placed against her account. CHAPTER III PEERS AND COMMONS Along the hall down which Dorothy followed the Lady Principal were many doors opening into small class rooms. Each class was under its especial teacher, its number being limited to ten students. It was the policy of the school that by this division better instruction could be given each pupil, and Dorothy wondered to which of these groups--if any--she would be assigned. Another hall and other class rooms joined the first and longer one, at a right angle, and here Miss Muriel paused, directing: "Proceed down this corridor till you reach the parlor at its end. There you will find Miss Hexam awaiting you. She will test your scholarship and report to me. Do not fail to answer her questions promptly and distinctly. I observe that you do not enunciate well. You slur some of your words and clip the endings from your participles. To say 'hopin'' or 'runnin'' is execrable. Also, there is no such word as 'daown' or 'araoun'.'" Dorothy's temper rose. She had done nothing right, it seemed, since she had arrived at this "school for criticism," as she termed it, and now said pertly: "I reckon that's the Southern way of talking. I noticed that the Bishop didn't bother about his 'gs' and he had the same twang that all do down home. He must have lived there a right smart time when he was little." "Many things are permissible in a cultured old gentleman which are not in an ignorant and forward girl. You came here for your own improvement. I shall see that you attain it; or, if you fail in this after a reasonable trial, you cannot be retained. That rule is plainly stated in our circular. I will bid you good morning until I send for you." Poor Dorothy fairly withered under this sternness that she felt was unjust, but she felt, also, that she had been impertinent, and running after Miss Muriel, as she moved away, she caught the lady's sleeve, imploring: "Please don't think I'm all bad, Miss Tross-Kingdon! I've been heedless and saucy, but I didn't mean it--not for badness. Please wait and try me and I _will_ 'improve,' as you said. Please, please! It would break Aunt Betty's heart if she thought I wasn't good and--and I'm so unhappy! Please forgive me." The dark eyes, lifted so appealingly, filled with tears which their owner bravely restrained, and the Lady Principal was touched by this self-control. Also, under all her sternness, she was just. "Certainly, Dorothy, your apology is sufficient. Now go at once to Miss Hexam and do yourself credit. If you have studied music, another person will examine you in that." Impulsively Dorothy caught the lady's hand and kissed it; and, fortunately, did not observe that dainty person wipe off the caress with her handkerchief. Then summoning her courage, the new pupil hurried to the end parlor and entered it as she had been taught. But the "den of inquisition," as some of the girls had named it, proved anything but that to Dorothy. "The Inquisitor" was a lovely, white-haired woman, clothed in soft white wool, and smiling so gently toward the trembling girl that all fear instantly left her. "So this is Dorothy Calvert, our little maid from Dixie. You'll find a wide difference between your Southland and our Province, but I hope you'll find the change a pleasant one. Take this chair before the fire. You'll find it comfortable. I love these autumn days, when a blazing log can keep us warm. It's so fragrant and cheerful and far more romantic than a coil of steam pipe. Have a biscuit, dear?" Miss Hexam motioned to a low wicker chair, which some girls had declared a "chair of torture," but which suited Dorothy exactly, for it was own mate to her own little reading chair "at home." Almost she could have kissed it for its likeness, but was allowed no time for foolishness. The homely little treat of the simple crackers banished all shyness and the dreaded "exam" proved really but a social visit, the girl not dreaming that under this friendly talk was a careful probing of her own character and attainments. Nor did she understand just then how greatly her answers pleased the gentle "Inquisitor." "You want me to 'begin at the beginning'? Why, that's a long way back, when I was a mere midget. A baby only a year and a half old. Papa and mamma died away out west, but, of course, I didn't know that then. I didn't know anything, I reckon, except how to make Mother Martha trouble. My father was Aunt Betty's nephew and she didn't like his marrying mamma. I don't know why; only Ephraim says 'Miss Betty was allays full o' notions same's a aig's full o' meat.' Ephy's Aunt Betty's 'boy,' about as old as she is--something over eighty. Nobody knows just auntie's real age, except Ephraim and Dinah. They've lived with her always and treat her now just as if she were a child. It's too funny for words, sometimes, to hear the three of them argue over some thing or trifle. She'll let them go a certain length; then all at once she'll put on her dignity and they fairly begin to tremble. She's mistress then and they're her servants, but I do believe either one would die to prolong her life. Dinah says: ''Pears lak death an' dyin' nebah gwine come nigh my Miss Betty Calvert.' And she's just right. Everybody thinks my darling aunt is the sweetest, most wonderful woman in the world. But I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to talk so much and hinder your examination." "Oh! that is all right. I love to hear your story that you've left off at its beginning. You're only a 'baby' so far, you know." "Well, if you like. When my father died, my mother felt that she would die, too, and she couldn't bear to leave me alone. So she just sent me to Aunt Betty. But she felt, auntie did, that she couldn't be bothered with a 'squalling baby,' nor could she cast me off, really. 'Cause she was my real great-aunt and my nearest relation and was rich enough to do what she liked in a money way. Besides, she wanted me to be raised real sensible. So she picked out a splendid couple she knew and had me left on their doorstep. She had pinned to my clothes that my name was 'Dorothy C.' Their name began with 'C,' too, so they guessed I was meant for them to keep, because they hadn't any other child. What a lot I'm talking! Do you want to hear any more? Won't the Lady Principal be angry if I don't get examined?" "I will make that all right, Dorothy, and I am greatly interested. It's 'like a story out of a book,' as the Minims say. Go on, please." "Well, these dear people took care of me till I was a real big girl. I love them dearly. He was a postman and he walked too much. So he had to lose his position with lameness and he's never gotten over it, though he's better now. He has a position in a sanitarium for other lame folks and Mother Martha is the housekeeper, or matron, there. Uncle Seth Winters, who knows so much that he is called the 'Learned Blacksmith,' is my guardian. He and Aunt Betty have been dearest friends ever since they were little. They call each other cousin, though they're no kin at all, any more than he's my uncle. He was my first teacher at his 'school in the woods,' but felt I ought to go to a school for girls. So I went to the Rhinelander Academy and he stayed at his smithy on the mountain, near Mother Martha's little farm and Aunt Betty's big one, and one vacation auntie told me who I was and took me home to live with her; and she liked Oak Knowe because the Bishop is her lifelong friend. She has had my name on the list waiting for a vacancy for a long, long time; so it's a terrible pity I should have been horrid, and offended the Lady Principal." "Let us hope she is not seriously offended, dear, nor have you told me what the offense is. But bear in mind, Dorothy, that she is at the head of a great and famous institution and must strictly live up to its standards and keep her pupils to their duty. But she is absolutely just, as you will learn in time. "I feel like hearing music, to-day, but get very little. All our practice rooms are sound-deadened. Do you play at all, on any instrument, or sing?" "A little of both, when I'm at home. Not well in either, though Aunt Betty loves my violin and my little songs. If I had it here, I would try for you, if you'd like. But it's in my trunk, my 'box,' Mr. Gilpin called it." Miss Hexam smiled and, opening a little secretary, took out an old Cremona, explaining: "This was my brother's, who died when I was young. He was a master of it, had many pupils. I allow few to touch it, but I'd be pleased to have you, if you would like." "Would you? May I?" asked Dorothy, handling it reverently for its sacredness to this loving old sister. And, after she had tuned it, as reverently for its own sake. It was a rare old instrument of sweetest tone and almost unconsciously Dorothy tried one theme after another upon it while Miss Hexam leaned back in her chair listening and motionless. Into that playing the young musician put all the love and homesickness of her own heart. It seemed as if she were back at Deerhurst, with the Great Danes lying on the rug at her feet and dear Aunt Betty resting before the fire. Then, when memory threatened to bring the tears she was determined should not fall, she stopped, laid the violin silently upon the table and slipped out of the room, leaving Miss Hexam still motionless in her chair. But she would have been surprised had she looked back into the "inquisition chamber" a few moments later to see the "inquisitor" arouse, seize a sheet of paper and rapidly write a few lines upon it. But the few lines were important. They gave a synopsis of Dorothy's scholarship and accomplishments, and unerringly assigned her to "Form IVb, class of Miss Aldrich." The "terrible exam" was over and Dorothy hadn't known a thing about it! Outside that little parlor another surprise awaited her. A crowd of girls was racing madly down the hall, the foremost looking backward as she ran and roughly colliding with Dorothy; with the result that both fell; while the others, following in such speed, were unable to check in time to prevent their tumbling over the first pair. Then such shrieks of laughter rang out that the teachers in the nearby classrooms came to their doors in haste. Even they were obliged to smile over the heap of girls and the tangle of legs and arms as the fallen ones strove to extricate themselves. They were all in gymnasium-costume and were bound for a side door of the building which led by a short cut to the gymnasium in the Annex. This was Dorothy's introduction to the "Commons," the largest and wildest "set" in the great school. They were all daughters of good families but of no "rank" or titles; and there was an abiding opposition among them to the "Peers," the smaller "set" of aristocrats to which the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard and Lady Marjorie Lancaster belonged. Mostly the "Commons" were a rollicking company, going to the extreme limits of behavior where any fun promised to follow, yet mostly keeping just safely within rules. Their escapades kept the faculty in considerable anxiety as to what they would do next, yet their very gayety was the life of Oak Knowe and even the Lady Principal was secretly fonder of them than of the more dignified "Peers." As they now scrambled to their feet, she who had run against Dorothy heartily apologized, yet paused half-way in that apology to stare and remark: "Why, heigho, there! I thought you were a Minim, you're so little. But I fancy you're a newcomer whom I don't know. Please explain; are you 'Peer' or 'Lower House'?" Dorothy laughed: "'Lower House,' I thought when you knocked me down, whatever that may be." "It means--is your father an Earl? or your mother a Duchess? Have you an Honorable amongst you? You hold your curly head as if you might have all three!" All the girls had now gathered about the stranger whom their leader was so unceremoniously quizzing and were eagerly inspecting her, but somehow Dorothy did not resent the scrutiny. There were big girls and little ones, fat girls and thin ones, plain and pretty, but each so good-natured looking and so friendly in her curiosity that Dolly's own spirits rose in response to their liveliness. "No, indeed! I'm just a plain American girl and prouder of that than of any title in the world. You see, all of _us_ are queens in our own right!" answered the newcomer, promptly. "Well, come on then; you belong to us and we all belong to the queen. Queen, what shall we call you? Where do you hail from?" "My home is in Baltimore, and my name is Dorothy Calvert." "Then you must be a sort of 'Peer' after all. I hate history, but I remember about that, for Lord Baltimore and Calvert are the same thing, I fancy. I'm sorry. I hoped you belonged to our 'set' and weren't an aristocrat." "But I'm not, I'm not!" protested Dorothy. "I do belong to you, I want to because you look so friendly and I need friends dreadfully. I'm so lonely, or I was. I've just come, you know." "Have you been 'inquisitioned' yet?" "I don't understand." The questioner explained, and Dorothy exclaimed: "Oh! I think that's cruel! Miss Hexam is perfectly lovely!" "So do we think, course, and she doesn't mind the nickname. It was first given her by a silly Seventh Form girl who thought she was all ready for the University yet failed to pass even a Fifth Form exam. I guess you'll not be put to study to-day, so best come over to the gym with us. What stunts can you do?" "None. But I've told you my name and you haven't told yours. Thank you, though, for asking me. I'm so glad to go." "Oh! you poor little lonesome Queen Baltimore! I'm Winifred Christie; this freckle face is Fannie Dimock; Annie Dow wears that blue bow in her hair; Florita Sheraton is the fat one; Ernesta Smith the thin; Bessie Walters--well, no need to point out Bessie. She's the nimblest girl in the gym. We here extend the freedom of the Lower House; and all in favor of grabbing this Yankee into our set before the other set catches her, say--Aye!" "Aye--aye--aye!" endorsed the motion and Dorothy clapped her hands over her ears, to keep out the ear-splitting shouts. How these girls dared make such an uproar amazed her; but she did not yet know that in the "long recess," now passing, much liberty was permitted and that a noise which did not interfere with study hours was not reprimanded. "It's the overflow of natural spirits and inevitable in the young," was one of the Bishop's beliefs, and not even the Lady Principal disputed his authority. "Come on, Queenie, and be put through your paces!" cried Winifred, throwing her arm around Dorothy's shoulders and forcibly racing her out of doors and across the lawn toward the gymnasium. But arrived there only one or two of the group attempted any exercise. The rest settled around Dorothy, whom the athletic Winifred had tossed upward upon the back of the wooden horse, and, with her arms folded upon the newcomer's knees, this leader of the "Commons" proceeded to cross-question her victim. [Illustration: "PROCEEDED TO CROSS-QUESTION HER VICTIM." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "It's the cast-iron rule of our set to find out everything about anybody we receive into it. Begin at the date of your birth and proceed in a seemly manner until you come up to date. Where were you born? What sort of baby were you--good, bad, or indifferent? Begin!" Entering into the spirit of the thing Dorothy gave her simple life history in a few sentences. But when the questions came as to the events of the last few days her face grew serious and her voice faltered. "Why did I come to Oak Knowe alone? Because there was nobody to come with me. That is, Dinah or Ephraim, who might have come, couldn't be trusted to go back alone. My dearest girl friend, Molly Breckenridge, had been enrolled here and we expected to come together, but the Judge's health suddenly broke down and he was ordered to California and couldn't part with her. Uncle Seth wasn't well. He's my guardian and Aunt Betty's friend. She's my great aunt who takes care of me but she wouldn't leave Uncle Seth, even if he's not our kin at all, though we call him so. Jim Barlow is tutoring in a boys' school and; well, Aunt Betty said I could perfectly well and safely travel alone. I was put into the conductor's care when I started from Baltimore and he passed me along to the next one, and they've all been splendid to me. There'd have been no mistakes if I hadn't been careless myself. But I was. I missed a train I should have taken and didn't send the telegram I ought at the right time and there was nobody at the station to meet me and--and--" "The idea! A girl like you, traveling all the way from Baltimore to Toronto without a maid or any grown-up to take care of her! That's the strangest thing I ever heard. Weren't you just awfully scared all the time?" asked Florita Sheraton, amazed. "An English girl would have been in a blue funk every minute of the time." "I don't know anything about a blue or other colored funk, but every well-bred American girl can take care of herself if she chooses. If she 'loses her head' she gets into trouble right away. I lost mine last night and went riding off at dark with a strange old man, who said he'd bring me here, instead of stepping into the telegraph office and wiring the Lady Principal. Then all I'd have had to do would be to wait for her to send for me, and after all it wasn't the old man who brought me, it was Dr. Winston in his motor. He called here this morning and asked me to ride back with him and see Robin, but Miss Tross-Kingdon wouldn't let me." "Course she wouldn't. She never lets anybody do anything she wants to, if she can help it. Hateful old thing!" remarked Bessie Walters; at which the others laughed and Annie Dow inquired, "Who is Robin?" Dorothy told the story of last night, her new acquaintances listening intently, and Winifred commenting: "If you aren't the very luckiest girl in the world! Why I never had an adventure in my life, yet I'm ages older than you." At this a shout of derision rose, and Fannie Dimock exclaimed: "Don't believe that, Queen Baltimore. There's scarcely a day passes that she isn't in some scrape or other. Why, last term, she was in disgrace so often I really believed she wouldn't be allowed to come back." "Oh! little things like that don't count. But--" she stopped speaking so abruptly and such an earnest expression settled on her face that a mate remarked: "Look! There's something brewing this minute! Look out, Win, what you do! Don't mix any of us up in your schemes. I don't want any more extras so soon again;" then explained to Dorothy that "extras" were some difficult lessons any culprit was obliged to learn. Just then came the bell for mid-day luncheon, and all the Commons except Winifred answered the summons promptly. But she lingered behind, detaining Dorothy till the others were out of hearing, and then suggested something to her which made her clap her hands in delight. For the secret thus imparted seemed the simplest thing possible and one in which, to Dolly's ignorance of Oak Knowe rules, was entirely right. Arm in arm, the new friends entered the dining-room and Winifred marched Dorothy steadily forward to a seat at her own table, just opposite that occupied by some of the other "set," with the Honorable Gwendolyn among them. Dolly glanced across and nodded, but that titled young person returned the nod with a stare so intent and contemptuous that the color flashed to the stranger's face and her eyes fell as if she were in guilt. Yet she couldn't guess why, nor why she should be relieved when there arose a sudden diversion outside the doorway toward which everybody turned their eyes. CHAPTER IV THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY The young ladies of Oak Knowe went out for their afternoon exercise for the half hour before supper. Those who had been long at the school were allowed to roam about the spacious grounds without a teacher, but newcomers, or those who wished to go further afield, were always attended by one. Most of Winifred's motherless life had been passed at Oak Knowe, even few of her vacations elsewhere. Her father was a very wealthy man, of large affairs which carried him often from the Province, to England or countries further away, so that his home was seldom opened. But to compensate his daughter for this state of things he had arranged with the authorities that her school life should be made as homelike as possible. She had her own private room with a tiny parlor and private bath adjoining. She was allowed to entertain her schoolmates there as she would have done in her father's house; always, of course, within the limits set by the faculty. But Winifred cared little for all this unusual luxury. She rarely asked for any money "banked" with the Lady Principal beyond the twenty-five cents a week which any pupil might spend; and she liked the common parlor far better than her own richly furnished one. Nothing hurt her feelings more than to have her mates refer to her wealth or to treat her differently from the poorest pupil. But there were times when she enjoyed her privileges to the utmost, and that first day of Dorothy's life at Oak Knowe was one such. Not having been "in disgrace" for a week at least she confidently asked permission to entertain the newcomer in her rooms, "Just we two by ourselves. She's lonely and I like her. Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon." "You'll be quiet, Winifred, and keep out of mischief?" asked the Lady Principal, with more gentleness than ordinary. It was natural that she should feel great interest in the girl she had almost reared and whose own power for good or ill Winifred herself could not yet comprehend. "Ah, now, Miss Muriel, you know I will! Why, surely, I've been as good for a whole week as if I were a kindergarten Minim. You should trust me more. I read the other day that people are just what you think they are. So, whatever you want me to be, please just think I _am_ and I'll be it!" and the audacious creature actually dabbed a kiss on the Lady Principal's own cheek. "Wheedler! Well, I'll try to fancy you're a saint, but I'm not so fanciful about this Dorothy Calvert. She's a pretty little thing and my Grace made friends with her at once and the Bishop says she is of good blood. That counts, of course, but she seems to me a little headstrong and very stupid. I don't yet understand how Miss Hexam came to put her into so high a Form. However, I know that she is very homesick, as all new pupils are, so you may entertain her if you wish. A maid shall send you in a tray and you are excused from school supper; but see to it, Winifred, that you use your influence aright. The more favored a person is in this world the more that individual should watch her own actions." Winifred thanked the teacher and backed out of the room as if in the presence of royalty itself. This action in itself was offensive to the teacher but was one she could hardly criticise; nor did she guess that, once out of sight, the "wheedler" should first stamp her foot and exclaim: "I'm sick to death of hearing about my 'influence' and being an 'individual.' Makes me feel like a spider, that time the German count came to visit Father and called his attention to 'that individual crawling down the wall.' He meant 'one, a solitary thing.' But I'm no 'solitary' just because Father has a little money. I often wish he hadn't a pound, especially when some of the 'Peers' try to make me believe he is at least a 'Sir'." Then hurrying to Dorothy she danced about in delight at her success. "Yes, she says you may come, and she's sure to send us in a fine supper. Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon never does a thing by halves, not even a lecture on 'individual influence.' Queen Baltimore, aren't you glad you're poor?" "Neither glad nor sorry, Winifred, because I'm neither rich nor poor. Anyway neither of us can help being just as we are, I reckon." "Come on, though, and hurry up. 'If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,'" quoted Winifred, whose class reading just then was "Macbeth"; and seizing the smaller girl whirled merrily down the hall. Five minutes later, with hats and jackets on, they joined the other pupils out of doors. To Dorothy it seemed the beautiful grounds were alive with all sorts and conditions of girls, pacing rapidly up and down, "sprinting" to warm themselves against the chill of the coming evening, playing tennis for the brief half-hour, or racing one another from point to point. There were girls so many and so various, from Seventh Form young ladies to the wee little Minims, that Dolly wondered if she would ever know them all or feel herself a member of the great company. But Winifred gave her little time to gaze about her. "Oh! don't bother with them now. Our way is that lower gate, and it's a good bit of a distance, I hope you're a good walker." "Pretty good, I reckon," answered Dolly falling into step with the taller girl and hurrying forward at even a swifter pace. "But, begging your pardon, that's no way. We Canadians learn pedestrianism--whew! what a long word!--just as we learn our letters. Begin very slowly at first. Then when your muscles are limbered, walk faster--and faster--and faster! Till it seems as if your legs swing up and down of their own accord, just like machines. It's wonderful then how little you tire and how far you can go. Slack up a bit and I'll show you." Absorbed in this new lesson Dorothy scarcely noticed when they left Oak Knowe limits and struck out along a country lane, with hedgerows at either side; nor when having climbed a stile they set out across a plowed field, till her feet grew heavy with the soil they gathered. "Oh! dear! What mud! Why do you walk in it, Winifred?" "It's the shortest road. Here's a stone. Stop a bit and scrape it off--as I do. See?" answered the other, calmly illustrating her advice. "But I don't like it. My shoes will be ruined!" wailed Dolly who was always finical about "dirt." "Humph! Haven't you another pair? But they ought to be--such flimsy-wimpsy affairs! Look at mine. A bit of mud more or less can't hurt them and it's the boot-boy's business to clean them." The English girl held forth a good sized foot clad in a still larger shoe of calfskin, which though soiled with the clay had not absorbed much of its moisture: while the finer affairs of Dorothy's were already wet through, making her uncomfortable. "I couldn't walk in such heavy boots. And it's raining again. It rained last night. Does it rain every day in Canada? We ought to go back. Do let's, and try this some other time. I reckon this will finish my new suit, entirely." Winifred put her arms akimbo and stared at her new friend. Then burst into a hearty laugh over Dorothy's disgusted face. "Ha, ha, ha! And 'I reckon,' little southerner, that you'll be a more sensible girl after you've lived up here a while. The idea of turning back because it rains! absurd! Why, it's fine, just fine! The Lady Principal will overhaul your fair-weather-clothes and see that you get some fit to stand anything. This homespun suit of mine couldn't get wet through if it tried! But I shan't stand here, in the middle of a plowed field, and let it try. Come on. Its the States against the Province! Who'll win?" "I will! For old Maryland and the President!" cried Dorothy, and valiantly strode forward again. "For our Province and the King!" shouted the Canadian; and after that neither spoke, till the long walk ended before the cottage door of old John Gilpin and his dame. There Winifred gave a smart tap to the panel and holding her hand toward Dorothy, cried: "Quits, Queen Baltimore! We'll call it even and I'll never doubt your pluck again. But you certainly must get some decent clothes--if I have to buy them myself!" Then the door opened and there stood old John, peering from the lamp-lighted room into the twilight without. After a second he recognized Dorothy and drew her in, exclaiming joyfully: "Why, Dame, 'tis our little lass herself! Her of the night last spent and the helping hand! Step ben, step ben, and 'tother miss with ye. You're surely welcome as the flowers in spring." Mrs. Gilpin came ponderously forward, a smile on her big but comely face, and silently greeted both visitors, while her more nimble husband promptly "step-an'-fetched" the best chairs in the room and placed them before the fire. "Dry yourselves, lassies, whilst I tell the Robin you've come to see him. He'll be that proud, poor laddie, to have Oak Knowe young ladies pay him that honor! and he's mending fine, mending fine, doctor says. The mother--" He disappeared within that inner chamber still talking and as happy now as he had seemed sorrowful when Dorothy parted from him on the night before. Then he had anticipated nothing less than death for the boy he loved, despite the doctor's assurance to the contrary. He came back leading a woman by the hand, as protectingly as if she had been a child, and introduced her as: "The bit mother hersel'! Look at her well. Isn't she the very sight and image of Robin, the lad? And mind how she's pickin' up already. Just one day of good victuals and Dame's cossetting and the pink's streamin' back to her cheeks. Please the good Lord they'll never get that thin again whilst I have my ox-team to haul with and the Dame's good land to till. I'll just step-an'-fetch the rocker out--" At that point in his remarks the Dame laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "That'll do, John Gilpin. Just brew a cup of tea. I'll tell the lad." Winifred was amused at this wifely reprimand, but no offense seemed meant nor taken. The farmer stopped talking and deftly made the tea from the boiling kettle, added a couple of plates to the waiting supper table, and drew from the oven a mighty dish of baked beans that might have been cooked in Yankee-land, and flanked this by a Yorkshire pudding. "Oh! how nice that smells!" cried Dorothy, springing up to add the knives and forks from the dresser; while Winifred clapped her hands in a pretended ecstasy and sniffed the savory odors, admitting: "I'm as hungry as hungry! And this beats any supper I asked for at Oak Knowe. I hope they'll want us to stay!" Her frankness made timid little Mrs. Locke smile as she had not been able to do since she had known of Robin's accident, and smiling was good for her. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of this simple, comfortable home was good for her, and the high spirits of these three young people delightful to her care-burdened heart. For, presently, it was the three--not least of these her idol, her Robin! Dorothy had followed the Dame into the boy's room and Winifred had promptly followed her; and because he was the sunny-hearted lad which the farmer had claimed him to be, he put all thought of his own pain or trouble out of mind, and laughed with the two girls at their awkward attempts at feeding him from the tray on the stand beside the bed. Having to lie flat upon his back he could still use one arm and could have fed himself fairly well. But this his visitors would not allow; and he was obliged to submit when Winifred, playfully struggling with Dolly for "My time now!" thrust a spoon into his ear instead of his mouth. The truth was that under the girl's assumed indifference to the fact that she was breaking rules by "visiting without permission" lay a feeling of guilt. "Double guilt" she knew, because she had imposed upon Dorothy's ignorance by stating that during "exercise hour" any long resident pupil was free to go where she chose. This was true, but only in a measure. What was not true was that so distant a point as John Gilpin's cottage should be chosen, much less entered without permission. But curiosity had been too strong for her and she had resented, on Dorothy's account, the refusal of Dr. Winston's invitation in the morning. Besides, she argued with her own conscience: "We're excused from school supper and free to entertain each other in my room till chapel. What difference does it make, and who will know? To-morrow, I'll go and 'fess to Miss Muriel and if she is displeased I'll take my punishment, whatever it is, without a word. Anyhow, Dolly can't be punished for what she doesn't know is wrong." So, feeling that she "was in for it, anyway" Winifred's mood grew reckless and she "let herself go" to a positive hilarity. Dorothy watched and listened in surprise but soon caught her schoolmate's spirit, and jested and laughed as merrily as she. Even Robin tried to match their funny remarks with odd stories of his own and after a little time, when he had eaten as much as they could make him, began to sing a long rigmarole, of innumerable verses, that began with the same words and ended midway each verse, only to resume. It was all something about the king and the queen and the "hull r'yal famblely" which Dorothy promptly capped with an improved version of Yankee Doodle. Whereupon, the absurd jumble and discord of the two contrasting tunes proved too much for old John's gravity. Springing up from his chair in the outer room he seized his fiddle from its shelf and scraped away on a tune of his own. For his fiddle was his great delight and his one resort at times when his wife silenced his voluble tongue. The old fiddle was sadly out of tune and Dorothy couldn't endure that. Running to him she begged him: "Oh! do stop that, please, please! Here, let me take and get it into shape. You make me cringe, you squawk so!" "You fix it? you, lassie! Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! What else do they l'arn children over in the States? Leave 'em to go sky-larkin' round the country in railway carriages all by themsel's, and how to help doctors set broken bones, and how to fiddle a tune--Stars an' Garters! What next? Here, child, take her and make her hum!" Presently, the preliminary squeaks and discords, incident to "tuning up," were over and Dorothy began a simple melody that made all her hearers quietly listen. One after another the familiar things which Aunt Betty and her guardian loved best came into her mind; and remembering the beloved scenes where she had last played them, her feeling of homesickness and longing made her render them so movingly that soon the little widow was crying and Robin's sensitive face showed signs of his own tears following hers. The tempting supper had remained untouched thus far. But now the sight of his guests' emotion, and a warning huskiness in his own throat, brought John Gilpin to his feet. "This isn't no mournin' party, little miss, and you quit, you quit that right square off. Understand? Something lively's more to this occasion than all that solemcholy 'Old Lang Synin', 'or 'Wearin' Awa'' business. Touch us off a 'Highland Fling,' and if that t'other girl, was gigglin' so a few minutes gone, 'll do me the honor"--here the old fellow bowed low to Winifred--"I'll show you how the figger should be danced. I can cut a pigeon-wing yet, with the supplest." Away rolled the table into the further corner of the room: even the Dame merely moving her own chair aside. For she had watched the widow's face and grieved to see it growing sad again, where a little while before it had been cheerful. Dorothy understood, and swiftly changed from the "Land O' the Leal" to the gay dance melody demanded. Then laughter came back, for it was so funny to see the farmer's exaggerated flourish as he bowed again to Winifred and gallantly led her to the middle of the kitchen floor, now cleared for action. Then followed the merriest jig that ever was danced in that old cottage, or many another. The cuts and the capers, the flings and pigeon-wings that bald-headed John Gilpin displayed were little short of marvelous. Forgotten was the dragging foot that now soared as high as the other, while perspiration streamed from his wrinkled face, flushed to an apoplectic crimson by this violent exercise. Winifred was no whit behind. Away flung her jacket and then her hat. Off flew the farmer's smock, always worn for a coat and to protect the homespun suit beneath. The pace grew mad and madder, following the movement of the old fiddle which Dorothy played to its swiftest. Robin's blue eyes grew big with wonder and he whistled his liveliest, to keep up with the wild antics he could see in the outer room. Nobody heard a knock upon the door, repeated until patience ceased, and then it softly opened. A full moment the visitor waited there, gazing upon this orgy of motion; then with an ultra flourish of her skirts Winifred faced about and beheld--the Lady Principal! CHAPTER V THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS For another moment there was utter silence in the cottage. Even the Dame's calmness forsook her, the absurd performance of her bald-headed husband making her ashamed of him. She had seen the Lady Principal passing along the road beyond the lane but had never met her so closely, and she felt that the mistress of Oak Knowe was high above common mortals. However, as the flush died out of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face Mrs. Gilpin's ordinary manner returned and she advanced in welcome. "You do us proud, madam, by this call. Pray come in and be seated." "Yes, yes, do!" cried John, interrupting. "I'll just step-an'-fetch the arm-chair out o' Robin's room. 'Twas carried there for his mother to rest in. She--" The mortified old fellow was vainly trying to put back the smock he had so recklessly discarded and without which he never felt fully dressed. He hated a coat and wore one only on Sundays, at church. But his frantic efforts to don this garment but added to his own discomfiture, for he slipped it on backwards, the buttons behind, grimacing fiercely at his failure to fasten them. One glance toward him set all the young folks laughing, he looked so comical, and even the dignified caller was forced to smile. "Don't see what's so terrible funny as to send ye all into a tee-hee's-nest! but if so be _you_ do, why giggle away and get shut of it!" testily cried the poor old man. To have been caught "making a fool of himself" was a "bitter pill" for him to swallow; having always prided himself upon his correct deportment. It was, as usual, the portly Dame who came to his relief, reminding: "There, husband, that will do." Then she quietly drew the smock over his head and slipped it back in proper guise. With this upon him his composure returned, and he apologized to Miss Tross-Kingdon as any gentleman might have done. "Sorry to have kep' you standing so long, lady, but I'll step-an'-fetch--" However he was spared that necessity. Dorothy had heard and understood that the best chair in the house must be placed at the caller's service and had as promptly brought it. For a moment Miss Tross-Kingdon still stood as if she would decline, till, seeing the disappointment on her host's face, she accepted it with: "Thank you. My errand could easily have been done without so troubling you. I came to see if you have any more of that variety of apples that you sent us last time. The _chef_ declares they are the finest yet. Have you?" "Yes, lady, I've got a few bar'ls left. Leastwise, my Dame has. She can speak for hersel', if so be she wants to part with 'em. I heard her say she meant to keep 'em for our own winter use. But--" "That will do, John. Bring a pan from the further bin and show Miss Tross-Kingdon. Maybe she'll like them just as well." "All right, wife. I'll step-an'-fetch 'em to oncet." So this obedient husband went out, his lame foot once more dragging heavily behind him, and he managing as he departed to pass by Dorothy and firmly clutch her sleeve, as he hoarsely whispered: "Did you ever see the beat! In your mortal 'arthly life, did ye? Well, I'm ashamed to the marrer of my bones to be caught cavortin' round like the donkey I was. Come on down suller with me and I'll get the apples. But carry 'em back--I shan't. Not this night. That woman--lady, I mean--has got eyes like gimlets and the less she bores 'em into old John Gilpin the better he'll like it. Worst is, what'll dame think? She won't say much. She's a rare silent woman, dame is, but she can do a power of thinking. Oh! hum!" So it happened that Dorothy returned to the kitchen, fairly staggering under the weight of the biggest pan of apples that the farmer could find. Mrs. Gilpin took them from her and showed them to the Lady Principal, who was inwardly disappointed at the failure of her visit. But the business was speedily concluded and, rising, she bade Mrs. Gilpin good evening. The only notice she bestowed upon her runaway pupils was to offer: "If your visit is ended, young ladies, you may return to Oak Knowe in my carriage." Dorothy did not yet know how serious an offense she had committed and merely thought that the Lady Principal was "stiffer" even than usual; not once speaking again until the school was reached. Then, as she moved away ignoring Winifred entirely, she bade Dorothy: "Go to your dormitory, take a warm bath, and dress yourself freshly all through. Your luggage has been unpacked and arranged in your wardrobe. Put on one of your wool gowns for the evening, and come to Assembly Hall. We are to have a lecture and concert, beginning at eight. Punctual attendance required." "She acts and looks as if we had done something dreadful, but I can't guess what," said Dorothy, perplexed. "Lucky for you that you can't! Your ignorance of school rules may save you this time, but it can't save me. One of the hardest things about it is, that you and I will be prohibited each other's 'society' for nobody knows how long. I'm a wild black sheep, who's led a little lamb--that's you--astray. It was fun--_was_ fun, mind you, but--but it's all over for Winifred!" "Win, you darling, what do you mean?" demanded Dolly, throwing her arms about her new friend's neck in great distress. "I mean exactly what I say. I'm an old offender, I've been there before and ought to know better. I did like you so! Well, never mind! The milk is spilled and no use crying about it!" Dorothy was surprised to see tears suddenly fill Winifred's eyes and to feel her clinging arms gently loosened. Under all her affected indifference, the girl was evidently suffering, but as evidently resented having sympathy shown her; so the new pupil made no further comment, but asked: "Do we have supper before that lecture? and should I dress before the supper?" "Huh! There'll be no supper for you nor me this night! And I'm just ravenous hungry! Why was I such a fool as to dance that jig instead of eating that pudding and beans? Yorkshire pudding's just delicious, if it's made right, and the Dame's looked better even than our _chef's_. If one could only look ahead in this world, how wise one would be, 'specially in the matter of suppers! Well, good-by, Queenie, with aching heart from you I part; when shall we meet again? Ah! me! When?" With a gesture of despair, half-comical, half-serious, the older girl dashed down the corridor and Dorothy turned slowly toward her own little room. There she found her luggage unpacked, her frocks and shoes neatly arranged in the wardrobe, underclothing in the small bureau, her toilet things on the tiny dressing table, and the fresh suit she had been asked to put on spread out upon the bed. It was all very cosy and comfortable, or would have been if she hadn't been so hungry. However, she had hardly begun undressing before Dawkins appeared with a small tray of sandwiches and milk, explaining: "Supper's long past, Miss Dorothy, but the Principal bade me bring this. Also, if there's time before lecture, you are to go to her private parlor to speak with her. I'll help you and 'twill make the time seem shorter." "Thank you, Dawkins, that's sweet and kind of you; but--but I don't feel any great hurry about dressing. Maybe Miss Tross-Kingdon'll be better-natured--I mean not so cross--Oh! dear, you know what I mean, don't you, dear Dawkins?" "Sure, lassie, I know you have a deal more fear of the Lady Principal 'an you need. She's that just kind of a person one can always trust." "I reckon I don't like 'just' people. I like 'em real plain _kind_. I--I don't like to be found fault with." "Few folks do so like; especially them as deserves it. But you will love Miss Muriel better 'an anybody at Oak Knowe afore the year's out. Only them that has lived with her knows her. I do know. A better woman never trod shoe leather, and so you'll find. Now, you've no time to waste." Nor was any wasted, though Dorothy would gladly have postponed the Principal's further acquaintance till another day. She found the lady waiting and herself welcomed by a gracious word and smile. Motioning to a low seat beside her own chair, Miss Muriel began: "You are looking vastly improved, Dorothy, since you've taken off your rain-soaked clothes. I hope you haven't taken cold. Have you felt any chill?" "Thank you, Miss Tross-Kingdon, none at all. Winifred says I will soon get used to rain, and she doesn't mind it in the least. She says she likes it." The Lady Principal's expression altered to one of sadness rather than anger, at the mention of the other girl, but she did not criticise her in words. "My dear little Dorothy, I sent for you to explain some things about Oak Knowe which you do not understand. We try to make our rules as few and lenient as possible, but such as do exist we rigidly enforce. Where there are three hundred resident and day pupils gathered under one roof, there is need for regular discipline, and, in general, we have little trouble. What we do have sometimes comes from ignorance, as in your case to-night. Your taking so long a walk without a chaperon, and paying a social visit without permission, was a direct trespass upon our authority. So, to prevent any future mistakes, I have prepared you a list of what you may and may not do. Keep this little notebook by you until you have grown familiar with Oak Knowe life. Also, you will find copies of our regulations posted in several places upon the walls. "And now that we have finished 'business' for the present, let us talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that 'Aunt Betty' of yours, whom our good Bishop lauds so highly." Vastly relieved that the dreaded "scolding" had been so mild and Miss Tross-Kingdon so really kind, Dorothy eagerly obeyed, and was delighted to see a real interest in this wonderful aunt showing in the teacher's face. But her enthusiastic description of Mrs. Calvert was rudely interrupted by a childish scream and little Millikins-Pillikins flying wildly into the room, to spring into Miss Muriel's lap and hide her face on the lady's shoulder, begging: "Don't you let him! Don't you let him! Oh! Auntie, don't you!" "Why, darling, what is this? What sent you out of bed, just in your nightgown? What has frightened you?" "The debbil!" "Grace! What wicked word is that you speak?" "It was, _it was!_ I seen him! He come--set on my feet--an'--an'--Oh! Auntie Prin, you hold me close. 'Cause he was a talkin' debbil. He come to cotch me--he said it, yes he did." Miss Tross-Kingdon was as perplexed as horrified. That little Grace, her orphan niece and the dearest thing in life to her, should speak like this and be in such a state was most amazing. For a few seconds she did hold the little one "close" and in silence, tenderly stroking the small body and folding her own light shawl about it, and gradually its trembling ceased, the shuddering sobs grew fainter and fewer and the exhausted little maid fell fast asleep. Just then the clock on the mantel chimed for eight and Miss Muriel's place was in assembly, on the platform with the famous lecturer who had come to do her great school honor. She must go and at once. Dorothy, watching, saw the struggle in the aunt's mind depicted on her face. With a tender clasp of the little one she put her own desire aside and turned to duty; and the girl's own heart warmed to the stately woman as she had not believed it ever could. Dawkins had prophesied: "You'll love Miss Muriel, once you know her," but Dorothy had not believed her. Yet here it was coming true already! "Dorothy, will you please ring for a maid to look after Grace? Wake up, darling, Auntie Prin must go." The child roused as her aunt spoke, but when she attempted to put her down and rise, the frantic screams broke out afresh, nor would she submit to be lifted by the maid who promptly came. Miss Muriel's bell was not one to be neglected! "No, no, no! I shan't--I won't--the deb--" "Not that word, sweetheart, never again!" warned the Lady Principal, laying her finger on Grace's lips. "Go nicely now with Dora, and make no trouble." "No, no, no!" still screamed Grace: her flushed face and feverish appearance sending fresh alarm to her aunt's heart. "Why, look here, Millikins! I'm Dorothy. The 'sleepy-head' you came to wake up this morning. Won't you go with _me_, dear? If Auntie Prin says 'yes,' I'll take you back to bed, and if you'll show me where." Millikins looked long and steadily at Dolly's appealing arms, then slowly crept into them. "Pretty! Millikins'll go with pretty Dorothy!" So they went away, indeed a "pretty" sight to the anxious aunt. Dorothy's white gown and scarlet ribbons transformed her from the rain-and-mud-bespattered girl of a few hours before, while her loving interest in the frightened child banished all fear and homesickness from her own mobile face. Little Grace's room was a small one opening off from Miss Muriel's, and as soon as the lecture was over and she was free, she took Dr. Winston with her to see the child. Her dark little face was still very flushed, but she was asleep, Dorothy also. The girl had drawn a chair close to the child's cot and sat there with an arm protectingly thrown over her charge: and now a fresh anxiety rose in the Lady Principal's heart. "Oh! Doctor, what if it should be something contagious? I don't see why I didn't think of that before. Besides, I sacrificed Miss Calvert's opportunity to hear the lecture for Grace's sake. How could I have been so thoughtless!" "Well, Madam, I suppose because you are human as well as a schoolma'am, and love for your niece stronger than training. But don't distress yourself. I doubt if this is anything more than a fit of indigestion. That would account, also, for the imaginary visit of a goblin, which terrified the little one. However, it might be well to isolate Miss Dorothy for a day or so, in case anything serious develops." By that time Dorothy was awake and sat up listening to this conversation; and when the doctor explained to her that this isolation meant that she must live quite apart from the schoolmates she so desired to know, she was bitterly disappointed. "I haven't been here more than twenty-four hours, yet it seems as if more unpleasant things have happened than could anywhere else in a lifetime," she complained to Dawkins, who had come to arrange another cot for her to use and to bring the needed articles from her own little cubicle. "Ah, lassie! When you've lived as long as me you'll learn 't a 'lifetime' is a goodish long spell: and if so be you can't mix with your mates for a little few days, more's the blessing that's yours, alongside as you'll be of the Lady Principal. Now, say your prayers and hop into this fine bed I've fixed for you, and off to Noddle Island quick as wink. Good night and sleep well." Surely our Dorothy had the gift of winning hearts, and other Oak Knowe girls with whom Dawkins exchanged scant speech would have been astonished by the kindly gossip with this newcomer. Also, the maid's belief that Dorothy's intercourse with the Lady Principal would be delightful was well founded. Miss Muriel was grateful to her pupil for her patience with troublesome Grace, and regretful that her isolation from her mates had come about in just this wise. However, Dr. Winston had been right. Millikins-Pillikins had been allowed the run of the house and, like most children, found its kitchen its most attractive place. There her sharp tongue and amusing capers furnished amusement for the servants, who rewarded her with all sorts of "treats" and sweetmeats. The result was natural, but what was not so natural was her persistent declaration that she had been visited by an evil spirit. "I did so see him, Auntie Princie! He had big whitey eyes, and his head was all red--" "No more, darling. Say no more. Just play with your blocks. See what sort of house you can build, or--" "Auntie Prin, I do _hate_ blocks! And you don't believe me. Did Millikins ever tell you a wrong story in her whole life?" "No, darling, not to my knowledge. I'm proud to know you are a very truthful little girl. But even such can _dream_ queer things. Ask Dorothy to play for you and me. You know this is the last day she'll be shut up here and I'd like to hear some music." Dorothy laid down her book and went to fetch her violin, but the self-willed Grace would have none of that. Stamping her foot, she imperiously cried: "No, no, no! She shall come with me and seek that old debbil. She shall so. He had hornses and his face--" "Grace Adelaide Tross-Kingdon! if you disobey me again by mentioning that subject, I shall send for the Bishop and brother Hugh and see what they can do with you. Do you want to be disgraced before them?" The little girl pondered that question seriously. She could not understand why telling the truth should disgrace anybody. She loved the Bishop and fairly idolized her big brother Hugh. Her Aunt Muriel was more angry with the child than ever before in her short life and Millikins fully realized this fact. "I'm sorry, Auntie Prin. I'm sorrier than ever was. I hate them two should think I was bad and I wish--I wish you wouldn't not for to tell 'em. I isn't bad, you only think so. 'Cause it's the truthiest truth, I _did_ see him. He had--" Miss Tross-Kingdon held up a warning hand and her face was sterner than any pupil had ever seen it. Such would have quailed before it, but Millikins-Pillikins quailed not at all. Rising from the carpet, where she had been sitting, she planted her sturdy legs apart, folded her arms behind her and unflinchingly regarded her aunt. The midget's defiant attitude made Dorothy turn her head to hide a smile, while the little girl reiterated: "I did see him. I have to tell the truth all times. You said so and I have to mind. I did see that debbil. He lives in this house. When my brother Hugh comes, he shall go with me to hunt which room he lives in, and the Bishop shall preach at him the goodest and hardest he can. This isn't no badness, dear, angry Auntie Prin; it is the truthiest truth and when you see him, too, you'll believe it. If Hugh would come--" Miss Tross-Kingdon leaned back in her chair and threw out her hand in a gesture of despair. What made her darling so incorrigible? "Oh! I wish he would come, I certainly wish he would! This thing is beyond me or anything in my experience. I almost begin to believe that Bible days have returned and you are possessed of the evil spirit." Millikins-Pillikins returned to her play in supreme indifference. She knew what she knew. Couldn't a body believe one's own eyes? Didn't the _chef_ often say that "Seeing is believing," when the scullery maid stole the raisins and he found them in her pocket? She couldn't help Auntie Prin being stupid; and-- "Oh, oh, oh! Hughie's come! Hughie's come! Oh! you darling brother boy, let's go and seek that debbil!" The youth who entered and into whose arms his little sister had sprung, held her away from him and gasped. Then answered merrily: "That gentleman doesn't belong in good society, kiddie. It's not good form even to mention him. I'd rather go the other way." Then he set her gently down and turned to acknowledge his aunt's introduction to Dorothy. He was well used to meeting the Oak Knowe girls, but wondered a little at finding one at this hour in the Lady Principal's private parlor. As he opened his lips to address some courteous remark to her, a shriek of utter terror rang through the house and a housemaid burst unceremoniously in, white and almost breathless, yet managing to say: "Oh! Ma'am, I'm leavin'--I'm leavin' the now! Sure, 'tis a haunted house and Satan hisself dwells in it!" CHAPTER VI AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH There had, indeed, been strange happenings at Oak Knowe. Beginning on that first day of Dorothy's life there, with the crash outside the dining-room door. That had been caused by the tripping and falling with a loaded tray of one of the best waitresses employed. Afterward it was discovered that a wire had been stretched across the doorway, low down near to the floor, and not easily noticeable in the dim passage. Who had done this thing? Miss Tross-Kingdon paid scant attention to the incident, apparently, although she caused a very thorough investigation to be secretly made. Nothing came of it. Matters went so wrong in the servants' quarters that they became demoralized and several threatened to leave. Thefts from one and another were frequent; yet as often the missing article was found in some unusual place where, as Dawkins declared: "Nobody but a crazy person would ha' puttin' it." One morning the _chef's_ spotless marble molding-board was found decorated by a death's-head and bones, done in red paint, and his angry accusations of his fellow-workers brought the Lady Principal to the kitchen to restore peace. But peace did not last long. The head laundress, who personally "did up" the finest pieces in "the wash," found her pile of them deluged with blueing, so that her work had to be done all over again. These were but samples of the strange happenings; and though most of the servants had been so long at Oak Knowe that they considered it their real home, some of the most loyal to its interests felt they couldn't endure this state of things much longer. Then had come the fright of little Grace, followed by that of the housemaid, whom no arguments could calm, and who rushed out of Miss Muriel's parlor as she rushed into it, departing that hour for good and all and to spread far and near ill reports of the great school. However, after that day nothing further happened. At a secret meeting of the faculty it was decided to take no outward notice of these disturbances, but to keep silent watch until such a time as the culprit, or culprits, should betray themselves. "He or she is bound to do so, after a time. There's always a hitch somewhere in such mischievous schemes and nothing worse than mortal hands has performed this 'witch work,'" said the Bishop calmly, though vexed that such foolishness could be found at his beloved Oak Knowe. Then for many days the disturbances ceased. Dorothy fell into the daily life of the school with all her heart, making friends with her mates in her own Form and even with some of the older girls. Best of all, she had lost all fear of the Lady Principal, whose heart she had won by her devotion to little Millikins. She even begged forgiveness for Winifred, against whom the teacher still felt some resentment; saying to Dolly: "It isn't what she did--in itself--so much as her broken trust. She has been with me so long, she has been taught so constantly, that I feel indignant at her deception. Anything but deception, Dorothy. Remember that a treacherous person is more to be feared than an openly wicked one." "But, dear Miss Muriel, Winifred will never cheat again. Never, I know. She won't go off bounds a step now, even though her 'restriction's' taken off. And she keeps away from me till she makes me feel dreadfully. Says she doesn't want to 'contaminate' and get me into trouble again. Please let her go nutting this afternoon with Miss Aldrich's class." "Very well. She may go." "One thing more, Miss Tross-Kingdon. When may I, may we, go to see Robin?" The lady smiled. A sudden memory of the scene upon which she had entered that rainy evening of her first visit to the cottage amused her, and she answered graciously: "Probably on Saturday, if you wish. Though I am still doubtful whether your guardians would approve." "I can answer for them, dear Miss Muriel. They are just the kind that would like me to go. Some of Aunt Betty's dearest friends are very poor. She finds them honester and more generous than the rich ones. As for darling Uncle Seth, he learned to be a regular blacksmith, just so he could live among them on 'even terms,' he said. Yet he's the wisest, best man in all the world." In the Lady Principal's private opinion he was also the most eccentric; but she did not dash Dorothy's enthusiasm further than to say: "To me it seems wisest to content one's self with the station in which one has been born. To step aside from the normal path in life--" Foreseeing a "lecture," Dorothy interrupted: "Beg pardon, Miss Muriel, but there's Win yonder this minute, walking with her head down as if she were worrying. She thought her father was coming home next week and he isn't, and she's so disappointed. She's reading his letter over again. She said, when I asked her why she was so blue, that it didn't seem like home here any longer with you offended, and he wasn't coming, and she had no real home anywhere. Oh! you needn't be afraid of darling Win doing anything crooked again. Do love her and take her back into your trust, and may I go now to tell her she can go nutting and about Saturday, and may I hurry up?" Without waiting an instant longer, Dorothy took permission for granted and ran out of the house. In reality, she had grieved far more over Winifred's punishment, by being kept on bounds and denied some other privileges, than that lively young person had herself. Winifred was ashamed, but she wasn't unhappy. Only now this letter of her father's, and the longing to see him, had sobered her greatly. Yet she was ready enough for the next amusement that might offer and looked up eagerly as Dorothy ran towards her across the lawn, crying: "Don't look so forlorn, Win! We can go--you can go--" "They can go!" finished the other, her mood quickly changing at sight of Dorothy's beaming face. "Where can they go, how can they go, when can they go, Teacher?" "Nutting, with Miss Aldrich's class. On their feet. With baskets and bags and the boot-boy with poles to thresh the trees and carry the nuts! and on Saturday to old John's cottage to hear the Robin sing!" "Oh! do you mean it? Do you? Then I know I'm all right with Miss Muriel again and I must go and thank her." Away hurried the impulsive girl and in the Lady Principal's room was presently an interview that was delightful to both. For in her heart, beneath a cold manner, Miss Tross-Kingdon kept a warm love for this wild pupil of hers; and was as ready to believe in Winifred's promises as the girl was to make them. The late autumn day was uncommonly fine. Not only Miss Aldrich, but most of the other teachers, were to take their classes to a distant forest on their annual nutting excursion, from which, this year, Winifred had felt she would be excluded. Miss Aldrich was not her own class director, but the girls in it were her especial friends and belonged to her gymnasium class. They were all "Commons," except Marjorie Lancaster, a gentle little "Peer," whom haughty Gwendolyn kept well reminded of her rank. "I don't like your being so chummy with those girls, and, worst of all, with that Dorothy Calvert. She's a pert sort of girl, with no manner at all. Why, Marjorie, I've seen her leaning against the Bishop just as if he were a post! _The Bishop_, mind you!" "Well, if he wanted her to, what harm, Gwen? Somebody said he knew her people over in the States and that's why she was sent away up here to his school. I like her ever so much. She's so full of fun and so willing to help a girl, any girl, with her lessons. She learns so easy and I'm so stupid!" protested Marjorie, who was, indeed, more noted for her failures than her successes at recitations. "But I don't like it. If you must have an intimate, why not choose her from 'our set'?" "The 'Commons' are lots jollier. They're not all the time thinking about their clothes, or who's higher ranked than another. I'm thankful I belong with the Aldrich ten. We have splendid times." Gwendolyn sighed. She found it very difficult to keep many of her "set" up to their duty as peers of the realm. "Class distinction" fell from her nimble tongue a dozen times a day in reprimands to other "Peers" who would hobnob with untitled schoolmates despite all she could do; and now to preserve Marjorie from mingling too much with the "Commons," she declared: "Well, if you won't come with us, I shall go with you. My director will let me. She always does let me do about as I like. She's lots more agreeable than the Lady Principal, who ought to appreciate what I try to do for the good of the school. When I told her how Florita Sheraton had complained she just couldn't get enough to eat here, she was cross as two sticks and said: 'Gwendolyn, if you are a real Honorable, you'll not descend to tale-bearing!' Hateful thing. And she comes of a titled family, too, somebody said. Yes, I'm sure my teacher will let me." "Even a worm will turn," and mild little Marjorie murmured under her breath: "I wish she wouldn't! But, of course, she will, 'cause it's the easiest way to get along. Yet you'll spoil sport--sure!" But the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was already moving away to announce her intention to her greatly relieved director. For it was usually the case, that wherever this young aristocrat went, trouble followed; for, like the 'twelfth juryman,' she never could understand why the 'eleven contrary ones' didn't agree with _him_. Nobody stayed at Oak Knowe, that day, who was able to join this outing: and when nearly three hundred girls take the road, they are a goodly sight worth seeing. Each had been provided with her own little parcel of lunch packed in the small basket that was to be carried home full of nuts, and each carried a stout alpenstock, such as the experienced teachers had found a help on their pupils' long walks. "A walk that is less than five miles long is no walk at all for healthy girls," had been Dr. Winston's remark; adding, for the Lady Principal's ear alone: "That'll take the kinks out of them and they'll give you less trouble, skylarking. Teach them the art of walking and let them go!" To escape Gwendolyn, Marjorie had hurried to the fore of her "Ten" and slipped her arm into Winifred's, who had expected Dorothy instead. But she couldn't refuse Marjorie's pleading: "Don't look like you didn't want me, Winnie dear. Gwen is bound so to take care of me and I don't need her care. I don't see any difference between you 'Commons' and we 'Peers' except that you're nicer." "Why, of course, I want you, Marjorie. Can you see Dorothy Calvert anywhere behind? It's so narrow here and the hedge so thick I can't look back." From her outer place and lower height Marjorie could stoop and peer around the curve, and gleefully cried: "Of all things! The girls have paired off so as to leave Gwen and Dolly together at the very end! Another class is so close behind they can't change very well and I wonder what Gwendolyn will do!" "I'm sorry for Dolly, but she'll get on. Gwen has pretended not to see her so many times that Dorothy can hardly put up with it. Under all her good nature she has a hot temper. You'd ought to have seen her pitch into one of the scullery boys for tormenting a cat. And she said once that she'd make Gwendolyn like her yet or know the reason why. Now's her chance to try it! It's all that silly imagination of Gwen's that makes her act so. Made up her mind that Dolly is a 'charity' girl, when anybody with common sense would know better. There are some at Oak Knowe, course: we all know that, for it's one of the Bishop's notions he must give any girl an education who wants it and can't pay for it. But I don't know which ones are; do you?" "No, indeed! And if I did, I'd never let them know I knew." "Of course you wouldn't. No gentlewoman would, except that stuck-up Gwen. Her mother, Lady Jane's so different. She's almost as jolly and simple as her brother, Dr. Winston. But her Honorable young daughter just makes me tired! Peek again. What are they doing now?" "The 'Peer' is walking like a soldier on parade, stiff as can be, thumping her alpenstock up and down plumpety-plump, hard as nails. But Dorothy seems to be chattering away like a good one!" Winifred stooped and peered between the bobbing rows of girls and branches of trees and caught Dorothy's eye, to whom she beckoned: "Forward!" But Dorothy smilingly signaled "No!" "Well, _one_ of that pair is happy, but it isn't Lady Jane's daughter! I fancy we'd best leave them to 'fight it out on that line,'" decided Winifred, facing about again. "I know Queen Baltimore will down Honorable England at the end." Despite her own stiffness, Dorothy's continued chatter at last began to interest Gwendolyn, and the perfect good nature with which she accepted the marked coldness of the haughty girl to make her ashamed. Also, she was surprised to see how the girl from the States enjoyed the novelty of everything Canadian. The wild flowers especially interested her, and Gwendolyn was compelled to admire the stranger's love and knowledge of growing things. With more decency than she had hitherto shown, she finally asked: "However did you come to know so much botany, Miss Calvert?" "Why, my Uncle Seth, the Blacksmith, taught me; he lived in the woods and loved them to that degree--my heart! he would no sooner hurt a plant than a person! He was that way. Some people are, who make friends of little things. And he was so happy, always, in his smithy under the Great Tree, which people from all the countryside came to see, it was so monstrous big. Oh! I wish you could see dear Uncle Seth, sitting at the smithy door, reading or talking to the blacksmith inside at the anvil, a man who worked for him and adored him." The Honorable Gwendolyn stiffened again, and walked along in freezing silence. She would have joined some other girl ahead, but none invited her, and she was too proud to beg for a place beside those who should have felt it an honor to have her. Besides, pride kept her to her place in the rear. "Huh! I'll show this Yankee farrier's niece that I am above caring who is near me. But it's horrid to be forced into such a position and I wish I hadn't come. Goodness! how her tongue runs! And now what freak sets her 'Oh-ing!' and 'Ah-ing!' that style?" ran Gwendolyn's thoughts, and she showed her annoyance by asking: "Miss Calvert, will you oblige me by not screaming quite so loud? It's wretched form and gets on my nerves, for I'm not used to that sort of thing." "Neither am I!" laughed Dorothy; "but you see, I never saw anything so lovely as that glimpse before. I couldn't help crying out--we came upon it so suddenly. Do see yonder!" Her finger pointed westward, then was promptly drawn back, as she admitted: "Pointing is 'bad form,' too, I've been taught. But do look--do look! It's just like fairyland!" Gwendolyn did look, though rather against her will, and paused, as charmed as Dorothy, but in a quieter fashion. She was a considerable artist and her gift in painting her one great talent. Oddly enough, too, she cared less for the praise of others than for the delight of handling her brush. Beyond, a sudden break in the thick wood revealed a tumbling waterfall, descending from a cliff by almost regular steps into a sunlit pool below. Bordering it on both sides were trees of gorgeous coloring and mountain ashes laden with their brilliant berries; while a shimmering vapor rose from the pool beneath, half veiling the little cascade, foaming white upon the rocks. For a moment Gwendolyn regarded the scene in silence but with shining eyes and parted lips. Then she exclaimed: "The very spot we've searched for so often and never found! 'The Maiden's Bath,' it's called. I've heard about it so much. The story is that there was an Indian girl so lovely and pure that it was thought a mortal sin for mortal eyes to look upon her. She had devoted herself to the service of the Great Spirit and, to reward her, He formed this beautiful Bath for her use alone, hid it so deep in the heart of the forest that no one could find it but she. There was but one trail which led to it and--we've found it, we've found it! Hurry up! Come." Dorothy stared. Here seemed a new Gwendolyn, whose tongue ran quite as rapidly as her own had ever done, and whose haughty face was now transformed by eager delight. As the young artist ran forward toward the spot, Dolly noticed that no other girl was in sight. They two had turned a little aside from the smoother path which the rest had taken, Dorothy following the lure of some new wild flower and Gwendolyn stiffly following her. Only a minute before the chatter and laughter of many girls had filled the air; now, save for their own footsteps on the fallen leaves, there was no sound. "I wonder where the rest are! Did you see which way they went, Gwendolyn?" "No. I didn't notice. But they're just around the next turn, I fancy. Oh! to think I've found the Bath at last. I must make a little sketch of it and come back as soon as I can with my color box. How the studio girls will envy me! Every time we've been in these woods we've searched for it and now to come upon it all at once, never dreaming, makes me proud! But--_don't you tell_. I'd begun something else for next exhibition, but I shall drop that and do this. I'll get leave to do it in my recreation hours in some empty class room, and bring it out as a surprise. I wish I'd found it alone. I wish nobody knew it but me. It must be kept a secret--so don't you dare to tell. Come on." "Huh! I reckon if you'll stick to facts, it was I--not you--who found it. I don't see why I should keep it secret. It doesn't belong to either of us, it belongs to the whole world. I wish everybody who loves beauty could enjoy it," answered Dorothy, warmly. "Well, go tell then, tattle-tale! You might know a common girl like you would be hateful to her betters, if she got a chance!" retorted Gwendolyn, angrily. It rose to Dorothy's lips to respond: "Tattle-tale and mischief-maker is what all the girls know _you_ are!" but she kept the hard words back, "counting ten" vigorously, and also listening for some sound of her now invisible schoolmates. She wasn't a timid girl, but the silence of this deep forest startled her, nor looking around could she discover by what path they had come to this place. Then Gwendolyn was hurrying forward, carrying the pocket-pad and pencil without which she went nowhere, and careless of everything but to get her sketch. So Dorothy followed, forgetting her resentment in watching her companion. To see Gwen's head turning this way, then that, squinting her eyes and holding her pencil before them, measuring distance thus and seeking the "right light," interested the watcher for the time. Finally, the artist had secured a point which suited her and, seating herself, rapidly drew a picture of one view. She worked so deftly and confidently, that Dorothy's only feeling now was one of admiration. Then a new position was sought and another sketch made, but Gwen permitted no talk between them. "I can't work and talk, too; please be still, can't you?" she asked, looking up from her work. And again the real earnestness of the girl she disliked made Dorothy obedient, again rising to follow while Gwen chose another view still, high up near the top of the wonderful cascade. Her face had grown pink and animated and her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. "I shall paint that misty-veil with a glaze of ultramarine. There should be an underwash of madder, and maybe terre verte. Oh! if I can only make it look one atom as I see it! We must come here again and again, you and I, Miss Calvert, and you must--you simply _must_ keep the secret of our finding till after I've exhibited my picture." "All right. How long will it be before we can go find the others? you know we can't gather any nuts right here. I don't see a single nut tree." "I don't know how long I shall be, and why care about nuts while we can have--this?" returned Gwen, indifferently. "Very well, I guess I'll take a nap. Seems terrible close in this shut-in nook and my walk has made me sleepy. I reckon I'll take a nap. Wake me up when you get through." So saying, Dorothy curled down upon a mass of mighty ferns, laid her head on her arm and went to sleep. For how long she never knew, but her awakening was sudden and startling. She had been roused from a dream of Bellevieu, her Baltimore home, and of dear Aunt Betty feeding her pets, the Great Danes. Brushing the slumber from her eyes, she gazed about her, wondering for an instant, where she was. Then--that frantic shriek again: "Help! Help! I'm dr--" The cry died in a gurgle and Dorothy sprang to her feet in terror. She had warned Gwendolyn not to take that high seat so close to that slippery rock, from beneath which the cascade began its downward flow. "If you fall, it will be straight into the pool. Do be careful, Gwen, how you move." But the warning had been useless--Gwendolyn was already in the pool. CHAPTER VII ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES "I'm going to choose Queen Bess! I've made a lovely ruff, stands away up above my head. And Mrs. Archibald, the matron, has bought me four yards of chintz that might be brocade--if it was!" said Florita Sheraton, from the gymnasium floor, hugging her arms for warmth. "Four yards! That'll never go around you, Fatty!" declared Fanny Dimock, with playful frankness. "Well, it'll have to go as far as it may, then. It cost twenty cents. That left five only for the white and gilt paper for my ruff and crown." "Was Queen Elizabeth fat?" asked Dorothy, from her now favorite perch upon the high wooden horse. "What does that matter, whether she were or not? The plot is to act like a Queen when once you get her clothes on," observed Winifred, judicially. "I wonder if you can do that, Flo. Or if it needs another yard of cloth to make you real stately--she ought to have a train, oughtn't she--I might lend you another sixpence. If Miss Muriel would let me." "Don't ask for it, Win. You've done so splendidly ever since--" "That time I didn't! Well, I'd rather not ask for it. Twenty-five cents was the limit she set." "Wants to stimulate our ingenuity, maybe, to see how well we can dress on twenty-five cents a week!" laughed Ernesta Smith, who had no ingenuity at all. "If it weren't for Dolly here, I'd have to give it up, but she's fixed me a lovely, spooky rig that'll just make you all goose-fleshy." "What is it? Tell," begged the others, but Ernesta shook her head. "No, indeedy! It's the chance of my life to create an impression and I shan't spoil it beforehand. It'll be all the more stunning because I'm such a bean-pole. Dorothy says that Florrie and I must walk together in the parade." "Oh! I hope it will be a grand success!" cried Winifred, seizing Bessie Walters and going through a lively calisthenic exercise with her. "We've always wanted to have a Hallowe'en Party, but the faculty have never before said yes. It's all Dorothy's doings that we have it now." A shadow fell over Dolly's bright face. It was quite true that she had suggested this little festivity to the good Bishop. She had told him other things as well which hurt him to hear and made him the more willing to consent to any bit of gayety she might propose. She had said: "There is somebody in this school that doesn't like me. Yes, dear Bishop, it's true; though I don't know who and I've tried to be friendly to everybody. That is to all I know. The high-up Form girls don't appear to see me at all, though they're friendly enough with lots of the other younger ones. I heard Edna Ross-Ross saying to another that all the strange, horrid things that had happened at Oak Knowe this autumn began with my coming. She'd been told that I was a charity scholar, belonging to one of the servants. She didn't object to charity girls, so long as she knew they were of _good_ family, but she drew the line at _servants'_ families. She said that Gwendolyn had heard you, yourself, tell Miss Tross-Kingdon that I was mischievous and she must look out for me." "My dear, my dear! Surely no fair-minded girl could have so misunderstood me, even admitting that I did say that--which I fail to remember. As to that silly notion about the 'haunting' business, Betty Calvert's niece should be able to laugh at that. Absurd, absurd! Now tell me again what your fancy is about this Hallowe'en Party." "Why, sir, things can't be done without folks do them, can they?" "That's a poser; but I'll grant your premises. Proceed with the argument," answered the old gentleman, merrily. "Well, I thought, somehow, that if everybody was allowed to dress in character and wear some sort of a mask, the one who had played such pranks and frightened Grace and the maids might be found out. If anybody in this house owns such a mask as that horrid one and is mean enough to scare little girls, he or she wouldn't lose so good a chance of scaring a lot more. Don't you think so? And--and--there's something else I ought to tell, but am afraid. Miss Muriel gets so stern every time the thing is mentioned that I put it off and off. I can tell you though, if you wish." "Certainly, I wish you would." The gentleman's face had grown as serious now, and almost as stern, as the Lady Principal's at similar times; and Dorothy gave a sigh to bolster her own courage as she gravely announced: "When I took out my white shoes to wear them last evening, there was a skull and cross-bones on each one, done with red paint: and the tube of vermilion had been taken from my own oil color box. Now--what do you think of that?" Her listener pursed his lips in a silent whistle, which indicated great amazement in a man like him, but he said nothing. Only, for a moment he drew the girl to him and looked searchingly into her brown eyes. But they looked back at him with a clear, straightforward gaze that pleased him and made him exclaim: "Well, little Betty--whom you always seem to me--we're in a scrape worthy of old Bellevieu. We've got to get out of it, somehow. You try your scheme of playing masked detective first. If you fail in proving our innocence and some other youngster's roguery, I'll tackle the matter myself. For this nonsense is hurtful to Oak Knowe. That I am compelled to admit. 'Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.' A miserable rumor started has wide-spread effect. I could preach you a sermon on that topic, but I won't. Run along back to your mates and try it. Just whisper 'Hallowe'en Party' to any one of them and see if every girl at Oak Knowe doesn't know beforehand that after chapel, to-night, the Lady Principal will announce this intended event. Now, good day, my dear 'Betty,' and for the present, to oblige me, just put those decorated shoes out of sight." This talk had been two days before: and with the Lady Principal's announcement of the affair had been coupled the decision: "Those of you young ladies that have no costume suitable may expend their week's allowance in material for one. Of course, this restricts the expense to utmost simplicity. No one may run in debt, nor borrow more than suggestions from her neighbors. Under these conditions I hope you will have the happy time you anticipate." So they were dismissed in gay spirits, to gather in groups everywhere to discuss costumes and the possibility of evolving a fetching one at the modest cost of a quarter dollar. By the afternoon following, most of the preparations had been made. Some of the maids had lent a hand to the sewing and the good-natured matron had planned and purchased and cut till her arms ached. But she had entered into the spirit of the occasion as heartily as any girl of them all; and the sixth and seventh Form students, who rather fancied themselves too grown-up for such frivolity, had willingly helped the preparations of the lower school pupils. Only one who might have enjoyed the fun was out of it. Gwendolyn was in the hospital, in the furthest west wing: for the time being a nervous and physical wreck from her experience at the Maiden's Bath. Even yet nobody dared speak to her of that terrible time, for it made her so hysterical; and for some reason she shrank from Dorothy's visits of inquiry and sympathy more than from any other's. But this seemed ungrateful to Lady Jane, her mother, now in residence at the school to care for and be near her daughter. She determined this "nonsense" must be overcome and had especially begged Dolly to come to the sick room, dressed for the party, and to relate in detail all that had happened on that dreadful day. So Dorothy had slipped away from her mates, to oblige Lady Jane, but dreading to meet the girl she had saved, yet who still seemed to dislike her. She wore her gipsy costume of scarlet, a little costume that she had worn at home at a similar party, and a dainty scarlet mask would be added later on. She looked so graceful and winsome, as she tapped at the door, that Lady Jane exclaimed as she admitted her: "Why, you darling! What a picture you have made of yourself! I must give you a good kiss--two of them! One for myself and Gwen and one for the Aunt Betty you love." Then the lady led her in to the low chair beside Gwen's bed, with a tenderness so motherly that Dorothy lost all feeling of awkwardness with the sick girl. "Now, my child, I must hear every detail of that afternoon. My darling daughter is really much better. I want her to get over this dread of what is past, and safely so. I'm sure your story of the matter will help her to think of it calmly." She waited for Dorothy to begin, and at last she did, making as light of the affair as of an ordinary playground happening. "Why, it wasn't anything. Really, it wasn't, except that Gwen took such a cold and grieved so because other folks had to find where the hidden cascade was. She just got so eager with her drawing that she didn't notice how close she got to the edge of the rock. If I had stayed awake, instead of going to sleep, I should have seen and caught her before she slipped. I can't forgive myself for that." The Lady Jane shook a protesting head. "That was no fault in you, Dorothy. Go on." "When I waked up, she was in the water, and she didn't understand how to get out. She couldn't swim, you know, but I can. So, course, I just jumped in and caught her. There was a big branch bent down low and I caught hold of that. She caught hold of me, but not both my arms, and so--so--I could pull us both out." Dorothy did not add that her arm had been so strained she could not yet use it without pain. "Oh! thank God for you, my dear!" cried the mother, laying her hand upon Gwendolyn's shoulder, who had turned toward the wall and lay with her face hidden. "And after that? Somebody said you stripped off your own jacket and wrapped it around her." "It wasn't as nice as hers, but you see she was cold, and I thought she wouldn't mind for once. I borrowed her bathrobe once and she didn't like it, and now she'd borrowed my jacket and didn't like that, I suppose." "Like it! Doubtless it helped to save her life, too, or her from pneumonia. Oh! if you hadn't been there! If--" sobbed the mother. "But there wasn't any 'if,' Lady Jane; 'cause if I hadn't seen the falls and made her see them, too, she wouldn't have been near hand. If she'd gone with the girl she wanted to, nothing at all would have happened. Some way it got mixed up so she had to walk with me and that's all. Only once we got out of the water onto the ground, I started yelling, and I must have done it terrible loud. Else Mr. Hugh wouldn't have heard me and followed my yells. He'd gone long past us, hunting with his gun, and he heard me and came hurrying to where the sound was. So he just put his coat around her and made her get up and walk. He had to speak to her real cross before she would, she was so dazed and mis'able. But she did at last, and he knew all those woods by heart. And the directions of them, which way was north, or south, or all ways. "It was a right smart road he took for roughness, so that sometimes we girls stumbled and fell, but he wouldn't stop. He kept telling us that, and saying: 'Only a little further now!' though it did seem to the end of the world. And by and by we came out of the woods to a level road, and after a time to a little farmhouse. Mr. Hugh made the farmer hitch up his horse mighty quick and wrap us in blankets and drove us home--fast as fast. And, that's all. I'm sorry Gwendolyn took such a cold and I hope when she gets well she'll forgive me for going to sleep that time. And, please, Lady Jane, may I go now? Some of the girls are waiting for me, 'cause they want me in the parade." "Surely, my dear: and thank you for telling me so long a story. I wanted it at first hands and I wanted Gwendolyn to hear it, too. Good night and a happy, happy evening. It's really your own party, I hear; begged by yourself from the Bishop for your schoolmates' pleasure. I trust the lion's share of that pleasure may be your own." As Dorothy left the room, with her graceful farewell curtsey, the girl on the bed turned back toward her mother and lifted a tear-wet face. "Why, Gwen, dearest, surely she didn't make you nervous again, did she? She described your accident so simply and in such a matter of course way. She seemed to blame the whole matter on herself; first her discovery of the waterfall, then her falling asleep. She is a brave, unselfish girl. Hoping you 'would forgive' her--for saving your life!" "Oh, mother, don't! You can't guess how that hurts me. 'Forgive her'! Can she ever in this world forgive me!" And again the invalid's face was hidden in the covers, while her body shook with sobs; that convinced Lady Jane that nobody, not even her anxious self, knew how seriously ill her daughter was. "My child, my child, don't grieve so! It is all past and gone. I made a mistake in forcing you to meet the companion of your disaster and hearing the story from her, but please do forget it for my sake. You are well--or soon will be; and the sooner you gain some strength, you'll be as happy as ever." "I shall never be happy again--never. I want to go away from here. I never want to see Oak Knowe again!" wailed Gwendolyn with fresh tears. "Go away? Why, darling, you have always been happier here than in any other place. At home you complain of your brothers, and you think my home rules harder than the Lady Principal's. Besides, I've just settled the boys at school and with you here, I felt free to make all my plans for a winter abroad. Don't be nonsensical. Don't spoil everything by foolishness concerning an accident that ended so well. I don't understand you, dearest, I certainly do not." Assembly Hall had been cleared for the entertainment. Most of the chairs had been removed, only a row of them being left around the walls for the benefit of the invited guests. These were the friends and patrons of the school from the near by city and from the country houses round about. Conspicuous among these was old John Gilpin in his Sunday suit, his long beard brushed till each hair hung smooth and separate, his bald head polished till it shone, and himself the most ill at ease of all the company. Beside him sat the little widow, Robin's mother; without whom, John had declared, he would "not stir hand nor hoof" toward any such frivolity, and the good Dame abetting him in the matter. She had said: "No, Mrs. Locke, no more he shall. I can't go, it's bread-settin' night, and with my being so unwieldy and awkward like--I'd ruther by far stay home. Robin will be all right. The dear lad's become the very apple of my eye and I e'enamost dread his gettin' well enough to go to work again. A bit of nonsense, like this of Dorothy's gettin'-up, 'll do you more good nor medicine. I've said my say and leave it said. If John could go in his clean smock, he'd be all right, even to face that Lady Principal that caught him cavortin' like a silly calf. But 'twould be an obligement to me if you'd go along and keep him in countenance." Of course, Mrs. Locke could do no less for a neighbor who had so befriended her and Robin: so here she was, looking as much the lady in her cheap black gown as any richer woman there. Also, so absorbed she was in keeping old John from trying to "cut and run," or doing anything else that would have mortified his wife. The Lady Principal had herself hesitated somewhat before the cottagers were invited, fearing their presence would be offensive to more aristocratic guests, but the good Bishop had heartily endorsed Dorothy's plea for them and she accepted his decision. In any case, she need not have feared. For suddenly there sounded from the distance the wailing of a violin, so weird and suggestive of uncanny things, that all talking ceased and all eyes turned toward the wide entrance doors, through which the masqueraders must come. Everything within the great room had been arranged with due attention to "effect." In its center a great "witches' caldron" hung suspended from three poles, and a lantern hung above it, where the bobbing for apples would take place. Dishes of salt, witch-cakes of meal, jack-o'-lanterns dimly lighted, odors of brimstone, daubs of phosphorus here and there--in fact, everything that the imaginations of the maskers could conceive, or reading suggest as fit for Hallowe'en, had been prepared. The doleful music drew nearer and nearer and as the lights in the Hall went out, leaving only the pale glimmer of the lanterns, even the most indifferent guests felt a little thrill run through their nerves. Then the doors slowly opened and there came through them a ghostly company that seemed endless. From head to foot each "ghost" was draped in white, even the extended hand which held a lighted taper was gloved in white, and the whole procession moved slowly to the dirge which the unseen musicians played. After a circuit of the great room, they began a curious dance which, in reality, was a calisthenic movement familiar to the everyday life of these young actors, but, as now performed, seemed weird and nerve-trying even to themselves. Its effect upon others was even more powerful and upon John Gilpin, to send him into a shivering fit that alarmed Mrs. Locke. "Why, Mr. Gilpin, what's the matter? Are you ill?" "Seems if--seems if--my last hour's come! Needn't tell me--them's--just--just plain schoolgirls! They--they're spooks right out the graveyard, sure as preachin' and I wish--I hadn't come! And there's no end of 'em! And it means--somethin' terr'ble! I wish--do you suppose--Ain't there a winder some'ers nigh? Is this Hall high up? Could I--could I climb out it?" The poor little widow was growing very nervous herself. Her companion's positive terror was infecting her and she felt that if this were her promised "fun" she'd had quite enough of it, and would be as glad as he to desert the gathering. Suddenly the movement changed. The slowly circling ghosts fell into step with the altered music, which, still a wailing minor, grew fast and faster, until with a crash its mad measure ended. At that instant, and before the lights were turned on, came another most peculiar sound. It was like the patter of small hoofs, the "ih-ih-ihing" of some terrified beast; and all ears were strained to listen while through those open doors came bounding and leaping, as if to escape its own self--What? From her perch on Dr. Winston's knees, Miss Millikins-Pillikins identified it as: "The debbil! The debbil!" Old John sprang to his feet and shrieked, while, as if attracted by his cry, the horrible object made straight for him and with one vicious thrust of its dreadful head knocked him down. CHAPTER VIII PEER AND COMMONER The lights flashed out. The ghostly wrappings fell from the figures which had been halted by the sudden apparition that had selected poor John Gilpin as its victim, though, in knocking him down it had knocked common sense back into his head. For as he lay sprawled on the floor the thrusts of that demoniac head continued and now, instead of frightening, angered him. For there was something familiar in the action of his assailant. Recovering his breath, he sat up and seized the horns that were prodding his Sunday suit, and yelled: "Quit that, Baal, you old rascal! Dressin' up like the Old Boy, be ye? Well, you never could ha' picked out a closer fit! But I'll strip ye bare--you cantankerous old goat, you Baal!" Away flew the mask of the evil spirit which some ingenious hand had fastened to the animal's head, and up rose such a shout of laughter as made the great room ring. The recent "ghosts" swarmed about the pair, still in masks and costumes, and a lively chase of Baal followed. The goat had broken away from the irate old man, as soon as might be, and John had risen stiffly to his feet. But his bashfulness was past. Also, his lameness was again forgotten, as one masquerader after another whirled about him, catching his coat skirts or his arm and laughingly daring him: "Guess who I am!" He didn't even try, but entered into the fun with as great zest as any youngster present, and it must be admitted, making a greater noise than any. Around and around the great hall sped the goat, somebody having mischievously closed the doors to prevent its escape; and across and about chased the merrymakers, tossing off their masks to see and careless now who guessed their identity. "Baal!" "Baal here!" "Who owns him? Where did he come from?" "What makes him so slippery? I wonder if he's been greased!" At last answered the farmer: "I guess I could tell you who owns him, but I'd better not. I don't want to get nobody into trouble, much as he deserves it." "'He?' Is it a 'he' then and not one of the girls?" demanded Winifred. But he did not inform her, merely asking when it would be time to bob for apples. "Because I know they're prime. They come out Dame's choisest bar'l. Grew on a tree she'll let nobody touch, not even me." "Apples! Apples! My turn first!" cried Florita Sheraton, stooping her fat body above the "caldron" into which some of the fruit had been tossed. But she failed, of course, her frantic efforts to plant her white teeth in any one of the apples resulting only in the wetting of her paper crown and ruff, as well as the ripping of her hastily made "robe." Then the others crowded around the great kettle, good naturedly pushing first comers aside while but a few succeeded in obtaining a prize. Old John was one of these; so gay and lively that the audience found him the most amusing feature of the entertainment. Till finally Mrs. Locke gained courage to cross to his side and whisper something in his ear; at which he looked, abashed and with a furtive glance in the direction of the Lady Principal, he murmured: "Right you be. I 'low I've forgot myself and I'm afraid she'd blush to see me so cuttin' up again. And too, I clean forgot that bag! I'll step-an'-fetch it right away." With his disappearance half the noise and nonsense ended, but more than satisfaction greeted his return, with Jack, the boot-boy, in close attendance. The latter bore in each hand a jug of freshly made sweet cider but his expression was not a happy one, and he kept a watchful eye upon the old man he followed. The latter carried two baskets; one heavy with well cracked nuts, the other as light with its heap of white popped corn. Bowing low to the Lady Principal he remarked: "With your permission, Ma'am;" then set the articles down beside the "caldron," clapping his hands to attract the schoolgirls' attention and bid them gather around his "treat" to enjoy it. Then, stumbling over a fallen mask, he sternly ordered Jack: "Get to work and clear these things up, and don't you forget to save Baal's, for, likely, 'twill be needed again." At which the boot-boy's face turned crimson, though that might have come from stooping. Nobody waited a second invitation to enjoy the good things that John's thoughtfulness had provided; but, sitting on the floor around his baskets, they made him act the host in dispensing fair portions to all, a maid having quickly brought plates, nutpicks and cups for their service. After the feast followed games and dances galore, till the hour grew late for schoolgirls, and the Bishop begged: "Before we part, my children, please give us a little music. A song from the Minims, a bit from the Sevenths on the piano, and a violin melody from our girl from the South. For it is she, really, who is responsible for this delightful party. Now she has coaxed us into trying it once, I propose that we make Hallowe'en an annual junketing affair, and--All in favor of so doing say 'Aye.'" After which the "Ayes" and hand claps were so deafening, that the good man bowed his head as if before a storm. Then the room quieted and the music followed; but when it came to Dorothy's turn she was nowhere to be seen. Girlish cries for "Queenie!" "Miss Dixie!" "Dolly! Dolly Doodles!" "Miss Calvert to the front!" failed to bring her. "Gone to 'step-an'-fetch' her fiddle--or Mr. Gilpin's, maybe!" suggested Winifred, with a mischievous glance at the old man who sat on the floor in the midst of the girls, gay now as any of them and still urging them to take "just a han'ful more" of the nuts he had been at such pains to crack for them. But neither Dorothy nor "fiddle" appeared; and the festivities came to a close without her. "Queer where Queenie went to!" said Florita, walking along the hall toward her dormitory, "and as queer, too, where that goat came from." "Seemed to be an old acquaintance of the farmer's, didn't it? He called it 'Baal,' as if that was its name; and wasn't it too funny for words? to see him chasing after it, catching it and letting it slip away so, till Jack caught it and led it away. From the way he acted I believe _he_ was the one who owns it and rigged it up so," said Ernesta, beside her. "Well, no matter. I'm so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open! But what a glorious time we've had; and what a mess Assembly Hall is in." "Who cares? We're had the fun and now Jack and the scullery boy will have to put it in order for us. Matron'll see to that. Good night." They parted, each entering her own cubicle and each wondering somewhat why Dorothy did not come to hers. Commonly she was the most prompt of all in retiring and this was long past the usual hour. Could they have seen her at that moment their surprise would have been even greater. Long before, while the feast was at its height, the girl had quietly slipped away. Despite the fun she had so heartily enjoyed, thoughts of the visit to Gwendolyn's sick room, which she had made just before it, kept coming into her mind: and her thoughts running thus: "Gwen was ill, she really was, although Lady Jane seemed to think her only whimsical. She looked so unhappy and maybe partly because she couldn't be in this first Hallowe'en party. It was too bad. I felt as if she must come and when I said so to Winnie she just laughed and answered: 'Serves her right. Gwendolyn has always felt herself the top of the heap, that nothing could go on just right if she didn't boss the job. Now she'll find out that a little "Commoner" like you can do what no "Peer" ever did. Don't go worrying over that girl, Queen Baltimore. A lesson or two like this will do her good. She'd be as nice as anybody if it wasn't for her wretched stuck-up-ness. Miss Muriel says it's no harm to be proud if it's pride of the right sort. But pride of rank--Huh! How can anybody help where they're born or who their parents are? Don't you be silly, too, Dorothy Calvert, and pity somebody who'd resent the pity. I never knew a girl like you. You make me provoked. Never have a really, truly good time because you happen to know of somebody else that isn't having it. I say again: If the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard feels bad because she isn't in this racket I'm downright glad of it. She has spoiled lots of good times for other girls and 'turn about's fair play.'" "Now, Winnie dear, your 'bark is worse than your bite' if I can quote maxims, too. In your heart, down deep, you're just as sorry for poor Gwen as I am. Only you won't admit it." "Well, if you think so, all right. You're a stubborn little thing and once you take a notion into your brain nobody can take it out. 'Where are you going, my pretty maid? I'm going a studying, sir, she said;'" and tossing an airy kiss in Dorothy's direction, ran swiftly away. Yet events proved that, as Winifred had argued, Dorothy's opinion did not alter. Neither could she be sorry for anyone without trying to help them in some way. The simple country treat of nuts, popped corn, and cider had proved enjoyable to other schoolmates--why shouldn't it to Gwendolyn? She'd try it, anyway. So, unnoticed by those around her, Dolly heaped her own plate with the good things, placing a tumbler of cider in the middle and hurried away, or rather glided away, so gently she moved until she reached the doorway. There she ran as swiftly down the long hall toward the west wing and Gwendolyn's room in it. Tapping at the door Lady Jane soon opened it, but with finger on lip requesting silence. But she smiled as she recognized who stood there and at the plate of goodies Dorothy had brought. Then she gently drew her in, nodding toward the cot where her daughter seemed asleep. She was not, however, but had been lying still, thinking of many things and among them her present visitor. She was not surprised to see her and this time was not pained. It seemed to the imaginative invalid that her own thoughts had compelled Dorothy to come, in response to them. "I'm awake, Mamma. You needn't keep so quiet." "Are you, dearest? Well, that's good; for here has come our little maid with something tempting for your appetite. A share of the Hallowe'en treat, is it, Dorothy?" "Yes, Lady Jane, and it's something different from what we often have. The farmer, Mr. Gilpin, brought it for us girls and I couldn't bear--I mean I thought Gwendolyn should have--might like, her share, even if--if _I_ brought it. I'm sorry the plate is a cracked one, but you see there were so many needed and the maids brought what they could find handiest, I suppose. But--the glass of cider is all right. That's from the regular table and--and it's really very sweet and nice." Now that she had come poor Dorothy wished that she hadn't. Lady Jane seemed pleased enough and had promptly turned on a stronger light which clearly showed the face of the girl on the bed. She could talk readily enough to the mother but whenever she glanced toward Gwendolyn her tongue faltered and hesitated woefully. It seemed as if the sick girl's eyes were still hard and forbidding and their steady stare made her uncomfortable. So she did not speak to the invalid and was promptly retreating when Gwendolyn suddenly asked, yet with apparent effort: "Mamma, will you please go away for a few minutes? I've--I've got to speak to Dorothy--alone." "Why, certainly, dearest, if you think you're strong enough. But wouldn't you better wait another day? Wouldn't I be able to talk for you?" "No, no. Oh! no, no. Nobody but I can--Please go--go quick!" "'Stand not upon the order of your going but go at once!'" quoted Lady Jane, jestingly. But she failed to make her daughter smile and went away, warning: "Don't talk of that accident again to-night, girls." "That's exactly what I must talk about, Mamma, but you mustn't care." Lady Jane's heart was anxious as she closed the door behind her and she would have been amazed had she heard Gwendolyn's exclamation: "I've been a wicked girl! Oh, Dorothy! I've been so mean to you! And all the time you show me kindness. Are you trying to 'heap coals' on my head?" "'Heap coals?'" echoed Dolly, at first not comprehending; then she laughed. "I couldn't do that. I have none to 'heap' and I'd be horrid if I tried. What do you mean?" "It began the night you came. I made up things about you in my mind and then told them to our 'set' for facts. I'd--I'd had trouble with the 'set' because they would not remember about--about keeping ourselves apart from those who hadn't titles. I felt we ought to remember; that if our England had made 'classes' we ought to help her, loyally. That was the first feeling, way down deep. Then--then I don't get liked as I want to be, because I can't help knowing things about other girls and if they break the rules I felt I ought to tell the teachers. Somehow, even they don't like that; for the Lady Principal about as plain as called me 'tale-bearer.' I hate--oh! I do hate to tell you all this! But I can't help it. Something inside me makes me, but I'm so miserable!" She looked the fact she stated and Dorothy's sympathy was won, so that she begged: "Don't do it, then. Just get well and--and carry no more tales and you'll be happy right away." "It's easy to talk--for you, maybe. For me, I'd almost rather die than own I've been at fault--if it wasn't for that horrid, sick sort of feeling inside me." In spite of herself the listener laughed, for Gwendolyn had laid her hands upon her stomach as if locating the seat of her misery. She asked merrily: "Is it there we keep our consciences? I never knew before and am glad to find out." But Gwendolyn didn't laugh. She was an odd sort of girl, and always desperately earnest in whatever she undertook. She had made up her mind she must confess to the "Commoner" the things she had done against her; she was sincerely sorry for them now, but she couldn't make that confession gracefully. She caught her breath as if before a plunge into cold water and then blurted out: "I told 'our set' that you were Dawkins's niece! I said you were a disgrace to the school and one of us would have to leave it. But Mamma wouldn't take _me_ and I couldn't make _you_ go. I got mad and jealous. Everybody liked you, except the girls I'd influenced. The Bishop petted you--he never notices me. Miss Tross-Kingdon treats you almost as lovingly as she does Millikins-Pillikins. All the servants smile on you and nobody is afraid of you as everybody is of me. Dawkins, and sometimes even Mamma, accuses me of a 'sharp tongue' that makes enemies. But, somehow, I can't help it. And the worst is--one can't get back the things one has said and done, no matter how she tries. Then you went and saved my life!" At this, the strange girl covered her face and began to cry, while Dorothy stared at her, too surprised to speak. Until the tears changed to sobs and Gwendolyn shook with the stress of her emotion. Then, fearing serious results, Dorothy forgot everything except that here was someone in distress which she must soothe. Down on her knees she went, flung her arms around the shaking shoulders, and pleaded: "Well, you poor dear, can't you be glad of that? Even if you can never like me isn't it good to be alive? Aren't you grateful that somebody who could swim, even poor I, was at the pool to help you out of it that day? Forget it, do forget it, and get well and happy right away. I'll keep away from you as far as I can and you must forgive me for coming here again just now." "Forgive you? Forgive you! Oh! Dorothy Calvert, can you, will you ever forgive me? After all my meanness to you, could you make yourself like me just a little?" Gwendolyn's own arms had now closed in eager entreaty about the girl she had injured. Her pride was humbled at last and completely. But there was no need of further speech between them. They clung together in their suddenly awakened affection, at peace and so happy that neither felt it possible they had ever been at odds. When, at last, Dorothy drew back and rose, Gwen still clung to her hand, and penitently said: "But that isn't all. There's a lot more to tell that, maybe, will make you despise me worse than ever. I've done--" "No matter what, dearest. You've talked quite enough for to-night and Dorothy should be in bed. Bid one another good night, my dears, and meet again to-morrow;" interrupted Lady Jane, who had quietly returned. So Dorothy departed, and with a happier heart than she had had since her coming to Oak Knowe; for now there was nobody there with whom she was at discord. But--was there not? Gayly tripping down the long corridor, humming a merry air and hoping that she hadn't yet broken the retiring-rule, she stopped short on the way. Something or somebody was far ahead of her, moving with utmost caution against noise, yet himself, or itself, making a peculiar rat-a-tat-tat upon the polished boards. Instantly Dorothy hushed her light song and slackened her steps. The passage was dimly lighted for it was rarely used, leading as it did to the distant servants' quarters and ending in a great drying-room above the laundry. Even this drying-room was almost given up to the storage of trunks and other things, the laundry itself being more convenient for all its requirements. Rumors came back to her of the burglaries which the kitchen-folk had declared had been frequent of late, none more serious than the loss of a dinner provided and the strange rifling of safes and cupboard. Such had happened weeks before, then apparently ceased; but they had begun again of late; with added rumors of strange noises heard at night, and in the quieter hours of the day. The faculty had tried to keep these fresh rumors from the pupils' ears, but they had leaked out. Yet no real investigation had been made. It was a busy household, both above and below stairs; and as is usual, what is "everybody's business is nobody's" and things were left to run their course. But now, was the burglar real? And had Dorothy come suddenly upon his track? If she only could find out! Without fear of consequences to herself and forgetful of that retiring-rule she tip-toed noiselessly in the wake of whatever was in advance, and so came at last to the door of the drying-room. It stood ajar and whatever had preceded her passed beyond it as the girl came to it. She also entered, curiosity setting every nerve a-tingle, yet she still unafraid. Stepping behind the open door she waited what next, and trying to accustom her eyes to the absolute darkness of the place. The long row of windows on the outer wall were covered by wooden shutters, as she had noticed from the ground, and with them closed the only light which could enter came through a small scuttle, or skylight in the center of the ceiling. From her retreat behind the door she listened breathlessly. The rat-a-tat-tat had died away in the distance, whither she now dared not follow because of the darkness; and presently she heard a noise like the slipping of boards in a cattle shed. Then footsteps returning, swiftly and softly, as of one in bare or stockinged feet. There was a rush past her, the door to which she clung was snatched from her and shut with a bang. This sound went through her with a thrill, and vividly there arose the memory of a night long past when she had been imprisoned in an empty barn, by the wild freak of an old acquaintance of the mountain, and half-witted Peter Piper for sole companion. Then swiftly she felt her way back along the door till her hand was on its lock--which she could not move. Here was a situation suitable, indeed, for any Hallowe'en! CHAPTER IX THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED It was long past the hour when, on ordinary nights, Oak Knowe would have been in darkness, relieved only by a glimmer here and there, at the head of some stairway, and in absolute stillness. But the Hallowe'en party had made everything give way and the servants were up late, putting the great Assembly Hall into the spotless order required for the routine of the next day. Nut shells and scattered pop corn, apple-skins that had been tossed over the merrymakers' shoulders to see what initial might be formed, broken masks that had been discarded, fragments of the flimsy costumes, splashes of spilled cider, scattered crumbs and misplaced furniture, made Dawkins and her aids lift hands in dismay as, armed with brooms and scrubbing brushes they came to "clear up." "Clear up, indeed! Never was such a mess as this since ever I set foot at Oak Knowe. After the sweepin' the scrubbin'; and after the scrubbin' the polishin', and the chair fetchin' and--my heart! 'Tis the dear bit lassie she is, but may I be further afore Dorothy Dixie gets up another Hallowe'en prank!" grumbled Dawkins, yet with a tender smile on her lips, remembering the thousand and one trifles which the willing girl had done for her. For Dawkins was growing old. Under her maid's cap the hair was thin and gray, and stooping to pick up things the girls had carelessly thrown down was no longer an easy task. The rules against carelessness were stringent enough and fairly well obeyed, yet among three hundred lively girls some rules were bound to be ignored. But from the first, as soon as she understood them, Dorothy had been obedient to all these rules; and it was Dawkins's pride, when showing visitors through the building to point to Dolly's cubicle as a model. Here was never an article left out of place; because not only school regulations but real affection for the maid, who had been her first friend at Oak Knowe, made Dorothy "take care." Then busy at their tasks, the workers talked of the evening's events and laughingly recalled the incident of the goat, which they had witnessed from the upper gallery; a place prepared for them by the good Bishop's orders, that nobody at his great school should be prohibited from enjoying a sight of the pupils' frequent entertainments. "But sure, 'tis that lad, Jack, which frets me as one not belongin' to Oak Knowe," said Dora, with conviction. "Not belonging? Why, woman alive, he's been here longer nor yourself. 'Twas his mother that's gone, was cook here before the _chef_ and pity for his orphaned state the reason he's stayed since. But I own ye, he's not been bettered by his summers off, when the school's not keepin' and him let work for any farmer round. I note he's a bit more prankish an' disobliging, every fall when he comes back. For some curious reason--I can't dream what--he's been terrible chummy with Miss Gwendolyn. Don't that beat all?" said Dawkins whirling her brush. "I don't know--I don't really know as 'tis. He's forever drawing pictures round of every created thing, and she's come across him doin' it. She's that crazy for drawing herself that she's likely took an int'rest in him. I heard her puttin' notions in his head, once, tellin' him how 't some the greatest painters ever lived had been born just peasants like him." "Huh! Was that what made him so top-lofty and up-steppin'? When I told him he didn't half clean the young ladies' shoes, tossin' his head like the simpleton he is, and saucin' back as how he wouldn't be a boot-boy all his life. I'd find out one these days whom I'd been tongue-lashin' so long and'd be ashamed to look him in the face. Huh!" added another maid. "Well, why bother with such as him, when we've all this to finish, and me to go yet to my dormitory to see if all's right with my young ladies," answered Dawkins and silence fell, till the task was done and the great room in the perfect order required for the morning. Then away to her task above hurried good Dawkins and coming to Dorothy's cubicle found its bed still untouched and its light brightly burning. The maid stared and gasped. What did this mean? Had harm befallen her favorite? Then she smiled at her own fears. Of course, Dorothy was in the room with little Grace, where the cot once prepared for her still remained because the child had so begged; in "hopes I'll be sick some more and Dolly'll come again." So Dawkins turned off the light and hurried to her reclining chair in the outer hall, where she usually spent the hours of her watch. But no sooner had she settled herself there than all her uneasiness returned. Twisting and turning on her cushions she fretted: "I don't see what's got into this chair, the night! Seems if I can't get a comfortable spot in it anywhere. Maybe, it's 'cause I'm extra tired. Hallowe'en pranks are fun for the time but there's a deal hard work goes along with 'em. Or any other company fixings, for that matter. I wonder was the little Grace scared again, by that ridic'lous goat? Is that why Dorothy went with her? Where'd the beast come from, anyway? And who invited it to the masquerade? Not the good Bishop, I'll be bound. Now, what does make me so uneasy! Sure there's nought wrong with dear little Dixie. How could there be under this safe roof?" But the longer Dawkins pondered the matter the more restless she grew; till, at last, she felt she must satisfy her mind, even at the cost of disturbing the Lady Principal; and a moment later tapped at her door, asking softly: "Are you awake, Miss Muriel? It's Dawkins." "Yes, Dawkins, come in. I've not been able to sleep yet. I suppose the evening's care and excitement has tired me too much. What is it you want? Anything wrong in the dormitory?" "Well, not to say wrong--or so I hope. I just stepped here to ask is Miss Dorothy Calvert staying the night?" "Staying with Grace? No, indeed, the child has been asleep for hours: perfectly satisfied now that I and so many others have seen the apparition she had, and so proved her the truthful little creature she'd always been." That seemed a very long answer to impatient Dawkins and she clipped it short by asking: "Then, Ma'am, where do you suppose she is?" "What? Do you mean that she isn't in her own place?" "No, Ma'am, nor sign of her; and it's terr'ble strange, 'pears to me. I don't like the look of it, Ma'am, I do not." "Pooh! don't make a mystery out of it, my good woman!" replied Miss Tross-Kingdon, yet with a curious flutter in her usually stern voice. Then she considered the matter for a moment, finally directing: "Go to the hospital wing and ask if she's there with Gwendolyn. She's been so sorry for the girl and I noticed her slipping out of Assembly with a plate full of the things Mr. Gilpin brought. I don't remember her coming back, but she was certainly absent when her violin was asked for. Doubtless, you'll find her there, but be careful not to rouse any of the young ladies. Then come back and report." Dawkins tip-toed away, glad that she had told her anxiety to her mistress. But she was back from her errand before it seemed possible she could be, her face white and her limbs trembling with fear of--she knew not what! "If it was any girl but her, Ma'am! That keeps the rules better nor any other here!" "Hush, good Dawkins. She's all right somewhere, as we shall soon discover. We'll go below and look in all the rooms, in case she might be ill, or locked in some of them." "Yes, yes, Ma'am, we'll look. Ill she might really be after all them nuts an' trash, but locked in she can't be, since never a lock is turned in this whole house. Sure the Bishop wouldn't so permit, seeing that if it fired any time them that was locked up could not so easy get out. And me the last one down, to leave all in the good order you like." "Step softly still, Dawkins. It would take very little to start a panic among our many girls should they hear that anything was amiss." Each took a candle from the rack in the hall and by the soft light of these began their search below, not daring to flash on the electric lights whose brilliance might possibly arouse the sleepers in the house. Dawkins observed that the Lady Principal, walking ahead, was shaking, either with cold or nervousness, and, as for herself, her teeth were fairly chattering. Of course their search proved useless. Nowhere in any of those first floor rooms was any trace of the missing girl. Even closets were examined while Dawkins peered behind the furniture and curtains, her heart growing heavier each moment. Neither mistress nor maid spoke now, though the former led the way upwards again and silently inspected the dormitories on each floor. Also, she looked into each private room of the older and wealthier pupils, but the result was the same--Dorothy had as completely disappeared as if she had been bodily swallowed up. Then the aid of the other maids and, even of a few teachers was secured, although that the school work might go on regularly the next day, not many of these latter were disturbed. At daybreak, when the servants began to gather in the great kitchen, each to begin his daily tasks, the Lady Principal surprised them by her appearance among them. In the briefest and quietest manner possible she told them what had happened and begged their help in the search. But she was unprepared for the result. A housemaid threw up her hands in wild excitement, crying: "'Tis ten long years I've served Oak Knowe but my day is past! Her that went some syne was the wise one. I'll not tarry longer to risk the health o' me soul in a house that's haunted by imps!" "Nor me! Him that's snatched off to his wicked place the sweet, purty gell, of the willin' word an' friendly smile, 'll no long spare such as me! A fine collectin' ground for the Evil One is so big a school as this. I'm leavin' the dustin' to such as can do it, but I'm off, Ma'am, and better times for ye, I'm sure!" cried another superstitious creature. This was plain mutiny. For a moment the lady's heart sank at the prospect before her, for the panic would spread if not instantly quelled, and there were three hundred hungry girls awaiting breakfast--and breakfast but one feature of the case. Should these servants leave, to spread their untrue tales, new ones would be almost impossible to obtain. Then, summoning her authority, she demanded: "Silence and attention from all of you. I shall telephone for the constabulary, and any person who leaves Oak Knowe before Miss Calvert is found will leave it for the lock-up. The housemaids are excused from ordinary duties and are to assist the _chef_ in preparing breakfast. The rest of you, who have retained your common sense, are to spread yourselves about the house and grounds, and through every outbuilding till some one of you shall find the girl you all have loved. Leave before then? I am ashamed of your hard hearts." With stately dignity the mistress left the kitchen and a much subdued force of helpers behind her. That threat of "the constabulary" was an argument not to be defied. "Worst of it is, she meant it. Lady Principal never says a thing she doesn't mean. So--Well, I suppose I'll have to stay, then, for who wants to get took up? But it's hard on a workin' woman 't she can't do as she likes," muttered the first deserter and set about her duties. Also, as did she so did the others. Meanwhile how had the night passed with the imprisoned Dorothy? At first with greater anger than fear; anger against the unknown person who had shut that door upon her. Then she thought: "But of course he didn't know, whoever it was. I'm sure it was a man or boy, afraid, maybe, to make a noise account of its being late. Yet what a fix I'm in! Nobody will know or come to let me out till Dawkins goes her rounds and that'll be very, very late, on account of her clearing up the mess we made down in Assembly. My! what a fine time we had! And how perfectly grand that Gwendolyn and I should be friends at last. She kissed me. Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard kissed me! It's worth even being shut up here alone, behind that spring-locked door, just to be friends. I'm so sleepy. I wish I could find something to put around me and I'd lie right down on this floor and take a nap till somebody lets me out." Then she remembered that once she had heard Dawkins telling another maid that there were "plenty more blankets in the old drying-room if her 'beds' needed 'em;" and maybe she could find some if she tried. "This is the very darkest place could ever be, seems if! ouch! that hurt!" said the prisoner aloud, to bolster her own courage, and as she stumbled against a trunk that bruised her ankle. "I'll take more care." So she did: reasoning that people generally piled things against a wall, that is, in such a place, for greater convenience. With outstretched hands she felt her way and at last was rewarded by finding the blankets she sought. Here, too, were folded several cots, that were needed at times, like Commencement, when many strangers were at Oak Knowe. But she didn't trouble to set up one of these, even if she could have done so in that gloom. But a blanket she could manage, and beside the cots she could feel a heap of them. In a very few minutes she had pulled down several of these and spread them on the floor; and a little later had wrapped them about her and was sound asleep--"as a bug in a rug, like Dawkins says," her last, untroubled thought. So, though a prisoner, for many hours she slumbered peacefully. Down in the breakfast-room matters went on as usual. Or if many of the girls and a few of the pupils seemed unduly sleepy, that was natural enough, considering the frivolities and late hours of the night before. Even the Lady Principal, sitting calmly in her accustomed place, looked very pale and tired; and Winifred, observing this, whispered to her neighbor: "I don't believe we'll get another party very soon. Just look at Miss Tross-Kingdon. She's as white as a ghost and so nervous she can hardly sit still. I never saw her that way before. The way she keeps glancing toward the doors, half-scared every time she hears a noise, is queer. I wonder if she's expecting somebody!" "Likely somebody's late and she's waiting to say: 'Miss'--whoever it is--'your excuse, please?' I wonder who 'twill be! and say, look at the Aldrich ten--can you see Dorothy?" Winifred glanced around and answered, with real surprise: "Why, she's absent! If it were I nobody'd be astonished, 'cause I always have the same excuse: 'Overslept.' But Dolly? Oh! I hope she isn't sick!" And immediately the meal was over, Winifred hurried to the Lady Principal and asked: "Please, Miss Muriel, can you tell me, is Dorothy Calvert ill?" "Excuse me, Winifred, I am extremely busy," returned Miss Tross-Kingdon, and hurried away as if she were afraid of being questioned further. Naturally, Winifred was surprised, for despite her sternness the Lady Principal was invariably courteous; and putting "two and two together" she decided that Dorothy was in trouble of some sort and began a systematic inquiry of all she met concerning her. But nobody had seen the girl or knew anything about her; yet the questioner's anxiety promptly influenced others and by the time school session was called there was a wide-spread belief that some dreadful thing had befallen the southerner, and small attention was paid to lessons. It was not until the middle of the morning that Jack-boot-boy appeared in the kitchen, from his room in an outside building, where the men servants slept. He was greeted by reproofs for his tardiness and the news of Dorothy's disappearance. "Lost? Lost, you say? How can she be right here in this house? Why, I saw her around all evening. It was her own party, wasn't it? or hers was the first notion of it. Huh! That's the queerest! S'pose the faculty'll offer a reward? Jiminy cricket! Wish they would! I bet I'd find her. Why, sir, I'd make a first rate detective, I would. I've been readin' up on that thing an' I don't know but it would pay me better'n paintin', even if I am a 'born artist,' as Miss Gwendolyn says." "Born nincompoop! That's what you are, and the all-conceitedest lazybones 't ever trod shoe leather! Dragging out of bed this time o' day, and not a shoe cleaned--in my dormitory, anyway!" retorted Dawkins, in disgust. "Huh! old woman, what's the matter with you? And why ain't you _in_ bed, 'stead of out of it? I thought all you night-owls went to bed when the rest of us got up. You need sleep, you do, for I never knowed you crosser'n you be now--which is sayin' consid'able!" Dawkins was cross, there was no denying that, for her nerves were sadly shaken by her fears for the girl she had learned to love so dearly. "You get about your business, boy, at once; without tarryin' to pass remarks upon your betters;" and she made a vicious dash toward him as if to strike him. He knew this was only pretence, and sidled toward her, mockingly, then, as she raised her hand again--this time with more decision--he cowered aside and made a rush out of the kitchen. "Well, that's odd! The first time I ever knew that boy to turn down his breakfast!" remarked the _chef_, pointing to a heaped up plate at the back of the range. "Well, I shan't keep it any longer. He'll have the better appetite for dinner, ha, ha!" Jack's unusual indifference to good food was due to a sound he had overheard. It came from somewhere above and passed unnoticed by all but him, but set him running to a distant stairway which led from "the old laundry" to the drying-loft above: and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him as he saw that the door of this was shut. "Lucky for me, that is! I was afraid they'd been looking here for that Calvert girl, but they haven't, 'cause the lock ain't broke and the key's in my pocket," said he, in a habit he had of talking to himself. The noise beyond the door increased, and worried him, and he hurriedly sought the key where he usually carried it. The door could be, and had been, closed by a spring, but it needed that key to open it, as he had boastingly remembered. Unhappy lad! In not one of his many and ragged pockets could that key now be found! While in the great room beyond the noise grew loud, and louder, with each passing second and surely would soon be heard by all the house. Under the circumstances nobody would hesitate to break that hateful lock to learn the racket's cause; yet what would happen to him when this was discovered? What, indeed! Yet, strangely enough, in all his trepidation there was no thought of Dorothy. CHAPTER X OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL A housemaid, passing through the disused "old laundry" on the ground floor, as a short-cut toward the newer one in a detached building, heard a strange noise in the drying-room overhead, and paused to listen. This was unusual. In ordinary the loft was never entered, nowadays, except by some slippered maid, or Michael with a trunk. Setting down her basket of soiled linen she put her hands on her hips and stood motionless, intently listening. Dorothy? Could it be Dorothy? Impossible! No living girl could make all that racket; yet--was that a scream? Was it laughter--terror--wild animal--or what? Away she sped; her nimble feet pausing not an instant on the way, no matter with whom she collided nor whom her excited face frightened, and still breathlessly running came into the great Assembly Hall. There Miss Tross-Kingdon had, by the advice of the Bishop, gathered the whole school; to tell them as quietly as she could of Dorothy's disappearance and to cross-examine them as to what anyone could remember about her on the evening before. For the sorrowful fact could no longer be hidden--Dorothy Calvert was gone and could not be found. On the faces of those three hundred girls was consternation and grief; in their young hearts a memory of the "spookish" things which had happened of late, but that had not before disturbed them; and now, at the excited entrance of the maid, a shiver ran over the whole company. Here was news! Nothing less could explain this unceremonious disturbance. Even Miss Muriel's face turned paler than it had been, could that have been possible and without a word she waited for the maid to speak. "Oh! Lady Principal! Let somebody come! The drying-loft! screams--boards dragging--or trunks--or murder doing--maybe! Let somebody go quick--Michael--a man--men--Somebody quick!" Exhausted by her own excitement, the maid sank upon the nearest chair, her hand on her heart, and herself unable to add another word. Miss Tross-Kingdon rose, trembling so that she could hardly walk, and made her way out of the room. In an instant every assembled schoolgirl was on her feet, speeding toward the far west wing and the great loft, dreading yet eager to see what would there be revealed. Still anxious on his own account, but from a far different cause, and still listening at the closed door with wonder at what seemed going on behind it, was Jack, the boot-boy. At the approach of the excited girls, he lifted his ear from the keyhole and looked behind him, to find himself trapped, as it were, at this end of the narrow passage by the multitude which swarmed about him, feverishly demanding: "Boy, what is it? What is it? Is Dorothy in there? Is Dorothy found?" "Is Dorothy--" Poor Jack! This was the worst yet! At full comprehension of what that question meant, even he turned pale and his lips stuttered: "I--I--dunno--I--Jiminy cricket!" He must get out of that! He must--he must! Before that door was opened he must escape! Frantically he tried to force his way backward through the crowd which penned him in, but could make little progress; even that being suddenly cut off by a strong hand laid on his shoulder and the _chef_ forcing into his hand a stout crowbar, and ordering: "Help to break her down!" at the same instant Michael, the porter, pressing to his side armed with an ax. "Now, all together!" cried he, and whether or no, Jack was compelled to aid in the work of breaking in. But it was short work, indeed, and the crowd surged through the opening in terror of what they might behold--only to have that terror changed into shouts of hilarious delight. For there was Dorothy! not one whit the worse for her brief imprisonment and happily unconscious of the anxiety which that had caused to others. And there was Baal, the goat! Careering about the place, dragging behind him a board to which he had been tied and was unable to dislodge. The room was fairly lighted now by the sun streaming through the skylight, and Baal had been having a glorious time chasing Dorothy about the great room, from spot to spot, gleefully trying to butt her with his horns, leaping over piles of empty trunks, and in general making such a ridiculous--if sometimes dangerous--spectacle of himself, that Dorothy, also, had had a merry time. "Oh! you darling, you darling!" "Dolly Doodles, how came you here!" "Why did you do it? You've scared us all almost to death!" "The Bishop has gone into town to start detectives on your track!" "The Lady Principal--Here she is now! you've made her positively ill, and as for Dawkins, they say she had completely collapsed and lies on her chair moaning all the time." "Oh, oh! How dreadful! And how sorry I am! I never dreamed; oh! dear Miss Muriel, do believe me--listen, listen!" The lady sat down on a trunk and drew the girl to her. Her only feeling now was one of intensest gratitude, but she remembered how all the others had shared her anxiety and bade her recovered pupil tell the story so that all might hear. It was very simple, as has been seen, and needs no repetition here, ending with the heartfelt declaration: "That cures me of playing detective ever again! I was so anxious to stop all that silly talk about evil spirits and after all the only such around Oak Knowe was Baal!" "But how Baal, and why? And most of all how came he here in the house?" demanded Miss Tross-Kingdon, looking from one to another; until her eye was arrested by the expression of Jack, the boot-boy's face. That was so funny she smiled, seeing it, and asked him: "Can't you explain this, Jack?" "Uh--er--Ah! Wull--wull, yes, Ma'am, I allow 't I might. I mean 't I can. Er--sho!--Course, I'll have to. Wull--wull--You see, Miss Lady Principal, how as last summer, after school was took in, I hired myself out to work for old John Gilpin an' he had a goat. Dame didn't hanker for it no great; said it et up things an' got into places where 'twarn't wanted and she adwised him, that is to say she told him, how 't he must get rid of it. He got rid of it onto me. I hadn't got nobody belongin' and we've been first rate friends, Baal and me." This was evidenced by the quietude of the animal, now lying at the boot-boy's feet in affectionate confidence, and refreshing itself with a nap, after its hilarious exercise. "Strange that we didn't know he was on our grounds, for I did not. Where have you kept him, Jack, and how?" The lad flushed and fidgetted but dared not refuse to reply. He had been too long under the authority of Miss Tross-Kingdon for that, to whose good offices his mother had left him when she died. "Wull--Wull--" "Kindly stop 'wulling' and reply. It is nearly lunch time and Dorothy has had no breakfast." "Yes, Miss Muriel, please but I have. When I waked up after I'd slept so long it was real light, so I went poking around to see if I could find another door that would open, or any way out; and I came to a queer place away yonder at the end; and I heard the funniest noise--'ih-ih-ih--Ah-umph!' something like that. Then I knew it was the goat, that I'd heard pat-pat-pattering along the hall last night and that I'd followed. And I guessed it was Jack, instead of a burglar, who'd rushed past me and locked me in. I was mighty glad to see anybody, even a goat, and I opened the gate to the place and Baal jumped out. He was tied to that board--he'd pulled it off the gate, and was as glad to see me as I was him. That little sort of cupboard, or cubby-hole, had lots of excelsior in it; I guess it had come around crockery or something, and that was where Baal slept. There was a tin box there, too, and I opened it. I was glad enough then! For it was half full of cakes and apples and a lemon pie, that you call a 'Christchurch' up here in Canada; and before I knew it Baal had his nose in the box, like he was used to eating out of it, and I had to slap his nose to make him let me have a share. So I'm not hungry and all I care is that I have made you all so worried." But already that was almost forgotten, though Miss Muriel's curiosity was not yet satisfied. "Jack, are you in the habit of keeping that animal here, in this room?" "Yes--yes, Ma'am; times I am. Other times he stays in the old shed down by the brook. Most of the men knew I had him; Michael did, anyhow. He never said nothing again' it;" answered the boy, defiantly, trying to shift responsibility to the old porter, the most trusted servant of the house. "No, I cannot imagine Michael meddling with you and your foolishness; and for a lad who's lived so long at a great school, I wonder to hear such bad grammar from your lips. How did you get Baal into this room without being detected in it?" "Why, Ma'am, that was easy as preachin'. That back end, outside steps, what leads up from the ground for carrying up wet clothes, it used to be. He comes up that way, for goats can climb any place. Leastwise, Baal can, and the door's never locked no more, 'cause I lost the key;" answered Jack, who was now the center of attention and proud of the fact. "Very well, Jack. That will do. Kindly see to it that Baal is permanently removed from Oak Knowe, and--" She paused for a moment, as if about to add more, then quietly moved away, with Dorothy beside her and all her now happy flock following. Never before had the laughter and chatter of her girls sounded so musical in her ears, nor her own heart been lighter than now, in its rebound from her recent anxiety. She wasn't pleased with Jack, the boot-boy; decidedly she was not pleased. She had not been since his return from his summer's work, for he had not improved either in industry or behavior. She had not liked the strange interest which Gwendolyn had taken in his slight gift for drawing, which that enthusiastic young artist called "remarkable," but which this more experienced instructor knew would never amount to anything. Yet that was a matter which could wait. Meanwhile, here was a broken day, with everybody still so excited that lessons would be merely wasted effort; so, after she had sent Dorothy to put on her ordinary school dress, she informed the various classes that no more work was required that day and that after lunch there would be half-holiday for all her pupils. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Dolly and may she soon get lost again!" shouted Winifred, and, for once, was not rebuked because of unladylike manners. Left to himself, Jack regarded his beloved Baal, in keen distress. "Said you'd got to go, did she? Well, if you go I do, too. Anyhow I'm sick to death of cleaning nasty girls', or nasty shoes o' a lot o' girls--ary way you put it. Boot-boy, Baal! Think o' that. If that ain't a re--restrick-erated life for a artist, like Miss Gwen says I am; or uther a dectective gentleman--I'd like to know. No, sir, Baal! We'll quit an' we'll do it to once. Maybe they won't feel sorry when they find me gone an' my place empty to the table! Maybe them girls that laughed when that old schoolmarm was a pitchin' into me afore all them giggling creatures, maybe they won't feel bad, a-lookin' at that hull row of shoes outside cubicle doors waiting to be cleaned and not one touched toward it! Huh! It'll do all them 'ristocratics good to have to clean 'em themselves. All but Miss Gwendolyn. She's the likeliest one of the hull three hundred. I hate--I kinder hate to leave her. 'Artists has kindred souls,' she said once when she was showin' me how to draw that skull. Who can tell? I might get to be more famouser'n her, smart as she is; an' I might grow up, and her too, and I might come to her house--or is it a turreted castle?