what two children did by charlotte e. chittenden new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by george w. jacobs & co. _published, september, _ [e-book transcriber's note: obvious typos have been corrected and missing punctuation provided.] contents i. on the way ii. at the shore iii. beth and her dolls iv. the wedding v. the new way vi. a plan vii. the secret viii. the reward ix. once a year x. beth's birthday xi. the day after xii. sunday xiii. the four together xiv. the wedding and the visit xv. the lost invitation xvi. the mail and ethelwyn's visit xvii. out at grandmother's xviii. how they bought a baby xix. bobby's grandfather xx. the visit to the home what two children did _chapter i_ _on the way_ in the train we're watching outdoors speeding by: endless moving pictures, framed by earth and sky. "mistakes are very easy to make, i think," said ethelwyn, with an uneasy look at her mother who sat opposite, thinking hard about something. the reason ethelwyn knew her mother was thinking, was because at such times two little lines came and stood between her eyes, like sentinels. "do you think god made a mistake when he sent us here?" asked beth. they were in a pullman car which was moving rapidly along in the darkness. inside it was very bright and beautiful, and would have been most interesting to the children, had it not been for those two lines in their dear mother's face. "she is thinking about the naughty things we have done," said ethelwyn to beth in a tragic tone, at the same time taking a mournful bite out of a large, sugary cooky. they had eaten steadily since starting, and any one who did not understand children, would have been alarmed at possible consequences. on the seat between them there was a hospitable-looking basket with a handle over the middle and two covers that opened on either side of the handle. underneath the covers and the napkins the children, entirely to their joy, had found sandwiches without limit. some were cut round, others square, and all were without crust; inside they found minced chicken, creamy and delicious, also ham and a little mustard, and best of all were the small, brown squares with peanut butter between. "it's like christmas or a birthday, having these sandwiches," said ethelwyn. "they're all different and all good, and each one seems better than the others." then they began on the cookies, and bit scallops out of the edges, while between times they thought about their last mistake and their mother's forehead lines. sitting up straight against the velvet cushioned seat, the two children looked about the same age; the two heads were nearly on a level, as were both pairs of feet stuck out straight in front of them; but ethelwyn's came a little farther out than beth's, and her golden head came a little farther up on the seat than beth's dark one. just now there was a small cloud on their horizon. although they found the interior of their palace car, the porter, and the passengers, fascinating, and the luncheon an endless feast, they both felt that before they slept they must straighten things out; hence their first question. mrs. rayburn came back presently to a realizing consciousness of the two anxious faces opposite hers, and with a smile dismissed the sentinel lines. "god never makes mistakes," said she, with refreshing faith and emphasis. "it is we who do that." "i think," said beth, slowly pondering on this, "that the old surplus in the garden of eden who bothered adam and eve has something to do with it." "serpent, child," said ethelwyn crushingly, beginning on cake. "surplus, i mean," said beth, getting out a piece of cake for herself. "i'd give a good deal, sister, if you wouldn't always count your chickens before they're hatched!" whereupon she climbed down and went over to sit by her mother, where she glared indignantly at her sister. her dear "bawheady" doll was in her arms. this doll was so called because early in life he had lost his wig, and thereby developed a capability for being a baby, a bishop, or a boy. there was a fascinating hole on top of his head, thus making it possible to secrete things like medicine or food until they were fished out with a buttonhook or darning needle. he was fed on cake now, but was generally given crusts, when there were any, because beth did not like them. "why did you ask that question?" asked their mother. "we thought you looked as though we'd made you an awful lot of trouble," said ethelwyn, regarding the gorgeous ceiling of the car. "yes, you did, although i was not thinking of it just then; you ran away--" "walked, mother," corrected beth, "to the 'lectric car, with grandmother's gold dollar, to go down to buy a trunk specially for our dolls--" "it was fun, mother," put in ethelwyn, "only when we stood up and fussed to see who'd push the button to get off, the man slowed up so fast we both fell through a fat man's newspaper into his lap and upon his toes. he was angry too, for he just said 'ugh,' when we asked him to excuse us, please. the trunk man gave us back four big silver nickels with the trunk; we put them inside, and you can have them, mother, to help heal your feelings." "your mistake was in not asking--" "we thought you'd better not be 'sturbed, 'cause ever since grandpa and brother died, you've thought such a lot, and looked so worried--" "but i was more worried about you when i found you weren't in the house or grounds; i thought you might be lost, and i was about telephoning to the police station about it, when you came, and there was just time to catch the train." then ethelwyn got down, and went over to squeeze in on the other side of her mother. she knelt on the cushions and patted the dear face until the little smile they loved, came out again, and drove the care lines away. "children are such a worry, mother," she said in a funny, prim fashion, "that i should think you'd be sorry you ever bought us." "but we are going to be good from now on, so good you'll nearly die laughing," said beth, getting up to pat her side of the face. their mother laughed now in a bright fashion they loved, and squeezed them up tightly. "no, no, chickens," she said, "i'm never sorry i bought you; you were bargains, both of you, but i've had much to think of, and plan for, in the last few months, and perhaps i've neglected you somewhat." "can you tell us 'bout things, mother?" asked ethelwyn. "p'raps we could help some." "yes, i am going to, but not now, for the porter wishes to make up our beds." "there are stickers in my eyes," said beth, yawning. "there's one more question i'd like to know about though," she said as they moved across the aisle. "if god can't make mistakes, why does he let it be so easy for folks to?" "that i don't just know," said her mother, "but it's a good sign when we know they are mistakes." it was only a short time after this that they were all asleep in their curtained beds, and while it was still dark, and the children were too sleepy to realize much about it, they reached their destination and were driven to the seashore, cottage where they were to spend the summer. _chapter ii_ _at the shore_ underneath the washing waves the requiem of the sea, for those whose hopes are buried there, is tolling ceaselessly. it was interesting to go to sleep in a pullman car, and to wake up in a dainty room hung with rosebud chintz draperies, and with an altogether delightful air of coziness about it. but there was something outside their room that, like a magnet, drew them out of bed. they climbed on chairs, and gazed eagerly out of the windows. the house they were in, was on a hill. pine trees grew near, and there below them and very near, was the great silvery blue sea, with the sunshine flashing on its tossing waves? the children gasped with delight. "it's another door to paradise," said ethelwyn. "the gold place that shows where the sun sets is another one," said elizabeth. then they heard their mother, who had come in quietly, and in a moment was cuddling them up in her arms. "we've lost a lot of time, i'm afraid," said ethelwyn after they had given her a bear hug and a kiss. "that ocean is the prettiest thing, mother. p'raps that's the way to paradise where father and grandfather and brother have gone." "yes," said their mother, helping them into their clothes. "it is one of the ways." "tell us about this place, please," begged ethelwyn, "and how we happened to come to such a de-lic-ious place. will you have to work so hard, motherdy, here? and will the little lines come between your eyes?" whereupon elizabeth at once abandoned to their fate, her harness garters with their many buckles, and climbed up to see. yes, the lines had gone, and she kissed the place to make sure before she climbed down again. "hoty potys is the twissedest things," she remarked, worse tangled than ever. "hose supporters, dear child," corrected ethelwyn with the exasperating air that always roused beth's wrath. "this cottage," mother hastened to say, while she untangled the buckles with one hand and buttoned ethelwyn's waist with the other, "belongs to mrs. stevens and her daughter, dorothy. i have known them for years. recently they wrote asking me to bring you children and come to them for the summer; they, too, were lonely, and they knew that i needed rest, quiet, and time to plan for the future. there are few people living here but fisher folk--" "christ's people?" "yes, like them in trade, at least. they are poor and need help--" "are we rich people now, and can we buy things for them?" "your grandfather left you a great deal of money, children, and you must learn to use it generously. it was his wish, and mine, that you should begin at once to think about such things before you learn to love money for its own sake, and what it will buy." "o, we don't care at all, do we, sister?" said beth, stretching up on tiptoe to get her "bawheady" from the bureau. "we'd just as lief give it away as not, 'cause we've always you, mother dear." "is the money more than grandmother's gold dollar?" asked ethelwyn. "much more." "o, then we'll have fun spending it for folks; i'd like to. but, oh, i'm hungrier than i ever was before." "me, too," said beth. "i feel a great big appeltite inside me." they decided at once that the dining-room also was charming, with its cheery open fire of snapping pine knots, for the air outside was chilly. then, too, there was a parrot on a pole, who greeted them with, "well, well, well, what's all this? did you ever?" miss dorothy stevens had the kind of face that children take to at once. there never could be any question about aunty stevens, who laughed every time they said anything, and who on top of their excellent breakfast, brought them in some most delicious cookies--just the kind you would know she could make, sugary and melty, entirely perfect, in fact,--to take down on the beach for luncheon. after breakfast was over they at once started for the beach. sierra nevada, their colored nurse, following them with small buckets, shovels, wraps, and cushions. "mother, this is the nicest place, and i love the stevenses; but why are they sad around the eyes, and dressed in black, like you? has their father gone to paradise too?" asked ethelwyn, as they walked along. "yes, dear. besides, the young captain whom dorothy was going to marry went away last year and, his ship was wrecked and he has never been heard from. so they fear he was drowned." "o, mother, can this pretty sea do that? what was it they were saying about a tide?" their mother tried to explain all she knew about the tides, and when she had finished, ethelwyn said: "i think it would be easier to remember to call it tied, and then untied." _chapter iii_ _beth and her dolls_ dollie's poor mother is quite full of care, as she who lived in a shoe, for this child is tousled, this one undressed-- mother has all she can do. more dollies there are, than possible clothes, some of them must go to bed. and some to be healed by mother with glue, lacking an arm or a head. then others, wearing the invalid's clothes, care not a fling or a jot nor know that to-morrow their own fate may be the bed, or the mucilage pot. the first sunday that the children were at the seashore was warm and beautiful. mrs. rayburn and mrs. stevens went to church in the picturesque stone chapel built by a sea captain, as a memorial to his daughter who was drowned on the coast some years before this. "we'll be really better girls to stay at home some of the church time," said ethelwyn at breakfast, "we'll go this evening with miss dorothy." "my dolls are needing a bath and their best clothes for sunday-school," said beth to ethelwyn, who had decided to go down on the beach; "and i can do it all comfy and nice while you are gone." so ethelwyn and 'vada went for a run on the beach, and mother elizabeth, with a look of happy care on her face, and her beloved six dolls in her arms, came out on the porch, where she had already taken a basin of water, soap, a tiny sponge, and towels. directly she became aware of some one near her, and looking up saw a girl with dark eyes and short, straight hair watching the proceedings with much interest, her hands clasped behind her back. "my name is nan," said the visitor as soon as she caught elizabeth's eye, "who are you? is this your house? we've just come, and mother is in bed with a headache, and father's gone to church, so i'm roaming around seeking something to devour--" "does that mean eat?" said elizabeth, a scene in one of her picture books of lions devouring their prey coming into her mind. "i think it's what my father calls a figure of speech. he's a minister--a clergyman, you know. we've come down here to board, and he's going to have the services in the chapel of the heavenly rest. mother's sick about always, so i have to roam around--say, i know a game; let's baptize your children." "they don't need it; they're not born in sin--" "everything is," emphatically. "don't try to teach a minister's child things, for pity's sake. i'll do the baptizing. come along." the rainwater barrel, half sunken in the ground, was at one of the rear corners of the house. "we are not allowed to play in that, i think," said elizabeth uneasily. "that doesn't mean me, i'm older'n you. here, give me the doll without a wig." down went the beloved "bawheady" with a thud that carried desolation to beth's tender heart. four others followed in quick succession before beth could protest. then clinging to arabella, she started to run. nan tried to run after her, but caught her foot on the barrel's brim and straightway joined the five dolls. elizabeth opened her mouth to shriek, when in an opportune moment, a young man appeared on the scene, and speedily fished out miss nan, who dripped and coughed and choked; inarticulate, but evidently wrathy sounds wrestled for utterance in her throat. at last she shook herself free. "i'm perfectly degusted with this whole preformance," she said as she went stalking off, dripping as she went. then the young man laughed and laughed, until he became aware of elizabeth wistfully staring at him. "what is it?" he asked. "my dolls. they're baptized clear to the bottom; please get 'em out." "i'll do it, if you will take this note to miss dorothy stevens," said the young man, at once throwing off his coat and pushing up his shirt sleeve. beth, before she trotted off, saw that he had a blue anchor on his arm. when she came back, the rescued five lay stretched on the grass in a pathetic row, and she at once ran to her prostrate children. "you are to go to the parlor and tell miss dorothy all about it," she said, in passing, to their rescuer. "your note made miss dorothy cry; and she was all white 'round her mouth. thank you for the dolls," she called as an afterthought. so busy was she drying her afflicted family that it was some time after the others had reached home that 'vada, wildly excited, came to find elizabeth and to tell her that miss dorothy's sweetheart had come back. "from paradise?" queried beth, getting up at once and bristling all over with questions she wanted to ask him about that interesting place. "mighty nigh," said 'vada, rolling her eyes. "he was shipwrecked on the raging main, and hit on de head wid somefin that done knock all de sense out of him, so he's pick up by some folks dat didn't know 'im, an' he went cruisin' aroun', till he come to, and, by 'me by, back to see his sweetheart." elizabeth went into the parlor later on, and stared so insistently at the young captain that her mother drew her gently to one side and whispered to her. "but i'm anxious to see a sweetheart that has been in paradise, mother," she explained. _chapter iv_ _the wedding_ bells ring, birds sing, every one is gay; hearts beat, chimes sweet, on a bridal day. it was one of the things for the children to remember always, that miss dorothy was married while they were there to help. they helped so much in the matter of scraping all the cake and icing pans, stoning, and especially eating, raisins, that it was a wonder they were not ill. the morning on which the wedding was to take place dawned as bright and golden as could be desired. it was a very simple, pretty wedding in the stone chapel, towards which, in the early morning, the bridal party walked. nan, ethelwyn, and elizabeth went ahead, bearing flowers, and after them came miss dorothy in her white gown, clinging to the arm of her sailor lover. mrs. stevens and the children's mother, together with a few friends, awaited them in the pretty church, and nan's father married them. they then all went to the bride's home for breakfast, immediately after which, the young couple were going away for a year. this fact, and the mother's sad face impaired the appetites of the guests, with three noble exceptions. the trio at the end of the table ate with zest and unimpaired enthusiasm, of the good things that they fondly believed might never have reached their present point of perfection had it not been for their skill. "should you think," elizabeth paused to say, in a somewhat muffled voice, entirely owing to plum cake and not grief, "that one of us is married too?" "my father," returned nan loftily, "is not given to making mistakes of that kind. there weren't husbands enough to go 'round anyway." "what is a husband?" "you've been helping make one, child, and you ask that!" so elizabeth concluded it was a small portion of the refreshments that had escaped her notice. afterwards they went down to the harbor from which the bride and groom were to sail. "like the owl and the pussy cat," said ethelwyn, cheerfully. as they kissed their friend good-bye, they placed around her neck a pretty chain, hanging from which was a medallion with their pictures painted on it. "you can look at us when you get lonesome," suggested beth. the last good-bye was said, and they drove sadly home in a fine, drenching rain that had suddenly fallen like a vail over their golden day. 