--an' I might take my fa--famousness an' offer it to her to marry me! And then, when her folks couldn't hardly believe that I was I, and her old boot-boy, maybe they'd say 'Yes, take her, my son! I'm proud to welcome into our 'ristocraticy one that has riz from a boot-boy to our rank!' Many a story-book tells o' such doings, an' what's in them ought to be true. Good for 't I can buy 'em cheap. The Bishop caught me reading one once and preached me a reg'lar sermon about it. Said that such kind of literatoor had ruined many a simple fellow and would me if I kep' on. But even Bishops don't know everything, though I allow he's a grand old man. I kind of sorter hate to leave Oak Knowe on his account, he takes such an int'rest in me. But he'll get over it. He'll have to, for we're going, Baal an' me, out of this house where we're wastin' our sweetness on the desert air. My jiminy cricket! If a boy that can paint pictures and recite poetry like I can, can't rise above shoe-cleanin' and get on in this world--I'd like to know the reason why! Come, Baal! I'll strap my clothes in a bundle, shake the dust of old Oak Knowe offen me, and hie away to seek my fortune--and your'n." Nobody interfering, Jack proceeded to put this plan into action; but it was curious that, as he reached the limits of Oak Knowe grounds, he turned and looked back on the big, many-windowed house, and at the throngs of happy girls who were at "recreation" on the well-kept lawns. A sort of sob rose in his throat and there was a strange sinking in his stomach that made him most uncomfortable. He couldn't tell that this was "homesickness," and he tried to forget it in bitterness against those whom he was deserting. "They don't care, none of 'em! Not a single mite does anyone of them 'ristocratics care what becomes of--of poor Jack, the boot-boy! Come on, Baal! If we don't start our seekin' pretty quick--Why jiminy cricket I shall be snivellin'!" Saying this, the self-exiled lad gripped the goat's leading strap and set out at a furious pace down the long road toward the distant city. He had a dime novel in one pocket, an English sixpence in another--And what was this? "My soul! If there ain't the key to that old door they broke in to see what was racketing round so! I wonder if I ought to take it back? Baal, what say? That cubby of our'n wasn't so bad. You know, Baal, I wouldn't like to be a thief--not a reg'lar thief that'd steal a key. Course I wouldn't. Anyhow, I've left, I've quit. I'm seekin' my fortune--understand? Whew! The wind's risin'. I allow there's going to be a storm. I wish--Old Dawkins used to say: 'Better take two thoughts to a thing!' an' maybe, maybe, if I'd ha' waited a spell afore--I mean I wouldn't ha' started fortune-seekin' till to-morrow and the storm over. Anyhow, I've really started, though! And if things don't happen to my mind, I can show 'em what an honest boy I am by takin' back that key. Come on, Baal, do come on! What in creation makes you drag so on that strap and keep lookin' back? Come on, I say!" Then, both helping and hindering one another, the lad and his pet passed out of sight and for many a day were seen no more in that locality. Yet the strange events of that memorable day were not all over. At study hour, that evening, came another surprise--a visit to her mates of the invalid Gwendolyn. From some of them she received only a silent nod of welcome; but Laura, Marjorie, and Dorothy sprang to meet her with one accord, and Winifred followed Dorothy's example after a second's hesitation. "Oh, Gwen! How glad we are to have you back! Are you sure you're quite strong enough to come?" questioned Marjorie, while less judicious Laura exclaimed: "But you can't guess what you've missed! We've had the greatest scare ever was in this school! You'd ought to have come down sooner. What do you think it was that happened? Guess--quick--right away! Or I can't wait to tell! I'll tell anyhow! Dorothy was lost and everybody feared she had been killed! Yes, Gwen, lost all the long night through and had to sleep with the goat and--" Gwendolyn's face was pale from her confinement in the sick room but it grew paler now, and catching Dorothy's hand she cried out: "Oh! what if I had been too late!" Nobody understood her, not even Dorothy herself, who merely guessed that Gwen was referring to their interview of the night before; but she didn't know this proud girl fully, nor the peculiar nature of that pride which, once aroused, compelled her to do what she most shrank from. As Dorothy pushed a chair forward, Gwendolyn shook her head. "Thank you, but not yet. I've got something to say--that all of you must hear." Of course, everybody was astonished by this speech and every eye turned toward the young "Peer" who was about to prove herself of noble "rank" as never in all her life before. Dorothy began to suspect what might be coming and by a silent clasp of Gwendolyn's waist and a protesting shake of her head tried to prevent her saying more. But Gwendolyn as silently put aside the appealing arm and folding her own arms stood rigidly erect. It wouldn't have been the real Gwen if she hadn't assumed this rather dramatic pose, which she had mentally rehearsed many times that day. Also, she had chosen this quiet hour and place as the most effective for her purpose, and she had almost coerced Lady Jane into letting her come. "Schoolmates and friends, I want to confess to you the meanest things that ever were done at dear Oak Knowe. From the moment she came here I disliked Dorothy Calvert and was jealous of her. In less than a week she had won Miss Muriel's heart as well as that of almost everybody else. I thought I could drive her out of the school, if I made the rest of you hate her, too. I'd begun to teach the boot-boy to draw, having once seen him attempting it. I painted him a death's head for a copy, and gave him my pocket-money to buy a mask of the Evil One." "Oh! Gwendolyn how dared you? You horrid, wicked girl!" cried gentle Marjorie, moved from her gentleness for once. "Well, I'll say this much in justice to myself. That thing went further than I meant, which was only to have him put pictures of it around in different places. He'd told me about keeping a goat in the old drying-room, and of course he couldn't always keep it still. The kitchen folks put the pictures and the goat's noises together and declared the house was haunted. I told the maids that they might lay that all to the new scholar from the States, and a lot of them believed me." Even loyal Laura now shrank aside from her paragon, simply horrified. She had helped to spread the rumor that Dorothy was a niece of Dawkins, but she had done no worse than that. It had been left to Jack-boot-boy to finish the contemptible acts. He got phosphorus from the laboratory, paint from any convenient color box, and his first success as a terrifier had been in the case of Millikins-Pillikins, at whose bed he had appeared--with the results that have been told. He it had been who had frightened the maid into leaving, and had spread consternation in the kitchen. "And in all these things he did, I helped him. I planned some of them but he always went ahead and thought worse ones out. Yet nobody, except the simpletons below stairs, believed it was Dorothy who had 'bewitched' the house," concluded that part of Gwendolyn's confession. Yet still she stood there, firmly facing the contempt on the faces of her schoolmates, knowing that that was less hard to bear than her own self-reproach had been. And presently she went on: "Then came that affair at the Maiden's Bath. Dorothy Calvert, whom I still hated, saved my life--while she might have lost her own. What I have suffered since, knowing this and how bravely she had borne all my hatefulness and had sacrificed herself for me--You must guess that. I can't tell it. But last night I made myself beg her pardon in private as I now beg it before you all. May I yet have the chance to do to her as she has done to me! Dorothy Calvert--will you forgive me?" CHAPTER XI WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE After that memorable week of Hallowe'en, affairs at Oak Knowe settled into their ordinary smooth running. That week had brought to all the school a surfeit of excitement so that all were glad of quiet and peace. "The classes have never made such even, rapid progress before, in all the years I've been here;" said the Lady Principal to the good Bishop. "Things are almost ominously quiet and I almost dread to have Christmas time approach. All the young ladies get more interested then in gift-preparing and anticipations of vacations at home than in school routine. I hate to have that interrupted so soon again." The Bishop laughed. "My dear Miss Muriel, you take life too seriously. Upheavals are good for us. Our lives would grow stagnant without them." "Beg pardon, but I can't fancy affairs at Oak Knowe ever being stagnant! Nor do I see, as you seem to, any fine results from the happenings of Hallow week. One of the ill results is--I cannot find a competent boot-boy. That makes you smile again, but I assure you it is no trifle in a large establishment like this, with it the rule that every pupil must walk the muddy road each day. The maids will do the work, of course, but they grumble. I do wish the ground would freeze or some good boy offer his services." A rattling of the window panes and a sound of rising wind sent the Bishop to the window: "Well, Miss Tross-Kingdon, one of your wishes is already coming true. There's a blizzard coming--surely. Flakes are already falling and I'm glad the double sashes are in place on this north side the building, and that Michael has seen to having the toboggan slide put in order. I prophesy that within a few days all the young folks will be tobogganing at a glorious rate. That's one of the things I'm thankful for--having been born in Canada where I could slide with the best!" He turned about and the lady smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. He was a man who never felt old, despite his venerable white head, but as he moved again toward the fire and Dorothy entered the room a shadow crossed his face. He had sent for her because within his pocket lay a letter he knew she ought to have, yet greatly disliked to give her. All the mail matter coming to the Oak Knowe girls passed first through their instructors' hands, though it was a rare occasion when such was not promptly delivered. This letter the Bishop had read as usual, but it had not pleased him. It was signed by one James Barlow, evidently a very old friend of Dorothy's, and was written with a boyish assumption of authority that was most objectionable, the Bishop thought. It stated that Mr. Seth Winters was very ill and that Mrs. Calvert was breaking down from grief and anxiety concerning him; and that, in the writer's opinion, Dorothy's duty lay at home and not in getting an education away up there in Canada. "Anybody who really wishes to learn can do that anywhere," was the conclusion of this rather stilted epistle. Now when his favorite came in, happy and eager to greet him, he suddenly decided that he would keep that letter to himself for a time, until he had written to some other of the girl's friends and found out more about the matter. "Did you send for me, dear Bishop?" "Well, yes, little girl, I did. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I've changed my mind and decided to put it off for the present;" he answered with a kindly smile that was less bright than usual. So that the sensitive girl was alarmed and asked: "Is it something that I've done but ought not?" "Bless your bonny face, no, indeed. No, Miss Betty the second, I have no fault to find with you. Rather I am greatly delighted by all your reports. Just look out of window a minute--what do you see?" Dorothy still wondered why she had been summoned, but looked out as she had been bidden. "Why, it's snowing! My, how fast, and how all of a sudden! When we were out for exercise the sun was shining bright." "The sun is always shining, dear child, even though clouds of trouble often obscure it. Always remember that, little Dorothy, no matter what happens." Then he dropped what the schoolgirls called his "preachy manner" and asked: "How do you like tobogganing?" "Why--why, of course I don't know. I've never even seen a toboggan, except in pictures. They looked lovely." "Lovely? I should say, but the real thing far lovelier. Miss Tross-Kingdon, here, knows my opinion of tobogganing. The finest sport there is and one that you unfortunate southerners cannot enjoy in your native land. Up here we have everything delightful, ha, ha! But you'll have to be equipped for the fun right away. Will you see to it, Miss Muriel, that Dorothy has a toboggan rig provided? For Michael will have the slides ready, you may be sure. He was born a deal further north even than this and snow-and-ice is his native element. Why, the honest old fellow can show several prizes he won, in his younger days, for skating, ice-boating, tobogganing, and the like. I always feel safe when Michael is on hand at the slide to look after his 'young leddies.' "Now, I must go. I have a service in town, to-night, and if I don't hurry I'll be caught in this blizzard. You run along, 'Betty' and spread the news of the grand times coming." With a gentle pat of the little hand he held he thus dismissed her, and inspired by his talk of the--to her--novel sport, she ran happily away, forgetful already of anything more serious. "Oh! girls! the Bishop says we'll soon have tobogganing!" she cried, joining a group gathered about a great wood fire in the library. "Oh! goody! I was looking at my new suit this very morning. Mother's had such a pretty one made for me, a blanket suit of baby blue with everything to match--mittens and cap and all! I'm just wild to wear it!" answered Fanny Dimock, running to the window to peer out. "To-morrow's half-holiday. Let's all go help Michael to get the slides ready!" "Of course--if the storm will let us out! Oh glorious!" said Ernesta Smith flying to Fanny's side, and trying to see through the great flakes, fast packing against the pane and hiding the view without. But this only increased the gayety within. Electric lights flashed out, girl after girl ran to fetch her own coasting suit and to spread it before the eyes of her mates. "Oh! aren't they the sweetest things!" exclaimed the delighted Dorothy; "the very prettiest clothes I ever saw!" Indeed they did make a fine show of color, heaped here and there, their soft, thick texture assuring perfect protection from cold. Reds and greens, pinks and blues, and snowy white; some fresh from the makers' hands, some showing the hard wear of former winters; yet all made after the Oak Knowe pattern. A roomy pair of pantaloons, to draw over the ordinary clothing from the waist down, ended in stocking-shaped feet, fitted for warm wool overshoes. The tunic fell below the knees and ended above in a pointed hood, and mittens were made fast to the sleeves. "Lovely, but isn't it terribly clumsy?" asked Dorothy, more closely examining one costume. "Let's show her! Let's have an Indian dance! Hurry up, everybody, and dress!" In a jiffy every girl who owned a costume got into it and the place was transformed. For somebody flew to the piano and struck up a lively waltz, and away went the girls, catching one another for partner--no matter who--whirling and circling, twisting bodies about, arms overhead, as in a regular calisthenic figure--till Dorothy was amazed. For what looked so thick and clumsy was too soft and yielding to hinder grace. In the midst of the mirth, the portieres were lifted and Gwendolyn came in. It was unfortunate that just then the music ended with a crash and that the whirling circles paused. For it looked as if her coming had stopped the fun, though this was far from true. Ever since that day of her open confession her schoolmates had regarded her with greater respect than ever before. Most of them realized how hard that confession had been for so haughty a girl, and except for her own manner, many would have shown her marked affection. When she had ceased speaking on that day an awkward silence followed. If she had expected hand-claps or applause she failed to get either. The listeners were too surprised to know what to do, and there was just as much pride in the young "Peer's" bearing as of old. After a moment of waiting she had stalked away and all chance for applause was gone. But she had returned to her regular classes the next morning and mixed with the girls at recreation more familiarly than she had formerly done; yet still that stiffness remained. For half-minute, Gwendolyn hesitated just within the entrance, then forced herself to advance toward the fireplace and stand there warming herself. "It's getting very cold," she remarked by way of breaking the unpleasant silence. "Yes, isn't it!" returned Winifred; adding under her breath: "Inside this room, anyway." "We're warm enough, dressed up like this," said Marjorie, pleasantly. "Dorothy says that the Bishop thinks we'll have tobogganing in a day or two, if the snow holds. She's never seen a toboggan nor how we dress for the sport, and we brought in our togs to show her. She thinks they look too clumsy for words, so we've just been showing her that we can move as easily in them as without them. But--my! It's made us so warm!" Gwendolyn turned toward Dorothy with a smile intended to be cordial, and asked: "Is that so, indeed? Then I suppose you'll have to get a rig like ours if you want to try the slide." "Yes, I suppose so. The Bishop asked the Lady Principal to get me one, but I don't suppose she can right away. Nobody could go shopping in such weather, and I suppose they have to be bought in town." "The blankets are bought there, but usually the suits are made at home before we come; or else by the matron and some of the maids here. I--" A look of keener interest had come into her face, but she said nothing further and a moment later went out again. As the portieres fell together behind her, Winifred threw up her hands in comic despair. "Whatever is the matter with that girl? or with _me_--or _you_--or _you_!" pointing to one and another around her. "She wants to be friendly--and so do we! But there's something wrong and I don't know what." "I do," said a sweet-faced "Seventher," who had been quietly studying during all this noise. "Poor Gwendolyn is sorry but isn't one bit humble. She's absolutely just and has done what she believed right. But it hasn't helped her much. She's fully as proud as she ever was, and the only way we can help her is by loving her. We've _got_ to love her or she'll grow harder than ever." "You can't make love as you'd make a--a pin-cushion!" returned Florita Sheraton, holding up, to illustrate, a Christmas gift she was embroidering. Dorothy listened to this talk, her own heart upbraiding her for her failure to "love" Gwen. She liked her greatly and admired her courage more. "Win, let's you and me try and see if that is true, what Florita says. Maybe love can be 'made' after all;" she whispered to her friend. "Huh! That'll be a harder job than algebra! I shall fail in both." "I reckon I shall, too, but we can try--all the same. That won't hurt either one of us and I'm awfully sorry for her, she must be so lonesome." "'Pity is akin to love!' You've taken the first step in your climb toward Gwen's top-lofty heart!" quoted Winifred. "Climb away and I'll boost you as well as I can. I--" "Miss Dorothy Calvert, the Lady Principal would like to see you in her own parlor;" said a maid, appearing at the door. "What now? You seem to be greatly in demand, to-day, by the powers that be, I hope it isn't a lecture the Bishop passed on to her to deliver," said Florita as Dorothy rose to obey. But whatever fear Dolly felt of any such matter was banished by her first glance into her teacher's face. Miss Muriel had never looked kinder nor better pleased than then, as, holding up a pair of beautiful white blankets she said: "How will these do for the toboggan suit the Bishop wished me to get for you?" "Oh! Miss Muriel! Are those for me and so soon? Why, it's only an hour ago, or not much more, since he spoke of it, and how could anybody go to town and back in that little while, in such a storm?" "That wasn't necessary. These were in the house. Do you like them?" "Like them! They're the softest, thickest, prettiest things! I never saw any so fine, even at Aunt Betty's Bellevieu. Do you think I ought to have them? Wouldn't cheaper ones answer for messing around in the snow?" "The question of expense is all right, dear, and we're fortunate to have the material on hand. Mrs. Archibald will be here, directly, to take your measurements. Ah! here she is now." This was something delightfully different from any "lecture," and even Miss Muriel talked more and in higher spirits than usual; till Dorothy asked: "Do you love tobogganing, too, Miss Tross-Kingdon?" "No, my dear, I'm afraid of it. My heart is rather weak and the swift motion is bad for it. But I love to see others happy and some things have happened, to-day, which have greatly pleased me. But you must talk sliding with Mrs. Archibald. Dignified as she is, she'll show you what a true Canadian can do, give her a bit of ice and a hill." The matron laughed and nodded. "May the day be long before I tire of my nation's sport! I'm even worse than Michael, who's almost daft on the subject." Then she grew busy with her measurings and clippings, declaring: "It just makes me feel bad to put scissors into such splendid blankets as these. You'll be as proud as Punch, when I dress you out in the handsomest costume ever shot down Oak Knowe slide!" "Oh! I wish Aunt Betty could see it, too. She does so love nice things!" When Mrs. Archibald and her willing helpers had completed her task and Dolly was arrayed in her snow-suit she made, indeed, "the picture" which Dawkins called her. For the weather proved what the Bishop had foretold. The snow fell deep and heavy, "just right for packing," Michael said, on the great wooden slide whose further end rose to a dizzy height and from whose lower one a second timbered "hill" rose and descended. If the toboggan was in good working order, the momentum gained in the descent of the first would carry the toboggans up and over the second; and nothing could have been in finer condition than these on that next Saturday morning when the sport was to begin. The depression between the two slides was over a small lake, or pond, now solidly frozen and covered with snow; except in spots where the ice had been cut for filling the Oak Knowe ice-houses. Into one of these holes Michael and his force had plunged a long hose pipe, and a pump had been contrived to throw water upward over the slide. On the night before men had been stationed on the slide, at intervals, to distribute this water over the whole incline, the intense cold causing it to freeze the instant it fell; and so well they understood their business they had soon rendered it a perfectly smooth slide of ice from top to bottom. A little hand-railed stairway, for the ascent of the tobogganers, was built into the timbers of the toboggan, or incline, itself; and it was by this that they climbed back to the top after each descent, dragging their toboggans behind them. At the further side of the lake, close to its bank, great blazing fires were built, where the merry makers could warm themselves, or rest on the benches placed around. Large as some of the toboggans were they were also light and easily carried, some capable of holding a half-dozen girls--"packed close." Yet some sleds could seat but two, and these were the handsomest of all. They belonged to the girls who had grown proficient in the sport and able to take care of themselves; while some man of the household always acted as guide on the larger sleds and for the younger pupils. When Dorothy came out of the great building, that Saturday holiday, she thought the whole scene was truly fairyland. The evergreens were loaded to the ground with their burden of snow, the wide lawns were dazzlingly bright, and the sun shone brilliantly. "Who're you going to slide with, Dolly? On Michael's sled? I guess the Lady Principal will say so, because you're so new to it. Will you be afraid?" "Why should I be afraid? I used to slide down the mountain side when I lived at Skyrie. What makes you laugh, Winifred? This won't be very different, will it?" "Wait till you try it! It's perfectly glorious but it isn't just the same as sliding down a hill, where a body can stop and step off any time. You can't step off a toboggan, unless you want to get killed." Dorothy was frightened and surprised, and quickly asked: "How can anybody call that 'sport' which is as dangerous as that? What do you mean? I reckon I won't go. I'll just watch you." It was Winifred's turn to stare, but she was also disappointed. "Oh! you little 'Fraid-Cat,' I thought you were never afraid of anything. That's why I liked you. One why--and there are other whys--but don't you back out in this. Don't you dare. When you've got that be-a-u-tiful rig and a be-a-u-tiful toboggan to match. I'd hate to blush for you, Queen Baltimore!" "I have no toboggan, Winnie, dear. You know that. I was wondering who'd take me on theirs--if--if I try it at all." Winifred rushed to the other side of the porch and came flying back, carrying over her head a toboggan, so light and finely polished that it shone; also a lovely cushion of pink and white dragged from one hand. This fitted the flat bottom of the sled and was held in place, when used, by silver catches. The whole toboggan was of this one polished board, curving upward in front according to the most approved form, pink tassels floating from its corners that pink silk cords held in their place. Across this curving front was stenciled in pink: "Dorothy Calvert." "There, girlie, what do you say to that? Isn't it marked plainly enough? Didn't you know about it before? Why all we girls have been just wild with envy of you, ever since we saw it among the others." Dorothy almost caught her breath. It certainly was a beauty, that toboggan! But how came she to have it? "What do you mean, Winifred Christie? Do you suppose the Bishop has had it made, or bought it, for me? Looks as if it had cost a lot. And Aunt Betty has lost so much money she can't afford to pay for extra things--not very high ones--" "Quit borrowing trouble, Queenie! Who cares where it came from or how much it cost? Here it is with your own name on it and if you're too big a goose to use it, I shall just borrow it myself. So there you are. There isn't a girl here but wouldn't be glad to have first ride on it. Am I invited?" and Winifred poked a saucy face under her friend's hood. "Am I?" asked Florita Sheraton, coaxingly throwing her arms around Dolly. "Oh! get away, Flo! You're too big! You'd split the thing in two!" said Ernesta, pulling away her chum's arms. "Just look at me, Dolly Doodles! Just see how nice and thin I am! Why I'm a feather's weight to Flo, and I'm one of the best tobogganers at Oak Knowe. Sure. Ask Mrs. Archibald herself, for here she comes all ready for her share of the fun!" "Yes, yes, lassie, you're a fair one at the sport now and give some promise o' winning the cup yet!" answered the matron, joining the girls and looking as fit and full of life as any of them. "Hear! Hear! Hurrah for 'Nesta! Three cheers for the champion cup winner!" "And three times three for the girl Dolly chooses to share her first slide on the new toboggan!" cried somebody, while a dozen laughing faces were thrust forward and as many hands tapped on the breasts of the pleaders, signifying: "Choose me!" The Bishop was already on hand, looking almost a giant in his mufflers, and as full of glee as the youngest there. The lady Principal, in her furs, had also joined the group, for though she did not try the slides, she loved to watch the enjoyment of the others, from a warm seat beside the bonfire. While Dorothy hesitated in her choice, looking from one to another of the merry, pleading faces about her, Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard stood a little apart, watching with keen interest the little scene before her, while the elder members of the group also exchanged some interested glances. "Count us! Count us! That's fair! Begin: 'Intry, mintry, outry, corn; wire, brier, apple, thorn. Roly, poly, dimble-dee;--O--U--T spells Out goes SHE!'" Over and over, they laughingly repeated the nonsense-jingle, each girl whom the final "she" designated stepping meekly back with pretended chagrin, while the "counting out" went on without her. The game promised to be so long that the matron begged: "Do settle it soon, young ladies! We're wasting precious time." Dorothy laughed and still undecided, happened to glance toward Gwendolyn, who had made no appeal for preference, and called out: "Gwen, dear, will you give me my first lesson? I choose Gwendolyn!" It was good to see the flush of happiness steal into Gwen's face and to see the smile she flashed toward Dorothy. Stepping forward she said: "Thank you, dear. I do appreciate this in you, and you needn't be afraid. The Lady Principal knows I can manage a toboggan fairly well, and this of yours seems to be an exact copy of my own that I've used so long." Other cheers followed this and in a moment the whole party had spread over the white grounds leading to the great slide, the good Bishop following more slowly with the other "grown-ups," and softly clapping his mittened hands. "Good! Fine! I like that. Dorothy has ignorantly done the one right thing. If she could only guess the secret which lies under all how thankful she would be that she made this choice and no other." CHAPTER XII JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT Old Michael stood on the wide platform at the top of the slide, his face aglow with eagerness, and his whole manner altered to boyish gayety. His great toboggan was perched on the angle of the incline, like a bird poised for flight, while he was bidding his company to: "Get on, ladies! Get on and let's be off!" Behind and around him were the other men employees of Oak Knowe, and every one of them, except the _chef_, enthusiastic over the coming sport. But he, unhappy mortal, preferred the warmth of his kitchen fire to this shivery pastime and had only entered into it to escape the gibing tongues of the other servants. Yet in point of costume he could "hold his head up with the best"; and the fact that he could, in this respect even outshine his comrades was some compensation for his cold-pinched toes. The platform was crowded with toboggans and girls; the air rang with jest and laughter; with girlish squeals of pretended fear; and cries of: "Don't crowd!" or: "Sit close, sit close!" "Sit close" they did; the blanketed legs of each tobogganer pressed forward on either side of the girl in front, and all hands clasping the small rod that ran along the sides of the toboggan. The slide had been built wide enough for two of the sleds abreast, and one side was usually left to the smaller ones of the experienced girls, who could be trusted to safely manage their own light craft. To Michael and the matron was always accorded the honor of first slide on the right while the "best singles" coasted alongside on the left. That morning, by tacit consent, the new "Dorothy Calvert" was poised beside the big "Oak Knowe" and the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was a proud and happy girl, indeed, as she took her place upon it as guide and protector of ignorant Dorothy. "She chose me of her own accord! I do believe she begins to really love me. Oh! it's so nice to be just free and happy with her as the others are!" thought Gwen, as she took her own place and directed her mate just how to sit and act. Adding a final: "Don't you be one bit afraid. I never had an accident sliding and I've always done it every winter since I can remember. We're off! Bow your head a little and--keep--your--mouth--shut!" There wasn't time! Dorothy felt a little quiver run through the thing on which she sat and a wild rush through icy air! That was all! They had reached the bottom of the first slide and began to fly upward over the other before she realized a thing. Gwen hadn't even finished her directions before they had "arrived!" The Southerner was too amazed, for a second, to even step off the toboggan, but Gwendolyn caught her up, gave her a hearty kiss and hug, and demanded: "Well! Here we are! How do you like it! We've beat! We've beat!" Dorothy rubbed her eyes. So they had, for at that instant the big Oak Knowe fetched up beside them, and its occupants stepped or tumbled off, throwing up their hands and cheering: "Three cheers for the Dorothy Calvert! Queen of the Slide for all This Year!" And liveliest among the cheerers was the once so dignified young "Peer," the Honorable Gwen. Dorothy looking into her beaming face and hearing her happy voice could scarce believe this to be the same girl she had hitherto known. But she had scant time to think for here they came, thick and fast, toboggan after toboggan, Seventh Form girls and Minims, teachers and pupils, the Bishop and the _chef_, maids and men-servants, the matron and old Michael--all in high spirits, all apparently talking at once and so many demanding of "Miss Dixie" how she liked it, that she could answer nobody. Then the Bishop pushed back her tasseled hood and smiled into her shining eyes: "Well little 'Betty the Second,' can you beat that down at old Baltimore? What do you think now? Isn't it fine--fine? Doesn't it make you feel you're a bird of the air? Ah! it's grand--grand. Just tell me you like it and I'll let you go." "I--Yes--I reckon I do! I hadn't time to think. We hadn't started, and we were here." "Up we go. Try her again!" cried one, and the climb back to the top promptly began, the men carrying the heavier sleds, the girls their lighter ones, Gwendolyn and Dorothy their own between them. Then the fun all over again; the jests at awkward starts, the cheers at skillful ones, the laughter and good will, till all felt the exhilaration of the moment and every care was forgotten. Many a slide was taken and now Dorothy could answer when asked did she like it: "It's just grand, as the Bishop said. At first I could hardly breathe and I was dizzy. Now I do as Gwen tells me and I love it! I should like to stay out here all day!" "Wait till dinner-time! Then you'll be ready enough to go in. Tobogganing is the hungriest work--or play--there can possibly be!" said Gwendolyn, pirouetting about on the ice as gracefully as on a waxed floor, the merriest, happiest girl in all that throng. Not only Dorothy but many another observed her with surprise. This was a new Gwen, not the stand-offish sort of creature who had once so haughtily scorned all their fun. She had always tobogganed, every year that she had been in that school, but she had never enjoyed it like this; and again as the Bishop regarded her, he nodded his head in satisfaction and said to the matron: "I told you so. I knew it. Do a kindness to somebody and it will return to yourself in happiness a thousand fold." "Thanks, dear Bishop! I'll try to remember," merrily answered she; noticing that Gwendolyn had drawn near enough to hear, and taking this little preachment to herself to prevent Gwendolyn's doing so. She was so pleased by sight of the girl's present happiness that she wished nothing to cloud it, and believing herself discussed would certainly offend proud, sensitive Gwen. Almost two hours had passed, and a few were beginning to tire of the really arduous sport, with its upward climb, so out of proportion to the swift descent; when suddenly fresh shouts of laughter rang out from the high platform and those ascending made haste to join the others at the top. There stood old John Gilpin and Robin, the latter's young bones now sound and strong again, and himself much the better for his sojourn at the cottage with his enforced rest and abundance of good food. "Well, well! How be ye all? Hearty, you look, and reg'lar circus pictures in them warm duds! Good day to your Reverence, Bishop, and I hope I see you in good health. My humble respects, your Reverence, and I thought as how I'd just step up and ask your Reverence might my lad here and me have a try on your slide. I thought--why, sir, the talk on't has spread way into town a'ready, sir, and there'll be more beggars nor me seekin' use on't, your Reverence--" The prelate's hearty laughter rang out on the frosty air, a sound delightful to hear, so full it was of genial humanity, and he grasped the hand of the old teamster as warmly as he would that of a far wealthier man. "Man to man, John, we're all in the same boat to-day. Drop the formality and welcome to the sport. But what sort of sled is this, man? Looks rather rough, doesn't it? Sure you could manage it on this steep incline?" John bridled and Robin looked disappointed. Expectations of the toboggan-slide's being made ready had filled his head, and he and the old man had toiled for hours to make the sled at which the Bishop looked so doubtfully. "Well, your Reverence--I mean--you without the Reverence--" here the Bishop smiled and Robin giggled, thereby causing his host to turn about with a frown. "You see, sir, Robin's always been hearin' about your toboggan up here to Oak Knowe and's been just plumb crazy--" At this point the shy lad pulled John's coat, silently begging him to leave him out of the talk; but the farmer had been annoyed by Robin's ill-timed giggle, and testily inquired: "Well, sir, ain't that so? Didn't you pester the life clean out o' me till I said I'd try? Hey?" "Y-yes," meekly assented the boy; then catching a glimpse of Dorothy and Winifred and their beckoning nods he slipped away to them. To him Dorothy proudly exhibited her beautiful toboggan, explaining its fine construction with a glibness that fitted an "old tobogganer" better than this beginner at the sport. Gwen's face beamed again, listening to her, as if she felt a more personal pride in the sled than even Dorothy herself. She even unbent so far from her pride of rank as to suggest: "If you'll let me borrow it and he'd like to go, I'll take Robin down once, to show him how smoothly it runs." Robin's eyes sparkled. He wasn't shy with girls, but only when he felt himself made too conspicuous by his host's talk. "Would you? Could she? May she?" he cried, teetering about on his ragged shoes in an ecstasy of delight. Dolly laughed and clapped her hands. "Verily, she should, would, can, and may! laddie boy. But where's your jacket? I mean your other one? It's so cold, you'll freeze in that thin one." By the color which came to the lad's cheek Dolly realized that she had asked a "leading question," but Robin's dismay lasted only an instant; then he laughed merrily at the "good joke," and answered: "Well, you see, Miss Dorothy, my 'other one' is at some tailor's shop in town. I haven't had a chance yet to choose one, let alone pay for it! But what matter? 'Tisn't winter all the year and who wears top-coats in summer? Did she really mean it?" Gwendolyn proved that she "really meant it" by pushing the "Dorothy Calvert" into position and nodding to him that she was ready. "All right! Let her go!" he responded to her silent invitation and away they went, as ill-matched a pair as might have been found. But he had a boy's fearlessness and love of adventure; and even on that swift descent his gay whistling floated back to those above. Meanwhile, John Gilpin was explaining with considerable pride, yet thankful that the Bishop was out of hearing on his own downward-speeding toboggan: "You see, lassie, how't Robin was dead set to come. Said he knew so good a man as his Reverence wouldn't say 'No' to us, and just kept teasin' at me till we stepped-an'-fetched a lot of staves come off a hogshead. So I fastened 'em together on the insides--See? And we've shaved an' shaved, an' glass-scraped 'em on t'other till they'll never hurt no slide 't ever was iced. The Bishop seemed terr'ble afraid I'd rough up his track with it, but it's a poor track that water won't freeze smooth again; so if we do happen to scratch it a mite, I'll step-an'-fetch a few buckets o' water and fix it up again. And say, girlie, where's that Jack, boot-boy? And Baal? I ain't seen hide nor hair of ary one this long spell, an' I allow I kind of sorter miss 'em. He used to give the dame the fidgets with his yarns of what he's goin to be an' do, time comes, but me an' him got on fairly well--fairly. As for that goat, he was the amusingest little creatur' 't ever jumped a fence, even if we did fight most of the time. Hah, hum! I've noticed more'n once that the folks or things you quarrel with are the ones you miss most, once they're gone." "We haven't seen Jack since that time he locked me in the drying-room. He ran away, I reckon, and took Baal with him. And it's just like you say: nobody liked him much, and he was always in disgrace with somebody, but I heard the Lady Principal say, only yesterday, that she actually believed she missed that worthless boot-boy more than any other servant who might have left." "Well, now, Dorothy, don't that beat all? That book-l'arned lady just agreein' with me! I often tell Dame 't I know more'n she thinks I do, but all she'll answer to that is: 'John, that'll do.' A rare silent woman is my Dame but a powerful thinker. Hello! Here they come back again. Robin! Robin! Look-a-here! You didn't bamboozle me into makin' our sled and climbin' this height just to leave me go for a passel o' silly girls! No, siree! You come and slide with me right to once. I set out to go a-tobogganin' an' I'm goin'. So none of your backslidin' now!" "All right, Mr. Gilpin, here am I! And I do hope it won't be any true _back_ sliding we shall do on this thing. You'd ought to have put a little handrail on the sides like I told you there always was; but--" "But that'll do, Robin. In my young days knee-high boys didn't know more'n their elders. That'll do!" The old farmer's imitation of his wife's manner seemed very funny to all the young folks, but his anxiety was evident, as he glanced from his own hand-made "toboggan" to the professional ones of the others. Upon his was not even the slight rod to hold on by and the least jar might send him off upon the ice. Peering down, it seemed to him that glazed descent was a straight road to a pit of perdition and his old heart sank within him. But--He had set out to go tobogganing and go he would, if he perished doing it. Dame had besought him with real tears not to risk his old bones in such a foolhardy sport, and he had loftily assured her that "what his Reverence can do I can do. Me and him was born in the same year, I've heard my mother tell, and it's a pity if I can't ekal him!" Moreover, there were all these youngsters makin' eyes at him, plumb ready to laugh, and thinkin' he'd back out. Back out? He? John Gilpin? Never! "Come on, Robin! Let's start!" Gwendolyn and Dorothy were also ready to "start" upon what they intended should be their last descent of that morning. Alas! it proved to be! Five seconds later such a scream of terror rent the air that the hearts of all who heard it chilled in horror. CHAPTER XIII A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN What had happened! Those who were sliding down that icy incline could not stop to see, and those who were on the ground below covered their eyes that they might not. Yet opened them again to stare helplessly at the dangling figure of a girl outside that terrible slide. For in a moment, when the clutching fingers must unclose, the poor child must drop to destruction. That was inevitable. Then they saw it was Dorothy, who hung thus, suspended between life and death. Dorothy in her white and pink, the daintiest darling of them all, who had so enjoyed her first--and last!--day at this sport. Fresh shudders ran through the onlookers as they realized this and the Lady Principal sank down in a faint. Then another groan escaped them--the merest possibility of hope. Behold! The girl did not fall! Another's small hand reached over the low side of the toboggan and clutched the blanket-covered shoulder of the imperiled child. Another hand! the other shoulder, and hope grew stronger. Someone had caught the falling Dorothy--she and her would-be-rescuer were now moving--moving--slowly downward along the very edge--one swaying perilously with the motion, the other wholly unseen save for those outstretched hands, with their death-fast grip upon the snowy wool. Down--down! And faster now! Till the hands of the tallest watchers could reach and clasp the feet, then the whole precious little body of "Miss Dixie," their favorite from the Southland. But even then, as strong arms drew her into their safe shelter, the small hands which had supported her to safety clung still so tight that only the Bishop's could loose their clasp. "Gwendolyn! You brave, sweet girl! Let go--let go. It's all right now--Dorothy did not fall--You saved her life. Look up, my daughter. Don't faint now when all is over. Look up, you noble child, and hear me tell you: Dorothy is safe and it is you who saved her life. At the risk of your own you saved her life." Clasped close in his fatherly arms, Gwendolyn shuddered but obeyed and looked up into the Bishop's face. "Say that again. Please. Say that again--very slow--if it's the--the truth." [Illustration: "SOMEONE HAD CAUGHT THE FALLING GIRL." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "Gwendolyn, I tell you now, in the presence of God and these witnesses, it has been your precious privilege to save a human life, by your swift thought and determined action you have saved the life of Dorothy Calvert, and God bless you for it." "Then we are quits!" For another moment after she had said those words she still rested quietly where she was, then slowly rose and looked about her. Dorothy had been in the greater peril of the two, yet more unconscious of it. She had not seen how high above the ground she hung, nor how directly beneath was the lake with the thinly frozen spots whence the thicker ice had been cut for the ice-houses; nor how there were heaped up rocks bordering the water, left as nature had designed to beautify the scene. She was the quickest to recover her great fright and she was wholly unhurt. Her really greater wonder was that poor Miss Muriel should happen to faint away just then. "I'm glad she did, though, if it won't make her ill, 'cause then she didn't see me dangling, like I must have, and get scared for that. Likely she stayed out doors too long. She isn't very strong and it's mighty cold, I think." So they hurried her indoors, Gwendolyn with her, yet neither of them allowed to discuss the affair until they were both warmly dressed in ordinary clothes and set down to a cute little lunch table, "all for your two selves," Nora explained: "And to eat all these warm things and drink hot coffee--as much of it as you like. It was Miss Muriel herself who said that!" This was a treat indeed. Coffee at any meal was kept for a special treat, but to have unlimited portions of it was what Dolly called "a step beyond." Curious glances, but smiling and tender, came often their way, from other tables in the room, yet the sport, and happily ended hazard of the morning had given to every girl a fine appetite, so that, for once, knives and forks were more busily employed than tongues. Neither did the two heroines of the recent tragic episode feel much like speech. Now that it was all over and they could think about it more clearly their hearts were filled with the solemnity of what had happened; and Gwendolyn said all that was needed for both, when once laying her hand on Dorothy's she whispered: "You saved my life--the Bishop says that I saved yours. After that we're even and we must love each other all our lives." "Oh! we must, we must! And I do, I shall!" returned Dorothy, with tears rising. Then this festive little lunch dispatched, they were captured by their schoolmates and led triumphantly into the cheerful library, the scene of all their confabs, and Winifred demanded: "Now, in the name of all the Oak Knowe girls, I demand a detailed history of what happened. Begin at the beginning and don't either of you dare to skip a single moment of the time from where you started down the old toboggan alongside of John Gilpin and that boy. I fancy if the tale were properly told his ride would outdo that of his namesake of old times. Dorothy Calvert, begin." "Why, dear, I don't know what to say, except that, as you say, we started. My lovely toboggan went beautifully, as it had all the time, but theirs didn't act right. I believe that the old man was scared so that he couldn't do a thing except meddle with Robin, who doesn't know much more about sliding than I do, or did. He--" "I saw he was getting on the wrong side, right behind you two, as we shot past on ours," interrupted Serena Huntington, "and we both called out: 'steer! steer right!' but I suppose they didn't hear or understand. We were so far down then that I don't know." "Gwen, dear, you tell the rest," begged Dorothy, cuddling up to the girl she now so dearly loved. It wasn't often that Gwendolyn was called to the front like this, but she found it very pleasant; so readily took up the tale where Dorothy left it, "at the very beginning" as "Dixie" laughingly declared. "It seems as if there was nothing to tell--it was all so quick--it just happened! Half way down, it must have been, the farmer's sled hit ours. That scared me, too, and I called, just as Serena had, and as everybody on the slide was doing as they passed: 'Steer right!' I guess that only confused the poor old man, for he kept bobbing into us and that hindered our getting away from him ourselves. "Next I knew, Dolly was off the sled and over the edge of the slide, clinging to it for her life. I knew she couldn't hold on long and so I rolled off and grabbed her. Then we began to slide and I knew somebody was trying to help by pushing us downward toward the bottom. I don't know who that was. I don't know anything clearly. It was all like a flash--I guessed we would be killed--I shut my eyes and--that's all." To break the too suggestive silence which followed with its hint of a different, sorrowful ending, Florita Sheraton exclaimed: "I know who did that pushing! It was our little Robin Adair, or whatever his name is. Fact. That home-made toboggan of his came to grief. The old man has told me. He's out in the kitchen now warming up his bruises. You see, there wasn't anything to hang on by, on the sides. He had scorned Robin's advice to nail something on and he nearly ground his fingers off holding on by the flat bottom. It went so swift--his fingers ached so--he yanked them out from under--Robin screeched--they ran into you--they both tumbled off--Robin lodged against you but John Gilpin rode to the bottom--thus wise!" Florita illustrated by rolling one hand over and under the other; and thus, in fact, had John Gilpin taken his first toboggan slide. Laughter showed that the tension of excitement which had held these schoolgirls all that day had yielded to ordinary feelings, and now most of them went away for study or practicing, leaving Dorothy and Gwendolyn alone. After a moment, they also left the library, bound kitchenwards, to visit old John and see if Robin were still thereabouts. "I wish there were something I could do for that boy," said Gwen. "I feel so grateful to him for helping us and he looked so poor. Do you suppose, Dolly, if Mamma offered him money for that new coat he jested about, that he would be offended." "Of course, Gwen, I don't know about _him_. You never can tell about other folks, but Uncle Seth thinks it's a mighty safe rule 'to put yourself in his place'; and if I were in Robin's I'd be 'mad as a hatter' to have money offered me for doing a little thing like that. Wouldn't you?" "Why, yes, Dorothy, of course I would. The idea! But I'm rich, or my people are, which is the same thing. But he's poor. His feelings may not, cannot, be the same as our sort have." "Why can't they? I don't like to have you think that way. You ought not. Gwen you must not. For that will make us break friendship square off. I'm not poor Dawkins's niece, though I might be much worse off than that, but once I was 'poor' like Robin. I was a deserted baby, adopted by a poor letter carrier. Now, what do you think of that? Can't I have nice feelings same as you? And am I a bit better--in myself--because in reality I belonged to a rich old family, than I was when I washed dishes in Mother Martha's kitchen? Tell me that, before we go one step further." Dorothy had stopped short in the hall and faced about, anxiously studying the face of this "Peer," who had now become so dear to her. Gwendolyn's face was a puzzle; as, for a time, the old opinions and the new struggled within her. But the struggle was brief. Her pride, her justice, and now her love, won the victory. "No, you darling, brave little thing, you are not. Whatever you are you were born such, and I love you, I love you. If I'd only been born in the States I'd have had no silly notions." "Don't you believe that, Gwen. Aunt Betty says that human nature is the same all the world over. You'd have been just as much of a snob if you'd been 'raised in ol' Ferginny' as you are here. Oh! my! I didn't mean that. I meant--You must understand what I mean!" A flush of mortification at her too plain speaking made Dorothy hide her face, but her hands were swiftly pulled down and a kiss left in their place. "Don't you fret, Queenie! It's taken lots of Mamma's plain speaking to keep me half-way decent to others less rich than I, and I'm afraid it'll take lots of yours, too, to put the finishing touches to that lesson. Come on. We love each other now, and love puts everything right. Come on. Let's find that Robin and see what we can do for him without hurting his feelings." "Oh! yes, come, let's hurry! But first to the Lady Principal. Maybe we can help them both. Won't that be fine?" But they were not to help Robin just then. A groan from the servants' parlor, a pleasant room opening from the kitchen, arrested their attention and made them pause to listen. Punctuated by other sounds, a querulous voice was complaining: "Seems if there warn't a hull spot left on my old body that ain't bruised sore as a bile. Why, sir, when I fell off that blamed sled we'd tinkered up"--groan--"I didn't know anything. Just slid--an' slid--an' rolled over and over, never realizin' which side of me was topmost till I fetched up--kerwhack! to the very bottom. Seemed as if I'd fell out o' the sky into the bottomless pit. Oh! dear!" Dawkins's voice it was that answered him, both pitying and teasing him in the same breath: "I'm sure it's sorry I am, Mr. Gilpin, for what's befell; but for a man that's lived in a tobogganing country ever since he was born, you begun rather late in life to learn the sport. Why--" "Ain't no older'n the Bishop! Can't one man do same's t'other, I'd like to know, Mis' Dawkins?" "Seems not;" laughed the maid. "But, here, take this cup of hot spearmint tea. 'Twill warm your old bones and help 'em to mend; an' next time you start playin' children's game--why don't! And for goodness' sake, John, quit groanin'! Takin' on like that don't help any and I tell you fair and square I've had about all the strain put on my nerves, to-day, 't I can bear. What was your bit of a roll down that smooth ice compared to what our girls went through?" "Has you got any nuts in your pockets? Has you?" broke in Millikins-Pillikins, who had been a patient listener to the confab between the farmer and the nurse till she could wait no longer. Never had the old man come to Oak Knowe without some dainty for the little girl and she expected such now. "No, sissy, I haven't. I dunno as I've got a pocket left. I dunno nothing, except--except--What'll SHE say when I go home all lamed up like this! Oh! hum! Seems if I was possessed to ha' done it, and so she thought. But 'twas Robin's fault. If Robin hadn't beset me so I'd never thought of it. Leastwise, not to go the length I did. If I'd--But there! What's the use? But one thing's sure. I'll get shut of that boy, see if I don't. He's well now an' why should I go to harboring _reptiles_ in my buzzum? Tell me that if ye can! _Reptiles._ That's what he was, a-teasin' an' misleadin' a poor old man into destruction. Huh! I'll make it warm for him--trust John Gilpin for that!" Dawkins had long since departed, unable to bear the old man's lamentations, and leaving the cup, or pot, of hot tea on the table beside him. But little Grace couldn't tear herself away. She lingered, first hoping for the nuts she craved, and later in wonder about the "_reptile_" he said was in his bosom. There were big books full of pictures in the library, that Auntie Prin sometimes let her see. She loved to have them opened on the rug and lie down beside them to study them. She knew what "reptiles" were. That was the very one of all the Natural History books with the blue bindings that she liked best, it was so delightfully crawly and sent such funny little thrills all through her. If a picture could do that what might not the real thing do! "Show it to me, please, Mr. Gilpin. I never saw a reptile in all my whole life long! Never!" The farmer had paid scant attention to her chatter; indeed, he scarcely heard it, his mind being wholly engrossed now with what his dame would say to him, on his return home; and in his absent-mindedness he reached out for the drink good Dawkins had left him and put the pot to his lips taking a great draught. An instant later the pot flew out of his hand and he sprang to his feet, clutching frantically at his bosom and yelling as if he were stung. For the contents of the pot were boiling hot and he had scalded his throat most painfully. But wide-eyed little Grace did not understand his wild action, as, still clutching his shirt front, he hurled the pot far from him. Of course, the "reptile" was biting! That must be why he screeched so, and now all her desire for a personal acquaintance with such a creature vanished. She must get as far away from it as possible before it appeared on the surface of his smock and, darting doorward, was just in time to receive the pot and what was left in it upon her curly head. Down she dropped as if she had been shot, and Dorothy entering was just in time to see her fall. The scene apparently explained itself. The angry face of the old man, his arm still rigid, in the gesture of hurling, the fallen child and the broken pot--who could guess that it was horror at his uncalculated deed which kept him in that pose? Not Dorothy, who caught up little Grace and turned a furious face upon poor John, crying out in fierce contempt: "Oh! you horrible old man! First you tried to kill me and now you have killed her!" CHAPTER XIV EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER Dorothy ran straight to the Lady Principal's room, too horrified by what she imagined was the case to pause on the way and too excited to feel the heavy burden she carried. Nobody met her to stop her or inquire what had happened. Gwendolyn had been called to join her mother and had seen nothing of the incident, and Dorothy burst into the pretty parlor--only to find it empty. Laying Millikins down on the couch she started to find help, but was promptly called back by the child herself. "Where you going, Dolly Doodles? What you carry me for, running so?" "Why--why--darling--can you _speak_? Are you _alive_? Oh! you dear--you dear! I thought you were killed!" cried the relieved girl kneeling beside the couch and hugging the astonished little one. "Why for can't I speak, Dorothy? Why for can't I be alive? The 'reptile' didn't bite me, it bited _him_. That's why he hollered so and flung things. See, Dolly, I'm all wet with smelly stuff like 'meddy' some kind, that Dawkins made him. And what you think? Soon's he started drinking it the 'reptile' must not have liked it and must have bited him to make him stop--'Ou-u-c-ch!' Just like that he said it, an' course I runned, an' the tea-pot flew, an' I fell down, and you come, grabbed me and said things, and--and--But the reptile didn't get Gracie, did it? No it didn't, 'cause I runned like anything, and 'cause you come, and--Say, Dolly! I guess I'd rather see 'em in the book. I guess I don't want to get acquainted with no live ones like I thought I did. No, sir!" "What in the world do you mean, Baby? Whatever are you talking about? Oh! you mischief, you gave poor Dolly such a fright when you fell down like that!" "Why, Dolly Doodles, how funny! I fall down lots of times. Some days I fall down two-ten-five times, and sometimes I'd cry, but Auntie Prin don't like that. She'll say right off: 'There, Millikins, I wouldn't bother to do that. You haven't hurt the floor any.' So course I stop. 'Cause if I had hurted the floor she'd let me cry a lot. She said so, once. Mr. Gilpin didn't have a single nut in his pockets. He said so. And he talked awful funny! Not as if to me at all, so must ha' been to the 'reptile' in his 'buzzum.' Do 'reptiles' buzz, Dolly, same as sting-bees do? And wouldn't you rather carry nuts in your pockets for such nice little girls as me, than crawly things inside your smock to bite you? I think a smock's the funniest kind of clothes, and Mr. Gilpin's the funniest kind of man inside 'em. Don't you?" "If either one can match you for funniness, you midget, I'll lose my guess. Seems if this had been the 'funniest' kind of day ever was. But I'll give you up till you get ready to explain your 'reptile' talk. Changing the subject, did you get a slide to-day?" "Yes, lots of them. What do think? I didn't have anybody give me a nice new toboggan with my name on it, like you had; so the Bishop he told Auntie Prin that he'd look out for me this year same's he did last year. I hadn't grown so much bigger, he thought. Course he's terrible big and I'm terrible little, so all he does is tuck me inside his great toboggan coat. Buttons it right around me--this way--so I never could slip out, could I? And I don't have to hold on at all he holds on for me and Auntie's not afraid, that way. Don't you think it was terrible nice for Gwendolyn to give you your things?" "What things, dear? Gwen has given me nothing that I know of. Is this another mystery of yours?" "It isn't not no mystery, I don't know what them are, except when girls like you get lost right in their own houses and don't get found again right soon. But I know 'secrets.' Secrets are what the one you have 'em about don't get told. That was a secret about your things, Gwen said. You didn't get told, did you?" "I have a suspicion that I'm being told now," answered Dorothy, soberly. "Suppose you finish the telling, dear, while we are airing the subject. What are the things you're talking about?" "Why, aren't you stupid, Dolly? About the be-a-u-tiful blankets were made into your suit. Auntie said they were the handsomest ever was. Lady Jane had bought 'em to have new things made for Gwen, 'cause Lady Jane's going far away across the ocean and she wanted to provide every single thing Gwen might want. In case anything happened to Gwen's old one. "So Gwen said, no, she didn't need 'em and you did. She guessed your folks hadn't much money, she'd overheard the Bishop say so. That's the way she knows everything is 'cause she always 'overhears.' I told Auntie Prin that I thought that was terrible nice, and I'd like to learn overhearing; and she sauced me back the funniest! My! she did! Said if she ever caught me overhearing I'd be put to bed with nothing but bread and water to eat, until I forgot the art. Just like that she said it! Seems if overhearing is badness. She does so want Gwendolyn to be really noble. Auntie Prin thinks it noble for Gwen to give up her blankets and to have that be-a-u-tiful toboggan bought for you with your name on it. You aren't real poor, are you, Dolly? Not like the beggar folks come 'tramping' by and has 'victuals' given to them? Bishop says all little girls must be good to the poor. That's when he wants me to put my pennies in my Mite Box for the little heathen. I don't so much care about the heathen and Hugh--" But Dorothy suddenly put the child down, knowing that once started upon the theme of "Brother Hugh" the little sister's talk was endless. And she was deeply troubled. She had altogether forgotten John Gilpin and the accusation she had hurled at him. Nothing now remained in her mind but thoughts of Gwendolyn's rich gifts and indignation against her. Why had she done it? As a sort of payment for Dorothy's assistance at the Maiden's Bath? Meeting Miss Muriel in the hall she cried: "Oh! my dear lady, I am in such trouble! May I talk to you a moment?" "Certainly, Dorothy. Come this way. Surely there can be nothing further have happened to you, to-day." Safe in the shelter and privacy of a small classroom, Dorothy told her story into wise and loving ears; and to be comforted at once. "You are all wrong, Dorothy. I am sure that there was no such thought as payment for any deed of yours in poor Gwendolyn's mind. You have been invariably kind to her in every way possible; and until this chance came she had found none in which to show you that she realized this and loved you for it. Why, my dear, if you could have seen her happiness when I told her it was a beautiful thing for her to do, you would certainly have understood her and been glad to give her the chance she was glad to take. It is often harder to accept favors than to bestow them. It takes more grace. Now, dear, let's call that 'ghost laid,' as Dawkins says. Hunt up Gwen, tell her how grateful you are to her for her rich, unselfish gifts, and--do it with a real Dorothy face; not with any hint of offended pride--which is not natural to it! And go at once, then drop the subject and forget it. We were all so thankful that you chose her this morning without knowing." Back came the smiles as Miss Muriel hoped to see them, and away sped Dorothy to put the good advice in practice; and five minutes later Gwendolyn was the happiest girl at Oak Knowe, because her gifts had been ascribed to real affection only. "Now, Gwen, that we've settled _that_, let's go and see what we can do for Robin. Heigho, Winifred! you're just in time to aid a worthy cause--Come on to Lady Principal!" "Exactly whither I was bound!" waving a letter overhead. "Going a-begging, my dears, if you please!" she returned, clasping Gwen's waist on one side to walk three abreast. A trivial action in itself but delightful to the "Peer," showing that this free-spoken "Commoner" no longer regarded her as "stand-offish" but "just one of the crowd." "Begging for what, Win?" "That's a secret!" "Pooh! You might as well tell. Secrets always get found out. I've just discovered one--by way of chattering Millikins-Pillikins. Guess it." "I couldn't, Dolly, I'm too full of my own. As for that child's talk--but half of it has sense." "So I thought, too, listening to her. But _half did_ have sense and that is--Who do you think gave me my beautiful toboggan things?" "Why, your Aunt Betty, I suppose, since she does everything else for you," answered Winifred promptly. "Anyhow, don't waste time on guesses--Tell!" Then she glanced up into Gwendolyn's face and saw how happy it was, and hastily added: "No, you needn't tell, after all, I know. It was Gwen, here, the big-hearted dear old thing! She's the only girl at Oak Knowe who's rich enough and generous enough to do such a splendid thing." "Good for you, Win, you guessed right at once!" answered Dolly trying to clap her hands but unable to loosen them from her comrades' clasp. "Now for yours!" "Wait till we get to the 'audience chamber'! Come on." But even yet they were hindered. In the distance, down at the end of the hall, Dorothy caught sight of Mr. Gilpin, evidently just departing from the house. A more dejected figure could scarcely be imagined, nor a more ludicrous one, as he limped toward the entrance, hands on hips and himself bent forward forlornly. Below his rough top-coat which he had discarded on his arrival, hung the tatters of his smock that had been worn to ribbons by his roll down the slide. Nobody knew what had become of his own old beaver hat, but a light colored derby, which the _chef_ had loaned him, sat rakishly over one ear, in size too small for the whole top of his bald head. "Looks as if he had two foreheads!" said Winifred, who couldn't help laughing at his comical appearance, with part of his baldness showing at front and back of the borrowed hat. Dorothy laughed, too, yet felt a guilty regret at the way she had spoken to him. She had accused him of "trying to kill her" as well as Gwen and little Grace; but he "kill anything"? Wicked, even to say that. "There goes John Gilpin, and, girls, I must speak to him. Come--I can't let him go that way!" As his "good foot" crossed the threshold Dorothy's hand was on his shoulder and her voice begging: "Oh! please, Mr. Gilpin! Do forgive that horrible thing I said! I didn't know, I didn't understand, I didn't mean it--I thought--it looked--Do come back just a minute and let me explain." The old fellow turned and gazed into her pleading eyes, but at first scarcely heard her. "Why, 'tis the little maid! hersel' that was cryin' that night on the big railway platform. The night that Robin lad was anigh kilt. Something's mixed up in me head. What's it, lassie, you want?" "I want your forgiveness, Mr. Gilpin. When I saw Gracie on the floor and the broken pot beside her I thought--you'd--you'd tried--and account of your sled hitting Gwen and me--Do come in and rest. You're worse hurt than anybody thought, I'm afraid. There, there, that's right. Come back and rest till the team goes into town for the Saturday night's supplies. It always goes you know, and Michael will get the driver to drop you at your own door. I'm sure he will." Obediently, he allowed her to lead him back into the hall and to seat him on the settle beside the radiator. The warmth of that and the comfort of three sympathetic girls soon restored his wandering wits and he was as ready to talk as they to listen. "You do forgive, don't you, dear old John?" "Sure, lassie, there's nought about forgiveness, uther side. It was a bit misunderstandin' was all. The wee woman a-pleadin' for treats out of pocket, and me thinkin' hard o' Robin, for coaxin' an old man to make a fool of hissel'. Me feeling that minute as if 'twas all his fault and thinking I'd cherished a snake, a reptile, in my buzzum, and sayin' it out loud, likes I have a bad habit of doing. "Silly I was, not remembering how't a child takes all things literal. Ha, ha, ha! To think it! When I scalded mysel' with the hot tea the bairnie should fancy I yelled at a sarpent's bite! Sure, I could split my sides a-laughin' but for the hurt I gave her. How is she doin', lass? I've waited this long spell for someone to pass by and give me the word, but nobody has. Leastwise, them that passes has no mind for old John in his dumps." "Why, Mr. Gilpin, she wasn't hurt at all; and it's just as you said. She thought you had a real snake in your clothes and it had bitten you. She's all right now, right as can be; and so will you be as soon as you get home and into your wife's good care. She--" "Ah, my Dorothy! 'Tis she I dread. Not a word'll she say, like enough, but the look she will give to my silly face--Hmm. She's a rare silent woman is my Dame, but she can do a power o' thinkin'." "Yes, she can, and the first thing she'll think is how glad she is to have her husband back again, safe and sound." "Aye, but Dorothy, hark ye! I'm safe, I'll grant ye that; but--sound? 'Tis different letters spells that word. Sound? I'll no' be that for weeks to come!" and the poor fellow, who certainly had been badly bruised and lucky to have escaped broken bones, sighed profoundly. Winifred had an inspiration. "Speaking of Robins, suppose we write her a round-robin letter? Right here and now, on the back of this letter of Father's? It's a grand good letter for me and we'll write so nicely of you, Mr. John, that it'll be a good one for her, too." "Will ye? A real letter explainin' about the accident, when the lassie's toboggan got in our way and we got that mixed 'twas nigh the death of the lot? Dame'd be proud enough to get that letter. Sure, I believe 'twould set her thinkin' of other things, and she'll be liker to overlook my foolishness." They all laughed at the crafty manner in which he shipped his responsibility for the accident from his shoulders to theirs; but Winifred plumped herself down on the settle beside him and, using it for a desk, concocted an amusing story of the whole day's happenings. The other girls had less of the gift of writing, but each added a few words and signed her name with a flourish. Altogether it was a wonderful document, so the farmer thought, as Winifred tore that half-sheet from her father's letter, folded it in a fantastic way and gave it him. Indeed, he was so pleased with it and so anxious to get it into his wife's hands that, after turning it over and about, in admiration of the "true lover's knot" into which Win had folded it, he rose to go away. All his stiffness was forgotten, he almost neglected to drag his lame foot, he firmly declined to stay for supper or any ride with the Oak Knowe team, so completely had the kindness of the three girls cured him. "A letter for the Dame! Sure she'll be the proud woman the night, and maybe she'll think I'd more sense after all. I don't mind she'd ary letter come before since we was married. Good night, young ladies. Tell the bit woman 't next time there'll be nuts in me pockets, all right, and no fear for her o' more snakes. Good-by." They watched him down the path, fairly strutting in his pride over the note which a mere whim on Winifred's part had suggested, and Dorothy exclaimed: "What a dear, simple old soul he is! That a tiny thing like that could make so happy. I believe he was more delighted with that half-sheet of your paper than you are with your father's other half." Winifred caught the others about the waist and whirled them indoors again, first gleefully kissing her father's bit of writing and asking: "Think so? Then he's the gladdest person in the world, to-night. Oh--ee!" "Well, Win, you can be glad without squeezing the breath out of a body, can't you? Heigho, Robin! Where'd you come from?" said Dolly, as the boy came suddenly upon them from a side hall. "Why, from the kitchen. The folks there made me eat a lot of good stuff and a woman--I guess it was the housekeeper--she made me put on some of the men's clothes while she took my knickers and mended them. I'd torn them all to flinders on that slide, or old botched up sled, and she said I was a sight. I was, too. She was awful kind. She made me tell all about Mother and my getting hurt and everything. But she said I ought to go right away and find Mr. Gilpin and get friends with him again. Isn't it funny? He blames _me_ for all that happened and for teasing him to make that wretched sled, yet, sir, if you'll believe me he was the one spoke of it first. True! Said he'd never had a toboggan ride in all his life, long as that was, because he hadn't anybody to go with him. But 'he'd admire' to have just one before he died--" "He had it, didn't he?" laughed Winifred. "He had a hard time getting Mrs. Gilpin's consent. She treats him as if he were a little boy, worse'n Mother does me, but he doesn't get mad at all. He thinks she's the most wonderful woman in the world, but I must find him and put myself right with him before we go home and tackle her. He'll need my help then more'n he did makin' that beastly sled! It was awful--really awful--the way he went rolling down that icy slide, but to save my life I can't help laughing when I think of it. Can you?" At the lad's absurd movements, as he now pictured John's remarkable "ride" they all laughed; but suddenly Dorothy demanded: "You sit right down yonder on that settle and wait for me. You can't find Mr. Gilpin, now, he's far on the road home. But there's something I must ask Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "No! You don't ask Miss Tross-Kingdon one single thing till I've had my ask first, Dorothy Calvert! Here I'm nearly crazy, trying to hold in my secret, and--" "I claim my chance too! I've a petition of my own if you please and let the first to arrive win!" shouted Gwendolyn, speeding after the other two toward the "audience chamber." Thus deserted, Robin laughed and curled up on the bench to wait; while the Lady Principal's sanctum was boisterously invaded by three petitioners, forgetful of the required decorum, and each trying to forestall the others, with her: "Oh! Miss Muriel, may I--?" "Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon, my father's--" "Hear me first, dear Lady Principal, before he gets away. Can--" But the Lady Principal merely clapped her hands over her ears and ordered: "One at a time. Count twenty." CHAPTER XV MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS "I've counted! And I beg pardon for rushing in here like that. But I was afraid the others had favors to ask and I wanted to get mine in first!" said Gwendolyn, after the brief pause Miss Tross-Kingdon had suggested. "Oh! you sweet, unselfish thing!" mocked Winifred, "your favor can't be half as fine as mine--" "Nor mine! Oh! do please let me speak first, for fear he gets away!" begged Dorothy, eagerly. "First come first served, Dolly, please!" coaxed Gwendolyn and the teacher nodded to her to speak. "Mine's for next Saturday. Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works are to be in town and Mamma says if you'll allow I may invite the whole school to go. She'll have big sleighs sent out for us and will let us have supper at the hotel where she stops. May we go?" "Wait a moment, Gwendolyn. Did you say the 'whole school'?" Each year Lady Jane had allowed her daughter to entertain her schoolmates in some such manner but the number had, heretofore, been limited to "Peers" only. Such a wholesale invitation as this required some explanation. Gwendolyn's eyes fell and her cheek flushed, while the other girls listened in wondering delight for her answer, which came after some hesitation. But came frankly at last in the girl's own manner. "I'm ashamed now of the silly notions I used to have. I wanted to do something which would prove that I am; so instead of picking out a few of what we called 'our set' I want every girl at Oak Knowe to join us. You'll understand, of course, that there will be no expense to anybody. It's Mamma's farewell treat to us girls, before she goes abroad. May she and I give it?" "Indeed, you may, Gwendolyn, if the Bishop approves. With the understanding that no lessons are neglected. The winter is about over. Spring exams are near, and 'Honors' or even 'Distinction' will not be won without hard work." "Thank you, Miss Muriel. May I go now and ask the Bishop, then tell the girls?" "Certainly," and there was an expression of greater pleasure on the lady's face than on that of Gwendolyn's even. Winifred executed what she called a "war dance" as Gwen disappeared, crying: "That's what I call a wholesale burying of the hatchet! That 'Honorable' young woman is distinguishing herself. Don't you think so, Miss Muriel?" "I am pleased. I am very pleased. Gwendolyn has surely dropped her foolishness and I'm proud of her. It's so much safer for anyone to be normal, without fads or fancies--" "Oh! come now, you dear Schoolma'am! Never mind the pretty talk just this minute, 'cause I can't wait to tell you--Father's coming--my Father is coming and a proper good time with him! If you'll only remember I wasn't saucy then--A girl you'd raised to hand, like me, couldn't really be saucy, could she? And--and please just wait a minute. Please let me talk first. Because _I_ can't ask _everybody_, but my darling Father means just as well as Lady Jane. His invite is only for a dozen--round baker's dozen, to take a trip in his car to Montreal and visit the Ice Palace! Think of that! The beautiful Ice Palace that I've never seen in all my life. If you'll say 'yes,' if you'll be the picker out of 'em, besides yourself and Miss Hexam and Dawkins--Oh! dear! You three grown-ups take off three from my dozen-thirteen! But there'll be ten left, any way, and please say yes and how many days we may be gone and--Oh! I love you, Miss Muriel, you know I do!" The lady Principal calmly loosened Winifred's clasping arms, and smilingly looked into the sparkling, pleading eyes before her. Who could be stern with the whimsical child she had cared for during so many years, and under whose apparently saucy manner, lay a deep love and respect? She did not enlighten the pleader on the fact that this was no new thing she had just heard; nor that there had been written communications passing between Mr. Christie and the Bishop with consent already won. But she put her answer off by saying: "We'll see about it, Winifred: and I'm glad there was nobody save Dorothy here to see you so misbehave! But if we go, and if the selection is left to me, I may not please you; for I should choose those whose record for good conduct is highest and whose preparation for exams is most complete." Winifred wrinkled her brows. Of course she, as hostess couldn't be counted either out or in, but she knew without telling that but few of her own class-ten would be allowed to go. They were the jolliest "ten" at Oak Knowe and oftener in disgrace about lessons than free from it. "Oh! dear! I do wish we'd dreamed this treat was coming! I'd have forced the 'Aldriches' to study as hard as they played--if--if I had to do it at the point of my mahl-stick. I guess it'll be a lesson to them." "I trust it will, dear, but Dorothy has waited all this time. Three little maids with three little wishes, regular fairy-tale like, and two of them granted already. What's yours, Dorothy?" Since listening to the others' requests, her own seemed very simple, almost foolish; but she answered promptly: "I want to get you a boot-boy." Winifred laughed. "Hey, Dolly! To switch off from a private-car-ice-palace-trip into a boot-boy's jacket is funny enough. Who's the candidate you're electioneering for?" Miss Muriel hushed Winifred's nonsense which had gone far enough and was due, she knew, to the girl's wild delight over her father's promised visit. "If you could find a good one for me, Dorothy, you would certainly be doing me a favor, not I one for you. Whom do you mean?" "Robin Locke, Miss Tross-Kingdon. He's so very poor." "Poverty isn't always a recommendation for usefulness. Is he old enough? Is it that lad who came with Mr. Gilpin?" "Yes, Miss Muriel. He's just the loveliest boy I've seen in Canada--" "The _only_ one, except Jack!" interrupted Winifred. "It was because of me and my carelessness he got hurt and broke himself. He was carrying my telegram that I ought to have sent long before and he was so starved he fell off his bicycle and always ever since I've wished I could help him some way and he'd have such a nice home here and he wouldn't bring in goats, and his mother could do things to help and I thought maybe he could do the shoes and other things would be easier than what he did and could be a golf-boy for the Bishop when the time comes and it's pretty near and--" "There, Dorothy, take your breath, and put a comma or two into your sentences. Then we'll talk about this project of yours. Where's Robin now?" "Right out on the settle this minute waiting--if he hasn't gone away--May I--" "Yes, honey, step-an'-fetch him!" laughed Winifred again, "he's used to that sort of talk." Away flashed Dorothy and now, at a really serious rebuke from the Lady Principal, Winifred sobered her lively spirits to be an interested witness of the coming interview, as Dorothy came speeding back, literally dragging the shy Robin behind her. But, as before, the presence of other young folks and Miss Muriel's first question put him at his ease. "Robin, are you willing to work rather hard, in a good home, for your mother and to provide one for her, too?" "Why, of course, Ma'am. That's what I was a-doin' when I fell off. Goody! Wouldn't I? Did you ever see my mother, lady?" "Yes, Robin, at our Hallowe'en Party," answered Miss Tross-Kingdon, smiling into the beautiful, animated face of this loyal son. "You'd like her, Ma'am, you couldn't help it. She's 'the sweetest thing in the garden,' Father used to say, and he knew. She feels bad now, thinking we've been so long at the farmer's 'cause she don't see how 't we ever can pay them. And the doctor, too. Oh! Ma'am, did you hear tell of such a place? Do you think I could get it?" "Yes, lad, I did hear of just such, for Dorothy told me. It's right here at Oak Knowe. The work is to pick up row after row of girls' shoes, standing over night outside their bedroom doors and to blacken them, or whiten them, as the case might be, and to have them punctually back in place, in time for their owners to put on. Cleaning boots isn't such a difficult task as it is a tedious one. The maids complain that it's more tiresome than scrubbing, and a boy I knew grew very careless about his work. If I asked you and your mother to come here to live, would you get tired? Or would she dislike to help care for the linen mending? Of course, you would be paid a fair wage as well as she. What do you think?" What Robin thought was evident: for away he ran to Dorothy's side and catching her hand kissed it over and over. "Oh! you dear, good girl! It was you who helped the doctor set my bones, it was you who let me slide on your new toboggan, and it's you who've 'spoke for me' to this lady. Oh! I do thank you. And now I'm not afraid to go back and see Mr. Gilpin. He was so vexed with me because he thought--May I go now, Ma'am? and when do you want us, Mother and me?" "To-morrow morning, at daybreak. Will you be here?" "Will I not? Oh! good-by. I must go quick! and tell my Mother that she needn't worry any more. Oh! how glad I am!" With a bow toward Miss Tross-Kingdon and a gay wave of his hand toward the girls, he vanished from the room, fairly running down the corridor and whistling as he went. The rules of Oak Knowe had yet all to be learned but it certainly was a cheerful "noise in halls" to which they listened now. "And that's another 'link' in life, such as Uncle Seth was always watching for. If I hadn't delayed that telegram and he hadn't fallen down and--everything else that happened--Robin would never have had such a lovely chance," said Dorothy proudly. "That's a dangerous doctrine, Dorothy. It's fine to see the 'links' you speak of, but not at all fine to do evil that good may come. I'd rather have you believe that this same good might have come to the lad without your own first mistake. But it's time for studying Sunday lessons and you must go." "Catch me studying 'links' for things, Dolly, if it gets a body lectured. Dear Lady Principal does so love to cap her kindnesses with 'a few remarks.' There's a soft side and a hard side to that woman, and a middle sort of schoolma'amy side between. She can't help it, poor thing, and mostly her soft side was in front just now. "Think of it! Wax Works and Ice Palaces all in one term! I do just hope Mrs. Jarley'll have a lot of real blood-curdling 'figgers' to look at and not all miminy-piminy ones. Well, good night, honey, I'm off to be as good as gold." Every pupil at Oak Knowe, in the week that followed, tried to be "as good as gold," for a pleasure such as Lady Jane proposed to give the school was as welcome to the highest Form as to the lowest Minims, and the result was that none was left out of the party--not one. It was all perfectly arranged, even the weather conspiring to further the good time, with a beautifully clear day and the air turned mild, with a promise of the coming spring. The snow was beginning to waste, yet the sleighing held fine and the city stables had been ransacked to obtain the most gorgeous outfits with the safest drivers. Thirty handsome sleighs with their floating plumes and luxurious robes, drawn by thirty spans of beautiful horses was the alluring procession which entered Oak Knowe grounds on the eventful Saturday; and three hundred happy girls, each in her best attire piled into them. Yes, and one small boy! For who could bear to leave behind that one last child of the great family? And a boy who in but a week's time had learned to clean shoes so well and promptly? So clad in his new suit, of the school's uniform, "Such as all we men folks wear"--as he had proudly explained to his mother when he first appeared in this before her--and with a warm top-coat and cap to match, the happy youngster rode in the leading sleigh in which sat Lady Jane herself. Of how those happy young folks took possession of the exhibition hall, that had been reserved for them; and smiled or shuddered over the lifelike images of famous men and women; and finally tore themselves away from the glib tongue of the exhibitor and his fascinating show--all this any schoolgirl reader can picture for herself. Then of the dinner at the great hotel, in a beautiful room also reserved that they might indulge their appetites as hunger craved without fear or observation of other guests: the slow drive about the city, and the swift drive home--with not one whit of the gayety dimmed by any untoward accident. "Oh! it's been a perfect success! Nothing has happened that should not, and I believe that I've been the happiest girl of all! But such a crowd of them. Better count your flock, Miss Tross-Kingdon, maybe, and see if any are missing;" said Lady Jane as she stepped down at the Oak Knowe door. "I don't see how there could be, under your care, my Lady, but I'll call a mental roll." So she did. But the roll was not perfect. Two were missing. Why? CHAPTER XVI A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE Miss Tross-Kingdon entered Miss Hexam's room, looking so disturbed that the latter asked: "Why, Muriel, what is the matter?" They two were of kin and called each other by their first names. "Matter enough, Wilda. I'm worried and angry. And to think it should happen while the Bishop is away on that trip of his to the States!" "Tell me," urged the gentle little woman, pushing a chair forward into which the Lady Principal wearily dropped. "It's that Dorothy Calvert. She's lost herself again!" "She has a knack of doing that! But she'll be found." "Maybe. Worst is she's taken another with her. Robin, the new boot-boy." Miss Hexam laughed: "Well, I admit that is the greater loss just now! Girls are plentiful enough at Oak Knowe but boot-boys are scarce. And this Robin was a paragon, wasn't he? Also, I thought Dorothy was away up toward the 'good conduct medal,' as well as 'distinction' in music. I don't see why she should do so foolish a thing as you say and lessen her chances for the prize." "Wilda, you don't understand how serious it is. It was one thing to have it happen in this house but it's night now and she away in a strange city. I declare I almost wish she'd never come at all." For a moment Miss Hexam said no more. She knew that Miss Muriel loved the missing girl with sincere affection and was extremely proud of her great progress in her studies. All the school had readily conceded that in her own Form Dorothy stood highest, and would certainly win the "honors" of that Form. When the Principal had rested quietly a while longer she asked: "Now tell me all about it, Muriel." "Nobody missed her, but, she did not come home with the rest. I've 'phoned to the police to look for for her and the boy, but it's a disgrace to the school to have to do such a thing. Besides, Robin's mother is half wild about him and declares she must walk into town to seek him." "You're foolish, the pair of you. Stop and reason. Robin is thoroughly familiar with the city and suburbs, from his messenger-boy experience. Dorothy is blessed with a fair share of common sense. If they wandered away somewhere, they'll soon wander back again when they realize what they have done. I'm sorry you stirred up the police and they should be warned to keep the matter quiet." "Oh! they have been," answered the weary Lady Principal. "It does seem, lately, that every good time we allow the girls ends in disaster." "Never mind. You go to bed. You've done all you can till morning." Miss Muriel did go away but only to spend the night in watching along with Lady Jane in the library, the latter deeply regretting that she had ever suggested this outing and, like the Lady Principal, both sorry and angry over its ending. Dorothy had ridden to the exhibition in the very last sleigh of all, as Robin had in the first, and when they all left the hotel after dinner he had lingered beside her while she waited for the other teams to drive on and her own to come up. This took a long time, there was so much ado in settling so many girls to the satisfaction of all; and looking backward he saw that there would still be a delay of several moments. "I say, Dorothy, come on. I want to show you where we used to live before my father died. We'll be back in plenty time. It's the dearest little house, with only two rooms in it; but after we left it nobody lived there and it's all gone to pieces. Makes me feel bad but I'd like to show you. Just down that block and around a side street. Come on. What's the use standing here?" "Sure we can be back in time, Robin?" "Certain. Cross my heart. I'm telling you the truth. It's only a step or so." "Well, then, let's hurry." Hurry they did, he whistling as usual, until they came to a narrow alley that had used to be open but had now been closed by a great pile of lumber, impossible for them to climb. "Oh! pshaw! Somebody must be going to build here. But never mind. Our house was right yonder, we can go another way." His interest as well as hers in exploring "new places," made them forget everything else; and when, at last, they came to Robin's old home a full half-hour had passed. It was, indeed, a sorry place. Broken windows, hanging doors and shutters, chimney fallen, and doorstep gone. Nobody occupied it now except, possibly, a passing tramp or the street gamin who had destroyed it. "My! I'm glad my Mother can't see it now. She never has since we moved down to our cottage in the glen. It would break her dear heart, for my father built it when they were first married. That was the kitchen, that the bedroom--Hark! What's that?" "Sounded like a cat." "Didn't to me. Cats are squealier'n that was. I wonder if anybody or thing is in there now. If I had time I'd go and see." "Robin, wouldn't you be afraid?" "Afraid? Afraid to go into my own house, that was, that my father built with his own hands? Huh! What do you take me for? I'd as soon go in there as eat my din--Hello! There certainly--" They put their heads close to the paneless window and listened intently. That was a human groan. That was a curious patter of small hoofs--Dorothy had heard just such a sound before. That surely was a most familiar wail: "Oh, Baal! My jiminy cricket!" "Jiminy cricket yourself, Jack-boot-boy! What you doing in my house? I'm living in yours--I mean I'm boot-boy now. How are you?" cried Robin, through the window. "Who'm you? Have you got anything to eat? Quick! Have you?" The voice which put the question was surely Jack's but oddly weak and tremulous. Dorothy answered: "Not here, Jack, course. Are you hungry?" "Starvin'! Starvin'! I ain't touched food nor drink this two days. Oh! Have you?" Daylight was already fading and street lights flashing out but this by-way of the town had no such break to the darkness. Robin was over the rickety threshold in an instant and Dorothy quickly followed. Neither had now any thought save for the boy within and his suffering. They found him lying on a pile of old rags or pieces of discarded burlap which he had picked up on the streets, or that some former lodger in the room had gathered. Beside him was Baal, bleating piteously, as if he, too, were starving. The reason for this was evident when Robin stumbled over a rope by which the animal was fastened to the window sash; else he might have strolled abroad and foraged for himself. But if Robin fell he was up in a second and with the instincts of a city bred boy knew just what to do and how to do it. "Got any money, Dorothy?" "Yes. Twenty-five cents, my week's allowance." "I've got ten. Mother said I might keep that much out of my week's wages. Give it here. I'll be back in a minute." He was gone and Dorothy dropped down on the dusty floor beside Jack and asked his story. He told it readily enough, as far as willingness went, but his speech lagged for once and from sheer lack of strength. "I left--seeking my fortune. It warn't so easy as I thought it would be. I've hired for odd jobs, held horses, run arrants, helped 'round taverns, but didn't get no place for steady. Trouble was, folks don't take no great to Baal. They'd put with him a spell, treat him real decent till he'd up and butt somebody over--then his dough was cooked. The worse he was used the better I liked him, though I'd ha' sold him for money if I could, I've been hungry so much the time. And that right here, Dorothy, _in a town full o' victuals_! Just chock full. See 'em in the winders, see 'em in the markets, on wagons--and every created place, but not a speck for me. But I got along, I'd ha' made out, if I hadn't et somethin' made me dretful sick. It was somethin' in a can I picked up out a garbage pail, some sort o' fish I guess, and I've been terr'ble ever since. What'd he go for? Why don't he come back?" "I don't know. I reckon he went for food. How did you keep warm in here, if this is where you lived?" "Didn't keep warm. How could I? I ain't been warm, not real clean through, since the last night I slep' in my nice bed at Oak Knowe." "Why didn't you come back? Or go to the railway stations? They are always heated, I reckon." "Did. Turned me out. Lemme stay a spell but then turned me out. Said I better go to the poorhouse but--won't that boy never come!" "He's coming now, Jack," she answered and was almost as glad as he of the fact. Robin came whistling in, good cheer in the very sound. "Here you are neighbor! Candle and matches--two cents. Pint of milk--three. Drink it down while I light up!" Jack grabbed the milk bottle with both hands and drained it; then fell back again with a groan. "'T hurts my stummick! Hurts my stummick awful!" "Never mind. I'll turn Baal loose and let him find something outside. A likely supper of tin cans and old shoes'll set him up to a T. Scoot, Baal!" The goat was glad enough to go, apparently, yet in a moment came bleating back to his master. Dorothy thought that was pathetic but Robin declared it disgusting. "Clear out, you old heathen, and hunt your supper--" "Oh! don't be cruel to the loving creature, Robin! Suppose he should get lost?" begged Dorothy. "Lost? You can't lose Baal, don't you fret. Look-a-here, boy! here's a sandwich! Come from the best place in town. I know it. Give the biggest slice for the least money. Can't tell me anything about that, for I've been nigh starved myself too often in this same old town. What? You don't want it? Can't eat it? Then what do you want?" Provoked that his efforts to please Jack failed so fully, Robin whistled again, but not at all merrily this time; for he had at last begun to think of his own predicament and Dorothy's. Here they were stranded in town, Oak Knowe so far away, night fast falling and, doubtless, a stern reprimand due--should they ever reach that happy haven again. "Robin, I do believe he is sick. Real, terrible sick. It wasn't just starving ailed him. Do you s'pose we could get a doctor to him?" "To this shanty? No, I don't. But if he's sick, there's hospitals. Slathers of 'em. Hurray! There's the one that Dr. Winston is head of. There's an emergency ward there and free ones--and it's the very checker!" Jack had ceased moaning and lay very still. So still that they were both frightened and Dolly asked: "How can we get him there, if they would take him in? He's terrible heavy to carry." Even dimly seen by the light of the flickering candle struck on the floor, Dorothy thought the pose of superiority Robin now affected the funniest thing, and was not offended when he answered with lofty scorn: "Carry him? I should say not. We couldn't and we won't. I'll just step to the corner and ring up an ambulance. I know the name. You stay here. I'll meet it when it comes and don't get scared when the gong clangs to get out of the way." Dorothy's own life in a southern city returned to her now and she remembered some of its advantages which Robin had spoken of. So she was not at all frightened when she heard the ambulance come into the street beyond the alley, which was too narrow for it to enter, nor when two men in hospital uniforms appeared at the door of the room. They had lanterns and a stretcher and at once placed poor Jack upon it and hurried away. They needed not to ask questions for Robin had followed them and was glibly explaining all he knew of the "case" and the rest which he had guessed. "Ate spoiled fish out of a garbage can, did he? So you think it's ptomaine poisoning, do you Doctor Jack-o'-my-thumb? Well, I shouldn't be surprised if your diagnosis is correct. Steady now, mate, this is a--Hello! What's that?" "That" proved to be Baal, returned to inquire what was being done to his master by prodding the orderly's legs with his horns, so that the stretcher nearly fell out of his hand. Baal got his answer by way of a vicious kick which landed him out of reach and permitted the men to carry their burden quickly away. Left behind, the pair of young Samaritans stared for an instant at one another, dismayed at their own delay. It was Dorothy who came to a decision: "We've done as bad as we could and as good. Seems awful queer how it all happened. Now we must go home. Can we get a carriage anywhere and would it take us back without any money to pay it? Would Miss Tross-Kingdon pay it, do you think? The Bishop would but he's gone traveling." Leaving their candle still flickering on the floor they anxiously left the shanty; and it may be stated here, for the guidance of other careless ones that there was an item in the next morning's paper stating that a certain "old rookery had been burned down during the night; origin of fire unknown; a benefit to the city for it had long been infested by hoboes and tramps." To which of these classes poor Jack belonged it did not state; but either one was a far call to the "great artist" he had said he would become. There were cabs in plenty to be seen and, probably, to be hired; but they did not summon one. A vision of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face at its sternest rose before Dorothy and she dared not venture on the lady's generosity. Another thought came, a far happier one: "I'll tell you! Let's follow Jack. Maybe Dr. Winston would be there or somebody would know about us--if we told--and would telephone to Oak Knowe what trouble we're in. For it is trouble now, Robin Locke, and you needn't say it isn't. You're scared almost to death and so am I. I wish--I wish I'd never heard of a Wax Works, so there!" Robin stopped and turned her face up to the light of a street lamp they were passing and saw tears in her eyes. That was the oddest thing for her to cry--right here in this familiar city where were railway stations plenty in which they might wait till morning and somebody came. But, softened as her tears made him, he couldn't yet quite forget that he was the man of the party. "It's an awful long ways to that Hospital, and I've got five cents left. We can go in anywhere and I can 'phone for myself. No need to bother any doctors or nurses." Opposition to her wishes dried her tears. "Well, I am going to Dr. Winston's hospital. I'd like you to go with me and show me the way but if you won't the policemen I meet will do it. I'm going right now." That conquered this small Canadian gentleman, and he answered: "All right. I'll show you. Only don't you dare to be crying when you get there." She wasn't. It proved a long walk but help loomed at the end of it and the youngsters scarcely felt fatigue in the prospect of this. Also, the help proved to be just what they most desired. For there was Dr. Winston himself, making his night visit to a very ill patient and almost ready to depart in his car which stood waiting at the door. Dorothy remembered how little gentlewomen should conduct themselves when paying visits; so after inquiring of the white-clad orderly who admitted her if Dr. Winston was there, and being told that he was, she took her empty purse from her pocket and sent up her card. She would have written Robin's name below hers if she had had a pencil or--had thought about it. The tiny card was placed upon a little silver salver and borne away with all the dignity possible; but there was more amazement than dignity in the good doctor's reception of it. Another moment he was below, buttoning his top-coat as he came and demanding with a smile that was rather anxious: "To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this visit, Miss Dorothy Calvert?" But the tears were still too near the girl's eyes for her to meet jest with jest. She could only hold out her arms, like the lonely, frightened child she was and he promptly clasped her in his own. Then "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle," ran a little bell in the Oak Knowe library and over the telephone wire rang the doctor's hearty voice. "Be at rest, Miss Muriel. Your runaways are found and I'll motor them home in a jiffy!" This was so joyful a message that Lady Jane and the Lady Principal promptly fell upon one another's neck and wept a few womanly tears. Then Miss Tross-Kingdon released herself, exclaiming: "Oh! those dreadful police. Why did I violate the privacy of Oak Knowe by setting them to search? I must recall the order right away--if I can!" Self-blame doesn't tend toward anybody's good nature and the head of Oak Knowe School for Young Ladies had been sorely tried. Also, her offense had come from the very girl she trusted most and was, therefore, the more difficult to forgive. So clothing herself in all her dignity, she was simply the Lady Principal and nothing more, when for a second time the quiet of her domain was broken by the honk-honk of an automobile, the door opened and Dorothy and Robin walked in. The doctor had laughingly declared that he couldn't enter with them--he was afraid! But though it was really only lack of time that prevented him so doing, their own spirits were now so low that they caught the infection of his remark--if not his spirit--and visibly trembled. This was a sign of guilt and caught Miss Muriel's eye at once. "What is the explanation of this, Dorothy? Robin?" Dorothy had been pondering that explanation on the swift ride home. Dr. Winston had called them the Good Samaritans and seemed pleased with them. Maybe Miss Muriel would think so, too. "We stayed to see--we had to be what he said. Good little Samaritans--" "Humph! If that is some new game you have invented, please never to play it again. Your duty--" "Why, Lady Principal, you wouldn't have us 'pass by on the other side,' would you? To-morrow's lesson--" But there was no softening in Miss Muriel's eye, and indignant Robin flashed out: "Well--well--you needn't blame _her_. You needn't blame a _girl_--when it was all my fault! I coaxed her or she wouldn't ha' done it!" This was such a manly, loyal reversion of the old story of Adam and Eve that Lady Jane laughed and would have clapped her hands in pride of her small compatriot. But she refrained and chose the wiser course of slipping away unseen. "Robin! you forget yourself! I have given you a home here but I have not given you license to be insolent or disobedient. You have been both. Your mother is somewhere on the road to town, looking for you." But it happened she was not. Dr. Winston had espied a lone woman dragging herself citywards and had stopped to give her a lift. Then, learning who she was and her errand, had promptly turned about and conveyed her also home; so she was back in their own rooms almost as soon as her boy was and able to soothe his wrath as only mothers can. But upon poor Dorothy fell the full force of her teacher's indignation. "Dorothy, I would not have believed it possible for you so willfully to disappoint me. Go to your dormitory and to bed at once. You cannot go off bounds again till Easter holidays. Good night." Dorothy obeyed in silence. She could think of many things to say but she could not say them. Even to anxious Dawkins who would have welcomed her warmly and ministered loving comfort she could only say: "Good night. It's such a mixed up world. It was good to help Jack, the doctor said; and it was wrong, Miss Tross-Kingdon said; and--and--I'm so tired! Oh! if I could only see Aunt Betty!" With that last homesick cry, she laid her head on her pillow, and being a perfectly healthy girl--fell fast asleep. CHAPTER XVII COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION Dorothy in disgrace! That seemed an incredible thing to her schoolmates, who had hitherto believed "Dixie" to be the one great favorite of all. However, she could never speak of the matter to anybody, except the Bishop when he came home from his southern journey and the news he had to bring her was so far more important and saddening that a short confinement "on bounds" seemed actually trivial. For Uncle Seth was dead. The dear guardian and wise counselor would greet her no more. At first her grief seemed unbearable; but the good Bishop took her into his own home for a little time and she came back to Oak Knowe somewhat comforted for her loss. Besides she had had a little talk with Miss Tross-Kingdon, and there was again sweet peace and confidence between them. Miss Muriel now helped the girl in her work, inciting her ambition and keeping her so well employed that she had little time to sit and grieve. Indeed, the spirit of ambition was in everyone's heart. Easter holidays were past, spring exams proved fairly satisfactory with much yet to be accomplished before Commencement came. So the weeks fairly flew, the outdoor recreations changing with the seasons, and Dorothy learning the games of cricket and golf, which were new to her and which she described in her letters home as "adorably fascinating and English." Tennis and basket-ball were not so new. She had played these at the Rhinelander Academy, the first private school she had ever attended; but for even these familiar sports she spared little time. "It does seem as if the minutes weren't half as long as they were in the winter, Winifred! There's so much, so much I want to finish and the time so short. Why, it's the middle of June already, and Commencement on the twenty-first. Only six days for us to be together, dear!" cried Dorothy in the music room with her violin on her lap, and her friend whirling about on the piano stool. They were "programmed" for a duet, the most difficult they had ever undertaken, and were resting for the moment from their practicing while Dorothy's thoughts ran back over the year that was past. "Such a lot of things have happened. So many bad ones that have turned out good. Maybe, the best of all was Jack-boot-boy's running away and our finding him. It gave Robin and me a rather unhappy time, but it's turned out fine for him, because as he says: 'It's knocked the nonsense out of me.'" "The Dame will let no more creep in. Old John told me how it was. Soon as Dr. Winston told him where Jack was, at that hospital, he said to his wife: 'I'm going to see him.' Then that 'rare silent woman' spoke her mind. 'Husband, that'll do. I'll ride yon, on the cart, to fetch him home here to our cottage. The doctor says he's well enough to leave that place. I'll get him bound out to me till he's twenty-one. Then I'll let him go to 'seek' that 'fortune' he yearns for, with a new suit of clothes on his back and a hundred dollars in his pocket. That's the law and I've took him in hand." "So he's settled and done for, for a long time to come. It's just fine for him, they'll treat him like a son--Baal can live his days out in a pen--and Jack will grow up better fitted for his own station in life, as you Canadians say. Down in the States we believe that folks make their own 'stations'; don't find them hanging around their necks when they are born. Why I know a boy who was--" "There, Dolly Doodles! Don't get started on that subject. I know him by heart. One remarkable creature named James Barlow, who couldn't spell till you taught him and now has aspirations toward a college professorship. By the letters he writes, I should judge him to be a horrible prig. I wish I could see him once. I'd make him bow his lofty head; you'd find out!" Dorothy pulled a letter from her pocket and tossed it into her friend's hands. "You'll soon have a chance. Read that." "Oh! may I?" But the reading was brief and an expression of great disappointment came to Winifred's face. "Oh, Dorothy! How horrid!" "Yes, dear. I felt so, too, at first. Now all I feel is a wish to be through so I can hurry home to dear Aunt Betty who must need me dreadfully, or she'd never disappoint us like this." "It was such a beautiful plan. We should have had such a lovely time. Ah! here comes Gwen. Girl, what do you think? Mrs. Calvert isn't well enough to come to Canada, after all, and Dorothy has got to go home. When it's all fixed, too. Father's freed himself from business for three delightful months, and we three, with her were to go jaunting about all over the country in his private car, and Dorothy to learn that Canada beats the States all to pieces." Gwendolyn shared the disappointment. That trio had been dubbed by their mates as the "Inseparables" and the love between them all was now deep and sincere. "Read it aloud, Gwen. Maybe there's a chance yet, that I overlooked. I was so mad I couldn't half see that upstart's writing--not after the first few words. He doesn't mince matters, does he?" The letter ran thus: "DEAR DOROTHY: "Mrs. Calvert will not be able to come to Canada to meet you. She is not ill in bed but she needs you here. Dinah is taking care of her now, and Ephraim and I have decided that it is best for us two to come to Oak Knowe to fetch you home. Of course, you could come alone, as you went, but I'm at leisure now, and have laid aside enough from my year's earnings to pay the expenses of us all; and Ephraim wants to go for you. He says 'it ain' fitten fo' no young lady lak my li'l Miss to go trabbelin' erbout de country widout her own serbant-boy to take care ob her. Mah Miss Betty was clean bewitchted, erlowin' hit in de fust place, but she's laid up an' ole Eph, he ain' gwine hab no mo' such foolishness.' "Those are his own words and lately--Well, I don't like to go against that old man's wishes. So he and I will be on hand by the twenty-first of June and I expect can get put up somewhere, though I'm ignorant as to what they do with negroes in Canada. "Faithfully, "JIM." "Negroes! Negroes? Why, is that Ephraim a negro?" "Yes, indeed. As black as ink, almost, with the finest white head--of wool! Not quite so thick and curly as your 'barristers' wear, but handsome, I think. It represents so many, many years of faithful service. That dear old man has taken care of Aunt Betty ever since she was a child, and does so still. Nobody knows his real age, but it's one proof of his devotion to her that he'll take this long journey just because he remembers what's 'fitten,' even if she has grown careless about it. You see, it's Uncle Seth's death that must have changed her so," said Dorothy, musingly, with her eyes on the floor. The other two exchanged pitying glances, and it rose to Winifred's lips to say: "But she let you come alone in the fall and he wasn't dead then;" but she refrained. She knew, for Dolly had told her, that all that winter Dorothy's home letters had not seemed quite the same as they had used, during other separations from her aunt; and that many of them had been written for Mrs. Calvert by various friends of the old lady's, "just to oblige." Never before had the sprightly Mrs. Betty shrunk from writing her own letters; and, indeed, had done so often enough during the early winter to prevent Dorothy's suspicion of anything amiss. "Auntie dear, is so old, you know girls, that of course she does need me. Besides she's been all over the world and seen everything, so there's really 'nothing new under the sun' for her. That's why this junketing around we'd planned so finely, doesn't appeal to her as it does to us," said Dorothy, at last, lifting her violin to her shoulder and rising to her feet. "Shall we try it again, Win? And, Gwen, dear, have you finished your picture yet for the exhibition?" "Just finished, Dolly. And I forgot my errand here. Miss Muriel sent me to tell you girls that the dressmaker was in the sewing-room, giving last fittings to our frocks. She wants us to go there right after practice hour, for we must not lose our turn. I wanted to wear that beautiful one Mamma sent me from Paris but 'No' was the word. 'There will be no change in our custom. Each girl will wear a plain white lawn Commencement frock, untrimmed, and with no decoration except a sash of each Form's colors.' So there we are, same old six-pences, and dowds I think, every one of us." But when those few days intervening had passed and great Oak Knowe was alight with its hundreds of daintily robed girls, there was not a single "dowd" among them; nor one, whether unknown "charity" scholar or otherwise who felt envy of any difference between themselves or others. "What a glorious day! What crowds are here and coming. Assembly and all the rooms near it will be packed closer than ever! Oh! I'm so happy I can't keep still! No more lessons, no more early-to-bed-and-rise business for three delightful months! There's father! There he is--right in the front row of guests' seats. Right amongst the 'Peers,' where he belongs by right!" cried Winifred, turning Dorothy's head around that she might see the object of her own great excitement. "See, see! He's looking our way. He's discovered us! And he's awfully disappointed about you. He never forgave Miss Tross-Kingdon that she wouldn't let you take that Ice Palace trip with us, just because you'd broken a few rules. But never you mind, darling. Though this is the end of Oak Knowe for us together, it isn't the end of the world--nor time. Father shall bring me to you, he shall, indeed! Just think how it would help my education to visit the States! But, hark! The bugle is blowing--fall into line!" From their peep-hole in the hall Dorothy, also, could see the guests taking seats; and clutching Winifred's sleeve, whispered: "Look! Look! Away there at the back of Assembly, close to the door--that's Jim! That's Ephy! Oh! isn't it good to see them? For no matter now, I'm not without my own home folks any more than the rest of you. After banquet I'll introduce you if I get a chance." Then they fell into the line of white clad girls, and to the strains of a march played by the Seventh Form graduates, three hundred bright faced maidens--large and small--filed to their places in Assembly for their last appearance all together. It was a Commencement like multitudes of others; with the usual eager interest in guessing who'd be prize winners. The most highly valued prize of each year at Oak Knowe was the gold medal for improvement in conduct. Who would get it? Looking back the "Inseparables" could think of nobody who'd shown marked advance along that line; Winifred remarking, complacently: "I think we're all about as good as can be, anyway. 'Cause we're not allowed to be anything else." "I know who's improved most, though. I hope--Oh! I hope she'll get it!" And when the announcement was made she did! Said the Bishop, who conferred the diplomas and prizes: "The Improvement Gold Medal, the highest honor our faculty can bestow, is this year awarded to--" Here the speaker paused just long enough to whet the curiosity of those eager girls--"To the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard. Will she kindly advance and receive it?" Never was "honor girl" more deeply moved, surprised, and grateful than this once so haughty "Peer," now humble at heart as the meekest "Charity" present, and never such deafening cheers and hand-claps greeted the recipient of that coveted prize. Other lesser prizes followed: to Winifred's surprise, she had gained "Distinction" in physical culture; Florita in mathematics; and a new "Distinction" was announced for that year--"To Miss Dorothy Calvert for uniform courtesy," and one that she valued less: a gold star for advancement in music. "Two prizes, Dolly Doodles! You ought to should give poor Gracie one, you should. 'Tis not nice for one girl to have two, but my Auntie Prin, she couldn't help it. She told the Bishop you'd always been a beautiful behaver, an' she must. Now, it's all over, and I'm glad. I'm so tired and hungry. Come to banquet." After all it was the same as most Commencements the world over, with its joys and its anticipations. What of the latter's realization? In Dorothy's case at least the telling thereof is not for this time or place; but all is duly related in a new story and a new volume which tells of "Dorothy's Triumph." But there was that year one innovation at the banquet, that farewell feast of all the school together. For the company was but just seated when there stalked majestically into the great hall an old negro in livery. Pulling his forelock respectfully toward the Bishop, bowing and scraping his foot as his Miss Betty had long ago taught him, he marched straight to his Miss Dorothy's chair and took his stand behind it. He took no notice when turning her head she flashed a rather frightened smile in his direction, nor did either of them speak. But she glanced over to the head of the table and received an approving nod from her beloved Bishop; whose own heart felt a thrill of happy memory as he beheld this scene. So, away back in boyhood's days, in the dining-room at beautiful Bellevieu, had this same white-headed "boy" served those he had loved and lost. To him it was pathetic; to other observers, a novelty and curiosity; but to Dorothy and Ephraim themselves, after that first minute, a mere matter of course. Looking over that great table, the girl's face grew thoughtful. She had come among all these a stranger; she was leaving them a friend with everyone. The days that were coming might be happy, might be sorry; yet she was not alone. Old Ephraim stood behind her, faithful to the end; and out in the hall waited James Barlow, also faithful and full of the courage of young life and great ambition. No, she was not alone, whatever came or had come; and, after all, it was sweet to be going back to the familiar places and the familiar friends. So, the banquet at its end, by a nod from the Bishop, she drew her violin from under the table and rising in her place played sweetly and joyfully that forever well loved melody of "Home, Sweet Home." One by one, or in groups, the company melted away. Each to her new life of joy or sorrow or as general, both intermingled. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
41117	----	DOROTHY AT SKYRIE BY EVELYN RAYMOND ILLUSTRATED New York THE PLATT & PECK CO. [Illustration: "HOW MUCH AM I BID FOR THE BEAUTIFUL CALICO PONY?"] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. EARLY VISITORS 9 II. AN UNFORTUNATE AFFAIR 22 III. ON THE ROAD TO SOUTH MEADOW 41 IV. THE LEARNED BLACKSMITH 56 V. AN ACCIDENT AND AN APPARITION 69 VI. MORE PECULIAR VISITORS 85 VII. AT THE OFFICE OF A JUSTICE 96 VIII. A WALK AND ITS ENDING 112 IX. A LIVE STOCK SALE 127 X. AT MILKING-TIME 143 XI. HELPERS 158 XII. SETH WINTERS AND HIS FRIENDS 177 XIII. A BENEFICENT BEE 195 XIV. AN ASTONISHING QUESTION 210 XV. CONCERNING SEVERAL MATTERS 227 XVI. THE FATE OF DAISY-JEWEL 245 XVII. ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS 259 XVIII. THAT SOUTH MEADOW 275 XIX. DOROTHY HAS ANOTHER SECRET 293 XX. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 308 DOROTHY AT SKYRIE CHAPTER I EARLY VISITORS "Hello! How-de-do?" This salutation was so sudden and unexpected that Dorothy Chester jumped, and rising from the grass, where she had been searching for wild strawberries, beheld a row of pink sunbonnets behind the great stone wall. Within the sunbonnets were three equally rosy faces, of varying sizes, each smiling broadly and each full of a friendly curiosity. It was from the biggest face that the voice had come, and Dorothy responded with a courteous "Good-morning!" then waited for further advances. These came promptly. "I'm Alfaretta Babcock; this one's Baretta Babcock; and this other one, she's Claretta Babcock. The baby that's to home and can't walk yet--only just creep--she's Diaretta Babcock." Dorothy laughed. The alphabetical names attached to these several "Babcocks" sounded very funny and she couldn't help her amusement, even if it were rude. However, no rudeness was suspected, and Alfaretta laughed in return, then walked a few steps to the bar-way, with her sisters following. These she hoisted upon the rails, and putting her hands upon the topmost one vaulted over it with an ease that astonished the city-bred Dorothy. "Why! how well you did that! Like a regular gymnast!" she exclaimed, admiringly, and observing that this was a girl of about her own age though much larger and stronger in build, as the broad back now turned toward her showed. Alfaretta did not reply, except to bid the children on the other side of the bars to "hop over," and when they were too timid to "hop" without aid she seized their hands and pulled them across, letting them drop on the long grass in a haphazard way that made Dorothy gasp and exclaim: "Oh! you'll hurt them!" Alfaretta faced about and keenly scrutinized Dorothy's face, demanding: "You makin' fun, or not?" "Fun? I don't see anything funny in such tumbles as those, and I surely wasn't making fun of the way you sprang over that fence. I wish I was as nimble." "Pooh! That's nothing. I'm the best climber anywheres on the mounting. I can beat any boy 'round, even if I do wear petticoats. I'll learn you if you want me to," offered the visitor, generously. "Thank you," said Dorothy, rather doubtfully. She did not yet know how necessary climbing might be, in her new country life, but her aspirations did not tend that way. Then thinking that this trio of Babcocks might have come upon an errand to Mrs. Chester, she inquired: "Did you want to see my mother?" Alfaretta sat down on a convenient bowlder and her sisters did the same, while she remarked: "You may as well set, yourself, for we come to see you more'n anybody else. Besides, you haven't got any mother. I know all about you." "Indeed! How can that be, since I came to Skyrie only last night? And I came out to find some wild strawberries for my father's breakfast--we haven't had it yet." If this was intended for a polite hint that it was too early in the day for visiting it fell pointless, for Alfaretta answered, without the slightest hesitation: "We haven't, neither. We've come to spend the day. Ma she said she thought you might be lonesome and 'twasn't no more'n neighborly to start in to once. More'n that, she's glad to get us out the way, 'cause she's going down mounting to the 'other village' to 'Liza Jane's store--Claretta, stop suckin' your thumb! Dorothy Chester don't do that, and ma said she'd put some more that picra on it if you don't quit--to buy us some gingham for dresses. She heard 'Liza Jane had got in a lot real cheap and she's going to get a web 'fore it's all picked over." Tired of standing, Dorothy had also dropped down upon the bowlder and now was regarding her uninvited guests with much of the same curiosity they were bestowing upon her, and Alfaretta obligingly shoved her smallest sister off the rock to make more room for their hostess. "Don't do that! What makes you so rough with them? Besides, I must go. Mother will need me and I don't see any berries," said Dorothy, springing up. "Excuse me, please." As she stooped to pick up the tin pail she had left on the grass, Alfaretta snatched it from her grasp and was off down the slope, calling back: "Come on, then! I know where they're thicker 'n molasses in the winter time!" With their unvarying imitation of their elder sister the two little girls likewise scampered away, and fearing she would lose mother Martha's new "bucket" Dorothy followed also. Across a little hollow in the field and up another rise Alfaretta led the way and there fulfilled her promise, for the northern hillside was red with the fruit. With little outcries of delight all of them went down upon their knees and began to gather it; the younger ones greedily stuffing their mouths till their faces were as red as the berries, but Alfaretta scrupulously dropping all but a few extra-sized ones into the rapidly filling pail. But she kept close to Dorothy and laughingly forced these finer ones between her protesting lips, demanding once: "Ever go berryin' before, Dorothy C.?" "Not--this kind of 'berrying,'" answered the other, with a keen recollection of the "berrying" she had done for the truck-farmer, Miranda Stott. "But how happened you to call me that 'Dorothy C.' as only my own people do? Who told you about me?" "Why--everybody, I guess. Anyhow, I know all about you. See if I don't. You was a 'foundling' on the Chesterses' doorstep and they brought you up. You was kidnapped, and that there Barlow boy that Mis' Calvert's brought to Deerhurst helped you to get away. Mis' Calvert, she saw you in a lane, or somethin', and fetched you back to that Baltimore city where the both of you lived. Then she brought you here, too, 'cause Mr. Chester he's got something the matter with his legs and has had to come to the mounting and live on Skyrie farm. If he makes a livin' off it it'll be more'n anybody else ever done, ma says. The old man that owned it 'fore he gave it to Mis' Chester, he was crazy as a loon. Believed there was a gold mine, or somethin' like that, under the south medder--'D you ever hear such a thing! Ma says all the gold'll ever be dug out o' Skyrie is them rocks he put into his stone walls. The whole farm was just clear rocks, ma says, and that's why the walls are four five feet thick, some of 'em more. There wasn't no other place to put 'em and besides he wanted it that way. The whole of Skyrie farm is bounded--Ever study jogaphy? Know how to bound the states? Course. I s'pose you've been to school more'n I have: but I can bound Skyrie for you all right. On the north by a stone wall, 'joining Judge Satterlee's place: on the south by a stone wall right against Cat Hollow--that's where I live, other side the mounting but real nigh, cut 'cross lots. On the east--I guess that's Mis' Calvert's woods; an' west--Oh! fiddlesticks--I don't know whose land that is, but it's kept off by more stone wall an' the thickest of the lot. Where the stone wall had to be left open for bar-ways, to drive through, he went to work and nailed up the bars. That's why I had to hop over, 'stead of letting 'em down. Say, our pail is filling real fast. Pity you hadn't a bigger one. After we've et breakfast we can come and get a lot for Mis' Chester to preserve. Ma she's done hers a'ready. Let's rest a minute." Dorothy agreed. She was finding this new acquaintance most attractive, despite the forwardness of her manner, for there was the jolliest of smiles constantly breaking out on the round, freckled face, and the blue eyes expressed a deal of admiration for this city girl, so unlike herself in manner and appearance. Her tongue had proved fully as nimble as her fingers, and now while she rested she began afresh: "Ma says I could talk the legs off an iron pot, if I tried, and I guess you're thinkin' so too. Never mind. Can't help it. Ain't it queer to be adopted? There was a power of money, real, good money, offered for you, wasn't there! My heart! Think of one girl bein' worth so much to anybody! It was all in the papers, but ma says likely we never would have noticed it, only Mis' Satterlee she showed it to ma, account of Mis' Chester moving up here an' going nigh crazy over losin' you. Ma she washes for the Satterlees, and they give us their old papers. Pa he loves to read. Ma says he'd rather set an' read all day than do a stroke to earn an honest livin'. Pa says if your folks had so many children as he has and some of 'em got away he wouldn't offer no reward for 'em, he wouldn't. But ma said: 'Now, pa, you hush! You'd cry your eyes out if Diaretta fell into the rain-barrel, or anything!' We ain't all ma's children. Four of 'em's named Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They're hired out to work, 'cause they're older 'n what I am, and three is dead. Say, that's awful fine stuff your dress is made of. Do you wear that kind all the time? and shoes, too?" "Yes, this is an everyday frock that dear Mrs. Calvert had made for me and gave me. She is my father's friend and is sorry for him, and does things for me, I reckon, just to help him. Of course, I wear shoes--when I have them!" laughed Dorothy, carefully refraining from looking at Alfaretta's own bare feet. "What you laughing at?" demanded that observant young person, already joining in the mirth without knowing its cause. "I was thinking how I was once allowed to buy a pair of shoes for myself and picked them out so small they nearly crippled me. And I have been barefooted, too, sometimes, when I was trying to escape from the truck-farm;" and once started upon the subject, Dorothy did not hesitate to complete the narrative of her adventures and, indeed, of all her short, simple life, as already related by me in another book called, "Dorothy Chester."--how she had been picked up on the doorstep by Mrs. Chester and brought up as that lady's own child--how she had been kidnapped and taken to the truck farm--how honest Jim Barlow had proved her best friend--and how at last the rich Mrs. Calvert had restored her to her foster parents at this picturesque if rather dilapidated home in the Highlands of the Hudson. Alfaretta was likewise confidential, and with each passing moment and each fresh remembrance the liking between the two little maids strengthened. Finally, with a trifle of gloom, the country girl disclosed the fact: "Pa he's the scolder to our house, but ma she's the licker. She says she ain't going to spoil her children by sparing rods when our 'upper lot' is full of 'em. The rods, I mean. She doesn't, neither. That's true as preachin'." "Why, Alfaretta! Are you ever whipped? A big girl like you?" "Huh! I may be bigger 'n you but I ain't much older. When's your birthday?" "The second of April." "My heart! If that don't beat the Dutch! Mine's the first. So we must be next door to twins. But lickin's! You just come to Cat Hollow any Saturday night, 'bout sundown, and you'll be in the nick of time to get a whack yourself. Ma says she's real impartial, 'cause she takes us in turn. One week she begins with me and the next time with Claretta. Diaretta ain't old enough yet to fall into line, and the boys were let off soon as they went to work and fetched in money. Ma says all of us need a lickin' once a week, anyhow, and she don't have time to bother with it only Saturday nights, after we all get washed. When do you get licked, yourself, Dorothy C.?" "When? Never! Never in my whole life has anybody struck me. I--I wouldn't bear it--I couldn't!" cried Dorothy, indignantly. "But I mustn't stop here any longer. We've more than enough berries for breakfast and I'm so hungry. Besides, we're out of sight of the house and my father John will worry. He said last night, when he had me in his arms again after so long and so much happening, that he meant to keep me right beside him for the rest of his life. Of course, he didn't mean that exactly, and he was asleep when I came out. I waked up so early, with all the birds singing round, and oh! I think this wonderful old mountain is almost too beautiful to be true! Seems as if I'd come to fairyland, sure enough! I'm going now." Dorothy said this with a faint hope that her visitors might depart without taxing Mrs. Chester to provide them a meal. She knew that no food was ever wasted in mother Martha's frugal household and but sufficient for three ever prepared, unless there was due warning of more to partake. Twice three would halve the rations and--at that moment, with appetite sharpened by early rising and the cool mountain air--the young hostess felt as if she could not endure the halving process. However, her hope proved useless, for with a shout and bound, Baretta started for the cottage and Claretta kept her a close second, both crying loudly: "I'm hungry, too! I'm hungry, too!" Alfaretta was off with a rush, carrying the pail of berries and bursting in upon the astonished Mrs. Chester, with the announcement: "We've come to spend the day! We're Mis' Babcock's children. See all the berries I've picked you? Is breakfast ready? 'Cause we are if it ain't!" "Where--is--Dorothy C.?" questioned the housemistress, recognizing the extended pail as her own, wondering how it had come into this girl's hands, and failing to see any sign of her daughter, no matter how closely she peered outward. "Why, sakes alive! Where is she?" echoed Alfaretta, with great surprise, also searching the landscape. "A minute ago she was tagging me, close, and now she isn't! My heart! What if she's gone and got herself kidnapped again!" CHAPTER II AN UNFORTUNATE AFFAIR But nothing so dire had happened. Crossing the grassy stretch before the cottage Dorothy had caught sight of Jim Barlow's familiar figure, coming along the tree-bordered lane which led to Deerhurst, and had hurried to meet him. The shrubbery hid her from view of Mrs. Chester and the Babcock girls, and for a moment mother Martha's heart sank with the same dread she had known while her beloved child had been absent from her. "Kidnapped!" If Alfaretta had tried she couldn't have hit upon a more terrifying word to her hearer. "O Jim! Did ever anybody see such a beautiful, beau-ti-ful spot as this? Let me hold Peter's chain--the darling dog! No, he won't get away from me! I shan't let him. You can lead Ponce--but why did you bring them? Did Mrs. Calvert know? How do you like Deerhurst? Are you going to be happy there? Shall you have a chance to study some? Must you work in the garden all the time? Oh! I want to know everything all at once and you are so slow to talk! But, Jim dear, just stop a minute and look--look! Isn't our new home lots prettier than the little brick house where we used to live--77 Brown Street, Baltimore! Do stop and look--please do!" Obedient Jim did pause, for this small maid could always compel him to her will, though he felt he was half-disobedient to his real mistress, Mrs. Cecil, in doing so. She had sent him with a basket of fruit from her own fine garden for the family at Skyrie and had bidden him take the Great Danes along to give them their morning exercise. They were wild with delight over the outing, and their vigorous gambols not only threatened to upset the basket hung on his arm but made him caution: "Look out, Dorothy Chester! That there dog'll get away, an' then what'll happen?" "Why--he'll get away, silly! You just said so yourself! But I won't let him--Quiet, Peter, bad dog! Down, sir, down! No, I'm not one bit afraid of you now, even if once you did nearly kill me and scared me out of my senses! O Jim! I'm so happy--so happy! Almost too happy to live. If my precious father were only well! That's the one thing isn't just perfect." In her joy Dorothy gave her tall friend a rapturous pat on the shoulder, and though a swift flush rose to his sunburned cheek he shook off her caress as he would the touch of a troublesome insect. In his eyes this little maid whom he had rescued from her imprisonment on Mrs. Stott's truck-farm was the most wonderful of human beings, with her dainty, graceful ways and her lovely, mobile face. All the same--she was a girl, and for girls, as such, James Barlow had a boyish contempt. But she did not resent his action, indeed scarcely noticed it as, whirling about to suit her movements to those of Peter, she still pointed to her new home: "They say the man who built that house was queer, but seems to me he was very wise. All of stone, so, it looks almost like a big rock and part of the mountain itself. Such cute little, tiny-paned windows! Such a funny stairway going up to the second floor on the outside! There's a little one inside--so narrow and twisted, Jim, that even I can hardly walk straight up it but have to go sidewise. Then the back of the house is even with the ground. I mean that the biggest, best room of all, which is father John's, opens right on the garden. Two stories and a cellar in front, only a wee low story behind! Like a piece of the hillside it's on. Then the vines! Did you ever see such beauties? Oh! I love it, I love it, already, and I've only been here one night. What will it be when I've lived a long time there!" "Huh! You'll get sick enough of it--'fore long too. S'pose you hain't heard it's _haunted_--but I have, an' 'tis!" "Jim Barlow! How ridiculous and--how delightful! What sort of a 'haunt' is it? Masculine, feminine, or neuter?" demanded Dorothy C., clapping her hands. "Look out! Don't you let go that dog! You hold him tight, I tell you!" returned the lad, as her sudden action loosened the chain attached to Peter's collar. But she caught it again, deftly, and faced her friend, vexed that she saw in his face no answering enthusiasm to her own over the "loveliness" of Skyrie cottage. "I haven't let go--yet, Master 'Fraid-cat! And you _shall_ say my home is pretty!" she protested, imperatively. "Say it quick, too, 'cause I haven't had my breakfast and I have company waiting to eat it with me. Say it, Jim, say it!" The boy laughed. He was very happy himself, that sunshiny morning, and felt more at ease than he had done for many days, because, at last, he was once more clad in blouse and overalls and knew that he had a busy day of congenial work before him. True, these working garments were new and of the best quality, provided by his new employer, but like in cut and comfort to those he had always worn. His feet alone bothered him, for a barefooted person could not be permitted about Deerhurst and his shoes were stiff and troublesome. Now there's nothing more trying to one's temper than feet which "hurt," and it was physical discomfort mostly that made the lad's tongue sharp and his mood unsympathetic; and thus goaded to an enthusiasm he did not feel he retorted: "Well, it's purty enough, then, but that ruff must leak like a sieve." "It's all mossy green on one side----" "Where the shingles is rotten." "And the dear little window-panes are like an old-fashioned picture!" "A right smart of 'em is cracked or burst entirely." "O Jim! How very unromantic you are! But you cannot say but that the vines are beautiful!" "I've heard they're fust-class for givin' folks the rheumatiz." Dorothy's enthusiasm ebbed. Rheumatism was the one malady that sometimes affected mother Martha's health. But she was not to be dashed by forebodings, and pointing to the garden declared: "You cannot say a thing against our garden, anyway. Think of all that room for roses and posies and everything nice!" "Garden? I call it a reg'lar weed-patch." Dorothy heaved a sigh which seemed to come from her very shoes. "You're--you're perfectly horrid, Jim Barlow. But I heard you say, once, while we were working on that truck-farm, that the thing you most longed for--after your education--was to own land. Look yonder, all that ground, inside those big stone walls, is ours, _ours_! Mr. Barlow. Behold and envy! Even on that untilled land flowers grow. See them?" "Pshaw! Them's mullein. Ain't no surer sign o' poor soil than a passel o' mullein stalks. Stuns and mullein--Your pa's got a job ahead of him! Now I'm goin' on. I was told to give this basket to Mis' Chester and this note I've got in my jumper pocket to Mr. I'd ruther you'd take 'em, only I was _told_; and we've stood here foolin' so long, I've got to hurry like lightnin'. Take care that dog!" With that Jim set his aching feet once more in the path of duty and Dorothy C. marched along beside him, her head held high in disdain but with a twinkle in her eye and mischief in her heart. Jim didn't like girls! Well, there was Alfaretta Babcock waiting for him, and he should be made to go through a formal introduction in punishment for his want of sympathy! She managed that he should precede her through the narrow doorway, into the very presence of the unknown, and chuckled in delight over his sudden, awkward pause, his flustered manner, and his attempt to back out of the little kitchen. Mrs. Chester had gone up the stairs, to help her husband around the corner of the house and down the slope to the kitchen where breakfast was waiting and the three Misses Babcock with it. They sat in a row on the old lounge, their pink sunbonnets folded upon their blue-print laps, alert with the novelty of their situation and for "what next." "Miss Alfaretta Babcock--Mr. James Barlow, of Baltimore. The Misses Baretta and Claretta Babcock--Mr. Barlow," announced Dorothy with perfect gravity, yet anticipating a funny, awkward scene. But she was unprepared for what really did happen, as Alfaretta promptly left the lounge, swept a most remarkable courtesy before the bashful lad, and seizing both his hands--dog-chain and all--in her own plump ones, exclaimed: "Oh! Ain't I glad I come! You're the 'hero' that Mis' Judge Satterlee calls you! I meant to get to know you, soon's ever I could, but this beats the Dutch! I saw you in Mis' Calvert's carriage, last night all dressed up, and I was scared of you, but I ain't now. You might be just Matthew, or Mark, or Luke, though you're too tall for John. He's my littlest brother. Pshaw! To think any plain kind of a boy, same's them, could be a 'hero.' Ain't that queer? Did you come to breakfast, too? You fetched yours in a basket, didn't you? I would, too, but ma she hadn't nothing nice cooked up, and she was sort of scared offerin' city folks country victuals. My! Here comes Mis' Chester and her man. Won't they be tickled to see you!" For a moment, after Alfaretta seized him, Jim looked full as flustered as Dorothy had desired: then all his awkwardness vanished before the hearty good will of the girl and he found himself shaking her hands with a warmth of cordiality equaling her own. She was as honest and simple-natured as himself, and instead of being amused by their meeting Dorothy soon felt something much nearer envy of Alfaretta's power to win liking and confidence. Then she saw through the window father John limping down the path on his crutches, and hurried out to meet him; also to ask of the housemistress: "Isn't there something I can do to help? How can we feed so many people? for, mother dear, Jim's come, too!" "Oh! that's all right, deary. I cooked a lot of stuff, yesterday; made a feast for your homecoming. We'll have to use for breakfast what was meant for dinner. I was dismayed by those children coming, but I'm more than glad to have that boy here. We all owe him much, Dolly darling;" and mother Martha caught her restored child in a grateful embrace. Poor Jim was far more ill at ease in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Chester than he had been with Alfaretta: fidgeting under their thanks and praises, which they had vainly tried to express during their brief interview of the night before, and honestly astonished that anybody should make such ado over so trifling a matter. "'Twan't nothin'. Not a mite. Anybody'd ha' felt sorry for a girl was coaxed away from her folks, that-a-way. Pshaw! Don't! No. I've had my breakfast a'ready. I couldn't. Mis' Calvert, the old lady, she sent me to fetch this basket o' garden sass to Mis' Chester: an' this letter was for you, sir. I was to give it to you an' nobody elst. I'm obleeged to ye, ma'am, but I couldn't. I couldn't, nohow. I'm--I'm chock-full!" With this rather inelegant refusal, Jim turned his back on the neatly-spread table and fled through the doorway, dragging Ponce with him, overturning the too curious Claretta upon the floor, and making a vain effort to loosen Peter's chain from the arm of the chair where Dorothy had hastily fastened it. The result was disaster. Both dogs jerked themselves free and gayly dashed forward toward the road leading down the mountain to the villages at its foot, instead of that leafy lane which would have brought them home to their own kennel. Their long chains dangled behind them, or whirled from side to side, catching in wayside obstructions, but in no wise hindering their mad rush. Scarcely less mad was poor Jim's speed following in pursuit, and the day that had begun so joyously for him was destined to end in gloom. Only the week previous there had been an alarm of "mad dog" in the twin villages, "Upper" and "Lower" Riverside, and local authority was keen to corral any unmuzzled canines; and when these formidable Great Danes of Mrs. Calvert tore wildly through the street, people hastily retreated indoors, while the two constables with pistols, joined by a few brave citizens, gave Peter and Ponce a race for their lives. To them it was all fun. Never, in their city restricted career, had they dreamed of such wide stretches over which to exercise their mighty limbs; and, heretofore, during their summer stays at Deerhurst they had been closely kept within bounds. They were so big that many people were frightened by that mere fact of size and it had been useless for their doting mistress to assure her neighbors that: "They are as gentle as kittens unless they are interfered with. They always recognize the difference between honest persons and tramps." The argument was not convincing. Even a "tramp" might be honest and, in any case, would certainly object to being bitten; therefore the beautiful creatures had lived their days out at the end of a chain and now, for the first, tasted the sweets of liberty. The affair ended by the dogs escaping and finally making their way home almost unobserved, very weary, and reposing with an air of great innocence before their kennel door, where Ephraim the colored coachman discovered them and ejaculated in great surprise: "Fo' de lan' o' love! How come dese yeah dogs done gone got dey chains broke? 'Peahs lak somebody gwine a spite my Miss Betty fo' keepin' 'em, anyhow. Mebbe"--here Ephraim's black face turned a shade paler--"mebbe--somepin's gwine to happen! Dere sholy is! Mebbe--mebbe some dem burgaleers I'se heerd of gwine--gwine----" Visions of disasters too dire to be put into words cut short the old man's speech, and hastily fetching pieces of rope he proceeded to refasten the dogs to the kennel staples, and was much surprised that they submitted so quietly. Then, being as wise as he was faithful, he resolved to say nothing, at present, to the lady of Deerhurst about this incident, reflecting that: "My Miss Betty she ain' sca'ed o' nobody, burgaleers er nothin'. Ef ol' Eph done tol' her erbout dis yeah succumstance she's boun' to set up de whole endurin' night a-lookin' out fo' trouble, wid dat dere pistol-volver in her han's, all ready fo' to shoot de fust creachah puts foot on groun'. Lak's not shoot de wrong one too. She's done got a pow'ful quick tempah, my Miss Betty has, same's all my Somerset family had, bein' fust quality folks lak dey was. No, suh! Dere's times fo' to talk an' dere's times fo' to keep yo' mouf shut. Dis yeah's one dem times, shuah ernuf." So, fully satisfied which of these "times" the present chanced to be, the old coachman departed stableward to attend upon his beloved bays and to make ready for his mistress's morning drive. Meanwhile, on the street of Lower Riverside, Jim Barlow had come to fresh grief. In his frantic chase of the runaway dogs he had almost caught up with Ponce, who suddenly darted into an open doorway of the post-office just as a gentleman emerged from it, carrying a pile of letters and papers just arrived in the early mail. A collision of the three was inevitable, and Ponce was the only one who came out from it intact. With outstretched arms, believing that he had already captured one of the Great Danes, poor Jim threw himself headlong upon the gentleman, who staggered under the unexpected blow and fell backward upon the floor, with the lad atop. In the ensuing struggle to rise they forgot the dog, the animal rushing out of doors again as swiftly as he had rushed within. Instantly there was great commotion. The postmaster hurried to the rescue, as did the crowd of other persons awaiting the distribution of the mail; but the assaulted gentleman proved as agile as he was furious and, as he gained his own feet, Jim found himself being shaken till he lost his balance again and went down at the stranger's side. "You unmannerly lubber! How dare you? I say, how dare you knock me down like that? Set your dog on me, would you? Do you know who I am?" The lad was slow to anger, but once roused could be as furious as the other. His natural impulse was greater than his knowledge of the world, and his answer was to send a telling blow into the gentleman's face. This was "assault" in truth, and oddly enough seemed to restore the victim to perfect coolness. With a bow he accepted the return of the eyeglasses which had been knocked from his nose during the mêlée and turned to the perturbed postmaster, saying: "Mr. Spence, where is the nearest justice of the peace?" "Why--why, Mr. Montaigne, sir, I think he----" "Simmons is out of town. He and Squire Randall have both gone to Newburgh on that big case, you know," interposed a bystander. "Sure enough. Well then, Mr. Montaigne, the nearest justice available this morning is Seth Winters, the blacksmith, up-mountain. Right near your own place, sir, you know." "Thanks. Do you know this boy?" "Never saw him before," answered Mr. Spence. Then, as Jim started to make his way outward through the crowd, he laid a firmly detaining hand upon his shoulder and forced him to remain or again resort to violence. "But I'll find out, sir, if you wish." "Do so, please. Or I presume a constable can do that for me. As for you, young ruffian--we shall meet again." With that the gentleman flicked off some of the dust which had lodged upon his fine clothing, again carefully readjusted his glasses, and stepped out to the smart little trap awaiting his convenience. Everything about the equipage and his own appearance betokened wealth, as well as did the almost servile attentions of his fellow townsmen; though one old man to whom he was a stranger inquired: "That the fellow who's built that fine house on the Heights, beyond Deerhurst?" Mr. Spence wheeled about and demanded in surprise: "What? _you_ here, Winters? And don't you know your own mountain neighbors? Did you see the whole affair?" "I do not know that gentleman, though, of course, I do know his employees, who have brought his horses to me to be shod. Nor do I call anybody a 'neighbor' till I've found him such. The accident of living side by side can't make neighbors. My paper, please? We're going to have a glorious day." It was noticeable that while the roughly clad old man was speaking, the excited voices of the others in the office had quieted entirely, and that as he received his weekly paper--his "one extravagance"--they also remembered and attended to the business which had brought them there. As Mr. Winters left the place he laid his hand upon Jim's shoulder and said: "Come with me, my lad. Our roads lie together." The boy glanced into the rugged yet benignant face turned toward him and saw something in it which calmed his own anger; and without a word he turned and followed. "Goodness! If the young simpleton hasn't gone off with the Squire of his own accord!" remarked one they had left behind. But untutored Jim Barlow knew nothing of law or "justices." All he knew was that he had looked into the eyes of a friend and trusted him. CHAPTER III ON THE ROAD TO SOUTH MEADOW For a moment the group in the kitchen at Skyrie were dismayed by Jim Barlow's sudden departure and the escape of the dogs. Then Dorothy, who knew him best, declared: "He'll catch them. Course. Jim always can do what he wants to do; and--shall we never, never, have our breakfast? Why, Alfaretta, you thoughtful girl! Why didn't I know enough to do that myself? Not leave it to you, the 'company'!" Mrs. Chester turned back from the doorway, where she had been trying to follow the dogs' movements, and saw that their guest had quietly possessed herself of a colander from the closet and had hulled the berries into it; and that she was now holding it over the little sink and gently rinsing the fruit with cold water. The housemistress smiled her prompt approval, though she somewhat marveled at this stranger's assured manner, which made her as much at home in another's house as in her own. "Why, Alfaretta, how kind! Thank you very much. How fragrant those wild berries are! You must have a good mother to have been taught such helpful ways." "Yes, ma'am. She's smarter'n lightnin', ma is. She's a terrible worker, too, and pa he says she tires him out she's so driv' all the time. Do you sugar your strawberries in the dish? or let folks do it theirselves, like Mis' Judge Satterlee does? She's one the 'ristocratics lives up-mounting here and a real nice woman, even if she is rich. Pa he says no rich folks can be nice. He says everybody'd ought to have just the same lot of money and no difference. But ma says 't if pa had all the money there was he'd get rid of it quicker'n you could say Jack Robinson. She says if 'twas all divided just the same 'twouldn't be no time at all 'fore it would all get round again to the same hands had it first. She says the smart ones 'd get it and the lazy ones 'd lose it--Claretta Babcock! Wipe your nose. Ma put a nice clean rag in your pocket, and come to breakfast. It's ready, ain't it, Mis' Chester?" The greatly amused Mr. Chester had taken a chair by the window and drawn Dorothy to his side; whence, without offering her own services, she had watched the proceedings of mother Martha and Alfaretta. The one had carefully unpacked the basket which Jim had brought, and found it contained not only some fine fruit but a jar of honey, a pan of "hot bread"--without which no southern breakfast is considered complete--and half a boiled ham. For a moment, as the mistress of Skyrie surveyed these more substantial offerings she was inclined to resent them. A bit of fruit--that was one thing; but, poor though she might be, she had not yet arrived at the point of being grateful for "cold victuals"! Yet she was almost as promptly ashamed of the feeling and remembered a saying of her wiser husband's: "It takes more grace to accept a favor than to bestow one." Besides, with these three hungry visiting children, the addition to her pantry stores would be very timely. "Such a breakfast as this is! I never laughed so much at any meal in my life!" cried Dorothy, at last finding a chance to edge in a word of her own between Alfaretta's incessant chatterings. "But, Alfaretta, do they always call you by your whole, full name?" "No, they don't. Most the time I'm just Alfy, or Sis. Baretta she's mostly just Retty; and Clary's Clary. Saves time, that way; though ma says no use having high-soundin' names without using 'em, so she never clips us herself. Pa he does. He says life's too short and he ain't got time to roll his tongue 'round so much. But ma she tells him 't a man 't never does anything else might as well talk big words as little ones. Pa he's a Nanarchist. Ever see one? They're awful queer-lookin'; least pa is, an' I s'pose the rest is just like him. His hair's real red and he never combs it. He'd disdain to! And he's got the longest, thickest whiskers of anybody in Riverside, Upper or Lower, or Newburgh either. He's terrible proud of his whiskers, but ma don't like 'em. She says they catch dirt and take away all his ambition. She says if he'd cut 'em off and look more like other men she'd be real proud of him, he's such a good talker. Ma says I'm just like him, that way," naïvely concluded this entertaining young person, who saw no reason why her own family affairs should not become public property. Then without waiting for her hostess to set her the example she coolly pushed back from the table, announcing with satisfaction: "I'm done: and I've et real hearty too. Where's your dishpan at, Mis' Chester? I'll wash up for you, then we can all go outdoors and look 'round. I s'pose you've been down to the gold mine, ain't you?" "Gold mine? Is there one on these premises? Why, that's the very thing we need!" laughed father John, working his chair backward from leg to leg and taking the crutches Dorothy brought him. Even yet she could not keep the look of pity from her brown eyes whenever she saw the once active postman depend upon these awkward, "wooden feet," as he jestingly called them. But he had become quite familiar with them now, and managed to get about the old farm with real alacrity, and had already laid many ingenious plans for working it. He had a hopeful, sunny nature, and never looked upon the dark side of things if he could help it. As he often told his wife, she "could do enough of that for both of them:" and though he had now fallen upon dark days he looked for every ray of sunshine that might brighten them. Not the least of these was the safe return of his adopted daughter, and with her at hand he felt that even his lameness was a mere trifle and not at all a bar to his success. Succeed he would--he must! There was no other thing left possible. What if his feet had failed him? Was he not still a man, with a clear head and infinite patience? Besides, as he quoted to Martha: "God never shuts one door but He opens another." Now as he rose to go outdoors with Dorothy he remembered the letter Jim Barlow had brought him. Letter? It appeared rather like some legal document, with its big envelope and the direction written upon it: "_Important._ Not to be opened until after my death, unless I personally direct otherwise. (Signed), Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The envelope was addressed to himself, by his own full name, and "in case of his death," to his wife, also by her full title. The date of a few days previous had been placed in an upper corner, and the whole matter was, evidently, one of deliberate consideration. Calling Mrs. Chester aside he showed it to her and they both realized that they had received some sort of trust, to be sacredly guarded: but why should such have been intrusted to them--mere humble acquaintances of the great lady who had bestowed it? and where could it be most safely kept? After a moment's pondering mother Martha's face lost its perplexity and, taking the paper from her husband's hand, she whispered: "I know! I've just thought of a place nobody would ever suspect. I'll hide it and tell you--show and when----" Then all at once they perceived the too bright eyes of Alfaretta Babcock fixed upon them with a curiosity that nothing escaped. In their interest concerning the letter they had forgotten her, busy at her task in the rear of the room, and the others had already gone out of doors; yet even in the one brief glimpse she caught of that long, yellow envelope, she knew its every detail. Of course, she was too far away to distinguish the words written upon it, but she could have described to a nicety where each line was placed and its length. Nor did she hesitate to disclose her knowledge, as she exclaimed: "My! That was a big letter that 'hero' boy brought, wasn't it? Have you read it yet? Ain't you going to? Pshaw! I'd like to know what it's all about. I would so, real well. Ma she likes to hear letters read, too, and once we got one from my aunt who lives out west. My aunt is my pa's sister, an' she wanted him to move out there an' make a man of himself; but ma she said he couldn't do that no matter what part of the country he lived in, so he might's well stay where he was, where she was raised and folks 'round knew _she_ was the right sort if _he_ wasn't. So we stayed: but ma she carried that letter round a-showin' it to folks till it got all wore to rags, and Diary got it in her mouth an' nigh choked to death, tryin' to swaller it. So that was the end o' that!" concluded Miss Babcock, giving her dishcloth a wring and an airy flirt, which would have annoyed the careful housemistress had she been there to see. However, at the very beginning of Alfaretta's present harangue, she had perceived that it would be a lengthy one and had slipped away without explaining to her husband where she would put the letter. Mr. Chester also drew himself up on his crutches and swung across the floor and out of doors. Alfaretta's gossip, which had at first amused him, now bored him, and he was ashamed for her that she had so little respect for her parents as to relate their differences to strangers. Unconsciously, he put into his usual friendly manner a new sternness: but this had no further effect upon the talkative girl than to make her probe her memory for something more interesting. Following him through the doorway she laid her hand on his shoulder and begged: "Say, Mr. Chester, let me fetch that big wheel-chair o' yours an' let me roll you down through the south medder to the mine. To where it's covered, I mean. I can do it first-rate. I'm as strong as strong! See my arms? That comes from helpin' ma with the wash. Once I done it all alone and Mis' Judge Satterlee she said 'twas 'most as good as ma 'd have done. Do let me, Mr. Chester! I'd admire to!" The ex-postman looked around and whistled. There was no use in trying to oppose or frown upon this amazing little maid, whose round face was the embodiment of good-nature, and whose desire to help anybody and everybody was so sincere. Besides, there was in her expression an absence of that "pity" which hurt his pride, even when seen upon his darling Dorothy's own face. She seemed to accept his crutches and rolling chair as quite in the natural order of things, like her own sturdy bare feet and her big red arms. "Well, my lass, certainly you are kindness itself. I thought I had hobbled over nearly the whole of this little farm, but I chanced upon no 'mine' of any sort, though if there's one existing I'd mightily like to find it. But I don't think you could roll me very far on this rough ground. Wheel-chairs are better fitted to smooth floors and pavements than rocky fields." Alfaretta paid no attention to his objection, except to spin the chair out from its corner of the kitchen, or living-room, and to place it ready for his use. She was as full of delight and curiosity concerning this helpful article as over every other new thing she saw, and promptly expressed herself thus: "I'm as proud as Punch to be let handle such an elegant chair. My heart! Ain't them leather cushions soft as chicken feathers! And the wheels go round easy as fallin' off a log. I'd admire to be lame myself if I could be rid around in such a sort o' carriage as this. Must have cost a pile of money. How much was it, Mr. Chester?" "I don't know. It was a gift from my old comrades at the post-office: but don't, child, don't 'admire' to possess anything so terrible as this helplessness of mine! With your young healthful body you are rich beyond measure." For the first time she saw an expression of gloom and almost despair cloud the cheerful face of her new acquaintance, and though she thought him very silly to consider health as good as wealth she did not say so; but with real gentleness helped him to swing his crippled body into the chair and set off at a swift pace across the field. All the others had preceded them; even Mrs. Chester having joined the group, determined not to lose sight of her Dorothy again, even for a few moments: and also resolved that, for once, she would forego her usual industry and make a happy holiday. For a time all went well. The ground near the house was not so very rough and the slope southward was a gentle one. The chair rolled easily enough and, for a wonder, Alfaretta's tongue was still. Not since he had arrived at Skyrie had father John had so comfortable a chance to look over the land; and whatever gloom he had for a moment shown soon gave way before the beauty of the day and the delight of feasting his eyes upon Dorothy's trim little figure, skipping along before him. Presently she came running back to join him and with her own hand beside Alfy's, on the handle of his chair, to start that talkative body on a fresh topic. "Tell us about the ghost Jim Barlow said 'haunts' dear Skyrie, Alfy, please. You've heard of it, too, course." "Heard? I should say I had! Why, everybody knows _that_, an' I can't scarce believe you don't yourself. Pshaw! Then maybe you wouldn't have moved up-mounting if you had ha' known. When she heard you was comin' ma she said how 't you must be real brave folks. She wouldn't live here if you'd give her the hull farm. _I--I seen--it once--myself!_" concluded Alfaretta, dropping her voice to an awestruck whisper and thrusting her head forward to peer into father John's face and see if he believed her. He laughed and Dorothy clapped her hands, demanding: "What was he like? Was it a 'he' or a lady 'haunt'? How perfectly romantic and delightful! Tell, tell, quick!" Alfaretta's face assumed a look of great solemnity and a shiver of real fear ran over her. These new people might laugh at the Skyrie ghost, but to her it was no laughing matter. Indeed, she had such a dread of the subject that it had been the one her loquacious tongue had abjured, leaving it to the newcomer, Jim Barlow, to introduce it. But now--Well! If they wanted to hear about the dreadful thing it might be wise to gratify them. "He's a--'he.' Everybody says that who's seen 'him,'" began the narrator, still in an unnaturally subdued tone. "Good enough!" ejaculated Mr. Chester, gayly, entering into the spirit of fun he saw shining on Dorothy's face, and glad indeed that his impressionable child did not take this statement seriously. "Good enough! He'll be company for me, for I greatly miss men companions." "I guess you won't like _him_ for no companion, Mr. Chester. Why, the very place he stays the most is in--_that very--room you--come out of to your breakfast_--where you stay, too!" cried Alfaretta, impressively. "But other times he lives in the gold mine." Father John looked back at Dorothy and merrily quoted a verse--slightly altered to fit the occasion: "I never saw a Skyrie Ghost, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow I'd rather see than be one." Dorothy as merrily and promptly joined in this remodeled ditty of the "Purple Cow," but they were destined never to complete it; because, absorbed in her own relation and astonished at their light treatment of it, Alfaretta ceased to observe the smoothness or roughness of their path and inadvertently propelled the wheel-chair into a wide, open ditch, whose edge was veiled by a luxurious growth of weeds. An instant later the wheels were uppermost, the two girls had been projected upon them, and poor father John buried beneath the whole. CHAPTER IV THE LEARNED BLACKSMITH As the old man called Winters left the post-office he struck out for the mountain road, a smooth macadamized thoroughfare kept in perfect order for the benefit of the wealthy summer residents of the Heights, whither it led: but he soon left it for a leafy ravine that ran alongside and was rich with the sights and sounds of June. Whether he did this from habit, being an ardent lover of nature, or because he knew that all anger must be soothed by the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers, can only be guessed. Certain it is that if he sought to obtain the latter result for his disturbed companion, who had as silently followed him into the shady by-way as he had from the crowded office, he fully succeeded. The ravine, like the road, climbed steadily upward, and the noisy little stream that tumbled through it made a soothing accompaniment to the bird songs: and in his own delight of listening the old man almost forgot his fellow traveler. Almost, but not quite; for just at a point where the gully branched eastward and he paused to admire, a sigh fell on Seth Winters's ear, and set him face backward, smiling cheerily and remarking: "This is one of my resting-spots. Let's stop a minute. The moss--or lichen--on this bowlder must be an inch thick. Dry as a feather cushion, too, because the sun strikes this particular place as soon as it rises above old Beacon, across the river. Sit, please." He seated himself as he spoke, and Jim dropped down beside him. "Beautiful, isn't it, lad? And made for just us two to appreciate, it may be: for I doubt if any others ever visit this hidden nook. Think of the immeasurable wealth of a Providence who could create such a wonder for just two insignificant human beings. Ah! but it takes my breath away!" and as if in the presence of Deity itself, the blacksmith reverently bared his head. Unconsciously, Jim doffed his own new straw hat; though his companion smiled, realizing that the action was due to example merely, or even to a heated forehead. But he commended, saying: "That's right. A man can think better with his head uncovered. If it wouldn't rouse too much idle talk I'd never wear a hat, the year round." To this the troubled lad made no reply. Indeed, he scarcely noticed what was said, he was so anxious over the affair of the morning; and, with another prodigious sigh, he suddenly burst forth; "What in the world 'll I do!" "Do right, of course. That's easy." "Huh! But when a feller don't know which is right--Pshaw!" "You might as well tell me the whole story. I'm bound to hear it in the end, you know, because I'm the justice of the peace whom that angry gentleman was in pursuit of. If his common sense doesn't get the better of his anger, you'll likely be served a summons to appear before me and answer for your 'assault.' But--he hasn't applied to me yet; and until he does I've a right to hear all you have to say. Better begin at the beginning of things." Jim looked up perplexed. He had only very vague ideas of justice as administered by law and, at present, he cared little about that. If he could make this fine old fellow see right into his heart, for a minute, he was sure he would be given good advice. He even opened his lips to speak, but closed them again with a sense of the uselessness of the attempt. So that it was with the surprise of one who first listens to a "mind reader" that he heard Seth Winters say: "I know all about you. If you can't talk for yourself, my lad, I'll talk for you. You are an orphan. As far as you know there isn't a human being living who has any claim to your services by reason of blood relationship. You worked like a bond slave for an exacting old woman truck-farmer until pity got the better of your abnormal sense of 'duty,' when you ran away and helped a kidnapped girl to reach her friends. In recognition of your brave action my neighbor, Mrs. Betty Calvert, has taken you in hand to give you a chance to make a man of yourself. She is going to test your character further and, if you prove worthy, will give you the education you covet more than anything else in life. She brought you here last night and this morning trusted you with two important matters: the delivery to a certain gentleman, whom as yet I do not know, of a confidential letter: and the care of her Great Danes, creatures which she looks upon as almost wiser than human beings and considers her stanchest friends. The latter safely reached Mr. Chester's hands; but--the Danes? What shall we do about the Danes, Jim Barlow?" "Thun--der--a--tion! You must be one them air wizards I heerd Mis' Stott tell about, 't used to be in that Germany country where she was raised. Why--pshaw! I feel as if you'd turned me clean inside out! How--how come it?" "In the most natural way. The men who print newspapers search closely for a bit of 'news,' and so your simple story got into the columns of my weekly. Besides, Mrs. Betty Calvert and I are lifelong friends. Our fathers' estates in old Maryland lay side by side. She's a gossip, Betty is, and who so delightful to gossip with as an old man who's known your whole life from A to izzard? So when she can't seat herself in my little smithy and hinder my work by chattering there, she must needs put all her thoughts and actions on a bit of writing paper and send it through the post. Now, my lad, I've talked to you more than common. Do you know why?" "No, I don't, and it sounds like some them yarns Dorothy C. used to make up whilst we was pickin' berries in the sun, just to make it come easier like. She can tell more stories, right out her plain head 'n a feller 'd believe! She's awful clever, Dorothy is--and spell! My sakes! If I could spell like her I'd be sot up. But I don't see how just bein' befriended by Mis' Calvert made you talk to me so much." The blacksmith laughed, and answered: "Indeed, lad, it wasn't that. That big-hearted woman has so many protégés that one more or less scarcely interests me. Only for something in themselves. Well, it was something in yourself. Down there in the office, while I stood behind a partition and nobody saw me--I would hide anywhere to keep out of a quarrel!--I saw you, the very instant after Mr. Montaigne had shaken you and you'd struck back, lift your foot and step aside because a poor little caterpillar was crawling across the floor and you were in danger of crushing it. It was a very little thing in itself, but a big thing to have been done by a boy in the terrific passion you were. It was one of God's creatures, and you spared it. I believe you're worth knowing. But I'd like to have that belief confirmed by hearing what you are going to do next. Let us go on." They both rose and each carrying his hat in his hand, the better to facilitate "thinking," went silently onward again. It was a long climb, something more than two miles, but the ravine ended at length in a meadow on the sloping hillside, which Seth Winters crossed by a tiny footpath. Then they were upon the smooth white road again. Before them rose the fine mansions of those residents designated by Alfaretta as the "aristocratics," and scattered here and there among these larger estates were the humbler homes of the farmer folk who had dwelt "up-mounting" long before it had become the fashionable "Heights." Not far ahead lay Deerhurst, the very first of the expensive dwellings to be erected amid such a wilderness of rocks and trees: its massive stone walls half-hidden by the ivy clambering over them, its judiciously trimmed "vistas" through which one might look northward to the Catskills and downward to the valley bordering the great Hudson. Just within the clematis-draped entrance-pillars stood the picturesque lodge where the childless couple lived who had charge of the estate and with whom Jim was to stay. He had been assigned a pleasant upper chamber, comfortably fitted up with what seemed to its humble occupant almost palatial splendor. Best of all, there hung upon the wall of this chamber a little book-rack filled with well-selected literature. And, though the boy did not know this, the books had been chosen to meet just his especial case by Seth Winters himself, at the behest of his old friend, Mrs. Calvert, immediately upon her decision to bring Jim to Deerhurst. Even now, one volume lay on the window ledge, where the happy lad had risen to study it as soon as daylight came. He fancied that he could see it, even at this distance, and another of his prodigious sighs issued from his lips. "Well, lad. We have come to the parting of the ways, at least for the present. My smithy lies yonder, beyond that turn of the road and behind the biggest oak tree in the country. Behind the shop is another mighty fellow, known all over this countryside as the 'Great Balm of Gilead.' It's as old, maybe, as 'the everlasting hills,' and seems to hold the strength of one. I've built an iron fence around it, to protect its bark from the knives of silly people who would carve their names upon it, and--it's well worth seeing. Good-by." "Hold on! Say. You seem so friendly like, mebbe--mebbe you could give me a job." "No, I couldn't," came the answer with unexpected sharpness, yet a tinge of regret. "Why not? I'm strong--strong as blazes, for all I'm kind of lean 'count of growin' so fast. And I'm steady. If you could see Mirandy Stott, she'd have to 'low that, no matter how mad she was about my leavin'. Give me a job, won't ye?" "No. I thought you were going to do right. Good-morning;" and, as if he wholly gave up his apparent interest in the lad, Seth Winters, known widely and well as the "Learned Blacksmith," strode rapidly homeward to his daily toil, feeling that he had indeed wasted his morning; and he was a man to whom every hour was precious. Jim's perplexity was such that he would far rather run away and turn his back on all these new helpful friends than return to Deerhurst and confess his unfaithfulness to his duty. He fancied he could hear Mrs. Cecil saying: "Well, I tried you and found you wanting. I shall never trust you again. You can go where you please, for you've had your chance and wasted it." Of course, even in fancy, he couldn't frame sentences just like these, but the spirit of them was plain enough to his mind. The dogs--One thought of these, at that moment, altered everything. It had been commented upon by all the retainers of the house of Calvert that such discriminating animals had made instant friends with the uncouth farm boy. This had flattered his pride and his fondness for all dumb creatures had made them dear to him beyond his own belief. Poor Ponce! Poor Peter! If they suffered because of his negligence--Well, he must make what atonement he could! His doubts sank to rest though his reluctance to follow the dictates of his conscience did not; and it was by actual force he dragged his unwilling feet through the great stone gateway and along the driveway to that shady veranda where he saw the mistress of Deerhurst sitting, ready waiting for her morning drive and the arrival of Ephraim. As Jim approached she looked at him curiously. Why should he come by that road when he was due from another? and why was he not long ago transplanting those celery seedlings which she had directed him should be his first day's labor? As he reached the wide steps he snatched off his hat again; not, as she fancied, from an instinctive respect to her but to cool his hot face, and without prelude jerked out the whole of his story: "Mis' Calvert, ma'am, I've lost your dogs. I've been in a fight. I'm going to be arrested an' took afore a judge-blacksmith. Likely I'll be jailed. 'Tain't no sort o' use sayin' I'm sorry--that don't even touch to what I feel inside me. You give me a chance an'--an'--I wasn't worth it. I'll go, now, and--and soon's I can get a job an' earn somethin' I'll send you back your clothes. Good-by." "Stop! Wait! _You lost my dogs!_" cried Mrs. Cecil, springing up and in a tone which brooked no disobedience: a tone such as a high-born dame might sometimes use to an inferior but was rarely heard from this real gentlewoman; a tone that, despite the humility and self-contempt he felt at that moment, stung the unhappy youth like a whip-lash. "Explain. At once. If they're lost they must be found. That you've been foolish enough to fight and get arrested--that's your own affair--nothing to me; but my dogs, my priceless, splendid, irreplaceable Great Danes! Boy, you might as well have struck me on my very heart. Where? When? Oh! if I had never, never seen you!" Poor Jim said nothing. He stood waiting with bowed head while she lavished her indignation upon him, and realizing, for the first, how great a part of a lonely old life even dumb animals may become. When, for want of breath, or further power to contemn, she sank back in her stoop chair, he turned to go, a dejected, disappointed creature that would have moved Mrs. Cecil's heart to pity, had she opened her eyes to look. But she had closed them in a sort of hopeless despair, and he had already retraced his footsteps some distance toward the outer road when there sounded upon the air that which sent her to her feet again--this time in wild delight--and arrested him where he stood. At once, following those joyful barks, that both hearers would have recognized anywhere, came the leaping, springing dogs; dangling their broken chains and the freshly gnawed and broken ropes--with which old Ephraim had unwisely reckoned to restrain them from the sweets of a once tasted liberty. But even amid her sudden rejoicing where had been profound sorrow, the doting mistress of the troublesome Great Danes felt a sharp tinge of jealousy. "They're safe, the precious creatures! But--they went to that farm boy first!" CHAPTER V AN ACCIDENT AND AN APPARITION The screams of Dorothy and Alfaretta brought Mrs. Chester hurrying back to them and as she saw what had happened her alarm increased, for it seemed impossible that a helpless person, like her husband, should go through such an accident and come out safe. For a moment her strength left her and she turned giddy with fear, believing that she had brought her invalid here only to be killed. The next instant she was helping the girls to free themselves from the tangle of wheels, briars, and limbs; and then all three took hold of the heavy chair to lift it from the prostrate man. "John! John! Are you alive? Speak--do speak if you love me!" cried poor mother Martha, frantic with anxiety. But for a time, even after they had lifted him to the bank above, Mr. Chester lay still with closed eyes and no sign of life about him. There was a bruise upon his forehead where he had struck against a rock in falling; and, seeing him so motionless, poor Dorothy buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud: "Oh! I've killed him! I've killed my precious father!" "There is a bridge across the ditch just yonder!--Why didn't you see it! How could you--" began Mrs. Chester; yet got no further in her up-braidings, for father John opened his eyes and looked confusedly about him. Either the sound of voices or the liberal dash of cold water, which thoughtful Alfaretta had rushed away to bring and throw upon him, had restored him to consciousness, and his beclouded senses rapidly became normal. It had been a great shock but, more fortunately than his frightened wife at first dared to believe, there were no broken bones, and it was with intense thankfulness that she now picked up his crutches and handed them to him at his demand. "Well, I reckon wooden feet are safest, after all! I've never--I'll never go without them. Good thing I brought them--No, thank you! Walking's good!" he cried, with all his usual spirit though in a weak voice. They had managed to get the chair into position and found it as uninjured as its owner. A few scratches here and there marred the polish of the frame and one cushion had sustained an ugly rent. It had been a very expensive purchase for the donors and an ill-advised one. A lighter, cheaper chair would have been far more serviceable; and, as father John tried to steady himself upon his crutches, he regarded it with his familiar, whimsical smile that comforted them all more readily than words: "The boys might as well have given me an automobile! Wouldn't have been much more clumsy--nor dangerous!" he declared, trying to swing himself forward from the spot where he stood, striving to steady himself upon his safer "wooden feet." "O John! how can you joke? You might be--be dead!" wailed mother Martha, weeping and unnerved for the first time, now that all danger was past. "And that's the best 'joke' of all. I might be but I'm not. So let's all heave--heave away! for that pleasant shore of a wide lounge and a--towel! With the best intentions--I've been ducked pretty wet!" "That was my fault! I'm awful sorry but--but--that time John Babcock he fell off the barn roof ma she flung a whole pail of water right out the rain-barrel onto him and that brung him to quicker'n scat. So I remembered and I'm real sorry now," explained Alfaretta, more abashed than ordinarily: and in her own heart feeling that the guilt of carelessness which caused the accident had been more hers than Dorothy's. "And nobody needn't scold Dolly C. 'Cause she didn't know about the bridge over an' I did, and----" "No, no! My fault, my very own!" interposed Dorothy hastily. "Let nobody blame nobody! All's well that ends well! Alfaretta mustn't regret her serviceable memory nor my drenching, for she's a wise little maid and I owe my 'coming to,' to her 'remembering.' As for you, Dolly darling, let me see another tear in your eye and I will 'scold' in earnest. Now, Martha, wife, I'll give it up. I'm rather shaky on my pins yet and the chair it must be, if I'm to put myself in connection with that lounge. I shan't need the towel after all. I've just let myself 'dreen,' as my girl used to do with the dishes, sometimes!" He talked so cheerily and so naturally that he almost deceived them into believing that he was not a whit the worse for his tumble, and as they helped him to be seated and began to push him up the slope toward the cottage, he whistled as merrily as he had used to do upon his postal route. "And you ain't goin' to the gold mine after all?" asked Alfy, much disappointed. It was a spot she had hitherto shunned on account of its ghostly reputation, but was eager to visit now in company with these owners of it, who scoffed at the "haunt." She wanted to show them she was right and see what they would say then. "Gold mine? Trash! If there had been such a thing on this farm, a man as clever as my uncle Simon Waterman would have used some of the 'gold' to keep things in better shape. I don't want to hear any more of that nonsense, nor to have you, Dorothy, go searching for the place. Our first trip to hunt for gold has been a lesson to us all," said mother Martha, with such sharpness that Alfaretta stared and the others, who knew her better, realized that this was a time to keep silence. More than once that day was the good housewife tempted to send the three visiting Babcocks home, but was too courteous to do so. She longed to have her daughter to herself, and to discuss with her not only the happenings of the past but plans for the future. Besides this desire, she also saw, at last, how badly shaken by his fall her husband was and that he needed perfect quiet--a thing impossible to procure with Alfaretta Babcock in the cottage. However, the day wore away at length. The girl showed herself as useful in the dinner-getting and clearing away as she had done at breakfast time; also, she and her sisters brought to it as keen an appetite, so that, after all, the clearing away was not so great a matter as might be. Dorothy kept the smaller girls out of doors, helping them to make a playhouse with bits of stones, to stock it with broken crockery and holly-hock dolls, and to entrance them with her store of fairy tales to such a degree that Baretta decided: "I'm comin' again, Dorothy Chester. I'm comin' ever' single day they is." "Oh, no! You mustn't do that!" gasped the surprised young hostess. "I will have to work a great deal to help my mother and I shan't have time for visiting." "Me come, too, Do'thy Chetter," lisped Claretta. "Me like playhouth futh-rate. Me come to-mowwow day, maybe." Dorothy said no more, but found a way to end their plans by getting a book for herself, and becoming so absorbed in it that they ceased to find her interesting and wandered off by themselves to rummage in the old barn; and, finally, to grow so tired of the whole place that they began to howl with homesickness. Dorothy let them howl. She had recently been promoted to the reading of Dickens, and enthralled by the adventures of Barnaby Rudge she had wandered far in spirit from that mountain farm and the disgruntled Babcocks. Curled up on the grass beneath a low-branched tree she forgot everything, and for a long time knew nothing of what went on about her. Meantime, to keep Alfaretta's tongue beyond reach of her husband's ears, Mrs. Chester had gone down into the cellar of the cottage which, her visitor informed her, had once been the "dairy." Until now, since her coming to Skyrie, the housemistress had occupied herself only in getting the upper rooms cleaned and furnished with such of her belongings as she had brought with her, and in attendance upon father John. She had not attempted any real farm work, though she had listened to his plans with patient unbelief in his power to accomplish any of them. "If Dorothy should be found," had been his own conclusion of all his schemes, during the time of their uncertainty concerning her; and afterward, when news of her safety and early coming had reached them, he merely changed this form to: "Now that Dorothy is found." Everything had its beginning and end in "Dorothy." For her the garden was to be made, especially the flower beds in it; the farm rescued from its neglected condition and made a well-paying one, that Dorothy might be educated; and because of Dorothy's love of nature the whole property must be rendered delightfully picturesque. Now Dorothy had really come; and, unfortunately, as Mrs. Chester expressed it: "I can see to the bottom of our pocket-book, John dear, and it's not very deep down. Plans and talk are nice but it takes money to carry them out. As for your doing any real work yourself, you can't till you get well. 'Twould only hinder your doing so if you tried. We'll have to hire a man to work the ground for us and clear it of weeds. If we can get him to do it 'on shares,' so much the better; if he won't do that--Oh! hum! To think of folks having more dollars than they can spend and we just enough to starve on!" This talk had been on that very day before, while they sat impatiently awaiting her arrival, and it had made John Chester wince. While his life had been in danger, even during all their time of doubt concerning their adopted child, Martha had been gentleness and hopefulness indeed. She had seemed to assume his nature and he hers: but now that their more serious fears were removed, each had returned to his own again; she become once more a fretter over trifles and he a jester at them. "Don't say that, dear wife. I don't believe we will starve; or that we'll have to beg the superfluous dollars of other people," he had answered, hiding his regret for his own lost health and comfortable salary. But the much-tried lady was on the highroad toward trouble-borrowing and bound to reach her end. "I might as well say it as think it, John. I never was one to keep things to myself that concern us both, as you did all that time you knew you was going lame and never told me. Besides the man, we must have a horse, or two of them. Maybe mules would come cheaper, if they have 'em around here. We'll have to get a cow, of course. Milk and butter save a lot of butcher stuff. Then we must get a pig. The pig will eat up the sour milk left after the butter's made----" "My dear, don't let him eat up the buttermilk, too! Save that for Dorothy and me, please. Remember how the little darling used to coax for a nickel to run to the 'corner' and buy a quart of it, when we'd been digging extra hard in our pretty yard. And don't forget, in your financial reckonings, to leave us a few cents to buy roses with. I've been thinking how well some climbing 'Clothilde Souperts' would look, trained against that barn wall, with, maybe, a row of crimson 'Jacks,' or 'Rohans' in front. Dorothy would like that, I guess. I must send for a new lot of florists' catalogues, since you didn't bring my old ones." "I hadn't room; and I hope you won't. We've not one cent to waste on plants, let alone dollars. Besides, once you and Dorothy get your heads together over one those books you want all that's in it, from cover to cover. There's things I want, too, but I put temptation behind me. The whole farm's run to weeds and posies, anyhow. No need to buy more." Father John had thought it wise to change the subject. Martha was the best of wives, but there were some things in which she failed to sympathize. He therefore remarked, what he honestly believed: "I think it's wonderful, little woman, how you can remember so much about farming, when you haven't lived on one since you were a child." "Children remember better than grown folks. I don't forget how I used to have to churn in a dash-churn, till my arms ached fit to drop off. And I learned to milk till I could finish one cow in a few minutes; but it nearly broke my fingers in two, at first. I wonder if I can milk now! I'll have to try, anyway, soon as we get the cow. I guess you'd better write an advertisement for the _Local News_, and I'll go to Mrs. Calvert's place and ask her coachman to post it when he goes down the mountains to meet the folks. Just to think we shall have our blessed child this very night before we sleep!" ended the housemistress, with a return of her good spirits. Father John laughed with almost boyish gayety. Dorothy was coming! Everything would be right. So he hobbled across to his own old desk which Martha had placed in the cheeriest corner of the room assigned to him, looking back over his shoulder to inquire: "Shall it be for a cow, a horse, or that milk-saving pig? Or all three at one fell swoop? Must I say second-hand or first-class? I never lived on a farm, you know, and enjoyed your advantages of knowledge: and, by the way, what will we do with the creatures when we get them? I haven't been into that barn yet, but it looks shaky." "John Chester! Folks don't keep pigs in their barns! They keep them in pens. Even an ex-postman ought to know enough for that. And make the thing short. The printers charge so much a word, remember." "All right. 'Brevity is the soul of wit.' I'll condense." Whistling over his task, Mr. Chester soon evolved the following "Want Ad.": "Immediate. Pig. Cow. Horse. Skyrie." This effusion, over which he chuckled considerably, he neatly folded and addressed to the publisher of the local newspaper and left on his desk for his wife to read, then hobbled back to his bed to sleep away the time till Dorothy came, if he could thus calm his happy excitement. But it never entered his mind that his careful wife would not read and reconstruct the advertisement before she dispatched it to its destination. However, this she did not do. She simply sealed and delivered it to old Ephraim, just as he was on the point of starting for his mistress at the Landing: and the result of its prompt appearance in the weekly sheet, issued the next morning, was not just what either of the Chesters would have desired. After all, Alfaretta was good company down in that old cellar-dairy, poking into things, explaining the probable usage of much that Martha did not understand. For instance: "That there great big wooden thing in the corner's a dog-churn. Ma says 'twas one more o' old Si Waterman's crazy kinks. He had the biggest kind of a dog an' used to make him do his churnin'. Used to try, anyhow. See? This great barrel-like thing is the churn. That's the treadmill 'Hendrick Hudson'--that was the dog's name--had to walk on. Step, step, step! an' never get through! Ma says 'twas no wonder the creatur' 'd run away an' hide in the woods soon's churnin' days come round. He knew when Tuesday an' Friday was just as well as folks. Then old Si he'd spend the whole mornin' chasing 'Hudson'--he was named after the river or something--from Pontius to Pilate; an' when he'd catch him, Si'd be a good deal more tuckered out an' if he'd done his churnin' himself." Martha laughed, and rolling the big, barrel-churn upon its side was more than delighted to see it fall apart, useless. "How could he ever get cream enough to fill such a thing? Or enough water to keep it clean? And look, Alfy! what a perfect rat-hole of dirt and rubbish is under it. That old dog-churn must come down first thing. I've a notion to take that rusty ax yonder and knock it to pieces myself," she remarked and turned her back for a moment, to examine the other portions of her future dairy. Now good-natured Alfaretta was nothing if not helpful, and quite human enough to enjoy smashing something. Before Mrs. Chester could turn around, the girl had caught up the ax and with one vigorous blow from her strong arm sent the dog-churn, already tumbling to pieces with age, with a deafening rattle down upon the stone floor. The sound startled John Chester from his restful nap, silenced the outcries of the little Babcocks, and sent Dorothy to her feet, in frightened bewilderment. For there before her, in the flesh, stood the hero of the very book she dropped as she sprang up--Barnaby Rudge himself! CHAPTER VI MORE PECULIAR VISITORS "Barnaby Rudge! Fiddlesticks! That ain't his name nor nothing like it. He's Peter Piper. He's out the poorhouse or something. He ain't like other folks. He's crazy, or silly-witted, or somethin'. How-de-do, Peter?" said Alfaretta, as Dorothy, closely followed by the little Babcocks and the "apparition" himself, dashed down into the dust-clouded dairy where Mrs. Chester stood still, gazing in bewilderment at the demolished dog-churn. Anybody might have easily been startled by the appearance of the unfortunate creature who had, also, come into the cellar; especially a girl whose head was already filled with the image of another storied "natural," as Dorothy's was. He was tall and gaunt, with an unnaturally white face and a mass of hair almost as white in color, though not from age. His narrow, receding forehead was topped by a hat bestowed upon him by some parading political band of the autumn previous, and was gay with red cock feathers and a glittering buckle polished to the last degree. His clothing was also, in part, that of a parader: a brilliant-hued coat worn over his ordinary faded suit of denim. In one hand he carried the same burnt-out torch bestowed upon him with his hat, and by the other he led a cow that might once have been a calf. He did not speak, though he evidently heard and understood Alfaretta's greeting, for he turned his protruding eyes from Dorothy to her and answered by a foolish smile. "Why, Peter Piper, what you bringin' old Brindle up here for? Who told you to?" Again Peter grinned and answered nothing, but he turned his gaze from Alfaretta to Mr. Chester, who had come to the window above, and stared until the gentleman fidgeted and broke the spell by saying: "Good-afternoon, lad. 'Peter Piper,' are you? Well, I'm glad to see you;" then added in a voice only Dorothy, who had run in to stand beside him, could overhear. "Wonder if he's any relation to the man who pricked his fingers picking pickled peppers!" "Looks as if he might be, doesn't he? Only, Dad, I feel so sorry for him." "Oh! I'm sorry for him, too. I am sincerely. But--I'm a trifle sorry for myself, as well. I wonder--is this the beginning of things! What a power the press certainly is, if one little advertisement--Why, Martha, Martha! Come up here, please! Come right away." Mrs. Chester promptly obeyed, surprised by the mingled mirth and vexation expressed by her husband's face. And came not only Martha but the trio of Babcocks, behind her. At which father John frowned and observed: "I was speaking to Mrs. Chester." "Yes, I heard you," answered Alfaretta, coolly: at which all the Chesters laughed, and she joined heartily in, not dreaming that what her host afterwards called her "perfect ease of manner" was the cause of the fun. "Well, John, what is it? You seemed to want me." "My dear, I always do. Never more than now when I wish you to tell me--Did you rewrite that advertisement sent to the local newspaper yesterday?" "Rewrite it? No, indeed. Why should I? You understand such things better than I. So I just sealed it, with money inside to pay--By the way, there should be considerable change due us. I don't believe one advertisement in a country paper would cost a whole dollar: do you?" Mr. Chester laughed now in earnest. "No, I do not. Not that I sent, anyway. Martha, why didn't you look? Why didn't you? My dear, you wanted it brief and I made it so. But if such brevity brings such an answer, so soon, why--it will fairly rain cows before we're many hours older. Cows! _And_ horses! _And_ pigs! But worst of all, I've made the new Skyrie folks ridiculous in the eyes of their future townsmen." "Tell it, John. Tell it exactly as you wrote it." So he did; and though the lady was dismayed she couldn't help smiling under her frown, and it was a momentary relief to hear Alfaretta calmly explaining: "That there cow don't belong to nobody. All her folks are dead. I mean all the folks she belonged to. She's a regular pest, ma says, an' 'twould be a real kindness to kill her. But nobody won't. She's too old for beef, or the butcher would; and she makes out to get her livin' without botherin' nobody _much_. She goes onto folkses' lawns an' nibbles till she's driv' off--summer times an' in winter, why 'most anybody 't has a barnyard and fodder give her a little. Pa he says she's a relict of a glorious past and is due her keep from a--a kermune--ity she's kep' in hot water as many years as she has. Ma she says she can recollect that old Brindle ever since she was a little girl, an' that cow has got more folks into lawsuits than any other creatur', beast or human, in Riverside villages--Upper or Lower. "Last one took her in an' done for her was Seth Winters, that lives up-mounting here, an' goes by the name o' 'Learned Blacksmith.' He's another crank; but ma she says he's a practical Nanarchist, 'cause he lives up to his idees. He's rich, or he was; but he's give his money away an' just lives in his old shop an' the woods, same as poor folks. He treats Peter Piper same as he does old Brindle. Keeps 'em both to his place, if they want to stay; an' don't hinder 'em none when they clear out. Pa an' him both say how 'freedom' is the 'herintage' of every livin' thing, an' they both take it. Ma she says there's consid'able difference in their ways, though; 'cause Seth he works, constant, an' pa he never does a stroke. Say, Peter, did Seth Winters send you an' Brindle up here?" Peter did not answer. As if the question had roused some unsettled matter in his clouded mind, he frowned, studied the earth at his feet, and slowly walked away. A pitiable object in the sunset of that fair summer day, with his bedraggled scarlet feathers, and his scarlet leather uniform that must have been uncomfortably burdensome in the heat. But Brindle tarried behind and foraged for her supper by nibbling the grass from the overgrown dooryard. Suddenly, remembered Alfaretta: "Ma she said I was to come home in time to get the cows in from pasture and milk 'em. She 'lowed she wouldn't get back up-mounting till real dark: 'cause she was goin' to stop all along the road, and get all the news she could an' tell what she knows, back. Ma she's a powerful hand to know what's doin', 'round. So, Baretta Babcock! Claretta Babcock! Put your toes together; even now, an' make your manners pretty, like I showed you teacher learned _me_, and say good-by." With that the amusing girl drew herself up to her tallest, squared her own bare feet upon a seam of the carpet, and bent her body forward with the stiffest of bows. Then she took a hand of each little sister, and said--with more courtesy than some better trained children might have shown: "I've had a real nice visit, Mis' Chester, an' I enjoyed my victuals. I'll come again an' you must let Dorothy C. come to my house. I'm sorry I tipped Mr. Chester into the ditch an' that I couldn't done more toward cleanin' up that cellar that I did. Good-night. I hope you'll all have nice dreams. Too bad Peter Piper went off mad, but he'll get over it. Good-night. Come, children, come." So the three Babcocks departed, and the silence which succeeded her deluge of words was soothing to her hosts beyond expression. They sat long on the west veranda of the little cottage, resting and delighting in the beauty of nature and in the presence of each other. Then Dorothy slipped away and after a little absence returned with a tray of bread and butter, a big pitcher of milk, and the jar of honey Mrs. Calvert had sent. "Bread and honey! Fare fit for a prince!" cried father John, as the food appeared. "And princes, indeed, we are to be able to sit and feast upon it with all this glorious prospect spread out before us." He seemed to have entirely recovered from the shock of his fall and on his fine face was a look of deep content. He had suffered much and he must still so suffer--both pain of body and of mind. Poverty was his, and worse--it was the lot of his dear ones, also. To live at all, he must run in debt; and to his uprightness debt seemed little less than a crime. However, the present was theirs. They had no immediate needs; there was food for the morrow, and more; and leaning back in the old rocker Martha brought for him, he let his fancy picture what Skyrie should be--"Some time, 'when my ship comes in'! Meanwhile--Sing to us, Dolly darling! I hear a whip-poor-will away off somewhere in the distance, and it's too mournful a sound for my mood. Sing the gayest, merriest songs you know; and, Martha dear, please do let Dorothy bring another rocker for yourself. Don't sit on that hard bench, but just indulge yourself in comfort for once." When they were quite settled again Dorothy sang; and in listening to her clear young voice both her parents felt their spirits soothed till they almost forgot all care. Indeed, it seemed a scene upon which nothing sordid nor evil would dare enter; yet, just as the singer uttered the last note of her father's beloved "Annie Laurie," there sounded upon the stone pathway below a heavy footstep and, immediately thereafter, an impatient pounding upon the kitchen door. Since their arrival at Skyrie none of their few visitors had called so late in the day as this, and it was with a real foreboding that Mrs. Chester rose and went to answer the summons. At a nod from her father, Dorothy followed the housemistress and saw, standing on the threshold, a rather rough-looking man, whose impatience suddenly gave place to hesitation at sight of the pair before him. "Good-evening," said Martha, politely, though still surprised. Then, as he did not at once reply and she remembered the absurd advertisement in the _Local_, she asked: "Did you come to see about work, or selling us a horse, or anything?" "H'm'm. A--Ahem. No, ma'am. 'Twasn't no horse errand brought me, this time, though I might admit I _be_ ruther in the horse-trade myself, being's I keep livery in Lower village. 'Twas a dog--a couple of dogs--sent me away up-mounting, this time o' day, a-foot, too, 'cause all my critters have been out so long they wasn't fit to ride nor drive, neither. Been two summer-boarder picnics, to-day, an' that took 'em. 'Shoemakers go barefoot,' is the old sayin', and might as well be 't liverymen use shanks-mares. I----" By this time the housemistress had perceived that though the man was rough in appearance he was not unkindly in manner and that he was reluctant to disclose his errand. Also, if he had walked up the mountain he must be tired, indeed; so she fetched a chair and offered it, but only to have the courtesy declined: "Thank ye, ma'am, but I--I guess you won't care to have me sit when I've told my job. 'Tain't to say a pleasant one but--Well, I'm the constable of Lower Riverside, and I've come to serve this summonses on that there little girl o' yourn. You must see to it that she's on hand at Seth Winterses' blacksmith shop an' justice's office, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. Here, ma'am, is the writ of subpoeny 't calls for her to be a witness in a case of assault an' battery. Leastwise, to bein' known to the critters what assaulted and battered." Before Mrs. Chester could really comprehend what he was saying or doing, the man had thrust a paper into her hand, and had vanished. He had never performed an official act of which he was more ashamed; nor can words properly express her amazement. CHAPTER VII AT THE OFFICE OF A JUSTICE Fortunately the distance to the blacksmith's was not great, for Mr. Chester could not be dissuaded from accompanying his wife and daughter thither, in answer to that astounding "summons." That the document was legal and not to be ignored, he knew well enough, though mother Martha protested vigorously against paying any attention to it. "It's some absurd mistake, John. How in the world could our Dolly be a witness in any such affair? No, indeed. Not a step will any of us take toward that shop-office! A pretty justice of the peace a blacksmith must be, anyway! I never was so insulted in my life. Instead of going there, I'm going down cellar to clean it up and made ready for our butter-making." "First--catch your cow, wife dear! A better one than that old Brindle who has deserted us already. And as for your going, why, of course, _you_ needn't. Dorothy C. is the important person in this case, and I'm as much her guardian as you." "John, you mustn't! You couldn't walk so far on your crutches----" "Oh! I must learn to walk long distances, and 'up-mounting' must be comparatively near. I remember that Alfaretta said it was 'next door to Cat Hollow,' and Cat Hollow's just beyond Skyrie. Dorothy'd better run over to Mrs. Smith's, where you get your milk, and ask directions. No use to waste any strength hobbling over the wrong route----" "Maybe the grocer's wagon will be up before ten o'clock and he might carry you," suggested Mrs. Chester. "He ought not to go out of his way, that clerk; besides, it would be as difficult for me to climb into his high cart as to trot along on my own wooden feet. Shall Dolly inquire?" So Dorothy was dispatched upon the errand, duly warned not to inform the Smith household of its cause, though there was small danger of that. The girl had never been so angry in her life. "Arrested," was the way she put the matter to herself, yet why--why! She had never done anything wicked in her life! and this man, "Archibald Montaigne," what did she know about such a person or any dogs which might have run into him? Nor was she prepared for the evident curiosity with which Mrs. Smith regarded her; a curiosity greater than that her kidnapping adventures had provoked, and which angered her still more. "The way to Seth's shop? Sure. I know it well's I know the road to my own barnyard. You go out your gate and turn toward the river and walk till you come to the corner of two roads. Take the upper road, right into the woods, and there you'll be. Don't you be afraid, Sis. Nobody can do anything to just a witness, so. The boy'll be the one'll catch it, and heavy. That Mr. Montaigne looks like a regular pepper-pod, and is, too. Why, he sent his man down here, t'other day, to warn me to keep my hens shut up and off his property. _My hens!_ That was never shut up in their lives, nor found fault with before. But----" "Good-morning. Thank you," interrupted Dorothy, rather rudely, but too impatient to be back at home to think about that. Arrived there she found that, like a good many other people, once given her own way mother Martha did not care to take it. Instead of ignoring the summons to court, she arrayed herself in her best street costume and duly appeared at Seth Winters's home with her crippled husband and indignant child. There is no need to describe the "trial" which followed. It was almost farcical in its needlessness, and poor Dorothy's part in it of the slightest import. She had to tell that she did know the dogs, Peter and Ponce, and that once she had been run against and knocked down by one of them. Also, that on the morning of the "assault" these dogs had called at Skyrie and that she had lost hold of one of them, and that they had run away with one James Barlow in pursuit. Then she was dismissed; but at a nod from Mrs. Calvert, crossed the room to where that lady sat and nestled down beside her, surprised to find her in such a place and, apparently, so much amused by the scene. The outcome of the affair was simple. Mr. Montaigne's anger had had time to cool and he was a snob. It was one thing to prosecute a helpless lad but quite another to find that the "ferocious" dogs belonged to his aristocratic neighbor, whose acquaintance he had not heretofore been permitted to make, although he had endeavored so to do. Mrs. Cecil was, practically, the very center and queen of that exclusive circle which had "discovered" the "Heights" and was the most bitterly opposed to "outsiders" possessing property thereon. "This man Montaigne, Cousin Seth, may have much more money than brains, but we don't want him up here on our hill," she had once said to her old friend, and giving him that title of "Cousin" from real affection rather than because he had any right to it. He had laughed at her in his genial, hearty way, which could give no offence, and had returned: "My good Betty, you need humanizing. We can't all be old Maryland Calverts, and I like new people. Don't fancy that a man who has made millions--_made it_, understand--is brainless, and not well worth knowing. You know I can _spend_ money----" "None better, man!" "But the gift of _making_ it was denied me. I intend that you and I shall know this Mr. Montaigne and--like him. I shall make it my business to accomplish that fact even though, at present, he thinks a country blacksmith beneath his notice. That time will come. I have infinite patience, I can wait, but I shall hugely enjoy the event when it arrives." This conversation had taken place the summer before, when the newcomer had begun the building of his really palatial residence, and Seth Winters had waited a whole year, little dreaming that the acquaintance he had determined upon should begin in his own office, with him as arbiter in a case between a rich man and a penniless boy. "The complaint is withdrawn," declared the complainant, as soon as he had discovered the real state of affairs, and that now was his chance to become acquainted with Mrs. Cecil. "I--I was offended at the time, but--it's too trivial to notice. I beg to apologize, Madam Calvert, for the annoyance I've given you. Of course, the lad----" "Don't mention it; an amusement rather than an annoyance," replied the lady, graciously. "So little of moment happens up here on our mountain that an episode of this kind is quite--quite refreshing. My Great Danes will not trouble you again. My 'Cousin' Winters, here--allow me to make you acquainted in a social as well as business way--my 'Cousin' Winters is almost as much attached to the beautiful animals as I am, and he has this very morning presented me with a pair of wonderful chains, warranted not to break. Fortunately, he had them already waiting my arrival, as a gift, and never gift more opportune." "My 'Cousin' Winters!" Archibald Montaigne felt as if the boards beneath his feet were giving way. That this old gentlewoman whose blood was of the bluest--and he adored "blue blood"--should claim relationship with an obscure farrier was a most amazing thing. Well, then, the next best step for himself to take in this affair was to foster the acquaintance with the smith; and thereby, it might be, gain entrance for his family and himself into "Society." For his family first. That credit was due him. Personally, he loved better a quiet corner in his own great mansion, where he might study the fluctuations of the "market" and scheme to increase the wealth he had already compassed. And with the shrewdness which had enabled him to take advantage of mere money-making "chances," he now seized upon the social one presented. "My dear Madam Calvert, my wife and daughter are without in my carriage. They have been a little--little lonely up here, for it's quiet, as you say. Do allow me to present them, call them in, or--if you will be so kind, so very kind, our precious Helena is an invalid, you know, you might step out to them with me. If I might appeal to your kindness for my daughter, who's heard so much about you and will be so delighted." What could Mrs. Cecil do? Nobody had ever appealed to her "kindness" without receiving it, and though she positively hated to know these "new, upstart people," she was too well bred to show it. But as Mr. Montaigne bowed the way outward she flashed a look toward the smiling smith, which said as plainly as words: "You've caught me in this trap! The consequences are yours!" The glance he telegraphed back meant, as well: "Good enough! I'm always glad to see a prejudice get its downfall. The time I waited for came, you see." Almost unconsciously, Mrs. Cecil still retained in her own soft hand the clinging one of Dorothy C., which she had taken when she called the girl to her side; so that she now led her out of the office to the carriage before its door and to what Dorothy thought was the loveliest person she had ever seen. This was Helena Montaigne, a blonde of the purest type, whose great blue eyes were full of a fine intelligence, but whose perfect features were marred by an expression of habitual discontent. This little lady made Dorothy think of the heads of angels painted upon Christmas cards and, also, for an instant made her stare rather rudely. The next she had recovered herself and acknowledged Mr. Montaigne's introduction with a natural grace and ease which delighted Mrs. Cecil beyond words. She was always gratified when "Johnnie's" adopted daughter proved herself worthy of the interest she had taken in her; and she now mentally compared the beauty of the two girls, with no disparagement to Dorothy C. Indeed, the dark eyes, the tumbled curly head,--where the brown hair was just recovering from the rough shearing Miranda Stott had given it, while her young prisoner was ill with the measles,--and the trim, erect little figure, had already become in the eyes of this childless old lady a very dear and charming picture. Helena's manner was that of a grown young lady, which, indeed, she quite fancied herself to be. Was she not fourteen and, on state occasions, promoted to the dignity of having her abundant hair "done up" by her mother's own hairdresser? And as for skirts, they had been lengthened to the tops of her boots: and by another year she would have her dinner frocks made _en train_. Her own manner was rather disdainful, as if the people she met were not her equals; yet this contempt was for their "general stupidity." She had not her father's love of money nor her mother's timidity concerning her own behavior; for the fear that she should not conduct herself according to the "best usages of polite society" was the bane of gentle Mrs. Montaigne's existence. By nature extremely simple and sweet, she tormented herself by her efforts to be haughty and "aristocratic"--not quite understanding the true meaning of the latter term. Money had come to her too late in life for her to become accustomed to the use of, and indifferent to, it; and, though she revered her husband on account of his ability to make it, their wealth was a burden for her, at times almost too heavy to bear. On the other hand, Helena and Herbert, her brother, two years older, could not remember when they had not more money at their command than they knew how to use. The boy was not as clever as his sister, but he was more generally liked, though his insolence, sometimes, was most offensive. He rode up, at this moment, upon a spirited black horse, and called out, noisily: "Well, dad! How'd the trial go? Hope you walloped that lumpkin good; and the old woman owns the dogs----" "Herbert! _Herbert!_" warned Mr. Montaigne, in distress. Whereupon his son came round from the corner of the shop, which had hidden him from sight of all the party save his father, and found himself in the presence of the very "old woman" herself. He had none of his parents' ambition to know her or any other of the "exclusives" of the Heights, being quite sufficient unto himself; but he had been trained in the best schools and knew how to conduct himself properly. Besides, he was more frank by nature than the others of his family and, having found himself "in a box," escaped from it by the shortest way possible. "Hello! I've done it now, haven't I? I beg your pardon, Mrs. Calvert, and dad's and everybody's;" saying which, the lad pulled his hat from his head, and checked his horse to a standstill beside the carriage where his mother and sister sat. He was a handsome boy, of the same fair type as Helena, but much more rugged in strength; and his blue eyes danced with merriment instead of frowning with the disdain of hers. He adored her yet quarreled with her continually, because she had so little interest in "sensible, outdoor things"; and his gaze now turned upon Dorothy with instant perception that here was a girl worth knowing and no nonsense about her. His gay debonair manner and his ready apology for his own blunder pleased Mrs. Calvert. She liked honesty and did not mind, in the least, having been termed an "old woman." This boy was worth all the rest of the Montaignes put together, she decided, and thereupon showed her good will by admiring his thoroughbred mount. "That's a fine beast you have there, lad. Needs a little exercise to get him into shape, but I reckon a few trips up and down this mountain will fetch him right." She had herself walked to her old friend's shop and now stepped forward to examine at closer range the good points of the horse, stroking his velvet nostrils with an affectionate touch, and patting his shoulder approvingly. Herbert stared and exclaimed: "Why, that's strange! Cephy hates women. Won't let mother nor sister come near him, or wouldn't if they tried--which only Helena has done--once! You must like horses, ma'am, and understand 'em a lot." "I ought to. I was brought up with them. They've been my best company many and many a time. I was put into a saddle when I was but a year and a half old. Held there, of course; but took to the business so well that by the time I was five I could take a fence with my father, any time he wanted to ride over the plantation. I'm glad to see you like them, too. But I must be going. I'm sorry, Mr. Chester, that I didn't drive over; then I could have taken you home, but. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of meeting you here. I----" As she paused this straightforward old lady looked at Mrs. Montaigne with a questioning glance; but receiving no comprehending glance in return addressed herself to her late opponent in law. "Won't you let Mr. Chester take your place in your carriage, Mr. Montaigne, and you walk alongside me? It's such a low, easy vehicle and it's a good bit of a way back to Skyrie. I'm going there myself, and there couldn't be a better time than this for all of us to call upon our new neighbors. I'm sure we're all delighted to have them among us." There was nothing for it but compliance. Though his face reddened and he would far rather have walked, or hobbled, twice the distance than become an enforced recipient of the Montaigne courtesy, John Chester felt that this old gentlewoman had been and was too true a friend for him to offend by not falling in with her proposal. On his own part, Archibald Montaigne winced at the picture of this crippled ex-postman riding in state beside his wife and daughter, yet dared not refuse, lest by so doing he would close the door to that future intimacy which he coveted. He felt that this intimacy with Mrs. Cecil, personally, might be anything but agreeable; yet in her old white hands lay the key to the social situation which was his latest ambition. There ensued but the briefest hesitation, during which there issued from Seth Winters's lips an amused, reproachful exclamation: "O Betty, Betty! Never too old for mischief!" But none heard the words save "Betty," who smiled as she did so. The others were helping Mr. Chester into the carriage and settling him comfortably there, with an ostentatious kindness on the part of Mr. Montaigne which the ex-postman inwardly resented. Then the coachman started his team forward, and the justice returned to his smithy, cheerily calling out: "Well, lad, we've come out of that business with flying colors! It was the presence of Mrs. Calvert which did the most for us, though the man has more sense than appeared, yesterday, else he wouldn't--Why, Jim? James? Jimmy?" There was no response. None but the office cat answered this summons. The defendant in this remarkable suit had vanished. CHAPTER VIII A WALK AND ITS ENDING It was with great surprise that the dwellers in the houses along the way saw the contestants in a case of law returning from the trial in the most harmonious manner. First came the Montaigne equipage, with Mrs. Montaigne and Helena upon the back seat, the latter sitting stiffly erect and haughty, the former chatting most pleasantly with the cripple facing her. Behind the carriage walked Mrs. Calvert and Mrs. Chester, both in the gayest of spirits and talking volubly of household matters; as mother Martha afterward described it: "Might have been plain Mrs. Bruce, or Jane Jones herself, Mrs. Cecil might, she was that simple and plain spoke. She's going to have her currant jell' made right away, even whilst the currants are half green. Says she's read it was better so, and though she's afraid her old cook'll 'act up' about it she's bound to try. She said that when a body gets too old to learn--even about cookin'--it's time to give up living. Land! She's not one that will give it up till she has to! I never saw anybody as full of plans as that old lady is. You'd think she was just starting out in life instead of being so nigh the end of it, and I guess she thought I was s'prised to hear her tell. Because she caught me looking at her once, right sharp, and she laughed and said: 'I'm one of the people who can't settle down, I'm so many years young!' Why, she might have been Dolly, even, she was so full of fun over the way that lawsuit ended. I know 'twas that that pleased her so, though she never mentioned it from the time we left the shop till we got back to Skyrie. Well, green currants _may_ make the jell' solider, but I shall wait till just before the Fourth, as I always have, to make mine: and I'm thankful for the few old currant bushes that still grow along that east wall. Almost any other kind of shrub'd have died long ago, neglected as things have been, but you can't kill a currant bush. More'n that, when I get my jell' done I'm going to send Mrs. Calvert a tumbler and compare notes. I reckon mine'll come out head, for I never was one to take up with everything one reads in the papers, nor cook books, either." Which shows that, despite her previous objections to it, that morning's excursion to the haunts of justice proved a very enjoyable one to the rather lonely little woman from the city, who found the enforced quiet of the country one of her greatest privations. Following their elders came also Dorothy C. and Herbert, who had slipped from his saddle to walk beside his new acquaintance, and she was already chatting with him as if they had always known each other. To both the world of "outdoors" meant everything. To him because of the gunning, fishing, riding, and rowing; to her because of its never-ending marvels, of scenery, of growing things, and of the songs of birds. "I tell you what--Steady, Bucephalus!" cried Herbert to the restless animal he led and whose prancing made Dorothy jump aside, now and then, lest she should be trampled upon. "I tell you what! The very next time I go out fishing in the _Merry Chanter_, my catboat, I'll coax sister to go, too, and you must come with us. If she will! But Helena's such a 'fraid-cat and Miss Milliken--she's my sister's governess--is about as bad. There's some excuse for Helena because she is real delicate. Nerves or chest or something, I don't know just what nor does anybody else, I fancy. But the Milliken! Wait till you see her, then talk about nerves. Say, Miss Dorothy----" "I'm just plain Dorothy, yet." "Good enough. I like that. I knew you were the right stuff the minute I looked at you. I--you're not a goody-good girl nor a 'fraid-cat, now are you?" demanded Herbert, anxiously. "No, indeed! I'm not a bit good. I wish I were! And I'm not often afraid of--_things_. But I am of folks--some folks," she answered with a little shudder. "Yes, I know about that. Just like a story out of a book, your being stolen was. But never mind. That's gone by. Do you like to fish?" "I never fished," said Dorothy, with some decision. "You'll learn. The old Hudson's the jolliest going for all sorts of fish. There's an old fellow at the Landing generally goes out with me and the rest the boys. He's a champion oarsman, old as he is, and as for--Say! Ever taste a planked shad?" "No, never." "You shall! Old Joe Wampers shall fix us one the first time we go out on the river. He can cook as well as he can fish, and some of us fellows had a camp set up on the old Point, last year. I haven't been over there yet, this summer, but it's all mine anyhow. When it came fall and the others had to go back to school they--well, they were short on cash and long on camp, so I bought them out. You like flowers? Ever gather any water lilies?" "Like them? I just love them, _love them_! Of course, I never gathered water lilies, for I've always lived in the city. But I've often--I mean, sometimes--bought them out of pails, down by Lexington Market. Five or ten cents a bunch, according to the size. I always tried to save up and get a big bunch for mother Martha on her birthday. I used to envy the boys that had them for sale and wish I could go and pick them for myself. But--but I've seen pictures of them as they really grow," concluded Dorothy C., anxious that Herbert should not consider her too ignorant. However, it was not the fact that she had never gathered lilies which had caught his attention; it was that one little sentence: "to save up." He really could scarcely imagine a state of things in which anybody would have to "save" the insignificant amount of five or ten cents, in order to buy a parent a bunch of flowers. Instantly, he was filled with keen compassion for this down-trodden little maid who was denied the use of abundant pocket money, and with as great an indignation against the parents who would so mistreat a child--such a pretty child as Dorothy C. Of course, it was because the niggardly creatures were only parents by adoption; and--at that moment there entered the brain of this young gentleman a scheme by which many matters should be righted. The suddenness and beauty of the idea almost took his breath away, but he kept his thought to himself and returned to the practical suggestion of planked shad. "Well, sir,--I mean, Dorothy,--a planked shad is about the most delicious morsel a fellow ever put in his mouth. First, catch your shad. Old Joe does that in a twinkling. Then while it's still flopping, he scales and cleans it, splits it open, nails it on a board, seasons it well with salt and pepper, and stands it up before a rousing fire we've built on the ground. U'm'm--Yum! In about half or three-quarters of an hour it's done. Then with the potatoes we've roasted in the ashes and plenty of bread and butter and a pot of coffee--Well, words fail. You'll have to taste that feast to know what it means. All the better, too, if you've been rowing for practice all morning. Old Joe Wampers coaches college crews even yet, and once he went over with Columbia to Henley. That's the time he tells about whenever he gets a chance. 'The time of his life' he calls it, and that's not slang, either. Say. What's to hinder our doing it right now? This very afternoon--morning, for that matter, though it's getting rather late to go before lunch, I suppose. I'll tell you! Just you mention to your folks that you're going on the river, this afternoon, and I'll coax mother to make Helena and the Milliken go, too. Then I'll ride right away down to the Landing and get old Joe warmed up to the subject. He's getting a little stiff in the joints of his good nature, but a good dose of flattery'll limber him up considerable. Besides, when he hears it's for that real heroine of a kidnapping story everybody was talking about, he'll be willing enough. I'll tell him you never tasted planked shad nor saw one cooked, and he'll just spread himself. 'Poor as a June shad,' he said yesterday, when I begged for one, though that's all nonsense. They're good yet. Will you?" He paused for breath, his words having fairly tumbled over each other in their rapidity, and was utterly amazed to hear Dorothy reply: "No, thank you, I will not. Nothing would tempt me." "Why, Dorothy Chester! What do you mean?" he asked, incredulous that anybody, least of all an inexperienced girl, should resist the tempting prospect that he had spread before her. "I wouldn't _touch_ to taste one of those horrible 'flopping' fish! I couldn't. I wouldn't--not for anything. I should feel like a murderer. So there!" "Whew! George and the cherry tree! You wouldn't? 'Not for anything?' Not even for a chance to sail along over a lovely piece of water, dabbling your hand in it, and pulling out great, sweet-smelling flowers? 'Course, _you_ needn't see the shad 'flop.' I only said that to show how fresh we get them. Why, I coaxed even dad over to camp once and I've always wanted Helena to go. Pshaw! I _am_ disappointed." "I don't see why nor how you can be much. You didn't know me till an hour ago--or less, even. And I'm disappointed too. You didn't look like a boy who would"--Dorothy paused and gave her new acquaintance a critical glance--"who would _kill_ things!" "Nor you like a silly, sentimental girl. 'Kill things!' Don't you ever eat fish? Or beef? or dear little gentle chickens?" demanded this teasing lad, as he quieted his horse and prepared to mount, though at the same time managing to keep that animal so directly in Dorothy's path that she had to stand still for a moment till he should move aside. She frowned, then laughed, acknowledging: "Of course I do. I mean I have; but--seems to me now as if I never would again." "Well, I'm sorry; and--Good-morning, Miss Chester!" Away he went, lifting his hat in the direction of the people ahead, looking an extremely handsome young fellow in his riding clothes, and sitting the fiery Bucephalus with such ease that lad and steed seemed but part and parcel of each other. Yet his whole manner was now one of disapproval, and the acquaintance which had begun so pleasantly seemed destined to prove quite the contrary. "He's a horrid, cruel boy! Kills birds and things just for fun! He isn't half as nice as Jim Barlow, for all he's so much better looking and richer. Poor Jim! He felt so ashamed to have made everybody so much trouble. I wish--I wish he'd come with us instead of that Herbert:" thought the little maid so unceremoniously deserted by her new friend. "She's just a plain, silly, 'fraid-cat of a girl, after all!" were the reflections of the young horseman, as he galloped away, and with these he dismissed her from his mind. Now it happened that Mrs. Calvert liked young folks much better than she did old ones, and the conversation which she had rendered so delightful to Mrs. Chester, during that homeward walk, was far less interesting to herself than the fragments of talk which reached her from the girl and boy behind her. So when the hoofs of Bucephalus clattered away in an opposite direction, she turned to Dorothy and mischievously inquired: "What's the matter, little girl? Isn't he the sort of boy you like? You don't look pleased." Dorothy's frown vanished as she ran forward to take the hand held toward her and she answered readily enough, as she put herself "in step" with her elders: "I would like him--lots, if he didn't--if he wasn't such a _killer_. I like his knowing so much about birds and animals--he says he can whistle a squirrel out of a tree, any time, and that's more than even Jim can do. At least I never heard him say he could. And Jim Barlow will not kill anything. He simply will not. Even old Mrs. Stott had to kill her own poultry for the market though she'd strap him well for refusing. All the reason he'd tell her was that he could not make anything live, so he didn't think he'd any right to make it die. Mrs. Calvert, have--have you forgiven poor Jim for letting the dogs get away? and me too? Because I know he feels terrible. I do, and it makes me sort of ashamed to have you so kind to me when it was part my carelessness----" "There, there, child! Have done with that affair. It was more amusing than annoying, for a time, and after I found my Danes were safe; but I hate old stories repeated, and that story is finished--for the present. There'll be more to come, naturally. One can't make a single new acquaintance without many unexpected things following. For instance: John Chester riding so familiarly in Archibald Montaigne's carriage and talking--Well, talking almost as his little daughter has been doing with her new friend. I overheard Mrs. Montaigne mention something about having once been a patient at a hospital in our city and that was the 'open sesame' to 'Johnnie's' confidence. Oh! it's a dear old world, isn't it? Where enemies can change into friends, all in one morning: and where people whom we didn't know at breakfast time have become our intimates by the dinner hour. This is a glorious day! See. We are almost at the turn of the road that leads to Skyrie. Slowly as we have come it hasn't taken us long. I'm glad I walked. It has done me good and--given my neighbors yonder a chance to know one another." "I'm glad, too. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since we moved here, only, of course, when Dolly got home," responded Mrs. Chester. "Yet what an angry, disgusted woman I was when I went over this road before, lawsuit-wards, so to speak." They were almost at the corner when Dorothy cast a last glance backward and exclaimed: "I don't see Jim anywhere. Why do you suppose he didn't come? Where do you suppose he is?" "Well, little girl, my supposing is that he felt himself not one with any of our party. 'Neither hay nor grass' he would likely express it. That's for his not coming. As for where he is now I suppose, to a degree that is certainty, that he is--doing his duty! From my brief acquaintance with the lad I judge that to be his principal idea. His duty, this morning, would have been the transplanting of the celery seedlings, which yesterday's events delayed. If we could look through the trees between us and my vegetable garden I believe we should see him bending over the rows of little green plants, oblivious to all that's going on around him, so intent is he on making up for lost time and not cheating his employer by wasting it. Jim Barlow is all right. I was angry enough with him yesterday, for a while, but I can do him justice, to-day." Her guess at his whereabouts was correct. The lad had hurried away from Seth Winters's office and was already well along with his work while they were thus discussing him. But both his new mistress and Dorothy promptly forgot him when they came to that turn of the road they had been approaching and the view beyond lay open to them. For an instant everybody stopped, even the coachman checked his horses in amazement, though he as swiftly resumed his ordinary impassive expression and drove forward again at the risk of disaster. "What in the world! It looks like a--a funeral! Or the county fair! Whatever does that mean?" cried Mrs. Cecil, who was the first to voice her astonishment. Yet she wondered if she heard aright when, clasping her hands in dismay, Mrs. Chester almost shouted to her husband in front--riding backwards and thus unable to see at what they all so earnestly gazed: "John, John! That dreadful advertisement!" CHAPTER IX A LIVE STOCK SALE John Chester had prophesied that, in answer to his ill-advised jest of an advertisement, it would "rain horses." Apparently, it had. Not only horses but cows; and, trampled upon by the first, hooked by the latter, an assorted lot of pigs mingled with the other quadrupeds, squealing, twisting, doubling-and-turning upon their leading ropes with the perversity native to swine. These unlovely creatures frightened the high-bred team drawing the carriage, setting them to rearing and plunging till an accident was imminent. Their driver had made to pass directly through the assembly before Skyrie gate, leaving it for meaner turnouts to make way for him: with the result that the unmanageable pigs had set other horses into a tumult. Fortunately, the coachman was both cool and skillful, and with a dexterity that seemed wonderful he brought the Montaigne equipage around and began a retreat, over the way he had just come. This saved the situation, so far as an upset was concerned, and he did not again draw rein till well away from the scene. Then, all danger being past, Helena promptly fainted, and saved her equally frightened mother from doing so by rousing her maternal anxiety. John Chester never knew just how he managed to get out of that carriage. Certainly, with far less difficulty than he had found in entering it, for he was suddenly upon the ground, his crutches under his arms, and himself hobbling forward with tremendous swings into the very midst of things. "Come here, come here!" commanded Mrs. Calvert to Dorothy, withdrawing to the high bank bordering the road and that was topped by one of those great stone walls which Simon Waterman had built. Amusement, surprise, and anxiety chased one another across her mobile old features, and with a sudden movement she turned upon Mrs. Chester, crying excitedly: "Well, my friend, you can't deny that plenty of things happen in the country, as well as in the city you bewail. Match me this in Baltimore, if you please! And explain it--if you can!" For it was mother Martha and not her daughter who had obeyed Mrs. Cecil's imperative: "Come here!" and who could only gasp, through her astonishment: "It's that advertisement. A 'joke' of John's that he didn't mean to pass beyond our own doors. We need a horse, a cow, and pig to----" "Add hens! to scratch up your neighbors' flower beds and give completeness to your lives!" laughed Mrs. Betty, who felt and declared that: "I haven't had so much fun in a single morning since--I can't tell when. I wouldn't have missed this!" "Seems as if everybody in the whole town must have read and answered that foolish thing. I--_what shall we do_? How possibly get rid of all these people!" cried the mistress of Skyrie in real distress. As yet neither she nor Mrs. Cecil had observed Helena's faintness, for the back of the carriage was toward them now and some distance down the road. But they had observed Mr. Chester's swift departure houseward, and had seen Dorothy leap like a flash over the intervening wall, toward the kitchen door and the well which was near it. "Makes me think of the 'Light Brigade,' with horses for 'cannon.' That's shameful for me! though, there _are_ cows to the right of them, pigs underneath them, and horses--did anybody ever see such a collection?" asked Mrs. Calvert, clutching Mrs. Chester's arm to keep herself from slipping downward from the bank into the briars below. Then suddenly again exclaiming: "Look at that child! She's carrying water in a pitcher. She's making her way through those men out into the road again. Something has happened. Somebody is in trouble. Oh! it must be that frail-looking daughter of the Montaignes! See. Dorothy is running now straight toward the carriage." This was sufficient to banish all amusement from Mrs. Cecil's manner and she was instantly upon Dorothy's trail, moving with an ease and swiftness that amazed Mrs. Chester, active though she herself was. Indeed, the girl had to slacken her speed in order not to spill all the water from the pitcher, and so the pair reached the side of the carriage together; the old gentlewoman nodding approval for the presence of mind which Dorothy had shown. However, Helena was rapidly recovering from her brief swoon, and her mother looked askance at the cracked pitcher in which the water had been brought and the rusty tin cup in which it was offered; Dorothy having seized the utensils always left lying beside the well, for the convenience of passers-by, without waiting to secure more presentable articles. Still, it was Mrs. Calvert whose hand proffered the refreshing draught, and it was Mrs. Calvert's voice which was saying, in its most aristocratic yet kindest accents: "I did not at once see that your daughter was ill. Your husband left us at the very first crossroad toward your place and I was absorbed with my new-old neighbors' affairs. Deerhurst is nearer than the Towers. Why not drive there first and let Miss Helena rest awhile before going further?" Now the invitation was given in all sincerity, though the mistress of Deerhurst was inwardly smiling at the pictured face of Seth Winters, had he been there to hear her thus cordially soliciting for guests the people she had once declared she would never willingly know. Only the slightest reluctance accompanied her words. She had intended calling upon the Chesters in their home and upon having a plain business talk with "Johnnie." However, from all appearances at the cottage beyond, this was not an opportune time for such an interview and one that could easily be postponed. At present, the Skyrie family had their hands sufficiently full of more pressing affairs. Helena Montaigne shared her father's social ambition, so it was with a wan, sweet smile that she accepted from the mistress of Deerhurst the battered tin cup that she would have rejected had Dorothy held it upwards. Also, after graciously sipping a few drops of the refreshing water, she accepted for herself and mother--it was always Helena who settled such matters--that most gratifying invitation to the mansion. More than that she rose from her place on the wide back seat of the carriage and offered it to Mrs. Cecil, rather than that lady should be forced to ride backwards. But this sacrifice was declined: "No, indeed, thank you. I will finish my trip as I begin it, by walking. It will take you as long to drive around by the entrance as for me to go across lots, through the woods. I will meet you at the door. Good-by, Dorothy. I trust you'll all come well out of your present predicament and I shall be anxious to hear results." Mrs. Cecil was not prone to outward expressions of affection and the little girl was surprised to receive a kiss, as the pitcher was handed back to her, and this surprise was fully shared by the occupants of the carriage. But, having bestowed this light caress, the nimble old lady gathered up her skirts and struck into a footpath running beneath the trees, where every woodland creature was gay with the gladness of June. Yet as she passed among them, none seemed more glad than she; nor, maybe, in the sight of the Creator of them all was she alien to them. Let alone, Dorothy sped backward to her home, and to the side of her parents, who stood together before the kitchen door, vainly endeavoring to hear what a half-dozen different men were saying at once. Her keen eyes scanned the odd collection of beasts with an ever increasing amusement, though she lifted her feet with a little shriek of fear as a mighty hog, which had long outgrown its "pig" days, broke from its owner's grasp and waddled up the path. "I saw it in the _Local_, and if a man's goin' to start in farmin'----" began one. "Pooh; neighbor! this feller's hoss ain't no kind o' use to a lame man like you! That hoss? Why, that hoss has run away and smashed things more times 'an it's years old--and that's sayin' consid'able!" interrupted a second trader, as the first one edged into the dooryard leading a gaunt black steed, himself dragging through the gateway a sorrel mare which had also reached the years of discretion. At which number one retorted with fine scorn: "Why, if that ain't Bill Barry! Huh! Lemme tell you, neighbor, a man that trades hosses, or buys one outright, off _Bill_ gets left every time. That there sorrel? Why, she's twenty-odd if she's a day!" Amid the laugh that followed this sally a third man called over the wall from the road beyond: "Hello, mister? Advertised for a cow, didn't you? Well, just step a-here and take a peek at this fine Alderney o' mine. New milker with a calf still beside her--purty as a picture, the pair of 'em, and dirt cheap. Reason I sell, I've got more stawk 'an my land 'll keep. Come this way, won't you, Mr.--Mr.--'Skyrie,' is it?" Poor father John scratched his perplexed head, shifted his weight upon his crutches, and would fain have answered each and all at once as each demanded; but the affair was too much for him, who was always so ready to see the funny side of things. He cast one bewildered glance into Dorothy's laughing, sympathetic face and, also, began to laugh aloud. The trader nearest, he of the gaunt black steed, caught the infection of merriment and augmented it by a hoarse guffaw. Already, while waiting for the prospective purchasers, the many who had come to sell had seen the absurdity of the situation, and each new arrival of pig, cow, or horse, had caused an outburst of momentary mirth. Yet, hitherto, under this passing amusement, had lain a half-angry resentment. Each had climbed the mountain, or traveled across it, for the sole purpose of "making a good trade," and none was pleased to find his chances forestalled. Now, however, personal feelings gave way before this good-natured acceptance of an annoying state of things; and, before another moment passed, the laughter which the master of Skyrie had started was echoed from man to man till Dorothy clapped her hands to her ears and mother Martha ran into the house, to escape the uproar. The fun conquered, for a time at least, all ill feeling, but it had not settled more important matters. The buying and selling had yet to come, and John Chester fairly groaned as he whispered to Dorothy: "What shall I do with them! However get out of this mess! I know no more about the good points of a horse or a cow than a babe unborn, and your mother who does--or should, for she's a farmer's daughter--has ignominiously fled!" Seeing the pair in apparent consultation, the visiting owners of the various animals held their momentary peace, till Dorothy answered quite seriously: "Well, whether you do or do not know which is good and which is bad, you did advertise for them, you know, and you ought to take one of each kind, I s'pose. That is--have you got the money ready, to pay right now?" "Oh, yes! The money's all right. Martha has that in her cupboard." "Well, then, let's try it this way. Ask her to come out again; then let's begin with the pigs. They act the meanest of all the creatures and I hate them! _Must_ we have a pig, father John?" "So your mother says. To eat up the milk!" "Then I do think she ought to select it. I'll go and ask her, myself. Let everybody bring up his pig, one after another, like standing in line at the post-office, you know; and let mother look them all over and choose the one she wants. When we get through the pigs the rest of the pig-men will go away, and the cow-men show us their cows. Oh! it would be just jolly to do it that way! Mother buy the pig, you the horse, and I the cow! I'll go and see if she will." Either Dorothy's arguments were convincing or Mrs. Chester had repented her retreat, thus leaving her more inexperienced husband to the mercy of possibly unscrupulous traders, for she promptly reappeared in the dooryard and announced: "We will buy just what we advertised for: one cow, one horse, one pig. We will examine the pigs first, and in order, with lowest price stated at once. We will not dicker at all, but will buy as cheaply as we can. Now, begin." The little woman had placed herself upon the doorstep, with an air of practical business which caused her husband to silently clap his hands and as silently applaud; nodding his head and saying, by his expression: "Good enough, madam! Couldn't have done better if you'd been in continual practice!" The only difficulty of the proceeding was that each "pig-man" had grown weary of waiting and now crowded to the fore, intent upon selling _his_ pig before another had a chance. Result: seven specimens of swine, in varying degrees of fatness, were forced into the inclosure; where each immediately proceeded to entangle himself with his neighbor and to run in a direction diametrically opposed to his owner's will. "Oh! how glad I am our flower beds haven't been made yet!" cried Dorothy, flying up the outside stairs of the cottage, where she felt quite safe, although one inquisitive porker did plant its fore-legs on the lower step, intent to follow. Thence it was jerked back by its owner, with the remark: "Drat a hog, anyhow! They're plaguyest critters to drive of any that lives. Next time I have a pig to sell I'll do it on my own premises--or not at all!" In mercy to the animals and to their owners Mrs. Chester made a quick selection and one that others, wiser than herself, knew to be a fortunate one. Her choice fell upon a half-grown creature, whose body had received a good scrubbing before being taken to Skyrie, and whose skin looked pink and clean beneath its white bristles. She was asked a larger price than was quite just, as all the other dealers knew, but as all likewise considered "city folks" legitimate prey nobody enlightened her, and she handed out the money at once; merely requesting its late owner to take the animal to the corner of the old barn and securely fasten it there. Then there followed what father John remarked was "quite a lull in the hog market," and Dorothy begged: "Let's buy the cow next! There's a lovely one yonder! A soft, fat, écru-colored one, with the cutest little calf tied to it! Oh! do let's have the calf any way even if we don't the cow. It's a perfectly adorable little thing! see how it cocks its head and kicks up its heels--the sweet!" The swine and their owners having departed the dooryard was comparatively clear; and it was noticeable that nobody crowded forward when, at a nod from Mr. Chester, the proprietor of the "écru-colored" cow and "adorable calf" led them up for closer inspection. They certainly were attractive specimens of their race, and the Quaker miller who offered them had a most benignant countenance. He seemed to possess the respect and confidence of his neighbors and his words had the ring of truthfulness as he stated: "Thee will go much further and fare much worse before thee has a cow like Hannah offered thee, friend Martha. She is of good pedigree, as I can show thee if thee will step over to my mill and look at my ledger. Her yield is ten quarts at a milking, twice a day, and her price is fifty dollars." Martha Chester caught her breath. She had not anticipated paying more than half that sum for "just a cow"; even the price of the pig had startled her, remembering the small amount of cash she had in her purse. But alas! The demon of possession had seized her! The fact that the porcine "beauty" already tied to her barn was her own roused all her old farm-born instinct for "stock," and though she hesitated she did not say "No." Besides, her own half-forgotten grandsire had been a Friend and this man's speech carried her back to childhood's days and a roomy farmhouse, with its rich abundance of good things. Was ever a Quaker really poor? Now nobody, in his senses, could have compared honest Oliver Sands to a tempter; yet his very next words proved temptation to John and Martha Chester, whose Christian names he had somehow acquired and now used so naturally. "If thee buys Hannah thee will not regret it. Moreover, because I have heard the surprising tale of the little maid yonder, I will bind the bargain by giving her the calf, free of charge. I do not like to separate mother and child, even among brute creatures, unless from necessity; and, Dorothy Chester, thee may have my calf." Of the astonishment of her parents and Dorothy's wild, almost incredulous delight, there is no need to tell. It can be easily surmised. Sufficient to state that very shortly afterward the broad-brimmed hat of Oliver Sands was disappearing down the road, while Hannah and her offspring had joined the squealing pig beside the barn. CHAPTER X AT MILKING-TIME As if by mutual consent the owners of the rejected cattle slowly departed. They had awaited the outcome of the Sands-Chester transaction rather from curiosity than any doubt as to the result. Oliver Sands was an upright Friend. He was, also, locally known as a "slick trader." What he set out to do he generally did. Moreover, though he dwelt in a plainly furnished farmhouse, his farm comprised the richest acres of the table-land crowning the mountain, and his flocks and herds were the largest in the county. His flour mill did a thriving business. Some said that its thrift was due, in part, to the amount of toll extracted from his neighbors' grists; but this, of course, was a heresy unproved. Nor did many of even these disgruntled folk grumble openly. They dared not. Oliver "held them in his hand," as the saying went, having mortgages upon almost all the smaller farms adjacent to his own--intent upon sometime adding them to his, at that dreaded day when he should see fit to "foreclose." With the miller's departure from the scene the horse-owners had their chance, and took it promptly; but the prices asked for the several steeds which were now "put through their paces" were far and away beyond the balance left in the Chesters' power to pay. Therefore, short work was made of this part of the memorable sale and the grounds were rapidly deserted of nearly all. Bill Barry lingered to the last, and finding himself still unsuccessful, relieved his disappointment by a parting fling: "Well, neighbor, after all I dunno as you will _need_ a hoss--ary kind of one, seein's you've got Hannah! That creatur's a repytation for speed 'at puts my sorrel here out of the runnin'. Lively, Hannah is, an' no mistake. Old Olly's head's leveler than this mountain-side, even if his mouth is mealier 'n his own flour bags. Well, good-day. If you shouldn't get suited, lemme know. I'll drive right up." The silence that fell upon Skyrie then seemed intense, but most delightful; and for a few moments all its household felt the need of rest. They sat without speaking, for a time, till a low from the barnyard reminded them that their "family" had increased and might need attention. Who was to give it? With a smile, half of vexation, mother Martha suddenly exclaimed: "We've begun at the wrong end of things! 'Put the cart before the horse.' We needed a pig, a cow, a horse, and a man. Well, the man should have been our first to secure. Then he could have looked after the other things. Oh! hum! What a day this has been!" "Yes. Country life _does_ seem to be rather exciting," agreed Mr. Chester, idly poking the end of his crutch among the weeds along the wide stone where his chair had been placed. "A lawsuit, a stock-sale, and an introduction to 'Society'--all in one morning." "But we didn't get the horse!" said Dorothy C., who liked matters to be completely finished, once they had been undertaken; and whose fancy had been unduly stirred by the sight of Bucephalus. She had then and there decided that she, too, would become a finished equestrian as soon as possible; though she had seen none among the horses just exhibited that compared with Herbert's mount. "The horse can wait," returned Mrs. Chester, in a tone of relief. "Yet, for your sake, John, it should have been our first purchase." "After that necessary 'man,' my dear!" But Mrs. Chester was in no mood for joking. The reaction from excitement had set in, and she let her husband's jest fall to the ground where it belonged. If only that unfortunate advertisement had done the same! They would not then have been so annoyed by an overflow of traders nor been rendered the laughing-stock of the community. Besides it was now past noon and dinner must be prepared; so she rose to go indoors, suggesting to Dorothy: "It might be well to see if Hannah and the calf need water. You can take that old pail I use to scrub from and carry them a drink. Take but a half-pailful at a time. You're too young to lift heavy things, yet." "All right: but, mother, that generous old man didn't say what the calf's name was. And isn't Hannah the oddest for--a cow? Real Quakerish it sounds to me. What shall you name your dear little pig? May I call my darling calf Jewel? Just to think! I never, never dreamed I should have a real live little calf for my very, very own!" "May your Jewel prove a diamond of the first water!" cried father John, always sympathetic. But mother Martha was carefully counting the contents of her depleted pocket-book and her tone was rather sharp as she answered: "It's a poor pig that can't live without a name: and--I'm afraid that old Quaker gentleman was not--was not quite so generous as he seemed. A calf requires milk. A calf that 'runs with its mother' generally gets it; and----" She paused so long that her husband added: "What becomes of the family that owns the calf? Is that what you were thinking, my dear? No matter! So long as that lowing mother and child were not cruelly 'separated' everything is right. May I come and peel the potatoes for you?" For helpless to do great things for his household the crippled man had insisted upon his right to do small ones; but it always hurt his wife's pride to see her once stalwart husband doing "woman's work," so he never attempted it without permission. This time she nodded consent, and promptly brought him a basin of them, while she sat down to shell a measure of pease procured that morning from a passing huckster. She felt that they could talk as they worked, and indeed there was much to discuss. Until her return everything had been absorbed by Dorothy's fortunes; and even still it was thought of Dorothy which lay closest to both their hearts. "But Dolly brought down to a real bread-and-butter basis! We are compelled to make our living and hers out of this run-down farm. Now, how to begin? Shall I sit by the roadside and ask every man who passes by if he wants to hire himself out 'on shares'? Or will you risk another advertisement, compounded by yourself?" inquired Mr. Chester. "Help we must have." "Yes, we must. If I could only get hold of some of the strong, idle, colored men loafing the streets of Baltimore! They, or he, would be just what we need." "Maybe not, my dear. In any case we haven't one, nor time to import one. Probably he would be discontented if we got one. We'll have to depend on 'local talent' and--hear that cow 'Moo!' Sounds as if she were homesick." "Poor thing! probably she is. I am--a little, myself," returned mother Martha, rising to put her vegetables on to boil. "Also, I consider that we have accomplished sufficient for one morning. Let's rest on it and wait what may turn up; fortunately Hannah can live upon grass--the whole farm is grass, or weeds----" "And the calf can live upon Hannah! My dear, country life is making you a philosopher: and here comes our girl as ready for her dinner as I am. I'll take a bit of a nap while she sets the table, and the sooner I'm called to it the better. No trouble with our appetites since we came to Skyrie," rejoined the ex-postman, crossing to the lounge and settling himself, not for the "nap" he had mentioned but to best consider that farming question, almost a hopeless one to him. The afternoon passed quietly, varied by frequent visits on the part of mother Martha and Dorothy to their respective possessions of live stock, tethered by the barn. All seemed going well. Hannah had ceased to low and lay upon the grass contentedly chewing her cud, while her festive offspring gamboled around as far as its rope-length would permit. As for the unnamed pig, it had rooted for itself a soft muddy bed, and from having been well fed, earlier in the day, was contented to lie and slumber in the sunshine. Contemplation of the creatures gave Martha great pleasure, till Dorothy suddenly propounded the question: "Who's going to milk Hannah? That nice Quaker man said 'twice a day,' and 'ten quarts at a time.'" For a moment Mrs. Chester did not answer; then she looked up and, as if in reply to her own perplexity, beheld Jim Barlow. "O my lad! Never anybody more welcome. You can milk, of course?" "Yes, ma'am, I should say so. Mis' Calvert she sent me over to see if you needed anything. She said as how none your folks was used to farmin' and she's got a right smart o' curiosity over how you came out with your advertisement. More'n that, here's a letter she had Ephraim fetch up-mounting, when he druv down for her mail. She said I was to tell you 't all your letters could be put with her'n if you wanted; so's to save you or Dorothy walking way to the office." "All our letters won't be many and she is very kind. Please thank her for us and tell her that--that--Jim, would you like to change 'bosses' and come to work for us at Skyrie?" asked Mrs. Chester with sudden inspiration. "No, ma'am, I wouldn't," answered the lad, with unflattering promptness. "I mean--you know----" "Oh! don't try to smooth that over, pray. It was a mere thought of mine, knowing how fond you were, or seemed to be, of our girl. But, of course, you wouldn't. The comforts and conveniences of our little home can't compare with Deerhurst. Only----" said the lady, somewhat sarcastically, and on the point of adding: "It's better than Miranda Stott's." But she left her sentence unfinished and it was kinder so. Poor Jim saw that he had offended. Even Dorothy's brown eyes had flashed, perceiving her mother's discomfiture, but though his face flushed to find himself thus misunderstood he did not alter, nor soften, his decision. He merely stated the case as he regarded it: "If I could make two of myself I'd be glad to. I'd just admire to take hold this job an' clear the weeds an' rubbidge offen Skyrie. Not 't I think it'll ever be wuth shucks--for farmin': the land's all run to mullein an' stun. But I could make it a sight better 'n it is an' it might grow plenty of them posies Dorothy's so tickled with. If it could be stocked now--Mis' Stott used to say that keepin' lots o' cattle was to be looked at both ways; what they leave on the land in manure fetches it up, an' what they eat offen it fetches it down. She kep' more calves an' yearlin's than 'peared like she'd ought to, but she raised a power of stuff for market, 'count of 'em. If I was you folks I'd put my money into yearlin's fust thing," said this young farmer, rendered talkative by his novel position as adviser. Dorothy was disgusted. This didn't seem like the old, subservient Jim she was familiar with and she disliked his plainness of speech. She improved the occasion by calling his attention to Jewel: "See my calf? That's my very own! She was a present to me this very day, Jim Barlow, and I've named her Jewel. Maybe, though, I'll change that to 'Daisy.' I've read stories where cows were called 'Daisies,' and she'll be a cow sometime, and I shall sell her milk to get money." "Pshaw! Looks like good stock, that calf does; 's if 't might make a nice steer, but 'twon't never be a _cow_ to give milk. 'Tain't that kind of a calf; and after all, raisin' young cattle is a power of work. They run over fences an' fall into hollers, an' Mis' Stott she used to say, sometimes, she didn't know but they did eat their own heads off; meanin' their keep cost more than they was wuth--time they was ready for killin'. If I was you, Dorothy, I'd fat that calf up, quick's I could, then sell him to the butcher for veal," further advised this practical youth. "O you horrid boy! You--you--I never saw anybody who could dash cold water on people's happiness as you can! You--you're as hateful as you can be!" cried Dorothy, venting all her disappointment in anger against him. Now it happened that that same morning, at Seth Winters's office, the untutored farm boy had seen and envied the ease of manner with which handsome Herbert Montaigne had won his way into the favor of Mrs. Calvert and had instantly made friends with Dorothy. Then and there, something sharp and bitter had stolen into Jim's big heart and had sent him speeding out of sight--eager to hide himself and his uncouthness from these more fortunate folk, whose contrast to himself was so painful. Dorothy--why, even Dorothy--had, apparently, been captivated by the dashing Herbert to the utter neglect of her former friend; and, maybe, that was what had hurt the most. Incipient jealousy had stung Jim's nobler nature and now made him say with unconscious wistfulness: "I'm sorry, girlie. You--you didn't think so--always." The girl had turned her back upon him, in her indignation, but at the altered tone she faced about, while a swift recollection of all that she owed to him sent the tears to her eyes and her to clasp her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly, begging: "O Jim! forgive me! I didn't mean--I forgot. _You_ never can be horrid to me. I don't like to have my things made fun of--I never was given a calf before--I--Kiss me, Jim Barlow, and say you do!" To the bashful lad this outburst was more painful than jealousy. His face grew intensely red and he did not return the kiss. On the contrary he very promptly removed her clinging arms, with his protesting: "Pshaw! What ails you, Dorothy?" Then he forced himself to look towards Mrs. Chester and to return to the real business of the moment. Fortunately, that lady was not even smiling. She was too accustomed to her child's impulsiveness to heed it, and she had resolved to act upon the principle that "half a loaf is better than no bread." In other words, she would improve this chance of getting some fit quarters for the pig, which had roused and begun to make its presence evident. She scarcely even heard Jim's attempted explanation: "You see, Mis' Chester, 'twas Mis' Calvert that took me up an' set out to make a man of me. I disappointed her fust time she trusted me, and I've got to stay long enough to show I ain't so wuthless as I seemed. _I've got to._ More'n that, the gardener she's had so long is so old an' sot in his ways he don't get more'n half out the soil 't he'd ought to. I'm goin' to show him what Maryland folks can do! That truck o' his'n? Why, bless your heart, he couldn't sell it to Lexington Market, try his darnedest: nor Hollins', nor Richmond, nor even Ma'sh Market--where poor folks buy. Huh! No, I can't leave. But I'll come work for you-all every minute I can get, without neglectin' Mis' Calvert." "O Jim! That's lovely of you, but you mustn't do that. It would be too great a sacrifice. You planned to study every minute you were not working or sleeping, and you must. It's your chance. You must, Jim dear. You know you're to be President--or something big--and you're to make me very, very proud of you. Some way, somebody will be found,--to farm poor Skyrie!" returned Dorothy, eagerly, yet unable to resist the last reproach. "Now, Mis' Chester, I can, an' ought, to get that pig into a pen 'fore dark. Is there any old lumber 'round, 't you can spare?" asked the lad, rolling up his blouse sleeves, preparatory to labor. "There's an old dog-churn in the cellar, that Alfaretta Babcock knocked to pieces the time----" "Speaking of Babcock, ma'am, that is my name: and I've come to hire out," said a queer unknown voice, so near and so suddenly that mother Martha screamed; then having whirled about to see whence the voice came, screamed again. CHAPTER XI HELPERS The man who had come so noiselessly over the grass, from Cat Hollow, might well have been the "Nanarchist" his daughter had termed him, were one to judge from tradition and appearance; and it is small wonder that Mrs. Chester had cried out so unexpectedly, beholding this specimen of the "Red Brotherhood." Tall beyond the average, "Pa Babcock"--he was rarely spoken of otherwise--had a great head covered by a shock of fiery hair which proved Alfaretta truthful in her statement that "he'd disdain to comb it." The hair was stiff and bristly, and stood out in every direction, while the beard matched it in growth and quantity. He wore a faded red flannel shirt, and denim overalls that had once been red, while his great hairy feet were bare and not too clean. He wore no hat and scarcely needed one, and while his physique was that of a mighty man his face was foolishly weak and vain. His voice perfectly suited the face: and, altogether, he was a most unprepossessing candidate for the position of "hired man" at Skyrie. "You wish to hire out?" asked the mistress of the farm, repeating incredulously his statement. "But I thought--Alfaretta said----" "I do not doubt it. The reputation I have won at the hands of my own household is part of the general injustice of society--as it exists. Nothing can convince my labor-loving spouse that I am preparing for her and her children a future of--Stay, lad: are you, also, a member of this establishment?" "I'm goin' down suller after lumber. Come along an' help. If we hustle right smart we can get a pen done 'fore dark, let alone gettin' them cattle into a shed. Strange critters need shuttin' up, a spell, else they'll make tracks for home--wherever 'tis," answered Jim, leading the way toward the house and the door he judged must lead to the cellar. His own voice sounded very strong and masterful by contrast with the high, thin falsetto of the "Nanarchist," and Mrs. Chester smiled, while Dorothy cried out: "Alfy's father may be a _giant_, but my Jim is a _man_!" They were no longer afraid of "Pa Babcock." His outward appearance wholly belied his nature, and they instinctively recognized that here was an easy-going, lazy fellow, who might impress his own household with a sense of his importance but could not overawe outsiders. They sat down on the barn doorsill to wait and watch events, and presently there returned Pa Babcock carrying an enormous quantity of the heavy, cobwebby planking that had formed the framework of the old churn. Behind him was Jim, rolling the treadmill part of the affair and as profoundly engrossed by the task in hand as by all he undertook. He had evidently assumed the direction of matters and his big assistant was amusingly obedient. Mr. Chester, also, came out to the spot and was made comfortable with an old horse-blanket for cushion of a low chopping-block near. Dorothy found the blanket in the barn and also triumphantly asserted that there was a lot of "real nice hay" in one part of it. But Jim scoffed at this statement, declaring that hay kept as long as Skyrie had been closed wouldn't be "wuth shucks." "James, James! Don't become a pessimist!" warned father John, yet smiling, too. "Say it again, please, sir, an' I'll look it out in that little dictionary Mis' Calvert she's put in my room. Hurry up, man! Wish to goodness I had some decent tools! Nothin' but a rusty ax to work with--an' look yonder at that sky!" All looked and mother Martha grew frightened. She was timid during any thunder shower and this was worse than a shower which threatened--a tornado seemed imminent. To retreat indoors and help John to get there was her first impulse, but Pa Babcock held up a protesting hand and she hesitated, curiously observing his movements. Moistening his fingers he let the rising wind blow over them, then calmly resumed his task of nailing a board to a post in the cattle-shed still left standing beside the barn. "It will not come on to rain till midnight. Then look out for a deluge. You are perfectly and entirely safe here, ma'am, until our undertaking is accomplished and it is always well to have the eye of the master--I would say, mistress--upon----" "Hand over that scantlin', old step-an'-fetch-it!" ordered Jim, with scant reverence and--the scantling was handed. Furthermore, Pa was set to searching the barn for a possible crowbar, pick-ax, or, "Any plaguy thing a feller can bore a post-hole with." Thus rudely interrupted, the "Nanarchist" calmly surveyed his companion in labor, then squeaked out: "There is no occasion for such remarkable activity, young man, but----" "Hurry up! 'Twon't be no midnight 'fore that 'gust' strikes us!" ordered Jim Barlow. Anger is a wonderful incentive to action--sometimes. At last Pa Babcock was angry--as much so as it was in his nature ever to be. The result was that he fell to work with a vigor and skill that almost distanced Jim's own; to the great advantage of the Chesters and their live stock. By the time darkness had come a pig-pen had been constructed in one end of the cattle-shed; a milking-stool had been nailed into shape and Hannah milked--with a remarkable shrinkage in the amount Oliver Sands had accredited to her: she and "Daisy-Jewel" put under cover for the night: and the rickety barn-doors nailed here and there as a precaution against the coming "gust." This seemed long delayed; yet Jim was wise enough to button his blouse tightly across his heated chest and to take his prompt departure the moment his self-imposed tasks were finished; Mrs. Chester calling after him: "Don't forget to thank Mrs. Calvert for her kindness about the mail and tell her, please, that this letter held the change due us after the printing of that advertisement And thank _you_, James Barlow, for all your helpfulness in everything." The lad went onward, with a comfortable sense of having been extremely useful and with all his slight jealousy allayed; reflecting, also: "There ain't one that lot got any more sense about farmin' than a spring chicken! Not so much, either; 'cause a chicken _will_ stir round an' scratch a livin' out the ground, sooner 'n starve. Dorothy, she--Well, she's got some ideas, kind of dull ones, but might answer once she gets 'em sharpened by tryin' an' failin'; but--Pshaw! I wish to goodness she was a boy an' not a girl! Then there'd be some show. As 'tis--shucks!" The day may come, Master James, when you'll be very glad that your wish could not be gratified! Meanwhile, as you plod along beneath the trees, sighing and moaning overhead--in seeming terror of the coming storm--the family at Skyrie have re-entered the cottage: and with the ease of one who belongs, Pa Babcock has entered with them. "Will you stay for supper, Mr. Babcock, or shall we take some other time for talking about business?" asked Mr. Chester, as their new acquaintance coolly settled himself in the invalid's own rocker by the window and began to sway lazily to and fro, while the host himself took a straight chair near by. "O father John! Don't sit there. I'm sure Mr. Babcock will----" began Dorothy, indignant at the stranger's selfishness. But her father stopped her by a shake of his head and a smile of amusement which neither she nor Martha shared: though the latter did say, politely enough: "I never knew anybody to come at a time they were more needed, for without your help Jim could never have fixed things so nicely. We owe you many thanks and some money. How much you will have to say, for we know little about wages here in the North." Pa waited for her to finish, then ejaculated: "I should say I did help! Done it all, if you'll recall the circumstances again. Furnished all the brain power anyway, and skilled labor outranks muscle at any time. He means well, that boy: but--I wonder if he realizes his own position in society! A poor, down-trodden member of the lower class. I must see him again. I must uplift him! Ennoble him! Rouse his slumbering ambition--Make a man of him! I----" "You couldn't! I don't mean to be rude, but you mustn't talk about my Jim that way. He _isn't_ down-trodden. He _is_ uplifted. He's going to make a man of himself, for himself, by himself--without you or even dear Mrs. Cecil interfering. She'll help, of course, for she's rich and has the chance, but a boy like Jim Barlow--Huh!" cried Dorothy in valiant defense of her faithful friend, and with a contemptuous glance at this great man whom she had disliked on the instant. "Dorothy! Dorothy C.!" reproved Mrs. Chester in her sternest accents, yet not far behind her daughter in the matter of dislike. The man seemed such a sham, but--"Praise the bridge that carries you safe over!" He was willing to be hired and they needed him. Pa Babcock paid no more attention to the girl's outbreak than he did to the fly perambulating his frowsy forehead and which he was too indolent to brush aside; and indignant at this, also, Dorothy went about bringing food from the pantry and depositing dishes upon the table with most unnecessary decision. She hoped, oh! how she hoped that her parents would refuse to employ this "Anarchist"; or, if they did so, that they would prohibit his coming to the family table. However, here he was and supper was ready, and he was invited to draw near; yet to the surprise of all, with the provision stipulated for by the host: "To-night, Mr. Babcock, we consider you our guest: but should you engage to work for us I would like to arrange that you should board yourself. Mrs. Chester has no servant." "Sir, I admire her for it! Let every member of society serve himself and the reign of equality begins. My wife is a fine cook and there will be no difficulty in our arrangements. Oliver Sands is my good friend, and it is by his suggestion that I am here. He is a man as is a man! There is no giving of titles by him. A plain man, Oliver, though not--not quite as fully imbued with the doctrines of universal equality and brotherhood as I should desire. Sir, are you a--Socialist?" Certainly this strange man was what his daughter had described him, "a good talker," judging from the ready flow of language, and of better quality than is commonly found in men of his class. Though this may be accounted for by the fact that he was a greedy reader--of any and every thing which came his way. But to this suddenly propounded inquiry Mr. Chester answered, with his own merry smile: "No, indeed! Nothing half so 'uplifted' or ambitious. Just a poor, afflicted fellow out of work and anxious to make a living for his family. Let us get through our meal and come to business." Fortunately, while Pa Babcock was eating he could not well talk, and he was one, as Alfaretta had said, "could always relish his victuals." He now relished so many of prudent mother Martha's that her heart sank, knowing that food costs money and money was unpleasantly scarce in that cottage; but, at last, he seemed satisfied and pushed back from the table, saying: "Now, let's settle things. I was sent here, first off, by my friend Oliver Sands, to negotiate a loan for him--for your benefit. He's a forehanded fellow, Oliver is, and always ready to help those along who are in trouble or--He's wanted to put a mortgage on my place in Cat Hollow, so's to give me time and opportunity--meaning cash--to promulgate the principles of----" "Yes," said John impatiently. "Of course, you understand. All sensible persons do and I shall eventually convert you to my ideas----" "Possibly, possibly! But return to your errand from the miller, please. It's growing late and we've had a fatiguing day." "I was just coming to it. He was so pleased by you and your family, so delighted to find your wife, here, such a woman of business, that he wished me to say that in case you were in need of funds, a little ready money, you know, he would feel perfectly safe in advancing it: securing it, of course, by the necessary documents." Mr. and Mrs. Chester exchanged glances, which Dorothy did not see. She had escaped the obnoxious presence of this man by simply going to bed, meaning to get up again, as soon as he should depart, and bid her parents good-night. Then said the ex-postman, after this brief telegraphing of opinions: "Mr. Sands has guessed correctly. We are in need of ready money--to get things into running order; but the property is my wife's and, like your friend, I have the fullest confidence in her business ability. She will do as she thinks best." Now what a cruel thing is jealousy! It had embittered the honest heart of Jim Barlow, earlier in the day, and now attacked the tender one of Martha Chester. It was quite true--they did need money. True, also, that they had expected to raise it by a mortgage on Skyrie, at present free and clear. They knew that this money would be forthcoming from the mistress of Deerhurst, simply upon application, and upon the most favorable terms. She had already delicately hinted at the matter, and had her visit to the cottage been made that morning, as she intended, it would doubtless have been settled. But Martha Chester disliked to be beholden to the old gentlewoman who "made so much of Dorothy" and who, the mother fancied, was superseding herself in the child's heart. It had become a habit of Dorothy's to quote Mrs. Cecil as a paragon of all the virtues, and the child's ambition was to form her own manners and opinions upon her "fairy godmother's." Now offered a chance for independence which Mrs. Chester eagerly seized, without protest from her husband, though inwardly he disapproved putting themselves in the power of a stranger when there stood ready to take his place a tried, true friend. "Shall you see Mr. Sands again, to-night?" she asked. "No, ma'am. I'm due to deliver an oration in the 'Sons of Freedom' Hall, Upper Village, eight o'clock sharp, tickets twenty-five cents. Oliver directed me to say that if you would send your little daughter to Heartsease, his place, to-morrow morning he would make it his pleasure to call and arrange everything. He's a sort of lawyer, himself. And, oh yes! If you should need anything in the way of feed or fodder he is always ready to supply his customers, at the ruling prices and with dispatch. "Which brings me, ma'am and sir, to the subject of wages between ourselves; and if it's handy, to the payment for my services in erecting a pig-pen and repairing a cow-manger. Let me see. Two hours, at a dollar an hour--Two dollars, I make it. Do you find me right?" Well! Pa Babcock might look like a simpleton, but he could use his queer voice to his own advantage! John Chester shrugged his shoulders and Martha replied with considerable crispness: "A dollar an hour! I never heard of such a thing. In Baltimore----" "We are not in Baltimore, much as I should admire to visit that city. Skilled labor, you know----" "But the _skill_ was poor Jim Barlow's, and the lumber _mine_. At such a rate your farm services would be worth a fortune, and far more than I could pay. I hoped to get somebody to work 'on shares'; or at least, very cheaply." "For the present, ma'am, there wouldn't be any 'shares.' The ground is absolutely profitless. But I am not exorbitant, nor would I grind the face of the poor. I am a poor man myself. I glory in it. I think that two dollars and a half a day would be fair to both sides." With this the high, thin voice subsided and John Chester took up the theme, like his wife quoting their old city as a unit of measurement: "In Baltimore, or its suburbs, a day or farm laborer would not earn more than a dollar and a half, or even so low as a dollar and a quarter." "Per day, working on every consecutive day?" asked this would-be employee, leaning back in the rocker and folding his arms. It seemed he never could form a sentence without putting into it the largest words at his command, and listening to him, Martha almost hoped that their present discussion would prove fruitless. However could they endure his wordiness! "Yes. Of course it would be every day," she answered. But his next remark came with an originality worthy none other than himself: "Very well. I have my price and my opinion--you have yours. Let us meet one another halfway. I will work only every other day--I can do as much as two ordinary men, anyway--and thus you will be called upon for no more than you would have had to pay some assistant from privileged Baltimore." "But we could not board you!" protested John Chester. "I cannot have extra labor imposed upon my wife." Pa Babcock rose, stretching all his mighty limbs as if he would convince these strangers that he could, indeed, accomplish the work of two ordinary men per day; then, waving the trivial matter of board aside with an airy lightness which his recent exhibition of appetite scarcely warranted, announced: "We will consider the affair closed. I will work every other day, Sundays excluded, at two dollars and a half per day and find myself. I will enter upon my duties to-morrow morning, and I now wish you good-night. I go to establish the rule of equality in this unenlightened neighborhood." So saying he slipped out of the house, a fearsome-looking but wholly harmless "crank," who seemed rather to have left his shadow behind him than to have taken it with him. As he departed the roar of thunder, the brilliant flash of lightning, filled the room; and, forestalling a remonstrance she feared might be forthcoming, mother Martha exclaimed: "The storm is coming at last. I must go see to all the windows." "I'll limp around and help you; and, wife dear, I can't help feeling we should think twice before we take up with that miller's offer. He's too sweet to be wholesome and I know that Mrs. Calvert----" "The matter is settled, John. You reminded me that Skyrie was my property. I claim the right to use my own judgment in the case. I will send Dorothy to see that kind old Quaker early to-morrow." She did. But as her husband went about with her that evening, making all secure against the tempest, the shadow that Pa Babcock had left behind him--the shadow of almost their first disagreement--followed her light footsteps and the tap-tap of his crutches from room to room. Till at last they came to the little upper chamber which they had both vied in making attractive for Dorothy's homecoming and saw her sleeping there; her lovely innocent face flushed in slumber and dearer to them both than anything else in life. "It was for her, else I'd have let John have his way and ask Mrs. Cecil. But I cannot have her drawn away from me--and she's being drawn, she's being drawn," thought mother Martha, stopping to straighten a moist curl and kiss the pretty cheek. "Oh! if only for that darling's sake we had trusted Mrs. Cecil. She has trusted us: but Martha--Well, women are kittle cattle. I don't understand them, but somehow I'm sorry," was his reflection. So they went down again, he limping, she skipping almost like a girl, but with a division of thought which saddened both. CHAPTER XII SETH WINTERS AND HIS FRIENDS Seth Winters was known as the best blacksmith in the country. The horses he shod never went lame, the tires of the wheels he repaired rarely loosened: consequently his patronage was extensive and of the best. Better than that, his patrons liked the man as well as his work and they were more than willing to grant him a favor--almost the first he had ever asked of them. First, he visited Mrs. Cecil and counseled with her concerning the scheme he had formed: and she having most heartily approved it, he lost no time in mentioning it to each and all who came to his shop. The result was that on a sunny morning, not long after Dorothy's homecoming, there gathered before the little smithy an assemblage of all sorts and conditions of men and vehicles, which filled the road for a long distance either way, and even strayed into the surrounding woods for a more comfortable waiting-place. In the wagons were also many women, farm-wives mostly, all gay with the delight of an unexpected outing and the chance to bestow a kindness. "Amazing! How it warms the cockles of one's heart to be good to somebody!" cried Seth, his benign face aglow with the zest of the thing, as one after another team drew near and its occupants bade him a smiling "Good-morning!" "The very busiest time of all the year for farmer folk--haying, crop-raising, gardening--yet not a soul I asked has failed to respond, in some shape or other." "Of course not! It's as good as a county fair or a Sunday-school picnic, Cousin Seth! I wouldn't have missed it for anything!" cried a merry old voice behind him, and he turned to see Mrs. Calvert nodding her handsome head in this direction and that, with that friendly simplicity of manner which had made her so generally liked. For, though she could be most austere and haughty with what she called "common and presumptuous people," she had an honest liking for all her fellow-creatures who were honest and simple themselves. "Now, Betty! But I might have known you would come--you're always on hand for any 'doin's.' Though don't you dare to give your own generosity free rein. This is strictly a case 'of the people, by the people, for the people.' Blue-blooded aristocracy and full purses aren't 'in it,'" warned the smith, in an alarm that was more real than feigned, knowing that his impulsive old friend could spoil the pleasure of many by exceeding them in giving. "Oh! I shall take care. I've only sent one team, a couple of men--one the gardener, the other a carpenter who was working on the place, and--Do you know, Seth Winters, you barrier-destroying old 'Socialist!'--that the man positively refused to take pay for his day's labor, even though he can ill afford to lose his time? 'No, ma'am,' said this aristocrat of the saw and plane, 'I claim the right to do a decent turn to a neighbor, same as another.' Rich or poor it doesn't appear to make a bit of difference--give them a chance at this sort of thing and they all lose their heads." Seth laughed. Such "Socialistic" principles as these were the ones he advocated, not only by word but by his whole noble life. For him wealth had but one purpose--the bettering of these other folk to whom wealth had not been given. Then he asked: "What of Jim Barlow? Is he one of the 'men' you furnished for the day?" "Will you believe me--he is not? When that young Herbert Montaigne rode around this morn-thing, before breakfast, to say that his father was sending two men with a mowing machine and that he, Herbert, was going to ride on the horse-rake himself, Jim was talking to me. He was full of enthusiasm and earnest to explain that nothing in our own home garden should suffer because of his taking this day off. He would work overtime to make up--as if I would let him! But as soon as Herbert came, just as enthusiastic himself, down goes my James's countenance to the very bottom of despair. What I love about that boy is his naturalness!" exclaimed this lively old lady, irrelevantly. "Keep to the subject in hand, please, Cousin Betty. The reason of Jim's gloom perplexes me. I should have thought he would have been----" "Oh! he was; he did; he must have been, he should have been, he would have been--all the tenses in the grammar you choose. If it hadn't been for my precious little Dorothy. That small maid----" She paused so long and seemed so amused that again he spoke: "For her sake alone I should think he would be pleased to find others ready to befriend her." "In a way, of course, he is, though man-like, or boy-like, he'd very much rather _do_ the befriending than have such a handsome young fellow as Herbert take it out of hand. That lad was just fetching! He'd dressed the part to perfection. Had on a loose white flannel blouse knotted with a blue tie--his color: his denim knickers might have been the finest riding trousers; and his long boots--I fancy there was more money went to the cost of them than you'd spend on yourself in a year. And all to make himself fair in the eyes of a little maid like Dorothy. But blood will tell. My Dolly----" "Remember, she _isn't_ your Dolly, Elizabeth Somerset Cecil Calvert, however you may now love and covet her. She's a charming small woman, as many another lad than poor Jim or gay Herbert will find some day. But I didn't dream that jealousy began so early in life, or that such a matter-of-fact person as young James Barlow could be jealous." "He is. He is intensely so, though probably he doesn't know it himself. I fancy it is about the first time he has been brought into contact with other lads of his own age, and he is keen enough to see his own disadvantage. Herbert's nod to Jim was wholly friendly, I thought, but Jim resented it as patronizing. Silly fellow! And so he promptly changed his mind about affairs and decided that not for any consideration could he leave his garden and his 'duty' till the day's work was done. Then, if he had any time, my lord of the potato-crop may condescend to appear at Skyrie. Also by that time, he doubtless thinks, a white-handed aristocrat like Herbert will have tired of the affair and betaken himself back to the Towers where he belongs. Oh! I do love young folks! They are so transparent and honest in showing their feelings that they're wonderfully interesting. As for my Dolly C.