'vada had started the open fires and they were cheerfully cracking, while polly from her pole croaked crossly, "shut up, do! quit making all that fuss!" mrs. rayburn took aunty stevens away with her, and by and by in the afternoon, they found her tucked up on the couch in their sitting-room looking somewhat happier. "aren't you glad you have us, and specially mother?" asked beth, kissing her. there was only one answer possible to this, and it was given with such emphasis that ethelwyn nodded and said, "that's the way we feel. mother knows how to fix things right better'n anybody, unless it should be god." "let's sing awhile, sister, while mother thinks of a story or two," suggested beth. so they squatted in front of the grate and sang, "chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, i am so glad that jesus loves me." then they sang what they called "precious julias," "little children who love mary deemer." "why," beth stopped to ask, "does it say precious julias when it's 'bout mary deemer, sister?" "middle name, prob'ly," answered ethelwyn; "anyway that's mary deemer," pointing to a picture of murillo's "magdalene," "and the reason that she's loved by children, is because she is pretty and good. if you are good, elizabeth, people will love you." "i'm as good as you are, anyway," began beth wrathfully, when she saw nan in the doorway. "may i come in?" she asked, wistfully. "mother has a headache, father's gone fishing in a boat, and i've a toothpick in my side." "come in, deary," said mrs. rayburn, who felt an infinite pity for sturdy little nan, with her invalid mother. "bless me, what cold hands! what's this thing you have in your side?" she continued, cuddling nan up in her lap. nan breathed a contented breath. "o, it's gone now. it's a sharp, pointed thing that sticks me when i'm lonesome." "we're having sunday-school, the singing part, and you may come if you're good, and know a verse, and won't baptize the sunday-school," said beth, multiplying conditions rapidly. "i know a verse that father says he thinks ought to be in the bible," said nan. "let's not have sunday-school," she continued, snuggling down on mrs. rayburn's shoulder. "it's so nice here, and i want to tell you 'bout my dream i had the other night. dreamed i went to heaven awhile, and when i came home i slid down fifty miles of live wire and sissed all the way down like a hot flatiron." "there's a gold crack in the sky now that shows a little weenty bit of heaven's floor, i think, right now," said ethelwyn, going to the west window. they all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky shining through the misty rain clouds. "now, if god and the angels would just peek out a minute, i'd be thankful," said elizabeth. _chapter v_ _the new way_ it's--hard--to--work-- and easy to play; i'll tell you what we've done, we play our work and work our play, and all the hard is gone. the children were always glad when mrs. flaharty came to wash, for she was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain things to them. one monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham aprons tied around their waists for trails, and with one of aunty stevens' bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. in this rig, they felt that their appearance left little to be desired. they were having literary exercises while mrs. flaharty was hanging the white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in the proceedings, she took her time about it too. in the midst of ethelwyn's recitation of "mary had a little lamb," she paused to say, after, "the eager children cry," "what do you s'pose the silly things cried for?" "'cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied elizabeth from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "hurry up, sister, it's my turn." "is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked mrs. flaharty, flopping out a sheet. "if you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry--whin you had the stren'th." "is it shaking ager?" asked elizabeth doubtfully. "oh, i didn't know that. come and sit down on the steps, mrs. flaharty, and i'll tell a story i made up for this special 'casion." "it's troo wid the white does i am, an' i reckin i can sit and take me breath before i begin on the colored; besides, i'd have to be takin' away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if i wint now." so mrs. flaharty sat down ponderously. "i've a poem, too," said ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and elizabeth began: "once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he 'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. once the boy went in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'go not near the fairy prince,' had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he did. so the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'avast there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'i'm in trouble,' said the fairy prince. 'what about?' said the boy. 'i can walk only on one foot till somebody cuts off my little toe,' said the prince. "so the boy did it with his father's razor, and it thundered and lightened, and his father came and scolded over the back fence, but the prince waved his magic cut toe; then they all banged and went up on a fourth of july sky rocket, till the father fell off and bumped all his crossness out of him, and like birds of a fevver, they all lived togevver afterwards." "the saints be praised," said mrs. flaharty, fanning herself with her apron. then ethelwyn came forward. "this is my poem," she said, bowing to the audience. "a little girl lived way down east, she rose and rose, like bread with yeast, she rose above the tallest people, and far above the highest steeple. she kept right on till by and by she took a peek into the sky--" "oh, what did she see?" asked elizabeth, interested at once. "that you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "mother says she likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own something or other, i forget what--you let folks guess about it." "my sister is smart," complacently remarked elizabeth to nan, who had just come over. "so am i, then," said nan, not to be outdone. "i can make up beautiful poems." "let's hear one." so nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began: "i have a little kitty, who is so very pretty, tho' growing large and fat, i fear she'll be a cat. one day, my sakes, she saw a dog, her tail swelled up just like a log; he barked, she spit, she does not love dogs, not a bit." "what color is she?" asked ethelwyn. "that is left for your guessing part," said nan promptly. mrs. flaharty now reluctantly arose. "it's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but i mus' git troo, and go home. there's a spindlin' lad named dick nex' door but wan to where i live, that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. he'd be cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales." "o, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. we'll ask her. she's intending to go down that way herself, i know, and she'll be so good to dick; she just can't help it," said ethelwyn, and at once they dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and their gingham aprons lying on the steps. _chapter vi_ _a plan_ it's nice to get gifts, but better to give: for giving leaves always a glow that warms up a part in every heart; the joy of it never can go. there was woe in ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe was on account of the pain; for elizabeth and her mother had gone to town to arrange things for dick, who was to be taken to the hospital, where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure him. and now ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go. very shortly after mrs. flaharty had told them about dick, their mother had taken them to see him. his home was a long way from their cottage, where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. poor little dick, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the assistance of ill nutrition and bad ventilation. dick's own mother and father were dead, and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at all, looked upon him as a useless encumbrance, and by her neglect was making him very unhappy. ethelwyn and elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs. in a week's time they had changed things marvelously. the stepmother had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim upon dick, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving devotion to dick. the sum paid her for this care kept them both in comfort, and dick, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome, dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a fresh hold of life. the doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this that elizabeth and her mother had gone to town. the night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over. aunty stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and joined them. "it would be a lovely work," said mrs. rayburn, thoughtfully looking at the fire, "to make a home for dick and many such poor little weaklings, somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good, well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life." "there's our money," said ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's. "let's make one with it." "would you like that?" "yes, indeed we should," they answered in a breath. "but it would take a great deal of money, and instead of being very rich when you grow up, and being able to travel everywhere and have beautiful clothing and jewels, you might have to give up many things of that sort." "but," said elizabeth, climbing up into her mother's lap, "isn't doing things for poor children like dick, better than that?" "there's no doubt about it," said their mother, her eyes shining as she kissed the tops of the two round heads now cuddled on her shoulders, in what beth called her "arm cuddles." "well, we don't mind then, do we, sister?" "no indeed," said sister promptly, kicking her foot out towards the fire. "dresses are a bother, and always getting torn, and traveling makes you very tired, only the luncheon's nice. but i'd lots rather build a home." "let's see," said mother, "if you are as ready to give up something now. elizabeth's birthday is next week and ethelwyn's next month. i had thought we might take a short yachting trip,--all of us, nan, aunty stevens--" "o, mother," they cried, turning around to hug her. "then there is a doll in town that can walk and talk. beth, deary, you choke me so i can't talk;--and a camera for sister. would you mind giving up these things to help pay the hospital expenses, or to buy a wheel chair or some comfort for dick?" down went the heads again, and dead silence reigned except for the crackling of the fire and the clicking of aunty stevens' needles. "may we go away and think it over?" said ethelwyn soberly. "yes." so they slid down and disappeared to think it out alone, as they always did when obliged to settle questions for themselves. ethelwyn went outdoors, and crawled into the hammock on the porch. the wind blew mistily from the sea and was heavy with dampness and cold, but the child paid no attention to that; she was so busy thinking. surely, she thought, there was money enough for dick and the others without giving up her camera and the sea trip. she had longed for a camera all summer. nan had the use of her mother's and had taken their pictures in all places and positions, and she did so wish for one. but then, there was poor dick, how uncomfortable he had looked. elizabeth, meantime, went to the bedside of her beloved doll family. they were lying serene and placid, exactly as she had placed and tucked them in at bedtime, with her own motherly hand, and the memory of dick lying racked with pain on the comfortless bed where she had first seen him, almost decided her at once. but a doll that could walk and talk, though, would be lovely. "but then, darlings," she said, after a little, "you might think i would love her better than you, and you are such dears, you don't deserve that." so beth kissed them all with fervor, her mind quite made up. while they were away, aunty stevens said, "isn't that a pretty hard test?" the children's mother shook her head thoughtfully at the dancing fire. "i hope not," she said. "i don't wish them to do things now that they will repent of afterwards. but it seems to me that if they are trained now to be unselfish, they will always be so. don't you think, dear mrs. stevens, that the whole trouble with the world is its selfishness?" "no doubt at all about it," said the older woman, nodding emphatically over her flying needles. "then if the world is to be made better, and rid of this, which lies at the bottom of all the crime, sin and unhappiness, the younger ones of us will have to be taught to sacrifice, at least some luxuries, to help give less fortunate ones the necessities of life," said mrs. rayburn, getting interested, and talking fast and earnestly. "how i hate the expression 'look out for number one,' it's such teaching as this, that makes human beings so forgetful of others," she went on after a little pause, "and the modern socialist only seems to be trying to exchange one set of selfish, grasping rules for another of the same sort. so the world will go on, until the laws are again based on the teaching of our lord, and christian socialism will prevail." "yes, you are quite right, but what are you among so many?" asked aunty stevens, smiling across at her friend. mrs. rayburn's cheeks flushed. "yes, i know," she said. "i suppose it looks as though i alone were trying to reform the world; but i am not. i am only one little atom trying to teach still smaller atoms that they must do their share." "was it not in 'bleak house' that that exceedingly unpleasant personage used to give away her children's pocket money? and the black looks she received from them when she was not looking, were something dreadful." "well," said mrs. rayburn, laughing, "i hope you don't think the cases are parallel." "no indeed, i don't. i was trying to say, i think you are right because you go at it in the right way, and let them choose. then, because they love and have perfect confidence in you, they will be pretty likely to choose the right way." "people so often say, 'let children have a good time,' but interpreted, from their point of view, a good time, means a selfish time. that is selfish enjoyment, but it might be good occasionally to put to the test the truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive." elizabeth now came in with her baby doll in her arms. she soberly climbed up again into the blessed fold of her mother's arms. "i'd just as lief dick would have it as not, momsey, for i've my heart chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have dick and others well and comfyble." ethelwyn came a moment later. "it's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "i can make pictures with a pencil more easily than i can bear to think that dick needs my camera money, i'll be glad to do it, mother." but ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well enough to go to town. _chapter vii_ _the secret_ such fun to have a secret! to tell one too is fun. but then there is no secret that's known to more than one. ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother and beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. but by and by she heard aunty stevens calling her. "here i am," she answered, at once sitting up. "do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" ethelwyn rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice. "o if you only knew how i love to cook, aunty stevens," she cried. "and nobody will hardly ever let me. i can make the bestest cookies if any one else just makes the dough. so if you don't feel just prezactly well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and i will do it all." "thank you, deary, but i'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together. let me tie this apron around you." then aunty stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table. "o isn't everything about this just too cunning? did these used to be miss dorothy's?" said ethelwyn in a rapture, mrs. stevens nodded. "here's your dough, dear. now roll it out to fit this little plate." this took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in. "now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face. "a thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and flour--then the crust won't soak. now the apples. sugar them well. put any of these spices on that you wish." "i like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate. i b'lieve i'll put 'em all in," said ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers. "now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour. now roll out your top crust. cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water. there! now it is ready to go in the oven." "o isn't it sweet?" said ethelwyn. "nobody can cook like you, aunty stevens. nobody. i think it's a great--great appomplishment." "thank you, dear. now sit down, and when i have cleaned up things a little, we'll go out on the west porch, and i am going to tell you something. i have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of others." "o goody," said ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "next to cooking, i love to hear secrets. and would you mind telling me a thing or two, i have been thinking about lately? i have been meaning to ask mother about it. you know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. well, what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of the bodies the cannibals eat?" "well, ethelwyn," said mrs. stevens with a gasp. "i suppose it's no harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else." "o yes, i should think so," said ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get dreadfully mixed up in themselves. but never mind. i suppose the lord can manage it." aunty stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea. "o now i'm going to hear the secret," said ethelwyn, sitting down on the arm of the chair. "and my own pie is in the oven baking. aren't we having a good time, aunty stevens?" "yes, we are," said aunty stevens, hugging her. "and now i am going to tell you. i'm afraid, deary, that i have been a very selfish woman. when my husband died, i felt as though i had nothing to live for but dorothy, and when she too went away, i felt that there was no use in living. the other evening when i heard you all planning for others, it occurred to me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and i am all alone in it. why it's the very thing for a children's rest and training school." "o aunty stevens," said ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her. "i can give the cottage, and i can manage it, and your money can fit it up, and hire teachers." "yes, sir," said ethelwyn, wildly excited. "you can teach them to make pies like