--Seth Winters, I believe that I will really have to ask those Chesters to let me have her for 'keeps,' as the children say." "No, no, dear friend. Don't. You must not. It were most unwise. Leave the girl to grow up in the station to which God has assigned her, no matter by whose human hands the deed was done. At present she is fair, affectionate, simple, and womanly. To be suddenly transplanted into a wealthy home would spoil her. For once, put your generous impulses aside and leave Dorothy Chester alone, to be a comfort to those who have devoted their lives to her. And now, that sermon's ended! Also, I believe that all have come who promised, which is a remarkable thing in itself. You're walking, I suppose? So am I; and we'll start on together, while I signal the rest to follow." So they set forth, a worthy pair of white-haired "children," who could not grow old because they lived so very near that Heaven whence they had come to earth: and behind them fell into line all the motley assortment of carts and wagons, with the clattering mowing machine from the Towers bringing up the rear. Mother Martha was in what purported to be a garden, trying to persuade Pa Babcock to plant things that would yet have time to mature that season, and was at her wits' end to find arguments to stem his eloquent reasons why he should do otherwise. Quoth he: "Now, of all the satisfactory vegetables grown, asparagus, or sparrowgrass, as the unenlightened around here call it--asparagus contains more nourishment and the properties----" "But, Mr. Babcock, please don't dig any longer in that trench. It will have to be four or five feet deep and so much labor. My husband was reading all about it in one of his catalogues that he's just sent for, and it would take at least three years for asparagus to grow strong enough to begin cutting. Besides the roots are too expensive. And that terrible trench, so big, filled with stones----" "Excuse me, ma'am, there's plenty of stone at Skyrie to fill the asparagus beds of the nation: or if not quite that----" "But I must insist, since you've refused to listen to John about it, that you stop fooling with this trench and plant some late potatoes. We bought some seed ones from Mrs. Smith and my little girl is cutting them into pieces already. We were shown that by leaving one or two 'eyes' the pieces would grow just as well as whole tubers. Everybody needs potatoes and they can do without asparagus!" and too exasperated for further speech poor mother Martha folded her arms and brought her sternest glances to bear upon her hired man. He had kept his word and appeared upon the morning following his engagement, and for a time he had been left to his own devices: his inexperienced employers judging that any man who had been brought up in the country must be wiser in farming matters than they. Besides, the storm that had threatened on the night of his first visit had proved a most disastrous one. The roof had "leaked like a sieve," as pessimistic Jim Barlow had declared it would, "give it storm enough to try it": rusty-hinged shutters had broken loose, stopped-up drains had overflowed, the cellar had become a pool of water, and the cherished furniture brought from the little home in Baltimore had, in several rooms, been ruined by the moisture. Moreover, father John had taken a severe cold and been kept in bed in his own more sheltered apartment; where he consoled himself with the gardening catalogues he had written for and whence he endeavored to direct their hired man. "Did Pa Babcock bring his dinner, Martha?" he had asked on that first morning, when she was running distractedly about, trying to dry the damaged furniture and undo the storm's havoc. "No, dear. He said--just this once it didn't happen to be convenient. His wife hadn't any cold meat on hand." "Neither have you, I believe! Well, I will not board him. I will not! The farm may go to rack and ruin first!" cried Mr. Chester, indignantly. "The idea! Here are Dorothy and I trying to put our appetites into our pockets, just to save you labor, and this great, squeaking lout of a man----" "John, John! Why, John, I never knew you to be so unjust! If I, with my quick temper, can have patience, you certainly should." "But, mother, he's just been doing nothing at all, all this morning!" cried Dorothy, seconding her beloved father's opinion. "Just 'sort of nudgin' 'round,' Jim used to call it when I worked that way to the truck-farm, and I only a little girl. Why, I know I could have pulled more weeds myself in this time if I hadn't had to help you indoors, even if I did take that long walk to Heartsease farm. The ground is soaking wet, weeds would pull just beautifully, I know, 'cause we used to love to work after a rain, in our little garden at home! Oh! dear! this is very pretty, but--I wish we hadn't come!" Alas! This regret was in all their hearts, in that early time at Skyrie. Views were beautiful but they didn't support life, and though they had secured a modest sum of ready money to tide them over these beginnings it had been at the cost of "debt," a burden which the Chesters hated to bear. But, fortunately, they had scant time for repining, and there is nothing like active occupation to banish useless brooding. Hannah herself could well keep one person busy and, of course, her youth and fleetness ordained that this person should be Dorothy. Bill Barry's statement that the écru-colored bovine was "lively" and could outrun his sorrel mare was, at least founded upon fact. Among cattlemen she was what is known as a "jumper"; and though her behavior upon her first day of residence at Skyrie was most exemplary her sedateness forsook her on the next and forever after. With the best intentions, after having tried her own hand at milking and succeeding better than she had expected, Mrs. Cheater kindly turned Hannah "out to grass"--with most unlooked-for results. "All cattle graze, you know, John; and she really nibbled that bit of ground clean where she was tied yesterday. Dorothy and I--we won't hinder our 'man' for a trifle like that--Dolly and I will prop up that sagging gate, so Hannah won't be tempted to stray away, and give her the run of this first lot. She might almost mow it for us in time." "Thus cutting short her winter supply of fodder. Let her have one day at the 'mowing,' if you choose, then she'd better be put into that old pasture and left there. I know a good farmer wouldn't let even a well-trained Quaker cow into his best meadow; even _I_ know that! As for the pig, since we can't possibly drink all that milk and, as yet, have no pans in which to store it, he may as well consume it sweet as wait for it to sour. That will keep him quiet, anyway, and a squealing pig--I shouldn't like one." Martha was delighted to find even thus much farm knowledge on her husband's part, and exclaimed: "However you guessed that much about things, that meadows are meant for hay and pigs are raised on sour milk, I don't see! Only, of course, it's as you often say to Dolly: 'Anybody can use his head for anything he chooses.' I suppose you've chosen to study farming and so I know we shall succeed. By the way, Mrs. Smith has sent word over by her little boy that she is going up to Newburgh this afternoon to do what she calls 'trading.' She sells poultry, and eggs, and butter, and such things, that she raises on her farm, and takes in exchange all sorts of staple goods. She said she'd be pleased to have me go along and learn how to 'trade,' 'cause if I was going to be a farmer I'd have to know. I shall have to take some of that money, too, and buy a churn, some milk pans, and--Well, so many things it doesn't seem as if we really had a single necessary article to start with! But it's all the same, of course, in the end. When we get the loan from Friend Oliver Sands it will be all right. You and Dorothy will be comfortable while I'm gone, I think, for our man is right on hand in the garden to----" "Then, if you love me, keep him there!" pleaded father John, in his whimsical way. "If he forsakes the garden for the house--Well, _I_ shall be asleep! As for poor Dolly, if he catches her and tries to convert her to his ideas, the child has nimble feet and can run. I shall advise her so to do. But I'm glad you're to have that nice long ride, though I can't imagine you as ever becoming a good 'trader.'" It was during this brief absence that the écru-colored Hannah first returned to her natural ways, and that Dorothy had to prove herself "nimble," indeed. Despite the fact that she stood in the midst of the most luxurious vegetation the dissatisfied cow knew that there was better in the field beyond. Regardless of the appealing cries of Daisy-Jewel, this careless mother gave one airy flick to her heels and leaped the intervening wall; and though her child essayed to follow it could not, but set up such a bawling that Mr. Chester hobbled out to see what was amiss. "Remarkable!" cried Pa Babcock, improving this opportunity to rest from his not too arduous weeding. "Remarkable how the qualities of a race horse will sometimes inhabit the bosom of a creature----" "Dorothy! Dorothy! I guess you'll have to put Dickens down and go get Hannah back out of that lot. She's made a--a little mistake! Your mother wants her to graze on the home-piece and mother's our farmer, you know. Do run drive her back, but look out for her hoofs. She'd take a hurdle better than any horse I ever saw," called Mr. Chester, laughing; yet regretting to disturb Dorothy, who had worked industriously beside her mother to get things into good condition after the drenching of the rain. She had taken tacks from carpets, carried wet cushions and blankets out into the sunshine to dry and carried them back again when fit, and she wanted to rest and read. "Oh, dear! I don't see anything to laugh at in this! Why couldn't Hannah stay where she belonged! And just hear that poor little calf! I--I wish it hadn't been given to me!" fretted the tired girl, yet obediently set off in pursuit. Now the former master of Skyrie had divided it into many fields. He had called these "building lots," and had confidently expected to sell them at high prices to the rich people who had begun to settle on the mountain. These dividing walls were stone, like all the others, but sufficiently narrow to admit of Hannah's leaping them easily. She did leap them, running from one to another in a manner confusing to herself and doubly so to Dorothy, pursuing. Fortunately, the wide walls bordering the square outline of the farm were impassable even to her: and gradually, pursued and pursuer made their way back to that home-field whence the race had started. After all it was the voice of nature conquered, not Dorothy's fleetness. Daisy-Jewel's bleating and bawling accomplished the return of the runaway; though not till that too active creature had blundered into the wrong fields so many times that Dorothy was in despair. Thereafter, Hannah was always most securely tethered or kept shut up in her stall within the barn; her mistress finding it easier to cut the grass and feed her there than to allow her to do it for herself. But these performances did not endear the creature to anybody: nor was it comforting to have Pa Babcock--who took no part in any of these "chasings"--inform them that: "Of course, that was the reason my friend Oliver sold her to you so cheap. At ordinary rating that fine blooded cow would have brought at least a hundred dollars. Of course, too, there had to be some consideration to offset the price;" and again when, on the morning of that gathering at Seth Winters's smithy, Hannah had gnawed her fastening rope in two and started on a tour of the farm, he began to explain: "There is a way to prevent such----" But had paused abruptly, his attention attracted to the road below, and finished his possible advice by the pointing of his grimy finger and the exclamation: "Tiberius Cæsar! Look a-there!" Mrs. Chester did look and instinctively sought the society of John and Dorothy, as a protection against the invasion that threatened them. "Oh! what can it mean? They are all looking this way as if they were bound for Skyrie! Wagons, people, such a crowd--tell me, John Chester, _have you advertised again_? Is it another 'sale'?" But he shook his head, as much surprised and alarmed as she: till Seth Winters, the foremost of this invading army, came up to them, and courteously doffing his hat, explained, with a gay: "Good-morning, neighbors! Don't be frightened! We are nothing but a well-meaning _bee_!" CHAPTER XIII A BENEFICENT BEE If to be busy is a synonym for "bee" this one was well named. As the blacksmith further explained, while Dorothy hastened to fetch a chair for Mrs. Calvert, who stood beside him, merrily smiling: "It's a way country folks have of giving a neighbor a lift. We get up 'bees' to raise a barn, help in somebody's belated haying or harvesting, and we've arranged one now to get Skyrie into a little better shape. Too much of a job for one man to undertake alone, and with your permission, we'll begin. Each man knows his part and your near neighbor, John Smith, is boss of the whole. His farm is next to this, he knows most about Skyrie. 'One year's seeding makes seven years' weeding,' you know, and poor Skyrie has been running to weed-seeds far too long. _May_ we begin?" Mother Martha could not speak, and Dorothy seemed all eyes and mouth, so widely they stared and gaped in her surprise; but father John found voice to falter: "We are almost overcome. I shall never be able to return this kindness, and I don't, I can't quite understand----" "No need you should, and as for returning kindnesses, all can find some way to do that if they watch out. I take it you are willing we should go ahead. Therefore, John Smith! do your duty! and let every man hustle as he never did before. By sunset and milking-time Skyrie must be the best-ordered farm on the mountain! Hip, hip, hooray!" What a cheer went up! With what honest pride did John Smith, the best farmer of them all, step to the fore and assign to each man his place! and with what scant loss of time did the fun begin! Fun they made of it, in truth, though long untilled fields were stubborn in their yielding to plow or harrow, and unmown meadows were such a tangle as tried the mettle of mowing machine and scythe. Into the garden rushed a half-dozen workers, with plow, spade, rake, and seed bags, coolly forcing the staring Pa Babcock aside, at the risk of being trampled in his own asparagus ditch. Also he, with equal coolness, resigned himself to having his task taken out of hand and repaired to the side of his employers to rest. Was he not, also, one of the family? Such a "bee" as that was had never before buzzed on that mountain, even though this was by no means the first one known there. It was of greater proportions and more full of energy than could possibly have been brought to the mere raising of a barn or the gathering of a single crop. Dorothy's romantic history, added to the ex-postman's own pitiful story, would have been sufficient to win those warm-hearted country folk to the rescue, even without the example of Seth Winters to rouse them everywhere. "My Cousin Seth calls himself a blacksmith, but he seems to be a carpenter as well. See? He is actually climbing the roof, to make sure every old, worn-out shingle is replaced by a new one. Trust me, if Seth undertakes anything it will be well done. Your roof will never leak again, as Dorothy said it did that stormy night," said Mrs. Cecil to Martha, while that astonished matron sat now beside her guest, watching and wondering, unable to talk; till at last a sudden fear arose in her housewifely breast, and she answered by asking: "What shall I do with them? How feed them all? I can just remember such a time when my grandfather had a lot of people come to help, and all the women in the house had to cook for days beforehand, it seems to me, for the one dinner." "O mother! We can't! Why, there aren't potatoes enough in the pantry for our own dinner, let alone so many people!" cried Dorothy, regretfully regarding her small fingers, roughened now by that cutting of "seed." "Even if we'd saved all you got of Mrs. Smith they wouldn't have begun to go around. I might--do you suppose I could make biscuit enough, like you taught me for father's supper--if there was flour--and maybe butter, and there was time!" Mrs. Cecil laughed and drew the girl close to her for a moment; then, rising, said: "Don't worry, Mrs. Chester, nor Dolly dear. These folks haven't come to make trouble but to save it. I see that the women are gathering in that far field that has already been mowed and raked. Herbert Montaigne is there, with his horse-rake, and I'm curious to see if he can manage something useful as easily as he does his own fast horse. Besides, country women are a bit shy, sometimes, and I want you to go among them with me and get acquainted. Get your--Mrs. Chester a hat, my darling, and your own if you need it, Dorothy." She spoke with a tone of authority, habitual enough, but she had hesitated for an instant over the word "mother," and Martha's tender, jealous heart was quick to notice it and to assure herself that "she has taken a notion to my girl and wants to adopt her from me. I know it. I'm as sure as if she'd said so outright. But she shan't. She shall not. Dorothy is not the kind of child to be handed from pillar to post, that fashion. She's mine. She was sent to me and I shall keep her, even if John did once say that a richer woman could do more for her than we can. I--I begin almost to--to hate Mrs. Cecil! And I'm glad I didn't borrow money of her instead of that nice old Friend." By which reflections it seemed that poor, jealous mother Martha likened herself to a "pillar" and the mistress of Deerhurst to a "post." It was in that mood she followed the old lady down to that far field in which the group of women, aided by a few lads, seemed so strangely busy. Busy, indeed! In a community accustomed to "picnics" conveniences for such were a matter of course; so in some of the wagons had been brought wooden tressels, and the long boards that were laid upon these made the necessary tables for the great feast to come. In one corner of this field, fragrant now with the freshly cut grass which Herbert had raked into windrows, was a cluster of trees, giving a comfortable shade; and beneath these the helpful lads detailed for the task set up the tressels and placed the boards in readiness; then brought from the wagons in the road outside such big baskets and so many, all so heavily laden with the best their owners could provide, that Dorothy could only clasp her hands and cry out in amazement: "Why, this is far and away beyond anything we ever had at home! Even the Sunday-school excursions down the Bay didn't have so many baskets! I wish--how I wish that father was here!" "Here he shall be!" cried Herbert, jumping from his seat upon the rake and hurrying toward her. "I've gathered up all that's in this lot and I'll go fetch him. Goodness! If there isn't the little mother herself! Come to see if her precious son has overheated himself by doing something useful! Wait, Dorothy! Here's a lark! My mother wouldn't mix with 'common folks'--I mean she wouldn't be let by Helena--but now she shall. She has let her curiosity and her anxiety over her son and heir"--here the lad swept Dolly a profound bow which she as merrily returned by as profound a courtesy, each laughing as if no disagreement had marked their last interview--"she has come to the 'Bee' and she shall taste of its honey!" Away he sped, scattering jests and laughter as he went, the farm-wives whom his friendliness had already propitiated looking after him with ready approval, while more than one remarked on the absence of that "insolence" which had been attributed to him. "The father and daughter may be terrible top-lofty, but there ain't no nonsense in the boy, and the mother looks as if she'd like to be neighborly, if she dared to," said Mrs. Smith, advancing to meet Mrs. Calvert and Martha. "How-do, Mis' Cecil? It's the crownin' top-notch of the whole business, havin' you come, too. But I knowed you would. I said to John, says I, 'Mis' Calvert's sure to be on hand if she can shake a leg, she ain't one to miss no doin's, she ain't,' I says, and I'm tickled to death to see you can, ma'am." With this conclusion Mrs. Smith turned a triumphant eye upon her neighbors as if to show them how exceedingly familiar and intimate she was with the greatest lady "up-mounting." Besides, as wife of the commander of this expedition, she realized her own important position: and set to work at once to introduce everybody to Mrs. Chester, for Mrs. Calvert was already known to most and waited no introduction to those she did not know. "Now, boys, get them benches sot up right to once! wouldn't keep visitin' ladies standing, would you?" ordered this mistress of ceremonies, herself setting the example by placing a bench under the very shadiest tree and beside the head table. "Now, Mis' Calvert, Mis' Chester, Dolly, and you, old Mis' Turnbull, step right up and se' down. Comfortable, be ye? All right, then, we'll have dinner ready in the jerk of a lamb's tail! Mis' Spencer, you set that cherry pie o' yourn on this particular spot an' figure of this table-cloth! I want Mis' Calvert to taste it, an' when she does she'll say she never knew before what cherry pie could be! Fact. Oh! you needn't wriggle an' try to make believe you don't know it yourself, Sarah Spencer, so bein's you've took first prize for pies at the county fair, three-four years hand-runnin'. Fit to set off this very best table-cloth in the bunch--My! but it's fine! yet the lucky woman 'at owns it didn't think the best none too good for this here joyful occasion. I tell you, isn't it a good thing the Lord sent us such a splendid day? Hot? Well, maybe, but need hot weather to make the corn grow an' hay cure right. Now, if that don't beat the Dutch! here comes the boss himself! Bore right along like a king on his throne! Hurray!" By the "boss," of course, it was Mr. Chester she meant: smiling as even that sunny-tempered gentleman had rarely smiled, and carried in a stout chair upon the shoulders of two strong men, while waving them to the tune of his merry whistle, followed Herbert with the crutches. "Coffee? Smell it! Fried chicken? Well, that's a smart trick. Wait till I copy that over at the camp!" cried the lad, always a hungry chap but never quite so hungry as now; and watching with admiration how deftly two women were deep-frying in a kettle, suspended by three crotched sticks above a fire on the ground, the already prepared fowls which had once been the choicest of their flocks. Plenty of other things there were, roasts and broils and brews, but Mrs. Smith's mandate had long before gone forth that: "Our men must have something hot with their dinner, and not all 'cold victuals.' John he can get more work out of a hired man 'an anybody else I ever saw, an' he does it by feedin' 'em. He says, says he, in hayin' time when he wants folks to swing their scythes lively: 'Buttermilk an' whey, Draggin' all the day; Ham an' eggs--Look out for your legs!' So I'm bound to have that tried to Mr. Chester's 'Bee.'" So not only figuratively but practically it was a case of "ham and eggs," and brimful of his enjoyment, master Herbert now deposited the crutches within easy reach of their owner and hurried to the road, where his mother and sister sat amusedly watching in their phaeton. He made one attempt to vault over the intervening wall, but it was so wide he failed and struck the top in an ignominous heap, which set all the other lads in the field into uproarious laughter--himself joining in it with perfect good humor. Even his mother, whose idol he was, looked at him in surprise, anticipating scowls instead of smiles; but the love and sympathy which had emanated from Seth Winters's big heart had touched, that day, the more selfish heart of many another--even the "spoiled" lad, Herbert's. Ah! the bliss of bestowing kindness! how it returns in an overflow of happiness! "O son! Are you hurt?" cried Mrs. Montaigne, in alarm. How could anybody fall upon stones in that way and not be injured? But "son" had rebounded from the impact like a rubber ball, or the best trained gymnast of his school, as he was. Another leap brought him to the side of the carriage and to insisting that his women should return with him to what he called "the festal board," adding "it's literally such, though don't they look dainty? those rough planks covered with white linen? Oh! but they've got the 'fixings' to make your mouth water. Please get out, mother, Helena, and come. I'll help you over the wall. It's easy. Come!" But Helena drew up with haughtiness, demanding: "What can you be thinking of, Herbert Montaigne? The idea of mother or I mixing in such a crowd. If it suits you to play the fool----" "No foolishness about what I did, I tell you! Why, child alive, I raked the hay together on three whole six-acre fields! I! your good-for-something brother! Think of that, then put it in your pipe and smoke it!" With that he began strutting up and down beside the phaeton with such a comical resemblance to a pouter pigeon that coachman James had to turn his face aside, lest he should disgrace himself by a smile, while Mrs. Montaigne laughed aloud. "Herbert, you dreadful boy! You use more shocking language every day. There's no need for you to suffer any further contamination by mingling with such persons as are yonder. Don't go back. Ride home with us, and let's go into Newburgh and pay visits upon somebody worth while," coaxed Helena, whose mission in life seemed to be the reconstruction of all with whom she came in contact. "Not much I go! I hate visits, and if you think you're going to drag me away from Skyrie just the minute the real fun begins, you're mistaken, that's all. Besides, what would my friend Mrs. Calvert think if I deserted her in this base fashion? Why, we've settled it that I'm to be her attendant at this famous dinner--I tell you it's going to make history, this busy bumble 'Bee'! It will be told of and held up as an example of what can be done and should be done, sometimes. No, indeed, I shan't miss it, and you won't unless you're a bigger--I mean more unwise than I think you. Mother's coming anyway, to sit next to Mrs. Calvert and that pretty Dorothy. Huh! Talk about girls! She's a daisy, she is! Good deal more of one than that little-boy-calf of hers she's so fond of. That's right, mother! Have a will of your own or a will of mine, once in a lifetime!" commended this persuasive son. Mrs. Montaigne loved both her children, said that she did so equally, and they both ruled her; Helena by fear, Herbert by love. Under all his rollicking nonsense the deepest feeling of the lad's heart was love for the timid little woman who was so ready to sacrifice herself to them all, and who he believed was also the superior of all. Once in a long while she acted with decision. She did so now. Whether the name of Calvert had been one to conjure with, or because she was really anxious to see what sort of people these were who had so evidently "bewitched" her son, she descended from the phaeton, laughingly demanding if Herbert thought she "possibly could get over that dreadful wall, or should they go further and through the gate?" "Over it? Easy as breathing!" She was a tiny woman and he a very strong lad: and before she knew what he was about he had caught her over his back, sack-fashion, and leaped to the top of the wide wall. A couple of steps, and he had swung her down upon the grass within the field, where she stood too amazed to speak: though Mrs. Smith, observant from a distance, dramatically exclaimed: "My soul and body! You could knock me down with a feather!" CHAPTER XIV AN ASTONISHING QUESTION "Everybody's here, with all his first wife and children!" cried somebody, facetiously, as the tin horn was blown to summon the men from their labors in the field to their dinner. "So they be! So they be! yonder comes Mis' Babcock with all her flock, root and branch. Reckoned she'd strike Skyrie about feedin' time; but there's plenty, plenty for everyone; and she's a nice woman, a hard worker an' kind neighbor. Sho! Look at Seth Winters! If that man ain't a kind of a mesmeriser, or somethin' like it! for he's actually coaxed that proud Miss Montaigne to join the merry throng! Fact. I just seen him escortin' her through the gate, an', Dorothy! mind you put on your best manners an' treat her real polite, like city folks is supposed to know how. Since she's put her pride in her pocket an' come, I'd like to have her see she ain't the only young lady up-mounting. 'Cause you belong now, you know; you're one of _us_. Go meet her, whilst I fix another chair right alongside her ma and Mis' Calvert!" directed Mrs. Smith, handing the girl a plate of rusk, with the added injunction: "Take special care o' them biscuit, too, child. I made them myself, I did, an' I want the 'ristocratics to have first chance at 'em. If some them men folks tackle them on the road to table, there won't be nothin' left of them but the plate. Take care! I--Why, I don't believe she heard a word I said!" Dorothy had heard in part. She obediently carried the plate to the table, though not to that part of it which its owner had designated, and she had answered: "Yes, Mrs. Smith, I will try." But she had suddenly perceived a forlorn figure, leaning against the stone wall that separated the field from the road, and her interest centered on that. Poor Peter Piper was peering wistfully into that busy, happy, laughing assemblage of people, as if he longed to be among them yet felt himself shut out. He had not heard about the "Bee," and even if he had might not have comprehended what it meant. Had he been at the blacksmith's home once after the scheme was started, Seth would assuredly have given the half-wit as courteous a chance to share in the fun and labor of that day as he had given all his other neighbors. But Peter had not been seen by anybody who knew him since that visit of his to Skyrie, in company with old Brindle. He had departed then, frowning and greatly troubled. Why, his clouded mind could not understand; but something had gone wrong. The once deserted farm had become the home of strangers and he could visit it no more. Thus much he felt and knew; and that night he disappeared. However, the poor fellow's absences were so frequent that nobody missed him from the neighborhood and Dorothy had utterly forgotten him. Now, as she saw him, her heart throbbed with pity. "He looks as if this picnic were Paradise, and he shut out! I'm going to ask him here!" With a swoop upon it Mrs. Smith rescued her fine rusk from the plebeian appetites which would have consumed it and carried it triumphantly to the "aristocratic" end of the head table, then stood arms akimbo, staring after Dorothy and ejaculating: "If that don't beat all my first wife's relations! That chit of a child set down the biscuit, but she snatched up a big cake worth twice as much. She's going to coax that simpleton with it, just as a body has to coax a wild critter to come an' be caught. And I plain told her that Helena Montaigne was here, and 'twas her chanst to make friends with _her_. Pshaw! I don't believe that Dorothy Chester cares a pin whether she gets in with rich folks or not! 'Tain't five minutes ago 't I heard her sassin' Herbert same as she might one my own boys. Don't stand in awe of nobody, Dorothy don't, an' yet nobody gets mad at her. 'Course, I don't begrudge Peter Piper a mouthful o' victuals. None of us would, but what's _left over_ after the rest is done would be plenty good enough for him. Huh! All that splendid chocolate cake--five-layer-thick!" As Dorothy approached the wall Peter dodged behind it and, for a moment, she thought he had run away. If he had she meant to follow; and with the ease that her long practice in chasing Hannah had given her she vaulted over the wall to pursue. But he had not run, and she landed on the further side plump beside him where he sat huddled against the stones. "Well! It was lucky for you I didn't jump on you instead of by you!" cried the girl, as she, also, sat down on the bank. Peter shrank aside, as one who wards off a blow, and mumbled something which she made out to mean: "I didn't do any harm. I didn't!" His speech was thick and he lisped like a baby learning to talk, but his face brightened when she answered quickly: "Of course you didn't. But why aren't you in there with all the others? You must come, in a minute, back with me. First, see here?" With the friendliest of smiles she held aloft the monster cake she had judged would be the waif's proper share of the feast, choosing for him, as she would for herself, to have the dessert come before the bread and butter. Peter's protruding eyes fastened upon the dainty and his mouth opened widely, and for a time, at least, he knew nothing beyond that cake. Breaking it into bits, Dorothy fed him. He did not offer to take the food in his own hands, he simply opened that cavernous mouth and received with a snap of his jaws the portions she dropped therein. The operation became fascinating to the girl and she marveled to see no movement of swallowing; only that automatic opening and closing, and the subsequent absorption of the cake. She had not supposed he would consume the whole loaf at one meal. He did. The last morsel followed the first and still there was no sign of surfeit, and the girl sprang up, saying: "Now I must go back to help those ladies wait on the table. Will you come?" With some hesitation Peter Piper got to his feet, and now his gaze was riveted upon her face as closely as it had been upon the chocolate cake and almost as greedily. As if within her bonny smile and unshrinking friendliness he beheld something new and wonderfully beautiful. It was just as they stood up that somebody behind the wall called out: "Well, Peter Piper! Good enough! So you've come to the 'Bee,' too, have you? If you'd let me know where you were you'd have had your invitation long ago. Time enough, though, time enough. Always is to do a good deed, and there's a deal of work yet to be finished before nightfall. Let me tell you, Miss Dorothy Chester, there isn't a better gardener anywhere around than our friend Peter! If he'd only stick to it--if the lad would only stick to it!" It was Seth Winters, of course, who had seen Dorothy's crossing of the field to that same spot where he, also, had discovered the feathered cap of the poor imbecile. He was honestly glad of the lad's return, being always somewhat anxious over his long absences. Much experience of life had shown him that the world is not very kind to such as Peter, and he tried by fatherly interest and goodness to make up to the boy somewhat for the harshness of others. Dorothy's action had delighted him: and with an approving smile he held his hands toward her, across the wall, and bade: "Give me your hands, lassie! I'll help you back over; and, Peter, come." Dorothy sprang lightly to the top of the wall and he swung her as lightly down; the half-wit following with a nimbleness one would not have expected and, like a child, catching hold of the girl's skirt and thus firmly attaching himself to her. "Why, Peter! Don't do that! Young ladies don't like to drag big fellows like you around by main force!" remonstrated the smith, smiling and shaking his head at the youth, who merely smiled in return and clutched the tighter, even though the girl once or twice tried to loosen his grasp, attempting this so gently that it produced no effect; and thus escorted she came back to the stables beneath the trees and to the presence of Helena, toward whom officious Mrs. Smith immediately forced her. Oddly enough, since they were so unlike, there was instant liking between the two girls; and with a smile Helena made room for Dorothy on the bench beside her. But there was no room for Peter, nor would he have claimed it now had there been plenty. With intense and haughty surprise Helena had stared at the unfortunate for a moment, till an amused contempt curved her lips in a disdainful smile. In general, people did not credit the poor creature with sensitiveness; none save Seth Winters believing that he keenly felt the scoffs and gibes so often put upon him; but he now proved the truth of the blacksmith's opinion. Helena's scornful look did what Dorothy's efforts had failed to do--it loosened Peter's fingers from her skirt and sent him, cowering and abashed, to the furthest limit of the group. Fortunately, for him, straight also to a spot where Herbert Montaigne was merrily helping--or hindering--the women busy cooking over the fires upon the ground. Herbert had seen Dorothy's exit from the field with the great cake in hand and had, for an instant, intended pursuit that should end in a lark; then he had seen the red feathers of Peter's cap and reflected: "That girl's got some fellow over there she's going to feed on the sly. They've both dropped down out of sight now--I reckon I won't spoil sport--shouldn't like it myself. It's none of my business anyhow, though I wouldn't mind being the fellow in the case--this time." Also he made it sufficiently his business to watch for the reappearance of Dolly, minus the cake and attended by Seth and the too appreciative Peter. Then the whole significance of the incident flashed upon him, and to his boyish fancy for the little maid was instantly added a deep respect. "Bless my eyes! I called her a 'daisy,' but she's more than that. There isn't a girl in a thousand who'd have done that decent thing without being bidden; but--Hello! seems as if she'd got what Mrs. Smith calls her 'come uppance'! The simpleton has glued himself to her petticoats and she can't shake him free!" Then a moment more of watching showed him the result of his sister's haughtiness and made him exclaim aloud: "Good enough for Helena! The first time I ever knew her confounded pride to be of any use. But here comes the victim of her scorn, and it's up to me to finish the job Dorothy C. has so well begun!" In all his life poor Peter Piper had never been so happy as that day made him. Instead of the indifference or aversion commonly shown him, he was met with an outstretched hand and the genial greeting of another lad not much younger than himself; and if, for the sake of impressing others into the same friendliness, the greeting was rather overdone, the fault was on the right side and Peter was too simple to suspect it. With a confused expression and an unaccountable warmth in his lonely heart, the "touched of God" accepted the extended hand and cast a grateful glance into Herbert's face. A look that, for an instant, suffused that youngster's own because he felt his present kindness to be "second hand." Then Peter turned about and pointed to where Dorothy now sat laughing and feasting, and volubly explaining to Mrs. Smith, between mouthfuls: "I really couldn't help taking the nicest cake in sight, dear Mrs. Smith! I knew it was yours and belonged now to the public; and I will make you another to take its place. I--I hope it wasn't 'stealing----'" she finished, with a momentary gravity. "Bless all my first wife's relations! Don't let such a horrid word as that come to this merry 'Bee!' It was yours, your very own, leastwise your ma's and pa's, to eat or give away just as you'd ruther. I do still think that broken pieces, after the rest has finished, would have answered the purpose full as well, but----" "Broken pieces, Mrs. Smith! On a day like this?" cried Mrs. Calvert, reprovingly. "You do yourself an injustice. If I'm not mistaken you've put aside some mighty tender pieces of chicken and part of your own biscuits for this same poor estray." The mistress of ceremonies blushed and bridled her head. In truth she had, indeed, "put aside" the dainties mentioned, but alas! they had been intended for the delectation of her own and her cronies' palates. With instant change of mind, however, she caught up the basket hidden beneath the table and marched valiantly forward to the spot where Herbert was supplying Peter with the best of everything he could lay his hands on. Admirably frank--when found out--good Mrs. Smith now added her store to Herbert's, and the half-wit's eyes grew more protruding than ever. Also, to the disgust of both watchful lad and woman, Peter caught the food from the basket and thrust it within his oilcloth jacket. He knew, if those watching him did not, the terrible pangs of starvation and here was provision for many a day. Besides, the whole of a rich chocolate cake does have a diminishing effect upon even such appetites as Peter's. Bounteous as the feast was, but a brief half-hour was permitted for its consumption; then the master of the day announced: "Our job's well begun and so half-done. Now for a fine finish and--home!" All who were standing hurried to their tasks at this word of command, and all who were sitting as promptly rose. Among them Mrs. Cecil, with a sudden realization of her eighty years of cushioned ease and her one hour of sitting on a board. Also, her zest of the occasion had as suddenly passed. She had taken a moment's chance to speak to "Johnnie" of money matters; how it would "really be an accommodation for him to take and use some of her own superfluous ready cash, till such time as Skyrie began to yield a comfortable income"; and to her delicately worded offer "Johnnie" had returned a most awkward refusal. He had tried to soften his reply, but not being politic or tactful had succeeded only in expressing himself more brusquely. When pressed to tell if any other person had superseded her, he had to acknowledge that Friend Oliver Sands had done so, but that the affair belonged to his wife, etc. That was the climax. Between the mistress of Deerhurst and the miller there was a grudge of long standing. Though liberal in her business dealings the old gentlewoman hated to be cheated, and she had openly declared to all who chose to listen that Oliver had cheated her. She stopped buying her feed of him and went to the extra trouble of sending all the way to Newburgh for everything in his line that was required at Deerhurst. Few like to have their kindnesses returned upon themselves, unappreciated: Betty Calvert less than most: so with a feeling of affront, which she was too outspoken wholly to corer by politeness, she said: "Mr. Smith, I must go home. May Dorothy Chester take your horse and wagon and drive me there?" "Of course, and proud to have you use it. But can that little girl drive?" he asked, glancing at the child with a funny smile. Well he knew the retort he might expect--and presently received, amid a burst of kindly laughter from others around--from the lady: "My good Mr. Smith, _I_ sold you that nag. He's twenty years old if a day. A babe in arms could drive him! and I'll send a capable horseman back with him--and her. Good-day, all; and God speed the finish!" She said it quite devoutly, thankful for the present help given the crippled, would-be farmer, and knowing that with even the best of help his future would be difficult. A few moments later, for the first time in her life, Dorothy held a pair of reins in her hands, clutching them tightly as if all her strength were required to restrain the speed of the venerable animal hitched before the open "democrat" in which she sat, and that nothing could induce to anything swifter than a walk. Once she opened her lips and asked, nervously: "Are you--much afraid, Mrs. Calvert?" "Not--much!" quavered that lady, in mimicry, and with the most admiring contemplation of the earnest young face beside her. From the flapping ears of their steed Dorothy's own eyes never wavered. It was a wonderful experience. To pull on either rein and guide so big a creature to the right or left--Why, she had seen others drive but she had never before realized the great intelligence of a horse! Oh! how delightful it would be to own one for one's self! All the inborn love of horseflesh that, till that moment, she had not realized woke up in her small breast, and finally found voice in the exclamation: "Oh! If Daisy-Jewel had only been a colt instead of a calf!" "A perfectly simple matter to change him into one," quietly returned Mrs. Cecil; and hearing her, Dorothy wondered if this old gentlewoman were in truth the "fairy godmother" to whom she had sometimes likened her. The girl did not answer. They had arrived at the gates of Deerhurst and this young "coachman" was gravely considering how to drive through them without hitting either ivy-covered pillar. So earnest was she now that Mrs. Calvert had twice to repeat a question she had long been pondering; but which fell upon Dorothy Chester's ears, at last, with the sound of an exploding bomb. "My little Dorothy, will you come to live with me, and become _my_ adopted daughter?" CHAPTER XV CONCERNING SEVERAL MATTERS "O Jim! I feel so--so guilty! Just as if I had done something dreadfully wrong!" cried troubled Dorothy C. to her faithful if jealous friend, as they were driving homeward again. The reins were in his hands this time and he held them with an ease which left everything to the old horse itself, and which would have surprised the girl had room been left in her mind for any smaller surprises after that great one of Mrs. Cecil's question. "Don't see why," returned practical Jim. His own satisfaction was great, just then, for he had seen Herbert Montaigne driving homeward on his brand-new horse-rake, brilliant in red paint and purchased by that extravagant youth expressly for the Skyrie "Bee." Herbert had forsaken that laborious festivity, soon after the departure of Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy; but not till after he had also finished all the raking there had been for him to do. Much of the ground was so overrun with bushes and brambles that only hand-rakes were available, and to the more difficult task of these the lad did not aspire. Now, at ease with his own conscience and at peace with all the world, he drove by the gates of Deerhurst whistling his merriest, and bent upon ending his rarely useful day by a row upon the river. He even caught a glimpse of Dorothy sitting in the farm wagon waiting for Jim to "make himself tidy after his gardening," as his mistress had directed; and had called out some bit of nonsense to her which she was too absorbed in thought to notice. "That's all right. Needn't answer if she doesn't wish! I'll see her to-morrow and get her to go on that picnic at the camp. One picnic paves the way to another--that's easy! I don't feel now any great longing even for planked shad--such a dinner I ate! But that's one good thing about a dinner, little Kit! Take a few hours off and you'll be ready for the next one! Good thing my top-lofty sister 'took a notion' to sweet Dolly! That's going to make things lots easier for my scheme, 'but I'll 'bide a wee' before I spring it on the Pater. Eh, little Kit? Aren't you a beauty? and--good luck! You're just the thing to take her, to-morrow. She told me, to-day, they hadn't a single cat. '_Not a single cat!_' In a tone of regular heartbreak, she said it, Kit! That's why I heard you squalling by the roadside and picked you up. Somebody dropped you, didn't he? Somebody a deal richer in cats than Dorothy C. Why, little Kit, I heard a workman telling the other day how he found a bag of kittens, a whole bag of them, 'lost' by somebody as heartless as your own late owner, probably, but far less wise. For the bag was a potato sack and it had the owner's name stamped in full on it. Must have lost it out the back of a wagon, the workman thought. Anyway, next day he gathered up all the stray cats and kittens he could find and in the dead of night--the dead of night, little Kit! when all dire deeds are done!--he carried the replenished sack back and left it on the 'loser's' doorstep. Good for that workman! but, query. What became of the cats? Never mind, Kitty, I know what will become of you, and your fate will be the happiest possible. Get up there, Slowpoke!" finished the lad, thrusting the tiny kitten he had found astray on the road into his blouse, and urging the work horse forward. In any case it is probable he would have picked up the lost kitten and given it a home in his father's barn, but it suited well with Dorothy's pathetic regret that he should have found it. "You 'don't see why,' Jim Barlow, I feel so worried over what Mrs. Calvert asked? Then you're stupider than I thought. She is so kind, she found and saved me--after you, of course--and she is so old and lonely. I'd love to live with her if--if there were two of me. Already she looks to me to do little things for her that nobody else seems to think she wants, and to do them without her asking. I love her. Seems if she was sort of my folks--_my own folks_ that I must have had sometime. We like the same things. She adores Dickens, so do I. She loves outdoors, so do I. She--But there, it's no use! I can't go to live with her and leave father John and mother Martha. It would break their hearts and mine, too! Oh! dear! I wish she hadn't asked me; then I wouldn't have had to say 'No,' and see her beautiful old face lose all its lovely brightness. When I think how old she is, how it's but a little while she'll need me--Why, then my heart breaks in two the other way! O Jim! Isn't life a terrible, terrible perplexity?" demanded this small maid to whom "life" was, indeed, just showing its realities. Jim listened silently, but it wouldn't have flattered her to know that it was her ready flow of language and the rather long words she used which mainly impressed him. To his practical mind it was simply impossible for any right-minded girl to forsake those who had cared for her all her life, in order to gratify the whim of an old lady whom she had known but a short time. Nor did it enter the thoughts of either of these young folks that the material advantages offered to Dorothy would be very great. It was only a question of happiness; the happiness of the Chesters or that of Mrs. Cecil. As they left Deerhurst behind them and still Jim had answered nothing except that provoking "Don't see why," Dorothy lost her patience. "Jim Barlow, have you lost your tongue? I think--I think you're horribly unsympathetic!" she cried, flashing a glance upon him that was meant for anger, yet ended in surprise at his actually smiling countenance. "I don't see anything funny in this business, if you do! What are you laughing at?" Now he looked at her, his face radiant with the fun of his own thoughts, and replied: "Lots o' things. Fust off, Dorothy, will you correct me every time I use bad language?" "Bad--language! Swearing, you mean? Why, Jim, I never heard you, not once. Huh! If I did I reckon I _would_ correct you, so quick 'twould make you dizzy!" "Pshaw! I don't mean that, silly thing! I mean--Dorothy, I want to talk like other folks: like Mis' Calvert----" "Then begin to call her 'Mrs.'" "Mrs. Calvert," answered Jim, obediently. "To you and her and Mr. Chester, talkin'----" "Talking, Jim. Don't clip the g's off your words!" He half-frowned, then laughed. She was almost too ready with her corrections. But he went on: "I'm studyin'--studying--every night, as long as I dast----" "Dare, you mean." Poor Jim gasped and retorted: "Well, dare, then, if you say so. D-a-r-e! and be done with it! Mis', I mean Mrs., Calvert has give orders----" "Given orders, boy." "Shut up! I mean she's told the old man and woman that keeps----" "Who keep!" "That keeps the gate and lives in the lodge an' I live with 'em, if you want to know the hull kit an' boodle of the story, she's give 'em orders I can't have no light lit after half-past ten o'clock, 'cause I'll spile my eyes an' break down my strength--Pshaw! as if a feller could, just a-studyin', when he's so powerful bent on't as I be! But, you know I know I don't talk quite the same as them 'at knows better an' has had more book l'arnin'," explained the young student, hopelessly relapsing into the truck-farm vernacular. "Yes, Jim, I do know that you know, as you so tellingly put it. I've seen you flush more than once when you've noticed the difference in speech, and I'll help you all I can. I don't know much myself. I'm only a girl, not far along in her own education, but I'll do what I can; only, Jim Barlow, don't you go and get offended when I set you right. If you do you shall go on 'wallowing in your ignorance,' as I've read somewhere. Now, that's enough 'correction' for once. Tell me the other 'lots of things' you were laughing at." "Sure! The first one, how we're goin' to get ahead of that old Quaker miller. Mis'--Mrs.--Calvert's planned the hull--whole--business. She don't like him none. She stopped me an' told me things, a few. She 'lows he's got some scheme or other, 'at ain't no good to your folks, a-lettin' good money on a wore-out farm like Skyrie. There's more in his doin's than has come to light yet. That's what she says. Even his sellin' your ma that jumpin' cow was a low-down, ornery trick. An' that bull calf--no more use to such as you-all 'an a white elephant, she says. Less; 'cause I s'pose a body'd _could sell_ a elephant, if they was put to it. Say, Dorothy. They's a-goin' to be a circus come to Newburgh bime-by. The pictures of it is all along the fences an' walls; an', say--I'm earnin' wages now, real good ones. I told Mis', Mrs., Calvert 't I didn't think I ought to take any money off her, 'cause she's give--given--me all these new clothes an' treats me so like a prince; but she laughed an' said how 'twas in the Bible that 'a laborer is worthy of his hire' and she'd be a poor sort of Christian that didn't at least try to live up to her Bible. Say, Dorothy, she's even give me one for myself! Fact. She give it an' says she, she says: 'James, if you make that the rule of your heart and life, you can't help being a gentleman, 'at you aspire to be, as well as a good man.' Then she fetched out another book, big--Why, Dorothy! So big it's real heavy to lift! An' she called that one a 'Shakespeare.' The name was printed on it plain; an' she said the man what wrote it more years ago 'an I can half-tell, had 'done the thinkin' for half--the world, or more,' she said. And how 'if I'd use them two books constant an' apply 'em to my own life I'd never need be ashamed an' I could hold up my head in even the wisest company.' Say, Dorothy! Mis' Calvert knows a powerful lot, seems if!" "Well, she ought. She's lived a powerful long time." "An' I've been thinkin' things over. I don't believe I _will_ try to be President, like we planned. Lookin' into that Shakespeare feller's book I 'low I'd ruther write one like it, instead." "O Jim! That's too delightful! I must tell father that. I must! _You_, a new _Shakespeare_! Why, boy, he's the wisest writer ever lived. I'm only just being allowed to read a little bit of him, old as I am. My father picks out the best parts of the best dramas and we often read them together, evenings. But--What are the other things you thought about, and made you laugh? That circus, too; shall you go to it, Jim? Did you ever go to one?" "Never. _Never._ But I'm just sufferin' to go. Say, Dorothy? If I can get all my work done, an' Mrs. Calvert she don't think it's sinful waste o' good money, an' your folks'll let you, an' it don't come on to rain but turns out a real nice day, an' I can get the loan of Mrs. Calvert's oldest horse an' rig--'cause I wouldn't dast--dare--to ask for a young one--an' I felt as if I could take care of you in such a terrible crowd as Ephraim says they always is to circuses, would you, will you, go with me?" In spite of herself Dorothy could not help laughing. Yet there was something almost pathetic in the face of this poor youth, possessing a small sum of money for the first time, beset by the caution which had hedged his humble, dependent life, yet daring--actually daring, of his own volition--to be generous! Generous of that which Miranda Stott had taught him was the very best thing in the world--money! Of himself, his strength, his unselfishness and devotion,--all so much higher than that "money,"--he had always been most lavish; and remembering this, with a sympathy wise beyond her years, Dorothy speedily hushed her laughter and answered eagerly: "Indeed, I will, you dear, care-taking, cautious boy, and thank you heartily. I love a circus. Father John used to take mother Martha and me to one once every summer. Why, what a perfectly wild and giddy creature I shall be! To a circus with you, a camp-picnic with Herbert and Helena, and this splendid farmers' 'Bee'--Hurray!" Jim's countenance fell. "I didn't know 'bout that other picnic," said he. "When's it comin' off? And what is a picnic, anyway?" "You'll see when we get home to Skyrie. A picnic is the jolliest thing there is--except a circus. _Except a circus._ When it's to come off I don't know, but when it does I mean you shall be in it, too, Jim Barlow. Yet you haven't finished about poor, dear Mr. Oliver Sands. You have wandered all over the face of the earth, as my teacher used to complain I did in writing my compositions. I didn't stick to my subject. You haven't stuck to yours, the Quaker man. Finish him up, for we're almost at Skyrie now." Comforted by her ranking of a circus as something infinitely more delightful than even a rich boy's picnic, and because the fields of Skyrie were, indeed, now in view, Jim resumed concerning the gentleman in question: "Dorothy, that calf o' yours won't never be no good. The man give him to you, all right, an' 'peared amazin' generous. But--he cal'lated on gettin' back more'n his money's worth. He'd tried to sell old Hannah time an' again, so Mrs. Calvert was told, an' couldn't, 'count of her being so hard to keep track of. He didn't dast to sell without the calf alongside, for if he did the critter's so tearin' lively she'd 'a' got back home to his farm 'fore he did, drive as fast as he might. But what he planned was: your ma take the calf for a gift an' she'd have to send to his mill to get feed an' stuff for to raise it on. To keep both cow an' calf would cost--I don't know how much, but enough to suit him all right. 'Tother side the matter, his side, you did get Hannah cheap. She's good breed, her milk'll make nice butter----" "It does! Splendid, perfectly splendid! Mrs. Smith showed mother how to manage and it all came back to her, for she had only, as father says, 'mislaid her knowledge' and she makes all the butter we need. Not all we want--We could eat pounds and pounds! But it takes a good many quarts of milk to make a pound of butter, I've learned; and an awful lot of what father calls 'circular exercise' to make the 'butter come.' Mother bought one of those churns that you turn around and around, I mean a dasher around and around inside the churn--I get my talk mixed up, sometimes--and it takes an hour, maybe, to turn and turn. Worse than freezing ice cream in a 'ten-minute' freezer, like we had in Baltimore, yet had to work all morning to get it frozen ready for Sunday dinner. Mother thinks a dash-churn, stand and flap the dasher straight up and down till your arms and legs give out, is the best kind. But the around-and-around is the modern sort; so, of course, she got that. If Daisy-Jewel and Piggy-Wig didn't need so much milk themselves there'd be more for us. And somehow, you don't make me feel very nice toward Mr. Oliver Sands." "Say, Dorothy. Mis' Calvert's notion is for you to sell Daisy an' buy a horse. Will you, if you get a chance?" "Simple Simon! A horse is worth lots and lots more than a calf! was that what she meant when she said a calf might turn into a colt? A colt is a horse, after all. A little horse. Well, maybe she was right. I might sell a little calf and get a little colt. But who in the world would buy? Besides, despite all the trouble she makes, mother wouldn't part with that pretty, écru-colored cow, and Hannah will not be separated from Daisy-Jewel. I mean Daisy-Jewel will not be separated from Hannah. Even a man, Mr. Oliver Sands, said that would be 'cruel.' You don't want to have me cruel, do you, Jim Barlow?" "Shucks! Hannah won't mourn for no calf, longer 'n a couple of hours, 'less she's different from any cow I ever see, light-complected or otherwise. As for that jumpin' notion o' hern; I'll fix her! I've been layin' out to do it, ever since I heard she done it, but somehow I didn't get the chance." "You didn't get the chance because you never take it. I don't think it's right, Jim Barlow, for you to work every minute of daylight, fearing you won't do all your horrid 'duty' to your employer, then study all night to make yourself 'fit for your friends,' as you told me. Maybe, some of your friends might like to see you, now and then, before you _are_ 'fit,'" returned Dorothy, and with that they came to the gate of Skyrie and drove over the path to the barn, the path, or driveway, which that very morning had been overgrown and hidden with grass and weeds, but now lay hard and clean as if just newly made. "Pshaw! Somebody's been busy, I declare!" cried Jim, admiringly, and leaped out to tie Mr. Smith's "nag" in a comfortable shady place. He did not offer to help Dorothy alight, nor did she either wait for or expect this courtesy; but seeing mother Martha in the kitchen, ran to her with an account of her brief outing. The housemistress had slipped away from the few women guests left remaining in the field where dinner had been served. Most of them had already left for home, their part in the day's proceedings having been well finished, and each a busy farmwife who had snatched a half-day from her own crowding tasks to help the "Bee" along. She had made many acquaintances, she was glad to know them. She "liked folks better than scenery," as she had once complained to her husband, during a fit of homesickness for "dear old Baltimore"; but she was very tired. The excitement of this unexpected visitation, and the varying emotions of the day had strangely wearied her. Besides, deep down in her heart--as in father John's--lay a feeling of wounded pride. She had been very happy, for a time, she had found herself the center of much kindly attention: and yet--she wished that the need for such attention had not existed. So she was glad now of the privacy of her kitchen whither none would intrude; and into which Dorothy ran, full of talk and eager above all things to tell of that astonishing offer of Mrs. Calvert's to re-adopt her. But something stopped the words on her lips. She could not herself have explained why she refrained from speaking, unless it were that weary, fretful expression of Mrs. Chester's face. So, instead of bestowing confidences, she merely said: "Mother dear, do come upstairs to your own pretty room and lie down. It's grown terribly warm this afternoon and you look so tired. I'll shut the blinds and make it all dark and cool; then I'll find father John and see if he needs me too. Come, mother, come." With a sudden burst of affection, such as rarely came from Mrs. Chester, that lady caught the girl in her arms and kissed her fondly, saying: "You are my good angel, Dolly darling! You are the brightness of my life. Don't ever let anybody else steal you away from me, will you? I couldn't live without you, now--and here." Dorothy's breath came quick and sharp. How odd this was, to have her mother touch upon that very subject lying uppermost in her own heart! Could she and Mrs. Calvert have been discussing her in this way? Well, at least, she now knew that she had been wholly right. The reluctant "No" she had given Mrs. Betty was the only word to say. CHAPTER XVI THE FATE OF DAISY-JEWEL The "Bee" was a thing of the past. Everybody had gone, leaving a vastly different Skyrie from that which greeted the rising sun of that memorable day. Weed-grown, bramble-infested fields lay cleared of débris, that had been gathered into heaps and burned. The garden plot was now a stretch of well-made beds wherein had been sown or set such things as would develop to ripeness that season, although it was long past orthodox time for garden-making. To the delight of his obstinate soul, even Pa Babcock's asparagus trench had been duly prepared and a sufficient number of the roots set out. But the work of the trench, or bed, had not been accomplished by himself. He had explained the pressing need of such a thing to Mrs. Calvert, who, to rid herself and others of his "talk," had promptly furnished the necessary funds to pay for the plants and had dispatched him to a distant market gardener's to procure them. He had returned sooner than was expected or desired, but could he relegate his own intelligent task to anybody else? So, for once, he really did work faithfully, spreading out each tiny rootlet with a care that insured a prompt growth, and deluging them with water which it took many trips to the spring to bring. The old well-curb had been repaired, the well emptied of water, and cleaned. The barn had been put in order, so far as might be with the time and material at command. The roof would not leak again nor the blinds fall because of rusted hinges. Even the cellar had been swept, and garnished with double coatings of sweet-smelling whitewash; and, indeed, all that these willing helpers could think of and accomplish had been done to make the Skyrie household "start farming fair and square." The last event of the "Bee" had been an auction. Mrs. Calvert had sent a brief note of instructions to Seth Winters and he had promptly acted upon them. With such an assembly at hand the time was ripe for selling Daisy-Jewel to the highest bidder. So the blacksmith held a short parley with Bill Barry, the village auctioneer, and afterward started the sale by a fair price named for such a blooded quadruped. "Seven dollars! Seven dollars! Did I hear somebody bid seven dollars? only seven for such a beautiful Jewel and Daisy combined?" "Seven fifty!" called Jim Barlow, also acting upon instructions. "Seven fifty--somebody higher? _And_ eight dollars? Eight, eight, eight, somebody raise me eight-eight-eight--_And_ fifty! Eight dollars and fifty cents! Why, you folks, you make me blush to be an auctioneer, standing here on a horse-block and selling away from a little girl the only piece of stawk she owns for just eight dollars and fifty cents. That I should live to--Nine, nine, nine, nine! Somebody raise me nine dollars for a full-bred Jersey bull calf! nine, nine, nine----" "Ten!" shouted Mr. Smith, who knew he could reimburse himself in some way for this recklessly extravagant purchase. But the chance was not for him. "Ten fifty!" shouted somebody at the rear of the crowd, and: "Ten and fifty! Fifty, fifty, fifty--Hard word that to rattle off--Make it 'leven; and ease my poor tongue! 'Leven, 'leven, 'leven, eleven dollars and fifty cents. That's that blamed old fifty cropping up again. Go it by even dollars, friends and feller citizens, Eleven and--twelve, twelve, twelve--Almost as bad to say! Hump her up. Thirteen do I hear? Thirteen? Don't let her stick at that! who'll pay just thirteen unlucky dollars when they can buy a full-blooded bull calf for--Fourteen, do I hear? Fourteen, fourteen, four--four--four--Fifteen good American dollars for a poor little girl's pet calf! Neighbors, I am ashamed of you, I certainly am. Why, I'll bid sixteen myself, ruther 'an have such a blot as that printed on this town's archives! I will, I say, though I haven't any more use for a poor little girl's one pet calf than I have for two wives! Sixteen I bid, seventeen somebody lifts me. Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? Now you begin to talk! But let me warn you fellers, that this here sale is cash or its equivalent. So anyone who's just biddin' to hear himself talk--take care! Twenty-one, one, one, one, one, one, one----" The sale went on for a long time, and the bidding grew more spirited continually. Bill Barry's taunt about cash payment touched the pride of some, but the outcome of the matter was predestined from the beginning. Seth Winters had had his instructions and now acted upon them. When nobody would "raise" him any higher, the calf was knocked down to him at thirty-five dollars and was promptly dispatched to a new home in charge of the Smith boys, who had come to see the finish of the "Bee." Bill Barry refused to take any payment for his services in the matter, so the blacksmith hurried to find Dorothy and to place the money in her hands. To his surprise, he found her weeping bitterly, with her head against old Hannah's hairy side, as if mingling her tears with that bereaved mother's. "Why, Dorothy dear! I understood you were tired of Daisy-Jewel and more than willing to exchange him for a colt. See here--thirty-five dollars, all in crisp banknotes, and your very own!" But Dorothy would not be comforted, nor even lift her curly head to look upon what she now sadly considered as the price of blood, while Hannah continued to moo distractingly, yet, at the same time managed to chew her cud--the sign of a well-contented bovine mind. Jim also drew near, a wide, short board in hand and, wholly disgusted with Dorothy's inconsistency, exclaimed: "Pshaw! If girls don't beat all creation for changin' their minds! Here was you wantin' to be rid of that calf, now cryin' like--most like one yourself. Shucks! Dorothy Chester, where's your good sense at? An' you stand aside, will you? I want to fix Hannah so you won't have to chase her no more." Now the truth is that Dorothy had listened to the auction with keen interest and no thought of grief till she heard Mr. Barry allude to herself as a "poor little girl with only one calf." Then the springs of self-pity were touched and she would have stopped the sale had she dared or known quite how. That her father approved of it he had told her at its beginning, and so did Jim. These two were the most sensibly practical persons she knew, even more than mother Martha,--where the question of live stock was concerned,--and she ought to be guided by their judgment. Daisy-Jewel had been a trial and expense from the day of his arrival at Skyrie, but--he was _her_ Daisy-Jewel, and she had sold him into bondage--probably, into worse: the hands of a butcher! Thirty-five dollars! It seemed incredible: but thirty-five dollars as the price of a life. How dreadful! "Stand still, you old misery! Now, then, my Hannah, how do you find yourself?" cried Jim, coolly pushing Dorothy aside and stepping back himself to avoid the twisting and jerking of the cow's horns. "There you be! Plenty of chance to look down on the pasture but none to go skippin' over stun walls!" Dorothy wiped her eyes, indignant with Jim for his callous want of sympathy in her own grief, and curious about Hannah; who had ceased both mooing and chewing, confused and distracted by the thing which had befallen her. Jim had simply hung the board he had brought upon Hannah's horns and securely fastened it there, letting it fall forward over her face at an angle which permitted her to see the ground but, as he had declared, would not encourage her search for stone walls to leap. "Easy as fallin' off a log, ain't it?" he demanded of Mr. Winters, who had watched the operation with some amusement and some compassion. "Some folks think it's mean to put boards on 'em, but Mis' Stott she said 'twas better to be mean to critters than to have critters mean to folks. Why, here has Dorothy been runnin' half over the hull farm, catchin' Hannah, when all that time she might have been studyin' her books!" "Thanks, noble youth! I'm not 'sufferin'' to study in the summer and vacation time," answered Dorothy, who had begun to recover her cheerfulness and now asked the blacksmith, as he extended the money toward her: "What will become of Daisy now?" "Mrs. Calvert has bought him. He will be kept on the Deerhurst farm, the other side of the mountain, and will grow up, I trust, quite worthy of his pedigree. She owns a fine herd of animals and her stock-farm is one of her chief interests here." "Than he won't be--be murdered?" "No, indeed. Here is your money. I must be going. Good-night." "I'll go along with you. Good-night, Dorothy. Don't forget to ask your folks 'bout that circus!" called Jim, casting a self-important glance into Seth Winters's face as he followed him down the path. With her money in hand Dorothy joined her parents and was well commended that she had consented to the sale of Daisy-Jewel; and for a little while, until milking-time required Martha's presence in the barnyard, the trio discussed its vast amount and the best sort of horse to be selected. Neither Mr. Chester nor his wife dashed the girl's enthusiasm or so much as hinted that the sum in hand would scarcely pay for a good horse. To her it seemed all-sufficient, not only for a horse, but for a wagon and harness as well. And--But let us not anticipate! The circus whose coming attractions now filled Jim Barlow's mind more than even his beloved "study" had sent out its posters long ahead; so that the country folk might accustom themselves to the ideas of its tempting sights and to grow anxious to behold them. To the lad it seemed as if the days would never pass. The only relief to his eagerness was that Herbert's projected camp-picnic had been postponed on account of Helena's sudden illness. One of her bronchial attacks had kept her a prisoner within the Towers and she had become so interested in the idea of the affair that her brother waited for her to recover. He contented himself the better by frequent visits to Skyrie, and by his gift to Dorothy of the stray kitten. The rather disreputable-looking little animal he had coaxed Miss Milliken to cleanse and adorn with a blue ribbon before its advent at Skyrie, where it now resided, petted and pampered till its thin outlines became plump ones and it almost filled that place in Dorothy's heart left vacant by Daisy-Jewel. Also, Dolly herself had twice been sent for to visit Helena in her confinement of the sick-room, and had won the liking of everybody who saw her there. She was so simple and natural, so free from the imitating manner of some of Helena's friends who envied and toadied to the rich man's daughter, that the heiress found her society novel and refreshing. It was something quite new for Helena to be told, one day when she was "fussing" over the dainty meal sent up to her room, that: "Why, Helena Montaigne! You perfectly wicked girl! My mother and Mrs. Calvert too both say that it's as sinful as it's ill-bred to quarrel with your food. 'Not fit to eat' isn't true. Maybe you aren't 'fit' to eat it yourself, poor dear, because you're ill. But I never saw such a dainty lunch as that, even at Deerhurst itself. Eat it, do, and get strong and make your mother happy. She's taken a lot of trouble for you. I know she went into the kitchen and fixed those things herself, because she thought your cook wasn't careful enough. Now, do behave! And I'll sing to you while you eat. I've heard my father say that at the big hotels at Atlantic City and other places they have a band play while the people dine. Well, then, I'll be your band and sing. So begin! You must! I shall make you!" Laughing, yet wholly in earnest, Dorothy had picked a morsel of food on a fork and held it so close to Helena's lips that she had to take it, whether or not. A second morsel followed the first, and the performance was enlivened by a recital of Peter Piper's consumption of the chocolate cake. Before she knew it Helena was laughing, and likewise before she quite realized it--so swiftly had Dorothy fed and talked--she had made a better meal than at any time since her illness. The food strengthened, for the illness was really past, and seeing her darling recover made Mrs. Montaigne very grateful to the girl whose influence had helped that recovery. Also, this general liking for his own especial friend, as Herbert considered her, fully confirmed the lad in the scheme he had formed, but had not yet broached to his family. Thought he: "I'll wait a little longer yet, till even the Pater has seen how sweet and unselfish she is, then I'll spring it on the family. If I carry it through--Hurray!" But though Jim knew of these visits he had not resented them. It was perfectly natural, he supposed, that girls should like other girls; and that puling, sickly-looking, stuck-up daughter of those rich folks--Well, he was glad that Dorothy could show them that a little maid who had once worked alongside himself on a Maryland truck-farm could "hold a candle" with the best of them! Herbert, himself, had not crossed Jim's way. He had gone into camp with some other lads of the Heights and had himself almost forgotten his home in the fun of that outing. But weeks do pass, no matter how they sometimes seem to drag; and the day came when Jim and Dorothy were seated in Mrs. Calvert's runabout, a gentle horse in the shafts, and themselves _en route_ for that long-dreamed-of circus. Dorothy carried her money with her. As yet the sum received for Daisy-Jewel remained unbroken. Neither parent would use any of it, each insisting that it was Dorothy's own and that she should expend it as she saw fit: though that this would be for the horse or colt into which the calf had been thus changed was a foregone conclusion. It had become a standard jest with the ex-postman that she should never go anywhere away from Skyrie without her pocket-book. "In case you might meet the horse of your heart, somewhere along the road. It's the unexpected that happens. You're certain to find Daisy's successor when you're unaware that he, she, or it is near." And to-day he had added: "A circus is the very place to look for a horse! When you get there stir around and--pick up a bargain, if you can! By all means, take your pocket-book to-day!" She had kissed his merry lips to stop their teasing but--she had carried the purse! Something unexpected was, in reality, to happen: Despite their long anticipation, this happy pair of youngsters were to fall short of their ambition--they were not to visit the circus. CHAPTER XVII ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS "Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs. Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No, sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it." "Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes, she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love her and--impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall we do with a whole day?" "Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an' leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from. I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come _to_ them places, I've never come _from_ 'em. I----" "O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!" Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm _here_ now, and what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that 'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!" Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a troubled, preoccupied expression. "Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad you come?" "Why--Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole trip is the most delightful thing; but--what I was thinking of, I'm afraid would make you sneer if I told." "Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks--I don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?" "The _Ghost_ that haunts Skyrie. _Jim--I've seen it!_ I myself with my own eyes." He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated: "You--don't!" "Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there, and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there--O Jim! IT scared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. IT may not come again, though IT has two or three times." They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded: "Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but--out with the hull business, body an' bones!" "I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me. There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter." "Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge, then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't hurt nobody what don't hurt him. But _he_ ain't a ghost. Tell what you saw." "Will you promise not to laugh nor--nor disbelieve?" "I won't laugh an' I will believe--if I can." "You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully. With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so." "You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave, for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will you?" She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set" were mere toys. For sympathy she received the assurance: "Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go on with the ghost, will you?" "I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield. That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he works--Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the garden patch and--of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it. Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?" "I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own," answered he. "That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and beggars at the back gate." "All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost." "I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us." "But, Dorothy Chester, _that circus takes in at two o'clock_!" warned the careful lad. "And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow--I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and--_found--them--in--perfect--order_! What do you think of that?" "Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed." "No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators'--even little ones like mine--run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well--his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But--O Jim! I've not only seen what IT has done in the garden, I've seen IT at work there. Seen IT with my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?" "Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!" Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness: "I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.' Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I--I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks." "No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us." This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired: "If you seen IT, what did it look like?" "IT was tall, like a man. IT was all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as if IT were a machine. But it made very little noise. IT didn't want to be heard, I thought. When IT had finished IT sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw IT crossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she said IT lives part of the time. IT used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. So _she_ said." "Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!" "Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners. But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but you, Jim." Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked: "Why didn't your folks see IT if you did?" "Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why." "All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible. A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured: "Another auction! Let's stop and listen." It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them: "Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on? Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on." Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How--much?" "Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking. Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble: "Thirty-five dollars!" A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise" but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required. "Going, going, _gone_! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?" While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony. Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us hitch up." Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced: "We're ready to go now, Dorothy." "Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction." "I--I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he answered with a laugh. "Why not?" "Because--'cause you spent all _your_ money for the horse an' I spent all _mine_, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs. Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets. Which one did you say?" "My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety little phaeton and took up the pony's reins. CHAPTER XVIII THAT SOUTH MEADOW When even before mid-day the two vehicles returned to Skyrie both Mr. and Mrs. Chester were too astonished to do more than open their eyes and mouths and wait explanations. These came with a volubility that was less wonderful in Dorothy than in Jim, but each of the pair seemed to trip the other up with a flood of words, till finally the listeners made out to sift the facts for themselves. Then, while they were wholly delighted by the possession of the pony, mother Martha's prudence was disturbed by the thought of debt, and she promptly demanded to know what Jim had paid for the phaeton and harness. For a time he stubbornly declined to tell, and it was not till Mrs. Chester brought out her own purse and insisted upon repaying him that he acknowledged: "Well, if you must know, 'twasn't but fifteen dollars, all told. _True._ Like Dorothy here I took every cent I had with me an' now I'm powerful glad I did. As for takin' your money, same's sellin' it to you, I shan't. I'm makin' it a present to Dolly an' all of you. If it hadn't been for her I never'd have known Mrs. Calvert nor had the chance of my life. 'Tain't but little, seems if, to return for all you've brought to me. If you don't want to hurt my feelin's and make me stay clean away from Skyrie, you won't say another word on that subject. And I don't want to stay away. I can't, not till some--some things gets straightened out. So, I reckon I'd best go see if there's a good stall in that old barn to put--Say, Dorothy? What you goin' to name the critter, anyway?" "James Barlow, she is not a 'critter.' She is a perfectly beautiful piebald pony and her name is--Portia!" After which alliterative statement Dorothy rushed toward the lad, intent upon hugging him in gratitude for the gift from which none of them could dissuade him. But he had had experiences in that line and ungallantly backed away, blushing furiously that these elder people should witness his embarrassment, and covering his confusion by remarking: "I'm going to the barn now, and you can come with me if you want to. If you do we can eat our dinner outside the door under that shady tree; then, as I've got the hull day give to me, I'd like to go see that mine in the south medder I've heard tell of." "All right," cheerfully answered the girl, not at all offended by his rebuff of her attentions. "We'll find a place for my Portia and your phaeton, and I think it's perfectly lovely for us to have them, half-and-half, that way, Jim, just think! How little we dreamed of such splendid times together when we were at Miranda Stott's!" Old "Si Waterman's Folly," as the rumored "mine" was called, seemed to be coming into sudden prominence. For years it had lain unnoticed, but some recent excavations on the other side of the mountain had recalled to the public this long abandoned one at Skyrie. The very first time that Dorothy had the delight of driving her father out in the phaeton, which was so low and comfortable for him to use, they met Friend Oliver Sands upon the road, and he brought up the subject by a roundabout manner all his own. He had not been present at the "Bee." He had even expressed his disapproval of such an affair, affirming that "nobody should undertake to run a farm unless he knew he could do it." Which might be good sense but influenced few. Indeed, when hearing afterward of the sale whereby Daisy-Jewel was metamorphosed, so to speak, into a pony, he had been angry--as angry as such a benign old gentleman could be. He had made an unnecessary gift to an unappreciative girl and _she_ had made money out of it; whereas, if things had gone as he expected, it would have been himself who should make it. Hannah had been transformed into a model cow by the simplest of methods, one that he should have been wise enough to try for himself only--he hadn't thought of it. Of course, it was a good thing for him who had advanced money upon the land that Skyrie should be put into good condition, even though it were as temporary as but one day's labor would make it. But he had heard things. Rumors were afloat. He hoped these rumors had not yet reached the ears of Skyrie's owners; but if they had he had still time to forestall them and reap his own advantage. Altogether, a thrifty soul was Oliver, the good; though his tones were sweetly sympathetic as he now brought his own smart team to a standstill in the very path of Portia and the phaeton. "Don't stop, Dolly, if you can help it, but drive straight past the miller who's coming. Exchange bows, of course, if a Quaker will bow; but I'm too happy to-day to be disturbed by talk with him. Ever since he loaned us that money, 'payable on demand,' I've felt uncomfortable. It's wretched enough to owe money to anybody, but I'd have felt safer if we'd borrowed from Mrs. Calvert or even from a bank. Oh, dear! He's going to stop and we will have to!" had been Mr. Chester's hurried comments, so soon as from a little distance they saw Mr. Sands approaching. It was a rare bit of confidence and Dorothy looked at him in some surprise. She did not share in her father's prejudice against the kind gentleman who had given her the pretty calf, and indeed was doubly grateful to him now that she had exchanged his gift for Portia. So it was in all sincerity that she returned his pleasant: "I am glad to see thee again, little Dorothy. Thee has a bonny face that should win thee many friends." "And I am glad to see you, Mr. Sands. I wish I understood the 'plain language,' too, then I could answer 'thee' after thy own fashion. Do you--does thee see my pretty pony? Her name is Portia. I bought her with the money paid for the calf you gave me. The pony is more useful to us, 'cause my father's lame, and so I am twice pleased. This is the first time he has ridden out with me, but I can drive real well already." "For a beginner thee does very well, and the plain speech is the sweetest in the world--heard on the lips of pretty girls. By the way, John, I was on my way to see thee about a little matter of business. Thee may have heard that I like to acquire and hold land?" The statement was in the form of a question, to which the ex-postman rather coldly replied: "Yes, so I have heard." He resented the familiar "John" on this "plain" speaker's lips, though he had never felt otherwise than complimented by Mrs. Cecil's even more familiar "Johnnie." It was a case of like and dislike, and as inconsistent as most such cases are. "Can you speak freely before the little maid, John Chester?" "With perfect freedom. There are no secrets in our household----" At which remark Dorothy slightly winced, remembering that dreadful "secret" of the "ghost," which she had hidden from her parents. "We are a united family in all respects and Dorothy fully understands our circumstances." "Very well. That is a good thing. It speaks well for thy household. Regarding that little loan of mine, 'payable on demand,' I have considered the matter well. Thee needs money, I want land. If thee will sell me a portion of Skyrie farm that transaction should offset the other. That south meadow, for instance, known by the name of 'Si Waterman's Folly,' is worth, at ruling prices for waste mountain land, about two hundred dollars. I loaned thee three hundred; but on account of thy affliction I would pay thee more than I would another man. What does thee say?" "I say that the property is my wife's; just as I told you before. My affliction does not enter into the case, but I shall certainly advise her against such an unfair transaction as that. There are ten acres in that south meadow, and I have learned that mountain land is not so cheap as you would have me think." "Thee may have been misinformed. Ground suitable for fancy building lots may command a slight advance upon the ruling price, but not an overgrown piece, half-woods, half-rocks, like that misnamed 'south meadow.' Meadow stands for rich and profitable land; not such as the 'Folly.' Why, friend John, it would take all of that three hundred dollars I offer thee to fill up that hole which required several years of Simon Waterman's life to dig. The 'love of money is the root of evil,' the Good Book tells us, and it was an undue love of money which sent friend Simon to that hopeless task. A dream misled him--Thee has heard the story, John?" "No, nor care to. We are going for a drive--my first, as Dolly explained--and a storm threatens. I will add my thanks to hers, and do appreciate the fact that but for your gift of the calf we should not now own this pretty pony." "I trust thee may long enjoy the luxury. 'Calico' ponies are as pretty as uncommon, and there is a superstition in the neighborhood that they bring 'good luck.' Some even fancy that to 'wish upon one' has the same result. I will not detain thee from thy recreation, but will pass on to Skyrie and talk matters over with Martha herself." With a click of his unctuous lips the miller started his team into swift motion and vanished from sight: but he left discomfort behind him and had effectually spoiled that ride for father John. Also the few clouds which had been gathering grew heavier with each passing moment and, as the invalid was careful never to expose himself to a drenching, Dorothy soon turned Portia's head homeward and arrived there just in time to escape the slight summer shower. Martha met them with a brighter countenance than she had shown for many days, and the exclamation: "Good news, dear ones! That splendid old Quaker gentleman has just left here, and has made me such a generous offer. He says, since we so dislike debt, that he will take that worthless south meadow off our hands and call it an equivalent for the money he advanced. Farming is hard enough, but farming free from debt would be lessened of half its worries." "Martha, I hope you didn't tell him you would sell!" protested Mr. Chester, alarmed. Her brightness faded into that unhappy sharpness which was becoming habitual and she returned, sarcastically: "Of course, I didn't promise. A good wife never does dare promise anything without consulting her husband, even about her own property. I'll come with you, Dorothy, and help put up the pony." "O mother! Now you've hurt father's feelings and it isn't like you to do that! I--I begin to understand why he dislikes that miller and his money business, for he makes you disagree so. That's something never used to be at dear old 77 Brown Street!" "Dorothy Chester! How dare you speak to me like that?" demanded the overtired housemistress, with an asperity rarely shown to her beloved child. "Beg pardon, mother. It was wrong. I only felt--I wish father liked Mr. Sands as well as you and I do, but don't let's talk of him any more. No, thank you, I don't need you to help with Portia. I'm proud to know how to harness and unharness all by myself. It was good of Jim and old Ephraim to teach me, and Mrs. Calvert says she is going to give me a little side-saddle to fit the pony. She has ordered it made in Newburgh from measures Ephraim took one day. Isn't she the dearest? Please, sit down and rest, mother dear. I'll do whatever's needed as soon as I've put Portia under cover." There were both balm and bane in Dorothy's words. Martha was soothed by the child's sweet affection and jealous that that other richer woman had the power to bestow gifts such as she could not. She had now learned of the offer of Mrs. Cecil to adopt Dorothy and this had not diminished her jealousy; but, at the same time, the longer and better she knew the lady of Deerhurst the more she was forced to admire and respect her. As soon as Dorothy had driven toward the barn and Mr. Chester had entered the kitchen his wife returned to the subject of that south meadow. "That field is the laughing-stock of the whole town, John, and I can't see why you should object to my selling it. To keep it would, it seems to me, make it 'Chester's Folly,' as well as 'Waterman's.'" He answered rather sadly: "I have no right to object, Martha, and I will not if your heart is set upon the deed. Yet I should not be loyal to your interests, if I did not caution prudence. Wait a bit. Take advice upon the matter. Of that wise Seth Winters, or Mr. Smith, or even of the best lawyer in Newburgh. There----" "Lawyers! We've no money to waste upon lawyers, John." "I know. Still, there is such a thing as being 'penny wise and pound foolish.' Oliver Sands is a long-headed, shrewd old chap. He sees money, more of it than he suggested, in that south meadow, else he would never try to buy it. As for that extra hundred dollars he proposes to give--Pooh! He plans to more than reimburse himself. As Mrs. Calvert saw he did in that smaller affair of the calf. That he was outwitted then was due to Mrs. Cecil's knowledge of his character." "You've just had a ride behind a horse we shouldn't have owned except for him," she reminded. "I know, and I give him all credit due. Only I do not want you to agree to anything unfair to yourself. Why, Martha, we do not even know what that 'mine' is like. We have seen that the top of the 'hole' is covered, in part, by a sort of trap door, more than half-hidden by vines and bushes, and almost half decayed away. I peered down under what was left of the trap, that time I went there with Dorothy: but I was far too tired with my crutch-walk to do more than that, even if I had not feared some unseen danger. She was eager to slip under the trap and find out for both of us, but, of course, that was out of the question. Probably, it _is_ just a piece of 'Folly'; yet in other things Simon Waterman had the reputation of being a sane, sensible man. He proved himself such by willing so much of his property to you, my dear." "Humph! I don't see just now that it's so valuable. I feel as if Skyrie farm was a burden that would crush the life out of me yet," she returned, in that discouraged tone it was so painful to hear, and which always stirred his deep regret for that affliction which had thrust upon a woman's shoulders that weight of care which only the man's should have borne. "He said that he wanted that meadow merely because it would 'square' out his own property. He holds a mortgage on land lying between his Heartsease and Skyrie, of which our south meadow is the limit. He's to foreclose that mortgage and longs to own that one field of ours just to complete the shape of his farm. That's natural, isn't it?" "Wholly and entirely natural to him, from what I've heard the neighbors say. But let him go. All I ask is that you should wait a little, until you can make inquiries of persons wiser than we are in land-lore, before you take a step you cannot retrace. Now, kiss me, my wife, and don't let's allow the portly shadow of Oliver Sands to fall across our peace again." She did kiss him, and she did feel so impressed by his wisdom that she promised to follow his advice and "wait" before deciding the question of the south meadow: which strangely enough seemed so much more important to him than to her. So, coming in from the barn and Portia, "running between drops" as she expressed it, Dorothy found happiness restored and hastened to unfold a plan which Helena and she had thought out and to which her parents gave a ready assent. "You see, mother, the summer is going very, very fast, and before we know it, almost, Deerhurst and the Towers and all the big houses will be closed and the families gone away for the _long_ winter. We haven't yet had even that camp-picnic Herbert planned. First he was away, or Helena sick, or something or other all the time kept happening. Now she wants to give a picnic herself and ask all the young folks 'up-mounting' to it. We made out a list the last time I went to see her, and first she had written only the names of the rich young folks on the Heights. Then I coaxed her and told her how much more it would mean to the poor ones, like myself, than it possibly could to those others. Then she was as nice as nice! and wrote down every name I said. Mrs. Smith's boys, and every Babcock except Claretta and Diaretta. Jim, too, of course, if he'll go. Helena is to provide the eating part of the picnic and I am to provide the place, if you'll let me. That's the south meadow that so many people are talking about, Herbert says, just now. Oh! I do hope you won't sell it to Mr. Sands before we have the party!" "Not likely, unless you put it off too long," answered Mrs. Chester, quietly. "Do you mean that Miss Montaigne is willing, can afford, to provide food for a large company like that? Because, though I might----" "O mother! Don't you worry about that. Of course she can 'afford'--why, anything in the world she wants, I reckon. The people at the Towers seem to think as lightly about spending money as we would about using the water from our well. I'm to take Portia to the Towers in the phaeton and bring back Helena and the baskets. Funny! How that girl who has so many faster horses of her own likes to ride behind my darling pet! But Portia _can_ travel, too, if she takes a notion. Why, the other morning when you sent me to Eliza Jane's store of an errand and an automobile was going down the mountain behind us, she just picked up her little heels and raced that auto--My! how she did run! But--the auto beat. Wasn't it too bad? Portia was so disgusted. It must be awfully trying to waste all one's breath racing an automobile and then get beaten." "It must, indeed; but I hope that's the last time you'll ever let her enter such a race as that. Child, you might be killed! An accident to either pony or machine--Dolly, never do it again!" cried father John, alarmed by the danger already safely passed. "When do you want this picnic?" asked Mrs. Chester, with interest, and feeling somewhat flattered that the chosen ground for it should be on her own premises. "Why, Saturday, if it's fine. If not, then the next Monday. We want to go early, in the morning sometime, and stay the whole day. We mean to explore that mine they call the 'Folly,' and who knows? I may bring home a nugget of pure gold! Wouldn't that be fine? I'm so glad you are willing. I think I'll harness Portia again and ride to tell Helena, after dinner; and I'll get that now. I can do it all alone if you'll only trust me. You rest, mother dear, and read your Baltimore weekly. It came last night and yet you haven't even taken the wrapper off." The dinner was to be a simple one and well-trained Dorothy was capable of preparing it; so Mrs. Chester did take the proffered rest and was deep in the home news which interested her so greatly when a shadow fell upon the threshold and she glanced up to see two men who appeared to be surveyors, for they carried the instruments of such over their shoulders; and the announcement made by the elder of the two fairly took her breath away: "We are sent by Oliver Sands to survey that south meadow you've sold him. Will you direct us to it?" CHAPTER XIX DOROTHY HAS ANOTHER SECRET The inquirer went away with "a bee in his bonnet," as the saying goes; and he promptly reported to Oliver Sands that he had been dismissed from Skyrie as one who had gone there on a fool's errand. "Say they haven't sold me that south meadow, do they, friend? Well, they are mistaken. Report to me again in one week from this day and I will give thee further directions. I am a just man. I will pay thee and thy assistant for the time thee has wasted, but the surveying will yet be done," returned the miller, quietly. He even smiled, sitting comfortably in his great rocker upon his shaded veranda; and he opened and closed his fat hands with a suggestive gesture, as of one squeezing something soft and yielding. It was a gesture habitual to him while transacting certain kinds of business, as foreclosing a mortgage against some helpless person; and to keen observers--Seth Winters, for one--seemed most significant. Friend Oliver was in no wise disturbed by the indignant statement of the Chesters to the surveyor. He was perfectly contented to bide his time, remembering that adage: "All things come to him who waits." But valiant as their denial, the Chesters watched the surveyors depart with sore misgivings. The bold falsity of the matter roused, at length, even Martha's suspicions that Friend Oliver Sands was not as benign as he appeared; and for the rest of that week she went about so silent and sad that neither father John nor Dorothy dared intrude upon her reserve. Yet to the latter came a new trouble of her own: and knowing that she must confide in somebody old and wise enough to counsel her, she went to Seth Winters. She could not have done better. With almost the opening sentence of her story about the surveyors' visit he seemed to understand the whole matter, "body and bones" as Jim would say. "I am thankful you came to me, little Dorothy. We'll outwit that man by meeting him on his own terms. I'm going to give you something to take care of till the time comes for you to use it. We'll have what Herbert calls a regular lark; and may I be there to see! Three hundred dollars, 'payable on demand, with interest from date.' Do you remember that date? No? Never mind. I'll put the time sufficiently far back to make everything secure, and I misjudge our floury Friend if he will object to a little more than his due. Watch, scholar, and see if I figure right." Fetching pen and paper, the blacksmith made a rapid computation of what would be due Oliver at any time within the next month. Then he went to a cupboard in his room above the "office" and took from a small safe there the amount of cash which should satisfy even the "just" holder of the Chesters' "note." He gave the money into Dorothy's hands with a smile, saying: "This is yours, your very own. It is no gift nor loan of mine. It was intrusted to me by a law firm in Baltimore, the business managers of Mrs. Calvert's property. Kidder & Kidder are the gentlemen. Well, what?" "I've heard, I know about them. Why, Mr. Winters, I've _seen_ that old Mr. Kidder!" cried Dorothy, eagerly. "I'm glad of it. Well, I cannot explain much to you; only I can and do say that somebody related to you by blood, somebody of your own family that you never knew, left this money and a little more with these gentlemen; to be used by, or for, you whenever a case of real necessity occurred. They are my own lawyers, too, as well as Mrs. Cecil's; so after you moved to Skyrie, knowing I was such a near neighbor, they wrote and asked me to take care of the small fund for you. I wasn't to mention it until that case of need I spoke of, and that has now surely arrived. Hurray! Three cheers for the climax! I can picture your face--all your faces--when 'payment on demand' _is_ demanded, and you so calmly--it must be very calmly, Dolly dear!--come forward with that 'payment' in hand. One word of advice to you, more. Try to persuade your parents to hold on to south meadow. Things are stirring nowadays, and that very 'Folly' may yet show old Simon's wisdom, by proving the most valuable spot on Skyrie farm or any other land 'up-mounting.' Keep the fact of your having the money a secret till the right time comes. Then, hurray!" For a few moments the astonished girl could do no more than turn over and over the fat wallet which Seth had thrust into her hands; and she was so enraptured by the thought that it was she, she herself, who should come to her parents' relief that she could only smile and smile. She could not even join in this boyish old fellow's hurraying; yet looking on her happy face, he was quite satisfied. However, amid all her joy one dark word had fastened on her consciousness: "Secret." She had come in part to confide her own dread secret of the Ghost to this kind man, who would, she was sure, neither deride her fear nor fail to help her. Seth Winters helped everybody worthy of his help. All the mountain folk said so and trusted him. "Mr. Winters, that story about there being a ghost at Skyrie is--_is true_. I suppose you've heard it, haven't you?" "Oh, yes! I've heard." There was no scorn in his expression. The same gentle gravity rested upon his features that had inspired the confidences of so many troubled souls and now won hers. All the boyish hilarity he had manifested over the outwitting of Oliver Sands had vanished, and with a fatherly tenderness he drew Dorothy to him and listened intently as she said: "Yes, Mr. Winters, it--is--true. I didn't believe Alfaretta when she told about it. I thought there were no such things. But there _is_ a ghost haunts Skyrie and--_I--have--seen--it_. I have to believe my own eyes, haven't I?" "Most assuredly, my dear. And I, too, know it is true. I, too, have seen it." "_You--have?_" "Often and often. A most beneficent and harmless ghost. One to be cherished and not feared. One that has suffered much evil and done much good. A ghost I pity and almost love." "Why, Mr. Winters! You make me feel as if--as if I could hardly breathe. Could any ghost be _good_? Any ghost be _harmless_?" "This one is good, I told you. As for harm--has he harmed your garden by his presence? Have the weeds grown faster or the vegetables less, because of his nightly visitations to it? 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Eh? What?" "Why, you amaze me more and more. How did you know that about the garden and the night-time? I hadn't told you yet, though I was going to, in a minute." "Well, easily. I've seen the garden and I know that all ghosts prefer the night. Not this one because his deeds are evil but because they are good. A person may learn a lot of things, little maid, by merely keeping his eyes open and putting two-and-two together." "Oh! of course; but do you really think I shouldn't fear this one at all? I've been too afraid almost to live, and I've not dared to tell my father or mother, because she's so nervous she wouldn't stay at Skyrie even to get my father cured, and he must be. _He must be_--no matter what happens. It must not be that a man so good, so kind, so altogether faithful to us all should be an invalid forever. O Mr. Winters! You don't at all know how brave he is! How he makes fun for mother and me when his own heart aches. It seems to me as if he took hold of everything, every little thing that happens, and turns it over and over, till he finds out some humor in it. Then he points out to us that humor which we'd never have discovered for ourselves. Why, I fancy he'd think there was something funny even about that dreadful ghost!" "A brave and beautiful nature is poor John Chester's, little Dolly. I am proud to know him, to have him call me friend. Nor should I have called him 'poor' but rich. I would rather have his present poverty and his wholesome, sweet outlook upon life than all the money owned by the master of the Towers. By the way, he's not such a bad sort, either! come to know him well enough to see beneath that crust of greed and arrogance that he wears as if it were a coat. As for that fairy-faced daughter of his, I'm wholly in love with her, since you've put your own hand to the task of remodeling her into the simple, kindly creature God meant her to be when He fashioned her. Pity! when that other good gift of too much money buries beneath it the better side of the person to whom it is given!" "Oh! Helena is sweet, Mr. Winters. It's not true at all that she is haughty and 'stuck-up,' as folks say. She's just been petted at home, and praised and sheltered so much, that she didn't have a chance to show what she really was. Even to know it herself. But I love her. I love her dearly. She's the nicest girl friend I ever had." "That's good! That's excellent! For if a certain scheme of our friend Herbert's materializes it would be most important that there should be love between you and Helena. By the way, neither of you young ladies have invited me to your picnic!" Dorothy opened her eyes in surprise. "Why, Mr. Winters! How did you know we were going to have one? I hadn't told that yet, either, and I do believe you must be a witch--a gentleman witch--to guess at things the way you do!" "I hope I'm a 'gentleman' witch if I'm any sort. I shouldn't like to be a 'lady,' one that's always pictured as bestriding a broomstick. That would be most uncomfortable. I prefer a horse. Well, am I to come to your picnic, or am I not, Miss Dorothy Chester?" "O Mr. Winters! Will you? If you will, your coming will make us both so happy. I'd rather have you than anybody I know, even young folks----" "As if I were not that! Thank you for your cordial 'bid.' I will be most happy to accept the invitation I've had fairly to worm out of you. What am I expected to provide as my share of the entertainment?" "Oh! you love to tease me, don't you? Nothing. Of course, you are to provide nothing. Only come, and don't disappoint us." "I will surely come. But I hope to do my share, as I said; and if I succeed in obtaining what I hope for, it will be a novelty in picnics!" "Now you've made me curious! I love novelties! What will yours be?" asked Dorothy, eagerly, and rising to leave, since some men had arrived with horses to be shod and her host must attend to business. "Take care of that parcel, child. Tell nobody of it, not even the father and mother, till the right moment comes. You'll recognize it when it does, and what shall I bring? Let me see--I think I will bring a GHOST!" It was a very happy girl who returned to Skyrie, carrying safely hid in her pocket that which should "at the right time" release her beloved parents from the power of debt, held over them by even so "generous" a man as miller Sands. It was almost impossible for her to keep this new and splendid "secret" from their knowledge. At times she felt she must, she certainly must, break her promise to Seth Winters and disclose it; but she had never knowingly broken her word and she would not let herself begin to do so now. Besides, if she had been able to keep that other, dreadful "secret" about the "ghost" she surely could keep this happy one of the money. She had made it her business to bestow this in a place of safety, although her frequent visits to the spot would have betrayed her interest in it had the elder Chesters been at all suspicious. The days sped by till the end of the week and that beautiful summer Saturday appointed for Helena's picnic. They had been busy and peaceful days at Skyrie. No further demands had been made upon the elder Chesters by Mr. Oliver Sands. That most industrious of "ghosts" had not reappeared nor nervous mother Martha so much as suspected his existence; though rumors concerning him were rife in all Riverside. These rumors had been freshly set afloat by the Babcocks. Dorothy had admitted to Alfaretta that there "_might_ be some truth" in the story of a spooky visitant, and Alfy had promptly stated that there _was_. Pa Babcock affirmed the tale and declared that this was why he had left off working on the haunted farm. "It had got upon my nerves to the extent of interfering with my orations," he had explained, to whoever would listen. Until then, nobody had credited Pa with possessing "nerves" of any sort; but even such an absurd statement found credence with some. More than with the "spook," however, was the public mind agitated by other rumors which touched upon "south meadow." The "Folly" was a word often on men's lips, yet, as often happens, the persons most nearly concerned in the subject were the last to hear of it. The promised saddle for Portia had been sent home and found to be a delightful change from the bareback riding which ambitious Dorothy had been practicing. So delightful, indeed, was it and so eager was she to have all her own friends enjoy it with her that she decided: "I'm going to put the saddle in the phaeton along with the baskets when we drive to the 'meadow.' The 'Bee' people fixed the bars to it so nicely, we can drive along the road till we come to the field and then through the bar-way into it. I'll take Portia out of the shafts and saddle her, or the boys will do it for me. Then all the girls that wish can take a ride, turn and turn about. It will add ever so much to our fun--everybody I know simply loves and envies me my darling 'calico' pony! I'll come back for you first, though, mother and father, for you must be there. A picnic, or anything nice, wouldn't seem perfect without you two. Dear Mr. Winters is sure to come. He said so and he's going to bring--My! I almost let the cat out of the bag!" Dorothy's sudden pause and startled expression provoked no comment from her parents other than mother Martha's protesting: "Cat! I wouldn't take Lady Rosalind, if I were you, Dolly dear. It would only be a worry to you. Those little Babcocks are sure to come, invited or not, and as surely would plague the life out of her. Why, Rosalind runs under the lounge the very minute any Babcock, big or small, sets foot inside the door. Don't take the cat." "It wasn't--it wasn't--that kind of a cat! and I haven't let it out--yet!" laughed the girl, with a gayety that seemed exaggerated for so humdrum a remark. "You're a queer child, Dorothy C. But--but I hope you'll have a happy day," answered her mother, slipping an arm about the girl's shoulders and lightly caressing the flushed young cheek; while Dolly answered, trustfully: "I'm certain to! Mrs. Calvert is coming and says she _cannot_ unless Jim Barlow brings her and waits upon her! That settles Jim and his refusals! She's made it a point of 'duty' and that boy was never yet known to turn his back on his duty--even when it led him into having a good time himself at a picnic! Good-by, now. I'm off!" It did prove the happiest sort of a gathering. Everybody came who was invited and some appeared who were not. But there were food and room and fun enough for all. Portia did ample service in the cause; trotting patiently around and around the smoother portions of the meadow, carrying various small maidens on her back but, at length, being given a chance to nibble her own dinner from that plentiful pasture. She was still saddled and bridled, the smallest Babcock having testified by screaming that she was still unsatisfied with her share of the exercise, and being promised "one more ride after dinner." Never a Babcock screamed more wisely. But for that scream Portia would have been unsaddled and but for Portia--a life might have been lost. CHAPTER XX ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL The chief event of the day was to be the exploration of "Si Waterman's Folly." This occurred immediately after dinner. Jim and Herbert, aided by Mr. Winters's strong arms, found small difficulty in removing the decayed plank covering which the old miner had placed above his narrow-mouthed shaft. This had once rolled easily enough upon deftly applied rollers and had been arranged to protect Mr. Waterman from detection when excavating, in search of that gold which he believed lay buried in south meadow. He was a secretive man who shared no secrets with his neighbors if he could help it, yet whose very idiosyncrasies betrayed them. "Well, that's a good job done!" cried Seth, as the cover was pushed aside. "See there?" He placed his heel upon the boards, which at once broke into fragments beneath his weight. "Why, anybody might have stepped upon it and fallen through!" cried Dorothy, astonished. "Yes. A good job to have prevented such an accident. But the hole, or shaft is--Hello, friend GHOST! Come out of that, if you please; all your neighbors have come to visit you and expect you to show the honors of your retreat!" Many heads were now crowded together, peering into the dimness of the shaft. It sloped inward and downward into a wider opening that was almost like a small chamber in its dimensions. Another entrance led to this chamber, a passage of a few feet in length, burrowed beneath the ground and opening upon the hillside beyond. Through this little tunnel came fresh air and light; and within the chamber had been collected the odds and ends of things which had caught the half-wit's fancy. A bundle of straw and a worn-out horse-blanket which somebody had discarded formed his bed. Some bits of broken crockery furnished his table, a board wedged against the rock. A spring of water gushed from one wall of the chamber and trickled into the depths below, and a curious odor escaped from the spring. The leather jacket, the glazed hat with its bedraggled scarlet feathers, lay carefully folded upon the straw pallet, and its owner sat beside the jacket shamefaced and terrified by this intrusion upon his retreat. But it was something else that caught Dorothy's attention--a simple suit of denim that had once been blue but was now faded by sun and water to a ghostly white. Peter wore these now and--she recognized them. "Peter! Peter! So _you_ are the good 'Ghost' that came in the night and tilled my garden for me! Come out, come out and let me thank you!" Though he had obstinately refused to answer the call of Seth Winters, the voice of the girl he had so secretly served, because she had been kind to him, was instantly obeyed. He climbed out of the shaft and, taking hold of her skirt as he had done once before, stood foolishly smiling while his good friend, the blacksmith, gayly announced: "Behold the 'Haunt' of Skyrie! The honestest, most innocent, most grateful of Ghosts! During the years it was vacant he made Skyrie his home, sleeping of winters in its hillside room, and in summer seeking this cool retreat where we have just unearthed him. He must, he will, _haunt_ no more; for if I judge aright the new master of old Skyrie will at once engage him to take the place of Pa Babcock, resigned. A better gardener there isn't 'up-mounting.' A more devoted servitor no man can find, once his affection is won as our little Dorothy has won it. What say, neighbors Chester? Will you secure your greatly needed 'hired man' and forever 'lay the ghost' of Skyrie at one 'fell swoop'?" "Aye, aye! Hear!" cried father John, entering fully into the blacksmith's spirit, even while he did not fully understand, till Dorothy explained all the mysterious, yet beneficent, happenings of the past few weeks; and then not only he but mother Martha bade the poor waif welcome to their home, while all the others standing by applauded vigorously. "But this isn't all we came to see. The gold mine, the gold mine! Peter may be human gold, but the rich yellow metal is what we want!" cried Herbert, when the cheers had died away. "Who'll go first?" asked somebody. "Why, I, of course!" returned young Montaigne, springing recklessly into that rough shaft which veered from the wide safety of the upper chamber. Whereat a strange thing happened. Peter dropped the fold of his new mistress's skirt and stepped hastily forward, warning by gestures and his uncertain mumbling that Herbert should not go. Alas! the warning was useless. The spirit of adventure was on the whole party, an eager desire to be the first who should unearth a "nugget," and even cautious Jim Barlow caught the infection, while Dorothy ran forward as lightly as if she were to cross only the smooth meadow. As the heads disappeared below the surface of the ground, and the shouts of those who scrambled downward over the rude rocky shaft grew fainter, Peter was seized with a terrible trembling and stood as if rooted to the ground in fear. A minute more and a girl's scream aroused him. Dorothy's! She was falling--falling--into an unknown depth! One mis-step, the slimy stones, the unforeseen peril! Both Jim and Herbert were already far below, following with extreme care, if still with all the speed possible, the tortuous excavation, in search of that deluding metal which has lured so many to their ruin. Only Peter Piper, the simple, to hear and comprehend. As if by magic his trembling ceased and with a cat-like leap, so swift and soft it was, he had also disappeared beneath the ground. Then something whispered to the Chesters of their darling's danger. They pressed forward to the edge of the pit, and almost equally pale with fear, Mrs. Cecil joined them; clinging to Martha with a sympathy of distress which broke down in a moment the younger woman's dislike of the elder. None of the trio were prepared for that which followed. Dorothy's slight figure came hurtling out of the pit's mouth, tossed to their very feet by the long arms of Peter Piper. A moment later he stood beside them, exhausted, silent; while the girl explained, as her own breath returned and terror subsided: "Oh! he saved my life! He saved my life! I was falling--I knew--it was death--those awful stones--so dark. He caught me, he knew. He isn't 'simple' but wise; wise and oh! so good! Peter, you blessed Ghost! I owe you my life!" But this excitement ebbed only to give way to another. When Dorothy had recovered her composure and sat quietly beside her elders, Peter beside her, with no desire left on her part for either explorations or the biggest of "nuggets," a fresh cry of alarm sounded from the mine. The cry preluded the frenzied rush out of the chasm of those who could escape it first; but it was upon Herbert and Jim that all were intent--upon poor Jim more than the other. As they came up Peter Piper cast one glance upon them, then hid his face and shuddered. "A horse! A doctor! Quick, quick! For the love of God, a horse!" gasped Herbert, and in a few broken words explained: "We got into a nest--a nest of serpents. One had raised its head--I didn't see it--to strike my hand! Jim--Jim caught it, it swung around--bit him--O God! Don't let him die! He offered his life for mine whom he didn't like! He saved me! Can nobody--nobody save him?" With his arm around his rescuer the frantic Herbert searched the blanched faces for some sign of help; and out of the startled silence which greeted his appeal came Seth Winters's calm voice: "To my shop. I've medicines there. I'll take one side, you the other, Herbert. If need be, we can make a 'chair' and carry him between us. You can walk, for a while anyway, Jim. You are not going to die. Steady now, on your own feet, steady--as when you so nobly threw away your life to save the boy you 'didn't like'!" The shop was, indeed, the nearest place where help could be obtained, and they started, all following; a sad and terrified party that but an hour before had been so gay and happy. And presently Jim's nerve returned to him, for it had been worsted for the moment by the cries and assertions of the others that he was doomed to death. But where was Dorothy--who should have been foremost with sympathy and cheer? Halfway down the mountain before the company had all left that unlucky south meadow. Fully down by the time the smithy was reached. Race, Portia, race. A life hangs on your fleetness! Jim's life, Jim's! Who has proved that "greater love hath no man but that he lay down his life for his friend." And this was more than "friend"--it was the boy "he didn't like"--yet by the strange rule of nature, was forever after to be the Damon to his Pythias. Experience has long proved that the surest way to overcome an aversion to a person is to do that person a kindness. Where, too, was Peter, the simple? Not far behind his faithful friend, the smith, having lingered only long enough to dart into the woods and fill his hands with a certain herb he knew; then to follow and reach the smithy just in time to hear its owner say: "Faint, Jim? Drink this. Herbert, bare his arm. It will be heroic treatment, my lad, but, _my hero_--bear it! and live to teach the world a lesson." Some turned their eyes aside as the smith drew from the glowing forge a white-hot iron and held it to the wound upon Jim's sunburned flesh. Not Jim! this wise old man toward whom his young soul had yearned from the beginning had called him "hero": and within himself he knew that he was far more such now than when he had rescued Dorothy from bondage, though they had termed him "hero" even then. The wound cauterized, came Peter Piper with his healing leaves, bringing infinite relief; and soon as might be came also Dorothy upon her piebald mare, and the doctor close beside her on his own fleet steed; approving all that had been done, assuring everybody that no fatal results could follow such prompt treatment; and especially commending Peter Piper for his knowledge of those simples which mother Nature grows so luxuriantly for the use of all her children. Thus ended the picnic and the search for hidden gold. But so soon as most of the company had departed from the over-crowded shop, Jim was made to ride upon Portia home to Skyrie, though he was now able to smile and declare that his legs were so long they would drag upon the ground. However, he managed to hold them sufficiently high and to adapt himself to the despised saddle of a girl. With him went the few who knew him best; Seth Winters and Herbert, Mrs. Cecil and Martha, Helena herself--not to be outdone in gratitude for her brother's life; and John Chester with his "little maid" beside him. They had all anticipated finding a restful quiet at Skyrie; but they failed. The moving events of that memorable day were not all accomplished yet. On the little upper porch sat Mr. and Mrs. Montaigne, waiting the return of Skyrie's owners to lay before them the scheme first evolved by their son and heir, and now indorsed with all heartiness by themselves. Chatting familiarly alongside, was Friend Oliver Sands; never more benignant nor complacent than now, and never more persistently engaged in "squeezing his hands" than at that hour. Below, on the stone doorsteps, sat the two surveyors who had once before visited the cottage; and at sight of these the hearts of the elder Chester's sank, while Seth merrily whispered to Dorothy: "Behold the hour is ripe and I _am_ here to see!" One other group there was, strolling idly about the garden, toying with Lady Rosalind, and contentedly amusing themselves until such time as they could make their errand to Skyrie known. Nobody seemed to know them; even Seth Winters failed to recognize the strangers and, for a moment, feared what they might have come to say. The next instant his brow cleared and his laughter was merrier than before. Mr. Montaigne was the first to state his business, when once all were ready to listen. It was extremely simple and concerned Dorothy most of all. Said he: "My dear young lady, we have come to invite you to accompany us to Europe. We shall leave New York in a few weeks and remain abroad for one, possibly two, years. We are going to give our children the benefit of foreign education, which we want you to share with them and along whatever lines you, or your parents, select. Of course, there will be no expense to you, who will be to us exactly as our own daughter, and whom we have learned to love almost as such. Will you go?" For a moment nobody spoke. Then said Dorothy very quietly, and scarcely daring to look at Helena or Herbert in their so evident disappointment: "I thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Montaigne, for your great kindness. It is very wonderful that you should have shown it to me whom you have known such a little while. But I cannot go. My father and mother need me and--I need them. A foreign education would not help me to earn my living as I must do some day, and--I thank you again, but I cannot go." To Helena's and Herbert's pleadings, which so strenuously followed, she could give no other answer. The invitation had been most tempting to her who so dearly loved to see new places and new people, but--her answer still was: "No." Then the family from the Towers departed and Friend Oliver began: "Thee is a good daughter, Dorothy Chester, and thee has well said that as a poor girl thee will need only the plainest education." "Beg pardon, sir, but I did not say that! I shall get just as good an education as I can, but I won't turn my back on those I love and who love me for the sake of getting it. That's already planned for. Dear Mr. Winters is going to open a school in the old smithy and all of us are to attend it. We've talked it over many a day, knowing how soon our summer friends would be away and our own real time for study and work would come. Jim and I, all the Babcocks, and----" But the miller had scant interest in these plans. He interrupted her by turning to Martha Chester and saying: "I suppose, Martha, that thee has reconsidered thy objection to selling south meadow, or are ready to pay me my money loaned thee 'on demand.' Is thee ready?" "Oh! sir!" began the troubled housemistress, and was amazed that a child should interfere by saying: "Wait a moment, mother dear. How much do my parents owe you 'on demand'?" At a nod from Mr. Winters she had slipped away and as swiftly returned and now stood before the astonished company, holding a fat purse in her hands and calmly awaiting the miller's reply. For an instant he could not make it. His amazement was too deep. The next with a sort of chuckle, as if sure that so large an amount could not be held in so small a compass, he announced the sum with interest in full. "Very well. Here, father, is the money. More I think than you will need. It is mine. My very own to give to you and mother, as I do give it now. Mr. Winters knows. He will explain. Pay the man, do please, and let him go." John Chester glanced at Seth Winters and received that gentleman's confirmatory nod; then he promptly opened the pocket-book and counted out the crisp banknotes which freed him and his home from the society of the miller and his men. Oliver departed. If he were crestfallen he did not show it, and in that respect the worthy smith and Mrs. Cecil both were disappointed. He even ventured to congratulate the Chesters upon the possession of "such a forehanded" daughter and to wish them every prosperity. With that and summoning his surveyors, he took his benign presence out of the way. Strangely enough, the surveyors did not at once follow, even to secure their wage which so just a man would surely pay. They even made light of such wages. During the time of waiting they had made other possible arrangements with the gentlemen in the garden, and they waited still further, with admirable patience, to see if these arrangements were correct. It was time for the strangers in the garden to have their own little interview, and, seeing them approach, poor mother Martha passed her hand across her tired brow, confused by all that had happened and dreading what might come. Too tired, as yet, to fully realize herself that her dreadful "debt" no longer rested on her shoulders. But she need not have feared. These strangers were plain business men, with no sentiment about them. Said the foremost: "Madam, we represent a syndicate prepared to buy, or operate in common with you, an iron mine that has been discovered on your land. In connection with this mine there is also a mineral spring from which a rich revenue may be obtained if properly managed. I have the honor to lay before you the two propositions of our company and to close with you as soon as the legal forms can be completed. It is royalty or open sale--if you will consider either." Oh, but it was well that two such wise and faithful counselors as Seth Winters and Mrs. Calvert were present then to advise these inexperienced Chesters for their own best advantage. Be assured they did so, and subsequently that "deal" was accomplished on the wise "royalty" basis, which proved, in one sense, indeed a "gold mine"; although the "gold" was but pure iron and a most unsavory water--that local physicians had always maintained would cure many diseases, and which soon received widespread attention elsewhere. Such a day and such an ending! What time more fitting to take a temporary leave of our dear Dorothy? Whose life moves forward in blessing, as all lives should move, and whom we must come back to at some happy, future day. All partings hold a touch of sadness--so must ours. But there is brightness in the sunset which floods the fields of Skyrie, a promise of greater brightness on the morrow. Before the night falls, while the sunshine still lasts, let us bid our heroine a real, old-fashioned farewell: "Well, Dorothy, good-by!" THE END * * * * * THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour Copyright, 1907, by The Platt & Peck Co. 
32606	----	DOROTHY ON A HOUSE-BOAT _By_ EVELYN RAYMOND ILLUSTRATED New York THE PLATTE & PECK CO. THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour _Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth Price per Volume, 50 Cents_ COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. [Illustration: "EPHRAIM, DID YOU EVER LIVE IN A HOUSE-BOAT?"--P 15 _Dorothy's House-Boat_] FOREWORD. Those who have followed the story of Dorothy Calvert's life thus far will remember that it has been full of interest and many adventures--pleasant and otherwise. Beginning as a foundling left upon the steps of a little house in Brown street, Baltimore, she was adopted by its childless owners, a letter-carrier and his wife. When his health failed she removed with them to the Highlands of the Hudson. There followed her "Schooling" at a fashionable academy; her vacation "Travels" in beautiful Nova Scotia; her "House Party" at the home of her newly discovered great aunt, Mrs. Betty Calvert; their winter together "In California"; a wonderful summer "On a Ranch" in Colorado; and now the early autumn has found the old lady and the girl once more in the ancestral home of the Calverts. Enjoying their morning's mail in the pleasant library of old Bellvieu, they are both astonished by the contents of one letter which offers for Dorothy's acceptance the magnificent gift of a "House-Boat." What follows the receipt of this letter is now to be told. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE FOREWORD 9 I. A BIG GIFT FOR A SMALL MAID 11 II. INVITATIONS TO A CRUISE OF LOVING KINDNESS 25 III. THE DIFFICULTIES OF GETTING UNDER WAY 44 IV. MATTERS ARE SETTLED 62 V. THE STORM AND WHAT FOLLOWED 76 VI. A MULE AND MELON TRANSACTION 92 VII. VISITORS 105 VIII. THE COLONEL'S REVELATION 121 IX. FISH AND MONKEYS 138 X. A MERE ANNE ARUNDEL GUST 154 XI. A MORNING CALL OF MONKEYS 165 XII. UNDER THE PERSIMMON TREE 180 XIII. WHAT LAY UNDER THE WALKING FERN 195 XIV. THE REDEMPTION OF A PROMISE 213 XV. IN THE HEART OF AN ANCIENT WOOD 229 XVI. WHEN THE MONKEYS' CAGE WAS CLEANED 243 XVII. CONCLUSION 254 CHAPTER I A BIG GIFT FOR A SMALL MAID. "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Mrs. Betty Calvert, shaking her white head and tossing her hands in a gesture of amazement. Then, as the letter she had held fell to the floor, her dark eyes twinkled with amusement and she smilingly demanded: "Dorothy, do you want an elephant?" The girl had been reading her own letters, just come in the morning's mail, but she paused to stare at her great-aunt and to ask in turn: "Aunt Betty, what do you mean?" "Because if you do here's the chance of your life to get one!" answered the old lady, motioning toward the fallen letter. Dolly understood that she was to pick it up and read it, and, having done so, remarked: "Auntie dear, this doesn't say anything about an elephant, as I can see." "Amounts to the same thing. The idea of a house-boat as a gift to a girl like you! My cousin Seth Winters must be getting into his dotage! Of course, girlie, I don't mean that fully, but isn't it a queer notion? What in the world can you, could you, do with a house-boat?" "Live in it, sail in it, have the jolliest time in it! Why not, Auntie, darling?" Dorothy's face was shining with eagerness and she ran to clasp Mrs. Calvert with coaxing arms. "Why not, indeed, Aunt Betty? You've been shut up in this hot city all summer long; you haven't had a bit of an outing, anywhere; it would do you lots of good to go sailing about on the river or bay; and--and--do say 'yes,' please, to dear Mr. Seth's offer! Oh! do!" The old lady kissed the uplifted face, merrily exclaiming: "Don't pretend it's for my benefit, little wheedler! The idea of such a thing is preposterous--simply preposterous! Run away and write the silly man that we've no use for house-boats, but if he does happen to have an elephant on hand, a white elephant, we might consider accepting it as a gift! We could have it kept at the park Zoo, maybe, and some city youngsters might like that." Dorothy's face clouded. She had become accustomed to receiving rich gifts, during her Summer on a Ranch, as the guest of the wealthy Fords, and now to have a house-boat offered her was only one more of the wonderful things life brought to her. Going back to her seat beside the open window she pushed her own letters aside, for the moment, to re-read that of her old teacher and guardian, during her life on the mountain by the Hudson. She had always believed Mr. Winters to be the wisest of men, justly entitled to his nickname of the "Learned Blacksmith." He wasn't one to do anything without a good reason and, of course, Aunt Betty's remarks about him had been only in jest. That both of them understood; and Dorothy now searched for the reason of this surprising gift. This was the letter: "Dear Cousin Betty: "Mr. Blank has failed in business, just as you warned me he would, and all I can recover of the money I loaned him is what is tied up in a house-boat, one of his many extravagances--though, in this case, not a great one. "Of course, I have no use for such a floating structure on top of a mountain and I want to give it to our little Dorothy. As she has now become a shareholder in a mine with a small income of her own, she can afford to accept the boat and I know she will enjoy it. I have forwarded the deed of gift to my lawyers in your town and trust your own tangled business affairs are coming out right in the end. All well at Deerhurst. Jim Barlow came down to say that Dr. Sterling is going abroad for a few months and that the manse will be closed. I wish the boy were ready for college, but he isn't. Also, that he wasn't too proud to accept any help from Mr. Ford--but he is. He says the discovery of that mine on that gentleman's property was an 'accident' on his own part, and he 'won't yet awhile.' He wants 'to earn his own way through the world' and, from present appearances, I think he'll have a chance to try. He's on the lookout now for another job." There followed a few more sentences about affairs in the highland village where the writer lived, but not a doubt was expressed as to the fitness of his extraordinary gift to a little girl, nor of its acceptance by her. Indeed, it was a puzzled, disappointed face which was now raised from the letter and an appealing glance that was cast upon the old lady in the chair by the desk. Meanwhile Aunt Betty had been doing some thinking of her own. She loved novelty with all the zest of a girl and she was fond of the water. Mr. Winters's offer began to seem less absurd. Finally, she remarked: "Well, dear, you may leave the writing of that note for a time. I'm obliged to go down town on business, this morning, and after my errands are done we will drive to that out-of-the-way place where this house-boat is moored and take a look at it. Are all those letters from your summer-friends? For a small person you have established a big correspondence, but, of course, it won't last long. Now run and tell Ephraim to get up the carriage. I'll be ready in twenty minutes." Dorothy hastily piled her notes on the wide window-ledge and skipped from the room, clapping her hands and singing as she went. To her mind Mrs. Calvert's consent to visit the house-boat was almost proof that it would be accepted. If it were--Ah! glorious! "Ephraim, did you ever live in a house-boat?" she demanded, bursting in upon the old colored coachman, engaged in his daily task of "shinin' up de harness." He glanced at her over his "specs," then as hastily removed them and stuffed them into his pocket. It was his boast that he could see as "well as evah" and needed no such aids to his sight. He hated to grow old and those whom he served so faithfully rarely referred to the fact. So Dorothy ignored the "specs," though she couldn't help smiling to see one end of their steel frame sticking out from the pocket, while she repeated to his astonished ears her question. "Evah lib in a house-boat? Evah kiss a cat's lef' hind foot? Nebah heered o' no such contraption. Wheah's it at--dat t'ing?" "Away down at some one of the wharves and we're going to see it right away. Oh! I forget. Aunt Betty wants the carriage at the door in twenty minutes. In fifteen, now, I guess because 'time flies' fairly away from me. But, Ephy, dear, try to put your mind to the fact that likely, I guess, maybe, you and I and everybody will go and live on the loveliest boat, night and day, and every day go sailing--sailing--sailing--on pretty rivers, between green banks and heaps of flowers, and----" Ephraim rose from his stool and waved her away. "Gwan erlong wid yo' foolishness honey gell! Yo' dreamin', an' my Miss Betty ain' gwine done erlow no such notionses. My Miss Betty done got sense, she hab, bress her! She ain' gwine hab not'in' so scan'lous in yo' raisin' as dat yeah boat talk. Gwan an' hunt yo' bunnit, if you-all 'spects to ride in ouah bawoosh." Dorothy always exploded in a gale of laughter to hear Ephraim's efforts to pronounce "barouche," as he liked to call the old carriage; and she now swept a mocking curtsey to his pompous dismissal, as she hurried away to put on her "bunnit" and coat. To Ephraim, any sort of feminine headgear was simply a "bunnit" and every wrap was a "shawl." Soon the fat horses drew the glistening carriage through the gateway of Bellvieu, the fine old residence of the Calverts, and down through the narrow, crowded streets of the business part of old Baltimore. To loyal Mrs. Betty, who had passed the greater part of her long life in the southern city, it was very dear and even beautiful; but to Dorothy's young eyes it seemed, on that early autumn day, very "smelly" and almost squalid. Her mind still dwelt upon visions of sunny rivers and green fields, and she was too anxious for her aunt's acceptance of Mr. Winters's gift to keep still. Fidgetting from side to side of the carriage seat, where she had been left to wait, the impatient girl felt that Aunt Betty's errands were endless. Even the fat horses, used to standing quietly on the street, grew restless during a long delay at the law offices of Kidder and Kidder, Mrs. Calvert's men of business. This, the lady had said, would be the last stop by the way; and when she at length emerged from the building, she moved as if but half conscious of what she was doing. Her face was troubled and looked far older than when she had left the carriage; and, with sudden sympathy and pity, Dorothy's mood changed. "Aunt Betty, aren't you well? Let's go straight home, then, and not bother about that boat." Mrs. Calvert smiled and bravely put her own worries behind her. "Thank you, dear, for your consideration, but 'the last's the best of all the game,' as you children say. I've begun to believe that this boat errand of ours may prove so. Ephraim, drive to Halcyon Point." If his mistress had bidden him drive straight into the Chesapeake, the old coachman would have attempted to obey; but he could not refrain from one glance of dismay as he received this order. He wouldn't have risked his own respectability by a visit to such a "low down, ornery" resort, alone; but if Miss Betty chose to go there it was all right. Her wish was "sutney cur'us" but being hers not to be denied. And now, indeed, did Dorothy find the city with its heat a "smelly" place, but a most interesting one as well. The route lay through the narrowest of streets, where tumble-down old houses swarmed with strange looking people. To her it all seemed like some foreign country, with its Hebrew signs on the walls, its bearded men of many nations, and its untidy women leaning from the narrow windows, scolding the dirty children in the gutters beneath. But after a time, the lane-like streets gave place to wider ones, the air grew purer, and soon a breath from the salt water beyond refreshed them all. Almost at once, it seemed, they had arrived; and Dorothy eagerly sought to tell which of the various craft clustered about the Point was her coveted house-boat. The carriage drew up beside a little office on the pier and a man came out. He courteously assisted Aunt Betty to descend, while he promptly pointed out a rather squat, but pretty, boat which he informed her was the "Water Lily," lately the property of Mr. Blank, but now consigned to one Mr. Seth Winters, of New York, to be held at the commands of Miss Dorothy Calvert. "A friend of yours, Madam?" he inquired, concluding that this stately old lady could not be the "Miss" in question and wholly forgetting that the little maid beside her might possibly be such. Aunt Betty laid her hand on Dolly's shoulder and answered: "This is Miss Dorothy Calvert and the 'Water Lily' is a gift from Mr. Winters to her. Can we go on board and inspect?" The gentleman pursed his lips to whistle, he was so surprised, but instead exclaimed: "What a lucky girl! The 'Water Lily' is the most complete craft of its kind I ever saw. Mr. Blank spared no trouble nor expense in fitting her up for a summer home for his family. She is yacht-shaped and smooth-motioned; and even her tender is better than most house-boats in this country. Blank must be a fanciful man, for he named the tender 'The Pad,' meaning leaf, I suppose, and the row-boat belonging is 'The Stem.' Odd, isn't it, Madam?" "Rather; but will just suit this romantic girl, here," she replied; almost as keen pleasure now lighting her face as was shining from Dorothy's. At her aunt's words she caught the lady's hand and kissed it rapturously, exclaiming: "Then you do mean to let me accept it, you precious, darling dear! You do, you do!" They all laughed, even Ephraim, who was close at his lady's heels, acting the stout body-guard who would permit nothing to harm her in this strange place. The Water Lily lay lower in the water than the dock and Mrs. Calvert was carefully helped down the gang plank to its deck. Another plank rested upon the top of the cabin, or main room of the house-boat, and Dorothy sped across this and hurried down the steep little winding stair, leading from it to the lower deck, to join in her aunt's inspection of the novel "ship." Delighted astonishment hushed for the time her nimble tongue. Then her exclamations burst forth: "It's so big!" "About one hundred feet long, all told, and eighteen wide;" the wharf master explained. "It's all furnished, just like a really, truly house!" "Indeed, yes; with every needful comfort but not one superfluous article. See this, please. The way the 'bedrooms' are shut off;" continued the gentleman, showing how the three feet wide window-seats were converted into sleeping quarters. Heavy sail cloth had been shaped into partitions, and these fastened to ceiling and side wall separated the cots into cosy little staterooms. Extra seats, pulled from under the first ones, furnished additional cots, if needed. The walls of the saloon had been sunk below the deck line, giving ample head room, and the forward part was of solid glass, while numerous side-windows afforded fine views in every direction. The roof of this large room could be covered by awnings and became a charming promenade deck. Even Aunt Betty became speechless with pleasure as she wandered over the beautiful boat, examining every detail, from the steam-heating arrangements to the tiny "kitchen," which was upon the "tender" behind. "I thought the tug, or towing boat was always in front," she remarked at length. "Mr. Blank found this the best arrangement. The 'Pad' has a steam engine and its prow fastened to the stern of the Lily propels it ahead. None of the smoke comes into the Lily and that, too, was why the galley, or kitchen, was built on the smaller boat. A little bridge is slung between the two for foot passage and--Well, Madam, I can't stop admiring the whole affair. It shows what a man's brain can do in the way of invention, when his heart is in it, too. I fancy that parting with his Water Lily was about the hardest trial poor old Blank had to bear." Silence fell on them all and Dorothy's face grew very sober. It was a wonderful thing that this great gift should come to her but it grieved her to know it had so come by means of another's misfortune. Aunt Betty, too, grew more serious and she asked the practical question: "Is it a very expensive thing to run? Say for about three months?" The official shrugged his shoulders, replying: "That depends on what one considers expensive. It would smash my pocket-book to flinders. The greatest cost would be the engineer's salary. One might take the job for three dollars a day and keep. He might--I don't know. Then the coal, the power for the electric lights--the lots of little things that crop up to eat up cash as if it were good bread and butter. Ah! yes. It's a lovely toy--for those who can afford it. I only wish I could!" The man's remarks ended in a sigh and he looked at Dorothy as if he envied her. His expression hurt her, somehow, and she turned away her eyes, asking a practical question of her own: "Would three hundred dollars do it?" "Yes--for a time, at least. But----" He broke off abruptly and helped Aunt Betty to ascend the plank to the wharf, while Dorothy followed, soberly, and Ephraim with all the pomposity he could assume. There Methuselah Bonaparte Washington, the small colored boy who had always lived at Bellvieu and now served as Mrs. Betty's page as well as footman, descended from his perch and untied the horses from the place where careful Ephraim had fastened them. His air was a perfect imitation of the old man's and sat so funnily upon his small person that the wharf master chuckled and Dorothy laughed outright. "Metty," as he was commonly called, disdained to see the mirth he caused but climbed to his seat behind, folded his arms as well as he could for his too big livery, and became as rigid as a statue--or as all well-conducted footmen should be. Then good-byes were exchanged, after the good old Maryland fashion and the carriage rolled away. As it vanished from view the man left behind sighed again and clenched his fists, muttering: "This horrible, uneven world! Why should one child have so much and my Elsa--nothing! Elsa, my poor, unhappy child!" Then he went about his duties and tried to forget Dorothy's beauty, perfect health, and apparent wealth. For some time neither Mrs. Calvert nor Dorothy spoke; then the girl said: "Aunt Betty, Jim Barlow could tend that engine. And he's out of a place. Maybe----" "Yes, dear, I've been thinking of him, too. Somehow none of our plans seem quite perfect without good, faithful James sharing them." "And that poor Mr. Blank----" "A very dishonest scoundrel, my child, according to all accounts. Don't waste pity on him." "But his folks mayn't be scoundrels. He loved them, too, same as we love or he wouldn't have built such a lovely Water Lily. Auntie, that boat would hold a lot of people, wouldn't it?" "I suppose so," answered the lady, absently. "When we go house-boating may I invite anybody I choose to go with us?" "I haven't said yet that we would go!" "But you've looked it and that's better." Just then an automobile whizzed by and the horses pretended to be afraid. Mrs. Calvert was frightened and leaned forward anxiously till Ephraim had brought them down to quietness again. Then she settled back against her cushions and became once more absorbed in her own sombre thoughts. She scarcely heard and wholly failed to understand Dorothy's repeated question: "May I, dear Aunt Betty?" She answered carelessly: "Why, yes, child. You may do what you like with your own." But that consent, so rashly given, was to bring some strange adventures in its train. CHAPTER II INVITATIONS TO A CRUISE OF LOVING KINDNESS. "Huh! Dolly's caught the Ford fashion of sending telegrams where a letter would do!" exclaimed Jim Barlow, after he had opened the yellow envelope which Griselda Roemer gave him when he came in from work. He was back at Deerhurst, living with old Hans and Griselda, the caretakers, and feeling more at home in his little room above the lodge doorway than anywhere else. He had come to do any sort of labor by which he might earn his keep, and to go on with his studies whenever he had leisure. Mr. Seth Winters, the "Learned Blacksmith," and his faithful friend, would give him such help as was needed; and the lad had settled down in the prospect of a fine winter at his beloved books. After his long summer on the Colorado mountains he felt rested and keener for knowledge than ever. Now as he held the telegram in his hand his face clouded, so that Griselda, watching, anxiously inquired: "Is something wrong? Is our good lady sick?" "It doesn't say so. It's from Dorothy. She wants me to come to Baltimore and help her fool away lots more time on a house-boat! I wish she'd mind her business!" The friendly German woman stared. She had grown to look upon her lodger, Jim, very much as if he were her own son. He wasn't often so cross as this and never had been so against Dorothy. "Well, well! Ah so! Well!" With this brief comment she made haste to set the dinner on the table and to call Hans from his own task of hoeing the driveway. Presently he had washed his face and hands at the little sink in the kitchen, rubbed them into a fine glow with the spotless roller-towel, and was ready for the great meal of the day--his generous "Dutch dinner." Usually Jim was as ready as Hans to enjoy it; but, to-day, he left his food untasted on his plate while he stared gloomily out of the window, and for so long that Griselda grew curious and went to see what might be happening without. "What seest thou, lad? Is aught wrong beyond already?" "No. Oh! come back to table, Mrs. Roemer. I'll tell you. I'd just got fixed, you know, to do a lot of hard work--both kinds. Now comes this silly thing! I suppose Mrs. Calvert must have let Dolly ask me else she wouldn't have done it. It seems some simpleton or other, likely as not that Mr. Ford----" "Call no names, son!" warned Hans, disposing of a great mouthful, to promptly reprimand the angry youth. Hans was a man of peace. He hated nothing so much as ill temper. Jim said no more, but his wrath cooling began to eat his dinner with a zeal that made up for lost time. Having finished he went out saying: "I'll finish my job when I come back. I'm off now for the Shop." He always spoke of the smithy under the Great Balm of Gilead Tree as if it began with a capital letter. The old man who called himself a "blacksmith"--and was, in fact, a good one--and dwelt in the place stood to eager James Barlow as the type of everything good and great. He was sure, as he hurried along the road, that Mr. Seth would agree with him in regard to Dorothy's telegram. "Hello, Jim! What's up? You look excited," was the blacksmith's greeting as the lad's shadow darkened the smithy entrance. "Read that, will you, Mr. Winters?" The gentleman put on his "reading specs," adjusted the yellow slip of paper conveniently, and exclaimed: "Good enough! Mistress Betty has allowed the darling to accept it then! First rate. Well?" Then he looked up inquiringly, surprised by the impatience of the boy's expression. "Well--of course I sha'n't go. The idea of loafing for another two, three months is--ridiculous! And what fool would give such a thing as a house-boat to a chit of a girl like our Dorothy?" Mr. Seth laughed and pointed to the settee. "Sit down, chap, and cool off. The world is as full of fools as it is of wise men. Which is which depends upon the point of view. I'm sorry to have you number me amongst the first; because I happen to be the stupid man who gave the 'Water Lily' and its belongings to little Dorothy. I knew she'd make good use of it, if her aunt would let her accept the gift, and she flatters you, I think, by inviting you to come and engineer the craft. You'll go, of course." Jim did sit down then, rather suddenly, while his face reddened with shame, remembering what he had just called the wise man before him. Finally, he faltered: "I know next to nothing about a steam engine." "I thought you had a good idea of the matter. Not as a trained expert, of course, but enough to manage a simple affair like the one in question. Dr. Sterling told me that you were often pottering about the machine shops in Newburgh and had picked up some good notions about steam and its force. He thought you might, eventually, turn your attention to such a line of work. From the beginning I had you in mind as helping Dolly to carry out her pleasant autumn plans." "I'd likely enough blow up the whole concern--through dumb ignorance. And--and--I was going to study double hard. I do want to get to college next year!" "This trip will help you. I wish I could take it myself, though I couldn't manage even a tiny engine. Besides, lad, as I understand, the 'Water Lily' doesn't wholly depend upon steam for her 'power.' She--but you'll find out in two minutes of inspection more than I can suggest in an hour. If you take the seven-thirty train to New York, to-morrow morning, you can reach Baltimore by three in the afternoon, easily enough. 'James Barlow. Been given house-boat. You're engineer. Be Union Station, three, Wednesday.' Signed: 'Dorothy.'" This was the short dispatch which Mr. Winters now re-read, aloud, with the comment: "The child is learning to condense. She's got this message down to the regulation ten-words-for-a-quarter." Then he crossed to the bookcase and began to select certain volumes from its shelves, while Jim watched eagerly, almost hungrily. One after another, these were the beloved books whose contents he had hoped to master during the weeks to come. To see them now from the outside only was fresh disappointment and he rose to leave, saying: "Well, if I must I must an' no bones about it. I wouldn't stir hand nor foot, 'cept it's Mrs. Calvert and----" "Don't leave out Dolly Doodles, boy! She was your first friend among us all, and your first little teacher in the art of spelling. Oh! I know. Of course, such a boy as you would have learned, anyway, but 'Praise the bridge that carries you safe over.' Dorothy was the first 'bridge' between you and these volumes, in those far-back days when you both picked strawberries on Miranda Stott's truck-farm. There. I think these will be all you can do justice to before you come back. There's an old 'telescope' satchel of mine in the inner closet that will hold them nicely. Fetch it and be off with you." "Those--why, those are your own best beloved books! Would you trust them with me away from home? Will they be of any use on a house-boat?" "Yes, yes, you 'doubting Thomas.' Now--how much money have you on hand?" "Ten dollars. I'd saved it for a lexicon and some--some other things." "This bulky fellow is a lexicon I used in my youth; and since Latin is a 'dead language' it's as much alive and as helpful now as ever. That book is my parting gift to you; and ten dollars is sufficient for your fare and a day's needs. Good-bye." All the time he had been talking Mr. Winters had been deftly packing the calf-bound volumes in the shabby "telescope," and now strapped it securely. Then he held out his hand with a cheerful smile lighting his fine face, and remarking: "When you see my dear ones just say everything good to them and say I said it. Good-bye." Jim hurried away lest his friend should see the moisture that suddenly filled his eyes. He "hated good-byes" and could never get used to partings. So he fairly ran over the road to the gates of Deerhurst and worked off his troublesome emotion by hoeing every vestige of a weed from the broad driveways on its grounds. He toiled so swiftly and so well that old Hans felt himself relieved of the task and quietly went to sleep in his chair by the lodge door. Gradually, too, the house-boat idea began to interest him. He had but a vague notion of what such a craft was like and found himself thinking about it with considerable pleasure. So that when, at three o'clock the next afternoon, he stepped down from the train at Union Station he was his old, eager, good-natured self. "Hello, Doll!" "O Jim! The three weeks since I saw you seems an age! Isn't it just glorious? I'm so glad!" With that the impulsive girl threw her arms around the lad's neck and tip-toed upwards to reach his brown cheek with her lips. Only to find her arms unclasped and herself set down with considerable energy. "Quit that, girlie. Makes me look like a fool!" "I should think it did. Your face is as red--as red! Aren't you glad to see me, again?" demanded Miss Dorothy, folding her arms and standing firmly before him. She looked so pretty, so bewitching, that some passers-by smiled, at which poor Jim's face turned even a deeper crimson and he picked up his luggage to go forward with the crowd. "But aren't you glad, Jim?" she again mischievously asked, playfully obstructing his progress. "Oh! bother! Course. But boys can be glad without such silly kissin'. I don't know what ails girls, anyway, likin' so to make a feller look ridic'lous." Dorothy laughed and now marched along beside him, contenting herself by a clasp of his burdened arms. "Jim, you're a dear. But you're cross. I can always tell when you're that by your 'relapsing into the vernacular,' as I read in Aunt Betty's book. Never mind, Jim, I'm in trouble!" "Shucks! I'd never dream it!" They had climbed the iron stairway leading to the street above and were now waiting for a street-car to carry them to Bellvieu. So Jim set down his heavy telescope and light bag of clothing to rest his arms, while old Ephraim approached from the rear. He had gone with his "li'l miss" to meet the newcomer but had kept out of sight until now. "Howdy, Marse Jim. Howdy." Then he picked up the bag of books and shrugged his shoulders at its weight. Setting it back on the sidewalk he raised his hand and beckoned small Methuselah, half-hiding behind a pillar of the building. That youngster came tremblingly forward. He was attired in his livery, that he had been forbidden to wear when "off duty," or save when in attendance upon "Miss Betty." But having been so recently promoted to the glory of a uniform he appeared in it whenever possible. On this trip to the station he had lingered till his grandfather had already boarded the street-car and too late for him to be sent home to change. Now he cowered before Ephraim's frown and fear of what would happen when they two were alone together in the "harness room" of the old stable. On its walls reposed other whips than those used for Mrs. Calvert's horses. "Yeah, chile. Tote dem valeeshes home. Doan' yo let no grass grow, nudder, whiles yo' doin' it. I'll tend to yo' case bimeby. I ain' gwine fo'get." Then he put the little fellow aboard the first car that came by, hoisted the luggage after him, and had to join in the mirth the child's appearance afforded--with his scrawny body half-buried beneath the livery "made to grow in." Jim was laughing, too, yet anxious over the disappearance of his books, and explained to Dorothy: "That gray telescope's full of Mr. Seth's books. We better get the next car an' follow, else maybe he'll lose 'em." "He'll not dare. And we're not going home yet. We're going down to the Water Lily. Oh! she's a beauty! and think that we can do just what we like with her! No, not that one! This is our car. It runs away down to the jumping-off place of the city and out to the wharves beyond. Yes, of course, Ephraim will go with us. That's why Metty was brought along. To take your things home and to let Aunt Betty know you had come. O Jim, I'm so worried!" He looked and laughed his surprise, but she shook her head, and when they were well on their way disclosed her perplexities, that were, indeed, real and serious enough. "Jim Barlow, Aunt Betty's got to give up Bellvieu--and it's just killing her!" "Dolly Doodles--what you sayin'?" It sounded very pleasant to hear that old pet name again and proved that this was the same loving, faithful Jim, even if he did hate kissing. But then he'd always done that. "I mean just what I say and I'm so glad to have you to talk it over with. I daren't say a word to her about it, of course, and I can't talk to the servants. They get just frantic. Once I said something to Dinah and she went into a fit, nearly. Said she'd tear the house down stone by stone 'scusin' she'd let her 'li'l Miss Betty what was borned yeah be tu'ned outen it.' You see that dear Auntie, in the goodness of her heart, has taken care of a lot of old women and old men, in a big house the family used to own down in the country. Something or somebody has 'failed' whatever that means and most of Aunt Betty's money has failed too. If she sells Bellvieu, as the 'city' has been urging her to do for ever so long, she'll have enough money left to still take care of her 'old folks' and keep up their Home. If she doesn't--Well there isn't enough to do everything. And, though she doesn't say a word of complaint, it's heart-breaking to see the way she goes around the house and grounds, laying her old white hand on this thing or that in such a loving way--as if she were saying good-bye to it! Then, too, Jim, did you know that poor Mabel Bruce has lost her father? He died very suddenly and her mother has been left real poor. Mabel grieves dreadfully; so, of course, she must be one of our guests on the Water Lily. She won't cheer up Aunt Betty very well, but you must do that. She's very fond of _you_, Jim, Aunt Betty is, and it's just splendid that you're free from Dr. Sterling now and can come to manage our boat. Why, boy, what's the matter? Why do you look so 'sollumcolic?' Didn't you want to come? Aren't you glad that 'Uncle Seth' gave me the 'Water Lily'?" "No. I didn't want to come. And if Mrs. Betty's so poor, what you doing with a house-boat, anyway?" Promptly, they fell into such a heated argument that Ephraim felt obliged to interfere and remind his "li'l miss" that she was in a public conveyance and must be more "succumspec' in yo' behavesomeness." But she gaily returned that they were now the only passengers left in the car and she must make stupid Jim understand--everything. Finally, she succeeded so far that he knew the facts: How and why the house-boat had become Dorothy's property; that she had three hundred dollars in money, all her own; and that, instead of putting it in the bank as she had expected, she was going to use it to sail the Water Lily and give some unhappy people a real good time; that Jim was expected to work without wages and must manage the craft for pure love of the folks who sailed in it; that Aunt Betty had said Dorothy might invite whom she chose to be her guests; and that, first and foremost, Mrs. Calvert herself must be made perfectly happy and comfortable. "Here we are! There she is! That pretty thing all white and gold, with the white flag flying her own sweet name--Water Lily! Doesn't she look exactly like one? Wasn't it a pretty notion to paint the tender green like a real lily 'Pad?' and that cute little row-boat a reddish brown, like an actual 'Stem?' Aren't you glad you came? Aren't we going to be gloriously happy? Does it seem it can be true that it's really, truly ours?" demanded Dorothy, skipping along the pier beside the soberer Jim. But his face brightened as he drew nearer the beautiful boat and a great pride thrilled him that he was to be in practical charge of her. "Skipper Jim, the Water Lily. Water Lily, let me introduce you to your Commodore!" cried Dorothy, as they reached the gang-plank and were about to go aboard. Then her expression changed to one of astonishment. Somebody--several somebodies, indeed--had presumed to take possession of the house-boat and were evidently having "afternoon tea" in the main saloon. The wharf master came out of his office and hastily joined the newcomers. He was evidently annoyed and hastened to explain: "Son and daughter of Mr. Blank with some of their friends. Come down here while I was off duty and told my helper they had a right to do that. He didn't look for you to come, to-day, and anyway, he'd hardly have stopped them. Sorry. Ah! Elsa! Afraid to stay alone back there?" A girl, about Dorothy's age, had followed the master and now slipped her hand about his arm. She was very thin and sallow, with eyes that seemed too large for her face, and walked with a painful limp. There was an expression of great timidity on her countenance, so that she shrank half behind her father, though he patted her hand to reassure her and explained to Dorothy: "This is my own motherless little girl. She's not very strong and rather nervous. I brought her down here this afternoon to show her your boat, but we haven't been aboard. Those people--they had no right--I regret--" Dolly, vexatious with the "interlopers," as she considered the party aboard the Water Lily, gave place to a sudden, keen liking for the fragile Elsa. She looked as if she had never had a good time in her life and the more fortunate girl instantly resolved to give her one. Taking Elsa's other hand in both of hers, she exclaimed: "Come along with Jim and me and pick out the little stateroom you'll have for your own when we start on our cruise--next Monday morning! You'll be my guest, won't you? The first one invited." Elsa's large eyes were lifted in amazed delight; then as quickly dropped, while a fit of violent trembling shook her slight frame. She was so agitated that her equally astonished father put his arm about her to support her, and the look he gave Dorothy was very keen as he said: "Elsa has always lived alone. She isn't used to the jests of other girls, Miss Calvert." "Isn't she? But I wasn't jesting. My aunt has given me permission to choose my own guests and I choose Elsa, first, if she will come. Will you, dear?" and again Dolly gave the hand she held an affectionate squeeze. "Come and help us make our little cruise a perfectly delightful one." Once more the great, dark eyes looked into Dorothy's brown ones and Elsa answered softly: "Ye-es, I'll come. If--if you begin like this--with a poor girl like me--it should be called 'The Cruise of Loving Kindness.' I guess--I know--God sent you." Neither Dorothy nor Jim could find anything to say. It was evident that this stranger was different from any of their old companions, and it scarcely needed the father's explanation to convince them that "Elsa is a deeply religious dreamer." Jim hoped that she wouldn't prove a "wet blanket" and was provoked with Dorothy's impulsive invitation; deciding to warn her against any more such as soon as he could get her alone. Already the lad was feeling as if he, too, were proprietor of this wonderful Water Lily, and carried himself with a masterful air which made Dolly smile, as he now stepped across the little deck into the main cabin. It was funny, too, to see the "How-dare-you" sort of expression with which he regarded the "impudent" company of youngsters that filled the place, and he was again annoyed by the graciousness with which "Doll" advanced to meet them. In her place--hello! what was that she was saying? "Very happy to meet you, Miss Blank--if I am right in the name." A tall girl, somewhat resembling Helena Montaigne, though with less refinement of appearance, had risen as Dorothy moved forward and stood defiantly awaiting what might happen. Her face turned as pink as her rose-trimmed hat but she still retained her haughty pose, as she stiffly returned: "Quite right. I'm Aurora Blank. These are my friends. That's my brother. My father owns--I mean--he ought--We came down for a farewell lark. We'd all expected to cruise in her all autumn till--. Have a cup of tea, Miss--Calvert, is it?" "Yes, I'm Dorothy. This is Elsa Carruthers and this--James Barlow. You seem to be having a lovely time and we won't disturb you. We're going to inspect the tender. Ephraim, please help Elsa across when we come to the plank." The silence which followed proved that the company of merrymakers was duly impressed by Dolly's treatment of their intrusion. Also, the dignity with which the old colored man followed and obeyed his small mistress convinced these other Southerners that his "family" was "quality." Dorothy's simple suit, worn with her own unconscious "style," seemed to make the gayer costumes of the Blank party look tawdry and loud; while the eager spirituality of Elsa's face became a silent reproof to their boisterous fun, which ceased before it. Only one member of the tea-party joined the later visitors. This was the foppish youth whom Aurora had designated as "my brother." Though ill at ease he forced himself to follow and accost Dorothy with the excuse: "Beg pardon, Miss Calvert, but we owe you an apology. We had no business down here, you know, and I say--it's beastly. I told Rora so, but--I mean, I'm as much to blame as she. And I say, you know, I hope you'll have as good times in the Lily as we expected to have--and--I'll bid you good day. We'll clear out, at once." But Dorothy laid her hand on his arm to detain him a moment. "Please don't. Finish your stay--I should be so sorry if you didn't, and you've saved me a lot of trouble." Gerald Blank stared and asked: "In what way, please? I'm glad to think it." "Why, I was going to hunt up your address, or that of your family. I'd like to have you and your sister go with us next week on our cruise. We mayn't take the same route you'd have chosen, but--will you come? It's fair you should and I'd be real glad. Talk it over with your sister and let me know, to-morrow, please, at this address. Good-bye." She had slipped a visiting-card into his hand and while he stood still, surprised by her unexpected invitation, she hurried after her own friends--and to meet the disgusted look on Jim Barlow's face. "I say, Dolly Calvert, have you lost your senses?" "I hope not. Why?" "Askin' that fellow to go with us! The idea! Well, I'll tell you right here and now, there won't be room enough on this boat for that popinjay an' me at the same time. I don't like his cut. Mrs. Calvert won't, either, and you'd ought to consult your elders before you launch out promiscuous, this way. All told, it's nothing but a boat. Where you going to stow them all, child?" "Oh, there'll be room enough, and you should be studying your engine instead of scolding me. You're all right, though, Jimmy-boy, so I don't mind telling you that whatever invitations I've given so far, were planned from the very day I was allowed to accept the Lily. Now get pleasant right away and find out how much or little you know about that engine." Jim laughed. Nobody could be offended with happy Dorothy that day, and he was soon deep in exploration of his new charge; his pride in his ability to handle such a perfect bit of machinery increasing every moment. When they returned from the tender to the main saloon they found it empty and in order. Everything was as shipshape as possible, the young Blanks having proudly demonstrated their father's skill in arrangement, and then quietly departing. Gerald's whispered announcement to his sister had secured her prompt help in breaking up their tea-party, and she now felt as ashamed of the affair as he had been. At last, even Jim was willing to leave the Water Lily, reminded by hunger that he'd eaten nothing since his early breakfast; and returning the grateful Elsa to her father's care, he and Dorothy walked swiftly down the pier to the car line beyond, to take the first car which came. It was full of workmen returning from the factories beyond and for a time Dorothy found no seat, while Jim went far forward and Ephraim remained on the rear platform, whence, by peering through the back window, he could still keep a watchful eye over his beloved "li'l miss." Somebody left the car and he saw the girl pushed into a vacant place beside a rough, seafaring man with crutches, and poorly clad. He resented the "old codger's" nearness to his dainty darling and his talking to her. Next he saw that the talk was mostly on Dorothy's side and that when the cripple presently left the car it was with a cordial handshake of his little lady, and a smiling good-bye from her. Then the "codger" limped to the street and Ephraim looked after him curiously. Little did he guess how much he would yet owe that vagrant. CHAPTER III THE DIFFICULTIES OF GETTING UNDER WAY. How that week flew! How busy was everybody concerned in the cruise of the wonderful Water Lily! Early on the morning after his arrival, Jim Barlow repaired to Halcyon Point, taking an expert engineer with him, as Aunt Betty had insisted, and from that time till the Water Lily sailed he spent every moment of his waking hours in studying his engine and its management. At the end he felt fully competent to handle it safely and was as impatient as Dorothy herself to be off; and, at last, here they all were waiting on the little pier for the word of command or, as it appeared, for one tardy arrival. From her own comfortable steamer-chair, Aunt Betty watched the gathering of the company and wondered if anybody except Dolly could have collected such a peculiar lot of contrasts. But the girl was already "calling the roll" and she listened for the responses as they came. "Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset Calvert?" "Present!" "Mrs. Charlotte Bruce?" "Here." "Mabel Bruce?" "Present!" "Elsa Carruthers?" "Oh! I--don't know--I guess--." But a firm voice, her father's, answered for the hesitating girl, whose timidity made her shrink from all these strangers. "Aurora Blank? Gerald Blank?" "Oh, we're both right on hand, don't you know? Pop's pride rather stood in the way, but--Present!" "Mr. Ephraim Brown-Calvert?" The old man bowed profoundly and answered: "Yeah 'm I, li'l miss!" "That ends the passengers. Now for the crew. Captain Jack Hurry?" Nobody responded. Whoever owned the rapid name was slow to claim it. But Dorothy smiled and proceeded. "Cap'n Jack" was a surprise of her own. He would keep for a time. "Engineer James Barlow?" "At his post!" "Master Engineer, John Stinson?" "Present!" called that person, laughing. He was Jim's instructor and would see them down the bay and into the quiet river where they would make their first stop. "Mrs. Chloe Brown, assistant chef and dishwasher?" "Yeah 'm I?" returned the only one of Aunt Betty's household-women who dared to trust herself on board a boat "to lib." She was Methuselah's mother and as his imposing name was read, answered for him; while the "cabin boy and general utility man" ducked his woolly head beneath her skirts, for once embarrassed by the attention he received. "Miss Calvert, did you know that you make the thirteenth person?" asked Aurora Blank, who had kept tally on her white-gloved fingers. "I hope I do--there's 'luck in odd numbers' one hears. But I'm not--I'm not! Auntie, Jim, look yonder--quick! It's Melvin! It surely is!" With a cry of delight Dorothy now rushed down the pier to where a street-car had just stopped and a lad alighted. She clasped his hands and fairly pumped them up and down in her eagerness, but she didn't offer to kiss him though she wanted to do so. She remembered in time that the young Nova Scotian was even shyer than James Barlow and mustn't be embarrassed. But her questions came swiftly enough, though his answers were disappointing. However, she led him straight to Mrs. Calvert, his one-time hostess at Deerhurst, and there was now no awkward shyness in his respectful greeting of her, and the acknowledgment he made to the general introductions which followed. Seating himself on a rail close to Mrs. Betty's chair he explained his presence. "The Judge sent me to Baltimore on some errands of his own, and after they were done I was to call upon you, Madam, and say why her father couldn't spare Miss Molly so soon again. He missed her so much, I fancy, while she was at San Leon ranch, don't you know, and she is to go away to school after a time--that's why. But----" The lad paused, colored, and was seized by a fit of his old bashfulness. He had improved wonderfully during the year since he had been a member of "Dorothy's House Party" and had almost conquered that fault. No boy could be associated for so long a time with such a man as Judge Breckenridge and fail to learn much; but it wasn't easy to offer himself as a substitute for merry Molly, which he had really arrived to do. However, Dolly was quick to understand and caught his hands again, exclaiming: "You're to have your vacation on our Water Lily! I see, I see! Goody! Aunt Betty, isn't that fine? Next to Molly darling I'd rather have you." Everybody laughed at this frank statement, even Dolly herself; yet promptly adding the name of Melvin Cook to her list of passengers. Then as he walked forward over the plank to where Jim Barlow smilingly awaited him, carrying his small suit-case--his only luggage, she called after him: "I hope you brought your bugle! Then we can have 'bells' for time, as on the steamer!" He nodded over his shoulder and Dorothy strained her eyes toward the next car approaching over the street line, while Mrs. Calvert asked: "For whom are we still waiting, child? Why don't we go aboard and start?" "For dear old Cap'n Jack! He's coming now, this minute." All eyes followed hers and beheld an old man approaching. Even at that distance his wrinkled face was so shining with happiness and good nature that they smiled too. He wore a very faded blue uniform made dazzlingly bright by scores of very new brass buttons. His white hair and beard had been closely trimmed, and the discarded cap of a street-car conductor crowned his proudly held head. The cap was adorned in rather shaky letters of gilt: "Water Lily. Skipper." Though he limped upon crutches he gave these supports an airy flourish between steps, as if he scarcely needed them but carried them for ornaments. Nobody knew him, except Dorothy; not even Ephraim recognizing in this almost dapper stranger the ragged vagrant he had once seen on a street car. But Dorothy knew and ran to meet him--"last but not least of all our company, good Cap'n Jack, Skipper of the Water Lily." Then she brought him to Aunt Betty and formally presented him, expressing by nods and smiles that she would "explain him" later on. Afterward, each and all were introduced to "our Captain," at whom some stared rather rudely, Aurora even declining to acknowledge the presentation. "Captain Hurry, we're ready to embark. Is that the truly nautical way to speak? Because, you know, we long to be real sailors on this cruise and talk real sailor-talk. We cease to be 'land lubbers' from this instant. Kind Captain, lead ahead!" cried Dorothy, in a very gale of high spirits and running to help Aunt Betty on the way. But there was no hurry about this skipper, except his name. With an air of vast importance and dignity he stalked to the end of the pier and scanned the face of the water, sluggishly moving to and fro. Then he pulled out a spy glass, somewhat damaged in appearance, and tried to adjust it to his eye. This was more difficult because the lens was broken; but the use of it, the old man reckoned, would be imposing on his untrained crew, and he had expended his last dollar--presented him by some old cronies--in the purchase of the thing at a junk shop by the waterside. Indeed, the Captain's motions were so deliberate, and apparently, senseless, that Aunt Betty lost patience and indignantly demanded: "Dorothy, who is this old humbug you've picked up? You quite forgot--or didn't forget--to mention him when you named your guests." "No, Auntie, I didn't forget. I kept him as a delightful surprise. I knew you'd feel so much safer with a real captain in charge." "Humph! Who told you he was a captain, or had ever been afloat?" "Why--he did;" answered the girl, under her breath. "I--I met him on a car. He used to own a boat. He brought oysters to the city. I think it was a--a bugeye, some such name. Auntie, don't you like him? I'm so sorry! because you said, you remember, that I might choose all to go and to have a real captain who'll work for nothing but his 'grub'--that's food, he says----" "That will do. For the present I won't turn him off, but I think his management of the Water Lily will be brief. On a quiet craft--Don't look so disappointed. I shall not hurt your skipper's feelings though I'll put up with no nonsense." At that moment the old man had decided to go aboard and leading the way with a gallant flourish of crutches, guided them into the cabin, or saloon, and made his little speech. "Ladies and gents, mostly ladies, welcome to my new ship--the Water Lily. Bein' old an' seasoned in the knowledge of navigation I'll do my duty to the death. Anybody wishin' to consult me will find me on the bridge." With a wave of his cap the queer old fellow stumped away to the crooked stairway, which he climbed by means of the baluster instead of the steps, his crutches thump-thumping along behind him. By "bridge" he meant the forward point of the upper deck, or roof of the cabin, and there he proceeded to rig up a sort of "house" with pieces of the awning in which there had been inserted panes of glass. But the effect of his address was to put all these strangers at ease, for none could help laughing at his happy pomposity, and after people laugh together once stiffness disappears. Gerald Blank promptly followed Melvin Cook to Jim's little engine-room on the tender, and the colored folks as promptly followed him. Their own bunks were to be on the small boat and Chloe was anxious to see what they were like. Then Mrs. Bruce roused from her silence and asked Aunt Betty about the provisions that had been brought on board and where she might find them. She had been asked to join the party as housekeeper, really for Mabel's sake, from whom she couldn't be separated now, and because Dorothy had argued: "That dear woman loves to cook better than anything else. She always did. Now she hasn't anybody left to cook for, 'cept Mabel, and she'll forget to cry when she has to get a dinner for lots of hungry sailors." The first sight of Mrs. Bruce's sad face, that morning, had been most depressing; and she was relieved to find a change in its aspect as the woman roused to action. There hadn't been much breakfast eaten by anybody and Dorothy had begged her old friend to: "Just give us lots of goodies, this first meal, Mrs. Bruce, no matter if we have to do with less afterwards. You see--three hundred dollars isn't so very much----" "It seems a lot to me, now," sighed the widow. But Dorothy went on quickly: "And it's every bit there is. When the last penny goes we'll have to stop, even if the Lily is right out in the middle of the ocean." "Pshaw, Dolly! I thought you weren't going out of sight of land!" "Course, we're not. That is--we shall never go anywhere if my skipper doesn't start. I'll run up to his bridge and see what's the matter. You see I don't like to offend him at the beginning of things and though Jim Barlow is really to manage the boat, I thought it would please the old gentleman to be put in charge, too." "Foolish girl, don't you know that there can't be two heads to any management?" returned the matron, now really smiling. "It's an odd lot, a job lot, seems to me, of widows and orphans and cripples and rich folks all jumbled together in one little house-boat. More 'n likely you'll find yourself in trouble real often amongst us all. That old chap above is mighty pleasant to look at now, but he's got too square a jaw to be very biddable, especially by a little girl like you." "But, Mrs. Bruce, he's so poor. Why, just for a smell of salt water--or fresh either--he's willing to sail this Lily; just for the sake of being afloat and--his board, course. He'll have to eat, but he told me that a piece of sailor's biscuit and a cup of warmed over tea would be all he'd ever 'ax' me. I told him right off then I couldn't pay him wages and he said he wouldn't touch them if I could. Think of that for generosity!" "Yes, I'm thinking of it. Your plans are all right--I hope they'll turn out well. A captain for nothing, an engineer the same, a housekeeper who's glad to cook for the sake of her daughter's pleasure, and the rest of the crew belonging--so no more wages to earn than always. Sounds--fine. By the way, Dorothy, who deals out the provisions on this trip?" "Why, you do, of course, Mrs. Bruce, if you'll be so kind. Aunt Betty can't be bothered and I don't know enough. Here's a key to the 'lockers,' I guess they call the pantries; and now I _must_ make that old man give the word to start! Why, Aunt Betty thought we'd get as far as Annapolis by bed-time. She wants to cruise first on the Severn river. And we haven't moved an inch yet!" "Well, I'll go talk with Chloe about dinner. She'll know best what'll suit your aunt." Dorothy was glad to see her old friend's face brighten with a sense of her own importance, as "stewardess" for so big a company of "shipmates," and slipping her arm about the lady's waist went with her to the "galley," or tiny cook-room on the tender. There she left her, with strict injunctions to Chloe not to let her "new mistress" overtire herself. It was Aunt Betty's forethought which had advised this, saying: "Let Chloe understand, in the beginning, that she is the helper--not the chief." Leaving them to examine and delight in the compact arrangements of the galley she sped up the crooked stair to old Captain Jack. To her surprise she found him anything but the sunny old fellow who had strutted aboard, and he greeted her with a sharp demand: "Where's them papers at?" "Papers? What papers?" "Ship's papers, child alive? Where's your gumption at?" Dorothy laughed and seated herself on a camp-stool beside him. "Reckon it must be 'at' the same place as the 'papers.' I certainly don't understand you." "Land a sissy! 'Spect we'd be let to sail out o' port 'ithout showin' our licenses? Not likely; and the fust thing a ship's owner ought to 'tend to is gettin' a clean send off. For my part, I don't want to hug this dock no longer. I want to take her out with the tide, I do." Dorothy was distressed. How much or how little this old captain of an oyster boat knew about this matter, he was evidently in earnest and angry with somebody--herself, apparently. "If we had any papers, and we haven't--who'd we show them to, anyway?" Captain Hurry looked at her as if her ignorance were beyond belief. Then his good nature made him explain: "What's a wharf-master for, d'ye s'pose? When you hand 'em over I'll see him an' up anchor." But, at that moment, Mr. Carruthers himself appeared on the roof of the cabin, demanding: "What's up, Cap'n Jack? Why don't you start--if it's you who's to manage this craft, as you claim? If you don't cut loose pretty quick, my Elsa will get homesick and desert." The skipper rose to his feet, or his crutches, and retorted: "Can't clear port without my dockyments, an' you know it! Where they at?" "Safe in the locker meant for them, course. Young Barlow has all that are necessary and a safe keeper of them, too. Better give up this nonsense and let him go ahead. Easier for you, too, Cap'n, and everything's all right. Good-bye, Miss Dorothy. I'll slip off again without seeing Elsa, and you understand? If she gets too homesick for me, or is ill, or--anything happens, telegraph me from wherever you are and I'll come fetch her. Good-bye." He was off the boat in an instant and very soon the Water Lily had begun her trip. The engineer, Mr. Stinson, was a busy man and made short work of Captain Hurry's fussiness. He managed the start admirably, Jim and the other lads watching him closely, and each feeling perfectly capable of doing as much--or as little--as he. For it seemed so very simple; the turning of a crank here, another there, and the thing was done. However, they didn't reach Annapolis that night, as Mrs. Calvert had hoped. Only a short distance down the coast they saw signs of a storm and the lady grew anxious at once. "O Dolly! It's going to blow, and this is no kind of a boat to face a gale. Tell somebody, anybody, who is real captain of this Lily, to get to shore and anchor her fast. She must be tied to something strong. I never sailed on such a craft before nor taken the risk of caring for so many lives. Make haste." This was a new spirit for fearless Aunt Betty to show and, although she herself saw no suggestions of a gale in the clouding sky, Dorothy's one desire was to make that dear lady happy. So, to the surprise of the engineers, she gave her message, that was practically a command, and a convenient beach being near it was promptly obeyed. "O, Mr. Captain, stop the ship--I want to get out and walk!" chanted Gerald Blank, in irony; "Is anybody seasick? Has the wild raging of the Patapsco scared the lady passengers? I brought a lemon in my pocket----" But Dorothy frowned at him and he stopped. "It is Mrs. Calvert's wish," said the girl, with emphasis. "But Pop would laugh at minding a few black clouds. He built the Water Lily to stand all sorts of weather. Why, he had her out in one of the worst hurricanes ever blew on the Chesapeake and she rode it out as quiet as a lamb. Fact. I wasn't with him, course, but I heard him tell. I say, Miss Dolly, Stinson's got to leave us, to-night, anyway, or early to-morrow morning. I wish you'd put me in command. I do so, don't you know. I understand everything about a boat. Pop has belonged to the best clubs all his life and I'm an 'Ariel' myself--on probation; that is, I've been proposed, only not voted on yet, and I could sail this Lily to beat the band. Aw, come! Won't you?" he finished coaxingly. John Stinson was laughing, yet at the same time, deftly swinging both boats toward the shore; while Jim Barlow's face was dark with anger, Cap'n Jack was nervously thumping his crutches up and down, and even gentle Melvin had retreated as far from the spot as the little tender allowed. His shoulders were hunched in the fashion which showed him, also, to be provoked and, for an instant Dorothy was distressed. Then the absurdity of the whole matter made her laugh. "Seems if everybody wants to be captain, on this bit of a ship that isn't big enough for one real one! Captain Hurry, Captain Barlow, Captain Blank, Captain Cook----" "What do Barlow and Cook know about the water? One said he was a 'farmer,' and the other a 'lawyer's clerk'----" "But a lawyer's clerk that's sailed the ocean, mind you, Gerald. Melvin's a sailor-lad in reality, and the son of a sailor. You needn't gibe at Melvin. As for Jim, he's the smartest boy in the world. He understands everything about engines and machinery, and--Why, he can take a sewing-machine to pieces, all to pieces, and put it together as good as new. He did that for mother Martha and Mrs. Smith back home on the mountain, and at San Leon, last summer, he helped Mr. Ford decide on the way the new mine should be worked, just by the books he'd studied. Think of that! And Mr. Ford's a railroad man himself and is as clever as he can be. He knows mighty well what's what and he trusts our Jim----" "Dorothy, shut up!" This from Jim, that paragon she had so praised! The effect was a sudden silence and a flush of anger on her own face. If the lad had struck her she couldn't have been more surprised, nor when Melvin faced about and remarked: "Better stow this row. If Captain Murray, that I sailed under on the 'Prince,' heard it he'd say there'd be serious trouble before we saw land again. If we weren't too far out he'd put back to port and set every wrangler ashore and ship new hands. It's awful bad luck to fight at sea, don't you know?" Sailors are said to be superstitious and Melvin had caught some of their notions and recalled them now. He had made a longer speech than common and colored a little as he now checked himself. Fortunately he just then caught Mrs. Bruce's eye and understood from her gestures that dinner was ready to serve. Then from the little locker he had appropriated to his personal use, he produced his bugle and hastily blew "assembly." The unexpected sound restored peace on the instant. Dorothy clapped her hands and ran to inform Aunt Betty: "First call for dinner; and seats not chosen yet!" All unknown to her two tables had been pulled out from somewhere in the boat's walls and one end of the long saloon had been made a dining-room. The tables were as neatly spread as if in a stationary house and chairs had been placed beside them on one side, while the cushioned benches which ran along the wall would seat part of the diners. With his musical signals, Melvin walked the length of the Water Lily and climbed the stairs to cross the "promenade deck," as the awning-covered roof was always called. As he descended, Aunt Betty called him to the little room off one end the cabin, which was her own private apartment, and questioned him about his bugle. "Yes, Madam, it's the one you gave me at Deerhurst, at the end of Dorothy's house-party. My old one I gave Miss Molly, don't you know? Because she happened to fancy--on account of her hearing it in the Nova Scotia woods, that time she was lost. It wasn't worth anything, but she liked it. Yours, Madam, is fine. I often go off for a walk and have a try at it, just to keep my hand in and to remind me of old Yarmouth. Miss Molly begged me to fetch it. She said Miss Dolly would be pleased and I fancy she is." Then again conquering his shyness, he offered his arm to the lady and conducted her to dinner. There was no difficulty in seeing what place was meant for her, because of the fine chair that was set before it and the big bunch of late roses at her plate. These were from the Bellvieu garden, and were another of Dolly's "surprises." As Melvin led her to her chair and bowed in leaving her, old Ephraim placed himself behind it and stood ready to serve her as he had always done, wherever she might happen to be. Then followed a strange thing. Though Mrs. Bruce and Chloe had prepared a fine meal, and the faces of all in the place showed eagerness to enjoy it, not one person moved; but each stood as rigid as possible and as if he or she would so remain for the rest of the day. Only Dorothy. She had paused between the two tables and was half-crying, half-laughing over the absurd dilemma which had presented itself. "Why, good people, what's the matter?" asked Mrs. Calvert, glancing from one to another. But nobody answered; and at this mark of disrespect she colored and stiffened herself majestically in her chair. CHAPTER IV MATTERS ARE SETTLED "Aunt Betty, it's Captain Hurry, again!" explained Dorothy, close to her aunt's ear. "He claims that the captain of any boat always has head table. He's acted so queer even the boys hate to sit near him, and the dinner's spoiling and--and I wish I'd never seen him!" "Very likely. Having seen him it would have been better for you to ask advice before you invited him. He was the picture of happiness when he appeared but--we must get rid of him right away. He must be put ashore at once." "But, Aunt Betty, I invited him. _Invited_ him, don't you see? How can a Calvert tell a guest to go home again after that?" Mrs. Calvert laughed. This was quoting her own precepts against herself, indeed. But she was really disturbed at the way their trip was beginning and felt it was time "to take the helm" herself. So she stood up and quietly announced: "This is my table. I invite Mrs. Bruce to take the end chair, opposite me. Aurora and Mabel, the wall seats on one side; Dorothy and Elsa, the other side, with Elsa next to me, so that she may be well looked after. "Captain Hurry, the other table is yours. Arrange it as you choose." She reseated herself amid a profound silence; but one glance into her face convinced the old Captain that here was an authority higher than his own. The truth was that he had been unduly elated by Dorothy's invitation and her sincere admiration for the cleverness he boasted. He fancied that nobody aboard the Water Lily knew anything about "Navigation" except himself and flattered himself that he was very wise in the art. He believed that he ought to assert himself on all occasions and had tried to do so. Now, he suddenly resumed his ordinary, sunshiny manner, and with a grand gesture of welcome motioned the three lads to take seats at the second table. Engineer Stinson was on the tender and would remain there till the others had finished; and the colored folks would take their meals in the galley after the white folks had been served. "Well, that ghost is laid!" cried Dorothy, when dinner was over and she had helped Aunt Betty to lie down in her own little cabin. "But Cap'n Jack is so different, afloat and ashore!" "Dolly, dear, I allowed you to invite whom you wished, but I'm rather surprised by your selections. Why, for instance, the two Blanks?" "Because I was sorry for them." "They're not objects of pity. They're quite the reverse and the girl's manners are rude and disagreeable. Her treatment of Elsa is heartless. Why didn't you choose your own familiar friends?" "Elsa! Yes, indeed, Auntie, dear, without her dreaming of it, Elsa changed all my first plans for this house-boat party. I fell in love with her gentle, sad little face the first instant I saw it and I just wanted to see it brighten. She looked as if she'd never had a good time in her life and I wanted that she should have. Then she said it would be 'A cruise of loving kindness' and I thought that was beautiful. I just longed to give every poor, unhappy body in the world some pleasure. The Blanks aren't really poor, I suppose, for their clothes are nice and Aurora has brought so many I don't see where she'll keep them. But she seemed poor in one way--like this: If you'd built the Water Lily for me and had had to give it up for debt I shouldn't have felt nice to some other girl who was going to get it. I thought the least I could do was ask them to come with us and that would be almost the same thing as if they still owned the house-boat themselves. They were glad enough to come, too; and I know--I mean, I hope--they'll be real nice after we get used to each other. You know we asked Jim because we were sort of sorry for him, too, and because he wouldn't charge any wages for taking care the engine! Mrs. Bruce and Mabel--well, sorry for them was their reason just the same. You don't mind, really, do you, Auntie, darling? 'Cause----" Dorothy paused and looked anxiously into the beloved face upon the pillow. Aunt Betty laughed and drew the girl's own face down to kiss it fondly. Dorothy made just as many mistakes as any other impulsive girl would make, but her impulses were always on the side of generosity and so were readily forgiven. "How about me, dear? Were you sorry for me, along with the rest?" Dorothy flushed, then answered frankly: "Yes, Aunt Betty, I was. You worried so about that horrid 'business,' of the Old Folks' Home and Bellvieu, that I just wanted to take you away from everything you'd ever known and let you have everything new around you. They are all new, aren't they? The Blanks and Elsa, and the Bruces; yes and Captain Jack, too. Melvin's always a dear and he seems sort of new now, he's grown so nice and friendly. I'd rather have had dear Molly, course, but, since I couldn't, Melvin will do. He'll be company for Jim--he and Gerald act like two pussy cats jealous of one another. But isn't it going to be just lovely, living on the Water Lily? I mean, course, after everybody gets used to each other and we get smoothed off on our corners. I guess it's like the engine in the Pad. Mr. Stinson says it'll run a great deal better after it's 'settled' and each part gets fitted to its place. "There! I've talked you nearly to sleep, so I'll go on deck with the girls. It isn't raining yet, and doesn't look as if it were going to. Sleep well, dear Aunt Betty, and don't you dare to worry a single worry while you're aboard the Lily. Think of it, Auntie! You are my guest now, my really, truly guest of honor! Doesn't that seem queer? But you're mistress, too, just the same." Well, it did seem as if even this brief stay on the house-boat were doing Mrs. Calvert good, for Dorothy had scarcely slipped away before the lady was asleep. No sound came to her ears but the gentle lapping of the water against the boat's keel and a low murmur of voices from the narrow deck which ran all around the sides. When she awoke the craft was in motion and the sun shining far in the west. She was rather surprised at this, having expected the Lily to remain anchored in that safe spot which had been chosen close to shore. However, everything was so calm and beautiful when she stepped out, the smooth gliding along the wooded banks was so beautiful, that she readily forgave anybody who had disobeyed her orders. Indeed, she smilingly assured herself that she was now: "Nothing and nobody but a guest and must remember the fact and not interfere. Indeed, it will be delightful just to rest and idle for a time." Dorothy came to meet her, somewhat afraid to explain: "I couldn't help it this time, Aunt Betty. Mr. Stinson says he must leave at midnight and he wants to 'make' a little town a few miles further down the shore, where he can catch a train back to city. That will give him time to go on with his work in the morning. Old Cap'n Jack, too, says we'd better get along. The storm passed over, to-day, but he says we're bound to get it soon or late." Mrs. Calvert's nap had certainly done her good, for she was able now to laugh at her own nervousness and gaily returned: "It would be strange, indeed, if we didn't get a storm sometime or other. But how is the man conducting himself now?" "Why, Aunt Betty, he's just lovely. Lovely!" "Doesn't seem as if that adjective fitted very well, but--Ah! yes. Thank you, my child, I will enjoy sitting in that cosy corner and watching the water. How low down upon it the Water Lily rides." Most of this was said to Elsa, who had timidly drawn near and silently motioned to a sheltered spot on the deck and an empty chair that waited there. She had never seen such a wonderful old lady as this; a person who made old age seem even lovelier than youth. Aunt Betty's simple gown of lavender suited her fairness well, and she had pinned one of Dorothy's roses upon her waist. Her still abundant hair of snowy whiteness and the dark eyes, that were yet bright as a girl's, had a beauty which appealed to the sensitive Elsa's spirit. A fine color rose in the frail girl's face as her little attention was so graciously accepted, and from that moment she became Aunt Betty's devoted slave. Her shyness lessened so that she dared to flash a look of scorn upon Aurora, who shrugged her shoulder with annoyance at the lady's appearance on deck and audibly whispered to Mabel Bruce that: "She didn't see why an old woman like that had to join a house-boat party. When _we_ had the Water Lily we planned to have nobody but the jolliest ones we knew. We wouldn't have had _my_ grandmother along, no matter what." Mabel looked at the girl with shocked eyes. She had been fascinated by Aurora's dashing appearance and the stated fact that she had only worn her "commonest things," which to Mabel's finery-loving soul seemed really grand. But to hear that aristocratic dame yonder spoken of as an "old woman," like any ordinary person, was startling. "Why Aurora--you said I might call you that----" "Yes, you may. While we happen to be boatmates and out of the city, you know. At home, I don't know as Mommer would--would--You see she's very particular about the girls I know. I shall be in 'Society' sometime, when Popper makes money again. But, what were you going to say?" "I was going to say that maybe you don't know who that lady is. She is Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil-Somerset-Calvert!" "Well, what of it? Anybody can tie a lot of names on a string and wear 'em that way. Even Mommer calls herself Mrs. Edward Newcomer-Blank of R." "Why 'of R?' What does it mean?" asked Mabel, again impressed. "Doesn't mean anything, really, as far as I know. But don't you know a lot of Baltimoreans, or Marylanders, write their names that way? Haven't you seen it in the papers?" "No. I never read a paper." "You ought. To improve your mind and keep you posted on--on current events. I'm in the current event class at school--I go to the Western High. I was going to the Girls' Latin, this year, only--only--Hmm. So I have to keep up with the times." Aurora settled her silken skirts with a little swagger and again Mabel felt it a privilege to know so exalted a young person, even if their acquaintance was limited to a few weeks of boat life. Then she listened quite humbly while Aurora related some of her social experiences and discussed with a grown-up air her various flirtations. But after a time she tired of all this, and looked longingly across to the tender, on whose rail Dorothy was now perched, with the three lads clustered about her, and all intently listening to the "yarns" with which Cap'n Jack was entertaining them. All that worthy's animation had returned to him. He had eaten the best of dinners in place of the "ship's biscuit" he had suggested to his small hostess: he was relieved of care--which he had pretended to covet; and the group of youngsters before him listened to his marvellous tales of the sea with perfect faith in his truthfulness. Some of the tales had a slight foundation in fact; but even these were so embellished by fiction as to be almost incredible. In any case, the shouts of laughter or the cries of horror that rose from his audience so attracted Mabel that, at last, she broke away from Aurora's tamer recitals, saying: "I'm getting stiff, sitting in one place so long. I'll go over to Dolly. She and me have been friends ever since time was. Good-bye. Or, will you come, too?" In her heart, Aurora wished to do so. But hoping to impress her new acquaintance by her magnificence, she had put on a fanciful white silk frock, wholly unfitted for her present trip and, indeed, slyly packed in her trunk without her mother's knowledge. The deck of the Pad wasn't as spotless as this of the Lily. Even at that moment small Methuselah was swashing it with a great mop, which dripped more water than it wiped up. His big eyes were fairly bulging from his round black face and, having drawn as near the story-teller as he could, he mopped one spot until Dolly called out: "That'll do, Metty, boy! Tackle another board. Mustn't wear out the deck with your neatness!" Whereupon old Captain Hurry swung his crutch around and caught the youngster with such suddenness that he pitched head-first into his own big bucket. Freeing himself with a howl, he raised his mop as high as his strength would allow and brought it down upon the captain's glittering cap. It was the seaman's turn to howl and an ill-matched fight would have followed if Jim hadn't caught the pickaninny away and Dorothy seized the cripple's headgear before it suffered any great harm. Gently brushing it with her handkerchief she restored it to its owner's head, with the remark: "Don't mind Metty, Cap'n Jack. He means well, every time, only he has a little too hasty a temper. He never heard such wonderful stories before--nor I, either, for that matter. Did you, boys?" She had believed them wholly, but Jim had begun to doubt; and Melvin was bold enough to say: "I've sailed a good many times between New York and Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, but I never saw--I mean, I haven't happened, don't you know? I wouldn't fancy being out alone in a cat-boat and having a devil-fish rise up alongside that way. I----" "Young man, do you doubt my word, sir?" demanded the Captain, rising with all the dignity his lameness and the dropping of his crutch would allow. "Oh! no, sir. I doubt nothing--nothing, sir. The Judge says the world is full of marvels and I fancy, your encounter with that giant squid is one of them. You should have that story published, Captain. You should, don't you know?" Melvin's blue eyes twinkled but the otherwise gravity of his face harmlessly deceived the old seaman and brought back his good temper. "Reckon I'll go aloft and make out my log," he remarked, with an air of importance, and stumped forward to his "bridge" above stairs. These he ascended, as before, by a hand-over-hand climb of the baluster, his crutches dragging behind; and it was this nimbleness of arm which convinced the watchers, far more than his impossible yarns had done, that he had indeed once been a sailor and could ascend the rigging of a ship. Then soon came supper and again such hearty appetites were brought to it that Mrs. Bruce wondered how so much good food could disappear at one meal. Also, she remembered that the sum of three hundred dollars had a limit, large as it seemed; and while she sat silent in her place she was inwardly computing whether it would possibly furnish board for all these people for six long weeks. Then she proceeded to "count noses," and suddenly perceived that after Mr. Stinson's departure there would be left the "unlucky number" of thirteen souls aboard the Water Lily. This time the engineer was at table and Jim had taken his place on the tender; but after this, he had assured everybody that the engine did not need such constant attention and could be left to itself during meal-time at least. However, nobody tarried long at table that night. There was to follow the first arrangement of the "staterooms," as the canvas-partitioned spaces for each one of the party were called. "Cute little cubby-holes," Mabel named them, and promptly selected her own between her mother's and Aurora's. Dorothy was next to Aurora and Elsa between her and Mrs. Calvert's bigger room. Politely giving Elsa her choice, Dorothy couldn't help a keen disappointment that it separated herself from Aunt Betty. Then she reflected that she had offered this choice as far back as on the day of their first meeting; and that she would herself serve as shield between Aurora's haughtiness and Elsa's timidity. Those two guests didn't hit it off at all well. Elsa shivered and shrank before Aurora's boisterous high spirits and the look of contempt the elder girl bestowed upon her plain attire. Poor little Elsa had done her best to honor the occasion. She had forced herself to go with her loving father to a department store and had suffered real distress in being fitted at the hands of a kindly, but too outspoken, saleswoman. The suit selected had been of an ugly blue which brought out all the sallowness of the poor child's complexion. It had been padded on one shoulder, "'cause she's crooked in them shoulders," and had been shortened on one side, "to suit the way she limps." A hat of the same vicious blue had been purchased, and this trimmed with red roses, "to sort of set her up like." Thus attired, Mr. Carruthers had looked with pride upon his motherless darling, and felt himself amply justified in the expense he had incurred. The girl's own better taste had rebelled and she would rather have worn the old gray frock that was at least modest and unobtrusive; but she saw the pride and tenderness in her father's eyes and said nothing save fervent thanks. However, all the varied emotions of the travellers were soon forgotten in the healthy slumber which came to them. The Water Lily glided quietly along, forced onward by the tender where the trio of lads sat long, exchanging experiences and, under cover of the friendly darkness, growing natural and familiar. But after a time even they grew drowsy and "turned in," finding their new "bunks" as snug as comfortable. The chug-chug of the small engine chimed in with the snores of the colored folks, in their own quarters beyond the galley and formed a soothing lullaby. So deeply they slept that none knew how a storm was gathering thick and fast, except the alert engineer, who made all speed possible to reach the shelter of the little cove and wharf where he hoped to tie up; and from whence he could cross the swampy fields to the station and the midnight train for home. It proved a race of steam and storm, with the latter victor; for at almost boat's length from the pier there came a blinding flash of lightning and a peal of thunder most terrific. At the same moment a whirlwind shook the Water Lily like a feather, it seemed, and the shrieks of the awaking negroes startled every soul awake. "'Tis de yend o' de worl'! 'Tis de Jedgmen' Day! Rise up, sinnahs, rise to yo' jedgmen'!" CHAPTER V THE STORM AND WHAT FOLLOWED In an instant a crowd of terrified people had gathered in the cabin, clasping one another's hands, sobbing and shivering as gust after gust shook the Water Lily so that it seemed its timbers must part. "We mought ha' knowed! Thirteen po' creatures shet up in dis yeah boat! Oh! My----" The greatest outcry was from poor Chloe, now kneeling, or crouching, at the feet of her Miss Betty, and clutching the lady's gown so that she could not move. But if her feet were hindered her tongue was not. In her most peremptory manner she bade: "Chloe, get up and be still! This is no time for nonsense. Close those windows. Stop the rain pouring in. Call back your common sense. Do----" "O, Ole Miss! I'se done dyin'! I'se gwine----" "No, you're not. You couldn't screech like that if you were anywhere's near death. Shut--those--windows--or--let--me!" Habit was stronger than fear. The idea of her mistress doing Chloe's own task roused the frightened creature to obey, scarce knowing that she did so. Seeing her at work restored the calmness of the others, in a measure, and Dorothy and Mabel rushed each to the sliding panels of glass, which had been left open for the night and pushed them into place. This lessened the roar of the tempest and courage returned as they found themselves still unhurt, though the constant flashes of light revealed a group of very white faces, and bodies still shaking with terror of nature's rage. Mrs. Bruce had always been a coward during thunderstorms, but even she rallied enough to run for a wrap and fold it about Mrs. Calvert, who was also shaking; but from cold rather than fear. Then between claps, they could hear the scurrying of feet on the roof overhead, the stumping of Captain Jack's crutches, and the issuing of sharp orders in tones that were positively cheerful! "Hark! What are they doing? Can anybody see the tender?" asked Dorothy, excitedly. Strangely enough, it was frail, timid Elsa who answered: "I've been listening. They're taking off the canvas. The boys are up there. The other boat is away out--yonder. See? Oh! it's grand! grand! Doesn't it make us all seem puny! If it would only last till everyone was humble and--adoring!" Even while she answered, the slender girl turned again to the window and gazed through it as if she could not have enough of the scene so frightful to her mates. These watched her, astonished, yet certainly calmed by her own fearless behavior; so that, presently, all were hastily dressing. Mabel had set the example in this, saying quaintly: "If I've got to be drowned I might as well look decent when I'm picked up." "Mabel and her clothes! The 'ruling passion strong in death'!" cried Dorothy, in a tone meant to be natural but was still rather shaky. Somebody laughed and that lessened the excitement, so that even Chloe remembered she had appeared without her white turban and hastily put her hands smoothing her wool, as if afraid now only of her mistress's reprimand. But that lady had joined Elsa at the glass; and standing with her arm about the girl, drew the slight figure within the folds of her own roomy wrapper, with a comforting warmth and pressure. For it had turned icy cold and the unusual heat of the evening before seemed like a dream. "Dear little girl, I am glad you came. Brave soul and frail body, you're stronger than even my healthy Dorothy. And it is magnificent--magnificent. Only, I dread what the morning will reveal. If we are damaged much it will mean the end of our trip--at its very beginning." "Dear lady; it won't mean that. Even if it had to do it would be all right--for me, at least. I should have some beautiful things to remember always." Then the cheerfulest of whistling was heard; Cap'n Jack's warning that he was coming down the stairs and that any feminines in night attire might take warning and flee. But nobody fled, and Dorothy tried to turn on the electric light which had been one of the fine features of this palatial house-boat. No radiance followed, and, watching from the doorway, Cap'n Jack triumphantly exclaimed: "Didn't I know it? What's them new-fangled notions wuth in a case o' need? Taller's the stuff, or good, reli'ble whale-ile. Well, ship's comp'ny, how'd ye like it? Warn't that the purtiest leetle blow 't ever you see? Didn't I warn ye 'twas comin'? Yet ye went an' allowed I warn't no real captain and couldn't run a boat like this easy as George Washin'ton! Now you're wiser. That there leetle gale has larnt ye all somethin'. And 'nough said. Give old Jack a couple o' sail or so an' a man to climb the riggin' an' he'll beat all the steam engines ever was hatched. Oh! I'm just feelin' prime. That bit o' wind has blowed all the land-fog out o' my head an' left it clear as glass. "'A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling de-e-ep.'" The old man's rich voice trailed off toward the tender--or where the tender should have been--while a clear and boyish one took up the ditty from the roof above, with: "'Where the scattered waters rave And the wi-i-inds their vigils ke-e-ep!'" "Melvin! Jim! Gerald! Are you all up there? Come down, come down!" "Yes, Captain Dolly! Coming! Here!" shouted Melvin, rattling down the crooked stair, while Jim's voice responded: "Present!" and Gerald finished with a merry: "Accounted for!" Then Aurora ran to meet her brother and to kiss him with an unexpected affection. To his credit it was that he gently returned her caress, but laughed at her statement that she had feared he was drowned. "Not a bit of it! But this doesn't look much like mourning, if you did!" he jested, pointing at the white silk frock she had again put on. "Well, it was the first one I got hold of. That's why. But, tell--tell--how came you up there?" "Yes, everything, tell everything!" begged Dorothy, fairly dancing about them in her eagerness. "Melvin--Melvin did it!" said Jim. "We might all be at the bottom of the sea----" "Hush!" almost screamed Aurora, beginning to tremble. "It was so horrible--I----" With more of sympathy than had been between them before, Dolly slipped her arm around Aurora's shoulders and playfully ordered: "If you boys don't tell how you came on our promenade deck, when you belonged on the tender, you sha'n't have any breakfast!" "Melvin. I tell you it was Melvin. He's the only one of us didn't sleep like a log. He felt the hurricane coming, right through his dreams, and waked the lot of us, as soon as the first clap came. So he rushed us over the plank to take off the awnings----" "With such a wind sucking under them might have made the boat turn turtle, Mrs. Calvert, don't you know? At sea--that's why I presumed to give orders without----" "Oh, my dear lad, I now 'order' you to 'give orders' whenever you think best. We can trust you, and do thank you. But how dark it seems now the lightning has stopped. Isn't there any sort of light we can get?" said Aunt Betty, sitting down with Elsa and folding a steamer rug around them both. Cap'n Jack came stumping back from the rear of the boat in a high state of excitement and actual glee. "Clean gone! Plank a-swingin' loose--caught it a-board just in time--t'other boat flip-floppin' around like she was all-possessed. Reckon she is. The idee! A reg'lar steam engine on a craft not much bigger 'n itself! What this house-boat needs isn't steam engines but a set of stout sails an' a few fust-class poles. Come, lads, let's anchor her--if the fool that built her didn't put them on the tender, too, alongside his other silly contraptions." Mrs. Calvert wondered if the old fellow knew what he was talking about, but found the resolute tones of his voice a comfort. Whoever else was frightened he was not and she liked him better at that moment than she would have thought possible. All his whining discontent was gone and he was honestly happy. What the others felt to be a terrible misfortune was his opportunity to prove himself the fine "skipper" he had boasted of being. But now that the roar of the storm had subsided, there came across the little space of water between the Lily and its Pad the outcries of Ephraim and Methuselah, mingled with halloes of the engineer, John Stinson. "They want to come alongside! They're signallin'!" cried Cap'n Jack, promptly putting his hands before his mouth, trumpet-fashion, and returning such a lusty answer that those near him clapped hands over ears. Then came Melvin, more sea-wise than the other lads, saying: "I've been fumbling around and there are some poles lashed outside the rail. Let's unsheath 'em, but it'll take us all to keep them from tumbling over." "That's so! You're right! When Pop had this boat built he was told to provide for all sorts of things. The engine going broke was the last notion he had, but he had the poles made to please Mommer. I know--I mean--I guess I do--how they use 'em, but they're mighty heavy." It was Captain Hurry who again came to the front. In a twinkling he had inspected the stout poles and explained, that by putting one end of each down through the water till it reached the bottom, the house-boat could not only be held steady but could be propelled. "It's slow but it's safe an' easy, Ma'am," he informed Mrs. Calvert. "Then it's the very thing, the only thing, we want," she answered, promptly. "I never did believe in that engine in the hands of an amateur." Jim didn't fancy this reflection on his skill, believing that he already knew as much about machinery as an expert did and that he had mastered all that John Stinson could teach him. However, he was beyond reach of the beloved little engine now and the first thing to do was to bring the two boats together again. Under Cap'n Jack's direction this was promptly done; and great was old Ephraim's rejoicing when, at last, the familiar gang-plank was once more in place and he had crossed over it to his beloved mistress's presence. "T'ank de Lord, Miss Betty, you didn't get sca'ed to death! I sutney beliebed we was all gwine to de bottom of de ribbah! An' I was plumb scan'lized ter t'ink o' yo' po' li'l white body all kivvered wid mud, stidder lyin' in a nice, clean tomb lak yo' oughter. I----" "That'll do, Ephraim. I'll take all the rest you were going to say for granted. Here, Metty, sit down in that corner and keep still. You're safe now and--are you hungry?" The morning light was rapidly increasing and seen by it the little black face looked piteous indeed. But there were few troubles of Methuselah's which "eatings" couldn't cure; so his mistress promptly dispatched Dorothy to her stateroom for a big box of candy, brought along "in case of need." Never would need be more urgent than now, and not only did the little page's countenance brighten, when the box appeared, but everybody else dipped into it as eagerly--it seemed such a relief to do such an ordinary thing once more. The sun rose and shone as if to make them forget the night of storm; and after a breakfast, hastily prepared on the little oil stove in the tender, a feeling of great content spread through the little company. Engineer Stinson had missed his train, but was now glad of it; for he had gained time to examine the engine, though disappointed at the report he had to make. "Useless, for the present, Madam, I regret to say. Owing to the sudden jar against the end of the wharf, or the wind's dashing the tender about, some parts are broken. To get it repaired will take some time. Shall I send down a tug to tow you back to the city? And have a man from the shop attend to it? My own job will keep me from doing it myself, though I'd like to." "Thank you," said Aunt Betty, and, for a moment, said nothing more. But she looked from one to another of the eager young faces about her and read but one desire on all. This was so evident that she smiled as she asked: "Who thinks best to give up this trip? Or, rather, to go back and start over again--if we dare?" Nobody spoke but a sort of groan ran around the little company. "All in favor of going on, with some other sort of 'power,' or of anchoring the Water Lily at some pleasant point near shore and staying there, say 'Aye'." So lusty a chorus of "Ayes" answered that Aunt Betty playfully covered her ears, till the clamor had subsided. Then a council of ways and means was held, in which everyone took part, and out of which the decision came: That Cap'n Jack should rig up the sails which was another one of Mr. Blank's provisions against just such a dilemma, and instruct the three lads how to use them; that when they didn't want to sail they should use the poles; or using neither, should remain quietly at rest in the most delightful spot they could find; that the Lily and its Pad should be fastened together in the strongest way, so that no more separation by wind or storm could be possible. "The tender adds a great weight to your 'power' in such a case," suggested Mr. Stinson. "Without it you could move much faster." "And without it, where could Ephy sleep and Chloe cook? The boys, too, will need their warm bunks if it happens to be cold," said Dolly. "Besides--the kitchen is out there. Oh! we can't possibly spare the tender." "Most house-boats get along without one," explained the engineer. "What about a horse, or a mule? I've seen such a thing somewhere, on some of our little trips with Mr. Bruce," suggested the widow, then touched by her own reference to the dead relapsed into silence. "Many of the little rivers of the Western Shore have banks as level as those of a canal," said Mrs. Calvert. The idea had approved itself to her. "I'm afraid you lads would get very tired of the poling, even if the water was shallow enough. Without wind, sails wouldn't help us; so Mrs. Bruce's notion is the best one yet." "A mule would be nice and safe!" commented Mabel. "First catch your mule," cried Gerald. "And who'd ride it?" asked Jim. "You would," promptly answered Melvin, laughing. "Not all the time, sir!" retorted Jim, yet with an expression which showed he was really considering the subject. "Turn and turn about's fair play." "All right. I'll stand my turn and call it my 'watch.' I could fancy I was still on shipboard, don't you know?" "I'd do my third--if we didn't keep it up all the time. A fellow wants a little chance to fish and have some fun," added Gerald. Now that they had all been in danger together he was acting like the really fine lad he was and had dropped the silly affectations of his first manner. Aurora, too, seemed more sensible, and, breakfast over, had shut herself in her tiny stateroom to put on the plainest frock she had. An approving smile from Mrs. Calvert greeted her reappearance and the girl began to think it wasn't so bad after all have an old lady aboard. "Really, Mabel, there doesn't seem anything old about her except a few of her looks. I mean her white hair and some wrinkles. I guess it was all right she came, anyway." "It surely was all right. Why, what would any of us have done if she hadn't been here? Mamma was scared worse than I was, even. You know she saw a person killed by lightning once and has never got over it. You'll find, if you watch out, that Mrs. Calvert will help us have a good time, rather than spoil it; if--if--we don't go back. I guess Mamma wishes we'd have to do that." Aurora did not answer, for just then the others were eagerly discussing the situation. They were to "up anchor," run up the sails to catch the stiff breeze that was rising with the sun, and proceed down the coast as far as they could while the engineer remained, as he had agreed to do for a few hours longer, because of Mrs. Calvert's earnest request. "Get us safe into some snug harbor, please Mr. Stinson, and I will see that you lose nothing by the delay." "That is all right, Madam. I only wish I could join your cruise for all its length. I'm sure you're bound to have a grand trip, despite the bad beginning--which should bring the proverbial good ending." "I wish you could. Oh! I do wish you could," said Aunt Betty. She was somewhat surprised to find the engineer a man of culture, but was delighted by the fact. She felt that the presence of such a man would keep her three boys straight, for she was a little afraid of "pranks" should they indulge in any. She had hoped, too, to make the most of their trip up and down the Severn, with which lovely river her earliest memories lingered. However, they were not to reach it yet. The friendly wind forsook them and both Cap'n Jack and Mr. Stinson felt that it would be wise to enter a little bay further north; and making their slow way between some islands come to anchor on the shores of the Magothy. "The Maggotty! That's where the best cantaloupes come from!" cried Mabel. "Who'll buy my fine wattymillyouns, growed on de Maggotty, down in An'erunnel! Wattymillyouns! Cant-e-lopes! Oh! I want one this minute!" "What a dreadful name for a river! Who'd eat melons full of maggots!" demanded Aurora, with a little shiver. Evidently, though she must often have heard them, she had paid scant attention to the cries of the negro hucksters through her own city's streets. "It isn't 'Maggotty' but 'Magothy'," explained Dorothy. "I used to think just as you do until I learned better. I'm bad as Mabel. I just can't wait. I must have a 'cantaloupe' for supper, I must! Scooped out and filled with ice--sweet and juicy----" "Hold on! Hold on! Wait till I fetch it!" returned Gerald, with a smack of his own lips. Then leaving the others to follow as they chose he ran to the stern of the tender which the men had brought close to a grassy bank, and leaped ashore. "Wheah's he gwine at?" demanded Ephraim, who had been in the way and unceremoniously pushed aside. "Wattymillyouns!" yelled Jim, following the other boy's lead. "Wattymillyouns? Wat-ty-mill-youns? My hea't o' grace! I'se done gwine get some fo' my Miss Betty!" "For yo'se'f you-all means, yo' po' triflin' ornery ole niggah! Ain't it de trufe?" laughed Chloe, coming to the old man's side, and laying a restraining hand upon his shoulder, while all her white teeth showed in a wide grin. Safely anchored, the engineer gone, the old Captain bustling about on the roof of the boat, making all snug and shipshape for the coming night, every heart was light. None more so than those of the colored folks, always in the habit of leaving care to "their white" friends and like children in their readiness to forget the past. Ephraim didn't leap the plank, his "roomaticals" prevented; but he displayed a marvelous agility in getting ashore and speed in following the vanishing lads. "What's up?" demanded Melvin, running to where Chloe stood, holding her sides and shaking with laughter, "where have they gone?" "Maggotty millyouns! Spyed a millyoun patch ovah yondah an'--Lan' ob Goshen! If he ain' done gwine, too! Well, my sake! Mebbe Chloe doan' lub millyouns same's anuddah, mebbe!" As Melvin disappeared over the side, his own mouth watering for the southern delicacies so rare to his own northern home, mistress Chloe gathered up her petticoats and sprang ashore. Little Methuselah called after her but she did not pause. She meant to get her own share from that distant melon-patch, and her maternal ears were deaf to his outcries. Sharing the common feeling of repose and safety which had fallen upon all the company when the Water Lily had been tied up for the night, Metty had felt it a fine time to don his livery and show off his finery before the white folks. Clad in its loose misfit, but proud as ever, he clung to the stern-rail of the Pad and gazed after his departing parent. What had happened? Why were all those people running away so fast? Was another frightful tempest coming? "Mammy! Mam-my! Lemme! Lemme come! Mammy, Mammy, wait--I'se com----" A point on the water side of the Pad commanded a better view of the fleeing figures, climbing the gentle rise of ground beyond. Thither the little fellow rushed; gave one glance downward into the water and another upon his gorgeous attire; then upward and onward where a fold of scarlet calico fluttered like a signal; shut his great eyes, and leaped. Alas! The fat little legs couldn't compass that space! and Methuselah Bonaparte Washington Brown sank beneath the waves his own impact had created. CHAPTER VI. A MULE AND MELON TRANSACTION. The five melon-hungry deserters from the Water Lily came breathlessly to the "snake" rail-fence which bordered the "patch" and paused with what Gerald called "neatness and dispatch." Suddenly there rose from behind the fence a curious figure to confront them. Two figures, in fact, a man's and a mule's. Both were of a dusty brown color, both were solemn in expression, and so like one another in length of countenance that Melvin giggled and nudged Jim, declaring under his breath: "Look like brothers, don't you know?" Ephraim was the first to recover composure as, removing his hat, he explained: "We-all's trabellers an' jes' natchally stopped to enquiah has yo' wattymillyouns fo' sale." Chloe sniggered at the old man's deft turn of the matter, for she knew perfectly well that the idea of buying the melons hadn't entered his mind until that moment. He was an honest creature in general, but no southern negro considers it a crime to steal a water-melon--until he is caught at it! The air with which Ephy bowed and scraped sent the boys into roars of laughter but didn't in the least lessen the gloom of the farmer's face. At last he opened his lips, closed them, reopened them and answered: "Ye-es. I have. But--I cayn't sell 'em. They ain't never no sale for _my_ truck. Is they, Billy?" The mournfulness of his voice was absurd. As absurd as to call the solemn-visaged mule by the frivolous name of "Billy." Evidently the animal understood human speech, for in response to his owner's appeal the creature opened his own great jaws in a prodigious bray. Whereupon the farmer nodded, gravely, as if to say: "You see. Billy knows." "How much yo' tax 'em at?" asked Chloe, gazing over the fence with longing eyes and mentally selecting the ripest and juiciest of the fruit. "I ain't taxin' 'em. I leave it to you." Then he immediately sat down upon the rock beside the fence where he had been "resting" for most of that afternoon, or "evenin'" as he called it. Billy doubled himself up and sprawled on the ground near his master, to the injury of the vines and one especially big melon. "O, suh! _Doan'_ let him squush it!" begged Chloe; while Ephraim turned upon her with a reproving: "You-all min' yo' place! _Ah_ 'm 'tendin' to dis yeah business." "Va'y well. Jes' gimme mah millyoun ter tote home to Miss Betty. Ah mus' ha' left mah pocket-book behin' me!" she jeered. Then, before they knew what she was about, she had sprung over the fence and picked up the melon she had all along selected as her own. Nobody interfered, not even the somber owner of the patch; and with amazing lightness Chloe scrambled back again, the great melon held in the skirt of her red gown, and was off down the slope at the top of her speed. Ephraim put on his "specs" and gravely stared after her; then shook his head, saying: "Dat yeah gell's de flightiest evah! Ain't it de trufe?" But now a new idea had come to Jim, and laying a hand on the collars of the other lads, he brought their heads into whispering nearness of his own: "Say, fellows, _let's buy Billy_! A mule that understands English is the mule to draw the Water Lily!" A pause, while the notion was considered, then Melvin exclaimed: "Good enough! If he doesn't ask too much. Try him!" "Yes, ask him. I'll contribute a fiver, myself," added Gerald. Ephraim had now struggled over the fence and was pottering about among the melons, with the eye of a connoisseur selecting and laying aside a dozen of the choicest. Those which were not already black of stem he passed by as worthless, as he did those which did not yield a peculiar softness to the pressure of his thumb. His face fairly glittered and his "roomaticals" were wholly forgotten; till his attention was suddenly arrested by the word "money," spoken by one of the boys beyond the fence. At that he stood up, put his hands on his hips, and groaned; then keenly listened to what was being said. "Ye-es. I _might_ want to sell Billy, but I cayn't. I cayn't never sell anything." "Well, we're looking for a mule, a likely mule. One strong enough to haul a house-boat. Billy's pretty big; looks as if he could." "Billy can do anything he's asked to. Cayn't you, Billy?" It was funny to see the clever beast rise slowly to his feet, shake the dust from his great frame, turn his sorrowful gaze upon his master's face, and utter his assenting bray. Melvin flung himself on the grass and laughed till his sides ached; then sprang up again wild with eagerness to possess such a comical creature: "Oh! Buy him--buy him--no matter the price! He'd be the life of the whole trip! I'll give something, too, as much as I can spare!" Jim tried to keep his face straight as he inquired: "What is the price of Billy, sir?" The farmer sighed, so long and deeply, that the mule lay down again as if pondering the matter. "Young man, that there Billy-mule is beyond price. There ain't another like him, neither along the Magothy nor on the Eastern Sho'. I cayn't sell Billy." During his life upon the mountains James Barlow had seen something of "horse-traders" and he surmised that he had such an one to deal with now. He expected that the man would name a price, after a time, much higher than he really would accept, and the boy was ready for a "dicker." He meant to show the other lads how clever and astute he could be. So he now returned: "Oh, yes. I think you can if you get your price. Everything has its price, I've read somewhere--even mules!" "Young man, life ain't no merry jest. I've found that out and so'll you. _I cayn't sell Billy._" "Ten dollars?" No reply, but the man sat down again beside his priceless mule and reopened the old book he had been reading when interrupted by these visitors. "Fifteen?" "Twenty?" volunteered Gerald. "Twenty-five?" asked Melvin. Then in an aside to the other boys: "I wonder if Dorothy will help pay for him!" "Sure. This is her racket, isn't it? It was Mrs. Calvert, or somebody, said we could be towed along shore, as if the Lily were a canal-boat. Sure! We'll be doing her a kindness if we buy it for her and save her all the trouble of looking for one;" argued Gerald, who had but a small stock of money and wasn't eager to spend it. Jim cast one look of scorn upon him, then returned to his "dickering." He had so little cash of his own that he couldn't assume payment, but he reasoned that, after he had written an account of their predicament to Mr. Winters, the generous donor of the Lily would see that she was equipped with the necessary "power," even if that power lay in the muscles of a gigantic mule. "Oh! sir, please think it over. Hark, I'll tell you the whole story, then I'm sure you'll want to help a lady--several ladies--out of a scrape," argued Jim, with such a persuasive manner that Melvin was astonished. This didn't seem at all like the rather close-tongued student he had known before. But the truth was that Jim had become infatuated with the idea of owning at least a share in Billy. He was used to mules. He had handled and lived among them during his days upon Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. He was sure that the animal could be made useful in many ways and--in short, he wanted, he must have Billy! In a very few moments he had told the whole tale of the house-boat and its misfortunes, laying great stress upon the "quality" of its owners, and thus shrewdly appealing to the chivalry of this southern gentleman who was playing at farming. For a time his only apparent listener was old Ephraim, who had picked up a hoe somewhere and now leaned upon it, resting from his selection of the melons. But, though he didn't interfere with the glib narrative, he confirmed it by nods of his gray head, and an occasional "Dat's so, Cunnel." Evidently, the farmer was impressed. He stopped pretending to read and folding his arms, leaned back against the rails, his eyes closed, an expression of patient, sad endurance upon his long face. His manner said as plainly as words: "If this young gabbler _will_ talk I suppose I must listen." But gradually this manner changed. His eyes opened. The book slid to the ground. In spite of his own unwillingness he was interested. A house-boat! He'd never heard of such a thing; but, if the tale were true, it would be something new to see. Besides, ladies in distress? That was an appeal no gentleman could deny, even though that gentleman were as poor as himself. He might well have added "as shiftless;" for another man in his position would have been stirring himself to get that fine crop of melons into market. Jim finished his recital with the eager inquiry: "Now, sir, don't you think you can sell Billy and put a reasonable price on him?" The lad rose to his feet as he asked this and the man slowly followed his example. Then laying his hand on heart he bowed, saying: "I cayn't sell Billy. I give you my word. But, a southern planter is never beyond the power, sir, to bestow a gift. Kindly convey said Billy to Miss Calvert with the compliments of Colonel Judah Dillingham of T. Yonder are the bars. They are down. They are always down. So are my fortunes. Billy, old friend, farewell." This strange gentleman then solemnly reseated himself and again picked up his book. A deeper gloom than ever had settled upon him and a sigh that was almost a sob shook him from head to foot. Billy, also, slowly and stiffly rose, regarded the reader with what seemed like grieved amazement and dismally brayed. There was an old harness upon him, half-leather, half-rope, with a few wisps of corn-husk, and without delay Jim laid his hand on the bit-ring and started away. "Of course, sir, we will pay for the mule. My folks wouldn't, I mean couldn't, accept such a gift from a stranger. Our house-boat is tied up at the little wharf down yonder and we'll likely be there for awhile. I'll come back soon and tell what they say." Colonel Dillingham made no motion as if he heard and James was too afraid he would repent of the bargain to tarry. But Billy wasn't easy to lead. He followed peaceably enough as far as the designated bars, even stepped over the fallen rails into the grassy fields beyond. But there he firmly planted his fore-feet and refused to go further. Left behind and scarcely believing his own eyes, Ephraim now respectfully inquired, with pride at having guessed the man's title: "How much dese yeah millyouns wuth, Cunnel?" The question was ignored although the gentleman seemed listening to something. It was the dispute now waging in the field beyond, where Jim was trying to induce Billy to move and the other lads were offering suggestions in the case. At last something akin to a smile stole over the farmer's grim features and he roughly ordered: "Shut up, you nigger! Huh! Just as I thought. I couldn't sell Billy and Billy won't be given. Eh? what? Price of melons? You black idiot, do you reckon a gentleman who can afford to give away a mule's goin' to take money for a few trumpery water-melons? Go on away. Go to the packin'-house yonder and find a sack. Fill it. Take the whole field full. Eat enough to kill yourself. I wish you would!" Far from being offended by this outbreak, Ephraim murmured: "Yes, suh, t'ank yo', suh," and hobbled over the uneven ground toward the whitewashed building in the middle of the patch. Some more thrifty predecessor had built this for the storing and packing of produce, but under the present owner's management it was fast tumbling to ruin. But neither did this fact surprise Ephy, nor hinder him from choosing the largest sack from a pile on the floor. With this in hand he hurried back to the goodly heap of melons he had made ready and hastily loaded them into the sack. Not till then did he consider how he was to get that heavy load to the Water Lily. Standing up, he took off his hat, scratched his wool, hefted the melons, and finally chuckled in delight. "'Mo' ways 'an one to skin a cat'! Down-hill's easier 'an up!" With that he began to drag the sack toward the fence and, having reached it, took out its contents and tossed them over the fence. When the bag was empty he rolled and tucked it into the back of his coat, then climbed back to the field outside. The controversy with Billy was still going lustily on, but Ephy had more serious work on hand than that. Such a heap of luscious melons meant many a day's feast, if they could be stored in some safe, cool place. "Hello! Look at old Eph!" suddenly cried Gerald, happening to turn about. "Huh! Now ain't that clever? Wonder I never thought o' that myself!" cried the Colonel, with some animation. "Clever enough for a white man. Billy, you'd ought have conjured that yourself. But that's always the way. I cayn't think a thought but somebody else has thought it before me. I cayn't never get ahead of the tail end of things. Oh! hum!" The Colonel might be sighing but the three lads were laughing heartily enough to drown the sighs, for there was the old negro starting one after another of the great melons a-roll down the gentle slope, to bring up on the grassy bank at the very side of the Water Lily. If a few fell over into the water they could easily be fished out, reasoned Ephraim, proud of his own ingenuity. But the group beside the bars didn't watch to see the outcome of that matter, nor Ephraim's reception. They were too busy expostulating with Billy, and lavishing endearments upon him. "'Stubborn as a mule'," quoted Melvin, losing patience. "Or fate," responded the Colonel, drearily. "Please, sir, won't you try to make him go?" pleaded Gerald. "I think if you just started him on the right way he'd keep at it." "Billy is--Billy!" said the farmer. He was really greatly interested. Nothing so agreeable as this had happened in his monotonous life since he could remember. Here were three lads, as full of life as he had been once, jolly, hearty, with a will to do and conquer everything; and--here was Billy. A great, awkward, inert mass of bone and muscle, merely, calmly holding these clever youngsters at bay. "Can he be ridden?" demanded Jim, at length. "He might. Try;" said the man, in heart-broken accents. Jim tried. Melvin tried. Gerald tried. With every attempt to cross his back the animal threw up his heels and calmly shook the intruder off. The Colonel folded his arms and sorrowfully regarded these various attempts and failures; then dolefully remarked: "It seems I cayn't even _give_ Billy away. Ah! hum." Jim lost his temper. "Well, sir, we'll call it off and bid you good night. Somebody will come back to pay you for the melons." As he turned away in a huff his mates started to follow him; but Melvin was surprised by a touch on his shoulder and looked up to see the Colonel beside him. "Young man, you look as if you came of gentle stock. Billy was brought up by a gentlewoman, my daughter. She forsook him and me for another man. I mean she got married. That's why Billy and I live alone now, except for the niggers. They's a right and a wrong way to everything. _This_--is the right way with Billy. Billy, lie down." For an instant the animal hesitated as if suspecting some treachery in this familiar command; then he doubled himself together like a jack-knife, or till he was but a mound of mule-flesh upon the grass. "She taught him. She rode this way. Billy, get up." This strange man had seated himself sidewise upon the mule's back, leisurely freeing his feet from the loose-hanging harness and balancing himself easily as the animal got up. Then still sitting sidewise he ordered: "Billy, proceed." At once Billy "proceeded" at an even and decorous pace, while the lads walked alongside, vastly entertained by this unusual rider and his mount. He seemed to think a further explanation necessary, for as they neared the bottom of the slope he remarked: "Learned that in Egypt. Camel riding. She came home and taught him." Then they came to the edge of the bank and paused in surprise. Instead of the gay welcome they had expected, there was Chloe walking frantically up and down, hugging a still dripping little figure to her breast and refusing to yield it to the outstretched arms of poor old Ephraim, who stood in the midst of his melons, a woe-begone, miserable creature, wholly unlike his jubilant self of a brief while before. "What's--happened?" asked Jim, running to Chloe's side. "'Tis a jedgmen'! A jedgmen'! Oh! de misery--de misery!" she wailed, breaking away from him and wildly running to and fro again, in the fierce excitement of her race. Yet there upon the roof of the cabin, cheerily looking out from his "bridge" was Cap'n Jack. He was waving his crutches in jovial welcome and trying to cover Chloe's wailing by his exultant: "I fished him out with a boat-hook! With--a--boat-hook, d'ye hear?" CHAPTER VII. VISITORS. Attracted by the wild flowers growing in the fields around the cove where the Water Lily was moored, the four girls had left the boat a little while before the melon seekers had done so. Mabel and Aurora cared little for flowers in themselves but Dorothy's eagerness was infectious, and Elsa's pale face had lighted with pleasure. But even then her timidity moved her to say: "Suppose something happens? Suppose we should get lost? It's a strange, new place--I guess--I'm afraid--I'll stay with Mrs. Calvert, please." "You'll do nothing of the kind, my dear," said that lady, smiling. "You've done altogether too much 'staying' in your short life. Time now to get outdoor air and girlish fun. Go with Dorothy and get some color into your cheeks. You want to go back to that father of yours looking a very different Elsa from the one he trusted to us. Run along! Don't bother about a hat and jacket. Exercise will keep you from taking cold. Dolly, dear, see that the child has a good time." Elsa's mother had died of consumption and her father had feared that his child might inherit that disease. In his excessive love and care for her he had kept her closely housed in the poor apartment of a crowded tenement, the only home he could afford. The result had been to render her more frail than she would otherwise have been. Her shyness, her lameness, and her love of books with only her father for teacher, made her contented enough in such a life, but was far from good for her. The best thing that had ever happened to her was this temporary breaking up of this unwholesome routine and her having companions of her own age. So that even now she had looked wistfully upon the small bookshelf in the cabin, with the few volumes placed there; but Mrs. Calvert shook her head and Elsa had to obey. "But, Dorothy, aren't you afraid? There might be snakes. It might rain. It looks wet and swampy--I daren't get my feet wet--father's so particular----" "If it rains I'll run back and get you an umbrella, Aunt Betty's own--the only one aboard, I fancy. And as for fear--child alive! Did you never get into the woods and smell the ferns and things? There's nothing so sweet in the world as the delicious woodsy smell! Ah! um! Let's hurry!" cried Dolly, linking her arm in the lame girl's and helping her over the grassy hummocks. Even then Elsa would have retreated, startled by the idea of "woods" where the worst she had anticipated was a leisurely stroll over a green meadow. But there was no resisting her friend's enthusiasm; besides, looking backward she was as much afraid to return and try clambering aboard the Lily, unaided, as she was to go forward. So within a few minutes all four had entered the bit of woodland and, following Dorothy's example, were eagerly searching for belated blossoms. Learning, too, from that nature-loving girl, things they hadn't known before. "A cardinal flower--more of them--a whole lot! Yes, of course, it's wet there. Cardinals always grow in damp places, along little streams like this I've slipped my foot into! Oh! aren't they beauties! Won't dear Aunt Betty go just wild over them! if Father John, the darling man who 'raised' me, were only here! He's a deal lamer than you, Elsa Carruthers, but nobody's feet would get over the ground faster than his crutches if he could just have one glimpse of this wonderland! "Did you ever notice? Almost all the autumn flowers are either purple or yellow or white? There are no real blues, no rose-colors; with just this lovely, lovely cardinal for an exception." Dorothy sped back to where Elsa stood nervously balancing herself upon a fallen tree-trunk and laid the brilliant flowers in her hands. Elsa looked at them in wonder and then exclaimed: "My! how pretty! They look just as if they were made out of velvet in the milliner's window! And how did you know all that about the colors?" "Oh! Father John, and Mr. Winters--Uncle Seth, he likes me to call him--the dear man that gave us the Water Lily--they told me. Though I guessed some things myself. You can't help that, you know, when you love anything. I think, I just do think, that the little bits of things which grow right under a body's feet are enough to make one glad forever. Sometime, when I grow up, if Aunt Betty's willing, and I don't have to work for my living, I shall build us a little house right in the woods and live there." "Pshaw, Dolly Doodles! You couldn't build a house if you tried. And you'd get mighty sick of staying in the woods all the time, with nobody coming to visit you----" remarked Mabel coming up behind them. "I should have the birds and the squirrels, and all the lovely creatures that live in the forest!" "And wild-cats, and rattlesnakes, and horrid buggy things! Who'd see any of your new clothes?" "I shouldn't want any. I'd wear one frock till it fell to pieces----" "You wouldn't be let! Mrs. Calvert's awful particular about your things." "That's so," commented Aurora. "They're terrible plain but they look just right, somehow. Righter 'n mine do, Gerry says, though I don't believe they cost near as much." "Well, we didn't come into these lovely woods to talk about clothes. Anybody can make clothes but only the dear God can make a cardinal flower!" cried Dorothy, springing up, with a sudden sweet reverence on her mobile face. Elsa as suddenly bent and kissed her, and even the other matter-of-fact girls grew thoughtful. "It's like a church, isn't it? Only more beautiful," whispered the lame girl. "Yes, isn't it? Makes all the petty hatefulness of things seem not worth while. What matter if the storm did break the engine--that stranded us right here and gave us _this_. If we'd kept on down the bay we'd have missed it. That's like dear Uncle Seth says--that things are _meant_. So I believe that it was 'meant' you should come here to-day and have your first taste of the woods. You'll never be afraid of them again, I reckon." "Never--never! I'm glad you made me come. I didn't want to. I wanted to read, but this is better than any book could be, because like you said--God made it." Aurora and Mabel had already turned back toward the Lily and now called that it was time to go. Though the little outing had meant less to them than it had to Elsa and Dorothy, it had still given them a pleasure that was simple and did them good. Aurora had gathered a big bunch of purple asters for the table, thinking how well they would harmonize with the dainty lavender of her hostess's gown; and Mabel had plucked a lot of "boneset" for her mother, remembering how much that lady valued it as a preventive of "malary"--the disease she had been sure she would contract, cruising in shallow streams. "Come on, girls! Something's happened! The boys are waving to us like all possessed!" shouted Mabel, when they had neared the wharf and the boat which already seemed like home to them. Indeed, Gerald and Melvin were dancing about on the little pier beckoning and calling: "Hurry up, hurry up!" and the girls did hurry, even Elsa moving faster than she had ever done before. Already she felt stronger for her one visit to that wonderful forest and she was hoping that the Water Lily might remain just where it was, so that she might go again and again. Then Gerald came to meet them, balancing a water-melon on his head, trying to imitate the ease with which the colored folks did that same trick. But he had to use his hands to keep it in place and even so it slipped from his grasp and fell, broken to pieces at Elsa's feet. "Oh! What a pity!" she cried, then dropped her eyes because she had been surprised into speaking to this boy who had never noticed her before. "Not a bit! Here, my lady, taste!" She drew back her head from the great piece he held at her lips but was forced to take one mouthful in self-defence. But Dorothy, in similar fix was eating as if she were afraid of losing the dainty, while Gerald merrily pretended to snatch it away. "Ha! That shows the difference--greed and daintiness!" Then in a changed tone he exclaimed: "Pretty close shave for the pickaninny!" Dorothy held her dripping bit of melon at arm's length and quickly asked: "What do you mean? Why do you look so sober all of a sudden?" "Metty came near drowning. Tried to follow his mother over the field to the melon-patch and fell into the water. Mrs. Calvert was walking around the deck and heard the splash. Nobody else was near. She ran around to that side and saw him. Then she screamed. Old Cap'n says by the time he got there the little chap was going under for the last time. Don't know how he knew that--doubt if he did--but if he did--but he wouldn't spoil a story for a little thing like a lie. Queer old boy, that skipper, with his pretended log and his broken spy-glass. He----" "Never mind that, go on--go on! He was saved, wasn't he? Oh! say that he was!" begged Dolly, wringing her hands. "Course. And you're dripping pink juice all over your skirt!" "If you're going to be so tantalizing----" she returned and forgetful of lame Elsa, sped away to find out the state of things for herself. Left alone Elsa began to tremble, so that her teeth chattered when Gerald again held the fruit to her lips. "Please don't! I--I can't bear it! It seems so dreadful! Nothing's so dreadful as--death! Poor, poor, little boy!" The girl's face turned paler than ordinary and she shook so that Gerald could do no less than put his arm around her to steady her. "Don't feel that way, Elsa! Metty isn't dead. I tell you he's all right. He's the most alive youngster this minute there is in the country. Old Cap'n is lame; of course he couldn't swim, even if he'd tried. But he didn't. He just used his wits, and they're pretty nimble, let me tell you! There was a boat-hook hanging on the rail--that's a long thing with a spike, or hook, at one end, to pull a boat to shore, don't you know? He caught that up and hitched it into the seat of Metty's trousers and fished him out all right. Fact." Elsa's nervousness now took the form of tears, mingled with hysterical laughter, and it was Gerald's turn to grow pale. What curious sort of a girl was this who laughed and cried all in one breath, and just because a little chap wasn't drowned, though he might have been? "I say, girlie, Elsa, whatever your name is, quit it! You're behaving horrid! _Metty isn't dead._ He's very much happier than--than I am, at this minute. He's eating water-melon and you'd show some sense if you'd do that, too. When his mother got back, after stealing her melon, she found things in a fine mess. Old Cap'n had fished the youngster out but he wasn't going to have him drip muddy water all over his nice clean 'ship.' Not by a long shot! So he carries him by the boat-hook, just as he'd got him, over to the grass and hung him up in a little tree that was there, to dry. Yes, sir! Gave him a good spanking, too, Mrs. Bruce said, just to keep him from taking cold! Funny old snoozer, ain't he?" In spite of herself Elsa stopped sobbing and smiled; while relieved by this change Gerald hurriedly finished his tale. "He was hanging there, the Cap'n holding him from falling, when his mother came tearing down the hill and stopped so short her melon fell out her skirt--ker-smash! 'What you-all doin' ter mah li'l lamb?' says she. 'Just waterin' the grass,' says he. 'Why-fo'?' says she. ''Cause the ornery little fool fell into the river and tried to spile his nice new livery. Why else?' says he. Then--Did you ever hear a colored woman holler? Made no difference to her that the trouble was all over and Methuselah Washington Bonaparte was considerable cleaner than he had been before his plunge; she kept on yelling till everybody was half-crazy and we happened along with--Billy! Say, Elsa----" "Gerald, I mean Mr. Blank, is all that true?" "What's the use eyeing a fellow like that? I guess it's true. That's about the way it must have been and, anyway, that part that our good skipper fished the boy out of the water is a fact. Old Ephraim grand-daddy hated Cap'n Jack like poison before; now he'd kiss the ground he walks on, if he wasn't ashamed to be caught at it. Funny! That folks should make such an everlasting fuss over one little black boy!" "I suppose they love him," answered Elsa. She was amazed to find herself walking along so quietly beside this boy whom she had thought so rough, and from whom she shrank more than from any of the others. He had certainly been kind. He was the one who had stayed to help her home when even Dorothy forsook her. She had hated his rude boisterous ways and the sound of his voice, with its sudden changes from a deep bass to a squeaking falsetto. Now she felt ashamed and punished, that she had so misjudged the beautiful world into which she had come, and, lifting her large eyes to Gerald's face, said so very prettily. But the lad had little sentiment in his nature and hated it in others. If she was going to act silly and "sissy" he'd leave her to get home the best way she could. The ground was pretty even now and, with her hand resting on his arm, she was walking steadily enough. Of course, her lame foot did drag but---- A prolonged bray broke into his uncomfortable mood and turning to the startled Elsa, he merrily explained: "That's Billy! Hurry up and be introduced to Billy! I tell you he's a character----" "Billy? _Billy!_ Don't tell me there's another boy come to stay on the Lily!" "Fact. The smartest one of the lot! Hurry up!" Elsa had to hurry, though she shrank from meeting any more strangers, because Gerald forgot that he still grasped her arm and forced her along beside him, whether or no. But she released herself as they came to the wharf and the people gathered there. This company included not only the house-boat party but a number of other people. So novel a craft as a house-boat couldn't be moored within walking distance of Four-Corners' Post-Office, and the waterside village of Jimpson's Landing, without arousing great curiosity. Also, the other boats passing up and down stream, scows and freighters mostly these were, plying between the fertile lands of Anne Arundel and the Baltimore markets, had spread the tale. Now, at evening, when work was over, crowds flocked from the little towns to inspect the Water Lily and its occupants. Also, many of them to offer supplies for its convenience. The better to do this last, they unceremoniously climbed aboard, roamed at will over both boat and tender, inspected and commented upon everything and, finally, demanded to see the "Boss." Outside on the grass beside the wharf sat Colonel Dillingham of T, side-saddle-wise upon great Billy, who had gone to sleep. He was waiting to be presented to Mrs. Calvert and would not presume to disturb her till she sent for him. Meanwhile he was very comfortable, and with folded arms, his habitual attitude, he sadly observed the movements of his neighbors. Most of these nodded to him as they passed, with an indifferent "Howdy, Cunnel?" paying no further attention to him. Yet there was something about the man on mule-back that showed him to be of better breeding than the rustics who disdained him. Despite his soiled and most unhappy appearance he spoke with the accents of a gentleman, and when his name was repeated to Mrs. Calvert she mused over it with a smile. "Dillingham? Dillingham of T? Why, of course, Dolly dear, he's of good family. One of the best in Maryland. I reckon I'll have to go into the cabin and receive him. Is it still full of those ill-bred men, who swarmed over this boat as if they owned it?" "Yes, Aunt Betty, pretty full. Some, a few, have gone. Those who haven't want to see the 'Boss.'" Mrs. Calvert peered from her stateroom whither she had fled at the first invasion of visitors, and smiled. Then she remarked: "Just go ashore and be interviewed there, dear." "Auntie! What do you mean?" "I fancy you're the real 'boss,' or head of this company, when it comes to fact. It's _your_ Water Lily, _you_ are bearing the expenses, I'm your guest, and 'where the honey is the bees will gather.' If these good people once understand that it's you who carry the purse----" "But I don't! You know that. I gave it to Mrs. Bruce. I asked her to take care of the money because--Well, because I'm careless, sometimes, you know, and might lose it." "It's the same thing. Ask her to go with you and advise you, if there is anything you need. But, remember, money goes fast if one doesn't take care." It sounded rather strange to Dorothy to hear Aunt Betty say this for it wasn't the lady's habit to discuss money matters. However, she hadn't time to think about that for here was Mrs. Bruce, urging: "Dorothy, do come and do something with these men. There's one fairly badgering me to buy cantaloupes--and they do look nice--but with all the water-melons--Yes, sir; this is the 'Boss;' this is Miss Calvert, the owner of the Water Lily." A man with a basket of freshly dug potatoes had followed Mrs. Bruce to the door of Mrs. Calvert's stateroom which, with a hasty "Beg pardon" from within, had been closed in their faces. Another man, carrying smaller baskets of tempting plums, was trying to out-talk his neighbor; while a third, dangling a pair of chickens above the heads of the other two, was urging the sale of these, "raised myself, right here on Annyrunnell sile! Nicest, fattest, little br'ilers ever you see, Ma'am!" "Huh! that pair of chickens wouldn't make a mouthful for our family!" cried the matron, desperately anxious to clear the cabin of these hucksters. She had made it her business to keep the Water Lily in spotless order and this invasion of muddy boots and dirt-scattering baskets fretted her. Besides, like all the rest of that "ship's company," her one desire was to make Mrs. Calvert perfectly comfortable and happy. She knew that this intrusion of strangers would greatly annoy her hostess and felt she must put an end to it at once. But how? Dorothy rose to the occasion. Assuming all the dignity her little body could summon she clapped her hands for silence and unexpectedly obtained it. People climbing the crooked stairs to the roof and the "Skipper's bridge" craned their necks to look at her; those testing the arrangement of the canvas partitions between the cots on one side stopped with the partitions half-adjusted and stared; while the chattering peddlers listened, astonished. "Excuse me, good people, but this boat is private property. None should come aboard it without an invitation. Please all go away at once. I'll step ashore with this lady and there we'll buy whatever she thinks best." Probably because her words made some of the intruders ashamed a few turned to leave; more lingered, among these the hucksters, and Dorothy got angry. Folding her arms and firmly standing in her place she glared upon them till one by one they slipped away over the gang-plank and contented themselves with viewing the Water Lily and its Pad from that point. As the last smock-clad farmer disappeared Dorothy dropped upon the floor and laughed. "O Mrs. Bruce! Wasn't that funny? Those great big men and I--a little girl! They mustn't do it again. They shall not!" "The best way to stop them is to do as you promised--step to the shore and see them there. Those potatoes were real nice. We might get some of them, but the chickens--it would take so many. Might get one for Mrs. Calvert's breakfast--oatmeal will do for the rest of us." Dorothy sprang up and hurried with her friend off from the Lily. But she made a wry face at the mention of oatmeal-breakfasts and explained: "Aunt Betty wouldn't eat chicken if none of the others had it. And just oatmeal--I hate oatmeal! It hasn't a bit of expression and I'm as hungry after it as before. Just do get enough of those 'br'ilers' for all. Please, Mrs. Bruce! There's nobody in the world can broil a chicken as you do! I remember! I've eaten them at your house before I ever left Baltimore!" Naturally, the matron was flattered. She wasn't herself averse to fine, tasty poultry, and resolved to gratify the teasing girl that once. But she qualified her consent with the remark: "It mustn't be such luxury very often, child, if you're to come out even with this trip and the money. My! What a great mule! What a curious man on it! Why does he sit sidewise and gloom at everybody, that way?" Dorothy hadn't yet spoken with Colonel Dillingham though the boys had given her a brief description of him and their attempted purchase. But she was unprepared to have him descend from his perch and approach her, saying: "Your servant, Miss Calvert. You resemble your great-grandfather. _He_ was a man. He--_was_ a man! Ah! yes! he was a--_man_! I cayn't be too thankful that you are you, and that it's to a descendant of a true southern nobleman I now present--Billy. Billy, Miss Calvert. Miss Calvert, Billy!" With a sigh that seemed to come from his very boots the gallant Colonel placed one of the mule's reins in Dorothy's astonished hand and bowed again; and as if fully appreciating the introduction old Billy bobbed his head up and down in the mournfulest manner and gravely brayed, while the observant bystanders burst into a loud guffaw. CHAPTER VIII. THE COLONEL'S REVELATION. "Aunt Betty, what does that 'of T' mean after that queer Colonel's name?" "There is no sense in it, dear, of course. The family explained it this way. The gentleman's real name is Trowbridge. His wife's family was Dillingham. It was of much older origin than his and she was very proud of it. When she consented to marry him it was upon the condition that he would take her name, not she take his. A slight legal proceeding made it right enough but he added the 'of T.' It was a tribute to his honesty, I fancy, though it's quite a custom of Marylanders to do as the Dillinghams did. Here he comes now. I must ask him about his daughter. He had one, a very nice girl I've heard." "Coming! Why, Aunt Betty, we haven't had breakfast yet!" Mrs. Betty laughed. "Another familiar custom, dear, among country neighbors in this old State. Why, my own dear mother thought nothing of having a party of uninvited guests arrive with the sunrise, expecting just the same cordial welcome she would have accorded later and invited ones. It never made any difference in the good old days. There was always plenty of food in the storehouse and plenty of help to prepare it. The Colonel isn't so very old but he seems to cling to the traditions of his ancestors. I wonder, will he expect us to feed Billy also! And I do hope Mrs. Bruce will have something nice for breakfast. The poor gentleman looks half-starved." "Oh! yes, she has. We bought a half-dozen pairs of 'broilers' last night; but she meant them to last for supper, too." "Run. Bid her cook the lot. There'll be none too many." "But, Auntie, dear! They cost fifty cents a-piece. Six whole dollars for one single breakfast? Besides the potatoes and bread and other stuff! Six dollars a meal, eighteen dollars a day, how long will what is left of three hundred dollars last, after we pay for Billy, as you said we must?" This was on the morning after the Colonel's first call at the Water Lily. This had been a prolonged one because of--Billy. That wise animal saw no stable anywhere about and, having been petted beyond reason by his loving, sad-hearted master, decided that he dared not--at his time of life--sleep out of doors. At least that was the way James Barlow understood it, and no persuasion on the part of his new friends could induce the mule to remain after the Colonel started for home. "Tie him to the end of the wharf," suggested Gerald. "That would be cruel. He might fall into the water in his sleep. We don't want two to do that in one day," protested Dorothy. At that point Billy began to bray; so mournfully and continuously that Mrs. Calvert sent word: "Stop that beast! We shan't be able to sleep a wink if he keeps that noise up!" The Colonel paused once more. His departure had been a succession of pauses, occasioned by two things: one that the lazy man never walked when he could ride; the other, that he could not bring himself to part from his "only faithful friend." The result was that he had again mounted the stubborn beast and disappeared in the darkness of his melon-patch. Now he was back again, making his mount double himself up on the ground and so spare his rider the trouble of getting off in the usual way. "My hearties! Will you see that, lads?" demanded Melvin, coming down the bank with his towels over his arm. He had promptly discovered a sheltered spot, up stream, where he could take his morning dip, without which his English training made him uncomfortable. "Pooh! He's given the mule and himself with it! He's fun for a day, but we can't stand him long. I hope Mrs. Calvert will give him his 'discharge papers' right away." "If she doesn't I will!" answered Gerald, stoutly. "A very little of the 'Cunnel' goes a long way with yours truly." Jim looked up sharply. His own face showed annoyance at the reappearance of the farmer but he hadn't forgotten some things the others had. "Look here, fellows! This isn't our picnic, you know!" Melvin flushed and ducked his head, as if from a blow, but Gerald retorted: "I don't care if it isn't. I'd rather quit than have that old snoozer for my daily!" "I don't suppose anybody will object to your quitting when you want to. The Water Lily ain't yours, though you 'pear to think so. And let me tell you right now; if you don't do the civil to anybody my mistress has around I'll teach you better manners--that's all!" With that Jim returned to the polishing of his useless engine, making no further response to Gerald's taunts. "Mistress! _Mistress?_ Well, I'll have you to know, you young hireling, that I'm my own master. _I_ don't work for any mistress, without wages or with 'em, and in my set we don't hobnob with workmen--ever. Hear that? And mind you keep your own place, after this!" An ugly look came over Jim's face and his hands clenched. With utmost difficulty he kept from rising to knock the insolent Gerald down, and a few words more might have brought on a regular battle of fists, had not Melvin interposed in his mild voice yet with indignation in his eyes: "You don't mean that, Gerald. 'A man's a man for a' that.' I'm a 'hireling,' too, d'ye mind? A gentleman, that you boast you are, doesn't bully his inferiors nor behave like a ruffian in a lady's house--or boat--which is the same thing. Gentlemen don't do that--Not in our Province." Then, fortunately, Chloe appeared, asking if one of them would go to the nearest farmhouse and fetch a pail of cream for breakfast. "They's quality come, so li'l Miss says, an' ole Miss boun' ter hev t'ings right down scrumptious, lak wese do to home in Baltimo'." With great willingness each and every lad offered to do the errand; and in a general tussle to grab her outstretched "bucket" their anger vanished in a laugh. The "good side" of Gerald came uppermost and he awkwardly apologized: "Just forget I was a cad, will you, boys? I didn't mean it. I'd just as lief go for that cream as not." "I'd liefer!" said Melvin. Jim said nothing but the ugly look vanished from his face and it was he who secured the pail and started with it on a run over the plank and the field beyond. "I'll beat you there!" shouted Melvin; and "You can't do it!" yelled Gerald; while Chloe clasped her hands in dismay, murmuring: "Looks lak dere won't be much cweam lef' in de bucket if it comes same's it goes!" That visit to the farmhouse, short though it was, gave a turn to affairs on the Water Lily. The farmer told the lads of a little branch a few miles further on, which would be an ideal place for such a craft to anchor, for "a day, a week, or a lifetime." "It's too fur off for them village loafers to bother any. You won't have to anchor in midstream to get shet of 'em, as would be your only chance where you be now. I was down with the crowd, myself, last night an' I was plumb scandalized the way some folks acted. No, sir, I wasn't aboard the Water Lily nor set foot to be. I come home and told my wife: 'Lizzie,' says I, 'them water-travellers'll have a lot o' trouble with the Corner-ites and Jimpson-ites. It's one thing to be civil an' another to be imperdent.' I 'lowed to Lizzie, I says: 'I ain't volunteerin' my opinion till it's asked, but when it is I'll just mention Deer-Copse on the Ottawotta Run. Ain't a purtier spot on the whole map o' Maryland 'an that is. Good boatin', good fishin', good springs in the woods, good current to the Run and no malary. Better 'n that--good neighbors on the high ground above.' That's what I says to Lizzie." Jim's attention was caught by the name Deer-Copse. He thought Mrs. Calvert would like that, it was so much like her own Deerhurst on the Hudson. Also, he had overheard her saying to Mrs. Bruce: "I do wish we could find some quiet stream, right through the heart of green woods, where there'd be no danger and no intruders." From this friendly farmer's description it seemed as if that bit of forest on the Ottawotta would be an ideal camping-ground. There followed questions and answers. Yes, the Water Lily might be hauled there by a mule walking on the bank, as far as the turn into the branch. After that, poling and hauling, according to the depth of the water and what the Lily's keel "drawed," or required. They could obtain fresh vegetables real near. "I'm runnin' a farm that-a-way, myself; leastwise me an' my brother together. He's got no kind of a wife like Lizzie. A poor, shiftless creatur' with more babies under foot 'an she can count, herself. One them easy-goin' meek-as-Moses sort. Good? Oh! yes, real good. Too good. Thinks more o' meetin' than of gettin' her man a decent meal o' victuals. Do I know what sort of mule Cunnel Dillingham has? Well, I guess! That ain't no ornery mule, Billy Dillingham ain't. You see, him and the Cunnel has lived so long together 't they've growed alike. After the Cunnel's daughter quit home an' married Jabb, Cunnel up an' sold the old place. Thought he'd go into truck-farmin'--him the laziest man in the state. Farmin' pays, course, 'specially here in Annyrunnell. Why, my crop o' melons keeps my family all the year round an' my yuther earnin's is put in the bank. Cunnel's got as big a patch as mine an' you cayn't just stop melons from growin' down here in Annyrunnell! No, sir, cayn't stop 'em! Not if you 'tend 'em right. They's an old sayin', maybe you've heard. 'He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.' The Cunnel won't do ary one. He leaves the whole thing to his crew o' niggers an', course, they're some shiftlesser 'n he is. They're so plumb lazy, the whole crowd, 't they won't even haul their truck as fur as Jimpson's, to have it loaded on a boat for market, an' that ain't further 'n you could swing a cat! Losin' his old home an' losin' his gal, an' failin' to make truck pay, has made him downhearteder'an he was by natur'--and that's sayin' consid'able. Must ye go, boys? Got any melons? Give ye as many as ye can carry if ye want 'em. Call again. Yes, the cream's wuth five cents. Not this time, though. Lizzie'd be plumb scandalized if I took pay for a mite o' cream for breakfast--such a late one, too. We had ours couple hours ago. Eh? About Billy? Well, if he war mine, which he ain't, an' if I war asked to set a price on him, which I couldn't, I should say how 't he war a fust-class mule, but not wuth a continental without the Cunnel--nor with him, nuther. If you take one you'll have to take t'other. Call again. My respects to the lady owns the house-boat an'--Good-by!" As the lads thanked their talkative neighbor and hurried down the fields, Jim exclaimed: "Was afraid this cream'd all turn to butter before he'd quit and let us go! But, we've learned a lot about some things. I'm thinking that Ottawotta Run is the business for us: and I fear--Billy isn't. There must be other mules in Anne Arundel county will suit us better. Mrs. Calvert won't want him as a gift--with the Colonel thrown in!" Mrs. Bruce met them impatiently. "Seems as if boys never could do an errand without loitering. There's all those chickens drying to flinders in that oil-stove-oven, and that horrid old man talking Mrs. Calvert into a headache. Least, he isn't talking so much as she is. Thinks she must entertain him, I suppose. The idea! Anybody going visiting to _breakfast_ without being asked!" But by this time the good woman had talked her annoyance off, and while she dished up the breakfast--a task she wouldn't leave to Chloe on this state occasion--Jim hastily condensed the information he had received and was glad that she promptly decided, as he had, that a sojourn on the quiet, inland Run would best please Aunt Betty. "It would certainly suit me," assented the matron. "Oh! hang it all! What's the use? Hiding in a silly little creek when there's the whole Chesapeake to cruise in!" cried the disgusted Gerald, leaning upon the little table and hungrily eyeing the platter of chicken. "How can we dare, how could we if we dared, try the Bay? We haven't any engine to use now," said Jim. "Well, get one, then! If that girl can afford to run a house-boat and ask folks to stay on it, she ought to provide something decent for their entertainment. When _we_ owned the Water Lily we did things up to the queen's taste. I'm not going to bury myself in any backwoods. I'll quit first." "Boy, are you always so cross before breakfast?" asked a girl's voice over his shoulder, and he turned to see Dorothy smiling upon him. "No. Except when I'm sent for cream and hear fool talk from a measly old farmer in a blue smock," he answered, laughing rather foolishly. "Was it the color of his smock made him measly? And what was that I heard about quitting?" "Oh! nothing. I was just fooling. But, I say, Dorothy, don't you let any old woman coax you into a dead-and-alive hole in the woods. Mark what I say. They'll be trying it, but the Water Lily's your boat now, isn't it?" "So I understood. But from the amount of advice I receive as to managing it, I think, maybe, it isn't. Well, I've heard you--now listen to me. 'The one who eats the most bread-and-butter can have the most cake'--or chicken. They look terrible little, don't they, now they're cooked? And I warn you, I never saw anybody look so hungry in all my life--no, not even you three boys!