mine--" "yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house--" "and dick?" "he shall be the first one." "and his 'dopted aunt?" "yes, indeed. she can help in many ways." "o this is lots better than going to town. i just wish i could tell mother and beth. seems to me i can't possibly wait." "i see nan coming. suppose 'vada should take you two down to have your luncheon on the beach." "the pie, too?" "yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go." "o it's all well, cured with joy, i guess. anyway mother said i might go outdoors, you know. it was the noise and smoke in town she thought would hurt me." so they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to dress for the train that was to bring back mrs. rayburn and beth. "well ethelwyn," said aunty stevens, meeting her, "how was the picnic?" "the picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was perfect, but nan was a trial sometimes," said ethelwyn, sighing deeply; "she said she couldn't possibly go home, 'count of her mother having a headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. i had my hands pretty full with that child. she does not give in to me like my sister--i will say that." and ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the house for her bath and toilet. when the train stopped, and elizabeth appeared, ethelwyn and she rushed at each other, and both began to talk at once. "i've a secret that will make your eyes stick out--then i made a pie--" "i saw the doctor that makes bone people. there was one for a sign at the pittalhos where we were--" "hospital, child." "and he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear through him. i was scared, because i thought that the doctor would make mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he'd cure dick. we saw his bed all white--" "wait till you know the secret. i saved you a piece of pie--nan wanted it--" "i rode up in an alligator--" "elevator." "and a man at the pittalhos said, 'where did i get those dimple holes,' and i said prob'ly they wasn't fat enough to stuff it all--he laughed though at that." and so they chattered on until they reached home. _chapter viii_ _the reward_ to help the sorry, hungry poor, or ease a burdened one, begins to bring the answer, when we pray "thy kingdom come." it all unfolded like a beautiful flower, and every one was interested in getting ready the children's rest and summer training school, which was to be the name of the cottage. in the midst of it all, mrs. stevens one day received from japan a long and happy letter from dorothy and her husband; and a mysterious box, which was smuggled away for the birthday, came for the children. dick was getting better every minute, and was looking forward with eager delight to the time when he should go to the rest, well and strong. in the rayburn sitting-room one evening, the children were looking over a portfolio of photographs. aunty stevens as usual was knitting, and laughing with them over the pictures. ethelwyn was showing them, for she had seen them before. "this is beethoven," she announced, holding up one of the great masters. "he isn't very pretty, but i s'pose he made up in being clever." "he is sort of kind-looking," said beth, who always liked to say something nice about every one. "he is better than pretty," said ethelwyn. "he's a very good musician. he can play the piano." "where does he live?" "paradise, i think. mebbe not, though." "i'm sorry for his folks." "this is handel." "what of?" and nan got up to look. "not a dipper-handle, but a man of that name. he could play too." "he looks kind of like a woman--look at his hair." "that is his wig." "was he a bawheady?" and beth got up to look more closely at the man who was afflicted like her beloved doll. "i s'pose he must have been. but it doesn't show like your doll's," said nan. "this is a bust of diana." "where is she busted?" "all but her head and shoulders." "who did it?" "a man i guess. this is the 'kiss of judas.'" "oh, isn't judas mean-looking?" "looks like a bug thief." this from beth. "burglar, child," said nan. "bug thief is what i meant," said beth with dignity, for she didn't propose to be corrected by nan or sister. then she walked over to her mother. "are you very old, mother?" she asked. "i've been meaning to ask. are you a hundred, or eleven, or is that your size shoe?" "elizabeth rayburn!" said ethelwyn, dropping the photographs and coming over to her mother, followed by nan. "our mother isn't old at all!" "no i know she isn't, only she must be toler'bly old, to know so much goodness." "i'm just old enough to love you," said their mother, laughing and hugging them all three at once in a way she had. "i've some money in the bank," said nan presently. "i've been thinking what i'd buy for the rest, and i've 'bout decided on a feeble chair." "goodness me! i shall never sit in it, if it's feeble, nan," said aunty stevens, laughing. "no, _for_ the feeble," corrected nan. "i want my mother to give something too; she has some money, and i believe if she would give it for my brother's sake, she would feel better and wouldn't cry so much. perhaps she will." "we are all going to church to-morrow, 'cause your father is going to preach about the rest,--pray over it too, and mother's going to sing the offertory, two verses, if the sermon's too long, and three if it isn't. you tell your father that, for singing is much more interesting than preaching any day." "ethelwyn!" "why it is, mother." "i'll tell father, but he is likely to go on a long time when he is once started," said nan. "if i don't go to sleep, i'll be sure to wiggle," said beth. but they all went to sleep. ethelwyn sat in the choir seats close to her mother; while elizabeth sat below with aunty stevens. nan sat quite near them and sweetly smiled at elizabeth. "how do you feel?" she asked in a shrill whisper. "wiggly? i told father not to preach very long, but there is no telling. mother has some gum drops for me if i wiggle." "don't you think you will then?" asked beth. but nan's mother stopped further disclosures by turning her daughter around, and setting her down with emphasis on the other side of her. fortunately they all three fell asleep in the early part of the sermon and did not wake up until mrs. rayburn began to sing. at the first note ethelwyn slipped down, and stood with her hand in her mother's. then elizabeth eluded aunty stevens's vigilant eye, slipped out of the seat and walked up and stood on the other side, her head raised looking into her mother's face, and to their great delight the three verses were sung. _chapter ix_ _once a year_ birth days, earth days, seem very few; year days, dear days, when life is new. by constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on ethelwyn's birthday. two or three days before it was finished, nan's mother came over, the melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. she brought with her the deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. this land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight young hearts. "it is for philip," she said simply. "i have put his money into it, and perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, i can forget my own heartache." "you have chosen the very best way to do so," said mrs. rayburn. nan's "feeble" chair came the night before the opening, and all three of the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be anything but feeble. the morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs. at first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of nan, ethelwyn, and beth, they were soon organized into a rough riders company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground with shrill yells of delight. dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in his wheel-chair, and directed the others. "we made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss others; they are never killed or anything," explained nan. a doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. there were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day. two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. one was, that this was ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away the next day. in the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles on it. then they had the fun of opening the box from japan. there was a whole family of quaint dolls for elizabeth, labeled by dorothy's husband, "heathen dolls: never baptized." "nor never will be, by nan," said elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her, and fixing guilty nan with a steadfast glance. there was the cunningest watch for ethelwyn about the size of a quarter of a dollar. "it's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and holding it up to her ear. there was a parasol and a sash for nan, and three japanese costumes complete for the "three little maids from school." these, they at once put on. then they all went out on the lawn, and hung japanese lanterns in the trees, and nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory. at last they were in the sitting-room again. the adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come. nan, her father, and mother, and mrs. stevens came in for a last word. "i shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced nan in a melancholy voice, "for i shall be a widow. what makes you go away, mrs. rayburn?" "school and business call us to town, nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend christmas here, too, i hope." "this has been the best birthday i ever spent or ever expect to," said ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "it is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything." then they were all quiet for a little while, until mrs. rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly: "and does thy day seem dark, all turned to rain? seek thou one out whose life is filled with pain. put out a hand to help this greater need, and lo! within thy life the sun will shine indeed." _chapter x_ _beth's birthday_ the space between our birthdays seems to grow apace, when we're young they loiter; when we're old they race. it began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. ethelwyn and beth did not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very often, nor christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and pitfalls. that was one reason. that day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because," said ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes mother feel bad." "uh huh," said beth. they were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was open. this was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their presents. for fear you shouldn't understand this, i will tell you beth's way of explaining it. "sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on the first birthday which comes in july, we have presents, and on the second, in august, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we have all the month to choose in." they generally chose thirty different things. their mother nearly always let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go up in an air ship, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as safer, and nearer at hand. this morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the sunshine darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing outside something like this-- "wake up, children: the day is new. it's full of joy for dears like you." so they woke up laughing, at least ethelwyn did, and told beth what the birds sang; but beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "uh huh." "you are a very lazy child," said ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good revolutions." "what's them?" asked beth, still with her eyes shut. "something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child, i'm sorry to say. mother esplained about people making things like that at new year's, and birthdays, and so i've been thinking of some specially for you--" "i can make my own," said beth, fully awake now, "and i can help make yours when it comes to that, i guess." "well," said ethelwyn, "i have been thinking of a few for you to begin with. one is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your sister wants you to--" "you can make your own, while i'm getting my bath first now," said beth, sliding out of bed. "i'm anxious to see my presents." ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. how mortified she felt after what she had said to beth! sierra nevada hurried her through her bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for breakfast anyway. when she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until after she had eaten. she felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight from beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living in it. no wonder the oatmeal and the muffins lost their flavor! but ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. presently she was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from paris that could talk as well, and a camera from aunty stevens. the camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and years. uncle tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece, with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. then there were two bicycles from uncle bob, some more candy, a pony, and some home-made molasses candy from their grandmother. the pony was a real live pony, and joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery stable was to take care of it. "i feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said beth, after a long and speechless period of rapture. their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but grandmother's molasses, and a box or two for friends. then came little nora, the niece of their dressmaker, mrs. o'neal, with a quart of pecans, for the birthday. she went home with a box of candy, and told her little sister katie about it. "o i wanted to go too," wailed katie. "you were asleep, dear, when i went, but i told them the nuts were from you, too." "but i wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' take me now." "i have to go down town for auntie. but she'll let you go." "yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked. so katie went up-stairs to make herself tidy. "it's mesilf wants to take a 'silvernear,'" she said as she scrubbed herself; and then in an evil moment, she beheld a small plate with a bunny on it, which nora owned and loved. "it's just the thing," thought katie, "and kind of partly mine because it's in our room." so she took it with her when she went, and it burned her little hand like fire. ethelwyn and beth were preparing a tea party in the doll house. "o katie, how nice!" said ethelwyn. "we'll put it in the tea party. we were coming over to get you and nora to come; there are some beautiful iced cakes coming up in a minute." "i can't stay," said katie feebly, "i feel kind of sick inside." so saying she rushed home, but it was no use; poor katie's conscience grew worse all the time, and presently she came back. "i--i--know you won't like me any more," she said, red and miserable, "but it's nora's plate i gave you, and i'm no better than a thafe." but ethelwyn and beth put their arms around her, and comforted her dear little sore heart. "i know just how you feel," said ethelwyn. "i took mother's gold dragon stick-pin for my dolly's blanket one day, because i was in a hurry, and lost it of course, and felt so mizzable, as if nothing could ever be nice again. now take the plate and go and get nora, dear, and we'll have the best tea party." and they did, and the guests had each another box of candy for their "silvernears," besides, but ethelwyn and beth ate far too much, and that's the reason their next day good time began by being a bad time too. _chapter xi_ _the day after_ in the lovely playtime, life seems always gay. in the sober worktime, sometimes it grows gray. mother was superintending the strawberry jam in the kitchen, giving orders to the grocery boy, and paying mrs. o'neal for sewing, all at once. you can't do this unless you are a mother, but mothers can do almost everything at once. "it's a fortunate thing that the bible says everybody mustn't work on sunday. it says man-servant, maid-servant, cattle, stranger within thy gates, but nothing at all about mothers, though, because they positively have to," said ethelwyn, after a profound season of thought in the hammock. "when our mother rests, she darns stockings," said beth, who was dressing her doll near by. "not on sunday, child!" said ethelwyn scandalized. "well nobody said she did, i guess. she tells us bible stories then. i always think they sound so pretty, against her sunday clothes," said beth. "pooh!" said ethelwyn who was cross. she was going down to the grocery presently on her wheel to get some eggs, but she was putting it off as long as she could. she started after awhile, and unluckily had the groceryman tie the eggs on the wheel. she came along safely, until within view of beth lying comfortably in the hammock; then with a desire to show off, she spurted, or tried to, and her wheel ran off the walk, and tipped her off upon the grass on top of two dozen eggs! her mother picked her up, and after stilling beth's laughter, and her crying, washed her, and put her in the hammock, all in so short a time that only a yellow stain on the grass showed that a tragedy had happened. then mother went back to her jam. beth snickered at intervals, however, though ethelwyn sternly bade her be quiet. "you were so yellow and funny, sister," said beth, giggling. ethelwyn opened her mouth for a reply that would do justice to the subject, when bobby, their next door neighbor came along. "hullo, bobby," they cried. "hullo," said bobby at once. "come in and see our birthday presents," said ethelwyn, and bobby at once trotted up the walk. he was a round-faced little chap, with small freckles on his button of a nose. his family had just moved into town from a farm. "where have you been, bobby?" asked ethelwyn as they went towards the house. "i went down to the grocery for mother; i thought i knew the way but i got mixed up, and stopped under a lamp-post, to think. pretty soon a woman came along and put a white letter in a box; so i thought i'd save trouble if i put mother's grocery list in, and i did. a man in gray clothes came along, and unlocked it, and took the letters all out. i told him 'bout my list, and he laughed, and gave it to me, and asked me if i didn't know 'bout letter boxes? i didn't, so he told me, and took me along with him down town." "sister--" began beth, giggling, "went to the grocery--" "let's play in the house," said ethelwyn frowning at beth. "you can stay awhile, can't you, bobby?" "i guess i'd better ask, first," said bobby. he trotted home and soon came back with his face shining from soap and water, and his hair brushed straight up so that it looked like a halo around the full moon. then nan, the minister's daughter, came in. she had also come to live in their town and was the same funny, outspoken nan, as always. "it's a very convenient thing that i know you children," she had said, "for it's a great trouble to have to find out, and learn to know everybody in a town." they were playing games in the nursery, when mother came up-stairs, having finished the jam, ordered the groceries, and paid mrs. o'neal. she was going to combine resting and mending, as usual, so she came to the nursery, just as they were beginning a temperance lecture. bobby was selling tickets, and mother cheerfully paid a penny, and sat in her low rocker near the window. nan had chosen to be lecturer, so ethelwyn, beth, and bobby made a somewhat reluctant and highly critical audience. besides, there were the dolls in various uncomfortable attitudes, but very amiable nevertheless. and to them all, nan now came forward and made a profound bow. "my subject is temperance, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "and i hope you'll pay attention, because it's a true subject, as well as a useful one. "i wish men wouldn't get drunk. it's dreadful smelly even going by a saloon, so i don't see how they can. i think it would be very nice if pleecemen would think once in a while about stopping such things as drunkers, but they probably like to have saloons around for themselves. a nice thing would be, to have ladies, like your mother and me, for pleecemen. then we'd scrub things up, and pour things out, till you couldn't smell or taste a thing. but men are meaner than women"--bobby looked dubious--"some men aren't though"--he looked relieved. "the reason we are so nice and 'spectable, is because my father is a minister, and doesn't dare do disgraceful things, and your mother doesn't get time. so we should be thankful, instead of wishing we had a candy store in the family, and being sorry we have to set examples for other kids. no! no! no! children, i mean. that's all, and i hope you won't forget all i've told you." "let's play church now," said ethelwyn promptly, "and i choose to be preacher, because i know about moses and abiram. the choir will please sing billy boy." so they put on nightgowns for surplices. "what can i do?" said beth, who was tired of always being an audience. "take up the collection," said ethelwyn, "we need some more pennies." "'the sermon, beloved," said ethelwyn after the singing, and a little preliminary ritual, "is about moses and abiram, who both wanted to be boss of the temple. "'i will be boss,' said moses. "'not much,' said abiram, standing on his tippest toes. "then they fit, and i've forgotten which one whipped, 'cause we haven't got that far yet; anyway it's lunch time, so do hurry and take up the collection." _chapter xii_ _sunday_ no matter how bad we are through the week, when sunday comes 'round we grow very meek. "i hope, beth," said ethelwyn, who always woke up first, "you will remember to-day is sunday, and not quarrel with your sister," but beth cuddled down in the pillows and refused to answer a word. after a while, ethelwyn, watching the sunbeams dancing on the pink wall, went to sleep herself, and opened her eyes only when her mother kissed her awake. sierra nevada, being a devout roman catholic, always went to early mass on sunday mornings, and their mother gave them their baths, to their great delight and comfort. the bath was all ready for them now, crystal clear with the jolly sunbeams dancing on its silver disk. "we'll get a sunshine bath," said beth, trying to catch the golden drops. "inside and outside," said mother smiling. "you look so pretty, motherdy," said ethelwyn approvingly, "so much prettier than black, cross old 'vada, who always rolls her eyes at me and says, 'miss effel, you is de troublesomest chile dat ebba was bown.' you have sense, and in that blue gown, white apron, and cap, you are pretty. you get prettier all the time you are getting old, mother. you'll be a beautiful angel when you are very old." "thank you," said her mother laughing. "come on now, do you know your verse?" "i did," said ethelwyn, "but the verse hasn't any sense: it's about st. peter's wife's mother being sick with the fever--" "and st. peter cut off the priest's right ear, and then he went out and crew bitterly," said beth, jumping up and down to see how high she could splash. "elizabeth!" said her mother, going off into spasms of laughter. "you are a heathen! can't you ever get things right? i will say, though, i think the verses they select for infant classes are anything but suitable, but for pity's sake don't say the one you told me, you will disgrace me. i will hear you after breakfast." but aunt mandy the cook was sick with the toothache, which she called a "plum mizzery" in her face, and mother was so busy, that 'vada, who had returned and was more solemn than ever, dressed them and took them to sunday-school. the infant class sat on seats that began close to the floor, and gradually rose to the top of the room. ethelwyn and nan sat high up, while beth was a little way below. bobby sat near her, and had grinned all over his round face when she came in. "i've brought my white mouse in my pocket; i'm going to stay for church, and i get lonesome," he whispered. "uh huh," said beth nodding, "i've brought my paper dolls." but sister punched her in the back with her parasol to be quiet, and just then the teacher asked her verse. beth thought hard. "mother said i mustn't tell you about the priest crewing about his cut off ear," she said thoughtfully, "but i know another verse about st. peter, it's easier to merember than the other one, 'cause it's poetry." "peter, peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her--" "next!" said the teacher with a face red, and then she coughed. the next was bobby, who cheerfully took up the refrain, where beth left off. "--put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well," he concluded promptly. the older pupils, with two scandalized exceptions,--ethelwyn and nan--laughed, and the younger ones turned around and looked interested. the teacher coughed again and changed the subject. but the adventures of bobby and beth were by no means over, for when they came out into the large room where the hundreds of scholars sat, the infant class was marshaled up into the choir seats to sing "precious julias" as beth still called it. the upright of the front seat was standing unfastened from the floor, waiting for repairs, but no one knew it, beth and bobby least of all. they, and six other infants pressed close up against it, and sang with all their might. unfortunately they pressed too hard on the loose back. all at once it went over, and eight unfortunate infants sprawled flat on their faces, hats rolling off, and books tumbling down. everybody stopped singing to laugh, but it changed to little shrieks of dismay, as a poor frightened white mouse, thrown out of bobby's pocket by the shock, went running down the aisle. bobby ran after it in hot pursuit. beth followed loyally, for she had seen where it went. they caught the trembling little creature at the door, and then they looked at each other. "let's go home," said bobby. "uh huh, let's," said beth. they met beth's mother on the way to church. "we'll stay at home to-day, mother," said beth, "we've had just all we can stand." so they went home and played church in the front yard, until ethelwyn and nan came home just before the sermon. those young ladies had fully intended solemnly to lecture the two at home, but it was very pleasant under the trees, with the birds, and bobby and beth singing lustily, so they joined in, and ethelwyn then preached. "i choose to," she said, "because i went to an awfully dry lecture on art or clothes or something, with mother. i slept some, 'cause it was almost as hard to understand as a sermon, but when i was awake i heard a good deal that will do you good. "clothes," she went on after this introduction, "will ruin your health if you don't look out, and study statoos and things for some kind of line, clothes-line, i guess. so when you see a lot of white statoos--which aren't as interesting as the circus but more good for learning, which is always the way in this life--learnified things are likely to be dry--you'll learn something. but i went to sleep before i found out what or why statoos is the thing to study; but they are so cold-looking, from being undressed, that i think it would be a kind act to make pajamas for them, and trousers for our dolls so they will live longer--" "_i_ will not," said beth firmly, from the congregation. "it wouldn't be fun to have all boy dolls, and you know it, sister, and besides wasn't billy boy the first doll we broke after christmas? and he's up-stairs now waiting for his funeral." "o, let's have it now," said nan, who didn't like sermons unless she preached them. "no, here's mother and we'll have to have dinner now, so we will have the funeral to-morrow," said ethelwyn. _chapter xiii_ _the four together_ begins with a funeral and ends with a feast. sorrow is drowned for this time at least. it fell out that there were _two_ doll funerals the next day. beth lost ariminta, her composition doll, and she went down into the garden early to find her. she looked in bose's kennel, but it wasn't there; then she saw a robin in the path digging worms, and he looked so wise that she followed him to the early harvest apple-tree, and sure enough! there was ariminta on a lower branch where she had put her the night before. she was very wet, for it had rained, and her wig was quite soaked off. so, filled with remorse, beth went after the glue-pot. "i never knew such a mean mother as i am," she said, "i haven't any thinkery at all, worth mentioning. if your grandmother, my dear, should leave me out, till my hair soaked off--say, sister," she broke off suddenly to ask--"what keeps our hair on?" ethelwyn never at a loss for an answer, said promptly, "dust, child" "i haven't any," said beth, feeling her short brown curls cautiously for fear they would come off. "it's small in small persons, and big in big persons," said ethelwyn, with a patient air of having given much thought to the subject. "ho!" said beth. "well if ariminta's going to be dry for billy boy's funeral, i'll have to dry her in the oven." but alas! for beth's "thinkery not worth mentioning!" in her haste to get back to prepare herself and family for the funeral, she forgot to tell aunt mandy, who was going to make cake, and so started a fire in the stove. when she opened the oven door to put in the cake, she took out ariminta's remains, and that is why there were two subjects for a funeral instead of one. beth was exceedingly sorry, and wept a few real tears over ariminta. "i'm a double widow, and a orphing to-day," she said, "and i don't reserve a single child to my name!" nan and bobby came to the funeral, and bobby chose to be undertaker, while nan insisted on preaching the sermon. "you preached yesterday," she said to ethelwyn, who also wished to. "and you did the day before--" "i think i ought to," said beth, "because it's my fam'ly." "that's why you shouldn't, child," said nan. "would my father enjoy preaching my funeral sermon, do you think?" she asked triumphantly. and while they were doubtfully considering this, she began the service. beth attired in aunt mandy's large black shawl was very warm and mournful. the family, especially billy boy's widow, were wrapped in black calico swaddling garments, and looked more stiff than ever, but still smiling. the remains were in cigar boxes, all but billy's wig and eyes which beth had thoughtfully saved for another doll. "i am sorry i have to preach this sad sermon," said nan. "might have let me, then," said a voice from the congregation. "the mourners will please keep quiet," said the preacher sternly, "and if the widow and orphans wouldn't grin so, i'd be glad. you'd better be thinking about how you'd feel to be buried, and you are likely to be in this family," she continued with an offensive accent on _this_. "let's hurry up, i'm hot," said the chief mourner. so they went down and buried the boxes, singing "billy boy" as a requiem. bose watched their departure with interest, and dug up both boxes without delay. bobby and nan were invited to stay to lunch, and they accepted with cheerful alacrity. "i asked mother, for fear you'd ask me if i could stay, and she said yes indeed i _could_, and she'd be glad to have me," said nan. bobby yelled his request over the fence, and was told he could stay too. they had strawberry jam, hot biscuit, fried chicken, and little frosted spice cakes, for which mandy was famous. "just supposing your mother and mine had said no, about this luncheon," said nan to bobby. "i never could have gotten over the loss of these cakes." "you've eaten four. i'm glad mandy made a good many," said beth calmly. "why beth!" said her mother horrified. "yessum, she has," continued beth. "i've passed them four times, and she took one every time. i've had five!" she concluded. in the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their cousin gladys, who was in paris with her father and mother. so they all gathered around mother to hear it. "dear e. and b.," it began. "this is a silly city. "they talk like babies. no one can understand them. i'd like them better if they'd talk plain american. "their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes, and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. we live in an artist's house on a street that means asses street, and our front room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through the up-stairs to the skylight. you have to pay for that. think of charging for daylight! we went to a bird show and i saw a cockatoo sitting on a pole asleep. 'scratch its back with your parasol, gladys,' said mother, so i did, and it opened one eye when i stopped, and said, 'encore,' i was put out to think even the birds didn't talk american, but when i said so, mother laughed but i don't see why. "write and tell me all the news. no more now from "your cousin, "gladys." "o, it's thundering!" said bobby when the letter was finished. beth at once climbed into her mother's lap, as if for protection. "are you afraid of a shower, beth?" asked nan. "no,--not--a shower," said beth, "only i don't like it when it goes over such a bump!" mother kissed her and sent the others up-stairs to get ready for a show. "get up a good one and i'll pay five cents admission," she said. "oh i'll go too," said beth, "p'raps when i am busy i won't notice the noise." by and by they called mrs. rayburn, and she went up-stairs with her sewing, and dropped her nickel into a box, because the whole force was in the show. they were getting ready in the next room, from which was heard much giggling. presently the door opened, and in walked ethelwyn draped in a green denim closet door curtain, and bobbing up and down at every step. "what is this?" said mother. "you have to guess, it's a guessing show." then came beth in her japanese costume, fanning vigorously. nan followed in a turkey red calico wrapper, beloved of 'vada's heart. she tumbled down every two or three steps, which might have been the fault of the wrapper, or part of the show. last of all was bobby, very hot and sweaty, in a moth-ball smelling fur rug, and ringing a bell. "it looks like the four seasons," said mother. "o mother, but you are smart," said ethelwyn; "we thought you couldn't possibly guess, so we were going to charge you another nickel!" she continued in a disappointed voice. "i will pay it for guessing," said mother, laughing. "i'm spring, all dressed in green, and i spring when i walk," said ethelwyn beginning again. "i'm summer," said beth fanning. "and i'm fall," said nan, tumbling down, "that hurts the worst," she added with pride. "i'm christmas," said bobby, "and i know now why it doesn't come in summer. my! i'm hot!" he continued, mopping his brow. "i'm fourth of july," said beth. "and i'm thanksgiving and turkey--" "there isn't a thing but april fool in spring, i do believe," said ethelwyn, disgusted. "decoration day, arbor day, and may day," said mother. "it was a fine show, and the sun is out. you may go down now, and buy peanuts with your money." _chapter xiv_ _the wedding and the visit_ out in the country, god's flowers bravely grow. and all the dusty wayside is edged with golden glow; they were up in the nursery the next morning, having a wedding. a doll had opportunely lost her wig, and that always meant a good deal of excitement for the wigless one, for she was at once put to bed, and given medicine through the opening on top of the head, or made into a boy doll. this last happened now; poor cracked and dead billy boy's wig was jauntily glued on the wigless head, and the late janet became lord jimmy, and was in the process of being wedded to arabella, the walking, talking doll from paris. they were propped up in the doll house, and beth was marrying them. "lord jimmy," she said, "wilt thou marry arabella and nobody else and be her quilt in time of trouble--?" "a quilt!" said ethelwyn. "what's that?" "a comfort then," said beth with dignity, "or something like that. anyway i wish you wouldn't talk in the middle of the wedding--and give her clothes, and things to eat, eh? make him nod 'yes,' sister." so ethelwyn, reaching out an energetic hand, clutched the bridegroom by the waist and made him bow so low, that his freshly-glued wig came off. "o, for goodness sake, sister," said beth, in an exasperated tone, "i never knew any one that could upset things like you--" but their mother was heard calling them, in a way that meant something nice, so the poor bald-headed bridegroom and his wig were left at the feet of the haughty arabella, who stared rigidly at the landscape outside, and tried not to see him. "we are going to drive out to grandmother van stark's to spend the day, and perhaps a little longer," said mother. "oh won't that be the nicest thing!" they cried in a breath. "who can go on the pony?" "ethelwyn may ride out, and beth back," said mother. "i've always been so thankful to think you weren't born a _no_ and _don't_ mother," said ethelwyn, hugging her. "are we going right away?" "right away." sure enough there was joe leading ninkum, their own pony. mother and beth were to go in the phaeton. all the way out they played games with the trees and flowers. ethelwyn rode alongside the phaeton. they counted the spots they passed that were purple with thistles, and they were many. others were pink and white with clover and daisies. their mother told them the story of the field of the cloth of gold, when they drove down the lane bordered with golden spanish needles. but they enjoyed the missing word game the most, because it was new. "it's your turn to make up a game, mother," said beth. "i will give you lines that rhyme, only i will leave off the last word, after the first line," said mother, "and you must guess what that word is." "there was a man rode to the mill. the road ran steeply