--as that poor, unhappy Colonel of T, in there with Aunt Betty. Yes, Mrs. Bruce, we're ready for breakfast at last. But mind what I say--_all we youngsters like oatmeal_! We _must_ like it this time for politeness sake. Fourteen eaters and twelve halves of broiled chicken--Problem, who goes without?" But nobody really did that. Mrs. Bruce was mistress of the art of carving and managed that each should have at least a small portion of the delicacies provided, though she had to tax her ingenuity to accomplish this. At the head of her table Mrs. Calvert motioned Chloe to serve her guest again and again; and each time that Ephraim jealously snatched a dainty portion for her own plate she as promptly and quietly restored it to the platter. Also, the "Skipper" at his own board played such a lively knife and fork that dishes were emptied almost before filled and Gerald viciously remarked: "Aren't as fond of ship's biscuit as you were, are you, Cap'n Jack?" The Captain helped himself afresh and answered with good nature: "Oh! yes. Jes' as fond. But I likes a change. Yes, I c'n make out to relish 'most anything. I ain't a mite partic'lar." This was too much for the lads and a laugh arose; but the old man merely peered over his specs at them and mildly asked: "What you-all laughin' at? Tell me an' lemme laugh, too. Laughin' does old folks good. Eh, Cunnel? Don't you think so?" he asked, wheeling around to address the guest of honor. But that gentleman was too engaged at that moment to reply, even if he would have condescended so to do. Just now, in the presence of Mrs. Calvert, whose mere name was a certificate of "quality," he felt himself an aristocrat, quite too exalted in life to notice a poor captain of a house-boat. Breakfast over, Aunt Betty excused herself and withdrew to the shelter of her little stateroom. Shelter it really was, now, against her uninvited guest. She had done her best to make his early call agreeable and to satisfy him with more substantial things than old memories. They had discussed all the prominent Maryland families, from the first Proprietor down to that present day; had discovered a possible relationship, exceedingly distant, he being the discoverer; and had talked of their beloved state in its past and present glories till she was utterly worn out. He had again "given" her his most cherished possession, Billy the mule; and she had again declined to receive it. Buy him, of course, Dorothy would and should, if it proved that a mule was really needed. But not without fair payment for the animal would she permit "him" to become a member of her family. The Colonel so persistently spoke of the creature as a human being that she began to think of Billy as a monstrosity. The morning passed. Aunt Betty had deserted, and Dorothy had to take her place as hostess. All her heart was longing for the green shore beyond that little wharf, where now all the other young folks were having a lively frolic. It was such a pity to waste that glorious sunshine just sitting in that little cabin talking to a dull old man. He did little talking himself. Indeed, warmed by the sunshine on the deck where he sat, and comfortably satisfied with a more generous meal than he had enjoyed for many months, the Colonel settled back on the steamer chair which was Aunt Betty's own favorite and went to sleep. He slept so long and quietly that she was upon the point of leaving him, reflecting: "Even a Calvert ought not to have to stay here now, and watch an old man--snore. It's dreadful, sometimes, to have a 'family name.' Living up to it is such a tax. I wish--I almost wish--I was just a Smith, Jones, Brown, or anybody! I will run away, just for a minute, sure! and see what happens!" But, despite the snores, the visitor was a light sleeper. At her first movement from her own chair, he awoke and actually smiled upon her. "Beg pardon, little lady. I forgot where I was and just lost myself. Before I dropped off I was goin' to tell you--Pshaw! I cayn't talk. I enjoy quiet. D'ye happen to see Billy, anywhere?" "Certainly. He's right over on that bank yonder and the boys are trying to fix a rope to his harness, so he can begin to draw the boats up stream. They want to try and see if it will work. Funny! To turn this lovely Water Lily into a mere canal-boat. But I suppose we can still have some good times even that way." The Colonel shook his head. "No, you cayn't. Nobody can. They ain't any good times for anybody any more." "What a lot of 'anys'! Seems as if out of so many there might be one good time for somebody. I was in hopes you were having such just now. What can I do to make it pleasanter for you?" "Sit right down and let me speak. Your name's Calvert, ain't it?" "Why, of course. I thought you knew;" answered the girl, reluctantly resuming her seat. "Never take anything for granted. I cayn't do it, you cayn't do it. Something'll always go wrong. It did with your great-grandfather's brother that time when he hid--Ah! hum! It ought to be yours, but it won't be. There couldn't be any such luck in this world. Is Billy lookin' comf'table?" Billy answered for himself by a most doleful bray. Indeed, he was resenting the lads' endeavors to remove his harness. Jim fancied he could fix it better for the purpose of hauling the Water Lily, but the animal objected, because that harness had never been taken from his back since it was put on early in the spring. Then the more ambitious of the negroes who managed the Colonel's truck-farm had equipped Billy for ploughing the melon-patch. After each day's work the beast had seemed tired and the gentleman-farmer had suggested: "Don't fret him takin' it off. You'll only have to put it on again, to-morrow." This saved labor and suited all around; and Billy was trying to explain to these tormenting lads how ill-at-ease and undressed he would feel, if he were stripped of his regalia. "Sounds like he was in trouble, poor Billy. But, of course, he is. Everybody is. You are. If you had that buried--Pshaw! What's the use! You ain't, you cayn't, nobody could find it, else things wouldn't have happened the way they did; and your great-grandfather wouldn't have forgot where he buried it; and it wouldn't have gone out the family; and since your great-grandfather's brother married my great-grandmother's sister we'd all have shared and shared alike. It's sad to think any man would be so careless for his descendants as to go and do what your great-grandfather's brother did and then forget it. But--it's the way things always go in this lop-sided world. Ah! um." The Colonel's breakfast had made him more talkative than had seemed possible and because she could do no better for her own amusement, Dorothy inquired: "Tell me the story of our great-grand-folks and what they buried. Please. It would be interesting, I think." "Very well, child, I'll try. But just keep an eye on Billy. Is he comf'table? I don't ask if he's happy. He isn't. Nobody is." "Beg pardon, but you are mistaken about that mule. No matter what the boys and Captain Hurry try to do with him, he manages to get his nose back to the ground again and eat--Why, he hasn't really stopped eating one full minute since he came. That makes me think. Will the man who owns that grass like to have him graze it that way? Isn't grass really hay? Don't they sell hay up home at Baltimore? Won't it cost a great deal to let Billy do that, if hay is worth much?" "You ask as many questions as--as I've heard your folks always do. But it's no use worryin' over a little hay. It ain't wuth much. Nothing's wuth anything in Annyrunnell. The only thing in the whole county wuth a continental is what your great-grandfather's brother buried in the woods on Ottawotta Run. Deer-Copse was the spot. Buried it in a brass-bound chest, kept the key, and then forgot. Ah! hum." "Ottawotta Run? Deer-Copse! Why, that's the very place the boys said the man said that you say--Oh! Aunt Betty! Aunt Betty! There's a buried fortune belonging to our family out in the woods! We'll find it, we _must_ find it, and that will save all your Old Folks their Home and you won't have to sell Bellvieu!" almost shrieked Dolly, running to her aunt's stateroom and flinging wide the little door, regardless of knocking for admittance. But disappointment awaited her--the stateroom was empty. CHAPTER IX. FISH AND MONKEYS. Farmer Wickliffe Stillwell proved a friend in need. About the middle of that eventful morning he appeared with a big basket on either arm, his blue-checked smock swaying in the breeze that had arisen, his iron-gray, luxuriant whiskers doing the same, and his head bare. He had started with his Sunday hat perched on his "bald-spot," which was oddly in contrast with the hirsute growth below. Lizzie, his wife, had affirmed such headgear was "more politer" than the old straw hat he commonly wore and that had the virtue of staying where it was put, as the stiff Derby did not. Having arrived at the wharf where the Water Lily was fastened he paused and awaited the invitation without which he wouldn't have crossed the gang-plank. He had plenty of time to rest before the invitation came. None of the lads who had visited his place for cream was in sight. Mrs. Calvert and Mrs. Bruce glanced toward him and looked away. They supposed him to be another of those "peddlers" who had swarmed over the boat the evening of its arrival, and didn't wish "to be annoyed." The Colonel saw him but gave no sign of recognition. He waited to see what his hostess would do and would then follow her example. She looked away--so did this too chivalrous guest. The girls had gone to the woods, searching for wild grapes; and Cap'n Jack, with the lads, had taken the row-boat down stream on a fishing trip. Fish, of many varieties, had been brought to the Lily for sale, but fish that one caught for one's self would be finer and cost less; so they reasoned with a fine access of economy. Ephraim and Chloe were "tidying up;" and only little Methuselah and Billy-mule gave the visitor a word of welcome. These two were fast becoming friends, and both were prone on the ground; one suffering from a surfeit of grass--the other of water-melon. Metty looked up and sat up--with a groan: "Say, Mister, 'd you evah hab de tummy-ache?" while Billy's sad bray seemed to be asking the same question. "Heaps of times. When I'd eaten too much green stuff. Got it?" "Yep. Dey's a orful misery all eroun' me yeah! I'd lak some peppymin' but Mammy she ain' done got none. Oh! my!" "Get a _rollin'_. Nothing cures a colic quicker than that. And, look-a-here? How's this for medicine?" Metty considered this the "mos' splendides' gemplemum" he had ever met. A gentleman made to order, indeed, with a paper bag in his pocket, chock full of beautiful red and white "peppymin's" which he lavishly dealt out to the small sufferer--a half one at a time! But many halves make several wholes, and Metty's now happy tones, in place of complaints, brought Chloe to the spot, and to the knowledge of the stranger's real errand. "Come right erway in, suh. I sure gwine tell Miss Betty you-all ain' none dem peddlah gemplemums, but a genuwine calleh. Dis yeah way, suh. Metty, yo' triflin' little niggah! Why ain' yo' tote one dese yeah bastics?" A familiar, not-too-heavy, cuff on the boy's ear set him briskly "toting" one basket while his mother carried the other. Mr. Stillwell followed his guide to where Mrs. Calvert sat and explained himself and his visit so simply and pleasantly that she was charmed and exclaimed: "This is delightful, to find neighbors where we looked for strangers only. How kind and how generous of your wife! I wish I could see and thank her in person." Chloe had uncovered the daintily packed baskets and Mrs. Bruce fairly glowed in housewifely pleasure over the contents. "Looks as if an artist had packed them," said Aunt Betty; and it did. Tomatoes resting in nests of green lettuce; half-husked green corn flanked by purple eggplant and creamy squashes; crimson beets and brown skinned potatoes; these filled one basket. The other was packed with grapes of varying colors, with fine peaches, pears, rosy apples and purple plums. Together they did make a bright spot of color on the sunny deck and brought a warm glow to Mrs. Calvert's heart. The cheerful face of the farmer and his open-hearted neighborliness were an agreeable contrast to the dolefulness of the more aristocratic Colonel--called such by courtesy and custom but not from any right to the title. "If the girls would only come!" said Mrs. Bruce. "I'd like to have them see the things before we move one out of its pretty place." "Well, they will. I'm sure Mr. Stillwell will wait and take our mid-day dinner with us. Besides being glad to make his acquaintance, I want to ask advice. What we are to do with the Water Lily; how to safely get the most pleasure out of it. Would you like to go over the boats, Mr. Stillwell?" This was exactly what he did wish; and presently Aunt Betty was guiding him about, displaying and explaining every detail of the little craft, as eager and animated as if she had designed it. The Colonel stalked solemnly in the rear, sighing now and then over such wasted effort and enthusiasm, and silently wondering how a Calvert could meet on such equal terms a mere farmer, one of those "common Stillwells." However, neither of the others paid him any attention, being too absorbed in their own talk; and the stranger in maturing a plan to help his hostess and her household. When everything had been examined and tested by his common sense he explained: "If this here Water Lily war mine, which she isn't; and I wanted to get the most good and most fun out of her, which I don't, I'd light right out from this region. I'd get shet of all them gapin' Corner-ites and Jimpson-ites, and boats passin' by an' takin' notes of things. I'd get a sensible tug to haul me, tender an' all, a mite further up stream till I met the Branch. I'd be hauled clean into that fur as war practical, then I'd 'paddle my own canoe.' Meanin' that then I'd hitch a rope to my mule, or use my poles, till I fetched up alongside Deer-Copse on the Ottawotta Run. There ain't no purtier spot on the face of God's good earth nor that. I war born there, or nigh-hand to it. If a set of idle folks can't be happy on the Ottawotta, then they sure deserve to be unhappy." Aunt Betty was enchanted. From his further description she felt that this wonderful Run was the very stream for them to seek; and with her old decision of manner she asked Mr. Stillwell to arrange everything for her and not to stint in the matter of expense. Then she laughed: "I have really no right to say that, either, for I'm only a guest on this boat-party. The Water Lily belongs to my little niece and it is she who will pay the bills. I wonder how soon it could be arranged with such a tug! Do you know one?" "Sure. Right away, this evenin', if you like. I happen to have a loose foot, to-day, and can tend to it. To-morrow's market and I'll have to be up soon, and busy late. Is 't a bargain? If 'tis, I'll get right about it." By "evening" meant with these Marylanders all the hours after mid-day; and, declining any refreshment, Mr. Stillwell departed about this business. His alertness and cheerfulness put new life into Aunt Betty and the widow, who hustled about putting into fresh order the already immaculate Lily. "If we're going to move I want everything spick-and-span. And the girls'll come in right tired after their wood tramp. Wonderful, ain't it? How 't that peeked, puny Elsa is a gainin' right along. Never see the beat. She'll make a right smart lot of good, wholesome flesh, if she keeps on enjoyin' her victuals as she does now. Looks as if she lived on slops most of her short life. See anything more wants doing, Mrs. Calvert?" "No, Mrs. Bruce, I do not. I wish you'd let Chloe bear her share of the work, not do so much yourself. I want you to rest--as I'm doing," answered the other. "It plumb wears me out to have folks fussin' so, Ma'am. They ain't no use. A day's only a day, when all's said and done. Why not take it easy? Take it as easy as you can and it don't amount to much, life don't. Ah! hum." But the Colonel's protest was lost on energetic Mrs. Bruce. She tossed her comely head and retorted: "Some folks find their rest in doin' their duty, not in loafin' round on other people's time and things. Not meaning any disrespect, I'm sure, but I never did have time to do nothin' in. I'm going right now and set to work on that dinner. I do wish the girls could see those baskets, first, though!" "Leave them untouched, then, Mrs. Bruce. Surely, we had enough provided before we had this present." "Yes, Mrs. Calvert, we did have--for our own folks; and counting a little on the fish the men-folks was to bring in. Seems if they's gone a dreadful spell, don't it? And I heard that old Cap'n Jack say something about the Bay. If he's enticed 'em to row out onto that big water--Oh! dear! I wish they'd come!" The Colonel roused himself to remark: "Squalls is right frequent on the Chesapeake. And that old man is no captain at all. Used to work on an oyster boat and don't know--shucks. Likely they've had an upset. Boys got to foolin' and--Ah! hum! Wasn't none of 'em your sons, were they, Ma'am?" From the moment of their first meeting there had been a silent battle between the capable housekeeper and the incapable "southern gentleman." She had had several talks with Dorothy and Jim over the finances of this trip and she knew that it would have to be a short one if "ends were to meet." She felt that this man, aristocrat though he might be, had no right to impose himself and his prodigious appetite upon them just because the lads had tried to buy his old mule and he had, instead, so generously presented it. "I don't see what good that yapping Billy does, anyway! He doesn't work at all and he's living on somebody else's grass. There'll be a bill coming in for his fodder, next we know;" she had grumbled. It may be said, to her credit, that she was infinitely more careful of Dorothy's interests than she would have been of her own. But all her grumbling and hints failed to effect what she had hoped they would--the Colonel's permanent departure for home along with the useless Billy. Now all that was to be changed. Almost before he had gone, it seemed, Farmer Stillwell came steaming down stream on a small tugboat, which puffed and fussed as if it were some mighty steamship, and passing the Water Lily manoeuvred to turn around and face upstream again. Presently, a rope was made fast to the prow of the house-boat and securely tied, and Mr. Stillwell stepped aboard to announce: "All ready to move, Ma'am. Your company all back?" "Not all. The girls have just come but the Captain and the boys are still away. We'll have to wait for them." Mrs. Calvert's answer fell on unheeding ears. "Guess not, Ma'am. This here tug's got another job right soon and if we lose this chance may not be another in a dog's age. I knowed she was around and could help us out, was the reason I spoke to you about her. I guess it's now or never with the 'Nancy Jane.' Once she goes up to Baltimo' she'll have more jobs an' she can tackle. Wouldn't be here now, only she had one down, fetching some truck-scows back. Well, what you say?" A brief consultation was held in the cabin of the Water Lily in which the voices of four eager girls prevailed: "Why, let's take the chance, of course, Auntie dear. We can leave a note pinned to the wharf telling the boys and Cap'n Jack that we've gone on to the Ottawotta. They can follow in their row-boat. And, Colonel Dillingham, can't you ride Billy alongside, on the shores we pass? We can't possibly take him on board, and he won't go without you." But now, at last, was the doughty Colonel energetic. "No, sir. I mean, no, madam! I go to Ottawotta? I allow my faithful Billy to set foot on that soil? No, ma'am. I will not. I will simply bid you good day. And young miss, let me tell you, what your relative here seems to have forgot; that no old Marylander, of first quality, would ha' turned a guest loose to shift for himself in such a way as this. But--what can you expect? Times ain't what they were and you cayn't count on anybody any more. I bid you all good day, and a pleasant v'yage. As for Billy an' me, we'll bestow ourselves where we are better appreciated." Poor Mrs. Calvert was distressed. Not often in her long life had the charge of inhospitality been laid at her door, and she hastened to explain that she wished him still to remain with them, only---- With a magnificent wave of his not too clean hand and bowing in the courtliest fashion, the disappointed visitor stepped grandly over the gang-plank, and a moment later was ordering, in his saddest tones: "Billy, lie down!" Billy obediently shook his harness, disordered by the efforts of the lads to straighten it, and crumpled himself up on the sward. The Colonel majestically placed himself upon the back of "his only friend;" commanded: "Billy, get up!" and slowly rode away up-slope to his own deserted melon-patch. "Now, isn't that a pity!" cried Dorothy, with tears in her eyes. "I didn't care for him while he was here, though Billy was just charming--for a mule! But I do hate quarreling and he's gone off mad." "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" said Mrs. Bruce, fervently. Then shaded her eyes with her hands to stare out toward the broader water in search of the missing fishermen, while the pretty Water Lily began to move away from the little wharf which had become so familiar. Meanwhile, out beyond the mouth of the river, within the shelter of a tree-shaded cove, the would-be fishermen were having adventures of their own. It was a spot which Cap'n Jack knew well and was that he had intended to reach when the little red "Stem" of the Water Lily was lowed away from her. Here was a collection of small houses, mere huts in fact, occupied by fishermen during the mild seasons. Here would always be found some old cronies of his, shipmates of the oyster-boats that plied their trade during the cold months of the year. The truth was that the "skipper" was not only lonely, so far from his accustomed haunts, but he wanted a chance to show these old mates of his how his fortunes had risen, to hear the news and give it. "Are there any fish here?" demanded Jim, when they rested on their oars just off shore. "More fish 'an you could catch in a lifetime! Look a yonder!" So saying, the captain raised his broken spy-glass to his good eye--he had the sight of but one--and surveyed the cove. Around and around he turned it, standing firmly on the bottom of the "Stem," his multitude of brass buttons glittering in the sun, and his squat figure a notable one, seen just then and there. At last, came a cry from shore. "Ship ahoy!" "Aye, aye! Port about!" roared the Captain, and dropped to his seat again. He had succeeded in his effort to attract attention, and now picked up the oars and began to pull in. Until now he had generously allowed the lads to do the rowing, despite considerable grumbling from Gerald, who was newer to that sort of work than he had pretended. But Cap'n Jack did not care for this; and he did succeed in impressing a small company of men who were industriously fishing in the cove. Most of these were in small boats, like the "Stem," but a larger craft was moored at the little wharf and about it were gathered real sailors fresh from the sea. At sight of them, the three lads forgot fishing in eagerness to meet these sailors, who had come from--nobody could guess how far! At all events, they must have seen strange things and have many "yarns to spin," which it would be fine to hear. Events proved that the sailors had never heard of "Cap'n Jack," and were duly impressed by the importance he assumed. On his tongue, the Water Lily became a magnificent yacht and he its famous Commodore, and though there were those among the fishermen who did know him well, they humored his harmless pretensions and added to his stories such marvelous details that even he was astonished into believing himself a much greater man than he had pretended. That was a gala day for the three lads. Somebody proposed lunch and some fishermen prepared it; of the freshly caught fish, cooked over a beach-wood fire, and flanked by the best things the hosts could offer. Over the food and the fire tongues were loosened, and the sailors did "yarn it" to their guests' content. At last the talk turned upon animals and one sailor, who was no older than these young landsmen, remarked: "Speakin' of monkeys, I've got a dandy pair right down in the hold now. Want to see 'em?" Of course they did! They were in a mood to wish to see anything and everything which came from afar. For, during the "yarns," in imagination they had followed these men of the sea into wonderful lands, through tropical forests, and among strange people, till even Jim's fancy was kindled. As for Melvin and Gerald, their eyes fairly shone with eagerness, and when the sailor returned to the little camp-fire, bringing a wooden cage containing the monkeys, each was possessed of a desire to own them. "For sale?" asked Gerald. "Course. I always bring home a few. Last trip I did a hundred and fifty for a Baltimore department store. Fact! Head of the firm ordered 'em. He sold 'em for two-fifty a-piece, and they went like hot cakes. Women went crazy over 'em, I heard, and, course, it was good business for him. A woman would go in the store, out of curiosity to see the monks. See something else she'd buy, and finally be talked into buying one o' them. Reckon I'll lay alongside that same store and try for another consignment." "How much?" asked Melvin. He was thinking that if so many "women went crazy" over such animals as pets, it would be a nice thing to buy this pair and present them to Dorothy. She did love animals so! "Oh! I don't know, exactly. This is the last pair I've got--they are extra clever--could be taught to speak just as well as children, I believe, only, course, a sailor don't have time to fool with 'em." He might have added that not only was this his "last pair" but his only one; and that though the transaction he described was a fact, he was not the dealer who had supplied the monkey market. Besides--but there was no need to tell all he knew about monkeys to these two possible purchasers. "Jim, don't you want to take a chance? Go thirds with us in 'em?" "No, Gerald. I don't. I mean I can't. I've only a little bit left in my purse on the boat, and I've got to get back to New York State sometime. Back to the Water Lily mighty sudden, too, seems if. Must ha' been here a terrible time. Shucks! I clean forgot our folks were waiting for their fish-dinner while we were eatin' our own. Come on! We must go! and not a single fish to show for our whole morning!" "Wait a minute. It's so late now it can't matter. They'd have had their dinner, anyway. You won't join?" again asked Gerald. "Can't." "I will, if he doesn't ask too much. What's the price, sailor? We'll take them if it isn't too high," said Melvin. The man named a sum that was greater than the combined capital of Gerald and Melvin. Then, although he wasn't a purchaser himself, Jim tried his usual "dickering" and succeeded in lowering the price of the simians, "clever enough to talk English," to ten dollars for the pair. "All right! Here's my fiver!" cried Gerald, reluctantly pulling out a last, dilapidated bill from a very flat pocket-book. "And mine," added Melvin, tendering his own part. "Now, we must go, right away!" declared Jim, hastily rising. He thought the sailor who had promptly pocketed the ten dollars of his friends was suspiciously kind, insisting upon carrying the cage of monkeys down to the "Stem," and himself placing it securely in the bottom of the boat. The little animals kept up a chattering and showed their teeth, after a manner that might be as clever as their late owner claimed but certainly showed anger. Indeed, they tore about their cage in such a fury of speed that it nearly fell overboard and in the haste of embarking everyone forgot the original object of this trip, till Jim exclaimed: "Went a-fishin' and caught monkeys! Won't they laugh at us?" An hour later they brought up alongside the wharf which they had begun to think was their own, so familiar and homelike it had become. But there was nothing familiar about it now. The water lapped gently against the deserted pier and a forgotten painter dangled limply from the post at its end. "Gone!" cried one and another of the lads, looking with frightened eyes over the scene. "Gone! Somebody's stole--my--ship!" groaned Cap'n Jack, for once in actual terror. For that the Water Lily could "navigate" without his aid under any circumstances was a thing beyond belief. CHAPTER X. A MERE ANNE ARUNDEL GUST. Then they found Dorothy's note. "Dear boys and Captain: "We've gone on to Ottawotta Run. Farmer Stillwell's tug, that he owns half of, is towing us to the Branch. There some more men will be hired to pole us to Deer-Copse. Aunt Betty says you're to hire a wagon, or horses, or somebody to bring you and the Stem after us. She will pay for it, or I will, that's just the same. And, oh! I can't wait to tell you! There's a _buried treasure_ up there that we must find! A regular 'Captain Kidd' sort, you know, so just hurry up--I mean take it easy, as Auntie advises; but come, and do it quick! Don't forget to bring the fish. Mrs. Bruce says put them in a basket and trail them after you, if you come by boat; or, anyway, try to keep them fresh for breakfast. Dolly." "I reckon they'll keep, seeing they aren't caught yet. What fools we were to go off just then! How do you suppose, in this mortal world, those women and girls had gumption enough to run away with that house-boat? I'll bet they did it just to get ahead of _me_, 'cause I'd said plain enough I wouldn't go to any old hole-in-the-woods. I simply wouldn't. And I shan't. I'll get passage on one these fruit-scows going back to Baltimore and quit the whole thing. I will so;" declared Gerald, fuming about the wharf in a fine rage. "Got money left for your 'passage?'" asked Jim. He was pondering how best and soonest to "follow" the Water Lily, as he had been bid. They were all too tired with their rowing to do any more of it that day, and his pride shrank from hiring a wagon, for his own convenience, that he wasn't able to pay for. "What about your monkey, Gerry?" queried Melvin. "Oh! I'll--I mean--you take it off my hands till--later." "No, thank you. I've invested all I can afford in monkeys just now, don't you know? But I'd sell out, only I do want to give them to her. She's such a darling of a girl, to entertain us like this. She might have been born in our Province, I fancy, she's so like a Canadian in kindness and generosity." It was a long speech for modest Melvin and an enthusiastic one. He blushed a little as he felt his comrades' eyes turned teasingly upon him, but he did not retract his words. He added to them: "Dorothy Calvert makes me think of my mother, don't you know? And a girl that does that is an all right sort I fancy. Anyway, I've thought lots of times, since I found out it was she and not the rich aunt who was paying the expenses of our jaunt, that it was mighty unselfish of her to do it. Jim's let that 'cat out the bag.' He was too top-lofty to take a cent of profit from that mine he discovered last summer for Mr. Ford, but all the girls were made small shareholders and got three hundred dollars a-piece for a send-off. Miss Molly, whose father I work for, put hers right into gew-gaws or nonsense, but I think Dolly's done better. The least I can do to show her my appreciation is to give her the monkeys." "Speak for yourself, sir, please. Half that monkey transaction is mine, and I don't intend to impoverish myself for any girl. I mean to train them till they're worth a lot of money, then sell them." "Oh! no you won't. You're not half bad, don't you know? You like to talk something fierce but it's _talk_. If it isn't, pick out your own monk and be off with it. You'll have to leave me the cage for Dorothy because she'll have to keep _my_ monk, _her_ monk, _the_ monk in it sometimes." "Most of the times I guess. I don't like the looks of the creatures anyway. They're ugly. I wish you fellows had left them on that sailor's hands. He just befooled us with his big talk. Why, sir, I got so interested myself I'd have hired out to any ship would have me if it had come along just then. Queer, ain't it? The way just _talk_ can change a fellow's mind," said Jim. "Hello, Cap'n! What you found now?" The old man had been limping about on the bank where Billy had enjoyed himself, and which his teeth had shorn smooth as a mowing machine might have done. It was a field rarely used, which explains why Billy and Methuselah had been left to do as they pleased there. So Metty had carried thither all the trifling toys and playthings he had picked up during his trip. Shells, curious stones, old nails, a battered jew's-harp, and a string of buttons, had been stored in an old basket which the pickaninny called his playhouse. The playhouse caught the old man's eye and the end of his crutch as well, and he glared angrily upon the "trash" which had come in his way. Also, he lifted the crutch and flung Metty's treasures broadcast. Among them was an old wallet, still securely strapped with a bit of leather. Captain Jack had a notion he'd seen that wallet before, but couldn't recall where. Opening it he drew out a yellowed bit of old-fashioned letter-paper on which a rude picture was sketched. There were a few written words at the bottom of the sketch, but "readin' handwrite" was one of the accomplishments the good captain disdained. But his curiosity was aroused and he whistled to the lads to join him, holding up the paper as an inducement. They did so, promptly, and Jim took the extended paper, thinking it was another note from the absent "Lilies," as the house-boat company had named itself. Then he, too, whistled, and cried: "Hello! Here's a find! Has something to do with that fool talk o' Dolly's about 'buried treasure.' Somebody's been bamboozlin' her and this is part of it." The four heads bent together above the odd little document, which had been folded and unfolded so often it was quite frayed in places with even some of the writing gone. The drawing represented a bit of woodland, with a stream flowing past, and a ford indicated at one point, with animals drinking. It was marked by the initials of direction, N, S, E, W; and toward the latter point a zig-zag line suggested a path. The path ended at the root of a tree whose branches grew into something like the semblance of a cross. Unfortunately, the writing was in French, a language not one understood. But, found as it was, evidently lost by somebody who had valued it, and taken in conjunction with Dorothy's words--"buried treasure"--it was enough to set all those young heads afire with excitement. Even the Captain took the paper and again critically studied it; remarking as he replaced it in the wallet: "Dretful sorry I didn't fetch my readin'-specs when I come away from town. Likely, if I had I could ha' explained its hull meanin'." "Dreadful sorry it wasn't Greek, or even Latin! I could have ciphered the meaning then, if it has a meaning. But every-day French, shucks!" "How do you know it's French if you don't know French?" demanded Gerry. "Oh! I've seen it in Dr. Sterling's library. I know a word or two an' I plan to know more. Don't it beat all? That just a little bit of ignorance can hide important things from a fellow, that way? I tell you there never was a truer word spoke than that 'knowledge is power'." Melvin cried: "Come off! That'll do. Once you get talking about learning and you're no good. Cap'n, you best stow that in your pocket and help us settle how to 'follow our leaders'. For my part, I've no notion of sleeping out doors, now that it looks so likely to storm. What'll we do?" "Hoof it to the Landin' and hire a conveyance. One that'll carry us an' the boat, too. That's what she says, and if there's a girl in the hull state o' Maryland, or Annyrunnell, either, that's got more sense in her little head nor my 'fust mate', Dorothy, you show me the man 'at says so, an' I'll call him a liar to his face." "That's all right, Cap'n, only don't get so excited about it. Nobody's trying to take the wind out of Dorothy's sails. So let's get on. I reckon I can punt along as far as that Landing, even with a cargo of monkeys. Then Gerry can take his and skip, and we'll take the other to our folks." Melvin was laughing as he talked. Gerald's angry, disgusted face had changed its expression entirely, since that finding of the curious map which made the possibility of the "buried treasure" seem so real. "Oh! I won't bother now. I reckon I'd ought to go on and ask Aurora if she wants to go home with me, or not. Popper and Mommer'd be sure to ask me why I didn't bring her. We can settle about the monkeys later." "Huh! I tell you what I believe! 'Wild horses couldn't drag' you back to town till you've found out all about what that Frenchy letter means and have had a dig for the 'treasure'. I know it couldn't _me_. There isn't a word of sense in the whole business, course. Likely these whole States have been dug over, foot by foot, same's our Province has, don't you know? But my mother says there always have been just such foolish bodies and there always will be. Silly, I fancy; all the same, if Dorothy or anybody else starts on this business of digging, I'll ply the liveliest shovel of the lot." Melvin but expressed the sentiments of all three lads. Even the old captain was recalling wonder-tales, such as this might be, and feeling thrills of excitement in his old veins. Suddenly, he burst out: "Well, I'd be some hendered by my crutches but when you get to diggin' just lemme know an' I'll be thar!" They waited no longer then, but stepped back into the "Stem," the caged monkeys viciously scolding and sometimes yelling, till the Captain fairly choked with fear and indignation. However, nothing serious happened. They reached Jimpson's in a little while, and were fortunate in finding a teamster about to start home along the river road. His wagon was empty, the row-boat could be slung across it, there would be abundant room for passengers--including monkeys--a new sort of "fare" to him. But they had scarcely got started on this part of their journey before the threatening storm was upon them. This "gust" was a fearful one, and they were exposed to its full fury. The driver shielded himself as best he could under his blankets but offered none to his passengers. The sky grew dark as night, relieved only by the lightning, and rivalled, in fact, that tempest which had visited them on the first day of their trip. Fortunately, horses know the homeward way--though to be literal these horses were mules--and they travelled doggedly along, unguided save by their own instinct. Also, when they had ridden so far that it seemed to the drenched travellers that they had always been so riding and always should be, there came a sudden slackening in the storm and an outburst of moonlight from behind the scattering clouds that was fairly startling. After a moment of surprise Melvin broke the silence, asking: "Do you have this kind of thing often in Maryland?" "Sure. Down in Annyrunnell we do. 'S nothin' but a 'gust'. Most gen'ally has 'em if the day opens up hot, like this one did. But it's purty when it's over, and yender's the turn to the Copse. My road lies t'other way. It's a quarter a-piece for you white folks an' fifty a-head fer the monks. I 'low 'twas them hoodooed the trip. Hey? What? Can't pay? What in reason 'd ye hire me for, then? I ain't workin' for fun, I'd let you know. We're honest folks in Annyrunnell an' we don't run up no expenses 't we can't meet. No, siree. You asked me to bring you an' I've brung. Now you don't leave this here wagon till I've got my money for my job." "Look here, farmer! What sort of a man are you, anyway? We went off fishing not expecting our house-boat would go on without us. We had no mon----" began Jim, about as angry as he had ever been in his self-controlled life. "You had money enough to buy fool monkeys, didn't you?" Gerald answered promptly: "That's none of your business! Suppose we did. We paid it and it's gone. So put that in your pipe and smoke it." Came the sullen answer: "Don't smoke. Don't waste _my_ money. Pay up now, and get on. I want my supper, and it's past milkin' time a'ready." Melvin was shaking with chill, sitting there in his wet clothes, but the absurdity of the situation appealed to him, and he asked: "Since we've spent all our money for monkeys, will you take a monk for pay?" "No, siree. I've no use fer such vermin an' you'll get sick enough of 'em, 'fore you're through." With that the teamster drew his driest blanket about him, settled himself comfortably, and pretended to go to sleep. "Wake me up when you get ready to pay." Then began a fresh search in every pocket for the needed two dollars which would release them from this imprisonment. "I haven't got a penny!" declared old Cap'n Jack with tearful earnestness. "I spent every last one a-fixin' up to look like a skipper'd ought to." "I _did_ have a little, but I left it in my bunk. I was afraid I'd spend it if I didn't almost hide it from myself," wailed honest Jim. "All I had, except what I paid the sailor, is in my other clothes; that bill I gave the sailor was one I always carried with me because my mother gave----" Melvin didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't. He was shivering too much and that sudden memory of his idolized mother almost unmanned him. Suppose he were to contract pneumonia? Her constant dread was that he should be ill and die. But it was Gerald who now suffered most. Because the morning had been so warm he had put on a white duck suit. He fancied himself in it and it was becoming; but it was also thin, and under present circumstances a costume of torment. If Melvin were shivering, Gerald was worse. He was shaking so that the ricketty wagon rattled and he felt as if he were dying. "Oh! man alive! Don't act the tyrant this way! Tell us where you live and I give you my word of honor I'll go to your place the first thing to-morrow and settle. I'll even pay double," begged Jim; and when the farmer remained obstinately silent, leaped from the wagon and dragged Gerald after him. "Run, run! You'll get warm that way! Run, I tell you, for your life!" But the poor lad couldn't. He sank down upon the wet earth and was fast lapsing into unconsciousness when the lash of the teamster's whip fell smartly about him. "I'll warm you, ye young scamp! Cheat an honest man of his earnin's, will you?" But the whip went no further. With a yell as of some enraged animal, Jim flew at the man and gathered all the strength of his labor-trained muscles for one fierce onslaught. CHAPTER XI. A MORNING CALL OF MONKEYS. Then a mighty din arose. With an answering yell the half-drunken teamster flew at his assailant, using his whip continually, but not wisely, for both wrath and liquor blinded him. Else would the result have been worse for Jim. The startled Cap'n Jack tossed his crutches out of the wagon and recklessly tumbled after them; then picked them up to lay about him in an aimless effort to subdue the fighters. But he managed to hit nobody for, as he afterward stated, "they didn't stan' still long enough." Shrieking for peace Melvin jumped to the ground, upsetting the cage of monkeys, whose frantic yells and jabberings added a strange note to the racket, until their own wild antics forced their cage out of the wagon. Then, terrified by their fall, they became quiet enough till the Captain caught the bars of their little prison-house on his crutches and tossed it out of the way of the feet of the mules, which were also becoming excited. Still pleading uselessly for peace, Melvin managed to drag poor Gerald out of the road to a safer place, then warmed himself by seeking to warm his poor friend. So engaged did he become in trying to reanimate the motionless form that he scarcely heard what was going on about him or knew when the frightened mules set out on a lively trot for home, leaving their owner behind them but carrying away the row-boat, well strapped to the wagon-box. Then suddenly, upon the uproar of angry voices, jabbering monkeys, the rumble of the disappearing wagon, and the screeching of an owl in the tree-top, broke another sound. A man came merrily whistling out of the woods, his gun over his shoulder, his dog at his heels. "Shut up, Towse! What in Bedlam's here!" cried the newcomer, running up. A moment later, when he had recognized the befused and battered teamster, demanding: "Who you fightin' with now, By Smith? Never really at peace 'cept when ye're rowin', are ye?" This salutation surprised the contestants into quiet, and the man addressed as "By" laughed sheepishly, and picked his hat out of the mud. Then he turned and discovered the loss of his wagon. At this his fury burst forth again and he slouched upon poor Cap'n Jack with uplifted fists and the demand: "Whe's my team at, you thief? You stole my wagon! What you done with my wagon you----" But a hand laid across his lips prevented his saying more. "There, there, Byny, that'll do. Lost your wagon, have you? Well, it serves you right. A fellow that takes the pledge 's often as you do an' breaks it as often. Now, sober up, or down, and tell what all this rumpus means and who these folks are." There was something very winning about this newcomer, with his frank manner and happy face, which smiled even while he reproved, but no words can well describe the utter carelessness of his attire and his general air of a ne'er-do-well. The lads, Melvin and Jim, began to explain, but a lofty wave of the cripple's crutch bade them yield that point to him. "I'm Cap'n Jack Hurry, of the Water Lily; a yacht cruisin' these here waters an'--an'----" The excited old man paused. The man with the gun was laughing! As for that he, Cap'n Jack, saw nothing laughable in the present situation. "Cruising in the woods, you mean, eh? Good enough! Haven't tumbled out of a balloon, have ye? Look 's if ye'd got soused, anyhow, and 'd ought to get under cover." Then Jim took up the tale and in a moment had explained all. He finished by asking: "Is there any house near where we can take this boy? He's been overcome with the wet and has done a lot of rowin', to-day, that he ain't used to. Is it far to Deer-Copse?" "Yes, a good mile or more. But my house ain't so far. We'll take him right there. Fetch some them saplings piled yonder. Get that blanket's tumbled out By's wagon. Fix a stretcher, no time." Laziness seemed stamped all over this man's appearance but he wasn't lazy now. It seemed he might have often made such stretchers as this he so promptly manufactured by tying the four corners of the blanket upon the crossed saplings. The blanket was wet, of course, but so was poor Gerald; and in a jiffy they had laid him upon it and started off through the woods. The hunter carried the head of the stretcher by hands held behind him and Jim the foot. Melvin courageously shouldered the cage of monkeys which he would gladly have left behind save for Gerald's partnership in them. The Cap'n wearily stumped along behind, sodden and forlorn, more homesick than ever for his old city haunts. "Byny" was left behind, his fare still uncollected, to trudge home on foot to his belated milking. Even the lads who had been so furious against him had now utterly forgotten him in this prospect of shelter and help for Gerald. His condition frightened his mates. Neither knew much about illness and nothing of Gerry's really frail constitution, nor that it had been mostly on his account the Water Lily had been built. "My name's Cornwallis Stillwell. Corny I'm called. That was my brother Wicky--Wickliffe, I mean--that tugged you up the Branch. He--he's as smart as I ain't. Ha, ha! But what's the odds? He likes workin', I like loafin' an' 'invitin' my soul', as the poets say. All be the same, a hundred years from now. Won't make a mite of odds to the world whether I hunt 'possums or he ploughs 'taters. I live on his farm an' Lucetty runs it, along with the kids. Wicky calls it mine, 'cause it was my share of father's property. But it ain't. It's only his good brotherliness make him say it. We et it up ages ago. Bit at it by way of mortgages, you know, till now there ain't a mouthful lef'. I mean, they can't another cent be raised on it. It's Wicky's yet, but I'm afraid it'll sometime be Dr. Jabb's. Wicky holds a mortgage on me, body and soul, and Doc holds one on Wicky, and so it's a kind of Peter-and-Paul job. Be all right in a hundred years and there ain't a man in old Maryland nor Anne Arundel can hold a taller candle to my brother Wickliffe Stillwell, nor a wax one, either. I can talk, can't I? So can he--when he can catch anybody an' make 'em listen. Here we be--most. That's my castle yonder. Hope Lucetty ain't asleep. If she is, she'll wake up lively when she hears my yodel. Nicest woman in the world, Lucetty. A pleasin' contrast to Lizzie, Wicky's wife. That woman'd drive _me_ crazy but she suits him." All this information had not been given at once, but at intervals along the way through the forest where the travelling was smooth. But rough or smooth, the path had been a direct one, swiftly yet gently followed by this good Samaritan of the wilderness; and now, as he gave that warning cry he boasted, a light appeared in the windows of the whitewashed cabin they approached and, roused by the musical, piercing signal, Gerald stirred faintly on his litter. "Comin' to! Good enough! I knew he would, soon's he came within hailing distance of Lucetty!" Seen by moonlight the humble dwelling looked rather pretty, so gleaming was its whitewash and so green the vines that clambered about its door. In reality it had once been negro quarters, a low ceiled cabin of three rooms--and a pig-pen! The latter a most important feature of this home. Following the candle-light a woman appeared. She was slender to emaciation and her face almost colorless; but a beautiful smile habitually hovered about the thin lips and the blue eyes were gentle and serene. Evidently, she was among the poorest of the poor of this earth, but, also, the happiest. "Why, Corny, dear! Back so soon? And you've brought me company I see. They are welcome, sure, but--what's wrong here?" Stepping outside the woman bent above Gerald and earnestly studied his face. Then she swiftly turned, ordering: "Fetch him right in. Lay him there. Somebody light the kindlings in the stove. One of you fetch a pail of water from the well. Pour it into that tea-kettle, get it hot soon's possible. Corny, fetch your good shirt. Haul that 'comfort' off the children's bed--it's warm from their little bodies, bless 'em! Now help me get these wet things off and dry ones on. Soon's the water boils make a cup of ginger tea. Thank goodness there's enough ginger left in the can. Don't know how? Corny, you darling, you grow stupider every day! Hear me! One teaspoonful of ginger to the blue bowl of water. Hot as he can drink it. Look in the crock and see if there's a single lump of sugar left. No? Then those blessed children have been into it again and the poor fellow'll have to drink his dose without." Swift as the directions were given they were obeyed, yet there was not the slightest confusion or excitement. Jim and Melvin watched from the wooden bench against the wall while Cap'n Jack hovered over the broken stove, deriving what comfort he could from the blaze of kindlings within. He would have added a stick of wood from a near-by pile, but the master of the house laughed and shook his head. "Can't waste anything while Lucetty's around. Why, that woman can make a kettle boil with just one blazing newspaper under it. Fact!" "That's all right, Corny, dear, but you'd best add 't it was a big paper and a mighty little kettle. Now, that's real nice. Your good shirt fits him to a T! And the 'comfort's' a comfort indeed to his chilled body. Aye, my boy, you're all right now. You're visitin' in Corny Stillwell's house and you'll be taken care of. Lie right still, I mean hold your head up if you can and swallow some this nice ginger tea. Set your circulation going quick. You've had a right smart duckin' but you're young and 'twon't harm you. What? Don't like it? Foolish boy! Come here, one you others, or both. They's enough in this bowl for all of you, that old officer into the bargain. Have a swallow, Commodore?" How this wise little woman chanced to hit upon the very title dearest to this old vagrant's heart is a puzzle; but he beamed upon her as she said it and drained the last contents of the bowl without a shudder, even though most of the ginger had settled there and stung his throat to choking. The bed upon which his hosts had placed Gerald was their own, and stood in one corner of the front room which was, also, kitchen, dining-room and parlor. It was of good size, with a rag carpet on its earthen floor and well ventilated by cracks between the clap-boarded sides. There were holes in the carpet and the Captain's crutch caught in one, and lifted it, revealing the earth beneath. Seeing him look at it prompted the hostess to explain: "We're going to put down boards, sometime, when Corny dear can get them and the time to fix them. The little rough spots and rents are from the children's feet. They are such active little things, especially Saint Augustine." Then she looked at her husband inquiringly and he nodded his head in approval. After which he disappeared into the third room, or lean-to, and was gone some time. When he returned he had a well-worn pewter tray in hand upon which he had arranged with careful exactness four chunks of cold suppawn and four tin cups of buttermilk. These he passed to his guests with a fine air of hospitality, and they accepted the offering in the same courteous spirit. All except Gerald, who had fallen asleep and whose portion was set aside till he should wake. Melvin choked over the tasteless cold pudding and the very sour buttermilk, but he would have choked still more and from a different cause had he suspected that he was helping to eat the family breakfast, for want of which six healthy youngsters would go hungry on the coming day. Presently, Mrs. Lucetta rose and blew out the candle. Jim's early training in poverty told him that its burning longer was an "extravagance" when there was such brilliant moonlight to take its place, and that his hostess felt it such. Also, reminded him that they should be leaving this hospitable house if they were to reach the Water Lily that night. Only, what about Gerald? Rising, he asked: "Mr. Stillwell, can you show us the way to Deer-Copse, or tell us I mean? Our house-boat must be there and our folks'll be anxious. And don't you s'pose we could carry Gerry there, just the same as we brought him here? I'm sure we're more obliged to you and Mrs. Stillwell than I can very well say. You treated us prime--and----" From the foot of the bed where she sat Mrs. Lucetta answered for her husband. Evidently she did most of his thinking for him. "I've fixed all that. This sick boy must stay just where he is till he can walk to the Copse on his own feet. That won't be to-morrow nor next day. So one of you other boys had best stay, too. He might be afraid of me----" "Hear! hear! afraid of Lucetty! He'd be the first livin' creatur' 't ever was, then!" interrupted Corny, with his hearty laugh. "You can lead them the way better than tell it. On your way back you'd better call on Dr. Jabb and ask him to ride round." "Lucetty? A doctor? Just because a healthy boy got caught in a 'gust'? Wh----" "Yes, Corny, dear, but you see he isn't _our_ boy. It would be better, and of course, if these people can afford a boat of their own, they can pay for a doctor. I'd have to have that understood," she finished with some hesitation and a flush of color rising in her pale cheek. "Sure. It will be, but I hope, it can't be, 't Gerry's really sick. If he is I'll be the one to stay take care of him. Melvin, you go along with this gentleman an' Cap'n Jack, and take care you don't worry any of them about Gerry. Can't be he's really sick." "Yes, let's set sail! It's real comf'table here, Ma'am, but I'm anxious to get back to my bridge; an' my clo'es--sea-farin' men is apt to be rheumatic--they're jest a speck damp----" "Of course. Sorry we couldn't offer you each a change. As it is you'd better go, soon as you can, too. What is in that box you brought along? Something alive, I know, for it keeps up such a queer noise." "They're terribly alive, indeed, don't you know? And I fancy they're as hungry as I was. But," as his hostess hastily rose, doubtless to seek further refreshments, Melvin added: "I shouldn't know what in the world to give them. They're just a pair of monkeys, Mrs. Stillwell, and I haven't an idea, don't you know, what they would or would not eat." "Monkeys! How lovely! Oh! please do leave them overnight, so that the children can see them. Why, Corny dear, it would be almost like going to a circus, as we did once before we were married. Down to Annapolis, you know. Do you remember?" "Shall I ever forget? With you the prettiest show----" "Corny, dear, there are strangers present. Family speeches don't belong. Now be off." Yet like a happy girl she submitted to her husband's parting kiss as if it were an ordinary, every-day matter, and as the trio passed out of sight she turned to Jim, explaining: "I'm very glad _you_ stayed and not the other. Gerald's fever is rising fast. He may get restless and Corny--Did he take his gun?" "I believe so, ma'am. I think he picked it up as he went out the door." Lucetta sighed. "Then like as not he'll forget all about the doctor. He wouldn't mean to, not for a minute; only the dear fellow cannot resist the woods. He loves them so. I've known him to get up in the night and wander off, to be gone two or three days. But he always comes home so happy and rested. I'm glad to have him go." "Do you stay here alone those times, ma'am? It seems a pretty lonesome sort of place. I didn't see any other houses nigh." "Yes, I stay alone, that is with six of the sweetest children ever lived. So, of course, though there are no houses near, I'm never lonely. I'm busy, too, and to be busy is to be happy." Jim wondered at the refined and cultured language of this isolated countrywoman, until she explained, after a moment: "I was a school teacher before we were married and we brought several books with us here. I teach the children now, instead of a larger school, and they're so bright! I'll have them recite to you in the morning." "What does Mr. Stillwell do, your husband, to tire him, so't he needs the woods to rest him? Does he farm it?" He had no sooner spoken the words than he was sorry; remembering the description of himself that Corny had given on their way out. And he was the more disturbed because his hostess left the question unanswered. In the silence of the room he began to grow very drowsy. His still wet clothing was uncomfortable and he would have been glad to replenish the scanty fire. But delicacy prevented this, so he settled back against the bench and was soon asleep. He was a sound sleeper always, but that night his slumber lasted unbroken for many hours. He awoke at last in affright, throwing off a breadth of rag carpet which, in want of something better, Mrs. Stillwell had folded about him. Dazed by his sudden rousing from such a profound sleep he fancied he was again mixed in a wild battle with somebody. Shrieks and cries, of laughter and of pain, shrill voices of terrified children, the groans of men, the anxious tones of a woman, all these mingled in one hubbub of sound that was horrible indeed. Then something leaped to his shoulders and he felt his hair pulled viciously, while an ugly little face, absurdly human, leered into his and sharp little teeth seized upon his ear. With a yell of distress he put up his hand to choke the creature, and saw on the other side of the room a bald-headed gentleman wrestling with a duplicate of his own enemy. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried poor Lucetta, and could find nothing else to say; while a laughing face peered in from the field outside, enjoying the pandemonium within. "Nothing but monkeys, dear! Do 'let's keep them over night just to show the blessed children'!" mocked the incorrigible Corny; while the indignant gentleman struggling in the kitchen with his long-tailed assailant, glared at him and yelled: "Laugh, will you, you idle good-for-naught! I'll have you in the lock-up for this! Rousing me out of bed with your tale of a sick boy and luring me into this! Let me tell you, Cornwallis Stillwell, you've played your last practical joke, and into jail you go, soon as I can get a warrant for you! I mean it, this time, you miserable, worthless skunk!" Corny's mirth died under the harsh words hurled at him and a grim closing of his square jaws showed that submission wasn't in his mind. But it was a voice from the bed in the corner which silenced both men, as Gerald awoke and regarded the scene. "The monkeys are mine. I mean they are Melvin's. No, Dorothy's. Somebody take 'em to Dorothy, quick, quick! Oh! my head, my head!" Jim's fear of the simians vanished. With a signal to the man beyond the window he clutched the creature from his back and hurled it outward. Then he rushed to the irate doctor, grabbed his tormentor and hurried with it out of doors. A moment later the door of the cage, which the curious children had unfastened, was closed and locked and peace was again restored. Then said Corny Stillwell: "I'll lug those monkeys to the Lily. That was hot talk Doc gave me! It's one thing to call myself a vagabond and another to have him say so. I'm for the woods, where I belong, with the rest of the brainless creatures!" "Pshaw! He didn't mean that. You won't be locked up. The monkeys are ours, the blame is ours, don't be afraid!" counselled Jim, with his hand upon his host's shoulder. But the other shook it off, indignantly. "Afraid? _Afraid!_ _I?_ Why that _is_ a joke, indeed!" and with that, his gun upon his back, the cage in his hand, he marched away. CHAPTER XII. UNDER THE PERSIMMON TREE. Saint Augustine cocked his pretty head on one side and looked roguishly up into Jim Barlow's face. "Be you goin' to stay to my house all your life? 'Cause if you be I know somethin'." "I hope you do. But, I say, let that celery alone. What's the fun of pulling things up that way?" "I was just helpin'. I helps Mamma, lots of times." Saint Augustine was the second son of Lucetta Stillwell and certainly misnamed. There was nothing saintly about him except his wonderful blue eyes and his curly, golden hair. This, blowing in the wind, formed a sort of halo about his head and emphasized the beauty of the thin little face beneath. Ten days had passed since Jim and his mates had come to Corny Stillwell's cabin and Gerald still lay on his bed there. He was almost well now, Dr. Jabb said, and to-morrow might try his strength in a short walk about the yard. His illness had been a severe attack of measles, which he had doubtless contracted before his leaving home, and lest he should carry the contagion to the "Lilies," Jim hadn't been near the house-boat all this time. He had been worried about the children of his hosts but the mother had calmly assured him: "They won't take it. They've had it. They've had everything they could in the way of diseases, but they always get well. I suppose that's because they are never pampered nor overfed." "I should think they weren't!" Jim had burst out, impulsively, remembering the extremely meagre diet upon which they subsisted. In his heart he wished they might have the chance of "pampering" for a time, till their gaunt little faces filled out and grew rosy. He had thought he knew what poverty was but he hadn't, really; until he became an inmate of this cabin in the fields. To him it seemed pitiful, when at meal time the scant portions of food were distributed among the little brood, to see the eagerness of their eyes and the almost ravenous clutch of the little tin plates as they were given out. Even yet he had never seen his hostess eat. That she did so was of course a fact, else she would have died; but the more generous portions of the meal-pudding which were placed before him made him feel that he was, indeed, "taking bread from the children's mouths," and from the mother's, as well. Dr. Jabb had gone to the Water Lily, now peacefully moored in "the loveliest spot on the earth," as Farmer "Wicky" had described it, and reported Gerald's condition. He had also added: "He won't need much nourishment till his fever goes down; then, Madam, if you can manage it you'd best send food across to the cabin for him. Let a messenger carry it to the entrance of the field and leave it there, where the lad, Jim, can get it. May not be need for such extreme precaution; but 'an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.' Lucetta Stillwell is a noble woman, tied to a worthless husband whom she adores. They must be terribly poor, though she's so proud you'd never guess it from her manner. I gave it to Corny hot and heavy, the other night, and at the time I felt every word I said. I don't know. He's no more capable of doing a man's part in the world than that young pickaninny yonder," pointing to Metty on the ground, fascinated by the jabbering monkeys in their cage near-by. The doctor had said this to Mrs. Calvert very soon after Gerald was stricken, and had added a parting injunction: "Don't over-feed the sick boy and don't begin too soon." Then he had ridden away and promptly forgot all about the case. So Mrs. Calvert delayed the shipment of food for several days, during which Jim had ample time to grow mortally sick of hasty-pudding, on his own account, and anxious on that of Lucetta. But gradually he had won her to speak more freely of her affairs. "Yes, I do considerable of the work myself. You see it doesn't come natural to Corny dear. He's more a child than Saint Augustine, even, in some things." "Why, his brother said--Shucks!" "What did his brother say, please?" "Oh! nothin'. I didn't mean----" Lucetta laughed in her gentle, patient way: "Of course you didn't mean and you don't need. I know Wicky Stillwell and his wife, Lizzie, from A to Izzard. Good people, the best in the world and the smartest. But they can't see a fault in Corny--not that I can either, understand! Only they don't see why it is our farm--it's his, really--doesn't pay better. But we can't afford to hire and a woman's not so strong as a man. Yet we're happy. Just as happy as the days are long and we've never starved yet. It's my faith that there's bread in the world enough for every mouth which needs it. God wouldn't be a Father and not so order it. That's one compensation of this life of mine, that you fancied might be lonely. I can't go to church, I'm too far away, so I just pretend that all this--around me--is one church and that He's in it all the time. I named each of the children after some holy person and I hope each will grow like his namesake--in time." "Did you plant this celery?" "Yes. There was a man rode around, distributing government seeds, came from some 'Farmer's Institute,' I reckon, and he gave them. Corny said it was hardly worth while, celery's such a trouble; but I did it on the sly. Corny loves celery, just loves it; when he's been lucky with his gun and brings home some game. Then! Won't it be grand to have it for a surprise? Makes me think, it ought to be hoed right now. I'll fetch the hoe." "You'll do nothin' of the sort while I'm loafin' around, idle. Gerry doesn't need me only now and again and I'm pinin' for a job. You sit an' rest, or teach the kids. Let me just work for my board. If you'll tell me where the hoe is, please?" When found Jim looked at it with dismay. The handle was fairly good but the steel part was broken in half and practically worthless. "Reckon Wesley, my eldest son, must have been using it. He's always trying to 'make something.' I think he'll be a great inventor by and by. But really, it doesn't seem hospitable--it _isn't_, to let you or any other guest work. I can manage very well, very well, indeed. You can sit and read. We have a Shakespeare--what the children haven't destroyed--a Bible, and two volumes of Scott. We're real proud of our library and I keep it in my wedding chest. I have to, the children are so bright and inquiring." "Too inquiring I think! 'Tain't healthy for 'em to be quite so smart!" Jim laughed, shouldered his hoe, and marched away across the little strip of grass between the house and garden--so-called. The ground for this Lucetta's feeble hands had dug with a spade that matched in condition the hoe Jim had found. Melon seeds had been sown there and had duly sprouted. But the "inquiring" minds of the children had daily pulled them up to see if there were any melons at the root. The potatoes had received the same treatment, the corn ditto, and the wonder was that even a few plants had survived their efforts to "make 'em grow faster." Now here was Saint Augustine "helping" to transplant the celery which had until now escaped culture at their hands. Jim worked as he had never done even in all his active young life. His heart ached with pity for the little woman who faced her hard life so bravely and so happily, and he was revolving many plans to help her, and to a greater extent than a few days of farm labor could do. "'Cause I say, I know somethin'." "Well, what is it, Sainty?" "Ain't 'Sainty', but 'Au--gus--tine'. Say it nice, like Mamma does. She cried last night." "Never!" "Yep, she did! She cried an' she talked to herself right outside the winder where I sleep. She kep' callin' 'Corny! Corny! come home!' Just that way she said it and he didn't answer a word. Corny's my papa, don't you know? He goes off times and stays an' Wesley says my mamma gets scared he will be killed with his gun. Say, I'm goin' to run away and find him. I am so. Don't you tell. But I am. I'm goin' to find that monkey cage and I'm going to travel all around the world and show 'em to folks for money. That's what my papa said, that morning when we let 'em out and he went away. He said, my papa said: 'Suppose younkers we start a circus of our own?' He said he'd always wanted to do it and he knows the best things they is. He's terrible smart, my papa is. My mamma says so, and she knows. My mamma and my papa know every single thing there is. My papa he knows a place where a man that lived hunderds and millions years ago dug a hole an' put something in it, I reckon money; and my papa says if he'd a mind to he could go and dig it right square up, out the ground, and buy my mamma a silk dress an' me a little cart all red an'----" "There, chatterbox! Get out the way! If you want to help, take that little bucket to the spring and bring it full of water, to sprinkle these plants." "All right," cheerfully answered Saint Augustine, and ran swiftly away. Alas! he did not run swiftly back! Jim forgot all about him but toiled faithfully on till little Saint Anne came out to call him to dinner. She was his favorite of all the children, a tender-hearted little maid with her mother's face and her mother's serene gentleness of manner. "Your dinner's ready, Mister Jim, and it's a mighty nice one, too. My mamma said they was more that chicken than any sick boy could eat and you was to have some. Wesley said couldn't we all have some but mamma said no, 'twasn't ours. Chicken's nice, ain't it, with gravy? Sometimes, don't you know? we have _'possum_, or _rabbit_, or something _fine_. Sometimes, too, if papa's been to Uncle Wicky's he fetches home a pie! Think o' that! Yes, sir, a _pie_! My Aunt Lizzie makes 'em. Mamma never does. I guess--I guess, maybe, she thinks they isn't healthy. Mamma's mighty partic'lar 't we shan't have 'rich food;' that's what she calls Aunt Lizzie's pies, and maybe your chicken, and the sick boy's cream. My mamma dassent let us use any cream, ourselves. She has to keep it for papa's butter. _She_ don't eat any butter. It doesn't agree with her stummy. I guess she thinks it don't with mine. I never have any. The sick boy has all he wants, don't he? But Daisy cow don't make such a terrible lot, Daisy don't. Papa says she ought to have more eatings and 't our pasture's poor. Mamma says Daisy's a real good cow. She don't really know what we childern would do without her. Daisy gives us our dinners. Sometimes, on Sundays, mamma gives us a little milk just fresh milked, before she churns it into papa's butter. It's nicer 'an buttermilk, ain't it? And I shall never forget what Sunday's like, with the sweet, doo-licious milk, an' our other clo'es on. Each of us has other clo'es--think of that! You have 'em, too, don't you? what your folks sent you from that boat where you used to live." "The boat where he used to live!" Little Saint Anne's words spoke the thought of his own heart. The ten days since he had left it made the Water Lily seem far back in his life and gave him a wild desire to run off and find it again. Why should he, whom Gerald had openly despised, be chained to that boy's bedside? Why should his own holiday be spoiled for a stranger, an interloper? There had been times, many of them, when he had almost hated Gerald, who was by no means a patient invalid. But whenever this feeling arose Jim had but to look at patient Lucetta and remember that, but for him, she would be alone in her care for her sick guest. Now he was growing homesick again for the sight of dear faces and the pretty Water Lily, and to put that longing aside, he asked: "Saint Anne, do you think you could carry a dish very carefully? If it had chicken on it could you hold it right side up and not lose a single bit? Because if you could, or can, I 'low the best thing you could do would be to ask mamma to send that nice dinner out here. Then we two would go down by the spring and sit under the persimmon tree and eat it. Just you and I together. Think of that!" Saint Anne's face lighted brilliantly, then instantly clouded. "None the rest? Not Wesley, nor Saint Augustine, nor Dorcas, nor Sheba, nor teeny-tiny David boy? Just me alone? I--I couldn't. Mamma says it's mean to be stingy of our things, so when I have two 'simmonses I always give one to who's nearest. Not to give chicken would be meaner--'meaner 'n pussley'! I don't mind being hungry--not much I don't mind it--but when any of us is selfish all papa has to do is say 'Pussley, pussley!' quick, just like that, an' we stop right away. But--but I'll bring yours, if mamma'll let me, and I'll turn my face right the other way while you eat it, so I shan't be tempted to 'covet my neighbor's--anything that is his.' That's in my kittenchasm that we childern say to mamma every Sunday, after we've had our milk. I'll run right away now." Quite sure that his request would be granted and hoping that the surplus of Gerald's dinner would be plentiful, Jim went to the spring and filled the rusty bucket always waiting there. Then he plucked six big burdock leaves and arranged them on a boulder. The little maid of the sweet, serious eyes had taught him a lesson in unselfishness; and whether the portion coming to him were much or little, each child should have its share. Then he looked up and saw Saint Anne returning. Upon her outstretched arms she balanced the pewter platter, and upon this was set--Oh! glory! one whole, small chicken delicately roasted, as only Chloe could have prepared it. A half dozen biscuits flanked it and a big bunch of grapes. A tin cup fairly shone in its high state of polish, but its brilliancy was nothing as compared with the shining face of Saint Anne. Behind her trailed four brothers and sisters, each stepping very softly as if in awe of the unexpected feast before them. The fifth child was missing, Saint Augustine, the mischief of the household, who was oftener under foot than out of sight. "Where's other brother, Saint Anne? Shall we wait for him? Did your mother save any for herself? Did Gerald need me?" It was a long string of questions to be answered and the little girl counted them off upon her fingers. "I don't know where Saint Augustine is. Likely he'll be 'round real soon. I guess we won't wait--I mean the others needn't--they look so watery around the mouth. No, mamma didn't save any. She said she didn't care for it. Funny, wasn't that? As if anybody, even a grown-up mamma, could help caring! And the Gerald boy was asleep. I most wish he would be all the time, he--he speaks so sort of sharp like. Mamma says that's cause he's gettin' well. Gettin'-well-folks are gen'ally cross and it's a good sign. What you doing?" Jim had pulled another burdock leaf and spread a bit of sweet fern upon it. He had an idea that Dorothy would have objected to the odor of burdock as mingled with a dinner. Then he carefully sliced with his pocket knife the daintiest portions of the little fowl and some of the bread. He added the finest of the grapes and turning to Dorcas and Sheba, said: "Now, girlies, Saint Anne brought the dinner away out here, but it's your job to take this much back to your mother. You are to tell her that this is a picnic and nobody would enjoy it unless she picnics, too. Will you tell her? Will you be real careful? If you will I promise you we others won't eat a mouthful till you get back." They consented, but not too eagerly. They loved mamma, course; but they loved chicken, too. It required considerable faith on their part to go way back to the cabin and leave their dinners behind them, expecting to find them just as now. However they started. Dorcas held the stem of the burdock leaf and Sheba its tip. Being somewhat shorter than her sister, Sheba's end of the burden slanted downwards. The grass was hummocky. Their steps did not keep time very well. A fragment of Chloe's well-flavored "stuffin'" slipped down upon Sheba's fat fingers and--right before she knew it was in her mouth, yes, sir! Right before! "Oh! Sheba! You'd oughtn't not to have did that!" reproved Dorcas, severely. Then she stumbled over a brier. She had watched her sister too closely to see where her own feet fell, and one little cluster of grapes rolled to the ground. "I guess that was 'cause I was lookin' for 'the mote in your eyes' 't I got a 'beam' in mine so's I couldn't see right smart," observed this Scripture-taught child, in keen self-reproach. "Did you get a beam? I didn't. I can see real good. Say, Dorcas, 'twouldn't not do to give mamma grapes what have fell into dirty grass, would it? Mamma hates dirt so much papa laughs hard about it. And--and it isn't not nice to waste things. Mamma says 'waste not want not.' I ain't wantin' them grapes but I can't waste 'em, either. Mamma wouldn't like that. These ain't our kind of wild ones, we get in the woods. These are real ones what grew on a vine." They paused to regard the fallen fruit. How the sunlight tinted their golden skins. They _must_ taste--Oh! how doo-licious they must taste! As the elder, and therefore in authority, Dorcas stooped to lift the amber fruit; and, losing hold of the burdock leaf sent the whole dinner to the ground. Then did consternation seize them. This was something dreadful. If mamma hadn't been so terrible neat! If she'd only been willing to "eat her peck of dirt," like papa said everybody had to do sometime, they could pick it all up and squeeze it back, nice and tight on the big green leaf, and hurry to her with it. But---- "Yes, sir! There is! A yellow wiggley kittenpillar just crawled out of the way. S'posing he left one his hairs on that chicken? Just suppose? Why, that might make mamma sick if she ate it! You wouldn't want to make poor darling mamma sick, like the Geraldy boy, would you, Sheba Stillwell? Would you?" Poor little Sheba couldn't answer. She was in the throes of a great temptation. She hadn't the strength of character of Saint Anne. She didn't at all like that suggestion of a "kittenpillar's" hair and yet--what was one hair to such a wicked waste as it would be if they left all that fine food to spoil, or for the guinea-hen to gobble. "The guinea-hen eats a lot. She eats kittenpillars right down whole;" pensively observed Sheba, when she had reached this stage of thought. "She shan't eat this, then!" declared Dorcas, promptly sitting down and dividing with great care all this delectable treat. "Why, little ones, what are you doing? Why aren't you back yonder with the rest? I don't see Saint Augustine there, either. Do you know where he is?" As this simple question interrupted them the conscience-stricken children began to cry. One glance into their mother's troubled face had aroused all their love for her and a sense of their own selfishness. "Why, babies dear, what's the matter? Have you hurt yourselves?" "Yes, mamma, we have. We've hurted the very insides of us, in the place where mutton-taller can't reach an' you can't kiss it well again. Your dinner was sent to you and--and--_we've et it up_!" Dorcas delivered herself of this statement in a defiant attitude, her arms folded behind her, but her little breast heaving. And she could scarcely believe her own ears when the only reprimand she received was: "Say 'eaten,' darling, not 'et.' I do wonder where my boy is! In some mischief, I fear, the precious little scamp!" But she was still wondering when that day's sun went down. CHAPTER XIII. WHAT LAY UNDER THE WALKING FERN. For once Gerald was neglected, and for once he was glad of it. Mrs. Stillwell and Jim had both come in, on the afternoon before, in a high state of excitement. They had demanded of him if he had seen Saint Augustine, the mischievous child with the peculiar name. He had retorted, angrily, that of course he had seen nobody, neither child nor grown-up. He might lie there and die for all anybody would bother! He'd get up, he declared he would, dress and go away at once. Never before had he stayed in such a wretched place as this, and yes, he surely would get up and leave. If he could find his own clothes. Did anybody know where his clothes were? Even in the midst of her terrible anxiety, his faithful nurse and hostess had smiled, encouragingly, saying: "You couldn't do better. When a sick person gets to your state of mind and nerves, he's usually well enough to go out. All you brought with you is in that parcel under the bed. You can leave Corny's shirt--anywhere." She caught her breath with a sob and went swiftly out of the cabin. He heard her calling her children and directing them: "Wesley and Saint Anne, little brother has run away. He's done that before, so don't be frightened. He's always been found--he will be now. But mamma may not be back by sundown and you, Wesley, must do the milking and lay the fire ready for lighting in the morning. Saint Anne, my precious little care-taker, see well after the others and give the sick boy his supper of cream and oatmeal which was sent. Don't feel lonely because both papa and mamma are away. The dear God is right here with you, you know, in your little bedroom and close outside the window. No harm can happen where God is, you know, and now good-bye." She had kissed them all around and only Saint Anne noticed her lips trembled. Then she had gone swiftly away in one direction which they knew well. It was toward the little whirlpool in the woods, caused by the sudden meeting of two small streams and named Tony's Eddy, because a man named Tony had been drowned there. It was a spot all the cabin children, except Saint Augustine, greatly feared. He liked it because "papa does," and was never happier than when Corny took him on a ramble thither. Lucetta had protested against these visits to the dangerous place, but her fear had been laughed down by her light-hearted husband. "Fall into the Eddy? Why, woman dear, he will scarcely look into it when I try to make him. Just shivers in a silly way, and makes up all sorts of queer yarns about it. The Eddy fascinates him but scares him, too. He believes that bad fairies live in it and if he should go too near they'd come out and drag him down with them to destruction. Oh! you needn't worry about Tony's Eddy." Alas! for her peace of mind, now that Saint Augustine had disappeared, "The Eddy!" was her first and only thought. Jim searched in an opposite direction. "I believe he's gone to find the monkeys. He was talking of them almost the last thing. Horrid things! I wish they'd never been heard of. They've made more trouble than human beings could, try their best! Or, maybe, child like, he's gone to dig that wonderful 'treasure' out of the ground and to buy you the silk dress he'd heard about. Dear little kid! He was as earnest as a man, almost!" said Jim, trying to comfort the mother-heart that suffered so. "You look. I'll look. He must be found. I can't meet Corny's eyes and tell him that our boy is lost," she had answered quietly enough, but with agony in her expression. When they had gone Gerald got up and dressed. He was rather shaky in the knees but felt far better than when lying on the hard bed which had been given up to his use. How his hostess had managed he had not even thought, until that moment Jim had lain on the bench across the room, upon a bag of fern leaves he had gathered for himself in the woods near-by, with his rag-carpet blanket to cover him. He hadn't complained and Gerald had given no thought to his comfort, his own being his first concern as it had always been. Now the house seemed desolate. Saint Anne came timidly in with his light supper and started back in affright. He looked like a stranger to her in his own clothes, having seen him only as "the sick one" in bed. But he called her and she dared not disobey her mother's command to give him his supper. Somehow, for the first time, the child's face appealed to him and he thanked her for her attention. This was more astonishing than to see him fully dressed in his white duck suit, that had been laundered by Lucetta on the day after his arrival. In a flutter of excitement, Saint Anne retreated to the inner room and the safe presence of her family; and when, after a moment she regained courage enough to open the door between--the lad was gone. "He was here and he isn't here. He was all in white, like mamma says the angels wear, and Dr. Jabb's little Eunice. She had on clothes all flyey-about and thin--looked like moonlight. She had a hump in her shoulders where mamma thinks maybe her wings are starting to grow. Mamma knows her mamma a right smart while, and she says Eunice is a perfectly angelic child. Mamma wouldn't say that if she didn't know. Maybe the sick boy's turned into a angel, too, or is turning! Just supposing! Maybe God sent him to stay with us, because papa and mamma had to go away. Maybe!" There was no radiance from the moonlight now upon the eager little face, and indoors was dark; but it was delightful to think of angels being about, until Wesley remarked, in his matter-of-fact way: "If he was _sent_ he ought to have _stayed_. I don't believe he was a truly angel. I guess he was just one them changelings, papa tells stories about, that the fairies over in the Ireland-country carries 'round with 'em. If a baby or a boy is terrible cross--like the sick one was, yesterday, the fairy just snatches him up and whisks him off somewhere and puts a good new one in his place. Peek and see, Saint Anne!" "Peek yourself, Wesley. I'm--I'd rather have an angel than a changeling. Anyhow, I'm going to sleep. God's here, taking care, so it don't matter." Happy in the faith that had been instilled into their minds from their earliest consciousness the deserted ones fell fast asleep, though not till Dorcas had slipped into Saint Augustine's place in the boys' bed a little willow whistle Jim had made for her and which she had refused to give her brother. As for the angelic Gerald he was weakly trudging on his way toward the cross-cut lane, which he had seen from the cabin window and had been told led outward to the main road, running past Deer-Copse. How often he had wished to be upon it, and now he wondered why he hadn't started long before. Though it grew steadily dark, he kept as steadily on, though his strength was sorely tried and he wished he dared stop and rest. He was afraid to do this. He knew if he lay down on the ground, that looked so tempting a bed, he wouldn't have the energy to go on again. After a time his steps grew automatic. His feet lifted and fell with no volition of his own, it seemed, and a curious drowsiness came over him. "I believe I'm going to sleep, walking!" he thought, and wearily closed his eyes. But he opened them again with a start. "What's that? What is it? Sounds like--I must be out of my head--I don't know where I am. I can't see. Ah! the lane! I'm there at last. Now I can lie right down and rest and somebody'll find me--sometime." Yet once more into his drowsing ear fell a peculiar sound. "Ah--umph! A-ah--oomph--ph--h----h!" That prolonged bray so electrified him that he got up, to his knees, then to his swaying feet, a ghostly figure in his white suit, and with a last spurt of breath, cried: "Billy! It's--_Billy_!" Billy it was. Why then and there his mulish brain couldn't understand. He had come a tiresome way, through woods and along country roads and found it a painfully new experience. Of course, he had rested often and long. He had been bidden, innumerable times: "Billy, lie down!" and after an interval: "Billy, get up." Now, as he was wearily trudging through the night came this apparition in white, right in his path. Billy had heard the stumbling of human feet long before his rider had, and had announced the fact by mild remarks about it. But, sidewise upon Billy's broad back--his head pillowed on Billy's neck, the Colonel had known nothing of this until the mule's abrupt stop shocked him awake and to a sight of the ghostly apparition on the roadside. "Hello, Spook!" exclaimed the Colonel, inclined to be friends with anybody or anything which would relieve the loneliness of his night ride. "Hel--Hello, yourself! Ha, ha, ha!" returned Gerald, in great delight yet half-confused by fatigue and the surprise of this meeting. They were mutual "apparitions," arisen out of the earth to confront one another. "Where you come from? Where you going? I'm--I'm awful tired." "So 'm I. Always tired. Always expect to be. I come from going to and fro upon the earth seekin' that I cayn't find. No, I cayn't. And of all the bad luck I've had this is the worst. Ah! hum." "I'm sorry," murmured Gerald, stumbling near enough Billy to lay his head on the animal's shoulder, where he immediately went to sleep. "Sho! That's odd! But everything is in this topsy-turvy world. I'll be glad to be out of it. I never had no luck, Billy, an' you know it. This yeah 's a piece with all the rest. To have this boy, or his spook, rise up this-a-way, an' go to sleep, standin'. Well, Billy, it cayn't be helped. The trouble is I was born with a heart, and it's always gettin' us into trouble. It's that old heart o' mine makes me feel I cayn't just shove this creatur' off an' leave him to his own deserts. Ah! hum." In his mournful tones the Colonel thus addressed the intelligent beast, who responded with a sympathetic bray; but he stood rigidly still while his master loosened and slipped from his back the blanket strapped there and spread it on the grassy bank beside the road. Then, as if Gerald had been a little child, the Colonel carried him to the blanket, laid and covered him in it. He even took off his own coat and made a pillow of it for Gerald's head. Next, he ordered: "Billy, lie down!" and having been obeyed, calmly composed himself for another nap upon the back of "his only friend." The night passed. Gerald slept as he had never done in all his life. The healthful fatigue of his tramp across lots and the pure outdoor air did more for him than all the medicine he'd swallowed. When he awoke the sun was shining in his eyes and Billy was braying an injunction to get up, while the Colonel sat on the roadside pensively reading out of his little brown book. "My! You're an early student!" cried Gerald, who had lain still for a moment after waking, trying to understand the situation. "Must be an interesting story, that!" "Story? Life's too short--or too long--to waste on stories, young man. This is Marcus Aurelius, the sage of all the ages. Now, talk, tell, how come, et cetery. For me, I'm seekin' a lost wallet, and I don't expect to find it. I shan't. Course. But I'm on the road to that pickaninny and if I cayn't squeeze the wallet out of his clo'es I'll squeeze the truth out of his insides, what he done with it. The idee! 'T one measly little nigger could force me to break the vow of years an' come here, where I never meant to set foot 's long as I lived. Ah! hum." "Eh, what? Lost wallet? Why, I know something about that. Jim Barlow had it. He picked it up." "Where is he? Quick, young man! That wallet's mighty precious and it's mine--mine, I tell you! Mine by the right of findin' and preservin'. Where's he at, quick?" The Colonel had never shown such excitement, nor such depths of depression as when Gerald answered: "I don't know. I haven't the least idea." "Ah! hum. Course you haven't. I didn't suppose you had. They couldn't be any such good luck in this world. 'Don't know'! Course not. Don't reckon you know anything." "Ah! yes I do! I know that I'm so hungry I could almost eat this grass. Where can we get a breakfast?" The Colonel scanned the surrounding country. Had there been even a melon-patch in sight he wouldn't have troubled himself to answer. He was hungry himself, but he often was that and food always came his way sometime and of some kind. Why worry or hurry? Fortunately, the rumble of approaching wheels was heard just then, and presently there came into sight around the bend in the road a mule-team, driven by a man in a blue smock. Gerald recognized him at a glance--the same teamster who had brought him and his mates through the "gust" from the Landing. He had a sadly confused remembrance of how that ride had ended, and this was a good thing; for he was now able to hail the man in real pleasure and no anger. "Hello, there, driver! Do you want a job?" A startled expression came to the teamster's face as his own mind returned to the hour when these two had last met. However, he braced himself for whatever was to come, and answered: "That depends. What job?" "To carry us two and lead the mule to wherever the Water Lily is now. That's my boat--I mean, it was--and they're my friends aboard. Do you know her and where she lies?" The man knew perfectly well. On the morning after his ugly treatment of his four passengers, he had repaired to Deer-Copse on the Ottawotta and collected from Mrs. Calvert the sum of five dollars. This was more than double the price asked of the lads but none of them happened to be in sight, and he made a great matter of delivering the row-boat uninjured. Knowing no better she promptly paid him. Though he was sober now, he was just as greedy as ever for money and cautiously answered: "I might guess. But I'm off for the Landing and some hauling there. It would be with a couple dollars for me to turn about an' hunt her up now." "All right, I'll pay it. I mean, if I can't my sister will. She's on the Water Lily and would about give her head to see me back again. I've been sick. I've been--" But the teamster had no sympathy for Gerald's past ailments. He was busy getting his wagon turned about and in another moment Gerald was on the seat beside him, the Colonel riding at the back of the wagon, feet dangling, leading Billy. This last task was needless, for the mule would have followed his master anywhere and unguided. The teamster "guessed" so accurately that he drove straight and swift along the road bordering the Ottawotta and to the beautiful spot where the Water Lily shone in all the glory of white paint and gilt, her brasses polished to the last degree by Ephraim, and all her little company pressing to the front at the rumble of wheels. Not many vehicles passed that way and the coming of each was an event in the quiet life of the house-boat. It was Dorothy who first recognized the newcomers and her cry of delight which brought Aurora around from the nook where she was busily embroidering a cushion for the Lily. "Gerald! Oh! Gerald, my brother!" The lad had never felt her so dear nor thought her so pretty as when her arms closed about him and her happy face looked into his. But the face clouded when he asked: "Got any money, Sis?" "Huh! Can't you be glad to get home without begging for money? Popper gave you just as much as he did me when he started and----" The stumping of crutches interrupted them. It was the old captain who had caught sight of the teamster, waiting for his money, and was hurrying forward in anger. "Step aside, younkers! Lemme deal with him! _Lemme!_ Oh! you old villain, here again be ye? Tryin' to cheat widders an' orphans outen their livin' substance! Oh! I know. I've heered. I've been told. Two dollars was the price agreed--a quarter a-piece for us folks an' fifty a-piece for the monks! The boat was throwed in. That was the bargain fixed an' fast, an' deny it, if ye can, with this here Melvin an' me an' this poor sick Gerry for witnesses. You haul in your sails an' put for shore! Don't ye come around here a-tryin' to cheat no more. I've been layin' for ye ever sence that night. I've 'lowed I'd meet up with ye an' get even. Pay? Not this side Davy Jones's locker! Be off with ye an don't ye dare to show your face here again till you've l'arnt common honesty, such as ary yuther Marylander knows. What would these here women an' childern do if it wasn't for Cap'n Jack Hurry a pertectin' of 'em? Tell me that, you ornery land-lubber, you!" But the teamster was already gone. He had not tarried the completion of the Captain's tirade. He saw that there was little prospect of receiving pay for that morning's ride except after much discussion and many hard words, and decided that if he were ever to secure further patronage from these silly people who lived on a boat he would better not quarrel with them now. With his departure peace was restored and the welcomes bestowed upon Gerald made him very happy and roused a wish in his heart to become as good a fellow as they all seemed to imagine him to be. With some shame he remembered his often ungrateful treatment of Mrs. Lucetta and her children, and described the family so graphically that Dorothy clapped her hands, exclaiming: "I'm going right away to know them! I am! What darlings they must be, those little 'Saints' and sinners, and what a charming woman the mother must be. Melvin has told us how she served them with that poor pudding and sour buttermilk, just as if they were the greatest luxuries." Mrs. Calvert nodded, smiling: "Yes, dear, I shall be glad to have you know her. She is a born gentlewoman and a good one--which is better. But now, has everybody had all the breakfast wanted? If so, let's all go off to our arbor in the woods. 'The Grotto,' the girls named it, Gerald, and it's beautiful. But where is Jim? Why should he have gone away from the Stillwell cottage before you, in that sudden way you mentioned?" "I reckon he went to search for a runaway kid. The one they called Saint Augustine. Fancy such a name as that for the wildest little tacker ever trod shoe-leather--or went barefoot, I mean. That youngster looked like an angel and acted like a little imp. I should think his folks'd be glad to lose him." "No, Gerry, you don't think that. You don't want anybody to be unhappy now that we're all so glad you're well and back. I hope Jim will find the little Saint right soon and be back, too; but don't you think they'll be frightened about you? It just came to me--what can they think, when they come back and find you gone, except that you were out of your mind and wandered off? You that had been in bed till then!" asked Dorothy. "Oh! they won't bother about me. Jim's been as good as gold and I've been pretty hateful, sometimes, I know. It'll be a relief to him and Mrs. Stillwell that I'm off their hands. Why, folks, do you know? That slender slip of a woman does almost all their farm work, herself? Her husband--I fancied from what I had sense enough to understand--hates work, that kind, anyway, and she adores him. I know Jim took a hand, soon's I was well enough, or good-natured enough, to let him off sticking inside with me. I never saw a fellow work so, I could see through the window by my bed. They hadn't any horse and he ploughed with a cow! Fact. He dug potatoes, hoed corn, cleared up brush-wood--did that with his jack-knife--carried water--Couldn't tell what he didn't do! Oh! Mrs. Stillwell will be glad enough to be rid of me but she'll hate to miss Jim. Hello, Elsa! What in the world!" Mabel laughed and clapped her hands. "Isn't it the queerest thing? and isn't it just jolly? "She fell in love with them that morning when they came. Elsa, timid Elsa, is the only one of us not afraid of the monkeys! She's captivated them, some way, and is actually training them to do whatever she wants. She's taught them to walk, arm in arm, and to bow 'Thank you' for bits of Chloe's cake. She punishes them when they catch the birds and--lots of things. Are you taking them for their 'constitutional' now, Elsa dear?" The shy girl, whose poverty and ungraceful manners had made Aurora and Mabel look down upon her at the beginning of the trip, had now become the very "heart of things," as Dolly said. Elsa was always ready to mend a rent, to hunt up lost articles, to sit quietly in the cabin when anybody had a headache and soothe the pain and loneliness, and to do the many little things needed and which none of the others noticed. It had come to be "Elsa, here!" or "Elsa, there!" almost continually; and the best of it was that the more she was called upon for service the happier and rosier she grew. "Indeed, Papa Carruthers will see a fine change in his little girl, when he gets her home again!" Aunt Betty had said, that very morning, drawing the slender little figure to her side. "We have all learned to love you dearly, Elsa. You are a daily blessing to us." "_That's_ because you love me--and let me love you. Love is the most beautiful thing in all the world, isn't it? It's your love has made me grow strong and oh! so happy!" Indeed, it was love, even for such humble creatures as the monkeys, that had given her power over them. She had been the first, save Dorothy, to pity them for being caged; and she hadn't been afraid, as Dorothy was, to let them out to freedom. They had been very wild at first, springing into the trees and leaping about so far and fast that all except Elsa believed they were lost. Then she would beg everyone to go away and putting the opened cage upon the ground would sit quietly beside it, with their favorite food near, for a long, long time. The first time her patience was rewarded by their return to the cage, she still sat quiet and let them settle themselves to rest. After that the training was easier, and by common consent the little animals were left to her charge till they were soon called "Elsa's monks!" Hardest part of their training was the punishment they daily needed. "Elsa, your monks have torn Mabel's hat to ribbons!" "Elsa, the monkeys have ripped all the buttons off my uniform." "Elsa, Metty's heart is broken! They've chewed his 'libery' to bits!" "They didn't mean it for _badness_. I'll fix the hat, Mrs. Bruce. I'll hunt up the buttons and sew them on, Cap'n Jack. I'll mend Metty's finery;" and the pleasure she seemed to get from doing all these things amazed the others. Now, since all the others were engaged with Gerald and the Colonel, she slipped away into the woods which she had learned to visit alone and without fear. Melvin had found some small brass chains in a locker of the tender and the Captain had made some collars for the animals, so that she was able to lead them with her wherever she wished. Jocko, the larger of the pair, had developed a limp so like Elsa's own that it was ludicrous and Dorothy declared that he had done so "on purpose." He now hobbled after her while Joan, his mate ran ahead, pulled backward at her chain, and cut up so many "monkey shines" in general as kept her young mistress laughing so that she scarcely saw where she walked nor how far. But, at length, she looked up, surprised that she had taken a new direction from that she commonly followed. Here the trees were larger, and the undergrowth closer. Ferns which reached to her shoulder hid the ground from her sight and she stumbled over fallen limbs and unseen vines, but constantly urged onward by the discovery of some rare flower or shrub, which she might take home to Dorothy. These two flower-lovers had daily studied the simple botany which Aunt Betty had brought on the trip, and the science opened to bookish Elsa a wonder-world of delight. "Ah! there's a creeping fern! I mean a walking one. We read how rare they are and Dorothy will just be wild to come and see it for herself. Let me see. It was yesterday we studied about ferns. Be still, Joan. No, Jocko, I'll go no further, on account of your poor, lame foot. You may jump to my shoulder if you like. I think it was this way. Listen, dears! 'Order, Filices, Genera, Asplenium. Asplenium Rhizophyllum--Walking Fern!' There I said it, but the little common name suits me best. Heigho, beasties! What you jabbering about now? and what are you peering at with your bright eyes? Come on. There's nothing to be afraid of in the woods, though I was once so scared of them myself. Come on, do. I must get--My heart! What--_what_--_is this_?" CHAPTER XIV. THE REDEMPTION OF A PROMISE. Maybe the Colonel was more pleased to meet his Water Lily friends again than they were to see him. But Aunt Betty hid her disappointment under her usual courteous demeanor and was glad that the angry mood in which he had left them had not remained. Upon her, she knew would fall the task of entertaining him; and after breakfast was over and Billy been led to the deepest pasture available, she invited him to sit with her on the little deck that ran around the cabin, or saloon, and opened conversation with the remark: "We've been very happy here in the Copse. Except, of course, we were worried about our sick guest, Gerald, till Dr. Jabb informed us he was out of danger. He seems a fine man, the doctor, and I'm thankful to have a physician so near. Why--what--are you ill, Colonel?" At the mention of the practitioner her visitor had risen, his eyes ablaze with anger, his gaunt frame trembling with excitement. "Madam! MADAM! Do you mention that hated name to me? Don't you know--Ah! hum. I suppose you don't but, if he--HE--poisons this atmosphere--I will bid you good morning." He was turning away in a far more furious mood than had seemed possible to so easy-going a man, and his hostess hastily laid a detaining hand upon his arm. "My dear sir, what have I said? Do you know this doctor and dislike him? I'm sorry. Forget him, then, please and just enjoy this wonderful air which nobody could possibly 'poison.' It's perfect to-day, with just enough crispness in it to remind us it is really autumn and our picnicking days are numbered. The young folks have felt it dull, sometimes, lingering so long in the Copse, but it's been a restful, happy time to me. One has to get away from home worries once in a while to keep things in their right proportion. And, after all, what does it matter where we live or what we have so long as there is peace and good will in one's heart? Not much, do you think?" Aunt Betty was herself in happy mood and had talked on more to prevent the guest's departure than to "preach," as she called such little dissertations. She had gained her point. The Colonel settled back again in the familiar chair he had appropriated on his first visit and gradually the lines of anger left his face. An expression of intense sadness took their place, and after a moment he sighed: "Ah! hum. I hadn't a right to get huffy. I reckon you don't know--some facts. You couldn't. Nobody could, without explainin' an' I cayn't explain. This much I'll say. I haven't set foot in this yeah region sence--in a right smart while. I never meant to again. But--I lost my wallet an' I came to seek it. I've cause to think, Madam, 't one your folks has it. If so, they must deliver real soon. To me it's vallyble. Also, it might concern Miss Dorothy. She an' me--an' you, of course, Mrs. Calvert, bein' a Calvert--Well, it's an old story an' I'll wait till after dinner, thank ye, ma'am. And if you don't mind, I'll just lean back an' take my 'forty winks.' I hain't rested none too well, lately. I've been _thinkin'_. Ah! hum. A man's no right to think. He cayn't an' be real comf'table. Beg pahdon." Aunt Betty watched him, smiling. He was a bore who, at times, was amusing. She knew that he had been well educated and had still a fondness for books, as was proved by his habitual use of "Marcus Aurelius;" but like many other cultured southern people he lapsed into the speech of the colored folks, with whom his life had been passed. His "yeah," and "cayn't," "right smart," and "soon" for early, were musical as he uttered them; and under all his laziness and carelessness he had the instincts of a gentleman. "Poor old fellow! I wish I could do something for him, before we finally part company. I'm glad he didn't go away again in anger, though he doesn't 'stay mad,' as Dolly says. And I wonder what that scrip of paper in that old wallet does mean! My young folks are greatly excited over it, and Dolly told me some ridiculous story about her great-great-grandfather and his great-great-grandmother that seems to be the beginning of things. Anyway, though they found it, or Metty did, the Colonel claims it and I must see that it is returned." So reflected Mrs. Calvert, watching her guest's peaceful slumber; then, resuming her own book, forgot him and his affairs, at least for the time being. "Where did Elsa take those monks? It's all well enough for her to train 'em, but they aren't hers and she needn't think so. I'd like to take a hand in that business, myself. Wouldn't you, Melvin? They belong to you and me, you know. And I say isn't this the beastliest slow-poke of a hole you ever saw? How on earth do you put in your time? All these days what have you done?" demanded Gerald, moving restlessly from tender to shore, and already heartily sick of the quiet Copse. "Well, we fish, the Captain and I. We search the woods for berries and grapes. We go to the farmhouses nearest for supplies; and right here, Gerald Blank, let me warn you. Don't you go expecting fine living on the Lily. You see there wasn't much capital to start on, not for so many folks; and the other day what was left was lost." "Lost? Lost! How could a fellow lose anything in this hole, even if he tried? What do you mean?" "Exactly what I say. Mrs. Bruce has held the purse of the company and the other day she and Dorothy were counting up their money and--that's the last anybody has seen of it. They kept it in a little empty tin box, that marsh-mallows came in; and Chloe called Mrs. Bruce over to the galley to see about some cooking, and Mrs. Calvert called Dorothy for something else, don't you know? Well, sir, when they came back to finish their counting there wasn't a thing left but the tin box--empty as your hat." "Somebody stole it, course. Who do they suspect?" "Look here, Gerry, that's a question comes pretty near home, I know that Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy suspect nobody. I can't say as much for Mrs. Bruce and the rest. The money was there--the money is gone. We're all in the same boat--literally, you know. There wasn't a peddler here that day, nobody around but just ourselves. You and Jim are out of it, course, because you were away; but--it might be me, it might be Mabel, it might be Metty--Ephraim--Chloe--no not her, for she wasn't out of Mrs. Bruce's sight--and it might be your own sister Aurora." "What's that? How dare you?" angrily demanded Gerald. But Melvin smiled, a little sadly, indeed, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not so fast, Gerry. I'm not accusing her, nobody is accusing anybody. But the money's gone, and maybe it's just as well so much of it went for you." "For me? What do you mean by that?" "Cap'n Jack reckoned you'd cost the exchequer about fifty dollars. Dorothy had the very choicest things, poultry, cream, fruit and things, besides the doctor's bills. And the farmers down here aren't so low in their charges as nearer Jimpson's. Mrs. Bruce got furious against them, they took advantage so. But the doctor said you were a very sick boy, for only measles, and must be built up, so good-hearted little Dolly dipped into the marsh-mallow box for you. You----" "Hush! Don't say another word! I'm so mad I can't breathe. I wish I'd never come on this cruise. Cruise? It's nothing better 'n being buried alive. Thought we might get some fun out of it, hunting for that 'buried treasure' and now, up pops that old stick-in-the-mud and claims the whole business. Pshaw! I'll go home if I have to walk there." "How? You couldn't. But I'll tell you what you could do. Hunt up Elsa and the monks. I want to see if this harness I've made out of a fur-rug they destroyed will fit either. Dolly proposes to make them some clothes and get up a little 'show.' Thinks she and Elsa could exhibit them for pennies, when the people come to sell stuff, and that would help pay for it." Gerald considered. Many troubled thoughts passed through his mind, but the strongest feeling was anger. He had been so self-sufficient until this "beastly trip." Now he was learning the sometimes bitter lesson that nobody in the world can be actually independent. He had begun by lording it over his mates, and even his hostesses, and now here he was dependent upon them for the very food he ate and the medicine he had taken. He ceased to feel himself an invited guest but rather a burden and a debtor. "Of course, Popper'll pay everything back if we ever get home. But--Oh! dear! How I hate it all!" For down in his heart he realized that no amount of money could cover his obligation to these friends, and he started off in a most unhappy frame of mind. "I'll find that girl and teach her to mind her own business. The idea of her training those monkeys--my monkeys! Course, she's done it all wrong, and it's harder to unlearn a thing than learn it right first off. When they're trained they ought to be worth ten times as much as we paid for them. I might sell 'em to an organ-grinder, if Popper'd buy out Melvin's share." But at this stage of thought it occurred to him that he couldn't picture his dandyish father dealing with organ-grinders. Indeed, the idea was so absurd that it made him laugh, and in that laughter his ill-temper vanished, or nearly so. After all, it was good to be alive! Even the freedom of the woods, after the stuffy cabin he had left, was delightful. He'd rather have had it the freedom of the city streets, but this was better than nothing. He began to whistle, imitating the call of a bird in the tree overhead, and with such fair success that he was proud of himself. The bird ceased, startled, then flew onward. Gerald followed, still practicing that wild, sweet note, till suddenly his music was interrupted by another cry, which was neither bird nor joyous, but one of keen anxiety; then, as if it had come out of the ground, a girl begged: "Oh! whoever you are, come quick!" "Why, Elsa! I was looking--Hello! Of all things!" Almost hidden by the great ferns amid which she sat Elsa held, lying across her lap, a little figure in faded gingham. "Saint Augustine! The boy I heard 'em say was lost! How did he get here? It must be a long way from his house." Elsa pointed pityingly to the bare little feet and legs, cruelly scratched and with dark bruises. "I don't know. I found him just this way." "Sainty! Wake up! My! How sound he sleeps! And how red his face is!" "He's sick. I'm sure. I found him all curled up, his little arms under his head. He moans, sometimes, but he doesn't know anything that I say." At that moment a hoarse yell made Gerald look away from the boy and a leap of something to his shoulder made him yell in response. "Jocko! Down! Behave! Oh! he'll hurt you. They've both been asleep in that spot where the sun shines through. Oh! Stop--stop!" The monkey was attacking Gerald's face, snapping at his ears, pulling his hair, and almost frightening him into a fit. But Elsa laid Saint Augustine gently on the ground and went to the rescue. With sharp slaps of her thin hands she soon reduced Jocko to submission and, as if fearing punishment herself, Joan crouched behind a bush and peered cautiously out. "Pshaw! How'd you do it? I was coming after the monkeys, they're mine you know--or half mine, but--do they act that way often?" "Yes, rather too often. That's what makes everybody afraid to handle them. They'll get better natured after a time, I hope. But no matter about them. They're nothing but animals while this darling little boy--I don't know as I can carry him. You've been sick and so can't either, I suppose. Yet we can't leave him here. Will you go back to the Lily and get more help? If you brought a hammock we might put him in that. He's awfully sick. I'm afraid--he'll die--and his mother--" Gerald had stood looking upon the little lad while she said this, wondering what would best be done, and annoyed that he should be put to the bother of the matter. His decision was made rather suddenly as again Jocko leaped upon his back and resumed his angry chattering. "Call him off! I'll carry the child. Which is the way home?" "I don't--know. It all looks alike--but not like--I mean, I haven't the least idea where we are, except that it must be a good ways from the boat. Don't you really know, either?" For a moment Gerald looked about. Then answered frankly: "No. I was pretty cross when I came out, for Melvin had just told me about that lost money and about Dorothy's paying for me--So horrid, that! I heard a bird whistle and whistling's my gift, some folks think. I've whistled for entertainments at school and I like to learn new notes. Following that wretched bird I didn't notice." "And looking for a walking-fern I didn't either. But we can't stop here. We must go on--some way." "Let's try the children's way: 'My--mother--told--me--this!'" Elsa laughed. She had known so little of childish things that each new one delighted her. Gerald had uttered the few words, turning from point to point with each, and now finishing with an outstretched forefinger in a direction where the trees were less thick and crowding than elsewhere. Fortunately, "his--mother--had--told--him" the right one. This was almost the end of the forest behind Corny Stillwell's cabin; a short-cut to the long way around by which Gerald had gone to Deer-Copse. He didn't know that when he lifted Saint Augustine in his arms and started forward. The child was small and thin, else Gerald would have had to pause oftener than he did for rest; but even so it was a severe task he had set himself. But somehow the burden in his arms seemed to lift the burden from his heart, as is always the case when one unselfishly helps another. Also, he feared that the illness of Saint Augustine was the result of his own; so that when Elsa once limped up to where he had paused to rest and asked: "What do you suppose it is that ails him?" he had promptly answered: "Measles. Caught 'em from me. Ain't that the limit?" But Elsa who knew no slang understood him literally, and said: "No, it isn't, I had them once and the doctor scared my father dreadfully, telling him that folks could have them _four times_! Think of that! He said most people had them only once and the younger the lighter. So I guess Saint Augustine won't be very ill. But--my heart! Do you suppose the monkeys can catch it? Wouldn't that be awful!" "I hope they will and die of them! Nasty little brutes! They keep my nerves on the jump all the time, hearing them chatter and yell right behind me so. You keep real far back, won't you? I don't know how you can stand them; but don't--please don't let them hop on me again. I know they're too heavy for you but I'm too nervous for words. I wish I'd never heard of 'em, the little gibbering idiots!" Again Elsa laughed, this time so merrily that Gerald got angry. "I don't see anything so very funny in this predicament! Not so very amusing! My arms ache fit to break and all a girl cares about a fellow is to giggle at him." And now, indeed, was the "giggle" so prolonged that its victim had to join in it, and had Mrs. Calvert been there to hear she would have rejoiced to see shy Elsa behaving just like any other happy girl. Yet, after a moment, she sobered and begged: "Don't mind my doing that, but I couldn't help it. It seems so funny for a boy to have 'nerves' or to be afraid of monkeys. Papa has a song: "'The elephant now goes round and round, The band begins to play; The little boys under the monkeys' cage, Had better get out of the way--the way-- Would better get out of the way!'" Elsa had so far forgotten her self-consciousness that she sang her quotation in a sweet, clear treble which made Gerald turn around and stare at her in surprise. "Why, I didn't know you could sing." "I can't--much, only for Papa, sometimes. He's a fine singer. He belongs to the Oratorio Society. He's one of its best tenors, takes solos, you know. I'm very proud of Papa's voice. His being poor doesn't keep him out of _that_ Society." "Then he ought to get yours cultivated. You might make money that way." "Maybe, but money isn't much. Anyway, he hasn't the money to pay for lessons." "Look here. You're so smart with those detestable monks, suppose you go on training 'em and exhibit when you get back to town? I'd let you have 'em on trust till you could pay for them. What do you say?" Was this the poor, timid Elsa who now faced him with flashing eyes? Had this down-trodden "worm" actually "turned"? "Say? What do I say? That you're the horridest boy in this whole world and I've a mind to fling your old monkeys straight at you! I--I--" then she sobbed, fatigue overcoming her and her wrath dying as swiftly as it had arisen. "I--I see a house over there. We better go to it and ask." She was trembling now and her lame foot dragged painfully. She had made no complaint of the long distance and the troublesome little animals she sometimes led and sometimes carried, though Gerald had grumbled incessantly. Now all the best of his nature came to the front, and he had never felt more bitterly ashamed of himself than when he realized that his thoughtless proposition had been an insult to the afflicted, shrinking girl. Warmed by the love and appreciation of her Water Lily friends she "had come out of her shell" of reserve and been most happy. Now this boy had forced her back again; to remembering that after all she was but a very poor girl, deformed, despised, and considered simply fit to make a mountebank of herself, going about the city streets with apes! Oh! it was very dimly that Elsa could see the outlines of a whitewashed cabin in the fields, because of the tears which filled her eyes. "Hold on, Elsa! Forgive me if you can. I'm ashamed of myself. I don't know what makes me such a cad, I don't! You know. Except I've been brought up to think I was a rich boy and that a rich boy can do no harm. I could kick myself from here to Halifax. Please don't mind. Why, you're the cleverest girl of the lot, you are, you know. Nobody else dared tackle--" He caught himself up sharply. Not for his life would he again utter that hateful word "monkey" to her. But he added with real sincerity, "I'm so sorry I'll do anything in the world to prove it, that you ask me to do. I will, upon honor." Elsa couldn't hold malice against anybody and in her heart had already forgiven him his hurt of her, with her habitual thought: "He didn't mean it." So she smiled again and accepted his statement as truth. "Well I don't know as I shall ever want you to do anything to 'prove it', but if I do I'll tell you. Sure." Little did Gerald dream how rash a promise he had made. The cabin in the fields was the one in which he had lain so helpless. As he recognized it he exclaimed: "Good! I'll try that childish 'charm' every time! 'My--mother--told--me--right'. That's home to this little shaver and I'm mighty glad we're there." But it seemed a very different home from that which had sheltered him so well. The children were grouped about the door, only Wesley and Saint Anne daring to enter the room where poor Lucetta lay prone on the floor, looking so white and motionless that, for a moment, the newcomers believed that she was dead. Saint Anne lifted a quivering face toward them but could not speak, Wesley hid his face in his arm and blubbered audibly. Then did all the little woman in Elsa's nature respond to this sudden need. "Lay Saint Augustine on that bench, where somebody must have slept. Help me to lift the lady to the bed. Don't cry, little girl. She'll soon be all right. It's just a faint, I'm sure. I've fainted myself, often and often. I guess she's overdone. Isn't there a man here?" "No, ma'am. Papa he comed home an' Mamma she tol' him how Sa--Saint Augustine had run away and he frew down his gun an' all them games, an'--an'--just hollered out loud! 'Oh! my God'! an' run off, too. Mamma was gone all night, lookin' after little brother an' when she heard papa say that she fell right down there and she don't speak when we call her. Where'd you find him, our little brother? Was he down in Tony's Eddy?" Well, Gerald felt in that state when "anybody could knock him down with a feather." He was obeying Elsa implicitly, already "proving" he had meant his promise. He felt such an access of manly strength that it was almost unaided he lifted Lucetta and laid her on the bed. In reality, she was already regaining consciousness, and slightly aided him herself. Then he ran to the spring and brought the "cold water--coldest you can find" which Elsa ordered, and lifted Mrs. Stillwell's shoulders while the girl held the tin cup to her lips; and indeed did so many little things so deftly that he didn't recognize himself. Even in her half-stupor Lucetta was her own sweet self, for when she had swallowed the water she smiled upon her nurse and tried to speak. Elsa anticipated what she knew would be the one great longing of that mother's heart, and said with an answering smile: "We've brought your little son safe home. If you can turn your head you'll see. Right yonder on that bench. He's tired out and, maybe, a little sick but he's safe. Do you mean you want him right beside you?" Lucetta made an effort to sit up and opened her arms. "Lie right still. Don't you fret for one moment. Here's your baby. Now I'm going home and we'll get a doctor some way and quick. But you won't be alone. Gerald, whom you took care of when he was ill, is here. He'll stay and take care of you in turn now. Good-bye. Don't worry." She was gone before Gerald could even protest, calling the monkeys to follow her and limping away faster than anybody else, with two sound feet, could run. She had taken him at his word, indeed! CHAPTER XV. IN THE HEART OF AN ANCIENT WOOD. Deep in the heart of the September woods there was gathered one morning a little company of greatly excited people. Old Cap'n Jack was the wildest of the lot. Next him in point of eagerness was the Colonel. Corny Stillwell was there; so was his brother Wicky, who had come across country to see how now fared Lucetta, the "shiftless" wife of his "energetic" brother. Of late these terms had been exchanged in the minds of the Wickliffe Stillwells, owing to various statements made them by their new friends, the "Water Lilies." Being honest and warm-hearted they hadn't hesitated to express their change of opinion; and it was a fact that though Lucetta Stillwell had never been so ill in her life she had never been so comfortable. Lizzie, her sister-in-law, never allowed herself the extravagance of keeping "help;" but it was she who had hunted up a good old "Mammy" and established her in the lean-to of the little cabin. She had bidden this good cook: "See to it that Lucetty has nourishments continual, and do for mercy's sake, feed them skinny childern till they get flesh on their bones! They're a real disgrace to the neighborhood, the pinched way they look, and I shan't set easy in meetin' if I can't think they're fatted up right. You do the feedin' and we-all'll find you the stuff." So on this special morning Lizzie had despatched her husband with a small wagonload of vegetables and poultry; and having left his load at the cabin, the sociable man had driven on to the Copse, to meet and inquire for the "Lilies." Arrived at the boat, Aunt Betty had eagerly greeted him, explaining: "You're a man of sense and mighty welcome just now. Our people have gone actually daft over a dirty piece of paper and a few French words scribbled on it. The precious document belongs to the Colonel--Oh! yes, he's here. He has been sometime. I think he means to tarry developments--that will never be. He's infected all my family with his crazy notions and they're off now on this wild-goose search for 'buried treasure.' I wish you'd go and warn them that they mustn't trespass on private property, for I believe they'll stop at nothing in their folly." "I've heered about that there 'treasure.' I 'low more time's been spent by fools lookin' for it 'an would ha', arn't 'em a livin'. Sure. Yes ma'am, they has so. How many's at it now, Mrs. Calvert?" She laughingly counted upon her fingers: "The Colonel; the Captain; old Ephraim; James, Melvin, Gerald. Nor could Mabel, Aurora, Dorothy--Oh! by no means least, Dorothy!--resist the temptation to follow. And if I'm not greatly mistaken, I saw Chloe sneaking through the underbush a little while ago, with Metty in hand. I've heard nothing but 'buried treasure' ever since Gerald blundered upon a fancied trail, coming home from his second stay at your brother's. Elsa, here, hasn't caught the fever. She's the only one among us, I believe _hasn't_ caught the money fever, for I confess even I am curious to hear the outcome--absurd as I know it to be. Mrs. Bruce says nothing. She's a wise woman who knows enough to set a check upon her lips--which you'll see I don't. So, if you'll be kind enough to 'light,' as they say here, and try to keep my people out of mischief, I'll consider it another proof of your friendship." Farmer Wicky was flattered by the confidence which she had always reposed in him, and sided with her entirely. "If I had any rights to any hid treasures, which I haven't; and I expected to find it, which I don't; I wouldn't be the feller to go publish it broadcast this way. I'd keep it to myself an' do my own diggin'; onless, course, I'd tell Lizzie. Why, Ma'am, Mrs. Calvert, I 'low 't the hull state o' Maryland's been dug over, ten foot deep, from Pennsylvania to old Virginny, with the hull Eastern Sho' flung in, a-lookin' for what hain't never been put there--'ceptin' them same shovels. Maybe that's what makes our sile so rich an' gives us our wonderful crops! Ha, ha, ha!" Aunt Betty was "ha, ha, ha-ing," too, inwardly; for despite himself, a great eagerness had lighted the farmer's face at mention of this last digging-excursion. As soon as he could do so he rose and hastily struck off into the woods. She made her mirth audible as the branches closed behind him, exclaiming to Mrs. Bruce: "There's another one! I'm afraid I'm responsible for this last crack-brain; and--and--the disease is catching. I declare I'd like to pin up my skirts and travel the road the rest have taken! But I'll read a little in Don Quixote, instead. I wonder when they'll be back!" Meanwhile, the trail was growing "hot" in the depth of that old forest, or grove. It was, indeed, part of a great private park known as "Cecilia's Manor," and it was the pride of its owners to keep it intact as it had come down to them. Captain Jack held the floor, so to speak, with the less talkative but more deeply interested--if not excited--Colonel, occasionally interrupting and correcting. "Yes, siree! We've struck the gulf-stream 'at leads _di_-rect and straight, to the spot! Woods, says you? Here they be. Stream o' water? There she flows! Ford an' deers feedin'? Course, they's the very identical! Tracks an' all----" "Them's cow tracks," corrected farmer Wicky, while Corny laughed and nudged his brother to let the farce proceed. "Well, now, mate, how d'ye _know_ them's cows' tracks? You don't _see_ cows around, do ye? No, I don't see cows, nuther; so, 'cordin' to ship's law what you don't know you can't prove. Ahem. Path? If this here we've come ain't a crooked-zig-zag I never stumped one. Here's a tree, been struck by lightin', 'pears like; a-holdin' out its arms to keep the hangin' vines on 'em, exactly like a cross. Or nigh exactly." "Hold on, Cap'n Jack! In the map the zig-zag line stops at the tree. This one goes ever so much beyond." The Captain glared round upon the audacious Cornwallis, who dared gibe at his assertions. Then standing as upright as he could, he shouted: "Now face that way--North, ain't it? Right about--South! Yonder's East, an' t'other side's West. I allows I knows the p'ints of the compass if I don't know nothin' else. I tell you, _this is the spot_. Right below our feet lies--lies--" "The treasures of Golconda!" suggested the irreverent Corny. In the past he had held faith in this same "buried treasure," but now to see so many other people so earnestly interested in it, changed the whole aspect for him. But the doughty Captain, self-constituted master of ceremonies disdained to notice the "Ne'er-do-well" of the countryside and in stentorian tones, with his hands trumpet-wise before his mouth, he bellowed: "Now, my hearties, dig! DIG!" Each was armed with something to use, Jim had brought some of the engineering tools from the "Pad" and had distributed these among the boys. Ephraim had borrowed an old hoe from a farmer near by, Wicky had caught up a pick-axe from his own wagon--he had meant to leave it at his brother's cabin but forgot; Chloe had seized a carving knife, and the others had spoons, table knives, or whatever came handiest. Only the Colonel and the Captain were without implements of some sort. Even the jesting Corny had seized the fallen branch of a tree and broken its end into the semblance of a tool. It was he who first observed the idleness of the two men most interested, and slapping Cap'n Jack upon the shoulder, ordered: "Dig, my hearty! DIG!" "I--I'm a--a cripple!" answered the sailor, with offended dignity; "and don't you know, you Simple Simon, 't they always has to be a head to everything? Well, I 'low as how I'm the head to this here v'yage, an' I'll spend my energy officerin' this trip!" Corny laughed. Now that all was well at his home in the fields he found the world the jolliest sort of place, and the "Lilies" the most interesting people in it. Then he turned upon the Colonel, sitting upon a soft hummock of weeds as near in shape to Billy's restful back as possible. "But, Cunnel, how 'bout you? I thought the 'treasure' was yours--in part, anyway. Why aren't you up and at it? 'Findings are keepings', you know. Up, man, and dig!" The Colonel lifted sorrowful eyes to the jester's face, and murmured in his tired voice: "I cayn't. I never could. I shouldn't find it if I did. They ain't no use. I couldn't. They won't. Nobody will. Not nigh _her_; not on My Lady Cecilia's Manor. I've known that all along. But I _had_ to come. Something made me, I don't know what. But I had to. Corny Stillwell, do you know what day this is? Or ain't you no memory left in that rattle-pate o' you-all's? I don't suppose they is. Nobody remembers nothin'. Ah! hum." Corny's face had sobered and he held out his hand in sympathy. "Shake, old fellow! and look-a-here, haven't you held on to your grudge long enough? The Doc's a fine man if he is a mite greedy for the almighty dollar. Land of love! Aren't we all? Else why are we acting like such a parcel of idiots this minute! Get up, Cunnel. Get some energy into your tired old body and see how 'twill feel. At present, you're about as inspiriting as a galvanized squash, and first you know your willing helpers'll quit. Come on. Let's strike off a bit deeper into the woods. Too many banging around the roots of that one old tree. First they know it'll be tumblin' over on 'em. Come on out of harm's way. You and I've been good friends ever since I used to go to the Manor House and flirt with--" "Hold on! Don't you dare to say that name to me, Corny, you fool! you ain't wuth your salt but I'd ruther it had been you than him. You clear out my sight. I ain't got no thoughts, I ain't got no memories--I--I--ain't got no little girl no more!" The man's emotion was real. Tears rose to his faded eyes and rolled down over his gaunt cheeks; leaving, it must be admitted, some clean streaks there. Big-hearted, idle Corny couldn't endure this sight and was now doubly glad he had wandered to this place that day. The Colonel was a gentleman, sadly discouraged and, in reality, almost heart-broken. His merry friend could remember him as something very different from now; when his attire was less careless, his face clean-shaven, the melancholy droop of his countenance less pronounced. He had always talked much as he did still but he had been, despite this fact, a proud and happy man. These strangers mustn't see the old planter weeping! "Come." The touch of the jester's hand was as gentle as Lucetta's own, as he now adroitly guided his old friend to a sheltered spot where none could see his face. Except--Well, Dorothy was quite near; harmlessly prodding away at the earth with Aunt Betty's best paperknife. Her digging was aimless, for her thoughts were no longer on her present task. They were so absorbed that she didn't hear the approach of the two men--nor of one other, yet unseen. Suddenly, the little steel blade of her implement struck with a ringing sound upon something metallic, and she paused in astonishment. Then bent to her work excitedly, wondering: "Is it--can it be I've--found--it--IT! Oh!--" An unfamiliar voice suddenly interrupted her task, demanding: "Girl! Why are you despoiling my property, trampling my choicest ferns, trespassing upon my private park?" The paperknife went one way, Dorothy's red Tam another, as she sprang up to confront the most masterful looking woman she had ever seen. Tall as an Amazon, yet handsome as she was forbidding, she towered above the astonished child as if she would annihilate her. "I--I couldn't do very much--with a paperknife, could I? I didn't know--I'm sorry, I'll plant them right back--I only did what the others said--Nobody warned me--us--" "_Us?_ Are there others then? Where? This is outrageous! Can't you read? Didn't you see the signs 'No Trespassing' everywhere? Where are the rest? This must be put a stop to--I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. My park--Eunice's precious playground, where she is safe and--Oh! I am so sorry, so sorry." The lady was in riding habit. A little way off stood a horse and beside it a tiny pony with a child upon its back. A groom was at the pony's side, apparently holding its small rider safe. The child's face peered out from a mass of waving hair, frail and very lovely, though now frightened by her own mother's loud tones. These tones had roused others also. Wheeling about the lady faced Corny and the Colonel, slowly rising from the log where they had been resting. A moment she stared as if doubting the evidence of her own eyes, then her whole expression changed and springing forward she threw her strong arms about the trembling Colonel and drew his tired face to her shoulder. "Oh! Daddy, Daddy! You have come home--you have come home at last. And on my wedding day! To make it a glorious day, indeed! Ten years since I have had a chance to kiss your dear old face, ten years lost out of a lifetime just because I married--_Jabb_!" But now her strong, yet cultured voice, rang out in mirth, and Dorothy looked at her in amazement, almost believing she had found a crazy woman in these woods. Then Mr. Corny, as she called him, came to where she stood, observing, and gently pushed her back again upon the heap of ferns. "Best not to notice. Best keep right on diggin'. That's Josie--I mean Josephine--Dillingham--Jabb! Her father intended her to marry into one of our oldest Maryland 'families' and she rebelled. Took up with Jabb, a son of the poorest white trash in the county, not a cent to his name--that's bad enough!--but more brains 'an all the 'first families' put together ever had. Made his way right straight up the ladder. Has a reputation greater outside Annyrunnell than in it. Only fault--likes money. Says he'll make a fortune yet will beat the 'aristocrats' into being proud of him. Says if he does have to leave his daughter the humble name of Jabb he'll pile money enough on top of it to make the world forget what's underneath. Says when she marries she shall never discard that name but always be 'of J'. Poor little child! Her parents adore her but all her father's skill and pride is powerless to straighten her poor little body. She's a hunchback, and though she doesn't mind that for herself she grieves over it for them. Oh! but this is a grand day! The Colonel will just idolize little Eunice--I want to fling up my hat and hurra!" All this information had been given in a whisper while Dorothy snuggled in the great fronds, and Mr. Stillwell crouched beside her, idly digging with the paperknife he had picked up, and trying to keep his presence hidden from these two chief actors in this unexpected scene. "Do you suppose it was really to find the 'buried treasure' the Colonel came? Or to--to make up friends with his daughter?" asked Dolly, softly. "Well--both, maybe. No matter why nor how--he's here. They've met, and at heart are just as loving as they always were. It is a good day, the best anniversary Josie Dillingham ever had. Hark! What's doing? Peep and see." "The lady has motioned that groom to lead the horses this way. Ah! isn't that sweet? The little thing is holding out her arms to the Colonel as if she knew him and loved him already!" "Reckon Josie's taught her that. Joe always was a brick! Liked to rule the roost but with a heart as big as her body. She told my Lucetty 't she should teach little Eunice to know she had a grandpa somewhere and that he was the very best, dearest man alive; so that when they met, if they ever did, she wouldn't be afraid but would take to him right away. Reckon her plan's succeeded. Won't Lucetty be glad about this!" The groom was now leading the two horses through the woods, toward the Copse and the Water Lily. Both saddles were empty for little Eunice was in her grandfather's arms and he stepping as proudly, almost as firmly, as the woman walking beside him. "They--why--why--what have you done? Broken Aunt Betty's paperknife of real Damascus steel! She says she knows it's that because she bought it there herself, once when she went on a 'round the world' tour. She says it mayn't be any better than other steel--reckon it isn't, or it wouldn't have broken that way. I ought not to have taken it but I was so excited, everybody was, I didn't stop to think. What makes you look so queer, Mr. Corny? Aunt Betty won't care, or she'll blame me only. You--you most scare me!" Indeed, her companion was looking very "queer," as she said. His eyes were glittering, his face was pale, his lips nervously working, and he was rapidly enlarging the hole her knife had made by using his bare hands. Dorothy sprang to a little distance and then watched, fascinated. A suspicion of the truth set her own eyes shining and now she was scarcely surprised when the man stood up, holding a muddy box in his hand, and shouting in hilarious delight: "Found! Found! After all, that old yarn was true! It's the 'buried treasure', as sure as I'm alive! Hurra!" Away he sped carrying the big box above his head and summoning all his fellow searchers to join him at the house-boat and behold. Half-dazed by this success Dorothy picked up the discarded fragments of the paper cutter, and followed him. But even as she did so she wondered: "Odd! That he can carry it so, on the very tips of his fingers, and so high up! I thought 'buried treasure' was always gold, and a box full of gold would be terrible heavy. Even two, three hundred dollars that Mr. Ford let me lift, out in California, weighed a lot!" But she shared to the full the excitement of all the company who now threw down their own tools to follow Corny with his joyous shouts: "Come on! Come on, all! The 'treasure' is found!" CHAPTER XVI. WHEN THE MONKEYS' CAGE WAS CLEANED. It was an eager company gathered in the big saloon of the Water Lily. No time had been lost by all these seekers after the "buried treasure" in obeying Farmer Corny's summons to follow him; and having arrived at the boat, found the Colonel, his daughter, and grandchild already there. The Colonel's proud introduction of his newly restored family found a warm welcome at Aunt Betty's hands, and she and the younger matron, members both of "first families," were friends at once. As for little Eunice, who had always shrunk from the presence of strangers, there was no shrinking now. Her grandfather had set her down upon the floor, while he presented Mrs. Jabb--even deigning to call her by that name--and the little one had looked about her in great curiosity. Then she perceived Elsa, holding out entreating hands, and promptly ran to throw herself into the welcoming arms. Instantly there was sympathy between these two afflicted young things and, as a new sound fell upon the little one's ear, the elder girl explained: "The monkeys! Would you like to see the monkeys? Or would you be afraid?" "Eunice never saw monkeys. What are monkeys? Are they people or just dear, dear animals?" "They're not people, darling, though oddly like them. Come and see." Elsa was herself so shy in the presence of strangers, especially so majestic a person as the mistress of Lady Cecilia's Manor, that she was glad to escape to the tender where her charges were in their cage; and for once the little animals were docile while on exhibition, so that Eunice's delight was perfect. Indeed, she was so fascinated by them that she could scarcely be induced to leave them, and when she was compelled to do so by her mother's voice, she walked backward, keeping her eyes fixed upon those delectable creatures till the last instant. Meanwhile those in the cabin of the Lily were merrily disputing over who should open the "find," and finally drew lots upon it. Careful Mrs. Bruce had brought a tray to put under the muddy box and brushed the dirt from it, till she was prevented by the hubbub of voices, in which that of the newcomer, Mrs. Jabb, was uppermost. She was exclaiming: "The lot is Corny's! Oh! I'm glad of that, and I say right here and now that if I have any share in the 'treasure' I pass it onto him 'unsight, unseen,' as we used to say when, boy and girl together, we exchanged our small belongings." "Pooh! Joe, I don't half like it! But--shall I, folks? Looks as if the box would come to pieces at a breath." "Yes, yes, you--you do it! And we ratify what Mrs. Jabb has said. Anyone of us who has a right to any of the contents of the 'treasure' he has found will pass it on to Mr. Cornwallis Stillwell," said Aunt Betty. "Dolly, hand him this little silver ice-hammer, to strike the chest with." Laughingly, he received it and struck: "The fatal blow! Be kind, oh! fate! to a frightened meddler in this mystery!" The wooden box did fall apart, almost at that first stroke of the tiny hammer. It was extremely old and much decayed by its long burial in the ground, and had been held together only by the metallic bands which Dorothy's paperknife struck when she was digging among the ferns. But there was a box within a box! The second one of brass and fastened by a hasp. A feeling of intense awe fell on all the company. This did look as if there had certainly been buried something of great value, and the impression was deepened when Corny lifted the inner receptacle with reverence, remarking: "It's very light--not very large--it might contain precious stones--diamonds, do you think? I declare, I'd rather somebody else would do it. You, Colonel, please." "No, no. Ah! hum. I've something far more precious 'an any diamond in my arms this minute. I don't give that up for any old box!" and so declining he rubbed his face against Eunice's soft cheek and laughed when she protested against its roughness. Every head was bent to see and all were urging haste, so that no further time was wasted. Undoing the fastening and lifting the lid of this inner "shrine" there lay revealed--What? Nobody comprehended just what until the man held up the half-bright, half-tarnished metal image of a "Fool's Head," as pictured in old prints. Then the laughter burst forth at this ancient jest coming home so aptly to the modern jester who had unearthed it. "Maybe there's something inside! Maybe that's only an odd-shaped box to deceive folks. Maybe--do, do, look inside!" "Do that yourself, Miss Dolly. Remember it was you who first found the 'treasure!'" returned Mr. Stillwell and merrily passed it on to her. She didn't hesitate. In a twinkling her fingers had discovered where a lid was fitted on and had lifted it. There was something in the box after all! A closely folded bit of paper--No, parchment--on which was writing. This wasn't in French as the map had been inscribed, but in quaintly formed, old-fashioned characters, and the legend was this: "Who hides his money in the earth Is but a fool, whate'er his birth; And he who tries to dig it thence Expecting pounds, should find but pence. The hider is but half a wit, The seeker's brains are smaller yet, For who to chance his labor sells Is only fit for cap and bells." "Take my share of this wonderful 'treasure'," cried Mrs. Jabb, when the momentary silence following the reading of this rhyme had been broken by Corny's laughter. "And mine!" "And mine!" "And mine, for my great-great-grandfather's sister was--How was that, dear Colonel? About our great-great- grandmother's--father's--relationship? Well, I know one thing, I'll never believe in any such foolishness again! _I_ never did really, you know, I only--" "Oh! nonsense, Dolly! A girl who is so interested she catches up a paperknife--" reproved Aurora, who had herself ruined a table knife. "Aunt Betty, that's true! I did break it--I mean--" "I did that, Madam, and I fear I can never travel to Damascus to fetch you another; but what I can do I will do. Vote of the company! Attention, please! Does not this quaint old 'cap and bells' belong of right to Mrs. Calvert?" demanded and explained Cornwallis Stillwell, holding the little metal head in the air. "No, no, to you! to you!" To Dorothy, the most amusing feature of the whole affair was the earnestness with which each and every one of them denied that they had ever had any faith in the old tradition. "_I_ only went along to--for fun!" stoutly declared Gerald; and so calmly stated all the rest. Even the old Captain rubbed his bald spot till it shone, while tears of laughter sparkled behind his "specs;" and some were there, looking upon this "nigh useless old hull," as he called himself, who felt that the expedition had not failed since he could find so much enjoyment from it. As for Mrs. Josephine, her face was transformed with the happiness of that morning's reunion with her father and it needed but one thing to make her joy perfect. "Oh! Daddy, if only the Doctor were here! But it's only a little delay, for of course, you're going home with me to the Manor House now, to stay forever and a day. Say, Daddy dear? How's farming? And oh! where, how is Billy?" The Colonel was actually smiling. Nay, more, was laughing! for as if he had heard himself inquired for, old Billy answered in his loudest bray--"Ah! umph! A-a-a-ao-o-m-p-h!" Then into that merry company came running again little Eunice, who had for a moment slipped away with Elsa. In her little hand she held Joan's chain, while with a saucy glance around Jocko sat grinning upon Elsa's shoulder. "I beg pardon, but she will not leave them, lady. I never saw anybody so pleased with monkeys as she is, and not one mite afraid. That's more than some of us can say:" sweetly apologized Elsa, with a mischievous glance toward Aurora who had gathered up her skirts and mounted a chair. "Mamma! I want the monkeys! The lovely monkeys! I do, I do! Don't you know? Don't you 'member? Always you told me I should have anything I wanted that day when Grandpa comes, anything--any single thing. You wouldn't like to tell a wrong story, would you, Mamma dear? Because he's comed--this is the day--and what Eunice wants is the lovely, lovely monkeys! Buy 'em for me, Mamma darling! Grandpa, make her!" pleaded the child, for once wholly forgetful that she was displaying her deformity to all these people, and running from her mother back to the Colonel. With a return of his usual sadness, he lifted her and kissed her, then set her gently down, saying: "Honey, I cayn't. I never could. Ah! hum, she was a deal younger 'n you when she took the reins into her hands an' begun drivin' for herself. I cayn't help ye, sweetheart, but I'd give--give--even Billy if she'd do what you want." "Oh! Colonel, you can't give again what you've already given! Billy--" "No, Miss Dorothy, there you're mistook! Billy wouldn't be give, he wasn't accepted, he--Honey sweetness, Grandpa cayn't!" "Are those monkeys for sale?" asked Mrs. Jabb. Aurora looked at Gerald and Gerald nudged Melvin. Here was a solution to their own dilemma--"what shall we do with the monks?" So being thus urged, as he supposed, by his partner in trade, Melvin promptly answered: "No, Mrs. Jabb, they aren't for sale. But if this little girl would like to have them we are delighted to make her a present of them, don't you know? Just--_delighted_." The lady was going to say she couldn't accept so valuable a gift and would prefer to buy them, but just then a groan he couldn't subdue escaped the disappointed Gerald and she felt that he was selfish and should be punished. Of course, anybody rich enough to idle away a whole autumn, house-boating, could afford to give a half-share in a pair of monkeys to a crippled child. But in her judgment she did poor Gerry an injustice. His groan would have been a cry of rejoicing that his deal in monkeys was to be taken off his hands had not Jim, at that instant, given him a kick under the table with a too forcible sympathy. "Very well. But how does a person transport monkeys?" asked the doctor's wife, while Eunice danced about the cabin in great glee. "Oh! they have a cage. A real nice cage, but I'd like to give it a good cleaning before it's taken away," said Elsa. "Would that take long? I'd like to send for it as soon as we get home. Eunice so seldom cares about any new toy I'm anxious to please her while the idea _is_ new." "Not long, I'll be real quick. Would you like to come and see it done, Eunice?" "Oh! yes, I want, I want!" Then it suddenly developed that all the young folks "wanted," even Aurora. Now that they were to part company with the simians the curious creatures became at once more interesting than ever before. So they gathered about the wooden cage, some helping, some suggesting, and Dorothy seconding Elsa in the statement: "If they're to belong to this lovely child not a speck of dirt must be left. I've not taken out that sliding bottom of the cage but once, it fits too tight, and you'd have laughed to see how the dear pets watched me. Ugh! It _does_ stick--dreadfully!" said Elsa, wrestling with the wooden slide. "Here, girlie! Let me! You just keep the wretched beasts out of reach of me. I ought to help in this and you'll hurt your hands. Let me, Elsa!" As Gerald spoke he gave a strong pull on the false bottom and it yielded with a suddenness that sent him sprawling. But it wasn't his mishap that caused that surprised cry from Elsa, nor the angry, answering one of the now excited monkeys. It was all she could do to prevent their springing upon Gerald who had so interfered with their belongings. For between the false and real bottoms of their cage was a considerable space; and in some ingenious fashion they had stored there all their cherished possessions--as well as those of their human neighbors. Missing thimbles, a plume from Chloe's hat, Metty's pen knife, thread, nails, buttons--anything and everything that had been missed and had captivated their apish fancy. Elsa and Dorothy made a thorough search, compelling by their ridicule the "timid boys" to keep the animals off while they did so; and it was then that one more "mystery" was solved, one more miserable anxiety and suspicion laid to rest. "Our money! Our money! It was they who 'stole' it, and gave us all our trouble! Oh! Mrs. Bruce, this is the most wonderful day ever was! I'm so excited I can hardly breathe--the money's found--the money's found!" "My! But I'm glad! Does seem as if some wonderful things has happened this day, just as you say. So many 't I'm getting real nervous. I hope nothing more will till I get over this. We said 'twas to be a 'rest,' this trip, and I haven't never had so many upsets in the same length o' time before. Land of love! What next? There's wheels coming down the road and nobody's been to get in provision, if it happens to be company to dinner. Mrs. Calvert hasn't much sense that way. Seems sometimes as if she'd like to ask all creation to meals without regard to victuals. Peek under that tree. Can you see? Don't it appear like the doctor's rig? It is! And there's a man with him--_two men!_ As sure as preaching I'll warrant you your Aunt Betty'll ask these folks to dinner!" Dorothy obediently "peeked." Then stood up and rubbed her eyes. Then peeked once more and with a wild cry of delight bounded over the gang-plank to the bank beyond, straight into the arms of a gray, vigorous old man, whose coming was the most wonderful event of all that day's strange happenings. CHAPTER XVII. CONCLUSION. "Uncle Seth! Oh! is it you--truly--really--you darling Uncle Seth? Now, indeed, this is the most wonderful day in all my life! I am so glad--so glad!" "Same little, dear, enthusiastic Dorothy! Well, my child, I reckon I'm as glad as you. But have you no greeting for your old acquaintance, Mr. Stinson? or a 'Howdy' for the doctor? He and I are old friends, let me tell you. I've known him since he was a mighty small boy." Dorothy released Mr. Winters and made her pretty obeisance to the gentlemen with him, while the good doctor added to his friend's statement: "Yes, indeed, since I was big enough to walk alone. It was he who taught me my letters, sent me to school at his own expense, gave me my start in life. What I don't owe your grand 'Uncle Seth' couldn't be told. But, hello! What's up? Josephine? Eunice? So they've at last called upon my house-boat friends, have they? And--my eyes!" As the three newcomers stepped to the ground and started across the gang-plank, the doctor did, indeed, rub his eyes and stare. He had not forgotten that this was the tenth anniversary of his wedding and knew that his wife would prepare some pleasant surprise for him, after her custom of celebrating, but he was more than surprised this time to see his father-in-law standing on the little deck, holding Eunice in his arms and--yes, actually smiling! But the physician was a man of few words. Shaking the Colonel's hand in the most ordinary fashion he said: "Good morning, father;" and in that brief salutation the alienation of ten years was bridged, and was never referred to again by either side. "Well, Cousin Seth. Better late than never;" was Aunt Betty's characteristic greeting of her most trusted friend. But the light of relief that spread over her lovely old face was more eloquent than words. Five minutes later, the doctor's party had gone. Mrs. Calvert did just what Mrs. Bruce had prophesied she would--invited them all to dinner, but the invitation was declined. "Our anniversary, you know. Cook has a grand dinner waiting for us at home and it wouldn't do to disappoint her. Father, you get in with the doctor. Eunice and I will ride close behind. And look here, Wicky Stillwell! What's to hinder you two boys, you and Corny, following along in your wagon yonder with the monkeys' cage? You can share our fine fixings, just as we used when we were little and you ran away from home to 'Joe's,' whenever there were 'doings' at the Manor House. Oh! I'm so happy! I feel like a little girl again and just be dear good little boys and come. Will you?" Of course they went. Mrs. Josephine had a way of getting her will of other people, and this time it was a relief even to hospitable Aunt Betty to have only her own family about her. When the rumble of wheels had died away she called Mr. Winters from his inspection of the Water Lily and bade him: "Give an account of yourself, please. Why haven't you come before and why have you come now? Come everybody, come and listen. Let dinner wait till we learn what news this man has in his budget." So they gathered about him while he explained: "I wanted to come at the very beginning of the trip but, also, I wanted to see what my Dorothy would do with her 'elephant' of a house-boat. Engineer Stinson, here, wrote me about the breaking of the engine and your plans for a simpler outing because of it. I tried to get him to come back to you and take the job in hand but he had other engagements and couldn't then. So I reasoned that it wouldn't do any of you a bit of harm to live thus quietly for a few weeks, till he was at liberty. He is now and has come, bringing all the necessary stuff to work with as far as Jimpson's. "To make a long story short: I propose; 'everybody willing and nobody saying no,' as Dolly used to premise in making her plans, to pole back there; to get the engine into first-class order; and then to take a real cruise in this beautiful Water Lily all down this side the Bay and up along the Eastern Sho'. Cousin Betty shall visit her beloved Severn; we'll see the middies at Annapolis; touch here and there at the historic points; do anything, in fact, that anybody most desires. For, by and by, these idle days must give place to days of discipline, when our small hostess, here, will resume her education in the faraway northland of Canada. What will befall her there? Ah! well. That we must wait to learn from time, and from the forthcoming story of '_Dorothy at Oak Knowe_.' "Meanwhile, the autumn is at its best. October on the old Chesapeake is just glorious, with occasional storms thrown in to make us grateful for this safe, snug little craft. Mr. Stinson says he wouldn't be afraid to trust it on the Atlantic, even, but we'll not do that. We'll just simply fill these remaining days of Dorothy's vacation with the--time of our lives! All in favor, say Aye. Contrary--no." As he finished the "Learned Blacksmith" drew his beloved ward to his side and looked into her sparkling eyes, asking: "Well, Dolly Doodles, what say?" "Aye, aye, aye!" "Aye, aye, aye!" rose almost deafening from every throat. "Then, Mrs. Bruce, since all that is settled bid Chloe get to work and give these travelers the very best dinner ever cooked in our little galley;" said Mrs. Calvert, in her gayest manner. Yet as she spoke, her eyes rested lovingly upon the beautiful Copse and the sadness which any parting brings to the old fell upon her. Till cheerful old Seth, her lifelong friend, sat down beside her, with Dorothy snuggling to him and talked as only he could talk--always of the future, rarely of the past. "Look ahead--lend a hand." They were to do that still. And in this "look ahead" Dorothy was asked: "What shall you do with the Water Lily, when this year's cruise is over?" "Is it really, truly mine, to do with exactly as I want?" "Surely, child, your Uncle Seth isn't an 'Injun giver'!" he answered, smiling. "Then I want to make it over to somebody, whoever's best, for the use of poor, or crippled, or unhappy children and folks. Darling Elsa said in the beginning it would be 'a cruise of loving kindness' and seems if it had been. I don't mean me--not anything I've had a chance to do--only the way you've always showed me about 'leadings' and 'links in the chain of life' you know. So many such beautiful things have happened beside all the funny ones. The Stillwells finding out about each other, and Mr. Corny 'turning over a new leaf' to take better care of his folks; Gerald and Aurora learning to be gentle to everybody; those Manor House people making up; and darling Elsa growing happy, just like other girls. None of these things would have happened if the dear old Water Lily hadn't brought them all together. I'd like Elsa and her father to be the real heads of it, with that sweet Lucetta and her babies next. They should keep it just for charity, or goodness--to whoever needs that! What do you say? Aunt Betty, Uncle Seth?" What could they say but most heartily commend this unselfish wish. This approval made Dorothy so glad and gave her so much to think about that she almost forgot to be sorry when she took her last glance at beloved Deer-Copse upon the Ottawotta. "Look ahead." It was all still to come; the fine trip which Mr. Seth had planned and the joyful return home; the bestowal of the house-boat for its winter's rest; a little time of preparation; and then the new life at Oak Knowe, the great school in the north which was to mark the next change in Dorothy's happy life. Swiftly the future becomes the present, then the past; and it seemed to all the voyagers upon the Water Lily that they had hardly sailed away from Halcyon Point, to begin their eventful trip, than they were sailing up to it again, whistle blowing, flags flying, and every soul on board, from Aunt Betty down to little Metty, singing with all fervor: "Home, sweet, sweet Home! Be it ever so humble--there's no place like home." THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. Any remaining misspellings or punctuation errors are as in the original book. 
40300	----	DOROTHY BY EVELYN RAYMOND NEW YORK HURST & CO., INC. PUBLISHERS THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. =Dorothy= =Dorothy at Skyrie= =Dorothy's Schooling= =Dorothy's Travels= =Dorothy's House Party= =Dorothy in California= =Dorothy on a Ranch= =Dorothy's House Boat= =Dorothy at Oak Knowe= =Dorothy's Triumph= =Dorothy's Tour= COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. HOW DOROTHY CAME 1 II. A POSTAL SUBSTITUTE 15 III. AT JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL 33 IV. DOROTHY GAINS IN WISDOM 50 V. DOROTHY ENTERTAINS 68 VI. DOROTHY GOES UPON AN ERRAND 88 VII. AN OFFICE SEEKER AND A CLIENT 103 VIII. TENANTS FOR NO. 77 123 IX. STRANGE EXPERIENCES 141 X. THE FLITTING 157 XI. JIM BARLOW 171 XII. DOROTHY'S ILLNESS 188 XIII. THE PLUMBER AND HIS GOSSIP 202 XIV. THE BITER BIT 219 XV. THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 238 XVI. A GOOD SAMARITAN 257 XVII. A SUNDAY DRIVE 278 XVIII. CONCLUSION 291 DOROTHY CHAPTER I HOW DOROTHY CAME One spring morning Mrs. John Chester opened the front door of her little brick house and screamed. There, upon the marble step, stood a wicker baby-wagon with a baby in it; and, having received this peculiar greeting, the baby screamed, too. Then it laughed, Mrs. Chester laughed, and, hearing both the screams and the laughter, postman John Chester hurriedly set down his cup of coffee and ran to the doorway. In another instant he, also, was laughing. What childless, child-loving man could help doing so, beholding the pretty sight before him? For Martha, his wife, had caught the little creature out of the wagon and was ecstatically hugging it, cooing to it, mothering it, as naturally as if this little one she was tossing up and down were not almost the first child she had ever so fondled. "John! John! O John! _It's meant!_ It's for us! See, see? The little card on its coat says: 'My name is Dorothy C. I have come to be your daughter.' Our daughter, John Chester! Oh! what a blessed gift! Who--who--can have sent her?" Then John Chester stopped laughing and, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder with a protesting pressure, said: "There, little woman, don't go building hopes on such a thing as this. Doubtless, some of the neighbors have left the little one here for a joke. If the good Lord has sent us no babies of our own it's not likely He'd put it into the hearts of others to give us theirs. It'll be called for before I get in from my rounds. Well, good-bye. Wish I could stay and play with the kid, but I'm late already. Good-bye." As he stooped to kiss her, after his accustomed fashion, his cap touched the baby's cheek, pressed so close to Martha's, and with a frown and a twist Miss Dorothy C. put up her tiny hand and knocked it from his head. Then she wrinkled her funny little nose, laughed again, and from that instant the letter-carrier became her abject slave. As he sped down the street, to take a car for the post-office and the morning mail he must deliver, he saw old Mrs. Cecil's carriage drive slowly around the corner. She was not "Mrs. Cecil" exactly, for there was more of her name upon her visiting cards: "Mrs. Cecil Somerset Calvert," and she was one of the proudest of old Maryland dames. But she was called by the shorter title by all sorts and conditions of people. She was on John Chester's route and quite often addressed him as "Johnnie," though Mrs. Martha resented this as being too familiar. In her own eyes John was the wisest and best man in the world, far too good to be called "Johnnie" like any schoolboy. The postman himself did not resent it. He resented very little that befell and simply trotted through life as he did over his mail-route, with a cheery word and smile for everybody. Therefore, it was quite characteristic that he should good-naturedly obey Mrs. Cecil's summons to come to her carriage, that she had ordered stopped, even though he was just boarding a car and had no time to waste. "Johnnie, what was that I saw in your wife's arms, as I drove by?" she demanded as he came up. "A baby. The cutest ever was. Somebody's playing a joke on us, leaving it on our steps." "I shouldn't like that kind of a joke. Whose is it?" "I don't know. I'll tell you more when I get round with the mail. Beg pardon, please, there comes another car," he replied, still smiling, although he was edging away as fast as he dared, without giving offense to this quick-tempered old lady. "Shall you be fool enough to take the youngster in, if nobody calls for it? What salary do you get?" she continued, ignoring his evident reluctance to be further delayed. He answered hastily, raised his cap, and managed to catch the next car, springing up on the rear platform while it was already in motion and reckoning that he would have to run, instead of trot, if he made up time and got his morning letters to those who expected them along with their breakfast. As he disappeared Mrs. Cecil nodded her handsome white head a number of times, in satisfaction over something, and remarked to her poodle: "Made no mistake. He's a straight man. Well, well, well! The idea of anybody being simpleton enough to be glad of the care of a squalling baby!" Then she drove home to her own fine house, which stood at the junction of the broad avenue and the narrow street. As old Ephraim turned his horses into the spacious grounds a thrill of pride ran through his mistress's heart, while she shouted to her half-deaf coachman: "Bellevieu never looked finer that it does this spring, boy." To which the gray-headed "boy" echoed: "Fine this spring, Miss Betty." "Had another offer for the place yesterday, Ephraim." "Dat so, Miss Betty? Grandes' place in Baltimo'," responded the other, who had heard but little of what she had said, but guessed sufficiently near to answer sympathetically. Indeed, he was fully as proud of the ancient estate as its present owner, and of the fact that, while he dwelt in the very heart of the southern city, his stables and appointments were quite as roomy as if an open country lay all about them. His "Miss Betty" and he were the last of the "family"; he considered Bellevieu as much his as hers; and, from his throne upon the antiquated Calvert carriage, looked with charitable contempt upon the drivers of less aristocratic vehicles. The march of progress had left the mansion and its beautiful grounds untouched. Entrenched behind her pride and her comfortable bank account, Mrs. Betty Cecil Somerset-Calvert had withstood every assault upon the old place, whether made by private individual or, as yesterday, by the city authorities, who wished to turn Bellevieu into a park. She had replied to the committee that waited upon her: "No, gentlemen, thank you. This house was one of the first built in the town, though it was then what you call nowadays a 'suburban residence.' Each generation has received it intact from the preceding one, and intact it will descend to my heirs. What they will do with it remains to be seen. I have the honor to wish you good-bye," she concluded, with her grandest manner, yet the familiar local salutation of parting. The committee felt itself dismissed and bowed itself out; and the old lady summoned her house-girl to open all the windows and ventilate the rooms contaminated by commercial presence. Then she consoled herself and the poodle with the reflection: "We shall be free from any more 'offers' for at least two weeks. Let us enjoy our freedom." Yet Mrs. Cecil's pride did not prevent her taking the liveliest interest in her neighbors and their gossip. Having been born and passed all her life at Bellevieu she knew everything which went on anywhere near it. Ensconced upon her broad piazzas, behind the venerable oaks and evergreens which shaded them, her bright old eyes watched the outer world with the zest as of youth and utter loneliness. For alone she dwelt in the many-roomed house, that had once been filled by her now vanished "family," and sometimes found her solitude unbearable. Even postman "Johnnie's" thrice-daily visits were a most welcome diversion to her, and lest there should be no mail sufficient to bring him so often to her door, she subscribed for all sorts of publications that she seldom opened, in order to have something due at every delivery. This morning she was so anxious to see him again that she had her breakfast served on the piazza, sitting down to wait for it as Ephraim drove away toward the stable. It was brought to her by Dinah, grumbling as usual: "Laws, Miss Betty, you-all shuah do try a body's tempah. It am puffickly ridic'lous de way yo' ca'y on. Off drivin' from pillah to post 'fore breakfast done served, an' you-all not so young an' spry like yo' used to was. Yeah am dem scrambled aigs done gone hard an' tough, like a nigger's skin, an' fust off Ah knows Ah'll have yo' laid up wid dat same old misery in yo' chist. Why-all cayn't yo' eat yo' breakfast in de house, propah, like a Christian, Miss Betty?" "Because I don't wish to, Dinah," retorted Mrs. Cecil, exactly as a spoiled child might have done. "You-all know how old yo' be, Miss Betty?" demanded the ancient negress, who had been body-servant to her mistress from the earliest youth of both and who was still indulged beyond limit in her freedom of speech and action. "Yes, Dinah. I am just one year and a day younger than you are. Go tell cook to scramble me some more eggs; and if I prefer driving before to after breakfast, that doesn't concern you, girl." "Beg pahdon, Miss Betty, but it do concern. Didn't Ah done go promise yo' dyin' ma how't Ah't take ca' of you-all what'd nevah no sense to take ca' yo'self? Huh! Yo' put dat shawl closeter 'roun' dem purty shouldahs o' yo's, whilst I go shame dat cook for sendin' up such no-'count aigs to my young miss!" And away limped Dinah, the "misery" in her own limbs from her "roomaticals" being very severe. Meanwhile, in the little house around the corner, Mrs. John Chester was superintending another breakfast which had the delightful zest of novelty about it. No sooner had Dorothy C. been taken within doors than she espied the table which John-postman had so hastily quitted upon sound of her own laughter and, at once, began to kick and squirm in the house mistress's arms with such vigor that the good lady came near to dropping her, and exclaimed, in mingled fear and pride: "Why, you strong little thing! You're as hard to hold as--as a human eel! There, there, don't! You've slipped down so far all your clothes are over your head. Are you hungry? Well, well! You shall have all you want to eat, for once!" Then she placed the child on the floor while she filled a tumbler with milk and offered it; but this was met by disdain and such another swift toss of the baby arm that the glass flew out of the holder's hand, and its contents deluged the floor. Whereupon, Miss Dorothy C. threw herself backward with shrieks which might mean anger or delight, but were equally confusing to the order-loving Mrs. Chester, who cried, in reproof: "Oh! you naughty baby! Whoever you belong to should teach you better than that! Now, just see. All my nice clean matting splashed with milk, and milk-grease is hard to get out. Now you lie there till I get a pail and cloth--if you hurt yourself I can't help it. John said you were a joke, but you're no joke to me!" Having just finished her spring cleaning and having had, for economy's sake, to do it all herself, the housewife's tidy soul was doubly tried, and she had a momentary desire to put the baby and her wagon out upon the street again, to take its chances with somebody else. However, when she re-entered with her pail and cloths, she was instantly diverted by the sight that met her. Dorothy C. had managed to pull her coat over her head and in some unknown fashion twist the strings of her bonnet around her throat, in an effort to remove the objectionable headgear. The result was disaster. The more she pulled the tighter grew that band around her neck and her face was already blue from choking when Mrs. Chester uncovered it and rescued the child from strangling. As the lady afterward described the affair to her husband it appeared that: "Seeing that, and her so nigh death, as it were, gave me the terriblest turn! So that, all unknown, down sits I in that puddle of milk as careless as the little one herself. And I cuddled her up that close, as if I'd comforted lots of babies before, and me a green hand at the business. To see her sweet little lip go quiver-quiver, and her big brown eyes fill with tears--Bless you, John! I was crying myself in the jerk of a lamb's tail! Then I got up, slipped off my wet skirt and got her out of her outside things, and there pinned to her dress was this note. Read it out again, please, it so sort of puzzles me." So the postman read all that they were to learn, for many and many a day, concerning the baby which had come to their home; and this is a copy of that ill-spelled, rudely scrawled document: "thee child Is wun Yere an too Munths old hur burthDay is aPrill Furst. til firthur notis Thar will Bee a letur in The posOfis the furst of Everi mounth with Ten doLurs. to Pay." Signed: "dorothy's Gardeen hur X mark." Now John Chester had been a postman for several years and he had learned to decipher all sorts of handwriting. Instantly, he recognized that this scrawl was in a disguised hand, wholly different from that upon the card pinned to the child's coat, and that the spelling was also incorrect from a set purpose. Laying the two bits of writing together he carefully studied them, and after a few moments' scrutiny declared: "The same person wrote both these papers. The first one in a natural, cultivated hand, and a woman's. The second in a would-be-ignorant one, to divert suspicion. But--the writer didn't think it out far enough; else she never would have given the same odd shape to her r's and that twist to the tails of her y's. It's somebody that knows us, too, likely, though I can't for the life of me guess who. What shall we do about her? Send her to an Orphanage, ourselves? Or turn her over to the police to care for, Martha dear?" His face was so grave that, for a moment, she believed him to be in earnest; then that sunny smile which was never long absent from his features broke over them and in that she read the answer to her own desire. To whomsoever Dorothy C. belonged, that heartless person had passed the innocent baby on to them and they might safely keep her for their own. Only, knowing the extreme tidiness of his energetic wife, John finally cautioned: "Don't settle it too hastily, Martha. By the snap of her brown eyes and the toss of her yellow head, I foresee there'll be a deal more spilled milk before we've done with her!" "I don't care!" recklessly answered the housewife, "_she's mine_!" CHAPTER II A POSTAL SUBSTITUTE So long a time had passed that Dorothy C. had grown to be what father John called "a baker's dozen of years old"; and upon another spring morning, as fair as that when she first came to them, the girl was out upon the marble steps, scrubbing away most vigorously. The task was known locally as "doing her front," and if one wishes to be considerable respectable, in Baltimore, one's "front" must be done every day. On Saturdays the entire marble facing of the basement must also be polished; but "pernickity" Mrs. Chester was known to her neighbors as such a forehanded housekeeper that she had her Saturday's work done on Friday, if this were possible. Now this was Friday and chanced to be a school holiday; so Dorothy had been set to the week-end task, which she hated; and therefore she put all the more energy into it, the sooner to have done with it, meanwhile singing at the top of her voice. Then, when the postman came round the corner of the block, she paused in her singing to stare at him for one brief instant. The next she had pitched her voice a few notes higher still, and it was her song that greeted her father's ears and set him smiling in his old familiar fashion. Unfortunately, he had not been smiling when she first perceived him and there had been a little catch in her tones as she resumed her song. Each was trying to deceive the other and each pretending that nothing of the sort was happening. "Heigho, my child! At it again, giving the steps a more tombstone effect? Well, since it's the fashion--go ahead!" "I wish the man, or men, who first thought of putting scrubby-steps before people's houses had them all to clean himself! Hateful old thing!" With a comical gesture of despair she tossed the bit of sponge-stone, with which she had been polishing, into the gutter and calmly seated herself on the bottom step, "to get her breath." "To get yours, too, father dear," she added, reaching to the postman's hand and gently drawing him down beside her. Then, because her stock of patience was always small and she could not wait for his news, she demanded: "Well! Did you go? What did he say?" "Yes, darling, I went," he answered, in a low tone and casting an anxious glance backward over his shoulder toward the house where Martha might be near enough to hear. But having replied to one question he ignored the rest. However, the girl was not to be put off by silence and her whole heart was in her eyes as she leaned forward and peered into his. He still tried to evade her, but she was so closely bound up with his life, she understood him so quickly and naturally, that this was difficult; so when she commanded in her tender, peremptory way: "Out with it, father mine, body and bones!" he half-cried, half-groaned: "Worse than all the others! _I--am--doomed!_" Then he dropped his head on his hands and, regardless of the fact that they were on the street, conspicuous to every passer-by, he gave way to a mute despair. Now when a naturally light-hearted person breaks down the collapse is complete, but Dorothy did not know this nor that recovery is commonly very prompt. She was still staring in grieved amazement at her father's bowed head when he again lifted it and flashed a smile into her freshly astonished eyes. Then she laughed aloud, so great was her relief, and cried: "There, father John! You've been fooling me again! I should have known you were teasing and not believed you!" But he answered, though still smiling: "It's pretty hard to believe the fact, myself. Yet it's true, all the same. Five different doctors have agreed upon it--which is wonderful, in itself; and though I'd much rather not face this kind of a truth I reckon I'll have to; as well as the next question: What is to become of us?" Dorothy still retained her baby habit of wrinkling her nose when she was perplexed, and she did so now in an absurd earnestness that amused her father, even in the midst of his heartache. During her twelve years of life in the little brick house in Brown Street, she had made a deal of trouble for the generous couple which had given her a home there, but she had brought them so much more of happiness that they now believed they actually could not live without her. As the postman expressed it: "Her first act in this house was to spill her milk on its tidy floor. She's been spilling milk all along the route from then till now, and long may she spill! Martha'd be 'lost' if she didn't have all that care of the troublesome child." This sunshiny morning, for the first time since that far-back day when she arrived upon his doorstep, the good postman began to contemplate the possibility of their parting; and many schemes for her future welfare chased themselves through his troubled brain. If he could only spare Martha and Dorothy the unhappiness that had fallen upon himself he would ask no more of fortune. For a long time they sat there, pondering, till Martha's voice recalled them to the present: "For goodness sake, Dorothy C.! What are you idling like that for? Don't you know I've to go to market and you have the lunch to get? Then there's that class picnic of yours, and what on earth will Miss Georgia say if you don't go this time? Come, come! Get to work. I'm ashamed to have the neighbors see my marble the way it is, so late in the day. You there, too, John? Finished your beat already? Well, you come, too. I've a mind to take up that dining-room carpet and put down the matting this very day. I never was so late in my spring cleaning before, but every time I say 'carpet' to you, you have an excuse to put me off. I confess I don't understand you, who've always been so handy and kind with my heavy jobs. But come, Dorothy, you needn't laze any longer. It beats all, the lots of talk you and your father always must have whenever you happen to get alongside. Come." There was a hasty exchange of glances between father and child; then she sprang up, laughing, and as if it were part of her fun held out her hand to the postman and pulled him to his feet. But it was not fun; it was most painful, serious earnest. He could hardly have risen without her aid, and she had noticed, what his wife had not, that, for a long time now, he had never taken a seat without it was near a table, or some other firm object by which he could support himself in rising. Now, as he loosed her hand and climbed the steps, he kept his gaze fixed upon those same troublesome feet and caught hold of the brass hand-rail, which it was the housewife's pride and Dorothy's despair to keep polished to brilliancy. Once within the house, Martha returned to the subject of the carpet lifting and again he put her off; but this time her suspicion that all was not right had been aroused and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, she demanded in a tone sharpened by sudden anxiety: "John Chester, what is the matter with you?" He started, staggered by her touch, light as it was, and sank into a chair; then knowing that the truth must out sometime, almost hurled it at her--though smiling to think how little she would, at first, comprehend: "Oh! nothing but '_ataxy locomotor_.'" "But--_what_? Don't tease. I'm in earnest, and a hurry." "So am I. In deadly earnest. I'm afflicted with '_ataxy locomotor_,' or _locomotor ataxia_. It's come to stay. To change our whole lives." She hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, as he had surmised would be the case, but something in his tone frightened her, though she answered with a mirthful affectation: "Humph! I'm glad it's something so respectable!" Then she turned away, made ready to go to market, and soon left with her basket on her arm. But she carried a now heavy heart within her. She had seen that underneath her husband's jesting manner lay some tragic truth; and in her preoccupied state, she bought recklessly of things she should not and went home without those which were needful. So that once back there, she had to dispatch Dorothy marketward again, while she herself prepared the simple lunch that served till their evening dinner which all enjoyed the more in the leisure of the day's work done. And now, in the absence of the child they both so loved, husband and wife at length discussed the trouble that had befallen. "Do you mean, John, that you are losing the use of your feet? What in the world will a postman do without his sound feet and as sound a pair of legs above them?" demanded the anxious housemistress, still unable to accept the dreadful fact. "Nothing. I can't be a postman any longer. I must resign my position at once. I've kept it longer than I should. I haven't done justice to myself or the office in hanging on as I have. But----" "How long have you known about it?" "For several months I've noticed that my feet felt queer, but it's only been a few weeks since they became so uncontrollable. I've not been able to walk without keeping my eyes fixed on my toes. My legs have a wild desire to fly out at right angles to my body and--Face it, little woman, face it! You have a cripple on your hands for as long as he may live." "I haven't! You shan't be a--a cripple!" protested the impulsive housewife, whose greatest griefs, heretofore, had been simple domestic ones which shrank to nothingness before this real calamity. Then she bowed her head on her arms and let the tears fall fast. This served to relieve the tension of her nerves, and when she again lifted her head her face was calm as sad, while she made him tell her all the details of his trouble. He had been to the best specialists in the city. That very day he had consulted the last, whom he had hoped might possibly help him and whose fee had staggered him by its size. "How long has Dorothy known this?" asked Martha, with a tinge of jealousy. "Almost from the beginning. It was quite natural that she should, for she has so often run alongside me on my routes--going to and from school. Besides, you know, she has the very sharpest eyes in the world. Little escapes them. _Nothing_ escapes which concerns us whom she loves so dearly. It was her notion that you shouldn't be told till it was necessary, but it fell in with my own ideas. I--I think, though I never heard of anybody else doing such a thing, that I'll have her go along with me this afternoon, when I make my--my last rounds. I confess that since that doctor's word, to-day, I've lost all my courage and my power to walk half-decently. Decently? It hasn't been that for a long time, so if you can spare her I'll have her go." "Of course I can spare her. She was to go to a class picnic, anyway, but she'd rather go with you. Now, I'll to work; and, maybe, I can think a way out of our trouble. I--I can't bear it, John! You, a cripple for life! It can't be true--it shall not be true. But--if it has to be,--well, you've worked for me all these years and it's a pretty how-de-do if I can't work for you in turn. Now, lie down on the lounge till it's time to go to the office again, and I'll tackle my kitchen floor." For the first time he allowed her to help him across the room and to place him comfortably on the lounge, and she suddenly remembered how often, during the past few weeks, she had seen Dorothy do this very same thing. She had laughed at it as a foolish fondness in the girl, but now she offered the assistance with a bitter heartache. Dorothy came back and was overjoyed at the changed program for her holiday afternoon. All along she had longed to go with the postman, to help him, but had not been permitted. Now it was not only a relief that her mother knew their secret and that they could talk it over together, but she had formed a scheme by which she believed everything could go on very much as before. So with a cane in one hand and his other resting on her shoulder, John Chester made his last "delivery." Fortunately, the late mail of the day was always small and the stops, therefore, infrequent. Most of these, too, were at houses fronting directly on the street, so that the postman could support himself against the end of the steps while Dorothy ran up them and handed in the letters. It was different at Bellevieu, which chanced to be the end of that trip, and the long path from the gateway to the mansion looked so formidable to father John that he bade Dorothy go in alone with the pouch, emptied now of all matter save that addressed to Mrs. Cecil. She sped away, leaving him leaning against the stone pillar of the eagle-gate--so called because each column guarding the entrance was topped by a massive bronze eagle--and waved a smiling farewell to him as she disappeared beneath the trees bordering the driveway. As usual, Mrs. Cecil was on her piazza, wrapped in shawls and protected by her hooded beach-chair from any possible wind that might blow. Old though she was, her eyes were almost as brown and bright as Dorothy's own, and they opened in surprise at the appearance of this novel mail-carrier. "How-d'ye-do, Mrs. Cecil? Here's such a lot of letters and papers all for you!" cried Dorothy, bowing, as she swept her hand through the pouch which she had slung over her shoulder in the most official manner. "Where shall I put them? I reckon there are too many for your lap." "What--who--Where's Johnnie?" demanded the lady, leaning forward and first smiling, then frowning upon the girl. "Oh! he--he's at the gate," she answered, and was about to explain why he had not come himself. Then a sudden remembrance of how closely he had guarded his secret, even from her mother, closed her lips, leaving the other to infer what she chose; and who promptly exclaimed: "Well, of all things! Do you know, does he know, that between you the law is broken? Nobody, except a regularly sworn employee has a right to touch the United States mail. How dare he send you? Huh! If I do my duty as a good citizen I shall report him at once. This single breach of faith may cost him his place, even though he has been in the service so long." Mrs. Cecil's manner was harsher than her thought. For some time she had observed that "Johnnie" looked ill and was far less active than of old and she had intended that very afternoon to offer him a kindness. She would send him and his wife away on a long vacation, wherever they chose to go, till he could recover his health. She would pay all his expenses, including a substitute's salary. Even more generous than all, she would invite that girl, Dorothy C., whom they had so foolishly adopted, to pass the interval of their absence at Bellevieu. She dreaded the infliction of such a visit. She always had insisted that she hated children--but--Well, it was to be hoped the postman would have sense enough to speedily recuperate and take Dorothy off her hands. In any case, she must be gotten rid of before it was time for Mrs. Cecil herself to seek recreation at her summer home in the Hudson highlands. Now her mood suddenly changed. She had desired to befriend the postman but, if he had taken it into his hands to befriend himself, it was quite another matter. Let him! Why should she bother with anybody in such a different state of life? Disappointment, at having her prospective kindness returned upon her thus, made her sharply say: "It takes all kinds of fools to fill a world, and I'm sorry to find Johnnie one of them. Don't stare! It's rude, with such big eyes as yours. Drop the mail. Carriers shouldn't loiter--that's another crime. Your father must come himself next time, else----" She seemed to leave some dire threat unspoken and again Dorothy was just ready to tell this strange old lady, whom the postman had often called "wise," the truth of the trouble that had come to him; when around the corner of the house dashed Peter and Ponce, the two Great Dane dogs which Mrs. Cecil kept as a menace to intruders. They had just been loosed for their evening exercise and, wild with delight, were hurrying to their mistress on her broad porch. At the sight of their onrush Dorothy caught up the pouch she had dropped and started to retreat--too late! The animals were upon her, had knocked her downward and backward, striking her head against the boards and, for the moment, stunning her. But they had been more playful than vicious and were promptly restrained by Mrs. Cecil's own hand upon their collars; while the brief confusion of the girl's startled thoughts as quickly cleared and she leaped to her feet, furiously angry and indignant. "Oh! the horrid beasts! How dare you--anybody--keep such dangerous creatures? I'll tell my father! He'll--he'll--" tears choked her further speech and, still suspiciously eyeing the Danes, she was edging cautiously down the steps when she felt herself stopped. Mrs. Cecil had loosed her hold of Peter to lay her hand upon the girl's shoulder and she was saying, kindly but sternly: "They are not dangerous but playful. They attack nobody upon whom they are not 'set.' It was an accident; and if any further apology is necessary it is from a little girl to the old gentlewoman--for an insolent suspicion. Now go. The dogs will not follow you." Dorothy did not see how she had done wrong, yet she felt like a culprit dismissed as she lifted the pouch she had again dropped and started gateward, still keeping a wary eye upon the beautiful dogs, now lying beside their mistress in her beach-chair. As she neared the entrance she cried: "Here I am at last, father! I didn't mean to stay so long but that dreadful old woman--Why, father, father! Where are you, dearest father?" He was nowhere to be seen. Nor anybody, either on the broad avenue or the narrow street around the corner; and when she came breathlessly to the dear home in which she hoped to find him it was empty. CHAPTER III AT JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL The door of No. 77 Brown Street stood wide open. Any of the burglars for whom its mistress was always on the watch might have raided the tiny parlor or made off with father John's Sunday overcoat, hanging upon the hat-rack. Now also, while Dorothy hurried from room to room of the six which were all the house contained, the wind of a rising thunderstorm whistled through them and their open windows. Nor was there any reply to her anxious calls: "Mother! Father! Anybody--somebody! Oh! where are you? What has happened? Mother--dearest mother Martha! Won't you answer?" Certainly, this was a strange, a terrifying state of things. It was amazing that so careful a housewife as Martha Chester should leave her home in this unprotected condition, but it was quite natural for the well-trained girl, even in the midst of her alarm, to close the sashes against the rain that now came dashing in. Then she hurried below and out into the little yard, or garden, that was her own special delight. Nobody there; but the pail and brush which Mrs. Chester had been using to clean her back kitchen were still upon its floor, the pail overturned and the water puddling its bricks, and the sight made Dorothy's heart sink lower yet. Hurrying back to the street, a neighbor shielded her own head from the downpour and called from a next-door window: "Something has happened to your father. A boy saw him picked up on the street and a policeman called a Johns Hopkins ambulance, that took him to the hospital. The boy knew him, told your mother, and she's hurried there. Don't worry. Probably it's nothing serious." "Not serious! Oh! you don't know what you're saying! And to think I left him only such a little while! If that hateful old woman--I must go to him, too, I must, I must!" With that Dorothy was retreating indoors, but again the neighbor's voice detained her: "'Tisn't likely you'd be admitted, even if you did go. You'd better stay here and be ready for your poor mother when she comes. It's worse trouble for her than for you." This might be so and the advice excellent, but the excited girl was in no mood to profit by it. Once, in her early childhood, she had answered to an inquiry: "I love my mother a _little_ the best, but I love my father the _biggest_ the best!" and it was so still. Her father, her cheery, indulgent, ever-tender father, would always be "the biggest the best" of her earthly friends, and to be absent from him now, not knowing what had befallen, was impossible. Glancing upward she observed that the neighbor had already withdrawn her head from the dashing rain and was glad of it. It left her free to bang the front door shut, to rush backward through the house and out at the alley gate, which she also shut, snapping its lock behind her. But she had caught up the key that opened it and, hanging this in a crevice of the fence known for a safe hiding place to each of the family, she started eastward for the great hospital. Though she had never entered the famous place, she had seen it once from a street-car, and love guided her flying feet. But it was a long, long way from Brown Street, and the present storm was one of those deluging "gusts" familiar to the locality. Within the first five minutes the gutters were filled, the muddy streams pushing outward toward the very middle of the narrower alleys and quite covering her shoe-tops as she splashed through. At one or two of the older thoroughfares she came to the old-time "stepping stones," provided for just such emergencies, and still left standing because of the city's pride in their antiquity. Over these she leaped and was glad of them, but alas! the storm was having its will of her. Her gingham frock was soaked and clung about her with a hindering obstinacy that vexed her, and her wet shoes grew intolerable. She did not remember that she had ever gone barefoot, as some of her mates had done, but at last she sat down on a doorstep and took off her shoes and stockings. After a moment's contemplation of their ruined state, she threw them far aside and stepped upon the brick pavement, just as a policeman in oilskins came up and laid his hand on her shoulder, asking: "Little girl, what are you doing?" Dorothy sprang aside, frightened, and wriggled herself free. She forgot that she had never been afraid of such officers; that, indeed, the one upon her own home beat was the friend of all the youngsters on the block, and that this one could give her the shortest direction to the place she sought. She had long ago been taught that, if she were ever lost or in any perplexity upon the street, she should call upon the nearest policeman for aid and that it was his sworn duty to assist her. She remembered only that it was a policeman who had summoned the ambulance that had carried her father to that horrible place--a hospital! Well, she, too, was bound for it, but only to snatch him thence; and stretching out her small, drenched arms, she wondered if they and mother Martha's together would have strength to lift and seize him. Then on and on and on! Could one city be so big as this? Did ever brick pavements hurt anybody else as they were hurting her? How many more blocks must she traverse before she came in sight of that wide Broadway with its pretty parks, on which the hospital stood? Everybody had retreated indoors. Nobody who could escape the fury of the storm endured it, and she had left the officer who could have guided her far behind. But, at last, a slackening of the downpour; and as if by magic, people reappeared upon the street; though of the first few whom she addressed none paused to listen. Yet, finally, a colored boy came hurrying by, his basket of groceries upon his arm, and another empty basket inverted over his head, by way of an umbrella. Him she clutched, demanding with what little of breath she had left: "The--way--to--Johns Hopkins'--hospital, please!" "Hey? Horspittle? Wha' for?" "To find my father, who's been taken there. Oh! tell me the shortest way, please--please--please! I am so tired! and I must be--I must be quick--quick!" A look of pity and consternation stole into the negro's face, and he drew in his breath with a sort of gasp as he answered: "Laws, honey, I reckon yo' _mus'_ be 'quick'! But de quickes' yo' is ain' half quick enough. Know wha' dem horspittles is for? Jus' to cut up folkses in. Fac'. Dey goes in alibe, dey comes out deaders. Yo' jus' done cal'late yo' ain' got no paw no mo'. He's had his haid, or his laig, or both his arms sawed off 'fore you-all more'n got started a-chasin' of him. Po' li'l gal! Pity yo' got so wet in de rain jus' fo' nottin'! Wheah yo' live at? Yo' bettah go right home an' tell yo' folks take dem cloes off, 'fore you-all done get de pneumony." Dorothy was shivering, partly from nervousness, partly from the chill of wet garments in the strong breeze. Though she had often heard the postman comment upon the superstitions of the negroes, who formed so large a part of the city's population, and knew that such ideas as this lad expressed were but superstition only, she could not help being impressed by his words. It was his honest belief that to enter a hospital meant giving himself up to death; and in this ignorance he reasoned that this forlorn child should be prevented from such self-destruction by any means whatever. So when she still pleaded to be directed, despite the fear he had raised in her, he whirled abruptly about and pointed his hand in a direction wholly different from that she had followed. Then he added with a most dramatic air: "Well, honey, if you-all done daid-set to go get yo' laigs sawed off, travel jus' dat-a-way till yo' come to de place. Mebbe, if dey gibs yo' dat stuff what makes yo' go asleep, you-all won't know nottin' erbout de job." With this cheerful assurance the grocer's boy went his way, musically whistling a popular tune, and Dorothy gazed after him in deep perplexity. Fortunately, the rain had almost ceased and the brief halt had restored her breath. Then came the reflection: "He wasn't telling the truth! I know that isn't the way at all, for Johns Hopkins is on the east of the city, and that's toward the north. I'll ask somebody else. There are plenty of people and wagons coming out now; and--Oh! my!" As if in answer to her thought, there came the clang of an electric bell, the hurrying delivery wagons drew out of the way, and past her, over the clear space thus given, dashed another ambulance, hastening to the relief of some poor sufferer within. On its side she saw the name of the hospital she sought and with frantic speed dashed after this trustworthy guide. Though she could by no means keep up with its speed she did keep it well in sight, to the very entrance of the wide grounds themselves, and there she lost it. But it didn't matter now. Her journey was almost done, and the building loomed before her, behind whose walls was hidden her beloved father John. From the gateway up the incline to the broad hospital steps she now dragged her strangely reluctant feet. How, after all, could she enter and learn some dreadful truth? But she must, she must! and with a final burst of courage she rushed into the great entrance hall, which was so silent, so beautiful after the storm outside; and there appeared before her half-blinded eyes a figure as of one coming to meet her. All alone the figure stood, with nothing near to detract from its majestic tenderness; so large and powerful looking; as if able to bear all the burdens of a troubled world and still smile peace upon it. Slowly, Dorothy crept now to the very feet of the statue and read that this was: "Christ the Healer." Ah! then! No hospital could be a wicked, murderous place in which He dwelt! and with a sigh of infinite relief, the exhausted child sank down and laid her head upon Him. And then all seemed to fade from view. The next Dorothy knew she was lying on a white cot; a blue-gowned, white-capped nurse was bending over her, and a pleasant voice was saying: "Well, now that's good! You've had a splendid rest and must be quite ready for your supper. Here's a fine bowl of broth, and some nice toast. Shall I help you to sit up?" "Why--why--what's the matter with me? Where am I? Have----" began the astonished child; then, suddenly remembering the colored boy's assertions concerning this dreadful place, she instinctively thrust her hands below the light bed covering and felt of her legs. They were still both there! So were her arms; and, for a matter of fact, she was delightfully rested and comfortable. Again lying back upon her pillow, she smiled into the nurse's face and asked: "What am I doing here, in a bed? Is this the hospital?" "Yes, dear, it is; and you are in bed because you fainted in the entrance hall, exhausted by exposure to the terrible storm. That is all--we trust. Now, drink your broth and take another nap if you can." There was authority, as well as gentleness, in the tone and the patient tried to obey; but this time there was a sharp pain at the back of her head and her neck seemed strangely stiff. With a little exclamation of distress, she put her hand on the painful spot, and the attendant quickly asked: "Does that hurt you? Can you remember to have had a blow, or a fall, lately?" "Why, yes. The big dogs knocked me down over at Bellevieu. It made me blind for a few minutes, but I was too mad to stay blind! If it hadn't been for that--Oh! please, where _is_ my father?" answered Dorothy. "Your father? I don't know. Have you lost, or missed, him, dear?" returned the other, understanding now why such a healthy child should have collapsed as she had, there at the feet of the beautiful statue. Excitement, exposure, and the blow; these accounted for the condition in which a house doctor had found her. Also, there was nothing to hinder prompt recovery if the excitement could be allayed; and to this end the nurse went on: "Tell me about him, little girl. Maybe I can help you, and don't worry about being here. It is the very loveliest place in the world for ailing people and nothing shall hurt you." So Dorothy told all she knew; of the long weeks past when the postman's active feet had become more and more troublesome; of his sudden disappearance; and of her now terrible fear that, since the poor feet were of so little use, these hospital surgeons would promptly "saw" them off and so be rid of them. Ripples of amusement chased themselves across the nurse's fair face as she listened, yet beneath them lay a sympathetic seriousness which kept down Dorothy's anger, half-roused by the fleeting smiles. "Well, my dear, neither he nor you could have come to a better place to get help. The very wisest doctors in the country are here, I believe. It's a disease with a long name, I fancy----" "Yes, yes! I know it! He told me. It's 'locomort'--'loco' something, 'at'--'at' something else. It's perfectly horrible just to hear it, and what must it be to suffer it? But he never complains. My father John is the bravest, dearest, best man in the world!" "Indeed? Then you should be the 'bravest, dearest, best' little daughter as well. And we'll hope some help, some cure, can be found for him. Now, will you go to sleep?" "No. If you please I will go home. But I don't see my clothes anywhere. Funny they should take away a little girl's clothes just 'cause she forgot and went to sleep in the wrong place!" "In the very right-est place in all the world, dear child! At the Saviour's feet. Be sure nothing but goodness and kindness rule over the hospital whose entrance He guards. Your clothes are drying in the laundry. You will, doubtless, have them in the morning, and, so far as I can judge now, there'll be nothing to prevent your going home then," comforted the nurse, gently stroking Dorothy's brow and by her touch soothing the pain in it. Oddly enough, though her head had ached intensely, ever since that tumble on Mrs. Cecil's piazza, she had not paid any attention to it while her anxious search continued. She was fast drowsing off again, but roused for an instant to ask: "Have you seen my father? Did he hurt himself when he fell? Did he fall? What did happen to him, anyway? Mayn't I see him just a minute, just one little minute, 'fore this--this queer sleepiness gets me?" "My dear, you can ask as many questions as a Yankee! I'll tell you what I think: Your father was probably taken to the emergency ward. I have nothing to do with that. My place is here, in the children's ward; and the first thing nurses--or children--learn in this pleasant room is--obedience. I have my orders to obey and one of them is to prevent talking after certain hours." "You--you a big, grown-up woman, have to 'obey'? How funny!" cried Dorothy, thinking that the face beneath the little white cap was almost the very sweetest she had ever seen. But to this the other merely nodded, then went softly away. Dorothy lay in a little room off from the general ward, into which the nurse had disappeared, and where there was the sound of low-toned conversation, with an occasional fretful cry from some unseen baby. The doctor, or interne as he was called, making his night rounds, seeing that all his little charges were comfortable for their long rest, and discussing with the blue-gowned assistant their needs and conditions. It was he who had found Dorothy, unconscious on the tiles, and had ordered her to bed; and it was of herself, had she known it, that he and the nurse had just been talking. As a result of this he merely looked in at the door of the little room, blinked a good-night from behind his spectacles, which, like two balls of fire, reflected the electric light above the door, and passed on. Dorothy intended to keep awake. For a long time her head had been full of various schemes by which she should rise to the support of her family, whenever that day foreseen by the postman should arrive when his own support should fail. The day had come! Very suddenly, after all, as even the best-prepared-for catastrophes have a way of doing; and now, despite her earnest desires--Dorothy was going to sleep! She was ashamed of herself. She must stay awake and think--think--think! She simply _must_--she---- "Well, Dorothy C., good morning! A nice, dutiful daughter, you, to run away and leave mother Martha alone all night!" That was the next she knew! That was Mrs. Chester's voice, speaking in that familiar tone a reproof which was no reproof at all, but only a loving satisfaction. And there she sat, the tidy little woman, in her second-best hat and gown, smiling, smiling, as if there were no such thing as trouble in the world! as if both husband and child were not, at that very moment, lying in hospital beds! CHAPTER IV DOROTHY GAINS IN WISDOM "Why, mother! Why--why--_mother_!" cried the astonished Dorothy, sitting up in her cot and smiling back into the happy face before her, yet wondering at its happiness and her own heartlessness, in being glad while her father was so ill. Then she realized that her neck was very stiff and that when she tried to turn her head it moved with a painful wrench, so sank back again, but still gazed at Mrs. Chester with a grieved amazement. Seeing which, the lady bent over the cot and kissed the little girl, then promptly explained: "You needn't be troubled, dearie, this is the very best thing that could have happened to us. Your father tired of waiting for you, his head was dizzy, and when he tried to walk home he fell. They hurried him here--his uniform showed he was somebody important--and into that emergency place. There the doctors examined him and they say, O Dorothy C.! they say that there is a chance, a chance of his sometime _getting well_! Think of that! John may get well! All those other outside doctors, that he paid so much to, told him he never could. He'd just grow worse and worse till--till he died. These don't. They say he has a chance. He's to stay here and be built up on extra nourishments, for awhile, and then he's to go into the country and live. Oh! I'm the happiest woman in Baltimore, this day! And how is my little girl? Though the nurse tells me there's nothing much the matter with you, and that you'll be able to go home with me as soon as you have had your breakfast. Such a late breakfast, Dorothy C., for a schoolgirl! Lucky it's a Saturday!" Dorothy had never seen her mother like this. At home, when trifles went wrong, she was apt to be a bit sharp-tongued and to make life uncomfortable for father John and their daughter, but now, that this real trouble had befallen, she was so gay! For, even if there was hope that the postman might sometime recover, was he not still helpless in a hospital? And had she forgotten that they had no money except his salary? which would stop, of course, since he could no longer earn it. It was certainly strange; and seeing the gravity steal into the childish face which was so dear to her, mother Martha stooped above it and, now herself wholly grave, explained: "My dear, don't think I'm not realizing everything. But, since I've been once face to face with the possibility that death--_death_--was coming to our loved one and now learn that he will still live, as long as I do, maybe, I don't care about anything else. God never shuts one door but He opens another; and we'll manage. Some way we'll manage, sweetheart, to care for father John who has so long cared for us. Now, enough of talk. Here comes a maid with your breakfast; and see. There are your clothes, as fresh and clean as if I had laundered them myself. Maybe you should dress yourself before you eat. Then you are to see your father for a few minutes; and then we'll go home to pack up." It was long since Mrs. Chester had helped Dorothy to dress, except on some rare holiday occasion, but she did so now, as if the girl were still the baby she had found upon her doorstep. She, also, made such play of the business that the other became even more gay than herself, and chattered away of all that had befallen her, from her discovery of the deserted home till now. Then came the nice breakfast, so heartily enjoyed that the nurse smiled, knowing there could be nothing seriously amiss with so hungry a patient. Afterward, a quiet walk through long corridors and spacious halls, from which they caught glimpses of cots with patients in them, and passed by wheeled chairs in which convalescents were enjoying a change. "It's so still! Does nobody ever speak out loud?" whispered Dorothy to her mother, half-afraid of her own footfalls, though she now wore a pair of felt slippers in place of the shoes she had yesterday discarded. "It's the biggest, cleanest, quietest place I could even dream of!" But Mrs. Chester did not answer, save by a nod and a finger upon lip; and so following the guide assigned them, they came to one of the open bridges connecting two of the hospital buildings, and there was father John, in a rolling chair, wearing a spotless dressing-gown, and holding out both hands toward them, while his eyes fairly shone with delight. An orderly, in a white uniform, was pushing the chair along the bridge, which was so wide and looked down upon such beautiful grounds that it reminded Dorothy of Bellevieu, and he stopped short at their approach. He even stepped back a few paces, the better to leave them free for their interview. But if there was any emotion to be displayed at that meeting, it was not of a gloomy sort; and it was almost in his wife's very words that the postman exclaimed: "To think I should get impatient, lose my head, tumble down, and--up into this fine place! Where I've heard the best of news and live like a lord! Who wouldn't give his legs a rest, for a spell, if he could have such a chair as this to loll in while another man does his walking for him! Well, how's the girl? Why, since when have you taken to wearing slippers so much too big for you? I should think they'd bother you in walking as much as my limpsy feet did me." Nothing escaped this cheery hospital patient even now, and before Mrs. Chester could interpose, Dorothy had told her own tale and how she had been a hospital patient herself. How now she had been "discharged" and was ready to go home with all her legs and arms intact, a thing she had feared might not be the case when she had ventured thither. "To think I should have been so silly as to believe that poor boy! Or that, if I had followed his wrong directions, I shouldn't have gotten here at all. Oh! isn't it beautiful! What makes some of the women dress all in white and some in blue? When I grow up I believe I'll be a hospital nurse myself." "Good idea. Excellent. Stick to it. See if you can make that notion last as long as that other one about being a great artist; or, yes, the next scheme was to write books--books that didn't 'preach' but kept folks laughing all the way through." "Now, father! You needn't tease, and you haven't answered, about the different dresses. Do you know, already?" protested Dorothy, kissing his hand that rested on the arm of his chair. "Oh! yes, I know. The orderly explained, for I wasn't any wiser than you before he did. The blue girls are 'probationers,' or under-graduates. They have to study and take care of cranky sick folks for three whole years before they can wear those white clothes. Think of that, little Miss Impatience, before you decide on the business! Three years. That's a long time to be shut up with aches and pains and groans. But a noble life. One that needs patience; even more than the Peabody course!" They all laughed, even Dorothy who was being teased. After any new experience, it was her propensity immediately to desire to continue the delightful novelty. After a visit to a famous local picture gallery, she had returned home fully intent upon becoming an artist who should be, also, famous. To that end she had wasted any number of cheap pads and pencils, and had littered her mother's tidy rooms with "sketches" galore. When she had gone with a schoolmate to a Peabody recital, she had been seized with the spirit of music and had almost ruined a naturally sweet voice--as well as the hearers' nerves--by a self-instructed course of training, which her teasing father had sometimes likened to a cat concert on a roof. However, upon learning that it required many years of steady practise and that her life must be filled with music--music alone--if she ever hoped to graduate from the Institute, she abandoned the idea and aspired to literature. So from one ambition to another, her almost too active mind veered; but her wise guardians allowed it free scope, believing that, soon or late, it would find the right direction and that for which nature had really fitted her. The greatest disappointment the postman had felt, concerning these various experiments, was about the music. He was almost passionately fond of it, and rarely passed even a street organ without a brief pause to listen. Except, of course, when he had been upon his rounds. Then he forced himself past the alluring thing, even if he had himself to whistle to keep it out of mind. This habit of his had gained for him the nickname, along his beat, of the "whistling postman"; and, had he known it, there were many regrets among those who had responded to his whistle as promptly as to his ring of the bell that they should hear the cheerful sound no more. The news of his collapse had quickly spread, for a new postman was already on his route, and it was only at Bellevieu, where "Johnnie" would be most missed, that it was not known. The eagle-gate was shut. Ephraim was not to drive his fat horses through it that morning, nor for many more to come. During the night Mrs. Cecil had been taken ill with one of her periodical bronchial attacks, of which she made so light, but her physician and old Dinah so much. To them her life seemed invaluable; for they, better than anybody else, knew of her wide-spread yet half-hidden charities, and they would keep her safely in her room, as long as this were possible. After a time, the invalid would take matters into her own hands and return to her beloved piazza; for she was the only one not frightened by her own condition, and was wont to declare: "I shall live just as long, and have just as many aches, as the dear Lord decrees. When He's through with me here He'll let me know, and all your fussing, Dinah, won't avail. My father was ninety, my mother ninety-seven when they died. We're tough old Maryland stock, not easily killed." Indeed, frail though Mrs. Cecil looked, it was the fragility of extreme slenderness rather than health; and it was another pride of Dinah's that her Miss Betty had still almost the figure of a girl. Occasionally, even yet, the lady would sit to read with a board strapped across her shoulders, as she had been used when in her teens, to keep them erect; and it was her boast that she had kept her "fine shape" simply because never, in all her life, had she suffered whalebone or corset to interfere with nature. This Saturday morning, therefore, a colored boy waited beneath the eagles, to receive his mistress's mail and to prevent the ringing of the gate-bell, which might disturb her. In passing him, on her way home, Dorothy noticed the unusual circumstance and thought how much the gossip-loving dame would miss her ever-welcome "Johnnie." But she was now most fully engrossed by her own affairs and did not stop to enlighten him. After leaving the hospital, Mrs. Chester and she had gone downtown to replace the shoes and stockings so recklessly discarded the day before; Dorothy hobbling along in the felt slippers and declaring that she would suffer less if she were barefooted. But her mother had answered: "No, indeed! I'd be ashamed to be seen with such a big girl as you in that condition. Besides, I must get some new things for John. So, while I select the nightshirts and wrapper he needs, you go into the shoe department and buy for yourself." "Oh, mother! May I? I never bought any of my clothes alone. How nice and grown-up I feel! May I get just what I like?" "Yes. Only, at the outside, you must not pay more than two dollars for the shoes, nor above a quarter for the stockings. I could scold you for spoiling your old ones, if I were not too thankful about your father to scold anybody." So they parted by the elevator in the great store, and with even more than her native enthusiasm Dorothy plunged into these new delights of shopping. The clerk first displayed a substantial line of black shoes, as seemed most suitable to a young girl in the plainest of gingham frocks; but the small customer would have none of these. Said she: "No, I don't like that kind. Please show me the very prettiest ties you have for two dollars a pair," and she nodded her head suggestively toward a glass case wherein were displayed dainty slippers of varying hues. There were also white ones among them, and Dorothy remembered that her chum, Mabel Bruce, had appeared at Sunday school the week before, wearing such, and had looked "too lovely for words." But then, of course, Mabel's frock and hat were also white and her father was the plumber. When Dorothy had narrated the circumstance to father John, and had sighed that she was "just suffering for white shoes," he had laughed and declared that: "Plumbers were the only men rich enough to keep their daughters shod that way!" But she saw now that he was mistaken. These beauties which the rather supercilious clerk was showing her didn't cost a cent more than the limit she had been allowed. Indeed, they were even less. They were marked a "special sale," only one dollar ninety-seven cents. Why, she was saving three whole cents by taking them, as well as pleasing herself. The transaction was swiftly closed. White stockings were added to the purchase, on which, also, the shopper saved another two cents, so that she felt almost a millionaire as she stepped out of the shoe department and around to the elevator door, where she was to meet her mother. The lady promptly arrived but had not finished her own errands; nor, in the crowd, could she see her daughter's feet and the manner of their clothing. She simply held out her front-door key to the girl and bade her hurry home, to put the little house in order for the coming Sabbath. Thus Dorothy's fear that her mother might disapprove her choice was allayed for the time being. She would not be sent back to that clerk, who had jested about the felt slippers in a manner the young shopper felt was quite ill-bred, to ask him to exchange the white shoes for black ones. So she stepped briskly forth, keeping her own gaze fixed admiringly upon the snowy tips which peeped out from beneath her short skirts, and for a time all went well. She managed to avoid collision with the bargain-morning shoppers all about her and she wholly failed to see the amused faces of those who watched her. On the whole, Dorothy C. was as sensible a girl as she was a bright one; but there's nobody perfect, and she was rather unduly vain of her shapely hands and feet. They were exceedingly small and well-formed, and though the hands had not been spared in doing the rough tasks of life, which fall to the lot of humble bread-earners, her father John had insisted that his child's feet should be well cared for. He, more than Martha, had seen in their adopted daughter traces of more aristocratic origin than their own; and he had never forgotten the possibility that sometime she might be reclaimed. Usually Dorothy walked home from any downtown trip, to market or otherwise, and set out briskly to do so now. But, all at once, a horrible pain started in the toes of her right foot! She shook the toes, angrily, as if they were to blame for the condition of things; and thus resting all her weight upon her left foot that, likewise, mutinied and sent a thrill of torture through its entire length. Did white shoes always act that way? She stopped short and addressed the misbehaving members in her sternest tones: "What's the matter with you to make you hurt so? Never before has a new shoe done it; I've just put them on and walked out of the store as comfortably as if they were old ones. Hmm! I guess it's all imagination. They aren't quite, not _quite_ so big as my old ones were, but they fit ex-quis-ite-ly! Ouch!" "Excruciatingly" would have been the better word, as Dorothy presently realized; but, also, came the happy thought that she had "saved" enough money on her purchases to pay her car-fare home. She knew that mother Martha would consider her extravagant to ride when she had no market basket to carry but--Whew! Ride she must! That pain, it began to make her feel positively ill! Also, it rendered her entrance of the car a difficult matter; so that, instead of the light spring up the step she was accustomed to give, she tottered like an old woman and was most grateful for the conductor's help as he pulled her in. She sank into the corner seat with a look of agony on her pretty face and her aching toes thrust straight out before her, in a vain seeking for relief; nor did it add to her composure to see the glances of others in the car follow hers to the projecting feet while a smile touched more faces than one. Poor Dorothy never forgot her first purchase, "all alone"; and her vanity received a pretty severe lesson that day. So severe that as she finally limped to the steps of No. 77 she sat down on the bottom one, unable to ascend them till she had removed her shoes. The misery which followed this act was, at first, so overpowering that she closed her eyes, the better to endure it; and when she opened them again there stood a man before her, looking at her so sharply that she was frightened; and who, when she would have risen, stopped her by a gesture and a smile that were even more alarming than his stare. "Well, what is it?" demanded the little girl, suddenly realizing that in this broad daylight, upon an open street, nobody would dare to hurt her. The stranger's unlovely smile deepened into a gruff laughter, as he answered: "Humph! You don't appear to know me. But I know you. I know you better than the folks who've brought you up. I can help you to a great fortune if you'll let me. Hey?" "You--can? Oh! how!" cried Dorothy, springing up, and in her amazement at this statement forgetting her aching feet. "A fortune!" And that was the very thing that father John now needed. CHAPTER V DOROTHY ENTERTAINS Dorothy's punishment for her unwise purchase was to wear the white shoes continually. This was only possible by slitting their tops in various places, which not only spoiled their beauty but was a constant "lecture" to their wearer; who remarked: "One thing, mother Martha, I've learned by 'shopping'--the vanity of vanity! I've always longed for pretty things, but--call _them_ pretty? Doesn't matter though, does it? if we're really going to move and everything to be so changed. When we live in the country may I have all the flowers I want?" "Yes," answered the matron, absently. Although this was Sunday, a day on which she faithfully tried to keep her mind free from weekday cares, she could not banish them now. Instead of going to church she was to visit the hospital and spend the morning with her husband. Dorothy was to attend Sunday school, as usual, wearing the slitted shoes, for the simple reason that she now possessed no others. Afterward, she might invite Mabel Bruce to stay with her, and they were to keep house till its mistress's return. "I hope you'll have a very happy day, dear. After I leave John, though I shall stay with him as long as I am allowed, I must go to see Aunt Chloe. There'll be no time for visits during the week, and besides, she'll want to hear about everything at first hand. Poor old creature! It'll be hard for her to part with her 'boy' and I mustn't neglect her. You needn't cook any dinner, for there's a good, cold lunch. I made a nice custard pie for you, last night, after you were asleep. There's plenty of bread and butter, an extra bottle of milk, and you may cut a few thin slices of the boiled ham. Be sure to do it carefully, for we will have to live upon it for as long as possible. If you tell Mrs. Bruce that the invitation is from me I think she'll let Mabel come. Don't leave the house without locking up tight, and after you come back from Sunday school don't leave it at all. Have you learned your lesson? Already? My! but you are quick at your books! Good-bye. I hope you'll have a happy day, and you may expect me sometime in the afternoon." "But, mother, wait! There's a cluster of my fairy-roses out in bloom and I want to send them to father. A deep red sort that hasn't blossomed before and that we've been watching so long. I'll fill it with kisses, tell him, and almost want to get half-sick again, myself, to be back in hospital with him. Aren't you going to take him any of that nice ham? You know he loves it so." "No, dear. I was specially told not to bring food. The nurses will give him all he needs and that's better for him than anything we outside folks could fix. Afterwards--Well, let us hope we shall still have decent stuff to eat! Now I'm off. Good-bye. Be careful and don't get into any sort of foolishness. Good-bye." Dorothy gazed after her mother as she disappeared and felt a strange desire to call her back, or beg to go with her. The house was so empty and desolate without the cheerful presence of the postman. Their Sunday mornings had used to be so happy. Then he was at liberty to walk with her in the park near-by, if it were cold weather; or if the lovely season for gardening, as now they repaired to the little back yard which their united labors had made to "blossom like the rose." John Chester had bought No. 77 Brown Street. It was not yet much more than half paid for, but he considered it his. Martha was the most prudent of housekeepers and could make a little money go a long way; so that, even though his salary was small, they managed each month to lay aside a few dollars toward reducing the mortgage which still remained on the property. But he had not waited to be wholly out of debt to begin his improvements, and the first of these had been to turn the bare ground behind the house into a charming garden. Not an inch of the space, save that required for paths and a tiny shed for ash and garbage cans, was left untilled; and as Baltimore markets afford most beautiful plants at low rates he had gathered a fine collection. Better than that, there were stables at the rear, instead of the negro-alleys which intersect so many of the city blocks, and from these he not only obtained extra soil but stirred his stable friends to emulate his industry. Vines and ivies had been planted on the stable walls as well as on his own back fence, so that, instead of looking out upon ugly brick and whitewash, the neighbors felt that they possessed a sort of private park behind their dwellings, and all considered father John a public benefactor and rejoiced in the results of his efforts. Many of them, too, were stirred--like the stable-men--to attempt some gardening on their own account, and this was not only good for them but made the one-hundred-block of Brown Street quite famous in the town. Dorothy had visited the garden that morning before breakfast and had found the new roses which were the latest addition to their stock. She had also shed a few tears over them, realizing that he who had planted them would watch them no more. "Dear little 'fairies'! seems if you just blossom for nothing, now!" she had said to them, then had resolved that they should go to him since he could not come to them; and, having cut them, she fled the garden, missing him more there than anywhere. Once Dorothy C. would have been ashamed to appear among her classmates, in their Sunday attire, wearing her slitted shoes; but to-day her mind was full of other, far more important, matters. So she bore their raillery with good nature, laughed by way of answer, and was so impatient to be at home, where she could discuss all with her chum, that she could hardly wait to obtain Mrs. Bruce's consent to the visit. So, as soon as the two girls were cozily settled in the little parlor, she exclaimed: "Mabel Bruce! I've something perfectly wonderful to tell you. Do you know--_I'm an_--_heiress_!" "No. I don't know, nor you either," returned Mabel, coolly; rocking her plump body to and fro in the postman's own chair, and complacently smoothing her ruffles. Then she leaned forward, glanced from her own feet to Dorothy's, and carefully dusted her white shoes with her handkerchief. The little hostess laughed, but remarked, a trifle tartly: "That's what I call nasty-nice. Next time you'll be wiping your nose on that same thing and I'd rather have the dust on my shoes than in my nostrils. But no matter. I've so many things to tell you I don't know where to begin!" "Don't you? Well, then, you're such a terrible talker when you get started, s'pose we have our dinner first. I'm terrible hungry." "Hungry, Mabel Bruce? Already? Didn't you have your breakfast?" "Course, I did. But a girl can't eat once and make it last all day, can she?" "I reckon _you_ can't. You're the greatest eater I ever did see. All the girls say so. That's why you're always put on the refreshment committee at our picnics. Even Miss Georgia says: 'If you want to be sure of enough provision make Mabel chairman.' A chairman is the boss of any particular thing, if you don't know:" instructed this extremely frank hostess. "Oh! course I know. You just said I was one and folks most gen'ally know what they are themselves, I guess," answered the plumber's daughter, without resentment. What anybody _said_ didn't matter to phlegmatic Mabel so long as their _doing_ agreed with her desires. She was fond of Dorothy C. Oh! yes, she was sincerely fond as well as proud! The Chesters were bringing up their daughter very nicely, her mother declared, and that Dorothy had the prettiest manners of all the girls who came to their house. Mabel had her own opinion of those manners, of which she had just had a specimen, but she never contradicted her mother and not often her playmates. As a rule she was too lazy, and was only moved to dispute a statement when it was really beyond belief--like that of her chum's having suddenly become an "heiress." Heiresses were rich. Mabel wasn't very wise but she knew that, and witness Dorothy's ragged shoes. Heiress? Huh! It was more sensible to return to the subject of dinner, for the visitor had sampled Mrs. Chester's cooking before now and knew it to be excellent. So she rose and started for the kitchen, and with an exclamation of regret the hostess followed the guest, though cautioning her: "If we eat our lunch now, at a little after eleven o'clock, you mustn't expect another dinner at one. My mother didn't say I could have two meals, so you better eat dreadful slow and make it last." "All right. I will. Maybe, too, I'll go home by our own dinner time. Sundays, that isn't till after two o'clock, 'cause my mother goes to church and has to cook it afterward. Sunday is the only day my father is home to dinner, so he wants a big one and mother gets it for him. Your father's home Sundays, too, isn't he?" "He--he was--He used----" began Dorothy, then with a sudden burst of tears turned away and hid her face in her hands. Warm-hearted, if always-hungry, Mabel instantly threw her arms about her friend's waist and tried to comfort her with loving kisses and the assurance: "He will be again, girlie. Don't you worry. Folks go to hospitals all the time and come back out of them. My father, he had the typhoid fever, last year, and he went. Don't you remember? and how nice all the neighbors were to me and ma. And now he's as strong--as strong! So'll your father be, too, and go whistling round the block just like he used to did. Don't cry, Dorothy C. It makes your eyes all funny and--and besides, if you don't stop I'll be crying myself, in a minute, and I don't want to. _I_ look perfectly horrid when I cry, I get so red and puffy, and I shouldn't like to cry on this dress. It's just been done up and ma says I've got to keep it clean enough to wear four Sundays, it's such a job to iron all the ruffles." Despite her loneliness Dorothy laughed. There was a deal of consideration for herself in Mabel's remarks, yet her sympathy was sincere as her affection long-proved. She had been the first playmate of the little foundling, and it was her belief--gathered from that of her parents--that the Chesters' adopted child would turn out to be of good birth, if ever the truth were known. In any case, she was the prettiest and cleverest girl in school, and Mabel was proud to be the one selected this morning as a companion. "O you funny Mabel!" cried Dorothy. "You're sorry for both of us, aren't you! Well, come along. We started to get lunch and to talk. You go to the ice-box and get the things, while I set the table. Wait! Put on my tie-before, to keep your dress clean. Good thing your sleeves are short. Arms'll wash easier than ruffles. Hurry up--you to eat and I to talk." Very shortly they were engaged in these congenial matters, though Mabel almost forgot that she was hungry in her astonishment at Dorothy's opening statement: "We're going to move. I guess this is about the last time you'll ever come to this house to dinner." "Going--to--move!" ejaculated Mabel, with her mouth so full of pie that she could hardly speak. "Yes. We've got to pack up this very week." "Where to? Who's going to live here? Who told you? Why?" demanded Mabel, hastening to get in as many questions as she could, during the interval of arranging a sandwich for herself. "I don't--know! Why I never thought to ask, but I know it's true because it was my mother told me. 'Into the country,' she said, 'cause the hospital folks say that's the only thing for my father to do if he wants to get well. And of course he wants. We all want, more than anything else in the world. So, that's why, and that's the first piece of news. And say, Mabel, maybe your folks'll let you come and see me sometimes. That is, if my folks ask you," she added, with cautious afterthought. "Maybe! Wouldn't that be just lovely? We'd go driving in a little T-cart, all by ourselves, with a dear little pony to haul us, and--and peaches and plums and strawberries and blackberries--Um!" exclaimed the prospective guest, compressing her lips as if she were already tasting these delights. "I--don't--know. Perhaps, we would. If we had the pony, and the cart, and were let. That's a lot of 'ifs' to settle first." "Why, of course. I was in the country once, two whole weeks. It was to a big house where my father was putting the plumbing in order for the family and the family had gone away while he was doing it. It was there he got the typhoid fever, and they went away because they didn't want to get it. They left some 'coons' to do the cooking and told my father he could bring me and ma, and we could have a vacation in a cottage on the place. So we did; and the man, the colored one, that took care of the horses used to hitch the pony up to the T-cart and me and ma rode out every day. Course, if you live in the country you'll have to have a pony. How else'd you go around? There wasn't any street cars to that country, 'at ever I saw, and folks can't walk all the roads there are. Pooh! You see, I've been and you haven't, and that's the difference." "Yes, you've been and I haven't, but, Mabel Bruce, I know more about things that grow than you do, for I know--even in Lexington Market--you don't get strawberries and peaches at the same time. So you needn't expect all those good things when you come. You'll have to put up with part at a time, with whatever happens to be in our garden. If we have a garden! And as for ponies, our house in the country won't be a big one, like yours was, that much I know, too. We haven't any money, hardly. My mother Martha was crying about that yesterday, though she didn't know I saw her till I asked and after I'd spent all those two dollars for these silly shoes. Mabel Bruce, don't you ever go buy shoes too small for you. Umm. I tell you if you do your feet'll hurt you worse than my head did after I banged it--the dog banged it--on Mrs. Cecil's stoop. Isn't she a funny old woman? My father thinks she is the wisest one he knows, but I--I--Well, it doesn't count what I think. Only if I was as rich as she, and I expect I will be sometime, I wouldn't keep Great Dane dogs to jump on little girls like she does. Have some more ham, Mabel?" The mere thought of her prospective wealth had increased Dorothy's hospitality--at her mother's expense: but to her surprise her guest replied: "No--I guess--I guess I can't. Not 'less you've got some mustard mixed somewhere, to eat on it. I've et----" "Eaten," corrected her classmate, who was considered an expert in grammar. "Et-ten about all I can hold without--without mustard, to sort of season it. Ma always has mustard to put on her ham; and yours is--is getting sort of--bitter," replied Mabel, leaning back in her chair. She always ate rapidly--"stuffed," as her father reproved her--and to-day she had outdone herself. The food was delicious. Mrs. Chester was too thrifty a housewife ever to "spoil" anything, no matter how inexpensive a dish, and in her judgment, boiled ham was a luxury, to be partaken of sparingly and with due appreciation, never "gobbled." Therefore it was with positive consternation that Dorothy's thoughts came back to practical things and to the joint which she had placed before her guest, allowing her to carve. Though she had herself barely tasted the morsel placed upon her own plate, being too much engaged in talking, she now perceived that Mabel had done more than justice to her lunch. So it was with a cry of real distress that she snatched the dish from the table, exclaiming: "Well, I guess you don't need mustard to sharpen your appetite, you greedy thing! Beg pardon. That was a nasty thing to say to--to company, and I'm sorry I said it. But mother told me we had to live on that ham most the week, she'd be so much too busy to cook and--Why, Mabel Bruce! You've eaten almost half that pie, too! Hmm. I guess you can stay contented the rest the day. You won't need to go home to your two-o'clock dinner!" No offense was intended or received. These two small maids had been accustomed, from infancy, to utter frankness with one another, and with perfect amiability the guest replied: "Maybe I do eat a little too much. Ma thinks I do, sometimes, and pa says that's the reason I'm so fat. I'd rather not be fat. I'd like to be as slim as you are, Dorothy C. Ma says you've got such a pretty figure 't you look nice in anything. Well, I guess since I've got to keep my dress so clean for so long, I won't offer to help do the dishes. I'll go sit in the parlor and take care of the front of the house." With that Miss Mabel took off her friend's "tie-before," a big gingham apron which covered all her skirts, and hung it on its nail, then retreated to the postman's rocker, at perfect peace with herself and all the world. Not so Dorothy C. She looked after her chum with a contempt that was as new as it was uncomfortable. She had promised herself a real treat in discussing her own affairs--for the first time in her life become important ones--with this reliable confidante, but now she was bitterly disappointed. "Mabel is selfish, but Mabel is truthful. She never speaks ill of another and she always keeps her word:" had been Miss Georgia's decision once, when some class matters had gone wrong and the plumber's daughter had been accused of "tattling." To this Dorothy now added: "And Mabel is a regular, gluttonous simpleton. She isn't really interested in anybody except--Mabel!" With this uncharitable sentiment, the little hostess proceeded to clear away; and did this with so much vim that she dropped a tumbler and broke it. This was sufficient to calm her anger and turn what was left of it against her own carelessness, anticipating her mother's reproof. She finished her task very quietly, now, and then repaired to the parlor, where she found Mabel had fallen asleep in the rocker. Also, at that moment, there sauntered past the windows a man who peered through them with considerable curiosity: and who at sight of Dorothy C. stopped sauntering, lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and, turning around, walked back to the steps. Dorothy's heart almost choked her, it so suddenly began to beat violently, while a chill ran through her whole body, and made her recall a saying of old Aunt Chloe that "when a body turns all goose-flesh it's a sign somebody is walking over her, or his, grave." Father John laughed at this superstition as he did at many another of the dear old aunt who had "raised" him, an orphan; and had he been present Dorothy would have laughed with him. But she didn't laugh now; though she was presently calm enough to review the situation and to decide that none could be better. Also, that she must, at once, get rid of Mabel Bruce. For this was the same man who had appeared before her, on the previous morning, and had, at first startled, then profoundly interested her. He had imposed secrecy upon her; at least secrecy as far as her parents were concerned, though she had meant to tell Mabel all that he had told her. She didn't like secrets. She hated them! Yet if they were to benefit those whom she loved better than herself she was willing to keep them--for a time. In another moment she had roused her visitor by a strong shake of the pretty, plump shoulder under the lace-trimmed frock, and had said, rather loudly: "Mabel, if you're going home to dinner, you'd better go now. Because--because I have some business to attend to, and I shall have to see the gentleman alone." She felt that though her words might be rude--she wouldn't like to be sent home, herself, from a visit--yet her manner was beautifully grown-up and dignified; and, as Mabel obediently vanished, "Miss Chester" bade the gentleman waiting outside to enter. CHAPTER VI DOROTHY GOES UPON AN ERRAND When Mrs. Chester returned she was tired and found Dorothy so. The girl took her mother's hat and put it away in its box, brought her a fan, and asked if she should get her something to eat. "No, dear, thank you. I had dinner, all I wanted, with Aunt Chloe Chester. She takes this trouble of ours very hard, and declares that she will not live to see 'her boy' come back to Baltimore. She wishes she could die first, right away, so 'that he could go to my funeral while he's handy to it.'" "Horrors! I--I suppose I love Aunt Chloe, because she was so good to father John, but I hope I'll never grow into such a terrible old woman. Seems if she had always to be dragged up out of the gloom into the sunshine. It's always the worst things are going to happen--with her. I don't see how father ever grew up to be such a sunshiny man, always under her hand, so. You must have had a dreary visit." "It wasn't a restful one; but the reason for John's always looking on the bright side may be just that she always did the opposite. But you look sober, too, dearie. Wasn't Mabel's visit a pleasant one? How long has she been gone?" "Oh! a good while. She went home to dinner. I--she ate 'most all the ham. All the best big slices anyway, and full half the pie. Then she wanted mustard, so she could eat more. She said that sometimes when she couldn't eat a big lot and they had extra good things, she'd get up and walk around the table, so she could. She didn't say that, to-day, though, but did once at a school picnic. And I--I broke a tumbler. One of the best." "Why, Dorothy C.! How could you?" returned Mrs. Chester, but not at all as if she really heard or were in the least vexed. Then, as if forcing herself to an interest in small, home matters, she asked: "Were you very lonely after she went?" "No, indeed. I wasn't alone--I mean, I wasn't lonely. Did father like his roses?" "Yes, darling, and he fully appreciated your cutting them. He said he knew how you disliked it, for you'd never got over your baby notion that it hurt the plants, just as a cut finger hurt you. He said, too, that I was to tell you he'd found all the kisses, every one, but if you wanted any paid back you'd have to come to Johns Hopkins after them. It was a comfort to find him so happy and sure of getting well. I wish I were half as sure!" Dorothy opened her lips to say something which it seemed impossible to keep from this beloved little mother opposite, who already seemed so changed and worn; who had lost every bit of that gayety which had been so astonishing, yesterday. But not yet--not yet. Besides, she was fully as truthful as Mabel Bruce and had given her pledge to silence. Then she remembered that she did not know to what part of the "country" they were destined, and asked: "Mother Martha, can't you tell me something of your plans? Where we are going and when? And what is to become of this dear home?" There was so much earnestness and sympathy in the girl's tones that Mrs. Chester forgot how young she was, and now talked with her as she might have done with a much older person; almost, indeed, as she would have done with the postman himself. "We are going to a far-away state; to a place I haven't seen since I was a child, myself--the Hudson River highlands." "Why--the Hudson River is in New York and we're in Maryland!" cried Dorothy. "Why go so far, away from everybody we know and care for? Wouldn't it do just to go to some little spot right near Baltimore, where we could come into the city on the cars, at any time? Isn't that what the Johns Hopkins doctors call the 'country'?" "Oh! if we only might! But, my dear, there's an old saying about 'beggars' being 'choosers.' We aren't beggars, of course, but we are too poor to be 'choosers.' Fortunately, or unfortunately, as time will prove, I have a little place in the country where I told you. It belonged to an old bachelor uncle who died long ago. It has stood empty for many years and may be badly out of order. He willed it to me, as my portion of his estate: and though some of his other heirs have once or twice offered to buy it from me, the price they offered was so small that John had me refuse it. He's said in jest: 'No telling how glad we may some time be of that rocky hill-farm, Martha. Better hold on to it, as long as we can pay the taxes and keep it.' The taxes were not heavy, and we've paid them. Now, it is the only place out of the city where we have a right to go; and in one sense there couldn't be a better. It's one of the healthiest spots on earth, I suppose: and there'll be plenty of room for John to live in 'the open,' as he's advised. So we must go;" and with a heavy sigh mother Martha ceased speaking and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as if she were about to sleep. But underneath all her calmness of tone had lain a profound sadness, and none but the absent John could have told how bitter to her was the coming severance from all she had ever held dear. Though born in New York State, she had come south with her parents when she was too small to remember any other home than their humble one in this same city. Here she had met and married John. Here they had together earned their cozy home. Here were all her church associations, and here the few whom she called friends. She had always leaned upon her husband's greater wisdom and strength in all the affairs of their quiet lives, and now that she needed them most she was deprived of them. Alone, she must pack up, or sell, their household goods, and not an article of them but was dear because of some sacrifice involved in its purchase. Alone, she must attend to the sale or rental of their house, for the doctors had told her that very morning that her patient must not be disturbed "for any cause whatever. There was a chance, one in a thousand, that he might get well. If this chance were to be his it depended upon his absolute freedom from care and responsibility." She had assured them that this should be so, and it had seemed easy to promise, in the face of the greater sorrow if he must remain an invalid or, possibly, die. But now, back in the security of her beloved home, her courage waned; and Dorothy, watching, saw tears steal from under the closed eyelids and chase one another down the pale cheek, which only yesterday, it seemed, had been so round and rosy. To a loving child there is no more piteous sight than a mother weeping. It was more than Dorothy could bear, and, with a little cry of distress, she threw herself at Mrs. Chester's knees and hid her own wet eyes upon them. Then she lifted her head and begged: "Don't cry, mother! Dearest mother Martha, please, please, don't cry! You've never done it, never; in all my life I haven't seen you, no matter what happened. If you cry we can't do anything, and I'm going to help you. Maybe we won't have to go away. Maybe something perfectly splendid will happen to prevent. Maybe darling father will get well, just resting from his mail route. Surely, nobody could fix him nicer nourishments than you can, if we can afford it. Maybe we shall be able to afford--Oh! if only I could tell you something! Something that would make you happy again!" Mother Martha ceased weeping and smiled into the tender eyes of the devoted child who had so well repaid her own generosity. Then she wiped both their faces and in quite a matter-of-fact way bade Dorothy sit down, quietly, while she told her some necessary things. One: that in the morning she should be sent to the post-office, to receive the envelope containing the ten dollars due for her own board. Mrs. Chester had arranged with the new postman about it and there would be no difficulty. There was never a word written with these payments. The postman's address was on the outside the envelope, which was never registered, had never gone astray, and had never held more than the solitary crisp ten-dollar bill expected. "We shall need all the money we can get in hand, for the expenses of our moving will be heavy--for us. I'm going to see some real-estate men and decide whether it is best to sell, or rent, this house. I shall be very busy. John isn't to stay at the hospital but a week, and so by the end of this coming one I want to be in our new home. I rather dread the journey, though we can easily make it in a day--or less. But your father thinks he can get along real well on crutches, that we'll have to buy, of course; and I've noticed that people on the street cars, even, are always kind and helpful to invalids. John believes that it's a good, jolly old world, and you and I must try to believe the same. He says there's lots of truth in the saying: 'He that would have friends must show himself friendly.' I reckon nobody ever turned a friendlier face toward others than John has, and that's why everybody loves him so. "Now, dearie, fetch me my Bible and I'll read awhile. I don't feel as if I'd had any real Sunday, yet. Then, by and by, you may make me a cup of tea and we'll get to bed early. Of course, there'll be no more school for you here, though I shall want you to step in and bid Miss Georgia good-bye. That's no more than polite, even if you don't love her as you should." Dorothy made a little mouth, which for once her mother did not reprove: and presently they both were reading. At least, Mrs. Chester really was, while the peace of the volume she studied stole into her troubled heart and shed its light upon her face. Dorothy, also, held her book in her hand and kept her eyes fixed on the printed pages; but, had her mother chanced to look up and observe, she would have seen no leaves turned; though gradually an expression of almost wild delight grew upon the mobile features till the girl looked as if she were just ready to sing. However, she said nothing of her happy thoughts and watched her mother fall asleep in the drowsy heat of the late afternoon, and from the fatigue of a sleepless night and a busy day. Then she crept on tiptoe out of the room, noiselessly removing her slitted shoes before she rose from her chair, and presently had gained the kitchen at the rear. Here she lighted a little gas stove and put on the kettle to boil. Then she did what seemed a strange thing for a girl as strictly reared as she, on a Sunday evening. She caught up her short skirts and, after the manner of pictured dancers upon wall-posters, began to whirl and pirouette around the little space, as if by such movements, only, could she express the rapture that thrilled her. "There, I reckon I've worked myself down to quiet!" she exclaimed, at length, to the cat which entered, stretching its legs in a sleepy fashion and ready for its supper. "Now, I'll feed you, Ma'am Puss, though you ought to feed yourself on the rats that bother our garden. Queer, isn't it? How everything 'feeds' on something else. I hate rats, and I hate to have them killed. Killing is horrible: and, I'm afraid that to have my roses killed by the creatures is worst of all." Ma'am Puss did not reply, except by rubbing herself against her mistress's legs, and, having filled a saucer with milk, Dorothy went out into the garden and stayed there a long time. There many thoughts came to her, and many, many regrets. Regrets for past negligencies, that had caused the drooping--therefore suffering--of some tender plant; for the knowledge of her coming separation from these treasures which both she and father John had loved almost as if they were human creatures; but keenest of all, regrets for the lost activity of the once so active postman. Mother Martha's griefs and her own might be hard to bear, but his was far, far worse. Nothing, not even the delightful surprises she felt she had in store for him, could give him back his lost health. She had no propensity to dance when she went indoors again. It was a very sober, thoughtful Dorothy C. who presently carried a little tray into the parlor and insisted upon the tired housemistress enjoying her supper there, where she could look out upon the cheerful street with its Sunday promenaders, "and just be waited on, nice and cozy." Both inmates of the little home slept soundly that night. Sleep is a close friend to the toilers of the world, though the idle rich seek it in vain: and the morning found them refreshed and courageous for the duties awaiting. There would be few tears and no repining on the part of either because of a home-breaking. Bitterer trials might come, but the depth of this one they had fathomed and put behind them. Moreover, it fell in with Dorothy's own desires that she was to make the post-office trip: and she started upon it with so much confidence that her mother was surprised and remarked: "Well, small daughter, for a child who knows so little of business and has never been further down town than the market, alone, you are behaving beautifully. I'm proud of you. So will your father be. Maybe, if any of the agents I'm going to telephone come here to-day and keep me, I'll let you go to pay the daily visit to John and tell him all the news. Take care of the street crossings. It's so crowded on the business streets and I should be forlorn, indeed, if harm befell my Dorothy C." Even when the child turned, half-way down the block, to toss a kiss backward to her mother in the doorway, that anxious woman felt a strange fear for her darling and recalled her for a final caution: "Be sure to take care of your car-fare, Dorothy; and be more than sure you don't lose the money-letter. When you board a car look to see another isn't coming on the other track, to knock you down." The little girl came back and clung to Mrs. Chester for a moment, laughing, yet feeling her own courage a trifle dashed by these suggestions of peril. But she slipped away again, determining to do her errands promptly, while, with a curious foreboding in her mind, the housemistress re-entered her deserted home, reflecting: "John always laughs at my 'presentiments,' yet I never had one as strong as this upon me now that I did not wish, afterward, I had yielded to it. I've half a mind to follow the child and overtake her before she gets into a car. I could snatch a little while to do those downtown errands and she'd be perfectly safe here. Pshaw! How silly I am! Dorothy is old enough to be trusted and can be. I'll put her out of mind till I hear her gay little call at the door, when she rings its bell: 'It's I, mother Martha! Please let me in!'" But alas! That familiar summons was never again to be heard at No. 77 Brown Street. CHAPTER VII AN OFFICE SEEKER AND A CLIENT "Well, little girl, what are you doing here?" Dorothy had safely reached the big post-office, which seemed to be the busiest place she had ever entered; busier even than the department stores on a "bargain day;" and she had timidly slipped into the quietest corner she could find, to wait a moment while the crowd thinned. Then she would present her note, that asked for father John's letter to be given her, and which was in his own handwriting, to make sure. But the crowd did not thin! Besides the swarms and swarms of postmen, wearing just such gray uniforms as her father's, there were so many men. All were hastening to or from the various windows which partitioned a big inner room from this bigger outside one and behind which were other men in uniform--all so busy, busy, busy! "Why! I didn't dream there could ever be so many letter-carriers! and each one is so like father, that I'm all mixed up! I know I've got to go to one those windows, to give this letter and get the other one, but how will I ever get a chance to do it, between all those men?" Then while Dorothy thus wondered, growing half-frightened, there had come that question, put in a familiar tone, and looking up she saw another gray-uniformed person whom she recognized as her father's friend. Once he had been to their house to dinner, and how glad she now was for that. "Oh, Mr. Lathrop! How glad I am to see you! I've got to get a letter and I don't see how I'll ever have the chance. The people don't stop coming, not a minute." "That's so, little girl--Beg pardon, but I forget your name, though I know you belong to John Chester." "Dorothy it is, Mr. Lathrop. Could you--could you possibly spare time to help me?" "Well, I reckon there's nobody in this office but would spare any amount of time to help one of John Chester's folks. I was just starting on my rounds--second delivery--heavy mail--but come along with me and I'll fix you out all right." He turned, shifted his heavy pouch a little, and caught her hand. Then he threaded his way through the crowd with what seemed to his small companion a marvelous dexterity. It happened to be the "rush hour" of business, and at almost any other, Dorothy would not have found any difficulty in making her own way around, but there was also the confusion of a first visit. Presently, however, she found herself at the right window to secure the letter she sought, received it, and heard Mr. Lathrop say: "There. That's all right. I reckon you can find your way out all safe, and I'm in a hurry. Please make my regards to your mother and tell her we've heard where John is and some of us are going to see him, first chance we get. Too bad such a thing should happen to him! Don't let anybody snatch that letter from you, and good-bye." Then Dorothy found herself alone and no longer afraid. She had accomplished her mother's errand--now she must attend to a much more important one of her own. She gazed about her with keenest interest, trying to understand the entire postal business, as there represented before her, and assuring herself that after all it was extremely simple. "It's just because it's new. New things always puzzle folks. As soon as I've been once or twice I shan't mind it, no more than any of these people do. I wonder which way I must go? If he's the head man he ought to have the head room, I should think. Hmm. I'll have to ask, and--and--I sort of hate to. Never mind, Dorothy C.! You're doing it for father John and mother Martha; and if you plan to be grown-up, in your outsides, you must be inside, too. Father hates bold little girls. He says they're a--a--annemoly, or something. It belongs to girl children to be afraid of things. He thinks it's nice. Well, I'm all right nice enough inside, this minute, but--I'll do it!" After these reflections and this sudden resolution Dorothy darted forward and seized the arm of a negro who was cleaning the floor. "Please, boy, tell me the way to the head man's place. The real postmaster of all." "Hey? I dunno as he's in, yet. He don't come down soon, o' mornin's. What you want to see him for?" "On business of my own. The way, please," answered Dorothy, bracing her resolution by the fancied air of a grown person. The negro grinned and resumed his scrubbing, but nodded backward over his shoulder toward a tall gentleman just entering the building. "That's him. Now you got your chance, better take it." There was nothing to inspire fear in the face of this "head man of all," nor was there anything left in Dorothy's mind but the desire to accomplish her "business" at once and, of course, successfully. Another instant, and the gentleman crossing the floor felt a detaining touch upon his sleeve and beheld a bonny little face looking earnestly up into his own. Also, a childish voice was saying: "I'm John Chester's little girl. May I ask you something?" "You seem already to be asking me something, but I'm happy to meet you, Miss Chester, and shall be very glad to hear all about your father. He was one of the very best men on the force, one of the most intelligent. I can give you five minutes. Come this way, please." Dorothy flashed him one of her beautiful smiles, and the postmaster, who happened to love all children, observed that this was a very handsome child with a pair of wonderful, appealing eyes. Though, of course, he did not express his admiration in words, Dorothy felt that she had pleased him and her last hesitation vanished. As soon as they were seated in a private apartment, she burst into the heart of the matter, saying: "Please, Mr. Postmaster, will you let me take my father's place?" "W-wh--at?" asked the gentleman, almost as if he whistled it in astonishment. Dorothy laughed. "I know I'm pretty small to carry big pouches, 'specially the Christmas and Easter ones, but you always have 'extras' then, anyway. I know my father's whole beat. I know it from end to end--all the people's houses, the numbers to them, and lots of the folks that live around. What I don't know I can read on the envelopes. I'm a quick reader of handwriting, Miss Georgia says." The postmaster did not interrupt her by a word, but the twinkle in his eyes grew brighter and brighter and at the end he laughed. Not harshly nor in a manner to hurt her feelings, which he saw were deep and sincere, but because he found this one of the most refreshing experiences of his rather humdrum position. Here was a visitor, a petitioner, quite different from the numberless illiterate men who bothered him for office. He hated to disappoint her, just yet, so asked with interest: "And who is Miss Georgia?" "She's my teacher. She's the vice principal of our school. She's dreadful smart." "Indeed? But what, Miss Chester, put this notion into your head? By taking your father's 'place' I conclude that you are applying for his position as mail-carrier. Did you ever hear of a little girl postman?" "No, sir, I didn't, but there has to be a first time, a first one, to everything, doesn't there? So I could be the first girl postman. And why I want to is because I think I must support my parents." The applicant's reply was given with the serious importance due from a young lady whom such a fine gentleman called "Miss Chester"; and when he again desired to know whose idea it was that she should seek a place on "the force," she answered proudly: "All my own. Nobody's else. Not a single body--not even my mother Martha--ever suspects. I want it to be a surprise, a real, Christmassy surprise. Oh! She's feeling terrible bad about our leaving our home and not knowing what we'll have to live on. So I thought it all out and that I'd come right to you and ask, before any other substitute got appointed. "Well, maybe the notion came that last day my father carried the mail. His poor legs and feet got so terribly wobbly that he was afraid he'd fall down or something and couldn't finish his delivery. So I walked alongside of him and ran up the steps and handed in the letters and everybody was just as nice as nice to us, except old Mrs. Cecil, who lives at Bellevieu. She was mad. She was real mad. She said we were breaking the law, the two of us. Think of that! My father, John Chester, a law-breaker! Why, he couldn't break a law to save his life. He's too good." The postmaster smiled. He had, apparently, forgotten that he was to give only five minutes to this small maid, and he was really charmed by her simplicity and confidence. "Was that the day Mr. Chester was taken to the hospital? The boys have told me about him--some things. How is he doing? Will he be there long? You see, I can ask questions, too!" continued the gentleman, very socially. "My mother says there's a chance he may get well. He's to be there only this week that ever is. Then he's to be taken into the country, away, away to some mountains in New York State. He's got to live right outdoors all the time, and he mustn't worry, not a single worry. My mother daren't even talk with him about selling, or renting, our house, or the furniture, or--or anything. So she talks to me--some." "I hope you talk to her--more than 'some'; and I'm wondering if you had done so before you came to me whether I should ever have had the pleasure of your acquaintance." Was there a reproof in this? Dorothy's sensitive heart fancied so, yet she couldn't imagine in what she had done wrong. With a little waning of hope--the postmaster had been so delightful that she was already sure he would grant her request--she asked: "Is it bad? why shouldn't I want to earn the money for my parents? Same as they have for me and us all. If I had the place, they could go to the country, just the same, and the money could be sent to them to live on every month. Of course, I'd have to not go with them. I reckon Mrs. Bruce, the plumber's wife, would let me live with her, if my folks paid her board for me. Mabel and I could sleep together, and I'd help with the dishes and work, 'cause if I were a postman I couldn't go to school, of course. I'd have to study nights, same as father has. So, if I didn't make much trouble, maybe Mrs. Bruce wouldn't charge much. But, excuse me. My father John says I talk too much, and that when I go to do errands I should stick to business. He says it doesn't make any difference to the folks that hire you to work for them whether you're rich or poor, sick or well. All they want is to have the work done--and no talk about it. I'm sorry I've said so much. I didn't mean to, but----" "But," repeated the postmaster, suggestively; and Dorothy finished her sentence: "I haven't talked a single word to anybody else, and it seems so good to do it now. I never had a secret--secrets, for I've got another one yet, that I can't tell--before and I don't like them. I beg your pardon, and--May I have my father's position?" said Dorothy, rising, and seeing by the big clock on the wall that she had long overstayed the time allotted for this interview. The gentleman also rose, and laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder, but his face and voice were grave, as he answered: "No, my dear, I am sorry to disappoint you, but you ask the impossible. You could not--But there's no use in details of explanation. As your wise father has taught you, business should be reduced to its simplest terms. I cannot give you the place, but I can, and do, give you the best of advice--for one of your imaginative nature. Never cherish secrets! Never, even such delightful, surprising ones, as this of yours has been. Especially, never keep anything from your mother. When anything comes into your mind which you feel you cannot tell _her_ banish the idea at once and you'll stay on the safe side of things. Good-morning." Other people were entering the private office and Dorothy was being courteously bowed out of it, before she fully realized that she had not obtained her desire, and never would. For a few seconds, her temper flamed, and she reflected, tartly: "Huh! I should make as good a postman as lots of them do. My father says some of them are too ignorant for their places. _I_'m not ignorant. I'm the best scholar in my class, and my class is the highest one in our Primary. I could do it. I could so. But--Well, he was real nice. He acted just as if he had little girls of his own and knew just how they felt. He laughed at me, but he didn't laugh hateful, like Miss Georgia does on her 'nervous days' when she mixes me all up in my lessons. And anyhow, maybe it's just as well. If I'd got to be a letter-girl I couldn't have gone to the country with father and mother, and I should have about died of lonesomeness without them. Maybe Mrs. Bruce wouldn't have had me, nor the minister's folks either. Anyway, I've got that other, more splendid secret, still. I _have_ to have that, because I have it already, and so can't help. Miss Georgia would say that there were two too many 'haves' in that sentence, and the 'two too' sounds funny, too. Now I must go home. I've got my money-letter all right and, after all, I'm glad mother Martha doesn't know that I wanted father's beat, she'd be so much disappointed to know how near we came to staying here and couldn't." With which philosophic acceptance of facts and a cheerful looking forward to the "next thing," the rejected seeker after public office ran up the hill leading from the post-office and straight against another opportunity, as it were. Just as she had signalled a car, the "gentleman" who had twice called upon her and who had told her that his name was "John Smith," appeared beside her on the sidewalk, raised his hat, and with an engaging air exclaimed: "Why, Miss Chester, how fortunate! I was just on the point of going to see you. Now, if you will go with me, instead, it will save time and answer just as well. We don't take this car, but another. My office is on Howard Street, and we'll walk till we meet a Linden Avenue car. This way, please. Allow me?" But Dorothy shrank back from this overly pleasant man. It was with the same feeling of repulsion that she had experienced on each of their previous meetings, and which she had tried to conquer because of the great benefit he claimed he had sought her to bestow upon her. Her next sensation was one of pride, remembering that this was the second time that morning for her to be called "Miss Chester." Each time it had been by a grown-up gentleman and the fact made her feel quite grown-up and important, also. Besides, this present person was able, he said, to more than compensate for any disappointment the postmaster had inflicted--though, of course, that affair was known only to "the head man of all" and herself. However, she couldn't accept Mr. Smith's invitation, for, she explained: "Thank you, but I can't go with you now. I'm doing an errand for my mother and she'll be expecting me home. She's very busy and needs me to help her. Nor do I want to make her worry, for she has all the trouble now she can bear. The first time I can come, if you'll tell me where, I'll try to do so. Are you sure, sure, Mr. Smith, that I am really an heiress and you will help me to get the money that belongs to me?" "Perfectly sure. A lawyer like me doesn't waste his time on any doubtful business. I have more cases on hand, this very minute, than I can attend to and ought not to stand idle here one moment. Don't, I beg of you, also stand in your own light, against your real interests and the interests of those who are dearer to you than yourself. It is very simple. As soon as you reach the office I'll give you paper and pen and you can send a message to your mother, explaining that you have been detained on business but will soon be with her. Ah, yes, the note by all means. It quite goes against my nature to cause anybody needless anxiety. Here's our car. Step in, please." As she obeyed Dorothy thought that she had never heard anybody talk as fast as the man did. Faster even than she did herself, and with an assured air of authority which could not fail to impress an obedient child, trained to accept the decisions of her elders without question. She still tightly clutched the envelope containing the precious ten-dollar bill, and had so nervously folded and unfolded it that, by the time they reached the place on North Howard Street, it was in such a state she was ashamed of it. "Right up stairs, Miss Chester. Sorry I haven't an elevator to assist you," remarked the lawyer, curiously regarding her feet in their poor shoes. "However, there are plenty willing to climb three flights of stairs for the sake of my advice. I've been in business right here in Baltimore longer than I care to remember--it makes me feel so old. Lawyers who have lovely young clients prefer to remain young themselves, you know." "No, I don't know. I know nothing about lawyers, anyway, and I don't like it in here. I was never in such a dark house before. I--I think I won't stay. I'll go home and tell my mother everything. That's what the other gentleman advised and I--I _liked him_. Good-bye," said the now frightened girl, and turned about on that flight to the third story. But Mr. Smith was right behind her. She'd have to brush past him to descend the narrow stairway, and he was again chattering away, pretending not to hear her objections, but glibly explaining: "The reason the house is so dark is because it is so old--one of the oldest in the city, I've been told. Besides, each floor has been turned into a flat, or suite of offices, and the tenants keep their doors closed. That's why I chose the top story for my own use--it's so much lighter, and--Here we are!" Here they were, indeed, but by no stretch of imagination could the apartment be called light. There was a skylight over the top of the stairs, but this was darkened by gray holland shades, and though there appeared to be three rooms on this floor, the doors of all were closed as the doors on the floors below. Dorothy was trembling visibly, as her guide opened the door of the middle room--the "dark one" of the peculiarly constructed city houses--and she faced absolute blackness. But her host seemed to know the way and to be surprised that nobody was present to receive them. With exclamations of annoyance he hurried to light a single gas jet and the small flame illumined a dingy, most untidy "office." Yet still with a grand flourish of manner the lawyer pushed a chair before a littered desk, rummaged till he found paper, ink, and pen, and waved his small client toward it. She was almost in tears, from her fright; yet still bolstered her courage with the thought: "For my father and mother!" and resolved to see the business through. Certainly no such gentlemanly appearing person could intend injury to an unprotected child. Why should she imagine it? Drawing the paper toward her she began to write and had quickly finished the brief note which told her mother as much, and no more than, her instructor had prescribed. He had kept his eyes rather closely fixed upon the wrinkled envelope she held, and now carelessly remarked: "You could send that letter home with your note, too, if you wish, though you'll be detained only a little while. I don't see why that witness I spoke of hasn't come. I do hate a dilatory client! Will she need it, do you think?" "She might. I will send it, I guess," answered poor Dorothy, and giving the folded envelope still another twist, enclosed and sealed it in her own note which she handed to her "lawyer." He took it, hastily, and informed her that he would "just trip down those troublesome stairs and find a messenger boy, then be back in a jiffy." As he reckoned time a "jiffy" must have meant several hours; for the whole day had passed and still he had not returned. CHAPTER VIII TENANTS FOR NO. 77 "Oh! do get out of the way, Ma'am Puss! What possesses you to be always under foot? If you're looking for your little mistress she's not here, She's gone away down town on business," cried Mrs. Chester to the cat, as she stumbled over the creature for the third time in about as many minutes. The animal's behavior annoyed her. For some time it had kept up an intermittent and most doleful mewing and, as if seeking some precious thing no longer to be found, it had wandered in and out of corners in a nerve-distracting way. The house mistress herself was almost as uneasy as the cat, and she had endured about all the mental strain she could without collapse; or, at least, venting her overtaxed patience upon somebody. Ma'am Puss happened to be the "somebody" most convenient, and with a fresh sinking of her spirits, Martha Chester recalled the many frolics her husband, as well as daughter, had had with their pet. Would anything in her life ever be again as it had been! Sitting down in the nearest chair, for a moment, the lonely woman took the sleek maltese into her arms and held it close, stroking its fur affectionately, and in a manner to surprise the recipient of this most unusual attention. For Martha didn't like cats; and the only reason Ma'am Puss was tolerated on her premises was because she liked rats and mice still less. But now she not only petted but confided to the purring feline the fact: "Dorothy has been gone four hours, and I'm dreadfully worried. At the longest she shouldn't have been gone more'n two, even if there was a hold-up on the car line. Besides, she wouldn't have waited for such a thing, anyway. She'd have started home on her own feet, first, for she's a loving child and knows I need her help. That money-letter! I'm afraid somebody's waylaid her and took it away. It wasn't so much--to some people--but ten dollars? Why, Puss, a man was murdered out Towson way for less than that, not so long ago! I wish she'd come. Oh! How I wish she'd come!" But Dorothy did not come. There was no sign of her on the street, no matter how many times the anxious watcher ran to the door and looked out; and the four hours were fast lengthening into five when the first change came to divert Mrs. Chester's thoughts, for the time being, from her terrible forebodings. As she gazed in one direction for the sight of a blue gingham frock a cheerful voice called to her from another: "Howdy, Mis' Chester? Now ain't I brought you the greatest luck? Here's my sister-in-law, without chick nor child to upset things, and only a husband that's night watchman--is going to be--come right here to Baltimore an' is looking for a house. Firm he's worked for is putting up a new factory, right over in them open lots beyond an' nothin' to do but he must take care of 'em. This is my sister-in-law, Mis' Jones, Mis' Chester. I was a Jones myself. Well, they're ready to rent or buy, reasonable, either one; and I reckon it's a chance you won't get in a hurry--no children, too! What you say?" For a moment Martha could say nothing, except to bid her callers enter the house and to place them comfortably in the cool parlor; and even her first remark bore little on the subject Mrs. Bruce had presented. Handing fans all round she ejaculated: "It's so terrible hot! I'm all beat out--picking up and--and worrying." "Well, to get your house off your hands so sudden'll be one worry less," comforted Mrs. Bruce, fanning herself vigorously and looking as if such a thing as anxiety had never entered her own contented mind. "I--I just stepped 'round to the drug-store, a spell ago, and telephoned to three real-estate men to come up an' look things over. I--Why, it's only Monday morning, and I've got a whole week yet. I mean--It seems so sudden. I've got to see John--No, I haven't. It seems dreadful to take such steps, do business without him, which I never have, but the doctors--How much rent'd you be willing to pay, Mis' Jones?" Poor Mrs. Chester was strangely distraught. Her neighbor, the plumber's wife, had never seen her like this, but she understood some part of what the other was suffering, though, as yet, she was ignorant of Dorothy's prolonged absence; and she again tried to console: "I know just how you feel. Havin' slaved so long to pay for the house, out of a postman's salary, an' him an' you bein' such a happy contented couple--Don't doubt I'm feelin' for you an' wantin' to lend a hand, if so be I can. As to rent, there ain't never no houses on this one-hunderd block of Brown Street _to_ rent. We both know that, 'cause it's the nicest kept one, with the prettiest back yard anywhere's near. No negro houses in the alleys, neither. So, course, this is a splendid chance for Bill and Jane; but I asked Mr. Bruce an' he said twenty dollars a month was fair and the goin' rates." Mrs. Chester listened with still greater dismay. At the utmost she had expected the watchman would offer no more than fifteen dollars, but twenty! The highest rate she had looked to receive from anybody. Of course she wanted to rent--she had now fully decided not to sell--but to succeed so promptly, was almost like having the ground taken from beneath her feet. At last she forced herself to say: "I know it's a good chance. I'm not unmindful it's a neighborly thing in you, Mrs. Bruce, or that Mrs. Jones'd make a good tenant. I'm--Well, I'll try to give you your answer some time to-night. Will that do?" Mrs. Bruce rose and there was some asperity in her tone as she returned: "I s'pose it'll have to do, since you're the one to pass the word. But we'll look round, other houses, anyway. My folks have left their old place an' this week's the only idle one Bill'll have. He wants to help Jane settle--she ain't overly strong--and they'd like to move in a-Wednesday, or Thursday mornin' at the latest." "So--soon!" gasped the mistress of No. 77. Despite her will a tear stole down her cheek and her warm-hearted neighbor was instantly moved to greater sympathy. Laying her fat hand on Mrs. Chester's bowed head she urged: "Keep up your spirit, Martha. If you just rent, why you know you can come back any time. A month's notice, give an' take, that's all. I'm hopin' John'll get well right away, an' you'll all come flyin' back to Baltimore. By the way, where's Dorothy? Mabel said she wasn't goin' to school no more." "Oh, Mrs. Bruce, I don't know! I don't know!" and the anxious mother poured out her perplexities in the ear of this other mother, who promptly said: "Well, if I was you, Martha Chester, I'd put on my hat and go straight down to that post-office an' find out what had become of her. If 'twas Mabel, I should." "Oh! that's what I've been longing to do! But I thought the real-estate men might come, and I dared not leave. I'm getting so nervous I can't keep still, and as for going on with my packing, it's no use. I must go to see John, this afternoon, too, and----" "Martha Chester, have you had a bite to eat?" demanded Mrs. Bruce, in an accusing tone. Martha smiled, and reluctantly answered: "I don't believe I have. I didn't think, but--course, it's past lunch time." "Lunch! Hear her, Jane. She's one o' the fashionable women 't cooks her dinner at sundown!" cried the plumber's wife, with an attempt at raillery, but in her mind already deciding that hunger was half the matter with her neighbor's nerves. "Now, look here, the pair of you. Me an' him is more sensibler. We have our dinner at dinner time, and you know that was as nice a vegetable soup we had this noon, Jane Jones, as ever was made, an' you needn't deny it. You just stay here a minute an' Martha'll show you round the house, an' the garden--That garden'll tickle Bill 'most to death, he's that set on posies!--while I skip home and fetch a pail of it. 'Twon't take a minute to do it, an' it can be het up on the gas stove, even if the range fire's out. By that time Dorothy C. 'll have got back: an' me an' Jane'll help her keep house while you step across to Johns Hopkins. I reckon that's good plannin', so you begin while I skip." The idea of corpulent Mrs. Bruce "skipping" brought a smile to both the listeners' faces, but Martha was already greatly comforted and now realized that she was, indeed, faint from want of food. She had taken but little breakfast, being "too busy to eat," as she explained; but she now set out on a tour of the little house with much pride in it, and in the fact that taken unaware, even, it would be found in spotless order. Her washing was already drying in the sunny garden among the roses and Mrs. Jones's delight over that part of the premises was most flattering. Indeed, there was a dainty simplicity about the little country-woman which now quite won Mrs. Chester's heart, and after they had examined each of the rooms, and each had found Mrs. Jones more and more enthusiastic, the impulsive housemistress exclaimed: "Maybe you'll think I'm queer, but I believe the Lord just sent you! That you're the very one will love our home for us while we're away." "Oh! I'm glad to hear you say that. It's the way I feel about things. I ain't so glib a talker as _his_ folks is, but I think a good deal. I've always hankered to live in a city, where if _I_ wanted a bucket of water, all I'd have to do would be to turn a spigot, 'stead of tugging it up a hill from a spring or hauling it out a well. An' Bill, he's tidy. I've trained him. I begun right off, soon's we was married. The Joneses they--well, they ain't none of 'em too partic'lar, though warmer-hearted folks never lived. But, my man? Why, bless you, now he'd no more think o' comin' in from outdoors without takin' off his boots an' puttin' on his slippers 'an he'd think o' flyin'. I didn't have to scold him into it, neither. 'Twas just himself seein' me get down an' scrub up the mud he'd tracked in, without even wipin' his feet. But, my! I said I wasn't no talker, an' here I'm makin' myself out a story-teller. But, if so be you an' him come to a right agreement, I promise you one thing: I'll take just as good care, or better, of your prop'ty as if it was my own. Nobody couldn't do more than that, could they?" "No, indeed: and I'm glad I can have such good news to tell John when I go to him. After all, Mrs. Jones, property troubles don't compare with troubles of your heart. I feel so different, all in these few minutes, so glad you came. I reckon there won't be no difficulty about the agreement: and--look! There comes Mrs. Bruce already and a colored girl with her." The plumber's wife entered, panting from her efforts to carry a big pail of soup at sufficient distance from her fat sides to keep it from spilling, and announcing that the basket the little colored maid had in hand contained "a few other things I picked up, might come in nice." "An' I collared 'Mandy, here, on the street. She's the girl does my front, an' I thought she might do yours, to-day. She does it for a nickel and don't you pay her no more. Hear, 'Mandy? If you leave a speck on this lady's steps, I won't give you that baker's cake I promised. Where's your cleanin' things, Mis' Chester?" These were quickly produced and then the housemistress sat down to her meal, her guests declining to join her in it, though more than willing to sit beside her and talk while she ate. Moreover, Mrs. Bruce was extremely proud to show this other notable housekeeper a specimen of her own cooking, knowing that she was usually considered a failure in that line, but had succeeded well this time. Then said Mrs. Jones: "I've been thinkin' things over a mite, whilst you two talked. Bill's and my goods are to the depot here, ready packed an' waitin', and I've not a hand's turn to do, till I get a place to unpack them in. If you'll let me I'd admire to come help you get your stuff ready for movin'. Havin' just done mine I've sort of got my hand in, so to speak, an' can take hold capable. I'll look after the house, too, and learn the ways of it, while you're off on your errands or seeing your husband, or the like. What say, sister, to that notion?" "I call it first-rate: an' I'll be able to help some, 'tween times. Now, Martha Chester, if you've finished your dinner, be off with you. Jane an' me'll do everything all right, an' I'm getting as wild to have Dorothy back as you are. Don't suppose she's one to run away an' play with some the school children, do you?" said Mrs. Bruce. "No, I don't. I wish I did think she might, but Dorothy never ran away, not in all her life, except when she was a mite of a thing and followed her father on his route. Well, you can tell the real-estate men, if they come, 't the thing is settled already. I say it 'tis, but I reckon they'll be some put out, comin' up here for nothing. Good-bye. Do wish me good luck! and I'll hurry back." Late though she felt that she was for her hospital visit, Mrs. Chester hurried first to the post-office, her anxiety increasing all the way, and reached it just as Mr. Lathrop was leaving it for his last delivery. To her anxious inquiry he returned a discouraging: "No. I haven't seen Dorothy since early this morning, when I helped her a bit in getting her money-letter. But I'll ask if anybody else knows what became of her. Doubtless she'll turn up all right and with a simple explanation of her absence. She's a bright little girl, you'll find her all safe. I'll go back with you now." Thus for the second time that day, the busy postman delayed his own work to do kindness to a comrade's family, nor could he quite understand why his faith in his own words was less than he wished hers to be. It was rare to hear of a child being lost in that safe city, and it would be a bitter blow to the already afflicted John Chester if harm befell his adopted daughter. When no good news could be obtained here, he advised Martha to go on to the hospital but to say nothing to her husband of Dorothy. He would notify the police, and if she had met with any accident, or by some rare mischance lost her way, she would speedily be traced. Because she could do no better, Mrs. Chester followed his advice, boarded a car for the hospital, and was soon at her husband's side. But alas! She was to find no comfort in this interview. With a natural reaction from his first elation over the possibility of recovery he was now greatly depressed. Having lived so long on will-power, and having once given up, he had developed a great weakness of body, and, in a degree, of mind. Before his wife was admitted to his presence she was warned that nothing but the pleasantest topics must be discussed, and was told that the doctors now desired him to be removed to the country right away. "This terrible heat has injured him, as it has others. Get him out of town at once, Mrs. Chester, if you would save his life." So when he asked for Dorothy she ignored his question, but talked glibly of the fine chance that they had of letting the house: yet to her amazement he showed no interest in this matter. "Do whatever you think best, little woman. I don't care. I don't believe I'll ever care about anything in the world again." "Oh, John! Don't say that. You'll be better soon. But, good-bye till to-morrow:" and hastily bidding him expect her then, with some home flowers and "lots of good news," she hurried away. "No news?" she asked, as her own door opened to receive her, and the gentle little country-woman welcomed her. "Oh! no. Not yet. Ain't hardly time!" cheerfully responded Jane Jones, just as if she were imparting other tidings. "Mustn't look for miracles, nowadays. That child's off visitin', somewheres, you may depend. And you mustn't be hard on her when she comes back," advised this new friend. "Hard on her? Me? Why, I'd give ten years of my life to know she was safe, this minute! _Hard on her!_ All I ask is to hold her fast in my arms once more. But, course, you don't know Dorothy C. The little child that was _sent_, and that's made John an' me so happy all her life. Look. Here's her picture. We thought it was extravagant, but somehow we felt we had to have it. 'Twas taken this very spring, on the same day we found her on the steps." From a little secretary in the dining room Mrs. Chester produced the photograph, still carefully wrapped in its waxed paper covering, and displayed to her admiring guest the picture of a very lovely child. The shapely head was crowned by short brown curls, the big brown eyes looked eagerly forth, and the pretty red lips were curved in a half-smile that was altogether bewitching. "Why! She's a beauty! A regular beauty! She looks as if she belonged to high-up folks; I declare she does," commented Mrs. Jones. Mother Martha was touched by this sincere admiration, and lifting the picture to her lips lightly pressed a kiss upon it. Then she carefully put it away again, saying with a sigh: "We'd laid out to get it framed, soon, and hang it in the parlor. That's why we had but one taken. John thought one big one was better worth while than a dozen small ones. My! Hark! What's that? Such a ring--my heart's in my mouth--you open the door--please--I can't!" and so imploring, Mrs. Chester sank upon the lounge and covered her face with her hands. Even Mrs. Jones was all a-tremble and her hands fumbled so with the unfamiliar latch that the housemistress sprang to her feet and opened the door herself with the glad cry: "Dorothy! Dorothy, have you come?" "Not Dorothy, Mrs. Chester; just Lathrop, you know, with a detective, come to get some points." CHAPTER IX STRANGE EXPERIENCES "Why doesn't he come back! Oh! what will my mother think of my staying away like this? All the help she has now, too, and needing me so much. I'll wait just five minutes longer, then I'll go home, anyway, whether that 'witness' who's to tell me so much about myself and my real father and mother comes or not. No father or mother could be as dear to me as father John and mother Martha. I don't want any others. Let them keep their old fortune the rest of the time, since they've kept it so long and never sent for me," said Dorothy C. to herself, after she had waited with what slight patience she could for Mr. Smith's return, and more than an hour had already passed. Hitherto she had not deemed it polite to explore her present quarters, but now began to do so in an idle sort of way. If her "lawyer" left her so long alone he couldn't blame her if she amused herself in some manner; and first she examined the few books which were tossed in a heap on the untidy desk. They did not look like law-books, many of them, though one or two were bound in dirty calf-skin and showed much handling. In any case none of them interested her. Next she tried to open the window, that gave upon the hall from one side of the room as the door by which she had entered did upon another, but found it fast. "Why, that's funny! What would anybody want to nail an inside window tight for? Oh! maybe because this is an apartment house, he said, and other people might come in. My father says he wouldn't like to live in a flat, it's so mixed up with different families. He'd rather have a tiny house like ours and have it separate. Well! if I can't open the window, I reckon I can that door which must go into a back room." Immediately she proceeded to try this second door, which was opposite the nailed window, and, to her delight, found that it yielded easily to her touch. But the room thus disclosed was almost as dark as the "office" she had just quitted, although it had two windows at the back. The upper sashes of these had been lowered as far as possible, but behind them were wooden shutters and these were also nailed, or spiked fast. There were crescent-shaped holes in the tops of the shutters and through these a little air and light penetrated into the gloom of what, now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, she perceived was a bedroom. From one side of this opened a bathroom, whose window was secured like those of the bedroom, but where was the cheerful sound of running water. Now terribly frightened by her strange surroundings, Dorothy's throat grew so dry and parched that she hastened to get a drink from the faucet, beneath which hung a rusty tin cup. Then she thought: "Maybe I can get out into the hall by this bathroom door!" It could not be opened, and now half-frantic with fear, the imprisoned girl ran from one door to another, only to find that while she had the freedom of the three apartments, every exit from these into the hall was securely bolted, or locked, upon the outside, and realized that it was with some evil intention she had been brought to this place. For hours she worked over doors, then windows, and back again to the doors--testing her puny strength against them, only to fail each time. The heat was intolerable in the rooms, for it was the top story of a small house with the sun beating against the roof. Even below, in the street, people mopped their faces and groaned beneath this unseasonable temperature. As for poor Dorothy, she felt herself growing faint, and remembered that she, as well as her mother, had taken but a light breakfast; but her eyes had now grown accustomed to the dim light of the rooms and the gas jet still flickered in the "office," so that, after a time, she threw herself on the bed, worn out with her efforts and hoping a few moments' rest might help her "to think a way out" of her prison. How long she slept, she never knew, for it was that of utter exhaustion, but she was suddenly roused by the sound of a bolt shot in its lock, and the opening of the "office" door. It was Mr. Smith returning, profuse with apologies which Dorothy scarcely heard and wholly disdained, as, darting past him, she made for the entrance with all her speed. "Why, Miss Chester! Don't, I beg, don't treat me so suspiciously. Indeed, it is quite as I tell you. I was--was detained against my will. I have only just now been able to come back here, and you must imagine--for I cannot describe them--what my sufferings have been on your account. I know that you'll think hardly of me, but, indeed, I mean you nothing but good. Wait, please; wait just a moment and taste these sandwiches I've brought and this bottle of milk. You must be famished. You can't? You won't? Why, my dear young lady, how am I ever to do you any good if you mistrust me so on such slight grounds?" "Slight grounds!" almost screamed Dorothy, struggling to free herself from the man's grasp, which, apparently gentle, was still far too firm for her to resist. At once, also, he began again to talk, so fast, so plausibly, that his words fairly tripped each other up, and still pressing upon her acceptance a paper of very dainty sandwiches and a glass of most innocent appearing milk. "Just take these first. I should be distressed beyond measure to have you return to your home in this condition. I have a carriage at the door to carry you there and we'll start immediately after you have eaten, or at least drank something. You needn't be so alarmed. Your mother received your note only a few moments after you sent it, with the envelope enclosed. She is now most anxious for you to hear all that my witness--witnesses, in fact--have to disclose as to your real parentage and possessions. It is such a grand thing for her and her husband, now that he has lost his health. Just five minutes, to keep yourself from fainting, then we'll be off. Indeed, I'm far more anxious to be on the road than you are, I so deeply regret this misadventure." At that moment there was the ring of sincerity in his words, and also just then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the appearance at the door of a hack-driver in the attire of his class. "Time's erbout up, suh, 't I was hired for, an' soon's you-all's ready, suh, I----" "All right, Jehu. I'll pay for overtime, but can't hurry a young lady, you know. Especially one that's been shut up by accident almost all day in my office." Then turning to Dorothy, who still refrained from touching the sandwiches which, however, began to look irresistibly tempting, he begged: "At least drink the milk. This good fellow seems to be in haste, though it's only a few minutes' drive to Brown Street and you can nibble the sandwiches in the carriage." She was not worldly-wise, she was very hungry, and the man seemed profoundly distressed that she had suffered such treatment at his hands. Moreover, it appeared that the shortest way to liberty was to obey him. She would drink the milk, she was fairly famishing for it, but once upon the street she would enter no carriage of his providing but trust rather to her own nimble feet to reach her home, and, if need be, to the protection of the first policeman she could summon. Wrapping the sandwiches once more in their paper, she hastily drank the milk and again started to leave. This time she was not prevented nor as they left the "office" did its proprietor use the precaution of the bolt which anybody from outside could unfasten--none from within! But he did turn out the gas, with a noteworthy prudence, and still retained his courteous support of Dorothy's arm. Released at last from the imprisonment which had so terrified her she was strangely dizzy. Her head felt very much as it had done when she had been knocked down by Mrs. Cecil's big dogs, and it was now of her own accord that she clutched Mr. Smith's arm, fearing she would fall. How far, far away sounded the hackman's footsteps, retreating before them to the street! How queerly her feet jogged up and down on the stairs, which seemed to spring upward into her very face as she descended! In all her life she had never, never felt so tired and curiously weak as now, when all the power to move her limbs seemed suddenly to leave her. "Ah! the carriage!" She could dimly see it, in the glare of an electric light, and now she welcomed it most eagerly. If ever she were to reach that blessed haven of home she would have to be carried there. So she made no remonstrance when she was bodily lifted into the coupé and placed upon its cushions, where, at once, she went to sleep. * * * * * "Here girl. Time you woke up and took your breakfast." After that strange dizziness in descending the stairs of the house in Howard Street, Dorothy's first sensation was one of languid surprise. A big, coarse-looking woman stood beside the bed on which she lay, holding a plate in one hand, a cup in the other. Broad beams of sunlight streamed through an uncurtained window near, and a fresh breeze blew in from the fields beyond. "Why--the country! Have we come to it so soon and I not knowing? Mother! Where is my mother?" she asked, gaining in strength and rising upon her elbow. Then she saw that she had lain down without undressing and cautiously stepped to the floor, which was bare and not wholly clean. Her head felt light and dizzy still, so that she suddenly again sat down on the bed's edge to recover herself. Thereupon the woman dragged a wooden chair forward and, placing the breakfast on it, said: "I can't bother no more. Eat it or leave it. I've got my fruit to pick." Then she turned away, but Dorothy reached forward, caught the blue denim skirt, and demanded: "Tell me where my mother is? I want her. I want her right away." "Like enough. I don't know. I'm goin'. I'll be in to get your dinner. You can lie down again or do what you want, only stay inside. Orders." Dorothy was very hungry. The hunger of yesterday was nothing compared to the craving she felt now and, postponing all further questions till that was satisfied, she fell to eating the contents of the great plate with greed. Then she drank the bowl of coffee and, still strangely drowsy, lay back upon the pillow and again instantly dropped asleep. The clatter of dishes in the room beyond that one where she lay was what next roused her and her head was now nearly normal. Only a dull pain remained and her wits were clearing of the mist that had enveloped them. Memories of strange stories came to her, and she thought: "Something has happened to me, more than I dreamed. I've been kidnapped! I see it, understand it all now. But--why? _Why?