up the--" "hill," cried beth. "yes; now let sister guess the next." he stopped beside a flowing--" "rill?" asked ethelwyn, after thinking awhile. "yes." "this horse was dry, so drank his--" "fill." "along there came a girl named--" "jill." "he wished that his was jack, not--" "will." "for people sometimes called him--" "bill." "this really was a bitter--" "pill." "and made him feel both vexed and--" "ill." mother had to tell them that, because they both guessed sick. "he brought his gun along to--" "kill." "a bird to give to jill a--" "quill?" ethelwyn guessed after a long time. "they lingered long, they lingered--" "till," and again mother had to tell them this. "the sun went down and all was--" "still." they had both missed one, so they each had to pay a forfeit or get up a game. but they were now within sight of grandmother van stark's fine old colonial house, and there on the porch stood grandmother herself, who had seen them coming, so had come out to meet them. "oh isn't our grandmother pretty though?" said ethelwyn, as they turned in at the circular driveway. she had snow white hair, dark eyes and a very stately carriage. she welcomed them warmly, and invited them into the grand old hall with its white staircase and mahogany rail. modern children seemed almost out of place in this old-time house. "i always seem to think you need short-waisted frocks, and drooping hats like sir joshua reynolds's, and the gainsborough pictures," said their mother laughing. "o may we go up to the attic and dress up?" begged ethelwyn. "after while," said grandmother. "it is luncheon time now. i am glad you came to-day, my daughter, for nancy, the housemaid, has gone home for a week's rest, and there is a meeting of the women of the church this afternoon to arrange about a rummage sale, and a loan exhibition, and they are rather depending upon me to contribute to both; but as nancy is away, i cannot well leave for i am a little overtired with more duties than usual. so i have made a list of things that i will lend, and give. i should like you to take it down." "yes, mother, i will, but what about the children--?" "o mother, please let me stay," begged beth. "i will take excellent care of grandmother, and i will take nancy's place, so grandmother can lie down; i know how, i've watched nancy lots of times. you can take sister." this was the final arrangement, and soon after luncheon they drove away to town. grandmother disappeared up the beautiful staircase after shutting the blind doors, and shading the hall from the afternoon sun. then beth arrayed in a red sweeping cap, instead of nancy's white one, which she and cook failed to find, and armed with a huge silver salver for cards, instead of nancy's small one, took up her position in the hall, on the bottom stair, to await visitors: but the hall was full of slumberous shadows, with sunshine flecks dancing down from the blind doors to the polished floor. it is not strange, therefore, that by and by the red sweeping cap began to droop over the silver salver, until finally they all settled down together, and the new parlor maid was sound asleep, to the music of the tall old clock in the corner of the hall back under the stairway. then some one came up the walk, and rapped briskly with the end of his riding whip on the blind doors. the parlor maid suddenly awoke, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the fastenings, but it was no use, she couldn't open them; thereupon she turned the slats and looked through at the young clergyman standing there. the red cap nodded affably. "could you climb in through the window, s'pose?" she asked. this was such a new and startling novelty at the van stark homestead, that the visitor laughed, while the parlor maid patiently waited for his decision. he had shone in athletics at his college, so when he stopped laughing, he put his hands on the stone window-sill leading into the library, and vaulted in so lightly and easily, that beth was delighted to think she had thought of it. she then went back to adjust her sweeping cap, which had dropped off, and to pick up the salver, which she had put down to free her hands. "put your card there," she instructed him, bobbing her head towards the exact centre of the salver, and thereby completely covering one eye with that abominably big and wobbly cap. the reverend gentleman gravely complied, whereupon the maid swung herself around, but with caution, somewhat after the manner of a boat carrying too much sail. after mrs. van stark had come down, the parlor maid reappeared without her badges of office, and was duly presented to the rector of the church, who made no sign, save a twinkle of his eye, of having met her in another, and humbler capacity, but shook hands and talked to her without that insufferable air of patronage which elder people at times seem to delight to bestow upon their juniors. as he was taking his leave, he explained that he was going down into the grove for a little while to read and to take pictures. as he went out, they met, coming in, an old lady whom grandmother van stark greeted with rare cordiality, kissing her on both cheeks and calling her tildy ann. she called grandmother jane somerset, and explained that her son, going to town, had brought her that far on his way, and would call for her on his return. she had brought her knitting in a beautiful silk bag, and explained that she was making a long purse of black silk and steel beads, for the sale at the church. beth brought grandmother's bag down to her, and grandmother produced silk stockings that she was knitting for the same purpose. they sat down for a comfortable chat, and beth, feeling that it was too prehistoric an atmosphere for her, by and by stole up-stairs to the attic and went on a rummage for old clothes in which to dress up. she found an old figured silk gown, with short sleeves. by much rolling up and pinning, she made the skirt the right length. then she pulled out an old green silk calash and set it on her head. this she felt was a finishing touch, so she softly crept down the stairs and past the old ladies, who had entirely forgotten her, and out on the lawn; then she walked down the circular driveway and out into the road, where presently the clergyman, striding along to where his pony was tied, overtook her. he looked with astonishment at the quaint little figure in the silk frock, but when the disguised parlor maid looked out from the depths of the great bonnet, he went off into peals of laughter again. "you seem to laugh a great deal," said beth. he at once stopped and said: "it is a weakness of mine, and now let me beg a favor of you. will you come back to the porch, and sit in a chippendale chair, and let me take your picture for the sale at the church?" "yes, i don't mind at all," said beth promptly, turning around and putting her hand in his. "you see mrs. tildy ann and grandmother were having such a long-way-back time, i had to dress up to match everything." "i see," said the minister. "but she may presently miss you and be worried." "o that's so," said beth. "let's hurry. i promised to take care of grandmother," she added, in a remorseful tone. but nothing had happened, and the picture proved a great success, many of them being sold at the fair. "i don't like it much," said beth, when she saw one, "for it reminds me of how i forgot to take care of my grandmother van stork." "it will do you good, i trust," said her mother. "it'll improve my thinkery, i hope," said beth. _chapter xv_ _the lost invitation_ a heartache when the heart is young, seems quite too big to bear; but when it ends in laughter, away goes every care. when they started to return the next day, beth in triumph mounted ninkum. she had a little difficulty in turning around to wave a farewell to dear grandmother on the porch, because the pony took this opportune time to munch the grass at the road-side, and beth nearly went over his head. "dear me, ninkum, you are very rude," she said, much vexed. "you try to spill me off, besides making grandmother van stark feel as though you didn't have enough to eat while you were visiting her!" there was another disturbing feature also, and that was sister, whose countenance kept peering above the phaeton top, and who shouted exceedingly unwelcome advice, until silenced and firmly seated by the maternal command. however, these were small things, compared with the bliss of galloping down the smooth road, bordered by flowers and green fields. "i am very fond of wild flowers," said ethelwyn by and by, "because they come right from god's garden, and they keep things so cheerful and bright out in the country." "i remember some verses about wild flowers and woods that a friend of mine wrote," said mother, "and i intend sometime to put some of them to music." "o say one, mother," said ethelwyn, who loved verses. so mrs. rayburn began: "i know a quiet place, where a spring comes gurgling out, and the shadowed leaves like lace fall on the ground about. "a tempting grapevine swing is swung from the near-by trees, and life is a dreamful thing lulled by the birds and bees. "flowers at the great trees' feet are sheltered quite from harm; for above the blossoms sweet, the oak holds forth his arm. "perhaps if i lie quite still, i may hear far down below, the first and joyous thrill of things, when they start to grow." "i've wondered if they do get out of the seed with a little cracky pop," said ethelwyn. "what, sister?" asked beth, coming up on ninkum. "flowers and things." "i've wondered how things know how to make themselves flowers, and not potatoes, or something like that," said beth; "but i suppose god tells them." "and i've often thought what was it that makes part of them stalk and leaves, and then all at once end in a flower," said ethelwyn. then, after a moment's silence, she proposed, "let's have another game." "yes, mother, you think of one." "i was thinking of one this morning," said mother, "for i thought likely you would be asking me to make up one, though it isn't my turn." "o, but motherdy, you are so much smarter than we are!" said ethelwyn. "that is one way to get out of it," said mother, laughing. "well, i will tell you a story, and leave a blank occasionally, which you must fill up with the name of a tree. "there were two little girls who dressed exactly alike, and, as they were very near the same age, it was difficult to tell which was the--" "elder?" said ethelwyn, after a hard think. "yes." "i didn't really know there was such a tree, but i had heard something like it, and thought there wasn't a younger tree." "one of the little girls was named louise and the other minerva, and people grew to calling them by their initials, which together made--" "elm," said beth. "they were very good children, and people used to say what a nice--" "pear," they both said at once. "they were. they had cheeks like a--" "peach." "it was spring, and they were invited to a sugaring off party, and they saw the men tap the trees to make--" "maple sugar," cried beth, who knew that, if she knew anything. "so, when they went home, they tapped a tree in the front yard, and invited a party to come and eat maple sugar; but they tapped the wrong tree, and their father was vexed, saying, 'i ought to take a ---- to ----'" but mother had to tell them these words for they had never heard of birch, or of yew. "'i wonder if you will be ----'" "evergreen," said ethelwyn, after a little prompting. "'all your life.' 'i thought,' said one, 'that maple sugar parties were very ----'" "'pop'lar? (mother had to tell them this also), 'at this time of year.'" "---- laughed their father." "haw, haw," said ethelwyn, who had been thinking of the tree under which they played at home. "'i'll have to take you to the seashore to play on the ----'" "beech," said beth in triumph. "then he lighted a cigar and knocked off the ----" "ash," said ethelwyn. "and walked down street, whistling a song from 'mikado.' tit ----" "willow," they both cried at once, for they knew that song as well as the tree. "you have done well," said mother, "but you each have two fines to pay, and it really is your turn next time; so you must remember to think up a game. but here we are at home, and there is 'vada coming out to meet us." "o, 'vada, what has happened since we went away?" said ethelwyn, climbing out. "mista bobby gwine to give a party this ebenin'; it's his birthday, and his uncle brought him some fiah works like those you all had las' yeah," said 'vada. "o goody! did he invite us?" "nome, not to say invite. but he's been in to see if you all was expected home." "o, it won't matter," said beth easily; "we'll go anyway. of course he knew we would come." when nan came over, she brought her invitation with her. it was very formally enclosed in a small envelope, and informed his friend that bobby would be at home on that very evening. this struck beth as very silly. "of course he'll be at home if he's going to give a party! just as though he'd be anywhere else!" she remarked. they wished to go over immediately and tell bobby that they were home and all ready to be invited, but their mother would not allow this. "he will come over by and by," she said. but the day went by and no invitation came, although great preparations were going on, as they could see, for they kept very near the window that looked out on bobby's lawn. a slow drizzling rain was falling, or they would probably have been much nearer. but bobby was evidently very busy getting ready. they caught only flying glimpses of him, and their hearts grew heavy within their breasts. "o dear! i shall never, never get over this, never!" said beth, swallowing the lump in her throat. "i wouldn't have thought bobby could have done it," said ethelwyn, also swallowing. after their bath, they begged for their best slippers, silk stockings, and embroidered petticoats, and on having their hair done in their dress-up-and-go-away-from-home style. "because," said ethelwyn, "something may happen yet to make him think of us." so mother let them have on what they liked, for she was very sorry for them. in the evening, after dinner, when the electric lights came flashing out, it was worse, because, still standing forlornly by the window, they saw the orchestra come, with their instruments, and presently the sounds of music came floating up to them. then the ice cream man came, and beth, who had almost melted to tears at the sight of the orchestra, shed them openly when the ice cream went around the side of the house. having no handkerchief, she wiped her eyes on soosana, her big rag doll. she always loved soosana when she was unhappy, for she was so squeezy and felt so comfortable. "i hope bobby will be sorry when he has time to think about it," she remarked in a subdued tone. "look at that!" said ethelwyn in such a hopeful voice that beth at once emerged from her eclipse behind soosana, and looked with all her eyes. there was bobby, resplendent in a new suit and slippers with shining buckles, running across the lawn. ethelwyn and beth at once pushed up the window, in order to meet him half-way. "do you want us, bobby?" called beth encouragingly. "yes; why on earth don't you come?" cried bobby. "we are all ready to dance and nan and everybody but you, are there, and i wouldn't let 'em begin till you came, so hurry up." "we will," they cried in a breath, "and we would have come a long time ago if you only hadn't forgotten to invite us till so late. what made you, bobby?" "why i didn't!" said bobby in a surprised tone. "i took your invitation over to your front door and--and--your bell is pretty high up--" "yes, i can't reach it at all," said beth breathlessly; "go on." "so i shoved it under the door--" ethelwyn disappeared like a flash, and, sure enough, under the carpet's edge she could see sticking out the little white corner of the envelope. she knelt down and pulled it out, then ran back. "we'll come right over in a minute, bobby," she called happily. "we're pretty nearly all dressed for fear you'd remember you had forgotten--" "all right, hurry up," called up bobby. down on the floor went soosana, all damp with tears, but she still smiled broadly at the ceiling in the dark. she probably did not, if the truth were known, quite enjoy being used as a handkerchief, but she felt it was her mission in this life to act as comforter, and so she bore it with cheerfulness. the next morning she was told by happy, though sleepy, beth that it was a "beyewtiful party, with fireworks, and ice cream, and dancing, and games, and souvenirs. i should never have been so happy again, soosana, if i had missed going, i know," she concluded, kissing soosana with such fervor, that she put a dent in that portion of her doll's head where she had been kissed; but this time soosana was sure she did not care. _chapter xvi_ _the mail and ethelwyn's visit_ good-bye, speed by days till we meet again. hearts' ease, ne'er cease, keep free from fret or pain. there had come an interesting mail that morning, for it began with another letter from cousin gladys, who was in london now for the winter, and there was also one from aunty stevens and from grandmother van stark. while the two children ate their oatmeal and cream, they read their cousin's letter. this was it: "dear cousins: "we have seen the coronation, and my eyes ached, there was so much to see and do. it was worse than a circus with six rings. "the king is not pretty, but i suppose that won't hinder him from being good, and nurse is always saying, 'pretty is that pretty does, miss gladys.' i think she thinks that the two hardly ever go together. the dear queen is pretty, however, and so young-looking and sweet that even nurse has to give in about her. "i will tell you all about it when we come home, but it tires me now even to think about it. one morning i begged to go back to the hotel and rest, and nurse was so disappointed that i told her she could go out and i would stay alone. i dug around in my trunk and got rather homesick, looking at the things i had at home. i found some jacks but no ball, so i thought i would go down to a near-by shop, and buy one. i slipped down and out, before i had time to think about mother making me promise not to go anywhere alone. i turned a corner or two, but didn't find the right kind of a shop. it was cloudy, and sort of foggy, and crowds and crowds of people were pushing along. i knew all at once that i was lost, and i began to feel a lump in my throat, bigger than any ball you ever saw, and just then i saw a tall man coming towards me. i saw only his legs, but they looked so americanish that i rushed up, and said, 'please take me to the l---- hotel,' he stopped at once and said, 'well, i certainly will; i am going there myself.' he was a minister from new york. he laughed when i told him about the jacks, and then he talked to me in such a nice way about going out alone, that it made a great impression on me. i found mother and nurse in such a state when i got back. i was kissed and then put to bed to eat my supper, but the minister came to call in the evening, and when i had promised never to do such a thing again, they let me get up. he was so nice, and brought me a ball. i play jacks every day now, and think of america and nice 'things like that. i shall be glad to get there again. "yours truly, "gladys. "p.s.--i can probably beat you at jacks when i get back, i practice so much." "i'll get mine out to-day," said ethelwyn, "and we'll see whether she can or not. when will she come home, mother?" but mother was reading aunty stevens's letter, and did not hear. "the home is getting on beautifully," she said presently. "there are ten pale little children out there now. dick is quite well and strong again, and helps with the work in every way. they are very anxious that we shall come on this summer." "o let's; for my birthday," said ethelwyn. "can't we, mother?" "i will see. but grandmother van stark would like one of you to come out and stay with her for a few days. peter is coming in this afternoon and will take one of you out." "o me!" they cried at once. "let's pull straws," suggested ethelwyn; so she ran to find the broom. it was she who drew the longest straw, and beth drew a long breath, saying with cheerful philosophy, "well, i am thankful not to leave mother. i'd prob'ly cry in the night, and worry dear grandmother." so every one was satisfied, and ethelwyn, dimpling delightfully under her broad white pique hat, bade them good-bye, and took her place beside peter in the roomy old phaeton. "are you any relation of st. peter's?" she asked politely, after they were well on the way. "nobody ever thought so," said peter, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eye. "well, i didn't know," she said. "i thought i'd like to ask you some questions about him if you were. we have had a good deal about him at sunday-school lately. i'm studying my lessons nowadays for a prize; they are going to give a sacrilegious picture to the child that knows her verses the best by easter, and i think maybe i'll get it, for i'm only about next to the worst now." "how many are there of you?" "o, a lot; but if i do get it, i shall ask for a goat and cart instead. we have plenty of pictures at home, but we are much in need of a goat and cart." peter had a peculiar habit, ethelwyn afterwards told her grandmother, of shaking after she had talked to him awhile, and gurgling down in his throat. she felt sorry for him. "he was prob'ly not feeling well; maybe what aunt mandy calls chilling," she said. she found grandmother making pumpkin pies, for the minister and his wife were coming to dinner the next day. grandmother was famous for making pumpkin pies, and never allowed any one else to make them. "it's my grandmother's recipe," she said, and ethelwyn nearly fell off her chair trying to imagine grandmother's grandmother. "i shouldn't suppose they would have been discovered then," she said, after a struggle. "pumpkin pies don't go out of style like clothes, do they, grandmother?" "mine never have," said grandmother proudly. "i suppose mandy never makes pumpkin pies." "yes she does, but they don't grow in yellow watermelons; they live in tin cans." "pooh!" said grandmother, "they can't hold a candle to these." "no, but why would they want to?" "hand me that japanned box with the spices, please, dear. now you'll see the advantage of doing this sort of thing yourself; here are mustard and pepper boxes in this other japanned box, but i know just where they always stand, so i could get up in the night and make no mistake." just then grandmother was called away from the kitchen. "don't meddle and get into mischief, will you, deary?" she said. and ethelwyn promised. she intended to keep her word, but while she was smelling the spices, it struck her that it would be a good joke to season the pies from the other box. "like an april fool," she thought; so she took a spoon and measured in a liberal supply of mustard and red pepper; then she went out into the yard. it was fortunate that the minister and his new wife were not coming until the next day. ethelwyn, however, spent a very unhappy afternoon. that night she woke up sobbing, and crawled into grandmother's big bed. "what's the matter, child?" said grandmother, sitting up in bed with a start. "are you sick?" "yes, grandmother, awful! you'll never like me again, i know." and then she told her about the pumpkin pies. "well, child, i am thankful you told me," said grandmother with a sigh, "for when you are as old as i am, and have a reputation for doing things, it goes hard to make a failure of them, and i should have been much mortified. fortunately there are plenty of pie shells, and there is more pumpkin steamed, so that i can season and put them together in the morning. but i am glad, dear child, that your conscience wouldn't let you sleep comfortably until you had told; be careful, however, never again to break your word. remember the van starks' watchword, 'love, truth, and honor.' now cuddle down here and go to sleep." ethelwyn, feeling much relieved, slept in the canopy bed with grandmother, until long past daylight. when she came down-stairs, the great golden pies were coming out of the oven, and the minister and his wife violated propriety and made grandmother van stark proud and happy by eating two pieces each. _chapter xvii_ _out at grandmother's_ grandmother's house, i tell you most emphatic, is full of good times from cellar to the attic. there came to grandmother van stark's one day, a forlorn black tramp kitten, mewing dismally. ethelwyn, who loved kittens devotedly, was melted to the verge of tears by his wailing appeals in a minor key; so she cuddled him and fed him on lady babby's creamy, foamy milk. in the intervals of eating, however, he still wailed like a lost soul. "the critter don't stop crying long enough to catch a mouse," said cook, eyeing the disconsolate bundle of grief with strong disfavor. "he almost did this morning, hannah," said ethelwyn in his defense. "i saw him watching a hole, and he's so little yet, i grabbed him away. besides, i don't like mice myself, and i was so afraid i'd see one or two." "no danger; his bawling will keep them away," said hannah, grimly. "o, well then, his crying is some good, after all," returned ethelwyn, triumphantly. "that's a good deal nicer than killing the poor little things." "humph!" said hannah. but grandmother van stark had given orders that johnny bear--so named from one of ernest thompson-seton's illustrations, which ethelwyn thought he resembled--was to be treated tenderly and fed often, because ethelwyn loved him, and she herself loved to feed hungry people and animals. but one morning there was a great commotion over the discovery that a mouse had been in grandmother van stark's room. "this is a chance for johnny bear to make a reputation as a mouser," said grandmother. "we will take him up-stairs to-night and he shall have a chance to catch that mouse." "o grandmother, i'm sure he will," said ethelwyn, earnestly; so she talked to him that afternoon about it. it had rained in the afternoon,--a cold drizzly rain, so nancy had lighted a little snapping wood-fire in grandmother van stark's sitting-room. into this opened the sleeping room in which was ethelwyn's small bed, and the big mahogany tester bed, where grandmother van stark had slept for more years than ethelwyn could imagine. ethelwyn put johnny bear and his basket in front of the grate. it was so "comfy" that he stopped yowling at once and began to purr. "how does middle night look, nancy?" said ethelwyn, as she lay in her little brass bed, watching the dancing shadows on the wall. "like any other time, only stiller," replied nancy. "go to sleep now, miss ethelwyn." so ethelwyn presently fell asleep and woke up with a little start just as the clock was striking twelve. johnny bear was stirring around uneasily in the other room. he had been very still; his stomach was full, and his body warm, so that there really was no possible excuse for making a noise. in fact, there was a faint scratching in the closet that concentrated his attention, and froze him into a statue of silence. presently he pounced, and a little shriek, piteous and faint, told the story. then johnny bear played ball with his victim, and ran up and down the room as gaily as if he had never known what it was to cry. but all at once something went wrong; a crackle in the grate sent a glowing coal over the fender and on the rug, where it smoldered and smoked, and then ran out a little tongue of flame. so johnny bear began to mew again loudly and uneasily, the clock struck twelve, and ethelwyn awoke. "hush, johnny bear, dear," she said softly from the other room; "you'll wake up grandmother." but grandmother was awake, and lifted her head just in time to see the tongue of fire. she was over the side of the bed in a minute, and, snatching up a pitcher of water, dashed it over the rug. ethelwyn jumped up too and snatched johnny bear in her arms. "i don't think twelve o'clock at night looks stiller, do you, grandmother?" she asked. "aren't you glad johnny bear came to live with us, and--oh! oh!" he cried, for she had stepped on a soft little mouse, lying quite still now on the floor. "o johnny, how could you?" she said sorrowfully, quite forgetting her instructions to him in the afternoon. "but he is brave, isn't he, grandmother?" "very," said grandmother, "and he shall have a saucer of cream in the morning. but come now, chicken; i've put out the fire, and covered the other, so i think we can sleep in peace." so they both went to sleep, and johnny bear from that time on wept no more. the next morning, ethelwyn joyfully told hannah and peter all about it. their praise was unstinted enough to suit even her swelling heart, and she proudly took the saucer of cream to johnny, saying, "there, darling, everybody loves you now, even peter and hannah and nancy, because you did your duty so nobly. i knew you would, so i loved you all the time." "miss ethelwyn," said nancy, appearing, "there are callers in the drawing-room, and your grandmother wishes you to come in." ethelwyn went in, and was presented to several of the ladies of the church, who had come to see about a reception to be given to the clergyman and his new young wife. it was, ethelwyn found with joy, to be given at grandmother van stark's. "o may i stay up?" she begged, and grandmother, who always found it hard to deny her grandchildren anything, said she might. when evening came, ethelwyn dressed in her best white frock, a little later than the hour when she usually went to bed, came down the staircase with grandmother, who was more stately and lovely than ever? in her black velvet gown, with the great portrait brooch of grandfather van stark, surrounded by diamonds, in the beautiful old lace around her neck. grandmother was permitted to sit while receiving the guests. between her chair and where the clergyman and his wife stood, ethelwyn slipped her own little rocker, and sat there, highly interested in the streams of people that came by. "it's like a funeral," she announced during a slight lull. grandmother and the clergyman looked around startled. "why, child, what do you know about funerals?" asked grandmother, while the clergyman, of course, laughed. "'vada took me and beth once to a big mercession, and we went into a big church and the folks all went up and looked at somebody, just like to-night. 'vada said it was a big gun's funeral, just like you and your wife, you know," she concluded cheerfully, nodding to the clergyman. "well of all things--" began grandmother, but a new lot of people coming in demanded her attention. the clergyman and his wife, laughing heartily, shook hands with the new people, and ethelwyn was rather indignant to hear her remark repeated several times. "i'm not going to say anything more," she thought, "they always laugh so." she sat very quiet, indeed, until by and by the lights and the pink, blue, and white gowns danced together in a rainbow, and then she knew nothing at all about the rest of it, nor that the minister himself carried her up-stairs and put her in nancy's care. but the first thing of which she thought in the morning, was the refreshments, in which she had been so vitally interested the day before; so she came very soberly down-stairs to a late breakfast. "well, chicken," said grandmother, "how did you like the reception?" "not very much," said ethelwyn. "i'm so ashamed to think i didn't get any ice cream--" "there's some saved for you; and i think i see your mother and beth coming in the gate, i was so sorry they couldn't come last night." "i do believe they _are_ coming," said ethelwyn, standing on tiptoes, "and, yes, see, they have bobby and nan with them, to help take me home!" there was a wild triple shriek from the surrey, followed by three small forms climbing rapidly down. they were proudly escorted by ethelwyn to see johnny bear, the chickens, peter, hannah, and nancy, all before mother was fairly in the house and the surrey in the barn. they ate the reception refreshments with such zeal that grandmother said, "well there! i was wondering what we would do with all the things that were left, but i needn't have worried." "no, the mothers are the only ones that need worry,--over the after results," said mrs. ray burn, laughing. they started home in the afternoon, all standing on the surrey steps and seats to wave a farewell to dear grandmother van stark as long as they could see her. of course they played games going home, and this time ethelwyn had really made up one. "i'll say the first and last letter of something in the surrey or that we can see, and then whoever guesses it can give two letters." so she gave "m----r," and beth guessed mother at once; then beth gave "h----s," and bobby disgraced himself by guessing horse, but he was warm, because it really was harness, and nan guessed it. then she gave "f----s," and that took them a long time, because it didn't sound at all like flowers, but bobby finally guessed it, and then he gave them "g----s," which mother guessed as girls. "you tell us a story, motherdy," said ethelwyn, cuddling up close. "i just love to hear you talk, i haven't heard you for so long." "were you homesick for me?" "not ezactly," said ethelwyn, "but i had a lonesome spot for you all whenever i thought about it." ethelwyn always pronounced the word "exactly" wrong. her mother liked to hear her say it, however, and one or two more; "for they will grow out of baby-hood all too fast," she said. "i went over to see miss helen gray yesterday," said mrs. rayburn, "and she told me some funny stories about polly, her parrot. you know she is really a very remarkable bird. ever since miss helen has lived alone, she and polly have been great friends, and it seems as though polly really understands things she says to her. she bought her in new orleans, where she boarded next door to the cathedral. so polly soon learned to intone the service, not the words, but exactly the intonation. "one day miss helen, who allowed her all sorts of liberties, let her out, but first she made her tell where she lived. ' h---- street,' polly said. 'will you be good and not get lost?' 'yep,' said polly, so she went out, and miss helen heard her talking in the yard. a lady came along beautifully dressed. "'la, how fine,' said polly. "the lady looked around angrily, thinking it was a boy. "'didn't see me, did you?' said polly, and then the woman saw the funny little green bird on the lawn and she petted and complimented her until polly felt very much puffed up. "miss helen went in for a few minutes, though, and when she came out, polly was gone, stolen probably by some one that slipped up behind her. "poor miss helen grieved and grieved over her, and offered great rewards, but to no avail. in about a year she went to florida, and one day, going by a bird fancier's that she knew, the man invited her to come in, saying that he had a lot of new parrots to show her. "o i wonder: if polly is there!' she said, and told him about her. "'no, i haven't any that know as much as that,' said he; 'but there is one who looks as if she understood things, but she won't, or can't, talk.' "so miss helen went in, and there, sure enough, was her poor polly huddled up sulkily in a cage. "'polly,' called helen, and polly started and came to the front of the cage. "'helen, helen,' she called, going perfectly wild; ' h---- street. i'll be good! yep! yep! yep!' and then she began to intone the service. "the bird fancier was astonished enough. "'i bought her and some six others from two sailors,' he said, 'but i never dreamed she could talk!' "miss helen paid him a big price and went off with polly on her finger chattering like one mad." "o i'd love to see her," cried beth. "well go over there some day. here we are at home." "i'm glad," said ethelwyn. "it's nice to go away, but it's nicer to come back." _chapter xviii_ _how they bought a baby_ spend your money speed you, honey, quick as you can fly up the street, toys and sweet money burns to buy. and all this time they had saved their birthday money! it was accidental, for they had in the multitude of other events and presents, forgotten they had it until one morning, in emptying their banks for "peanut" nickles, with a dexterity born of long practice, they discovered the two gold coins, for they each had been given one, of course, and they rushed off at once to show them. "haven't we saved this money, though?" they said, full of pride, and then they straightway sat down to make plans for spending it. "let's each buy a puppy for a parting gift to bobby and nan," suggested ethelwyn, as she and beth were soon going away to visit the home. "yes, sir, let's," said beth. "they dearly love bose, and mr. smithers, our vegetable man, has six and will sell us two, i know." mr. smithers said he would be charmed--or words to that effect--to sell them two newfoundland puppies at five dollars each, and they struck a bargain at once. it was easier to do because mother had gone to town on business and was to be away all day. mr. smithers promised to bring them in that afternoon, and they went off to wait until then with what patience they could muster. they met joe on their way to the barn, and noticed that his usual ruddy countenance was grave and pale. "my sister is sick," he explained, "and she's getting no better." "why don't you tell mother?" asked ethelwyn. "o it's everything your mother's done for us this summer, without bothering her more," he said. "i'm going to try to get my sister up in the country, but--i can't yet awhile." "will it cost very much, joe?" "no, not much, but there's so many of us to feed and clothe that we never have any money left for anything else." "mother will help, i know," said ethelwyn, and they went up to the house, pondering deeply. "those horrid puppies! i wish we'd never heard of them," said ethelwyn. "then we could give dick the money. what did you think about them for?" "you did yourself." "no, i didn't. anyway, let's watch for mr. smithers