_ An orphan foundling like me--what should anybody steal me away from my home for? Father and mother have no money to pay ransom--like that little boy father read about in the paper--who was stolen and not given back till thousands of dollars were sent. But I'm somewhere in the country now, and in a house that's all open, every side. It's easy to get away from _here_. I'll go. I'll go right away, soon as I wash my face and brush my hair--if I can find a brush. I'll go into that other room and act just as if I wasn't afraid and--that dinner smells good!" The big woman, whose denim skirt and blouse suggested the overalls of a day laborer, was bending over a small cooking stove whereon was frying some bacon and eggs. A great pot of boiled potatoes waited on the stove-hearth, and on an oilcloth-covered table were set out a few dishes. A boy was just entering the kitchen from the lean-to beyond and was carrying a wooden pail of water with a tin dipper. He was almost as tall as the woman but bore no further resemblance to her, being extremely thin and fair. Indeed, his hair was so nearly white that Dorothy stared at it, and his eyes were very blue, while the woman looked like a swarthy foreigner from some south country. Mother Martha had a saying, when anybody about her was inclined to sharpness of speech, that "you can catch more flies with molasses than with vinegar," and, oddly enough, the adage came to Dorothy's mind at that very instant. She had come into the kitchen prepared to demand her liberty and to be directed home, but she now spoke as politely as she would have done to the minister's wife: "Please, madam, will you show me where I can wash and freshen myself a little? I feel so dirty I'd like to do it before I eat my dinner or go home." The woman rose from above her frying pan with a face of astonishment. She was so tanned and burned by the sun as well as by the heat of cooking that the contrast between herself and her son--if he were her son--made him look fairly ghostlike. Furthermore, as the inwardly anxious, if outwardly suave, little girl perceived--her face was more stupid than vicious. Without the waste of a word the woman nodded over her shoulder toward the lean-to and proceeded to dish up her bacon, now cooked to her satisfaction. She placed it in the middle of a great yellow platter, the eggs around it, and a row of potatoes around them. Then she set the platter on the table, drew her own chair to it, filled a tin plate with the mixture, and proceeded with her dinner. She made no remark when the boy, also, sat down, and neither of them waited an instant for their girl guest. But Dorothy's spirit was now roused and she felt herself fully equal to dealing with these rustics: and it was with all the dignity she could summon that she drew a third chair to the table and herself sat down, saying: "Now, if you please, I wish to be told where I am and how I came here." The hostess paid no more heed than if a fly had touched her, but the lad paused in the act of shoveling food into his mouth and stared at Dorothy, as he might have done at the same fly, could it have spoken. Nor did he remove his gaze from her till she had repeated her question. Then he shifted it to the woman's face, who waited awhile longer, then said: "I tell nothing. Drink your milk." "Oh, indeed! Then I suppose I must find out for myself. I don't care for the milk, thank you. I rarely drink it at home, but I'm fond of bacon and eggs, and yours look nice. Please serve me some." The woman made no answer. She had finished her own meal and left the others to do the same. So, as the taciturn creature departed for the open fields, with a hoe over her shoulder, Dorothy drew the platter toward her, found a third empty tin plate, and helped herself. She had noticed one thing that the others had, apparently, not known she had: a sign of silence interchanged between the woman and the lanky lad. He had been bidden to hold his tongue and been left to clear up the dinner matters. He did this as deftly as a girl, though not after the manner in which Dorothy had been trained: and casting a look of contempt upon him, she finished her dinner, rose, and quietly left the room and the house. But she got no further than a few rods' distance when she felt a strong hand on her arm, herself turned rudely about, and led back to the cottage. There she was pushed upon the doorstep and a note thrust into her hand by this abnormally silent woman, who had returned from the field as suddenly as if she had sprung from the earth at the girl's very feet. The note was plainly enough written and to the point: "Stay quiet where you are and you'll soon be set free. Try to run away and you'll meet big trouble." There was no signature and the handwriting was unknown: and Dorothy was still blankly gazing at it when it was snatched from her hand, the woman had again disappeared, and a huge mastiff had come around the corner of the cottage, to seat himself upon the doorstep beside her. His attentions might have been friendly; but Dorothy was afraid of dogs, and shrank from this one into the smallest space possible, while there fluttered down over her shoulder the note that had been seized. There was now pinned to it a scrap of paper on which were scrawled three words: "Drink no milk." CHAPTER X THE FLITTING Disappointed, Mrs. Chester had stepped back into her little hall, and the postman with the detective followed. Then they went further still and settled themselves in the parlor, as if come for a prolonged stay. To the detective's inquiry whether the missing Dorothy had recently met any strangers, made acquaintances who might be able to furnish some clew to her present whereabouts--as friends of longer standing had not been able--the mother answered: "No. She was always at home or in the immediate neighborhood." But conquering her timidity, the country-woman now interrupted: "Wait a minute. Mabel was here yesterday, wasn't she?" "Why, yes. She came home with my little girl from Sunday school and spent part of the day. Why she did not stay longer I don't know. What of it?" returned mother Martha, drearily. "She didn't stay longer because she was sent home. I was there and I noticed what a good-natured child she was not to get mad about it. She told her mother that Dorothy had a gentleman caller and had to see him on business. We both laughed over it, 'cause 'twas so grown-up an' old-fashioned like. An', sister, she said as how city children didn't scarce have any childhood, they begun to be beauin' each other round so early. We _laughed_, but still, I thought 'twas a pity, for I like little girls to stay such, long as they can." "Nonsense! My Dorothy is--was the simplest child in the world. A gentleman caller--the idea is ridiculous!" cried Mrs. Chester, indignantly, and poor Mrs. Jones felt herself snubbed and wished that she had held her tongue. Not so the detective, who quietly asked: "Who is this Mabel, and where can she be found?" "She's my niece an' likely she'll be found in bed, by now. No matter about that, though. If you'd like to see her I'll fetch her to once," answered Mrs. Jones, promptly rising. "Do so, please," said the officer, and the woman hurried away. The postman friend employed the interval of her absence in telling the plans formed by "the boys" for the benefit of their ailing comrade. "You see, Mrs. Chester, John's about the best liked man on the force and we want he should be the best cared for. So, to-night, after I saw you I ran over to the hospital myself and saw one the doctors--the one that has most to say about John. He wants to get him into the country right away. Then back I hurried and got leave of absence, from Wednesday night till next Monday morning, and I'm going with you, to help you on the trip and see him settled all straight. No--Don't say a word yet! It'll be all right. It's settled. You can get ready." "Oh! but I can't, I can't!" protested Martha, deeply touched by this kindness, yet feeling as if she were being fairly hurled out of her old life into the new one. Besides, if this mystery of Dorothy's disappearance were not cleared she could never leave the city, never! and so she stoutly declared. "But--it's a case of adopted daughter _versus_ a husband's life, seems to me," put in the detective quietly. "Moreover, I'm told by Lathrop, here, that Chester isn't to be worried about anything. _Anything._ His chance of recovery depends on it." The tortured housemistress was vastly relieved to see not only Mabel, but the entire household of Bruce-and-Jones, coming swiftly toward the house and presently entering at the doorway, left open because of the great heat. Both the plumber and his wife were panting from their exertions; Mr. Jones was as excited as if he were going to a circus; his wife uncommonly proud of her part in the occasion; and the terrified Mabel weeping loudly: "I don't know a thing! I don't--I don't!" "Why, Miss Bruce, what a surprising statement from such a bright-looking young lady as you!" exclaimed the detective, suavely, and the girl stopped sobbing long enough to see that this was no formidable policeman in blue-and-brass but a very simple gentleman, in a business suit rather the worse for wear. In another moment he had gallantly placed this possibly important witness in the coziest corner of the sofa, and had placed himself beside her, as if to protect her from the inquisitiveness of her friends. Then in a tone so low that it effectually prevented their words being overheard, he deftly drew from the now reassured Mabel a much better description of Dorothy's caller than fear would have extorted. Indeed, she became inclined to enlarge upon facts, as she saw her statements recorded in a small notebook. But this finally held no more than the brief entry: "Tall. Light hair. Left eye squints. Eyebrows meet. Glib. Name not given." Then the notebook was closed and pocketed, the cross-examination was over, and all were free to take a part in a discussion--which they did so volubly, that the detective smiled and called a halt. Moreover, his words had the weight of one who knew, as he said: "We've gone into this business very promptly, and it must, for the present, be kept out of the newspapers, else the guilty party who is detaining Dorothy--if there is such a party--will be warned and may escape. It is but twelve hours since the child disappeared. At the end of another twenty-four will be time enough to publish. Meanwhile, Madam, rest assured that we shall keep steadily at work, trying to locate your missing daughter and--I wish you all good-evening." The gentleman's departure was a relief. It seemed to lessen the horror of Dorothy's absence, though her mother was glad to know that the efforts of the police were being made to trace her. But--Why, the darling might come walking in, at any moment, and how distressed she'd be to find herself an object of such unpleasant importance! "Now, Mrs. Chester," said Mr. Lathrop, "we 'boys' don't want you to worry one minute about this moving business. We've agreed to send a professional packer and his men here, the first thing to-morrow morning. You needn't touch one thing. It's better that you should not, for if all is left to this man he is responsible for everything. You just rest, visit John and get him braced up for his journey, and take it easy. If little Dorothy is back before Thursday morning, when we start, all right. She shall go with us and be the life of the party. If she isn't--why, as soon as she does come, some way will be found, somebody, to bring her safely to you." "Oh, Mr. Lathrop! You and the 'boys' are goodness itself, but I can't--I cannot go away in such uncertainty. If Dorothy isn't found--John will be the first one to say that we must wait until she is." This was a natural attitude of mind, and Mr. Lathrop, as well as all the other friends of the Chesters, anticipated it. But by slow degrees, the arguments of her pastor, the hospital doctors, and the honest neighbors who sympathized with the tortured mother, finally succeeded in bringing her to view the matter as they did. "Not an effort shall be relaxed, any more than if you were on the spot to direct us. We all feel as if we, too, had lost a beloved child and none of us will rest until this mystery is cleared. Trust the advice of all your best-wishers, Mrs. Chester, and take this fine chance offered your lame husband to make the long journey under the care of his postman friend," urged the minister, and his final argument procured her consent. "Oh! these last two days! Shall I ever forget them!" cried Mrs. Chester, when Wednesday evening had arrived and she sat in her dismantled home upon one of her incoming tenant's chairs. "To think that on Monday morning, when you came, Mrs. Jones, I hadn't touched a single thing to pack! and now--there isn't one left. All in boxes an' crates, over there to the station; me all alone; no Dorothy C.; no John--I'm just heart-broke!" Mrs. Jones's patience was tried. For these two busy days she and her "Bill" had stayed at No. 77, helping where help was needed, and keeping a careful eye to the "professional" packing which they more than half distrusted. The frail country-woman had just gone through the same sort of business, almost single-handed, and she felt that her new friend failed to realize the blessings of her lot and that a reproof was in order. "Well, Mis' Chester, you may be. I can't tell. I never had chick nor child to make me sad or glad, ary one. But if I'd adopted one, right out of the streets as you did, an' she'd seen fit to run away an' turn her back on a good home, after enjoyin' it so long, an' I'd still got my _man_ left, an' folks had been that generous to me, payin' for everything--Laws! I sh'd think I had some mercies left. _Some._" Mother Martha rose. She was not offended, but she was deeply hurt and she was glad the time had come to say good-bye. With a weary smile she held out her hand, saying: "Well, that's right, too, but you don't understand. Nobody can who hasn't lived with _Dorothy_. There was never a child like her. Never. I'll be going. I said good-bye to everybody--everything, this side the city, and I've fixed it to sleep at a boarding house right across the street from the Hospital. We've got to make an early start and I'll be close on hand. If she--O my darling!--Good-bye. I--I hope you'll be as happy here as I was before all this trouble came upon me. No. I don't want company. I want to be alone. It's the only way I can bear it and--good-bye, old home! Good-bye--good-bye!" The door opened and the mistress of the prettiest house on Brown Street vanished into the darkness of a somber, sultry night; and what her feelings were only those who have thus parted with a beloved home can understand; and what the hours of sleeplessness which followed only she herself knew. The morning found her sunshiny and bright, as if her whole heart were in this sudden flitting, and waiting in the carriage at the hospital door, while an orderly and Mr. Lathrop, superintended by a nurse and doctor, helped John Chester to make his first short journey upon crutches. The excitement of the event had sent a flush to his cheeks and a brightness to his eyes which made him look so like his old self that his wife rejoiced that, after all, there had been no delay in their removal. Yet, once in the carriage, with his useless legs stretched out before him, he suddenly demanded: "Why, where's my girl? Where's Dorothy C.?" He looked toward his wife, but it was Mr. Lathrop who answered: "Oh! she's coming later. We--we couldn't bother with a child, this trip." "Couldn't 'bother' with my Dorothy! Why, friend, you're the best I have, but you don't know Dorothy. Humph! She's more brains in her curly head than anybody in this party has in theirs. Beg pardon, all, but--but you see I'm rather daft on Dorothy. I simply cannot go without her. What's more, I shan't even try." This was worse than they had expected. Martha had felt that her husband should no longer be deceived as to the state of things; even in his weakened condition she believed that his good sense would support him under their dreadful trial, and that he would suffer less if the news were gently broken to him here than if he were left to learn it later, in some ruder way. But her judgment had been overruled even as now his decision was; for without an instant's delay Mr. Lathrop ordered the carriage to drive on and that memorable journey had begun. As he was lifted out of the vehicle at the station entrance, he turned upon his wife and for the first time in her memory of him spoke harshly to her: "Martha, you're deceiving me. Taking advantage of my helplessness. You've always been jealous of my love for little Dorothy, and now, I suppose, just because I can't work to support her you've got rid of her. Well, I shall have her back. I may be a cripple, but my brain isn't lame--it's only my legs--and I'll find some way to take care of her. She shall come back. Trust me. Now, go ahead!" He submitted to the porter and his friend Lathrop, and, the train just rolling in, he was carried through the gates and placed aboard it in the parlor car where seats had been procured. He had never before traveled in such luxury, but instead of the gay abandon with which he would once have accepted and enjoyed it, he seemed now not to notice anything about him. Except that, just as the train was moving out, he caught at a newsboy hurrying from it, seized a paper, tossed a nickel, and spread the sheet open on his knee. Alas! for all the over-wise precautions of his friends! The first words his eyes rested upon were the scare-head capitals of this sentence: THE FATE OF POSTMAN JOHN CHESTER'S DAUGHTER DOROTHY STILL UNKNOWN--KIDNAPPING AND MURDER THE PROBABLE SOLUTION OF THE MYSTERY. He stared at the letters as if they had no significance. Then he read them singly, in pairs, in dozens--trying to make his shocked brain comprehend their meaning. The utmost he could do was to see them as letters of fire, printed on the air before him, and on the darkness of the tunnel they now entered. A darkness so suggestive of the misery that had shrouded a once happy household that poor Martha, burying her face in her hands, could only sob aloud. But from the stricken "father John" came neither sob nor groan, for there was still upon him the numbness of the shock he had received; and it was in that same silence that he made the long journey, with its several changes, and came at last to the farmhouse on the hilltop, which was to have been made glad by a child's presence and was now so desolate. CHAPTER XI JIM BARLOW Dorothy reread the note. Then she took off the scrawl attached to it and tore it into bits, remarking to the mastiff, or whoever might hear: "Well, I don't want any milk. I shall never like it again. I believe that dreadful man put something in it last night--was it only last night?--that made me go to sleep and not know a thing was happening after I got into the carriage till I woke up here. Milk! Ugh!" With a shudder of repulsion she looked over her shoulder just as a sibilant, warning "S-Ssh!" came from the room behind. Then she stood up and screamed as the mastiff, likewise rising, grasped her skirt in his teeth. "Hush! you better not let her hear you!" was the second, whispered warning, and though she peered into the kitchen she could see nobody, till, after a moment, she discovered a pair of dirty bare feet protruding from under the bed that stood in one corner. Dorothy was afraid of the dog that held her, but she was not usually afraid of human beings; so she called quite loudly: "You long white boy, come out from that place. I want to talk to you!" The dog loosened its grip long enough to growl, then took a fresh hold, as the lad cautiously drew himself into full sight and noiselessly stood up. But he laid one grimy hand on his lips, again commanding silence, and snatching a big basket from the floor ran out of a rear door. The girl tried to follow. Of the two human beings she had seen in this isolated cottage the long boy seemed the gentler, and she was determined to make him, or somebody, tell her where she was. The mastiff still held her prisoner and she suspected he was acting upon orders. Her temper rose and with it her courage. It was absurd that she could not do as she pleased in a little bit of a country cottage like this, where there were no locks nor bolts to hinder! So for the third time she moved, and for the third time the dog's great teeth set themselves more firmly on her light clothing. Clenching her small hands in her impotent wrath, she began to screech and yell, at the top of her voice, incessantly, deafeningly, defiantly. Pausing only long enough to renew her breath, and wondering if that old woman she could see yonder, picking berries from a bed, could endure the noise as long as she could endure to make it. Apparently, the uproar had no further result than to tire her own throat; for, until she had finished gathering the strawberries from one long row of vines, the woman did not pause. But, having reached the limit of the bed and of the crate she moved along before her as she worked, she suddenly stood up, lifted the crate to her head, and strode back to the house. There she deposited her precious fruit in an outer shed and entered the kitchen. From the small clock-shelf she gathered a pad of writing paper, a bunch of envelopes, and a lead pencil; which with an air of pride, and the first semblance of a smile Dorothy had seen upon her grim features, she offered to the child. "Here. To write on. To your ma. He left 'em. Tige, let go!" Instantly, the mastiff loosened his hold of Dorothy's skirts and followed his mistress into the strawberry patch whither she had again gone, carrying another crate filled with empty baskets. Evidently, this was a truck-farm and the mistress of it was preparing for market. Just such crates and cups, or little baskets, were now plentiful at all the city shops where groceries were sold, and Dorothy's hopes rose at the thought that she might be taken thither with this woman when she went to sell her stuff. "Oh! that's what she'll let me do! So what's the use of writing? And how fine those berries look! I'd like to pick some myself. I'd rather do it than do nothing. I'll just go and offer to help." In better spirits than she would have thought possible, even a few moments before, the homesick girl ran across the garden and to the woman's side, who merely looked up and said nothing, till Dorothy lifted one of the wooden cups and began to pick fruit into it. For a brief space the other watched her closely, as the nimble little fingers plucked the beautiful berries; till by mischance Dorothy pulled off an entire stem, holding not only ripened fruit but several green and half-turned drupes. Whereupon her fingers were smartly tapped and by example, rather than speech, she was instructed in the art of berry picking. "Oh! I do love to learn things, and I see, I see!" cried the novice, and smiling up into the old face now so near her own, she began the task afresh. Already the market-woman had resumed her own work, and it seemed incredible that such coarse fingers as hers could so deftly strip the vines of perfect berries only, leaving all others intact for a future picking. Also, she had a swift way of packing them in the cups that left each berry showing its best side and filled the receptacle without crowding. "Ah! I see! I'm getting the trick of it! And that's what mother means by paying for a quart and not getting a quart, isn't it? Oh! how delicious they are!" and, without asking, Dorothy popped the plumpest berry she had yet found into her own mouth. That was a mistake, as the frown upon the woman's face promptly told her; and with a sudden sinking of her heart she realized again that she was, after all, a prisoner in an unknown place. She rose, apologized in a haughty manner, and would have retreated to the cottage again had she been permitted. But having proved herself of service, retreat was not so easy. Again she was pulled down to a stooping posture and her cup thrust back into her hand. "Work. Eat spoiled ones. Don't dally." Dorothy obeyed; but alas! her self-elected task grew very wearisome. The heat was still great and the afternoon sun shone full upon her back, and there seemed positively no end to the berries. There were rows upon rows of them, and the woman had only just begun when Dorothy joined her. Or so it seemed, though there were already several crates waiting in the little shed till the full day's crop should be garnered. At the end of one row of vines she stood up and protested: "I can't pick any more. I'm so tired. Please tell me where I am and what your name is. Tell me, too, when I can go home and the way." "No matter. Go. Write. I'll take it. Here;" and this big woman of small speech held out on the palm of her great hand a half-dozen over-ripe berries, which Dorothy hesitated to accept, yet found delicious when she did so. "Thank you! and if you won't tell me who you are or where I am, I shall call you Mrs. Denim, after the clothes you wear; and I shall find out where this farm is and run away from it at the first chance. I'd rather that horrid old dog would eat me up than be kept a prisoner this way. Is that long boy your son? May I go talk to him? May he show me the way home to Baltimore?" To none of these questions was any answer vouchsafed, and offended Dorothy was moved to remark: "Humph! You're the savingest woman I ever saw! You don't waste even a word, let alone a spoiled strawberry. Oh! I beg your pardon! I didn't mean to be quite so saucy, but I'm almost crazy to go home. I want to go home--_I want to go home_!" There was such misery in this wail that the long boy, weeding onions a few feet away, paused in his tedious task and raised his shock head with a look of pity on his face. But the woman seemed to know his every movement, even though her own head was bowed above the vines, and shot him such an angry glance that he returned to his weeding with no further expression of his sympathy. Poor Dorothy C.! Homesickness in its bitterest form had come upon her and her grief made her feel so ill that she dropped down just where she was, unable longer to stand upright. Instantly, she was snatched up again by "Mrs. Denim's" strong arms and violently shaken. That anybody, even an ignorant stranger, should lie down in a strawberry patch and thus ruin many valuable berries was the height of folly! So, without more ado, Dorothy was carried indoors, almost tossed upon the bed in the kitchen, and the paper and pencil thrown upon the patchwork quilt beside her. Then she was left to recover at her leisure, while whistling to Tige to watch the girl, "Mrs. Denim" returned to her outdoor labors; nor was she seen again till darkness had filled the narrow room. Then once again Dorothy was lifted and was now carried to a loft above the kitchen, where, by the dim light of a tallow candle, she was shown a rude bed on the floor and a plate of food. Also, there was a bowl of milk, but at this the girl looked with a shudder. She wasn't hungry, but she reflected that people grew faint and ill without food, so she forced herself to nibble at the brown bread, which had been dipped in molasses, instead of being spread with butter, and its sweetness gave her a great thirst. Slipping down the stairs, she found the pail and dipper and got her drink, and it was with some surprise that she did this unreproved. However, a snore from the bed explained why. "Mrs. Denim" was asleep and the "long boy" was invisible. At the foot of the stairs, Dorothy hesitated. Wasn't this a chance to steal away and start for home? Once out of this house and on some road, she would meet people who would direct her. She had heard her father say, time and time again, that the world was full of kindness; and, though her present circumstances seemed to contradict this statement, she was anxious to believe it true. But, as she stood there debating whether she dare run away in the darkness or wait until daylight, the sleepless Tiger gave a vicious growl and bounded in from the shed where he had lain. That settled it. With a leap as swift as his own Dorothy sped back over the stairs and flung herself on the "shake-down" where she had been told to sleep; and again silence, broken only by its mistress's snores, fell upon this lonely cottage in the fields. Dorothy's own sleep was fitful. This low room under the eaves was close and warm. Her head ached strangely, and her throat was sore. At times she seemed burning up with fever, and the next instant found herself shaking with the cold. She roused, at length, from one disturbed nap to hear the sound of wheels creaking heavily over rough ground, and to see the attic dimly lighted. "Can it be morning already? Is that woman going to market and not taking me, after all I begged her so?" cried the girl aloud and, hurrying from the bed to the low window, looked out. It was the light of a late-rising moon that brightened the scene and there was slowly disappearing in the distance one of those curious, schooner-shaped vehicles which truck-farmers use: and with a vain belief that she could overtake it, Dorothy again rushed down the stairs and plump upon the mastiff crouched on the floor below, and evidently on guard. But, yawning and stretching his long limbs, there just then entered the shock-headed youth; and his "Pshaw!" Dorothy's "O-Oh!" and Tiger's growl made a trio of sounds in the silent house: to which he promptly added his question: "Huh? you awake?" "Yes, yes! But I want to go with that woman! Call off the dog--I must go--I _must_!" The boy did call the dog to him and laid his hand upon the creature's collar; then he said: "I'm glad of it." "Glad that I'm left, you--horrid thing!" cried Dorothy, trying to run past him and out of the door. But she was not permitted, even had her own strength not suddenly forsaken her: for the lad put out his free hand and stopped her. "Glad you're awake. So's we can talk," he said; and now releasing the mastiff, whom he bade: "Lie down!" he led her to the doorstep and made her sit down, with him beside her. "So you _can_ talk, if you want to! I thought you were tongue-tied!" she remarked, now realizing that the wagon had passed beyond reach, but thankful to have speech with anybody, even this silly-looking fellow. "What's your name?" "Jim. Jim Barlow. I hain't got no folks. All dead. I work for her," he answered, readily enough, and she understood that it was only from fear he had been so silent until now. "Are you afraid of her? Do you mean 'her' to be that dreadful woman?" "Yep. She ain't so bad. She's only queer, and she's scared herself of _him_. What's yourn?" "My name, you mean? Dorothy Chester. Who's 'him'? Has 'she' gone to market? Does she go every market day? To Lexington, or Hollins, or Richmond--which? What's her name?" Jim gasped. His experience of girls was limited, and he didn't know which of these many questions to answer first. He began with the last: and now that he had the chance he seemed as willing to talk as Dorothy was to listen. Apparently, neither of them now thought of the hour and its fitness for sleep: though Tiger had lain down before them on the flat stone step and was himself snoring, his need of vigilance past for the time being. Said the boy: "Stott. Mirandy Stott. Her man died. _He_ was a baby. She brung him up--good. She earned this hull truck-farm. She makes money. All for him an' he keeps her close. She sent him to school an' made a man of him. She can't read nor write. She makes her 'mark,' but he can, the first-ratest ever was. I can, too, some. I'm learnin' myself. I'm goin' to school some time, myself, after I leave her." "If you're going to school, I should think it was time you began. You're a big boy," said Dorothy. "Why don't you leave her now?" "Well--'cause. She--I come here when my folks died an' I hadn't no other place. She treats me decent, only makes me hold my tongue. She hates folks that talk. _He_ talks fast enough, though. So I--I've just stayed on, a-waitin' my chance. I get good grub an' she don't lick me. She likes me, I guess, next to him. She likes him better even than she likes money. I don't. I'm scared of him. So's she. She does what he says every time. That's why I said 'no milk.'" "Who is 'he'? Does he live here? What is about the milk?" There was nobody anywhere near them except the dog. By no possibility could anybody besides Dorothy hear the information next imparted: yet Jim stood up, peered in every direction, and when he again sat down resumed in a whisper: "You ain't the first one. 'Tother was a boy, real little. He cried all the time, first off. Then 'he' fetched some white powders an' she put 'em in the kid's milk. After that he didn't cry no more but he slept most all the time. I seen her. I watched. I seen her put one in yourn. I liked you. I thought if you stayed you'd be comp'ny, if you was awake. That's why." "What became of the little boy?" asked Dorothy, also whispering, and frightened. "He took him away. I studied out 't he gets money that way. He wouldn't do it, 'less he did, seems if. I guess that's what he's plannin' 'bout you. I'll watch. You watch. Don't mad her an' she'll treat you good enough. 'Less--'less he should tell her different. Then I don't know." Dorothy sat silent for a long time. She was horrified to find her own suspicions verified by this other person though he seemed to be friendly; and her mind formed plan after plan of escape, only to reject each as impossible. Finally she asked: "Where is this house? How far from Baltimore?" "'Bout a dozen mile, more or less. Ain't no town or village nigh. That's why she bought it cheap, the land laying away off that way. So fur is the reason she has to have four mules, 'stead of two, for the truck-wagon. She makes money! All for him. Him an' money--that's the hull of her." "Say, Jim, do you like me? Really, as you said?" demanded Dorothy, after another period of confused thought, her brain seeming strangely dull and stupid, and a desire to lie down and rest greater, for the present, than that for freedom. "Course. I said so," he responded, promptly. "Will you help me get away from here, back to my home? Listen. You told me about yourself, I'll tell about myself:" and as simply as possible she did so. Her story fell in exactly with his own ideas, that money was to be extorted for her restoration to her family, but his promise to help her was not forthcoming: and when he did not reply, she impatiently exclaimed: "You won't help me! You horrid, hateful wretch!" "Ain't nuther. Hark. One thing I know if I don't know another. I won't lie for nobody, even her or him. If I can--_if I can_--I'll help you, but I ain't promisin' nothin' more. I'll watch out. You watch, an' _if I can_, without makin' it worse for you, I will. Now I'm goin' to bed. You best, too. She's found out you can work an' you'll have to. I've got plowin' to do. I sleep out yonder, in the shed. Tige, you stay where you be." Without further words, Jim retreated to his bunk in the shed and Dorothy to her attic. She was now conscious only of utter weariness and a racking pain through her whole body. She was, in fact, a very sick girl. CHAPTER XII DOROTHY'S ILLNESS "Measles." This was the one-word-verdict announced by Mrs. Stott's lips, as a few hours later, she stood beside the bed in the kitchen and sternly regarded the girl whom she had just brought from the attic and laid there. She didn't look pleased, and poor Dorothy had never felt so guilty in her life--nor so wretched. Yet she plucked up spirit enough to retort: "I didn't get them on purpose!" Then she covered her eyes with her hands and fell to weeping, remembering mother Martha's tenderness whenever she had "come down" with any childish disease. Remembering, too, how father John had teased her about being such a "catcher." "Such a sympathetic child nobody must have chicken pox, scarlatina, or even mumps, but you must share them! Well, a good thing to get through all your childish complaints in your childhood, and have done with them!" Almost she could hear his dear voice saying those very words and see the tender smile that belied their jest. Oh! to feel herself lifted once more in his strong arms! and to know that, no matter what was amiss with her, he never shrank from fondling or comforting her. This woman did shrink, yet how could it be from fear of infection to herself? Besides, she made Jim stay wholly outside in the shed; and thus the acquaintance begun during the night was suddenly suspended. Still, though there was real consternation in her mind, the farm mistress was not unkind. It may be that she felt the shortest way to a recovery was, also, the least expensive one to herself; and immediately she went to work upon her patient, after one more question: "Know anybody had 'em?" "Yes. Lots. Half my class," answered Dorothy, defiantly. "Hmm. Yes. Measles," commented Mrs. Stott, as she put on her sunbonnet and went out to rummage in her sage bed for fresh sprigs with which to make a tea. This she forced Dorothy to drink, scalding hot; next she covered her up with the heavy quilt, fastened the windows down, and ordered Tige to take up his post beside the bed. Then she commanded: "Stay in that bed. Get out, take cold, die. Not on my hands." "Suppose she doesn't care if I do die on the hands of somebody else!" reflected the patient, but said nothing aloud. Yet she watched the woman do a strange thing--go to the door at the foot of the attic stairs, lock it, and put the key in her pocket. Then she went out of the cottage and took Jim with her. Left alone with the dog, Dorothy C. had many sad thoughts; but soon bodily discomfort banished her more serious anxieties and she became wholly absorbed in efforts to find some spot on that hard couch where she might rest. "I'll get up! I can't bear this heat!" she cried, at last, and tossed the heavy covers from her. But no sooner had she done so than a heavy chill succeeded and she crept back again, shivering. Thus passed the morning and nobody came near; but at noon when the farm woman re-entered the kitchen Dorothy's piteous plea was for "Water! Water!" and she had become oblivious to almost all else save the terrible thirst. With the ignorance of her class the now really alarmed Mrs. Stott refused the comforting drink, only to see her charge sink back in a state of utter collapse; and, thereafter, for several days, the child realized little that went on about her. On the few occasions when she did rouse, she was so weakly patient that even the hard-natured woman who nursed her felt her own heart softened to a sincere pity. Curiously, too, Tiger became devoted to her. He would stand beside the bed and lick the wan hand that lay on the quilt, as if trying to express his sympathy; and his black, cool nose was grateful in her hot palm. Miranda Stott smiled grimly over this new friendship and, for the present, did not interfere with it. Dorothy couldn't get away then, even with the mastiff's connivance; but her hostess most heartily regretted that the girl had ever come. She had perplexities of her own, now, which this enforced guest and her illness greatly increased; and, as she gradually returned to strength, Dorothy often observed a deep frown on the woman's face and, in her whole bearing, a strange attitude of listening and of fear. One afternoon, when Miranda and Jim were hard at work in the field beyond the house and Dorothy still lay upon the bed, though for the first time dressed in her own clothes, which her nurse had found time to launder, the girl fancied that she heard a groan from somewhere. "Why, Tige, what's that?" she asked, half rising and listening intently. He answered by a thump of his tail on the boards and his head turned sidewise, with his ears pricked up. Evidently, he, too, had caught the sound, and was puzzled by it. A moment later, Dorothy was certain she heard a movement of somebody in the room overhead. There was but one, she knew, and it covered the entire width of the small house, for she had seen that during her brief occupation of it. Who could it be? Half-frightened and wholly curious she crossed from the bed to the door and looked out. Yes, the two other inmates of the cottage were still in the field, setting out celery plants, as she had heard them discussing at dinner. Tiger kept close beside her and, now that she was upon her feet again, seemed doubtful whether he were to remain her friend or again become her watchful enemy. She settled that question, however, by her loving pat on his head and the smile she gave him. His attentions to her, while she had lain so weak and helpless, had won her own affection and made her feel that she would never again be afraid of any dog. Suddenly Mrs. Stott looked round and saw the girl in the doorway. Then she at once stood up, said something to Jim, and hurried to the house: demanding, as she reached it and with evident alarm: "What's the matter?" Dorothy smiled. She had been so dependent on this woman that she had learned to really like her, and she answered brightly: "Nothing but fancies, I reckon! I thought, Tiger, too, thought, we heard somebody in the room upstairs. Then we came to the door and saw you were both outdoors, so there couldn't have been, could there? You never have burglars in this out-of-the-way place, do you? My darling mother Martha is always looking out for them and there's none ever came. Oh! I'm so glad to be well, almost well, once more. You'll let me go home to her, won't you? The very next time you go to market? I've been such a trouble I'm sure you'll be glad to be rid of me!" and Dorothy impulsively caught at the woman's hand and kissed it. For an instant Miranda Stott looked as if she could have been "knocked down with a feather." A kiss was as unknown and startling a thing to her as it was possible to imagine and it disconcerted her. But her answer was: "Yes, I'm glad too. I'll fetch a chair. Do you good." So she caught up a chair in one strong hand, leaving a muddy impress upon it; and, seeing this, covered her other hand with her apron, then thrust it under Dorothy's arm and so piloted her out to the celery patch. There were no trees allowed to grow in that utilitarian spot, except here and there a fruit tree; and under the sparse shade of a slender plum-sapling Dorothy was made to sit, while Jim went on with his dropping of tiny seedlings into holes filled with water. Mrs. Stott had gone again to the house and for a moment the boy and girl were free to talk, and all her own old interest in gardening returned. Besides, she wanted to learn all she could about it, so that she might be useful when she, at last, got to that home "in the country" where they were all going so soon. "Why do you do that, Jim?" she asked, intently watching his long fingers straighten the fine roots of the plants, then drop them into the prepared drill. "Why, to make 'em grow. 'Cause it's the way," he answered, surprised that anybody should ask such a foolish question. "Oh, I see. You drill a place with a wooden peg, then you pour water into it, then you plant the plant. Hmm. That's easy. I'll know how to make our celery grow, too." Jim looked up. "Where's your celery at?" "I reckon it's 'at' a seed store, yet. 'Cause we haven't got there. Say, Jim, were you afraid you'd 'catch' the measles? the reason why you didn't come into the kitchen at all." The lad laughed, slyly. "No, I wasn't. She was, though. 'Cause I've had 'em. She didn't know an' I didn't tell her. Stayin' out in the barn I had time to myself. I learned myself six more words. Hear me?" "Maybe I don't know them myself. Then I shouldn't know if you spelled them right or wrong," she cautiously answered. "If I had a book I'd hear them, gladly." Jim forgot that he was never expected to pause in any labor on hand and stood up: his thin body appearing to elongate indefinitely with surprise as he returned: "Why--but _you've_ been to school! Anybody could hear 'em off a book. I could hear 'em myself that way! Pshaw!" and into this mild expletive he put such a world of contempt that Dorothy's cheeks tingled. "Go ahead. Maybe I know them, but--you'd better work; Mrs. Stott is coming." The woman was, indeed, almost upon them and listening suspiciously to what they might be saying; and though there was scorn in her expression there was also relief. She couldn't understand what any farm hand needed of "book learning," but it sounded harmless enough when Jim pronounced the word: "Baker. B-a-k-e-r, baker," and the girl applauded with a clap of her hands and the exclamation: "Good! Right! Fine! Next!" Back on his knees again, the lad cast a sheepish glance toward his employer, as if asking her permission to continue. She did not forbid him, so he went on with: "Tinker. T-i-n, tin, k-e-r, ker, tinker." Again Dorothy commended him and was thankful that her own knowledge was sufficiently in advance of his that she should not be put to shame--"without a book." Also, by the time the ambitious youth had recited his new lesson of six words, in their entirety, both he and Dorothy were in a fine glow of enthusiasm. She, also, loved study and found it easy; and she longed with all her heart that she could put inside this Jim's head as much as she already learned. Then he was sent away to attend to the cattle for the night, to see that the market-wagon was again packed, and to put all utensils safely under cover. Because she could afford no waste, or thought she couldn't, Miranda Stott took better care of her farm implements than most farmers did; and if indoors there was much to be desired in the way of neatness, out-of-doors all was ship-shape and tidy. She finished the celery planting herself, and Dorothy wondered if there were people enough in the world to eat all those plants, after they were grown. Then Miranda took the chair from Dorothy and said: "Come, I want my bed again. I'll fix you outside." And as if some further explanation were needed, added: "It's healthier. You've got to get well, quick." "Oh! I want to. I am, almost, already. It is so good to be out of doors, and--are you going to take me home, to-night, when you drive in?" "No. Take letter. See?" answered this laconic woman, and led the girl into the barn and into what had been a small harness-room partitioned from one side. This had, evidently, been prepared for occupation and there was a suspicious air of wisdom on Jim's face, as Dorothy passed him, fastening the cattle-stanchions, betraying that this barn bedroom was a familiar place to him. "Why, it is a bedroom! If the bed is only a pile of hay! There are sheets on it and a pillow and a blanket. My! It smells so sweet and outdoor-sy!" cried Dorothy, thinking how much more restful such a couch would be than that hot feather bed in the kitchen, on which she had lain and tossed. "Yours. Stay here now. Jim'll bring your supper, and a chair. Fetch the paper, boy," she concluded, as he departed for the cellar under the cottage which was used for a dairy. Then Mrs. Stott went away, Tiger nestled up to her--as if offering his society--and the still weak girl dropped down on the sweet-smelling bed and felt almost happy, even though still refused a return home. "Well, it's something to be let to write to mother. I was so sick I haven't done it often; but if, as that Mr. Smith said, she knew I was safe she won't worry much. Not so very much. But, oh! How I want her, how I want her!" The farm-mistress herself brought back the chair and paper, and waited while Jim followed with the supper of bread and cold meat. He added a pitcher of water without bidding, and, supposing him to have finished, his mistress left the place. Indeed, she seemed so changed and preoccupied that Dorothy wondered and pitied. Her own sorrows were teaching her the divine gift of compassion, and though she was this woman's prisoner she longed to share and soothe the distress she was so evidently suffering. But she dared not. With a gesture of despair, Mrs. Stott suddenly threw both hands outward, then hurried away into the cottage, leaving the boy and girl staring after her. Even Jim did not tarry, though he longed to do so; yet he managed to whisper, in his own mysterious fashion: "It's _him_. He's got 'em. They're goin' hard--he's old." CHAPTER XIII THE PLUMBER AND HIS GOSSIP The eagle-gate was open again. Mrs. Cecil had recovered from her illness, and was once more upon her broad piazza. This time she was not awaiting the arrival of the postman but of the plumber. The sudden heat of the southern city reminded her of her northern home in the highlands and she was anxious to remove there as soon as possible. But, with true Maryland housewifery, she must personally see to all the details of the annual flitting. In every room of the house pictures were being swathed in tarletan, chandeliers wrapped in the same stuff, carpets lifted, furniture put into freshly starched slips, and the entire interior protected to the utmost against the summer's dust and fading. Only one matter did not progress as rapidly as this impatient little mistress of the mansion felt it should. Nobody came at her instant command to examine the plumbing and see that it was in order for the season. "And water makes more trouble than even flies. Dinah, girl! Are you sure a message was sent to that man how I was waiting?" "Posi_tive_-ly sho, Miss Betty. Laws, honey, don't go worritin' yo'se'f an' you-all jus' done gettin' ovah yo' misery. He'll be comin' erlong, bime-by," comforted the maid, officiously folding a shawl about Mrs. Cecil's shoulders, and having the shawl instantly tossed aside, with a gesture of disgust. "O you girl! Do stop fussing about me. I'm nearly suffocated, already, in this awful heat, and I won't--I won't be wrapped up in flannel, like a mummy. You never had any sense, Dinah!" "Yas'm. I 'low dat's so, Miss Betty. Mebbe on account you-all nevah done beaten me ernough. Yas'm, but I doan 'pear to be acquainted wid er mummy, Miss Betty. What-all be dey like?" And with imperturbable good nature, Dinah picked up the shawl and again placed it around her lady, who permitted it to remain without further protest. "Hmm. No matter what they're like, Dinah. But you know, girl, you know as well as I do what trouble it made for us last year, when we went away and forgot to have the water turned off from the fountain, yonder. That care-taker we left--Oh! dear! Is there anybody in this world fit to be trusted!" Mrs. Cecil was not yet as strong as she professed to be, but her weakened nerves seemed to add strength to her temper. A red spot was already coming out upon her pale cheeks when there sauntered through the gateway a corpulent man, with a kit of plumber's tools over his shoulder. He slowly advanced to the steps, lifted his hat, and, bowing courteously, said: "Good-morning, Mrs. Cecil. Glad to see you able to enjoy the fine weather." "Fine weather! Morning! I should think it was afternoon--by the way you've kept me waiting. Didn't you get my message?" "Oh! yes, I did. A pickaninny about as big as a button brought it. What's to be done? The usual shutting-off, Ma'am?" "Everything's to be done, this year, and thoroughly. The water made no end of trouble last season, for half the faucets weren't looked after. As soon as we got home in the fall and turned it on in the bathroom, the whole place was flooded." "So, so? That was a pity. Yes, I remember. Well, it shall be gone over now, and I promise you nothing shall happen. By the way, all my men were out. Can one of your 'boys' wait on me and hand me my tools? I'm kind of stout and stooping bothers----" She didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. A small black boy was throwing stones at the sparrows on the lawn, and him she summoned by the absurd title of: "Methuselah Bonaparte Washington, come wait on this man!" The poor little wizened specimen of humanity, whose mighty name seemed to have stunted his growth, timidly approached. His great dark eyes were appealingly lifted, as if protesting against a forthcoming blow, and his face was as sad as that of a weary old man. The sight of him amused the plumber and called forth from his mistress the question: "Did anybody ever see such a woe-begone infant? He acts as if he had been thrashed within an inch of his life and on every day of it, but I know he's never been struck once. Been better for him if he had been, likely. He's Ephraim's grandchild and petted to death. His grandfather gave him his first name, Dinah his second, and as a graceful finish I tucked on the last. In real fact he's simply Brown." Mrs. Cecil had now quite recovered her usual cheerfulness, which nothing greatly affected except the failure of other people to instantly obey her commands. Besides, she was lonely. She didn't like the postman who had taken "Johnnie's" place, and was never on hand when he appeared, indeed had not been able until now. Almost all her personal friends were already out of town: and with her old desire to hear about her neighbors, as well as a determination to look after the plumber's work this time, she rose and followed him into the house and to the upper floor where his examination of the spigots began. Mr. Bruce had worked at Bellevieu ever since he was an apprentice and had not done so without learning something of its mistress's character. So, to please her love of gossip, he turned to where she had taken a chair to watch him and remarked: "Terrible sad thing about John Chester's girl." "'Girl'? Servant, do you mean?" instantly interested by the name of "Chester." "Servant? Oh! no. That's a luxury my neighbor never had, nor any of us in Brown Street, except when somebody was sick. We're work-a-day folks on my block, Mrs. Cecil." "Humph. What do you mean, then, by 'girl'?" "His adopted daughter, Dorothy C. Haven't you seen about her in the paper?" he continued, well pleased that he had found some topic interesting to his employer. "No. I've seen no papers. I've been ill, or that foolish doctor said I was, which amounts to the same thing. Anyway, I hardly ever do read the papers in the summer time. There's never anything in them--with everybody out of town, so." The plumber laughed, a trifle grimly; answering with some spirit: "Well, _everybody_ isn't away, when there are several hundred people swelter all the hot season right here in Baltimore." "Why don't they go away? Why do they 'swelter'--such a horrid word that is!" returned the lady, more to calm a strangely rising flutter of her own spirits than because there was sense in the words; which sounded so foolish to herself even, that she laughed. But her laugh was a nervous one and was instantly followed by the inquiry: "What--what happened to the child?" "Nobody knows. Kidnapped, I suppose, or murdered. All _is_ known--she was sent to the post-office to get a letter of her father's. He couldn't go himself, being lame and off to a hospital. Letter was one like the rest that came every month, and had come ever since Dorothy was left on the Chesters' doorstep. There was ten dollars in it, likely. She got the letter, was seen to go out of the office, and has never been seen since. No trace of her, either, though the post-office 'boys' clubbed together and offered a reward. A hundred dollars for any information sent, whether dead or alive. Do you want both these spigots to have new washers on? They need it, I think." "Spigots? Spigots?" repeated Mrs. Cecil, as if she did not comprehend; and, looking up, the plumber saw to his surprise and alarm that the lady was trembling and had turned very pale. He went to her and asked: "Feeling bad, Ma'am? Shall I call somebody?" She put her white hand to her head in a confused way and returned: "Bad? It's horrible! Horrible! A--_hundred_--_dollars_!" Mr. Bruce fancied she imagined the sum to be too large and was indignant. He reflected, also, that this was a childless old woman, and a rich one. In his experience he had found the wealthy also the most miserly, and nobody who had not a daughter of her own could understand what the loss of one might mean to a parent. His own beloved Mabel, ill at that moment with the measles, then epidemic--what would life be worth without her? Yet he knew, as well as anybody, that dear as his child was, Dorothy had been infinitely her superior in way of appearance, intelligence, even in affection. So much greater her loss then! and with a crispness that might easily hurt his business, he demanded: "Do you think a hundred dollars too much to pay for the life of a child?" "Too much? _Too--much!_" Again she was repeating his words, in that peculiar manner which might mean either contempt or admiration. In any case she was acting strangely. She had evidently lost all interest in the business on hand, yet there was no suggestion of feebleness in the step with which she now hurried out of the room, and the plumber looked after her in fresh amazement. These idle people! How hard they were to be understood! But, in any case, he was glad to be rid of the lady's presence. He could work so much faster and better by himself, and if there were any harm to Bellevieu, that coming season of its owner's absence, it should not be his fault. There shouldn't be an inch of water-pipe, nor a single faucet, that didn't have his critical inspection--and bill according! Mrs. Cecil's bell rang sharply, and Dinah hurried to answer it, that is, she fancied she was hurrying, though her mistress knew she really "dawdled" on the way and so informed "the creature" as she appeared. "Oh, you lazy thing! I must get a younger woman--I certainly must! Didn't you hear me ring?" "Yas'm, I sho done did. An' I come, ain't I? What's wantin', Miss Betty? Is yo' feelin' po'ly again, honey?" "Tell Ephraim to have the carriage round within five minutes--not one instant later. Then come back and get me my outdoor things." "Yas'm. Dat's so. I ain't no younger 'n I was yestiddy. But what for you-all done want Ephraim fotch de kerridge? Yo' know, Miss Betty, I ain't gwine let yo' out ridin', yet a spell. Yas'm." "Will _you_ tell him or must _I_? Between you and that wretched doctor I've been kept in this terrible ignorance. I'll never forgive you, never, for shutting me up in my bedroom, unknowing all these days, until now it's too late! Too late!" cried Mrs. Cecil, strangely excited and hastily tossing off her morning gown to replace it by another fit for the street. Dinah was unperturbed. She understood that her mistress would have her will, but felt that it was a foolish one and should not be encouraged by any enthusiasm on her own part. With an exasperating calmness she lifted the discarded garment and carried it to a closet. From this with equal calmness, and an annoying deliberation, she brought her mistress's outside wraps and a black silk gown, such as she usually wore when driving out. But she purposely made the mistake of offering a winter one, heavily lined. She hoped that the "fuss" of dressing would change Mrs. Cecil's plans, for it was really far too warm to go out then. Later in the day, after the sun had set, she would help the scheme most willingly. But the gentlewoman was now gaining control of her nerves and fully understood that it was over-affection, rather than disobedience, which made Dinah act so provokingly. With one of her kindest smiles, she took the heavy gown back to the closet herself, and secured the lighter one suitable to the day. Then she explained: "It's no silly whim, my girl, that sends me down town on such a hot morning. Something serious has happened. Something which has just come to my knowledge and that I must try to set right at once. If you love me--help me, not hinder. You are to go with me, also. So, hurry and put on a fresh apron and cap. I can finish by myself." "Yas'm. But yo' knows, honey, you-all only done lef yo' bed a speck o' time. Cayn't yo' business be put off, Miss Betty?" "Not a minute. Not one single minute longer than necessary to take me to Baltimore Street. Hurry. Fix your own self. Don't bother about me." "Yes'm. I'se gwine hu'y. But dat yere plumber gempleman--what erbout leabin' him, to go rummagin' 'round, puttin' new fixin's in whe' ol' ones do? Ain't you-all done bettah wait a little spell, an' 'tend to him, yo'se'f? Hey, Miss Betty?" Dinah had touched upon her mistress's own regret, but a regret swallowed by so much of a calamity that she put it aside and merely pointed to the door, as if further speech were useless. It was more than five minutes before Ephraim drove his well-groomed horses out of the eagle-gate, but it was in a very short time for one who moved as slowly as he, and he turned his head for orders, with expectation of: "The Park." Quite to the contrary the word was: "Baltimore Street. Kidder & Kidder's." "Hey? 'D you say Eutaw Place, er Moun' Ver'n Avenoo?" he inquired. "There, boy. You're not half so deaf as you pretend. Drive to Kidder & Kidder's, and do it at once," she repeated with decision. "Yas'm. But does yo' know, Miss Betty, erbout a man was sunstroke yestiddy, Baltimo' Street way? It sutenly is pow'ful wa'm." Mrs. Cecil vouchsafed no further parley with her too devoted coachman, though Dinah took it upon herself to administer one reproof which her fellow servant coolly ignored. However, he had seen that in Mrs. Cecil's eye which brooked no disobedience, and so he guided his bays southward through the city, by wide thoroughfares and narrow, past crowding wagons and jangling street cars, till he turned into the densely packed street his lady had designated. "Kidder & Kidder" were her men of business. He knew that. There had been no time, for years upon years, when a firm of this same name had not served the owners of Bellevieu. The first lawyer of that race had handed down the business to his heirs, as the first tenant of the rich estate had willed that to his. But it was now more common for the lady of the mansion to send for her advisers to visit her, than for her to visit them; and that there was something unusual in her present business both her old servitors realized. It was something worth while to see how the elder Mr. Kidder, himself an octogenarian, retaining an almost youthful vigor, rose and salaamed, as this beautiful old gentlewoman, followed by her gray-haired maid in spotless attire, entered his rather dingy office. How the old-time courtesies were exchanged between these remnants of an earlier society, when brusqueness was considered ill-bred and suavity the mark of good blood. A few such greetings past, and the old lawyer conducted his distinguished client into an inner room, exclusively his own, leaving Dinah to wait without, and whence the pair soon emerged; the lady urging: "You will kindly attend to it at once, please;" and he answering, with equal earnestness: "Immediately, Madam." Then he escorted her to her carriage and stood bareheaded while she entered it: each courteously saluting the other as it rolled away, and he returning to his office with a look of anxiety on his fine face, as there was one of relief on hers. "Well, I've done the best I could--now!" she exclaimed, after a time. "I've never entrusted any matter to Kidder & Kidder that did not end satisfactorily. That old firm is a rock in the midst of this shifting modernity!" To which Dinah, not comprehending, replied with her usual: "Yas'm. I spec' dat's so, honey, Miss Betty." That evening both Ephraim and the maid, sitting under their own back porch, exchanged speculations concerning their lady's morning trip, and her subsequent quietude during the whole day. "I 'low 'twas anudder will, our Miss Betty, she done get made. Dat's what dem lawyer gentlemen is most inginerally for. How many dem wills has she had writ, a'ready, Dinah?" queried Ephraim. "Huh! I doan' know. Erbout fifty sixty, I reckon. She will her prop'ty off so many times, dey won' be nottin lef to will, bimeby. 'Twas dat, though, Ephraim, I 'low, too. Mebbe--Does dey put erbout makin' wills in de papahs, boy?" "I doan' know. Likely. Why, Dinah?" "Cayse, warn't no res' twel Miss Betty done sent yo' Methusalem out to de drug-sto' fo' to buy de ebenin' one. Spec' she was lookin' had Massa Kiddah done got it printed right. Doan' know what she want o' papahs, when she ain't looked at one this long spell, scusin 'twas to find out dat." But neither of them guessed that Mrs. Cecil's interest lay in a large-typed advertisement, offering five hundred dollars reward for the return of the lost, humble little Dorothy C. Nor that this sum would have been twice as great, had not the worldly wisdom of Kidder & Kidder been larger than that of their aristocratic client. CHAPTER XIV THE BITER BIT Even healthy Dorothy had rarely slept as soundly as she did that night, there in the airy barn on her bed of hay; and she had lain down as soon as she had finished her brief letter to her mother--which like those that had gone before it would travel no further than Mrs. Stott's range fire. She woke in the morning to find it much later than usual when she was roused and that it was only Jim who was calling her. He did so softly, yet with evident excitement; and as soon as possible the girl got out of her hostess's too big nightgown and into her own clothes, still fresh from yesterday's laundering. Then she opened the door and ran to the trough of water, used for the cattle; and after a liberal ducking of her curly head, shook herself dry--for want of a better towel. Afterwards, to the barnyard, calling eagerly: "Jim! O Jim!" "Here I be. Don't holler. I'll come, soon's I take the milk in. I thought you'd sleep till doomsday!" he replied, still in a low tone, yet with less caution than he usually displayed. She sat down on the barn door sill and waited. She had a strong reluctance to enter the cottage which was tightly closed and where she had so greatly suffered. So that it was with real delight she saw the lad was bringing a plate with him, as he returned, and guessed it to be her breakfast. "Oh! how nice! I'll love to picnic out here, but how does it happen? and, Jim, what makes you so sober? Is--is she sick? Didn't she go to market last night? Tell--talk--why can't you? I want to hear everything, every single thing. I didn't know--I went to sleep--What a funny wagon it is, anyway!" The big vehicle stood in the yard before them, its shafts resting on the ground; and the four mules used to draw it were feeding in the pasture beyond. Dorothy thought it wonderful how anybody, most of all a woman, could drive four mules, as Miranda did, without reins to guide them, yet make them so obedient to her will. The wagon, also, was a curiosity to her, though she had often seen similar ones on the streets at home. It was a large affair, rising several feet upwards from its box, its ends projecting; forward over the dashboard and, at the rear, backward beyond a step and a row of chicken crates. The top was of canvas, that had once been white, and the tall sides were half of a brick-red, half of bright blue. Its capacity was enormous, and so prolific was the truck-farm that it was always well filled when it made its city trips. "Have you had your breakfast, too, Jim?" asked Dorothy, rather critically inspecting hers, which did not at all suggest the dainty cooking of mother Martha. "Yep. All I wanted. He--I reckon he's powerful sick." "Can't you sit down by me for company? I feel so good this morning. I'd like somebody to talk to." "A minute, maybe. I can make it up later." "Jim Barlow, I think you're a splendid boy. I never saw anybody so faithful to such a horrid old woman. You never waste a bit of time, you only study when you ought to sleep, and yet--yet I didn't like you at all when I first saw you. When I get home and my father gets well, I'm going to tell him or the minister all about you, and ask them to get you a better place. To send you to school, or do anything you like." The lad flushed with pleasure, and vainly tried to keep the bare feet of which he was so conscious out of sight in the hay upon the barn floor, where, for this brief moment, he dared to linger. Dorothy saw the movement and laughingly thrust forth her own pink toes, fresh from an ablution in the trough, and from which she had had to permanently discard her ragged ties. "That's nothing. We're both the same. Anyway, a barefooted boy came to be president! Think of that. President James Barlow, of the United States! I salute you, Excellency, and request the honor of your sharing my brown-bread-and-treacle!" Then she laughed, as she had not done for many days; from the sheer delight of life and the beautiful world around her. For it was beautiful, that first June day, despite the ugly cottage which blotted the landscape and the sordid implements of labor all about. To his own amazement, the orphan farm boy laughed with her, as he did not know he could, as he surely never had before. This girl's coming had opened a new world to him. She had commended his ambition and made light of the difficulties in way of its achievement. She had assured him that "learning is easy as easy!" and she knew such a lot! She didn't scorn him because he was uncouth and ill-clad; and--Well, at that moment he was distinctly glad that she was barefooted like himself. Recklessly forgetting that he was "using the time I was hired for"--the hire being board and lodging, only--he dropped down on the step and watched as she ate, so daintily that he could think of nothing but the sparrows on the ground. And as she ate she also talked; which in itself was wonderful. For he--Well, he couldn't talk and eat at the same time. It was an accomplishment far beyond him, one that had never been taught at the table of Miranda Stott. She not only chattered away but she made him chatter, too, now, in this unwonted freedom from his mistress's eye. "Who's 'him'? Why, he's _hern_," he explained. "Her son, you know." "No, I don't know. I know nothing--except that I'm a stolen little girl who's lost everybody, everything in the world she loves!" cried poor Dorothy, suddenly overcome in the midst of her gayety by the thought of her own sorrows. Jim had never known girls and their ways, but he had the innate masculine dread of tears, and by the look of Dorothy's brown eyes he saw that tears portended. To change the subject, he answered her question definitely: "He's the man what brought you here. _That's_ him. He's _hern_." "That man--_Smith_? He here? In the cottage yonder? Then--_good-bye_!" Reckless of the sharp stones and stubble of the barnyard that so cruelly hurt her tender feet, the girl was up and away; only to find herself rudely pulled back again and to hear Jim's familiar: "Pshaw! He can't harm you none. He's dreadful sick. He come----" Here the lad paused for some time, pondering in his too honest heart how much of his employer's affairs he had the right to make known, even to this Dorothy. Then having decided that she already knew so much there could be no danger in her learning more, he went on: "He come one night whilst you was so sick. She fetched him in the wagon an', 'cause you was in her bed, she put him up-attic, in yourn. Ain't but them two rooms, you know, an' the shed where I did sleep but don't now. I don't know what he'd done but--somethin' 't made him scared of stayin' in the city. He's been that way afore an' come out here, 'to rest' he called it. 'To hide,' seems if, to me. 'Cause he'd never go out door, till me or his ma'd look round to see if anybody was comin'. Nobody does come. Never did, only them he fetched, or her did." Again a shudder of fear and repulsion swept over Dorothy, and again she would have run away but Jim's next words detained her. "He can't move, hair ner hide. He's ketched them measles offen you an' he's terrible bad. She thinks he's goin' to die an', queer, but now she don't care for nothin' else. Her sun's riz an' sot in him, an' he's treated her mean. Leastways, _I_ call it mean. She don't. She'd 'bout lie down on the floor an' let him tramp all over her, if he'd wanted to. She's goin' round, doin' things inside there, but she's clean forgot how it's berry-day agin an' the crop wastin'. "So 'm _I_ wastin' time, an' she claims that's money. I didn't know, afore, whuther 'twas him er money she liked best, but now I guess it's him. If you was a mind you could help pick berries for her. _If you was a mind_," said Jim, rising and shouldering a crate of cups, then starting for the strawberry patch. Dorothy C. looked after him with some contempt. He seemed a lad of mighty little spirit. To work like a slave even when there was nobody to domineer over him! Indeed, she fancied that he was even more diligent in business now than he had been before. It was very strange. "It's all strange. Life's so strange, too. They say 'Providence leads.' Well, it seems a queer sort of leading that I should be sent to do an errand and then that I should be so silly as to go with a man my folks didn't know--and get stolen. That's what I am, now: just a stolen child, of no use to anybody. Why? Why, too, should my father John be let to get an 'ataxious' something in his legs, so he had to lose his place? And mother Martha have to give up her pretty house she loves so, and go away off to the country where she doesn't know anybody? Why should I come here to this old truck-farm and a horrid woman and a horrider man and get the measles and give them to him? Was it just to learn how to plant things? I wondered about that the time I watched them do the celery. Well, I could learn so much out of books. I needn't be kidnapped to do it! And why on earth should I feel so sorry now for that woman in there? Just 'cause she loves her son, who's the wickedest man I ever heard of. And that Jim boy! I--I believe I'm going to hate him! Just positively hate. He makes me feel so--so little and mean. Just as if I hadn't a right to sit on this old barn door sill and do nothing but eat my breakfast. A horrid breakfast, too, to match the horrid woman and the horrid house and the horrider man, and the horridest-of-all-boys, Jim!" With that Dorothy's cogitations came to a sudden end. No poor insignificant farm lad should put her to shame, in the matter of conscience, or generosity, or honor, or any other of those disagreeable high-sounding things! She'd show him! and she'd pick those old strawberries, if her back did get hot and the sun make her head ache! No such creature as that Jim Barlow should make her "feel all wiggley-woggley inside," as she had used to feel when she had been real small and disobeyed mother Martha. Why she shouldn't run away and try to find her home, now that Mrs. Stott was out of sight, puzzled even herself. Yet, for some reason, she dared not. She had no idea of the direction in which that home lay, and there was no house visible anywhere, strain her eyes as she might to discover one at which she might ask protection. The truck-farm seemed to be away off, "in the middle of nowhere." A crooked lane ran northward from it and Dorothy knew that this must strike a road--somewhere. But dear old Baltimore must be miles and miles distant; since Mrs. Stott spent so many hours in going to and from it with her produce, and in her bare feet the child felt she couldn't make the journey and endure. More than that, down deep in her heart was a keen resentment of the fact that, despite her own letters written and sent by the farm-woman, mother Martha had made no response beyond that verbal one conveyed by "Mr. Smith," that everything was "all right" and that, in the prospect of gaining her "fortune" Dorothy was wise to submit to some unpleasant things for the present. Then would arise that alternate belief that she had been "kidnapped," and instantly following would come the conviction that she might be much worse dealt with if she attempted escape. If "Mr. Smith" was wicked enough to steal her, as she in this mood believed, he would stop at nothing which would save himself from discovery and punishment. Jim Barlow was tormented by none of these shifting moods. His nature was simple and held to belief in but two things--right and wrong. He must do the one and avoid the other. This necessity was born in him and he could not have discussed it in words, or even thoughts, as did the imaginative Dorothy C. the questions that perplexed her. At that particular moment he knew that the "right" for him was to save his employer's berries from decay, even though this meant no reward for him save a tired back and a crust of bread for dinner. But rewards didn't matter. Jim _had_ to do his duty. He couldn't help it. Now Dorothy watching from the barn doorway saw this and thought that "duty" was "the hatefullest word in the English language. It always means something a body dislikes!" Yet, so strong is example, that almost before she knew it the little girl had picked her gingerly way over the rough ground to the lad's side and had petulantly exclaimed: "Give me some cups then! I hate it! I hate here! I--I want to go home! But--_give me some cups_!" Jim didn't even notice her petulance. He handed her a pile of "empties" and went on swiftly gathering the berries without even raising his head, though one long hand pointed to the row upon which she should begin. He was pondering how these same berries were to be marketed; whether the anxious woman in the cottage loved money so well she would leave a possibly dying son to sell them for herself; or if she would trust the business to him. The last possibility sent a thrill of pride through him. If she would! If she only would, he would drive the hardest bargains for her, he would bring home more of the beloved cash than she expected, he would prove himself altogether worthy of trust. He knew the way, she had taken him with her once, at a Christmas time, when she needed his help in the extra handling. It had been a revelation to him--that wonderful Christmas market; with all its southern richness and plenitude, its beautifully decorated stalls, its forests of trees and mountains of red-berried holly, and over and above all the gay good nature of every human creature thronging the merry place. That had been Jim's one glimpse, one bit of knowledge what Christmas meant, and though he knew that this was a far different season, the glamour of his first "marketing" still hung over the place where he had been so briefly happy. Why, even Miranda Stott, moved by the universal good will of that day, had spent a whole cent, a fresh, new, good cent, upon a tin whistle, and given it to her helper. She had done more; she had allowed him to blow upon it, on their long ride home, to the astonishment of the mules and his own intense, if silly, delight. Suddenly, into these happy memories and hopes, broke Dorothy's voice: "A 'penny for your thoughts,' Sobersides! And see? since you made me pick berries I made up my mind to beat you. I have. I've filled five cups while you've been filling three. Your hands are so big, I s'pose, you can't help being slow!" Unmoved by her gibes, which he quite failed to understand, he rose and took her cups from her. He had reached the end of his row and must pass to another, else he might not have wasted so much time! But he was glad of her swiftness and felt that she would almost make up for Mrs. Stott's absence from the field; and encouragingly remarked: "Take the next row, beyond mine, when you get that one done." "Huh! A case of 'virtue' and its 'own reward'! The more I work the longer I may work, eh? Generous soul! But, I don't work for nothing, as you do. Behold, I take my pay as I go!" and so saying, Dorothy plumped a magnificent berry into her mouth--as far as it would go! For the fruit was so large it easily made more than the proverbial "two bites." Jim laughed. He couldn't help it. She looked so pretty and so innocent, though he--well, he wouldn't eat a single berry that was not given to him. He didn't even warn her not to eat more, yet, somehow, she no longer cared to do so. Dorothy never forgot that busy day. Miranda did not appear, except at rare intervals, to give some advice but not once to reprove. Her coarse, masculine face was so sad, so empty of that greed which had been its chief blemish, that tender-hearted Dorothy was moved to lay her hand on the mother's arm and say: "I'm so sorry for you. Sorry I gave anybody you love the measles." The market-woman looked at the child half-seeing, half-comforted by this sympathy, till the last words, apparently just penetrating to her consciousness, she rudely shook off the little hand with a look of bitter hatred. Then she went back into the house, and for the rest of that day the boy and girl were left to themselves. At noon, which he told by the sun, Jim made a little fire in one corner of the field and roasted some potatoes under it. Then he fixed a crotched stick above the blaze, hung on a tin pail and boiled some eggs; and these with some bread made their dinner. Their supper was the same, and both had appetites to give the food a relish. At dusk Miranda came out, ordered Dorothy into the harness room and to bed, and this time she closed the door upon her, turning the wooden button which fastened it upon the outside. Indignation made no difference--Dorothy's wishes were ignored as if they had not been expressed, and the farm-woman's manner was far harsher than it had been at any time. So harsh, indeed, that the girl was terribly frightened and wondered if she were going to be punished in some dreadful way for her unconscious infection of "Mr. Smith." The hope that Jim might be sent to market in place of his mistress and that he would take her with him died in her heart. She did not realize, till she heard her prison door slam shut, how deeply she had cherished this hope; even this belief that she was passing her last day on the truck-farm; and when the climax of her disappointment was reached by hearing Tiger ordered to lie down outside her door and "Watch!" she threw herself on the hay-bed and sobbed herself to sleep. "H-hsst!" Dorothy sat up, freshly alarmed by this warning sound. "Why! It's daylight! I must have slept all night! That's Jim--and nothing's happened! I'm alive, I'm well, I feel fine!" Delighted surprise at this state of things promptly succeeded her first alarm, and when to the "H-hsst!" there followed the fumbling of somebody with the door's button, she sprang to her feet and asked: "That you, Jim? Time to get up, already?" She had not undressed, and hurried to push the door open, but could not imagine what was the matter with the "long boy." He had a newspaper in his hand which he wildly waved above his head, then held at arm's length the better to study, while between times, he executed a crazy dance, his bare feet making no sound upon the hay-littered floor. A second later, Dorothy had rushed at him, seized the paper from his hand, recognized that it was father John's favorite daily, and found her own gaze startled by the sentence that had caught his: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD! CHAPTER XV THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT "What does it mean? What does it mean!" cried the astonished girl, scarcely believing the words that were printed so plainly yet seemed so impossible. "It's my own name. I'm Dorothy Chester, called Dorothy C. It's about me--I see it's about me--there couldn't be another right here in Baltimore--and money--all that money--who? Where? What? O long boy, talk, talk, tell!" He was really as excited as she. For once he forgot caution and was indifferent to the opinion of his mistress, whether that were good or ill. He could not read very well. He had had to study that advertisement slowly before he could make out even its sentences, and to do a deal of thinking before he could actually comprehend their meaning. But he knew that it concerned his new friend even more than himself, and laying his hand upon her shoulder to steady her while he answered, began: "I did go to market. She went, too. She had to get some things for him, an' soon's the stores was open. I sold the stuff. Some of the things she bought was wrapped up and a pair o' shoes was in this here. I ain't got books. I want 'em. I keep every scrap o' paper ever gets this way, an' I learn out o' them. She fired _this_ away, for cattle-beddin'--'cause she can't read herself--an' 'twould save a speck of straw. I called it wicked waste, myself, so I hid it. Then whilst I was milkin' I begun to study it out. Thinks I, mebbe I can learn a hull new word afore I get through; an' I hit fust off on that there 'Dorothy,' 'cause 'twas yourn an' had so many 'O's' it looked easy. I read that, then I read the next--some more--I forgot to milk--I thought you'd never wake up--an'--Pshaw! Pshaw--_pshaw_--PSHAW!!" Only by that word could the excited lad begin to express his fierce emotions; while for a brief time Dorothy was silent, trying to understand. Finally, and almost calmly, she said: "I don't know a thing about this printed stuff except that it must mean me. I can't guess who would pay money for me, for just a little girl; though maybe father John would if he had it. But he hadn't. He was poor, he said, real poor; even if we did live so nice and cozy. He hadn't anything but what he earned and out of that he had to buy the food and clothes and pay on the house. I don't believe he ever had five hundred dollars in all his life, at one time. Think of it! Five--whole--hundred--dollars! Fifty--thousand--cents! My!" Jim regarded her with awe. Such erudition as this almost took away his breath. That anybody, a little girl so much younger than himself, could "reckon" figures at such lightning speed was away beyond his dreams. More than that it convinced him that now she must be saved, restored to people who valued her at such enormous price. His simple rule of "right or wrong" resolved itself into two questions: Should he be loyal to his employer and help to keep this valuable Dorothy on the truck-farm, and show its owner how to get all that money? Because it wasn't she herself, who had brought the girl here, and if she took Dorothy back the reward would be hers. He reasoned that out to the end. On the other hand: If Dorothy belonged to somebody who wanted her so much, shouldn't he help to restore her to that person and save them--or him--the money? It was a knotty problem; one almost too profound for the mind of this honest farm-boy. He would do right, he must; but--which was "the rightest right of them two"? Dorothy settled it. Dorothy who was the most concerned in the affair and had so much more wisdom than he. She had ceased to wonder at the strange advertisement and had now decided how to turn it to the best account. She was almost positively glad for all her misadventures and suffering since it could result in infinite good to another; and that other none but the "long boy" she had laughed at in the beginning. With a little joyful clap of her hands, she exclaimed: "I know how! I know how! You have _been_--you can find the way--you must help me back to Baltimore, to my folks, to these Kidder-Kiddery men that offer all that money. I never heard of them. I can't imagine why they want to pay so many good dollars for a girl, just a girl they can't even know. I wouldn't trust them. I wouldn't go into anybody's 'office' again for all the world. But you take me, show me the way to the city and I'll show you the way to Baltimore Street. I know it. I know it quite well. I've been there on a street car. Then I'll stand outside while you go in and ask for the money. If they won't give it to you, bring them to the street and show them--ME! I ought to call myself in capital letters, same as I'm printed there, if I'm so expensive as that! Think of it, Jim Barlow! If you get that five hundred dollars you can live somewhere else and study all the time and go to college and be President, just exactly as I told you! Oh! Oh! O--Oh! Let's start now, this minute! I can't wait, I cannot!" Jim listened intently. With a slowly growing wonder and delight on his homely features, with a widening of his blue eyes, and--at last with a burst of tears. He was ashamed of them, instantly, but he couldn't have helped shedding them at that supreme moment any more than he could have helped breathing. It was as if the girl's words had opened wide the gates of Paradise--the Paradise of Knowledge--and let him look within. Then the cottage door opened and Miranda Stott looked forth. The sight of her restored him to the present and the practical side of life. The five hundred dollars wouldn't be his, of course. That notion of Dorothy's was as wild as--as the flight of that chicken-hawk sailing over the barnyard. Nor could he start at once, as she demanded. He had lived here for years and he still owed his employer allegiance--to a certain extent. Less than ever would he leave her alone with all this farm work on hand as well as a sick son. He must find somebody to take his place. Then he would help Dorothy back to town, but they'd have to be careful. Dorothy, also, had seen Mrs. Stott at the door, but now had a strange indifference to her. How could anybody hurt a girl who was worth five hundred dollars to somebody? She stopped Jim as he was moving away and demanded: "Are you ready? Can we start now--when she's shut the door?" "Not yet." Her face saddened and he hastened to add: "S-ssh! Don't say nothin'. We'll go. I've got to think it over--how. An' to hunt somebody to work. But--we'll go--_we'll go_!" He hastily turned away from the sight of her reproachful eyes nor did he blame her for the angry: "You mean boy!" which she hurled after him as he went into the house. But he made a chance soon to talk with her, unheard by Miranda, and to lay his plans before her. "I know a feller'll come, I guess. He was in the county-farm an' jobs round, somewheres. He don't live nowheres. I seen him loafin' round them woods, yonder, yesterday, an' I'll try find him. If I do I'll coax him to stay an' help whilst I'm gone. Noonin' I'll leave you get the grub, whilst I seek him. Go 'long, just's if nothin' was different an' I'll help you." Dorothy had made sundry "starts" already, but had feared to go all alone. If Jim would only go with her and knew the way it would be all right, but the day seemed interminable; and when her friend disappeared at noon she was so frightened that she retreated to her barn bedroom and shut the door upon herself. She could not lock it, for its one fastening was on the outside; but she called Tiger to come inside with her and felt a sort of protection in his company, sharing her chunk of brown bread with him, even giving him by far the larger portion. Then Jim came back and, missing her, guessed where to find her. "Open the door a minute. Lemme in." "Oh! I'm so glad you've come! It seems--awful. That house so tight shut; that man in it; that dreadful woman that looked at me so--so angry! I want to get away, I must--_I must_!" Tired with his breathless run to the woods and back, the youth dropped down on the floor to recover himself; then informed her: "I found him. He was fishin' in the run. He'll fish all day if he's let. He'll come. He ain't got all his buttons----" "Wh-a-t?" "His buttons. His wits. He ain't so smart as some of us, but he can hoe an' 'tend cattle first-rate. We'll go, to-night, soon's it's dark. I'll tie some rags on your feet so's they won't get sore an' give out. I'll have to muzzle Tige, or, if I can, I'll give him some them powders in his milk she'd ha' used to make you dopy, if you'd give trouble. She won't miss us first off, an' when she does--Why, we'll be gone. Be you a good, free traveler?" "Why, I don't know. I never traveled," answered Dorothy, perplexed. If they were going to walk, or run, as his talk about trying on rags suggested, how could they travel? To her "travel" meant a journey by boat or rail, and surely neither of these conveniences were visible. "Pshaw! Fer a smart girl you're the biggest fool!" returned the farm-boy testily. He was tired, body and brain; he was trying to make safe plans for her comfort, yet she couldn't understand plain English. "What I mean is--can you walk, hoof it, good? Course, we can't go no other way. If you can we'll strike 'cross lots--the nighest. If you can't we'll have to take to the road, on the chance of bein' took up." "Oh! I'll walk, I'll travel, I'll 'hoof' it, fast as you want me to. Till I die and give out; but don't, don't go anywhere near the danger of being took up!" cried Dorothy, pleading meekly. Again these two young Americans had failed to understand each other's speech. To the city-reared girl, being "taken up" meant being arrested by the police; to the country-grown boy it was giving a ride to a pedestrian by some passing vehicle. He looked at her a moment and let the matter drop. Then he rose, advising: "You better go to work an' not waste time. To-morrow's Sunday. We gen'ally pick all day, so's to be ready for Monday mornin' market. Stuff fetches the best prices a-Monday. I'd like to leave her in good shape agin I didn't get back. But I'll take you. You can trust me." And as she saw him return to that endless weeding in the garden, Dorothy knew that she could do so; and that it was his simple devotion to the "duty" she disliked that made him so reliable. "But oh! what a day this is! Will it never, never end? Do you know, Jim Barlow, that it seems longer than all the days put together since I saw my mother?" "Yep. I know. I've been that way. Once--once I went to--a--circus! Once I got to go!" answered the lad, carefully storing the baskets of early pease he had picked in the depths of the schooner. He made the statement with bated breath, remembering the supreme felicity of the event. "She went. She'd had big prices an' felt good. She told me 'twas a-comin' an' I could; and--Pshaw! I never seen a week so long in all my born days, never! An' when it got to the last one of all--time just natchally drug! I know. But we'll go. An' say, Dorothy. The faster you pick an' pack an' pull weeds, the shorter the day'll be. That's the onliest way I ever lived through that last one afore that circus," comforted Jim, himself toiling almost breathlessly, in order to leave Miranda in "as good shape" as he could. He knew how she would miss him, and that she had depended upon him as firmly as upon herself. But all days come to an end, even ones weighted with expectations such as Dorothy's; and at nightfall Jim announced that they might stop work. Leaving the girl to wait in the harness-room he went to the house, secured a whole loaf of bread and two of the sleeping powders he had seen administered to the crying boy, and a bundle of rags, with some string. In carrying the milk to the dairy he had reserved a basin full; and into this his first business it was to drop the powders. Then he called Tige to drink the milk, and the always hungry animal greedily obeyed. "That seems dreadful, Jim! Suppose the stuff kills him? He isn't to blame and I should hate terribly to really hurt him," cried Dorothy, frightened by the deed to which she had eagerly consented but now regretted--too late. Jim sniffed. He supposed that all girls must be changeable. This one veered from one opinion to another in a most trying way and the only thing he could do was to pay no attention to her whimsies. He had carefully explained the action of these powders and their harmlessness and wasn't going to do it the second time. Besides, he was delighted to find them promptly affecting the mastiff, who might have hindered their flight. So he merely motioned Dorothy to sit down on the door sill, at the rear of the barn and out of sight from the cottage, then bade her: "Hold up your foot. I'll fix 'em. Then we'll go. We can eat on the road. Ain't so dark as I wish it was but she's asleep--right on the kitchen floor--an' it's our chance. She's slept that way ever since he was so bad. He don't 'pear to know nothin' now. I'm sorry for her." "Why, that's real ingenious! That's almost like a regular shoe! And a good deal better than a shoe too small!" laughed the girl, wild with pleasure that her helper had, at last, begun to do something toward their trip. She found, too, that with these rude sandals tied on she could walk much faster than in her tender bare feet, although Jim cautioned: "Ain't nothin' but rags an' paper. Remember that. Ain't no call to go scuffin' 'em out, needless." Whereupon Dorothy ceased to dance and prance, as she had been doing to work off some of her excitement, and became quite as sober as he could desire. Also, though she had been so anxious to start, it came with suddenness when he said: "Ready. Come!" She glanced at Tiger, who very closely resembled a dead dog as he lay beside the basin on the floor, then toward the house. Utter silence everywhere; save for the fretful fussing of some hens, settling to roost, and a low rumble of thunder from the west where it now looked quite dark enough to satisfy even Jim Barlow. They struck off across lots, past the teeming garden which the active young farmer really loved and which he felt that he would never see again. He held Dorothy's hand in one of his, while the other carried a stick and bundle thrown over his shoulder. The bundle was a bit of old cloth, containing his beloved spelling book, the newspaper with the alluring advertisement, and their loaf of bread. Nothing else; and thus equipped, this uncouth, modern knight errant turned his back on all he had ever known for the sake of a helpless girl, and with as true a chivalry as ever filled the breast of ancient man-at-arms. For some distance neither spoke. The hearts of both were beating high with excitement and some fear; but after a time, when no call had followed them and they had reached the little run where Jim had sought the half-wit, the farm-boy said: "Best eat our grub, now. Can't travel fast on empty stummicks. Mebbe your feet need fixin' over, too. I brung some more rags in my jumper, case them give out. Here's a good place to set. We can get a drink out the brook." "I'd rather go on. I'm not a bit hungry!" pleaded Dorothy, who already felt as if her mother's arms were folding about her and who longed to make this fancy prove the dear reality. "I be, then. I didn't eat no noonin', recollec'?" returned Jim, and dropped down on the bank with a sigh. "Oh! I'm sorry I forgot. Of course we'll stop--just as long as you want," returned the girl, with keen self-reproach, and sat down beside him. As she did so, there came a fresh rumble from the west and the pale light which had guided them so far was suddenly obscured, so that she cried out in fear: "There's going to be a fearful gust! We shall be wet through!" "Reckon we will; here's a chunk o' bread," answered the matter-of-fact youth, reaching through the gloom to place the "chunk" on her lap, and, to his surprise, to find her wringing her hands as if in fright or pain. "Why, tell me what ails you now." "No-nothing--only--ouch! Don't--don't worry--it's--Ooo-oh!" Despite her fierce will to the contrary Dorothy could not restrain a bitter groan. She had not meant to hinder their flight by any breakdown on her own part. She had intended to "travel," to "hoof it" just as rapidly and as "freely" as her guide could; but something had happened just now, though her feet had hurt her almost from the first moment of their walk; but this was worse, and reaching down she felt what she could not see--one end of a great thorn or splinter projecting from the ball of her foot. "What's the matter, I say?" demanded Jim, quite fiercely for him. He had no fear but that her pluck would be equal to any strain put upon it, but of her physical endurance he wasn't so sure. "It's a thorn--or a splinter--and oh! it hurts! put your hand here--feel!" Yet as she guided his fingers to that queer thing sticking from her wonderful "sandals" she winced and almost screamed. "I guess you mustn't touch it. I can't bear it. I've run something in and I daren't pull it out--I can't--it's awful!" Indeed the agony was making her feel faint and queer and the boy felt, rather than saw, that she swayed where she sat as if she were about to sink down on the ground. Here was plainly another case of "duty" and an unpleasant one, from which the lad shrank. He would much rather have borne any amount of pain himself than have inflicted more on this forlorn little girl who depended upon him; but all he said was: "Pshaw!" as setting his teeth, he suddenly gripped her foot and--in an instant the great bramble was out! It was heroic treatment and Dorothy screamed; then promptly fainted away. When she came to herself she was dripping with water from the brook, with which Jim had drenched her--not knowing what better to do; and from a sudden downpour of rain which came almost unhindered through the branches overhead. "Pshaw! I'd oughter 'a' took to the road. I hadn't no business to try this way, though 'tis nigher!" That was the first thing Dorothy realized; the next that her foot was aching horribly, but not in that sickening way it had before; and lastly that, as the only means of keeping it dry, Jim had thrust their loaf back into the bundle and was sitting upon that! A lightning flash revealed this to her, but did not prepare her for her companion's next words: "We got to go back!" CHAPTER XVI A GOOD SAMARITAN "Never! Never! I'd rather die right here in the woods!" cried Dorothy, aghast. "Dead or alive that man shall never get me in his power again. But I'm not afraid. God is good to orphan children--He will take care of me--He will, He will!" In some way she managed to get upon her knees and the next flash of lightning showed her thus, with her face uplifted and her hands clasped, while an agony of supplication was in her wide brown eyes. Religion was an unknown thing to poor Jim Barlow, whose simple integrity was of nature, not culture. His Sundays had been merely days on which to toil a little harder against the morrow's market, nor had he ever been inside a church. But something in the sight of this child kneeling there in the night and the storm touched an unknown chord of his soul, and before he knew it he was kneeling beside her. Not to pray, as she did, but to hold her firmly, to comfort her by his human touch for this fresh terror he did not understand. After a moment she turned and sat down again and said just as firmly as before, but quite calmly now: "If you want to go back you may. I shall not. God will take care of me, even if you leave me all alone. I've asked Him." "Leave you alone? I hadn't thunk of it. What you mean?" "You said we must go back. I shall not." "_Pshaw!_" It was several seconds before honest Jim could say anything more, but those five letters held a world of meaning. Finally, he was able to add to them and to help her seat herself again on the ground, and he is scarcely to be blamed if he did this with some force. From his point of view Dorothy was stupid. She should have known that he never gave up doing that to which he had set his hand. He had promised to get her back to Baltimore, some way, and he would keep his promise. With another, rather milder "Pshaw!" he explained: "Go back an' try the road, silly! These cross-cuts are dreadful onsartain. Full o' blackberry bushes an' thorny stuff would hurt a tougher foot 'an yourn. More'n that: shoes made out o' rags an' paper ain't much good in a rain storm. We'll get back to the road. Even that's a long way off, but it's over open medders an' it's so dark nobody won't see us er stop us. It ain't rainin' nigh so hard now. You eat a bite, then we'll try agin." "Oh! forgive me, Jim Barlow, for thinking you would be so mean. I'll trust you now, no matter what happens, but I don't want to eat. I can't--yet." "Does your foot hurt bad?" "Not--not--so very!" "Well, hold on. I'll break that there sapling off an' make you a stick to help walk on. 'Tother hand you can lean on my shoulder. Now, soon's you say the word we'll go. Not the way we come, but another, slatin'er. Try?" They stood up: Dorothy with more pain than she would acknowledge, but putting a brave face on the matter, and Jim more anxious than he had ever been about anybody in his life. He didn't speculate as to why all these strange things had come into his life, as Dorothy had done, but he accepted them as simple facts of which he must make the best. The best he could make of this present situation was to get this lamed girl to a public highway as soon as he could. Even that might be deserted now, on a rainy Saturday night, but he hoped for some help there. "Now--come." Dorothy made a valiant effort and managed to get ahead a few inches. Then, half-laughing, half-crying, she explained: "I can't manage it. I can't walk on one foot and drag the other. I--Can't you hide me here, somewhere, and go on by yourself, then send somebody back after me? Would it be safe, do you think?" "No, 'twouldn't, an' I shan't. If you can't walk--then hop!" So, resting one hand on his shoulder and the other upon the stick he had broken, the girl--hopped! It was very awkward, very painful, and very slow; but it was only the slowness that mattered. This was exasperating to one whose blood was in a ferment of anxiety to be at her journey's end. Even Jim lost patience after they had gone some distance and stopped short, saying, with a sigh: "This won't do. I'll have to haul you. You're limpin' worse all the time, an' it'd take a month o' Sundays to travel a mile this gait. Now, whilst I stoop down, you reach up an' put your arms 'round my neck. Make yourself light's you can, an' we'll try it that way a spell. When I gin out we'll wait an' rest. Now ketch hold!" He took her staff in one hand, stooped his back like a bow, and Dorothy clasped her arms about his shoulders. Then he straightened himself and her feet swung clear of the ground. Fortunately, she was slight and he strong, and for another little while they proceeded quite rapidly. Also, he knew perfectly well the direction he ought to take, even in this darkness of night; and he was accustomed to walking in the fields. Then, suddenly, he had to stop. "Guess we better rest a spell. 'Twon't do to get _all_ tuckered out first off;" and with that he dumped her on the wet grass, very much as he might a sack of meal. Then he sat down himself, while she merrily cried: "That's the first time I've been carried pick-a-back since I was ever so little! How splendid and strong you are! Do you suppose we have come half-way yet?" "Half-way? Pshaw! We ain't got no furder 'an the first half-mile, if so fur. My sake, girls are orful silly, ain't they?" Dorothy's temper flamed. She felt she had been very brave, for her foot had swollen rapidly and pained her greatly, yet she had suppressed every groan and had made "herself as light as she could," according to Jim's command. Now she would have none of his help. No matter what she suffered she would go on by herself. Then some evil thing tempted her to ask: "Do you know where you're going, Jim Barlow, anyway?" And he retorted with equal spirit: "D' you s'pose I'd haul such a heavy creatur' 's you so fur on a wrong road?" After which little interchange of amenities, the pair crawled forward again and came at last to a hedge of honeysuckle bordering a wide lane. The fragrance brought back to Dorothy's memory her own one, carefully tended vine in the little garden on Brown Street, and sent a desolate feeling through her heart. Sent repentant tears, also, to her eyes and made her reach her hand out toward her companion, with a fresh apology: "Jim, I've got to say 'forgive me,' again and--I do say it--yet I hate it. You've been so good and--Smell the honeysuckle! My darling father John told me there were quantities of it growing wild all through Maryland, but I never half-believed it before. It makes me cry!" "Set down an' cry, then, if you want to. I just as lief's you would. I'm tired." This concession had the remarkable effect of banishing tears from Dorothy's eyes. She had tottered along on one foot and the tips of the toes of the other, till the injured one had become seriously strained and pained her so that rest she must, whether he were willing or not. It was comparatively dry on the further side the hedge, and the vines themselves, so closely interwoven, made a comfortable support for their tired backs. As she leaned against it, the girl's sense of humor made her exclaim: "That's the funniest thing! I felt I must cry my eyes out, yet when you said 'go ahead and do it,' every tear dried up! But, I'm sleepy. Do you suppose we dare go to sleep for a few minutes." "Pshaw! I'm sleepy, too. An' I'm goin'--s'posin' er no s'posin'." After that, there was a long silence under the honeysuckle hedge. A second shower, longer and more violent than the first, arose, and dashed its cool drops on the faces of these young sleepers, but they knew nothing of that. The storm cleared and the late moon came out and shone upon them, yet still they did not stir. It was not until the sun itself sent its hot, summer rays across their closed lids that Jim awoke and saw a man standing beside them in the lane and staring at Dorothy with the keenest attention. Instantly the lad's fear was alert. He had not spoken of it to Dorothy, but he knew that many others besides himself must have seen that wonderful advertisement in the daily paper; and though he was not wise enough to also know that every wandering child would suggest to somebody the chance of earning that five hundred, he had made up his mind that nobody should earn it. Dorothy should be restored without price, and he had promised her his should be the task. There was that about this staring stranger which made him throw a protecting arm over the still sleeping Dorothy and say: "Well! Think you'll know us when you see us agin?" "Come, come, boy! keep a civil tongue in your head. Who is that little girl?" "None o' your business." "Hold on. I'll make it my business, and lively, too, if you don't look out. Where'd you two come from?" "Where we was last at." "You scallawag! Your very impudence proves you're up to some mischief, but I'll ask you once more, and don't you dare give me a lying answer: Where did you two come from?" "Norphan asylum," said Jim, patting Dorothy's hand to quiet her alarm; for she had, also, waked and was frightened by the stranger, as well as by that strange numbness all through her body and the terrible pain in her foot. "Girl, what's your name?" Dorothy did not answer. She did not appear even to hear, but with a stupid expression turned her head about on the honeysuckle branches and again closed her eyes. Part of this dullness was real, part was feigned. She felt very ill and, anyway, there was Jim. Let him do what talking was necessary. Again the stranger demanded: "Who is that girl? Where did you get her? Is she deaf and dumb--or just a plain everyday fool?" "Dunno, stranger. Give it up," said Jim, at the same time managing to nudge Dorothy unperceived, by way of hint that that suggested deaf-and-dumbness might serve them well. The man who was quizzing them so sharply had been riding a spirited horse, which now began to prance about the lane in a dangerous way, and for the moment distracted his attention from the children. Indeed, in order to quiet the animal he had to mount and race it up and down for a time, though he by no means intended to leave that place until he had satisfied himself whether this were or were not the missing little girl, of whose disappearance all the papers were now so full. If it were and five hundred dollars depended on her rescue from that country bumpkin--he was the man for the rescue! Being none other than a suburban "constable" with a small salary, as well as a local horse jockey, exercising a rich gentleman's new hunter--also for hire. As he galloped past them, to and fro, Dorothy grew more and more frightened and ill. Her long sleep in her water-soaked clothing, added to the pain in her foot and her lack of food, affected her seriously; and a bed with warm blankets and hot drinks was what she needed just then. Finally, when to the thud of the racer's feet there also sounded the rumble of approaching wheels, she felt that her doom was sealed and let her tears stream freely over her wan, dirt-streaked cheeks. Jim, also, felt a shiver of fear steal through his long limbs, and instinctively drew his young charge closer to him, resolved to protect her to the last. But, as the wheels drew nearer, there was mingled with their rumble the notes of a good old hymn, and presently both wheels and music came to an abrupt halt before the hedge and the forlorn pair half-hidden in it. "Why, bless my heart! Younkers, where'd you hail from? and why should a pretty little girl be crying on the first Sunday morning in June? When everything else in God's dear world is fairly laughing with joy! Why, honey, little one--what--what--what!" It was a tiny, very rickety gig from which the singer had leaped with the agility of youth, though his head was almost white, and green goggles covered his faded old eyes; and he had not finished speaking before he had climbed upon the bank to the hedge and had put his fatherly arms around the sobbing Dorothy. She opened her own eyes long enough to see that benignant, grizzled countenance close to her, and--in an instant her arms had clasped about the stranger's neck! With the unerring instinct of childhood she knew a friend at first glance, and she clung to this man as if she would never let him go, while the astonished Jim looked on, fairly gasping for the breath that he at last emitted in the one word: "P-S-H-A-W!!" Here was another phase of that changeable creature--girl! To cry her eyes out at sight of one stranger and to fling herself headlong into the arms of another--not half so good looking! Leaning back among the vines and coolly folding his arms, the farm-boy resigned himself to whatever might come next. He had most carefully planned all their trip "home" and not a single detail of it had followed his plan. "Give it up!" he remarked for the second time, and was immediately answered by the old man: "No, you don't. Nobody decent ever does give up in this sunshiny world of God's. That isn't what He put us in it for, but to keep right on jogging along, shedding happiness, loving Him, being content. How did this poor little darling ever hurt her tiny foot like that?" Already the old fellow had Dorothy on his lap and was examining with careful tenderness the angry-looking wound she had received, while her curly head rested as contentedly against his breast as if it had been that of father John himself. She opened her lips to tell, but she was too tired. Indeed, if she had felt equal to the labor of it she would have poured forth her whole story then and there. But it is doubtful if he would have tarried to hear it, for he rose at once, carrying the girl in his arms so gently, so lovingly, that a great wave of happiness swept over her, and she flashed her own old beautiful smile into his goggles: "Oh! you good man. God sent you, didn't He?" "Sure, sure! To you, one of His lambs! Come, son. We'll be going! This poor little foot must be attended to right away, and this is my 'busy day.' On my way to preach at an early service, for the poor colored folk who can't come later. Then to another one for scattered white folks--the rest of the day at the hospitals--Why, bless my heart! If my Sundays were fifty times as long I could fill every minute of them with the Master's work!" More nimbly than Jim could have done, the happy old man scrambled back into the gig, never once releasing his hold of Dorothy, gathered up his reins, bade the lad "Hang on behind, some way!" chirruped to his sleepy nag, and drove on singing out of the lane. "Bringing in the sheaves! Bringing in the sheaves! We will come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves!" Once, in a pause of his song, Dorothy reached up and stroked his cheek, saying: "You're taking me home, aren't you!" "Sure, sure! To my home, first, to your home next--if I can;--to your heavenly home, when the Master wills." His home came soon; a tiny, one-storied building with but two rooms, a kitchen and bedroom; smaller, even, than the cottage of Miranda Stott, but far neater and cozier. At its door the old minister sprang from the gig and directed Jim to leave it where it stood. "Old Nan won't move unless she's bid. I'll fix up this little one's wound while you get breakfast. Happens I haven't had my own, yet, and I know you haven't had yours. The coffee's in that canister on the shelf. The fire's ready to the match--and the match right here! There's boiled ham in that cupboard, potatoes to fry, in the ice-box in the shed, bread and butter in the cellar, as well as a pail of milk. Show yourself a man by setting the table, my boy. How glad I am to have company! I try to have somebody most the time; but I don't often get them so easily as I've gotten you two. Young folks, besides; you ought to eat lots! which will give me extra appetite--not that I need it, oh no! A fine digestion is another of my Father's good gifts to me; and do you know, laddie, that I rarely have to buy the food to feed my guests? Always comes in of its own accord, seem's if. Of the Lord's accord, more truly. He's not the One to bid you feed the hungry and give drink to the thirsty without providing the means. 'Old St. John's' is known as a free 'hotel' in all this countryside, and my children--In His Name I bid you welcome to it this glorious Sunday morning!" Dorothy was on the bed in the inner room, and all the time he was talking her jolly host was also attending to her as well as to Jim. She was better already, simply from the cheer of his speech, and that sense of perfect security that had come to her so promptly. Such a well-stored little house as that was! From somewhere, out came a bundle of bandages already prepared, a box of soothing ointment, and a basin of soft warm water to bathe the jagged wound. "Learned to be a sort of doctor, too, you see. Never know when a body may come limping up, needing care--just as you have. Tear my bandages evenings when it rains. Never have to buy the muslin or linen--neighbors all save it for me. Boy--what's your name?--just turn those potatoes again. The secret of nice fried potatoes is to keep them stirred till every bit is yellow-browned, even and tasty. It's a sin, the way some people cook; spoiling the good gifts of the Lord by their own carelessness. Put into everything you do--milking, plowing, cooking, preaching, praying, the very best that's in you! That's the way to get at the core of life, at its deepest-down happiness and content. That's good! I reckon you're the right sort, only want a little training. The way you slice that ham shows you're thorough. Now, watch me settle this coffee and then--for all Thy Mercies, Lord, we humbly thank Thee." Such a breakfast as that had never been spread before Jim Barlow. Dorothy had enjoyed many fine ones in her own happy home, but even she found this something out of common; and from the chair of state in which she had been placed at the head of the little table, beamed satisfaction on the others while she poured their coffee, as deftly as if she were, indeed, the "little woman" the old man called her. When the meal was over, said he: "Lad, I'm a busy man, you seem to be an idle fellow. I'll leave you to wash the dishes and put away the food. Carefully, as you found it, against the need of the next comer. My name is Daniel St. John. My pride it is to bear the name of that disciple Jesus loved. Good-bye. Tarry here as long or as short a time as you will. I never lock the door. Good-bye. If we do not meet again on earth, I shall look for you in Heaven." He was already passing out into the sunshine but Dorothy cried after him: "One moment, please. You have told us your name, but we haven't told you ours. Yes, Jim, I shall tell! It's right and this dear man will help us, not hinder. So you needn't hold up your finger that way. Mr. St. John, I thank you, we both thank you, more than we can say. That boy's name is James Barlow. He's an orphan. I'm an orphan, too. My name is----" "Thank you for confidence. If my day didn't belong to the Master, not to myself, I'd drive you home in the gig. If you stay here till to-morrow I will do so, anyway. Now, I am late about His business, and must be off at once!" With that he jumped into his gig, shook the reins over old Nan's back, who went ambling down the road to the music of "Throw out the life line!" sung to the surrounding hills and dales as only old Daniel St. John could sing it. For some hours the two wanderers rested in that sunny little home, both most reluctant to leave it, and Dorothy's own wish now being to remain until the Monday when, as he said, their new acquaintance would be at liberty to take them to the city. Jim was not so anxious to remain. It was not until his companion's entreaties grew more persistent, that he told her the truth: "Dorothy, we _can't_ stay. We mustn't. I dassent. You was scared o' that feller on horseback. Well, he's been ridin' by here two, three times, an' he's fetched another feller along. Them men mean bad to us. I've studied out 't they ain't sure the old man ain't to home. If they was they wouldn't wait to ketch us long. The first man, he seen us come with St. John. He must. He couldn't have rid so fur he didn't. Well, I feel's if _he_ ketched us, 'twould be out the fryin'-pan into the fire. We couldn't get shet o' him--till he got that five hundred dollars. We've got to go on, someway, somewheres. An'--go _now_, whilst they've rid back agin, out o' sight." CHAPTER XVII A SUNDAY DRIVE Mrs. Cecil was extremely restless. She had been so ever since her visit to Kidder & Kidder. She would roam from room to room of her great house, staying long in none, finding fault with everybody and everything, in a manner most unusual. For though she was sharp of speech, at times, the times were fortunately at intervals, not incessant; but now she had altered and her dependents felt it to be for the worse. "I declar' my soul, Ephraim, looks lak ouah Miss Betty done got somepin' on her min', de way she ca'y on erbout nottin er tall. Jus' cayse cook, she done put sallyratus in dem biscuits, stidder raisin' 'em yeas' cake way, she done 'most flung 'em offen de table. All de time fussin' wid some us boys an' girls, erbout some fault er nother; an' I lay out it's her own min' is all corrodin' wid wickedness. What's yo' 'pinion now, Ephraim, boy?" The old colored man pushed away his plate and scratched his white wool. He was loyalty itself to his Miss Betty, but in his heart he agreed with Dinah that the house of Calvert had fallen upon uncomfortable times. Fortunately, he was saved the trouble of a reply, by the sharp ringing of the stable bell. "What now!" cried Dinah, hurrying away. Dinner had been served as usual. As usual Mrs. Cecil had attended service at old St. Paul's, but had felt herself defrauded because the rector had invited a stranger to occupy the pulpit: "when he knows as well as I do that this is my last Sunday in Baltimore, before the autumn, and should have paid me the respect of preaching himself," she had confided to her next-pew neighbor. Whereupon that other old member had felt herself also aggrieved, and had left the edifice for her carriage in a most unchristian state of mind. As usual, the one church-going and the stately dinner over, the household had settled into a Sunday somnolence. Ephraim had a comfortable lounge in the carriage-house loft and was ready for his afternoon nap. Cook was already asleep, in her kitchen rocker; and having finished her own grumble, Dinah was about to follow the universal custom, and seek repose in the little waiting-room beyond her mistress's boudoir, while that lady enjoyed the same within. For that stable bell to ring at this unwonted hour was enough to startle both old servants, and to send Dinah speeding to answer it. "Bless yo' heart, Miss Betty, did you-all done ring dat bell? Or did dat Methusalem done it, fo' mischievousness?" "I rang it, Dinah. Tell Ephraim to harness his horses. I'm going out for a drive." Dinah delayed to obey. Drive on Sunday? Such a thing was unheard of, except on the rare occasion of some intimate friend being desperately ill. Instantly the maid's thought ran over the list of her mistress's intimates, but could find none who was ailing, or hardly one who was still in town. "Lawd, honey, Miss Betty, who-all's sick?" "Nobody, you foolish girl. Can't I stir off these grounds unless somebody is ill? I'm going to drive. I've no need to tell you, you've no right to ask me--but one must humor imbecility! _I--am--going--to--drive!_ I--I'm not sleeping as well as usual, and I need the air. Now, get my things, and don't stare." "Yas'm. Co'se. Yas'm. But year me, Miss Betty Somerset, if yo' po' maw was er libin' you-all wouldn't get to go no ridin' on a Sunday ebenin', jus' if yo' didn' know no diff'rent. Lak dem po' no-'count folks what doan' b'long to good famblies. You-all may go, whuther er no, cayse yo' does most inginerally take yo' own way. But I owes it to yo' maw to recommind you-all o' yo' plain, Christian duty." With that Dinah felt she had relieved herself of all obligation either to duty or tradition, and proceeded with great dignity to bring out her lady's handsome wrap and hat: while down deep in that old gentlewoman's breast fluttered a feeling of actual guilt. It was a lifelong habit she was about to break; a habit that had been the law of her parents in the days of her youth. When one was a privileged person of leisure, who could take her outings on any week-day, she should pay strictest honor to the Sabbath. However, Miss Betty had made up her mind to go and Miss Betty went. Not only thus endangering her own soul but those of Dinah and Ephraim as well; and once well out of city limits and the possible observation of friends, the affair began to have for all three the sweet flavor of stolen fruit. "It's delightful. It's such a perfect day. 'Twould be more sinful to waste it indoors, asleep, than to be out here on the highway, passing through such loveliness. We'll--_We'll come again_, some other Sunday, Dinah," observed Mrs. Cecil, when they had already traveled some few miles. But it was Dinah's hour for sleep, and having been prevented from indulging herself at home in a proper place and condition, she saw no reason why she shouldn't nod here and now. The carriage was full as comfortable as her own easy-chair, and she had been ordered to ride, not to stay awake. So, finding her remarks unheeded, Mrs. Cecil set herself to studying the landscape; and she found this so soothing to her tired nerves that when the coachman asked if he should turn about, she indignantly answered: "No. Time for that when I give the order. It's my carriage, as I often have to remind you, Ephraim." "Yas'm. Dat's so, Miss Betty. But dese yere hosses, dey ain' much usen to trabelin' so fur, cos' erspecially not inginerally on a _Sunday_." "Do them good, boy, do them good. They're so fat they can hardly trot a rod before they're winded. When we get into the country, and they have to climb up and down those hills of the highlands, they'll lose some of their bulk. They're a sight now. I'm fairly ashamed of them. Touch them up, boy, touch them up. See if they can travel at all. They had a good deal of spirit when I bought them, but you'd ruin any team you shook the reins over, Ephraim. Touch them up!" Ephraim groaned, but obeyed; and, for a brief distance, the bays did trot fairly well, as if there had come to their equine minds a memory of that past when they had been young and frisky. Then they settled down again to their ordinary jog, quite unlike their mistress's mood, which grew more and more excited and gay the longer she trespassed upon her old-time habits. Nobody, who loved nature at all, could resist the influence of that golden summer afternoon--"evening" as southerners call it. To Mrs. Cecil as to little Dorothy, hours before, came the sweet, suggestive odor of honeysuckle; that brought back old memories, touched to tenderness her heart, and to an undefinable longing for something and somebody on which to expend all that stored-up affection. "Tu'n yet, Miss Betty? Dat off hoss done gettin' badly breathed," suggested Ephraim, rudely breaking in upon Mrs. Cecil's reflections. "Oh, you tiresome boy! One-half mile more, then turn if you will and must. For me--I haven't enjoyed myself nor felt so at peace in--in several days. Not since that wretched plumber came to Bellevieu and stirred me all up with his--gossip. I could drive on forever! but, of course, I'm human, and I'll remember you, Ephraim, as well as my poor, abused horses! One mile--did I say a half? Well, drive on, anyway." It was at the very turn of the road that she saw them. A long, lanky lad, far worse winded than her fat bays, skulking along behind the honeysuckle hedge-rows, as if in hiding from somebody. As they approached each other--she in her roomy carriage, he on his bruised and aching feet--she saw that he was almost spent; that he carried a girl on his back; and that the desperation of fear was on both their young faces. Then looking forward along her side of the hedge, down the road that stretched so smooth and even, she saw two men on horseback. They were riding swiftly, and now and then one would rise in his stirrups and peer over the hedge, as if to keep in sight the struggling children, then settle back again into that easy lope that was certain of speedy victory. Mrs. Cecil's nerves tingled with a new--an old--sensation. In the days of her girlhood she had followed the hounds over many a well-contested field. Behold here again was a fox-hunt--with two human children for foxes! Whatever they might have done, how deserved re-capture, she didn't pause to inquire. All her old sporting blood rose in her, but--on the side of the foxes! "Drive, drive, Ephraim, drive! Kill the horses--save those children!" Ephraim had once been young, too, and he caught his lady's spirit with a readiness that delighted her. In a moment the carriage was abreast the fleeing children on that further side the hedge, and Mrs. Cecil's voice was excitedly calling: "Come through! Come through the hedge! We'll befriend you!" It had been a weary, weary race. Although her foot had been so carefully bandaged by Daniel St. John, it was not fit to be used and Dorothy's suffering could not be told in words. Jim had done his best. He had comforted, encouraged, carried her; at times, incessantly, but with a now fast-dying hope that they could succeed in evading these pursuers, so relentlessly intent upon their capture. "It's the money, Dorothy, they want. They mustn't get it. That's your folkses'--do try--you _must_ keep on! I'll--they shan't--Oh, pshaw!" Wheels again! again added to that thump, thump, thump of steel-shod hoofs along the hard road! and the youth felt that the race was over--himself beaten. Then he peered through a break in the honeysuckle and saw a wonderful old lady with snow-white hair and a beautiful face, standing up in a finer vehicle than he had known could be constructed, and eagerly beckoning him to: "Come! Come!" He stood still, panting for breath, and Dorothy lifted her face which she had hidden on his shoulder and--what was that the child was calling? "Mrs. Cecil! Mrs. Cecil! Don't you know me? John Chester's little girl? 'Johnnie'--postman 'Johnnie'--you know him--take me home!" The two horsemen came riding up and reined in shortly. There was bewilderment on their faces and disappointment in their hearts; for behold! here were five hundred dollars being swept out of their very grasp by a wealthy old woman who didn't need a cent! And what was that happy old creature answering to the fugitive's appeal but an equally joyful: "Dorothy C.! You poor lost darling--Dorothy C.! Thank God you're found! Thank Him I took this ride this day!" Another moment and not only Dorothy but poor Jim Barlow, mud-stained, unkempt, as awkward a lad as ever lived and as humble, was riding toward Baltimore city in state, on a velvet-covered cushion beside one of its most aristocratic dames! This was a turn in affairs, indeed; and the discomfited horsemen, who had felt a goodly sum already within their pockets, followed the equipage into town to learn the outcome of the matter. Dorothy was on Mrs. Cecil's own lap; who minded nothing of the soiled little garments but held the child close with a pitying maternity, pathetic in so old and childless a woman. But, oddly enough, she permitted no talk or explanation. There would be time enough for that when the safe shelter of Bellevieu was reached and there were no following interlopers to overhear. Even Dinah could only sit and stare, wondering if her beloved "honey" had suddenly lost her wits; but Ephraim comprehended that his mistress now meant it when she urged "Speed! speed!" and put his fat bays to a run such as they had not taken since their earliest youth. Through the eagle-gateway, into the beautiful grounds, around to that broad piazza where Dorothy had made disastrous acquaintance with the two Great Danes, and on quite into the house. But there Jim would have retreated, and even Dorothy looked and wondered: saying, as she was gently taken in old Dinah's arms and laid upon the mistress's own lounge: "Thank you, but I won't lie down here, if you please. I love you so much for bringing me back, but home--home's just around the corner, and I can't wait! Jim and I will go now--please--and thank you! thank you!" Yet now, back in her own home, it was a very calm and courteous old gentlewoman--no longer an impulsive one--who answered: "For the present, Dorothy C., you will have to be content with Bellevieu. John Chester and his wife have gone to the country. To a far-away state, and to a little property she owns. Fortunately, I am going to that same place very soon and will take you to them. I am sorry for your disappointment, but you are safe with me till then." CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION Mr. Kidder, of Kidder & Kidder, had by request waited upon the lady of Bellevieu. He was prepared to explain some uncertain matters to her and had delayed his own removal to his country place for that purpose. The heat which had made Baltimore so uncomfortable had, for the time being, passed; and there was now blowing through the big east-parlor, a breeze, redolent of the perfumes of sweet brier and lily-of-the-valley; old-fashioned flowers which grew in rank luxuriance outside the wide bay-window. Presently there entered the mistress of the mansion, looking almost youthful in a white gown and with a calm serenity upon her handsome features. She walked with that graceful, undulating movement--a sort of quiet gliding--which had been the most approved mode of her girlhood, and the mere sight of that was restful to the old attorney, who detested the modern, jerky carriage of most maidens. Dorothy attended her hostess and she, too, was in white. Indeed Mrs. Cecil considered that to be the only suitable home-wear for either maid or matron, after the spring days came; and looking critically upon the pair, the old lawyer fancied he saw a faint resemblance. Each had large brown and most expressive eyes; each had a hand and foot, fit subject for feminine pride, and each bore herself with the same air of composed self-sufficiency. Well, it was a fine experiment his client was trying; he could but hope it would not end in disappointment. She seemed to know his thoughts without his expressing them; and as she sat down, she bade Dorothy lay aside her cane and sit beside her. The injured foot had received the best of medical treatment since the child's arrival at Bellevieu and was now almost well, though some support had still to be used as a safeguard against strain. "This is the child, Mr. Kidder. I think she has intelligence. A fine intelligence," began the lady, as if Dorothy had not ears to hear. Then feeling the girl's eyes raised inquiringly, added rather hastily: "It's on account of 'Johnnie,' you understand, Mr. Kidder. He was one of the most faithful persons I ever knew. That was why he was selected. Why I am going to take his little Dorothy C. back to him as fast as to-morrow's train will carry us. Have you learned anything?" "Yes, Madam. I came prepared--but----" He paused again and glanced at the girl, whom her hostess promptly sent away. Then he proceeded: "It is the same man I suspected in the beginning. He was a clerk in my office some years ago, at the time, indeed, when I first saw your ward. He listened at a keyhole and heard all arrangements made, but--did not see who was closeted with me and never learned your identity until recently. That is why you have escaped blackmail so long; and he is the author of the letters you sent me--unopened. He had his eye upon Dorothy C. for years, but could use her to no advantage till he traced--I don't yet know how, and it doesn't matter--the connection between yourself and the monthly letters. He has been in scrapes innumerable. I discharged him almost immediately after I hired him, and he has owed me a grudge ever since. But--he'll trouble Baltimore people no more. If he recovers from the dangerous illness he is suffering now he will be offered the choice of exile from the state or a residence in the prison. By the way, isn't it a case of poetic justice, that he should be thus innocently punished by the child he stole?" "It is, indeed. As to the boy, James. 'Jim,' Dorothy calls him. He seems to be without friends, a fine, uncouth, most manly fellow, with an overpowering ambition 'to know things'! To see him look at a book, as if he adored it but dared not touch it, is enough--to make me long to throw it at him, almost! He is to be tested. I want to go slow with him. So many of my protégés have disappointed me. But, if he's worth it, I want to help him make a man of himself." "The right word. Just the right, exact word, Madam. 'Help _him_ to make a man of himself.' Because if he doesn't take a hand in the business himself, all the extraneous help in the world will be useless. Well, then I think we understand each other. I have all your latest advices in my safe, with duplicate copies in that of my son. "You leave to-morrow? From Union Station? I wish you, Madam, a safe journey, a pleasant summer, and an early return. Good-morning." On the very evening of Dorothy's arrival at Bellevieu, now some days past, she had begged so to "go home," and so failed to comprehend how her parents could have left it without her, that Mrs. Cecil sent for the plumber and his wife to come to her and to bring Mabel with them. "Why, husband! I fair believe the world must be comin' to an end! Dorothy found, alive, and that rich woman the one to find her! Go! Course we'll go--right off." Mr. Bruce was just as eager to pay the visit as his wife, but he prided himself on being a "free-born American" citizen and resented being ordered to the mansion, "on a Sunday just as if it were a work-day. If the lady has business with us, it's her place to come to Brown Street, herself." "Fiddle-de-diddle-de-dee! Since when have we got so top-lofty?" demanded his better half with a laugh. "On with your best duds, man alive, and we'll be off! Why, I--I myself am all of a flutter, I can't wait! Do hurry an' step 'round to 77 an' get Mabel. She's been to supper with her aunt, an' Jane'll be wild to hear the news, too. Tell everybody you see on the block--Dorothy C. is found! Dorothy C. is found! An' whilst you're after Mabel, I'll just whisk Dorothy's clothes, 'at her mother left with me for her, into a satchel an' take 'em along. Stands to reason that folks wicked enough to steal a child wouldn't be decent enough to give her a change of clothing; and if she's wore one set ever sence she's been gone--My! I reckon Martha Chester'd fair squirm--just to think of it!" Now, as has been stated, in his heart the honest plumber was fully as eager to see Dorothy C., as his wife was, and long before she had finished speaking he was on his way to number 77. It was such a lovely evening that all his neighbors were sitting out upon their doorsteps, in true Baltimore fashion, so it was easy as delightful to spread the tidings; and never, never, had the one-hundred-block of cleanly Brown Street risen in such an uproar. An uproar of joy that was almost hilarious; and all uninvited, everybody who had ever known Dorothy C. set off for Bellevieu, so that even before the Bruce-Jones party had arrived the lovely grounds were full to overflowing and the aristocratic silence of the place was broken by cries of: "Dorothy! Dorothy Chester! Show us little Dorothy, and we'll believe our ears. Seeing is believing--Show us little Dorothy!" These, and similar, outcries bombarded the hearing of Mrs. Cecil and, for a moment, frightened her. Glancing out of the window she beheld the throng and called to Ephraim: "Boy! Telephone--the police! It's a riot of some sort! We're being mobbed!" But Dinah knew better. She didn't yet understand why her mistress should bother with a couple of runaway young folks, but since she had done so it was her own part to share in that bother. So she promptly lifted the girl in her strong arms and carried her out to the broad piazza, so crowded with people in Sunday attire, and quietly explained to whomsoever would listen: "Heah she is! Yas'm. Dis yere's de pos'man's li'l gal what's gone away wid de misery in his laigs. Yas'm. It sho'ly am. An' my Miss Betty, she's done foun' out how where he's gone at is right erjinin' ouah own prop'ty o' Deerhurst-on-de-Heights, where we-all's gwine in a right smart li'l while. Won't nottin' more bad happen dis li'l one, now my Miss Betty done got de care ob her. Yas'm, ladies an' gemplemen; an' so, bein's it Sunday, an' my folks mos' tuckered out, if you-all'd be so perlite as to go back to yo' housen an' done leab us res', we-all done be much obleeged. Yas'm. Good-bye." Dinah's good-natured speech, added to the one glimpse of the rescued child, acted more powerfully than the police whom her mistress would have summoned; and soon the crowd drifted away, pausing only here and there to admire the beautiful grounds which, hitherto, most of these visitors had seen only from outside the gates. But the Bruce family remained; and oh! the pride and importance which attached to them, thus distinguished! Or of that glad reunion with these old friends and neighbors, when Dorothy was once more in their arms, who could fitly tell? Then while Mabel and her restored playmate chattered of all that had happened to either since their parting, Mrs. Cecil drew the plumber aside and consulted him upon the very prosaic matter of clothes--clothes for now ill-clad Jim Barlow. "I've decided to take him with us to New York State when we go, in a very few days. I shall employ him as a gardener on my property there, but he isn't fit to travel--as he's fixed now. Will you, at regular wages for your time, take him down town to-morrow morning and fit him out with suitable clothing, plain and serviceable but ample in quantity, and bring the bill to me? I'd rather you'd not let him out of your sight, for now that Dorothy is safe, the boy has ridiculous notions about his 'duty' to that dreadful old truck-farming woman who has let him work for her during several years at--nothing a year! And anybody who's so saturated with 'duty,' is just the man I want at Deerhurst, be he old or young." To which the plumber answered: "Indeed, Mrs. Cecil, I'm a proud man to be selected for the job and as to pay for my time--just you settle with me when I ask you for that. Pay? For such a neighborly turn? Well, I guess not. Not till I'm a good deal poorer than I am now. And if there's anything needed for Dorothy C., my wife'll tend to that, too, and be proud." So with that matter settled, these good friends of the rescued children departed to their home and to what sleep they might find after so much delightful excitement. Next day, too, because the doctor called in said that Dorothy must attempt no more walking until the end of the week, Mrs. Cecil had a pony cart sent for, and Ephraim with Dinah took the child upon a round of calls to all whom she had ever known in that friendly neighborhood. Mabel was invited to accompany her, and did so--the proudest little maiden in Baltimore. They even went to their school, and Miss Georgia left her class for full five minutes to go out and congratulate her late pupil upon this happy turn of affairs. But at number 77 Dorothy would not stop; would not even look. She felt she could not bear its changed condition, for underneath all this present joy her heart ached with longing for those beloved ones who had made that little house a home. Also, now that it was drawing certainly near, it seemed as if the day of their reunion would never come; and when some time before, old Ephraim was sent on ahead with the horses and carriages, and the great heap of luggage which his lady found necessary to this annual removal, the child pleaded piteously to go with him. "No, my dear, not yet. Two days more and you shall. You may count the hours. I sometimes think that helps time to pass, when one is impatient. They've been telegraphed to, have known all about you ever since Sunday night. They'll have time to make ready for you--and that's all. But, Brown Eyes, a 'penny for your thoughts!' What are they, pray, to make you look so serious?" "I was thinking you're like a fairy godmother. You seem so able to do everything you want for everybody. I was wondering, too, what makes you so kind to--to me, after that day when I was saucy to you." It came to the lady's mind to answer: "Darling, who could be aught but kind to you!" but flattery was not one of her failings and she had begun to fear that all the attention of these past days was turning her charge's head. So she merely suggested: "I suppose I might be doing it for 'Johnnie.' I am very fond of him." Thus Dorothy's vanity received a possibly needful snub; for a girl who was well treated because of her father couldn't be so much of a heroine after all! The railway journey from Baltimore to New York was like a passage through fairyland to Dorothy C. and the farm-boy Jim. The wonders of their luxurious parlor-car surroundings kept them almost speechless with delight; but when at the latter great city they embarked upon a Hudson river steamer and they were free to roam about the palatial vessel, their tongues were loosened. Thereafter they talked so fast and so much that they hardly realized what was happening as Dinah called them to listen and obey the boat-officer's command: "All ashore what's goin'! Aft' gangway fo' Cornwall! A-L-L--A-S-H-O-O-R-E!" Over the gangplank, into the midst of a waiting crowd, and there was Ephraim with the carriage and the bays; and into the roomy vehicle bundled everybody, glad to be so near the end of that famous journey, and Dorothy quite unable to keep still for two consecutive moments. "Up, up, up! How high we are going! Straight into the skies it seems!" cried the girl to Jim Barlow, whom nobody who had known him on the truck-farm would have recognized as the same lad, so neat and trim he now appeared. But he had no words to answer. The wonderful upland country through which their course lay impressed him to silence, and the strength of those everlasting hills entered his ambitious soul--making him believe that to him who dared all high achievements were possible. "Will--we never--_never_ get there?" almost gasped Dorothy, in the breathless eagerness of these last few moments of separation from her loved ones. But Mrs. Cecil answered: "Yes, my child. Round this turn of the road and behold! we are arrived! See, that big place yonder whose gates stand wide open is Deerhurst, my home, to which I hope you will often come. And, look this way--there is Skyrie! The little stone cottage on a rock, half-hidden in vines, empty for years, and now--Who is that upon its threshold? That man in the wheeled chair, risking his neck to hasten your meeting? Who that dainty little woman flying down the path to clasp you in her arms? Ah! Dorothy C.! Father and mother, indeed, they have proved to you and glad am I to restore you to them, safe and sound!" Happy, happy Dorothy! At last, at last she was in the arms whose care had sheltered her through all her life; and there, for the time being, we must leave her. Of her life at Skyrie, of its haps and mishaps, of the mystery which still surrounded her birth and parentage, another book must tell. Or how beautiful Mrs. Cecil, gay and satisfied as that veritable fairy godmother to which Dorothy had likened her, drove briskly home to Deerhurst and its accustomed stateliness, with humble Jim Barlow too grateful for speech, already beginning his new and richer life. All these things and more belong with Dorothy Chester at Skyrie, and of them you shall hear by and by. Till then we leave her, well content. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer and typographical errors have been corrected without comment. In addition to obvious errors, the following changes have been made: Page 218: "t'was" was changed to "'twas" in the phrase, "... t'was to find out dat." Page 251: "need less" was changed to "needless" in the phrase, "... scuffin' 'em out, needless." Page 297: "the" was added to the phrase, "Glancing out of the window...." With the exception of the above corrections, the author's original spelling, punctuation, use of grammar, etc., is retained as it appears in the original publication.