at the back garden gate, and tell him not to bring them." so they went down through the garden, and, looking over the gate, they saw a very sulky little colored girl carrying a long limp bundle of yellow calico, with a round woolly head protruding at the top. "o that cunning baby i where'd you get him?" they cried both at once, opening the gate to look at him. the sulky nurse shifted the bundle to her other shoulder. "allus had him, mos'," she said; "him or 'nuther one, perzactly like him, to lug roun' while ma's washin'." "don't you like to play with him?" asked ethelwyn in a shocked tone. "no, i don't," was the emphatic reply; "nor you wouldn't needa, ef you had it to do contin'ul." "why, you can play he's a doll." "he's showin' off now, but when he gits to bawlin', you ain't a gwine to make no mistake 'bout his bein' nuffin' 'tal but a cry-baby," she continued, preparing to move on. "would you sell him?" asked beth eagerly. "yessum, i sholy would," said his sister with a gleam of interest; "we ain't a gwine to miss him, wid six mo'! i'll sell him easy fo' a dolla'." there was a hurried consultation between beth and ethelwyn. "it's cheaper, and would leave nine dollars for joe. bobby could keep him one day, and nan the next, or we could get something else for one of them. i think nan would like him the best." "we will buy him," said ethelwyn, at the end of the consultation. there was a moment of hesitation, and then the yellow bundle went into ethelwyn's outstretched arms. beth went off to get the money. she ran breathlessly down the street to get the change, she was so afraid the girl would change her mind and take back the baby. there was no doubt but that the girl was in rather a dubious state of mind over it, but the silver dollar clinched her resolution, and she walked firmly off, without a backward glance in the direction of the gurgling samuel saul, which was the alliteral name of the yellow bundle. ethelwyn and beth, after a further consultation, took him to the attic. they considered it providential that sierra nevada was assisting in the laundry, and that the coast was therefore free from all observers. samuel saul was rocked in the cradle in which the ancestors of the children, as well as themselves, had been rocked, and he, well contented with the motion and not ill pleased with his surroundings, presently fell into a delicious slumber. "'rockabye baby on the tree top,'" came from the open attic window, and floated down to joe currying ninkum, and to 'vada, mandy, and aunt sophie in the laundry. joe smiled at the cheerful refrain, and 'vada, sure that they were in no mischief, mopped her dripping brow, and went on with her work. watching samuel saul's peaceful slumbers grew a little monotonous after a while, so beth descended to the kitchen for a plate of cookies and a glass of water, and leaving this substantial luncheon beside their sleeping charge, they went down-stairs and for a while played on the piano with more strength than anything else. after that they took more cookies and went over to play with bobby. bobby, making a chicken yard out of wire netting, was delighted to have assistance, and they telephoned for nan, who speedily joined them. "mother's gone to town to-day to see your grandfather, who owns a bank, bobby," said ethelwyn. "i expect it's on account of his losing a whole lot of money," rejoined bobby, standing on tiptoe on a box to pound in a nail. "where did he lose it? were there holes in his pockets?" asked beth, unrolling the wire at bobby's order. "on change," said bobby, with his mouth full of nails. "our money is in your grandfather's bank, and the home money and grandmother van stark's. i hope he hasn't lost anybody's but his own," said ethelwyn anxiously. "you're not very polite," said nan. "well i do, but if he lost only change, prob'ly it's his own, and mother's gone to give him some more." "pooh!" said bobby, "it's not--" but before he could say anything more, excited voices were heard, and four black and shining faces appeared over the top of the fence, while a guilty eye looked through a knot-hole farther down. "has you all seen anything of a low down black pickaninny which is los'?" this remark came from 'vada. "which is _stole_," corrected a mountain of flesh, quivering with wrath. "is it samuel saul?" asked ethelwyn. "it is so; will you projus him?" asked the mountain. "he's in the attic asleep; his sister sold him to us for a present to bobby and nan--" "o let's see him," cried nan, with lively interest. "you all is gwine to leab him alone--" began the mountain, when mandy turned ponderously in her direction. "will you, martha jane jenkins, please kindly rec'lect dat you is 'sociatin' wid quality now, an' take a good care how you talk, though sholy it may be de fus time dat you has ebber been in good sassity--" "dat is sholy de trufe w'en i has been wid you," said martha jane jenkins, wrathfully. but now from the open attic windows were heard such piercing shrieks that they all with one consent turned in that direction. "americky, you go bring me you brudda," instructed martha, cuffing soundly the girl with the guilty eye. presently america and the children returned with the wailing samuel saul to the place where mandy, 'vada, and aunt sophie were standing, loftily ignoring the angry mother and making caustic remarks calculated to add to her discomfort. in the capacious arms of his mother, samuel saul ceased his repining and contentedly gurgled again. as the united ones went off, martha jane jenkins with her head in the air and america remorsefully weeping in the rear, ethelwyn said, "well, our dollar's gone, and our baby too, and i thought we had made such a bargain. i don't know what mr. smithers will say." "and poor joe too," said beth. "there comes mr. smithers now," exclaimed bobby. "yes an' i ain't got your puppies either, for when i got home i found my boy had sold two and given away two, so there wasn't any left but what we wanted to keep." "well, i'm thankful," said ethelwyn; "for we bought a baby instead, only its mother took it back, and we just had to use the rest of the money for something else. thank you, mr. smithers." "you're entirely welcome," responded he. _chapter xix_ _bobby's grandfather_ and now let's be glad, while everything's bright. days that are sunny are shadowed by night. that evening there was considerable news to tell mother when she came from town, and she both laughed and lectured them a little over the baby episode. after the children told her what bobby had said about his grandfather losing money, they asked anxiously, "oh mother, did he lose anything of ours?" for the first time in a long while the two straight worry lines came back between mother's eyes, and the children immediately climbed in her lap to kiss them away. "i can't tell yet, dearest ones," she said after a while. "i have been very foolish to leave so much of our money in one bank, i am afraid, but i had such faith, too much, perhaps, and i fear--" it was very comforting to have their dear warm cheeks against her own, and courage, almost vanquished during this trying day, came back. after awhile she laughed with them again, and told them stories until bedtime, promising them also that joe's sister would be sent to the home as soon as she was able. the next morning, however, the lines came back, and the children, seeing them, resolved that they would write bobby's grandfather a letter. "if there's anything i'm glad of, it's that i know how to write," said ethelwyn. "it was very hard to learn." they went up-stairs to the nursery where their own small desks were and taking some of their beloved kate green a way paper with pictures of quaint little children on it, after much trouble, ink, and many sheets of paper, as well as consultations with bobby and nan, they finished and posted a very small envelope to bobby's grandfather, whose address they obtained from bobby. bobby's grandfather, on coming down the next morning to the bank, found this communication among the official-looking matter on the desk. the picture in the corner of the envelope was surrounded by these words: "little fanny wears a hat, like her ancient granny; tommy's hoop was--think of that-- given him by fanny." the poke-bonneted pair with tommy and his hoop looked curiously out of place among their official surroundings. the lines of worry were thickly sown in the banker's face, and as there were no round, rosy-cheeked children in his silent home to kiss them away, they stayed and grew deeper each day. he half smiled, however, as he picked up the greenaway envelope and curiously broke the seal. this is what he read: "dear bobby's grandfather, "we live next door to bobby, who is quite often a nice boy, though he wishes us to say always, and we are sorry to learn that you are losing change money, for your sake, and for fear you'll go on and lose ours, grandmother van stark's and the home's. ours doesn't matter so much as the others, for we have $ . left of our birthday money, and it's lasted so long that it will prob'ly go on lasting, specially if we forget it, or unless we buy more babies, which we shan't do now because of not being able; but dear grandmother without money would be awful, and the home not to have money for the poor little city children that are sick would be awful, too. please, please don't lose that, and we will pray for you and love you hard all the days of our life. amen. "as there is no more paper in our boxes on account of spoiling so much we will say good-bye. "ethelwyn, beth, nan, and bobby. "p.s.--the first one she wrote it. "p.s.--my mother said because she had faith in you was why you have our money, and so have we." when the banker had finished this somewhat remarkable epistle, of which the children had been so proud, there were tears in his eyes, although his mouth was smiling, and the lines of worry did not seem so deep nor so stern. he pushed his other mail aside unread, and sat for a long time thinking. presently he called for his stenographer, and dictated telegram after telegram, the import of which made that impassive person start and glance up in amazement several times. then, seizing a sheet of paper, the banker started to write a letter for himself. "dear children, (it began) "do not worry. i shall not lose one penny of yours, nor grandmother van stark's, nor the blessed home's, nor any one's, i hope, but my own, and not enough of that to hurt; at any rate, i shall still have enough, i think, to buy a railroad ticket to bobby's house. so tell him that i wish he'd tell his mother to have a good supper to-morrow night, and you children must plan it and all come and eat with me. "yours, with love, "bobby's grandfather. "p.s.--be sure to have plenty of candy for supper." the excitement and the joy that this letter produced were something startling. away went the worry lines from mrs. rayburn's dear face, and back came the laughter the children loved. in bobby's house they planned a most wonderful menu of fried chicken, candy, cake, and ice cream. mandy baked spice cakes at nan's and bobby's special request, and nobody thought anything whatever about indigestion or after effects; for where everybody laughs and is happy, there is no need to fear indigestion. the children went to the station to meet the guest, and, when the train came in, greeted him with shouts of welcome, and, proudly surrounding him, marched down the street like a royal procession. there would not be words enough to describe the feast that followed at bobby's house. all the children wished to sit next to his grandfather, so that he had to change places at every course (all of which had candy interludes) and thus that mighty matter was accomplished to the entire satisfaction of the children. and after supper bobby's grandfather played games with them and soon lost his worry lines, probably on the floor where he was playing horse or bear. no one picked them up, so it isn't positively known where he lost them. when ethelwyn and beth suddenly bethought themselves that they were to go with their mother to the home the next day, to take joe's sister there, it was at once decided that bobby and nan should go too, for one beautiful outing before school should begin. "and we will need it," said bobby, with a deep sigh over the arduous educational duties before him. then bobby's grandfather brought out some curious knobby-looking bundles from his valise, and while the children shut their eyes, he hid the packages and then turned the children loose to find them. there was a great outfit of kate greenaway writing paper for ethelwyn; a black doll-baby apiece for beth and nan; and a watch with a leather fob and jockey cap attachments for his namesake, bobby. there were also a book and a game for each one. while they were playing with their gifts, mrs. rayburn and bobby's grandfather talked apart, and it was a happy talk, as ethelwyn and beth could see when they came up to where they were sitting. when at last it was time to say good-night, ethelwyn and beth had a surprise for bobby's grandfather. it was four silver dollars. "two of our dollars are gone to help take joe's sister to the home," beth explained, "but this is for you on account of your losing the change money. it's from us all, instead of good-bye presents we were going to get for nan and bobby. they said they'd rather." bobby's grandfather hesitated just a little and was about to make a gesture of refusal, when, seeing their mother shake her head, he kissed the children's red cheeks and said, with a shake in his voice, "you dear children, i'll keep these and your letter, as long as i live, so as not to forget your faith in me." _chapter xx_ _the visit to the home_ on the train we ran through rain, then out in sun and blue; and all the trees bent down and raced, and all the houses too. somehow, that night, after the children were all in bed, and the grown people were talking over the next day's journey, it seemed to bobby's grandfather that he too would like to go along, and he said he could not for the life of him see why bobby's mother should not go too, and also nan's father and mother if they wished. well, it was short notice, but by telegraphing, telephoning and telling by mouth they arranged it; and the next morning quite an imposing party boarded the eastbound limited, and took possession of the drawing-room car, for bobby's grandfather never did things on a niggardly plan. he and bobby's mother were seated on one side, and nan's mother (her father could not leave) and mrs. rayburn were across from them, while nan, ethelwyn, beth, and bobby appeared and disappeared, like meteors, in the most unexpected places. joe's sister was not well enough that day to accompany them, so it was arranged that her brother should bring her as soon as she felt better. if i have, by the use of the word "grandfather," given you an idea of decrepitude and old age, in the case of bobby's grandfather, i wish at once to change that idea. he was a very erect and handsome man, with a white mustache indeed, but with a firm mouth underneath that gave no sign of diminished force. he had always told mrs. rayburn that he thought it was very foolish for her to give such large sums of money for charity. "it's not right," he now repeated, twirling his mustache. the morning paper lay across his knees, and, as he spoke, with an air of finality and disapproval, he picked it up. "what isn't right, grandfather?" asked bobby, suddenly appearing on the back of his chair, and encircling his grandfather's neck with a pair of sturdy legs. his grandfather drew him down by one leg into his lap. "giving all your money away to people who don't appreciate it," he explained. "how do you know they don't?" asked bobby. "because, sir, people don't appreciate what is given to them, as much as they do what they earn." bobby pondered over this. "i like my christmas presents better than the money i get for chopping kindling," he replied at length; "because the christmas money is more, for one thing." "and more certain," put in his mother, laughing; "the kindling money isn't always earned." "are you talking about the home money?" asked ethelwyn, looking over the back of the chair in front of them. "yes." "but we like to give it, and so will you, when you see how nice it is, and dick and aunty stevens and the best cookies that she can make. what's the good of keeping money? we can always buy more down at your bank," she concluded easily. "you may not always think so, young lady, nor take such wide views of things. when you grow up, you may wish you had more money," said the banker, laughing. "does keeping money make folks happy?" inquired beth, suddenly popping up. the lines in grandfather's face deepened, and there came over it a look of care. "not always, child, i must confess," he said at length. "besides, my father says not to lay up treasure for roth and must to corrupt!" put in nan, coming to the surface. at this, they all shouted, much to nan's discomfiture. for awhile the banker looked out on the showery landscape, then he turned to the children's mother. "perhaps you are right, mrs. rayburn," he said gently. "the world is all too selfish;" and he sighed as he said it. "it is indeed," came the emphatic answer. "there is no crime, there is no sin, that has not for its basis selfishness. it is the evil part of life, and the christ life that ought to be man's pattern, is the type of unselfishness." "well," said the banker, taking up his paper, "i am open to conviction." the sun was shining when they arrived at the pretty station, and they all stopped on the platform to listen a moment to the organ note of the sea. as they waited, a wagon drove up, and a young fellow jumped out and ran towards them. "it's--it's--dick! dick who used to walk on crutches!" cried ethelwyn, fairly rubbing her eyes in astonishment. there were no signs of lameness now in this tall youth, and his face was radiant with happiness. he could not speak for a moment, as he shook hands with those whom he knew, and of whom he had almost constantly thought with heartfelt gratitude. "my sakes! aren't you mended up well, though?" said beth, walking around him admiringly. they all laughed at this, of course, and dick was then introduced to bobby's mother, his grandfather, and bobby himself. "dick is the first patient of the home," said mrs. rayburn, "and he does it credit. he is mrs. stevens's right-hand man now. where and how is dear mrs. stevens?" "she is well but could not leave to come to the train," said dick. "she can hardly wait to see you, though." "i do sincerely trust she has baked a bushel of cookies," said ethelwyn, as they climbed into the wagon. the approach to the home was very beautiful. the sun was going down in a blaze of glory, and the wagon wound around the hill road to where the cottage, gay with flags and striped awnings, crowned its summit. then, above the roar of the sea and the clatter of hoofs, came the sound of children's voices calling from the broad piazza, "welcome home! welcome home!" then a child's voice sang, "to give sad children's hearts a joy, to give the weary rest, to give to those who need it sore, this makes a life most blest." as bobby's grandfather helped the grown people out of the wagon--the children had climbed down without waiting for help--he cleared his throat once or twice. "i'm nearer conviction than i was," he said. as she hurried towards the porch, mrs. rayburn smiled to herself. nan's mother waited, and walked up with bobby's grandfather. over her had come a great and happy change; her eyes were now full of earnest light, and she had forgotten her headaches and other small ills. she now looked up into the banker's face. "after all, life to be beautiful and to reach rightly towards eternity should be helpful, and self-forgetful; do you not think so?" she said. "i was long learning the two great commandments, which embody the whole decalogue, and i probably never should have learned them if it had not been for these blessed children, and their mother." "h--m, h--m," said the banker. on the porch were twenty children. in forty eyes the new light of happiness was dawning. at the beginning, many of them had been hopeless and even evil, but now it was all different, for they had found out that they could laugh. aunty stevens herself, full of laughter and bubbling over with joy at seeing her friends again, surrounded by the shouting children, made them more than welcome. bobby's grandfather was armed with a huge box, which he had mysteriously guarded all day; he now set it down upon the porch. "if you children don't make this box lighter at once, i shall have no use for you," he declared. and they all, scenting candy with infallible instinct, fell upon it with rapture. they had tea on the lawn, that evening, and, after a consultation with mrs. stevens, bobby's grandfather sent a message over the telephone that was followed very shortly by a man with ice cream and a huge cake. when eight o'clock came, one of the teachers began to play a march on the piano in the hall. at once the children fell into line, marking time with their feet, and singing, "good-night, good-night, children and blossoms who sleep all the night, always will wake up happy and bright, good-night, good-night!" as they sang, they marched away to bed. the others followed them in. the boys' dormitories were in a building on one side of the lawn, and the girls' on the other, while the babies' nursery was in the main building. the spirit of the home was helpfulness, so each child aided some one else in getting ready for the night. when they were in their white night-gowns, they all dropped upon their knees, and one of the teachers said a short prayer after which they all joined with her in the lord's prayer. when the guests came down into aunty stevens's sitting-room where the open fire was dancing--for the evening was a trifle chilly--bobby's grandfather put a few questions to mrs. stevens. "when the children are thievish and given to bad language and lying, what do you do?" he asked. "in some way they seem to shed those things, as a worm does its cocoon, after they are here for a while," she answered. "in the light of loving care, the sunny child nature comes out--it cannot help it, any more than a rose can help blooming in the sun; and, with the other children who have been here from the first to regulate things, we do not have much trouble. they are too young to stay vicious, and when they go away they are well enough grounded in good habits not to forget them, we hope, and to go on helping others." "do you have to refuse many applicants?" "yes, that is one trouble. we ought to be able to take at least fifty children, and we need an infirmary; but those things will come in time." bobby's grandfather opened his mouth to speak, just as bobby himself climbed into his lap with a question trembling on his lips. "well, sir?" inquired his grandfather. "may i have some of the money you're going to leave me, to give now, just as ethelwyn and beth did?" asked bobby. "how do you know i'm going to leave you any, you young freebooter?" "well, i s'posed you would; most people would think so, 'cause i'm named for you, and you always said you liked me," remarked bobby, somewhat embarrassed. his grandfather patted him comfortingly on the back. "yes, bobby, i do like you, and all the better for your request. we'll build the infirmary, and maybe more. i am open to conviction no more," he added, looking towards mrs. rayburn, "for i _am_ convicted and i hope converted." advertisements molly brown series college life stories for girls by nell speed. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid molly brown's freshman days. would you like to admit to your circle of friends the most charming of college girls--the typical college girl for whom we are always looking but not always finding; the type that contains so many delightful characteristics, yet without unpleasant perfection in any; the natural, unaffected, sweet-tempered girl, loved because she is lovable? then seek an introduction to molly brown. you will find the baggage-master, the cook, the professor of english literature, and the college president in the same company. molly brown's sophomore days. what is more delightful than a re-union of college girls after the summer vacation? certainly nothing that precedes it in their experience--at least, if all class-mates are as happy together as the wellington girls of this story. among molly's interesting friends of the second year is a young japanese girl, who ingratiates her "humbly" self into everybody's affections speedily and permanently. molly brown's junior days. financial stumbling blocks are not the only things that hinder the ease and increase the strength of college girls. their troubles and their triumphs are their own, often peculiar to their environment. how wellington students meet the experiences outside the class-rooms is worth the doing, the telling and the reading. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company publishers new york motor maids series wholesome stories of adventure by katherine stokes. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the motor maids' school days. billie campbell was just the type of a straightforward, athletic girl to be successful as a practical motor maid. she took her car, as she did her class-mates, to her heart, and many a grand good time did they have all together. the road over which she ran her red machine had many an unexpected turning,--now it led her into peculiar danger; now into contact with strange travelers; and again into experiences by fire and water. but, best of all, "the comet" never failed its brave girl owner. the motor maids by palm and pine. wherever the motor maids went there were lively times, for these were companionable girls who looked upon the world as a vastly interesting place full of unique adventures--and so, of course, they found them. the motor maids across the continent. it is always interesting to travel, and it is wonderfully entertaining to see old scenes through fresh eyes. it is that privilege, therefore, that makes it worth while to join the motor maids in their first 'cross-country run. the motor maids by rose, shamrock and heather. south and west had the motor maids motored, nor could their education by travel have been more wisely begun. but now a speaking acquaintance with their own country enriched their anticipation of an introduction to the british isles. how they made their polite american bow and how they were received on the other side is a tale of interest and inspiration. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company publishers new york girl aviators series clean aviation stories by margaret burnham. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the girl aviators and the phantom airship. roy prescott was fortunate in having a sister so clever and devoted to him and his interests that they could share work and play with mutual pleasure and to mutual advantage. this proved especially true in relation to the manufacture and manipulation of their aeroplane, and peggy won well deserved fame for her skill and good sense as an aviator. there were many stumbling-blocks in their terrestrial path, but they soared above them all to ultimate success. the girl aviators on golden wings. that there is a peculiar fascination about aviation that wins and holds girl enthusiasts as well as boys is proved by this tale. on golden wings the girl aviators rose for many an exciting flight, and met strange and unexpected experiences. the girl aviators' sky cruise. to most girls a coaching or yachting trip is an adventure. how much more perilous an adventure a "sky cruise" might be is suggested by the title and proved by the story itself. the girl aviators' motor butterfly. the delicacy of flight suggested by the word "butterfly," the mechanical power implied by "motor," the ability to control assured in the title "aviator," all combined with the personality and enthusiasm of girls themselves, make this story one for any girl or other reader "to go crazy over." any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company publishers new york dreadnought boys series tales of the new navy by capt. wilbur lawton author of "boy aviators series." cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the dreadnought boys on battle practice. especially interesting and timely is this book which introduces the reader with its heroes, ned and herc, to the great ships of modern warfare and to the intimate life and surprising adventures of uncle sam's sailors. the dreadnought boys aboard a destroyer. in this story real dangers threaten and the boys' patriotism is tested in a peculiar international tangle. the scene is laid on the south american coast. the dreadnought boys on a submarine. to the inventive genius--trade-school boy or mechanic--this story has special charm, perhaps, but to every reader its mystery and clever action are fascinating. the dreadnought boys on aero service. among the volunteers accepted for aero service are ned and herc. their perilous adventures are not confined to the air, however, although they make daring and notable flights in the name of the government; 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their ship of the air is attacked by huge birds of the air; they survive explosion and earthquake; they even live to tell the tale! any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company publishers new york bungalow boys series live stories of outdoor life by dexter j. forrester. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the bungalow boys. how the bungalow boys received their title and how they retained the right to it in spite of much opposition makes a lively narrative for lively boys. the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics. a real treasure hunt of the most thrilling kind, with a sunken spanish galleon as its object, makes a subject of intense interest at any time, but add to that a band of desperate men, a dark plot and a devil fish, and you have the combination that brings strange adventures into the lives of the bungalow boys. the bungalow boys in the great north west. the clever assistance of a young detective saves the boys from the clutches of chinese smugglers, of whose nefarious trade they know too much. how the professor's invention relieves a critical situation is also an exciting incident of this book. the bungalow boys on the great lakes. the bungalow boys start out for a quiet cruise on the great lakes and a visit to an island. a storm and a band of wreckers interfere with the serenity of their trip, and a submarine adds zest and adventure to it. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company publishers new york works of j.t. trowbridge here is an author who is famous--whose writings delight both boys and girls. enthusiasm abounds on every page and interest never grows old. a few of the best titles are given: coupon bonds. cudjo's cave. the drummer boy. martin merryvale, his x mark. father bright hopes. lucy arlyn. neighbor jackwood. the three scouts. price, postage paid, for any of the above books, fifty cents. have you seen our complete catalogue? send for it hurst & co. publishers new york books by charles carleton coffin author of "boys of ' " "boys of ' " charles carleton coffin's specialty is books pertaining to the war. his celebrated writings with reference to the great rebellion have been read by thousands. we have popularized him by publishing his best works at reduced prices. following the flag. charles carleton coffin my days and nights on the battlefield. charles carleton coffin winning his way. charles carleton coffin six nights in a block house. henry c. watson be sure to get one of each. price, postpaid, fifty cents. obtain our latest complete catalogue. hurst & co., publishers, new york biographical library of the lives of great men a limited line comprising subjects pertaining to the careers of men who have helped to mould the world's history. a library is incomplete without the entire set. benjamin franklin, life of--american statesman and discoverer of electricity. christopher columbus, life of--discoverer of america. daniel boone, life of--famous kentucky explorer and scout. daniel webster, life of--american statesman and diplomat. distinguished american orators--who have helped to mould american events. eminent americans--makers of united states history. john gutenberg, life of--inventor of printing. napoleon and his marshals--celebrated french general and commander. orators of the american revolution--whose speeches ring with patriotism. paul jones, life of--american naval hero. patrick henry, life of--distinguished american orator and patriot. philip h. sheridan, life of--"little phil"; 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a story for little folks. rich and humble; or, the mission of bertha grant. sailor boy: or, jack somers in the navy. soldier boy; or, tom somers in the army. try again; or, the trials and triumphs of harry west. watch and wait; or, the young fugitives. work and win; or, noddy newman on a cruise. the yankee middy; or, the adventures of a naval officer. young lieutenant; or, the adventures of an army officer. any of these books will be mailed, postpaid, upon receipt of c. get our complete catalogue--sent anywhere. hurst & co., publishers, new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) clover by susan coolidge author of "what katy did," "mischief's thanksgiving," "nine little goslings," etc. illustrated by jessie mcdermot boston little, brown, and company alfred mudge & son, inc., printers, boston, mass., u.s.a. contents chapter i. a talk on the doorsteps ii. the day of happy letters iii. the first wedding in the family iv. two long years in one short chapter v. car forty-seven vi. st. helen's vii. making acquaintance viii. high valley ix. over a pass x. no. piute street xi. the last of the clover-leaves chapter i. a talk on the doorsteps. it was one of those afternoons in late april which are as mild and balmy as any june day. the air was full of the chirps and twitters of nest-building birds, and of sweet indefinable odors from half-developed leaf-buds and cherry and pear blossoms. the wisterias overhead were thickly starred with pointed pearl-colored sacs, growing purpler with each hour, which would be flowers before long; the hedges were quickening into life, the long pensile willow-boughs and the honey-locusts hung in a mist of fine green against the sky, and delicious smells came with every puff of wind from the bed of white violets under the parlor windows. katy and clover carr, sitting with their sewing on the door-steps, drew in with every breath the sense of spring. who does not know the delightfulness of that first sitting out of doors after a long winter's confinement? it seems like flinging the gauntlet down to the powers of cold. hope and renovation are in the air. life has conquered death, and to the happy hearts in love with life there is joy in the victory. the two sisters talked busily as they sewed, but all the time an only half-conscious rapture informed their senses,--the sympathy of that which is immortal in human souls with the resurrection of natural things, which is the sure pledge of immortality. it was nearly a year since katy had come back from that too brief journey to europe with mrs. ashe and amy, about which some of you have read, and many things of interest to the carr family had happened during the interval. the "natchitoches" had duly arrived in new york in october, and presently afterward burnet was convulsed by the appearance of a tall young fellow in naval uniform, and the announcement of katy's engagement to lieutenant worthington. it was a piece of news which interested everybody in the little town, for dr. carr was a universal friend and favorite. for a time he had been the only physician in the place; and though with the gradual growth of population two or three younger men had appeared to dispute the ground with him, they were forced for the most part to content themselves with doctoring the new arrivals, and with such fragments and leavings of practice as dr. carr chose to intrust to them. none of the old established families would consent to call in any one else if they could possibly get the "old" doctor. a skilful practitioner, who is at the same time a wise adviser, a helpful friend, and an agreeable man, must necessarily command a wide influence. dr. carr was "by all odds and far away," as our english cousins would express it, the most popular person in burnet, wanted for all pleasant occasions, and doubly wanted for all painful ones. so the news of katy's engagement was made a matter of personal concern by a great many people, and caused a general stir, partly because she was her father's daughter, and partly because she was herself; for katy had won many friends by her own merit. so long as ned worthington stayed, a sort of tide of congratulation and sympathy seemed to sweep through the house all day long. tea-roses and chrysanthemums, and baskets of pears and the beautiful burnet grapes flooded the premises, and the door-bell rang so often that clover threatened to leave the door open, with a card attached,--"walk straight in. _he_ is in the parlor!" everybody wanted to see and know katy's lover, and to have him as a guest. ten tea-drinkings a week would scarcely have contented katy's well-wishers, had the limitations of mortal weeks permitted such a thing; and not a can of oysters would have been left in the place if lieutenant worthington's leave had lasted three days longer. clover and elsie loudly complained that they themselves never had a chance to see him; for whenever he was not driving or walking with katy, or having long _tête-à-têtes_ in the library, he was eating muffins somewhere, or making calls on old ladies whose feelings would be dreadfully hurt if he went away without their seeing him. "sisters seem to come off worst of all," protested johnnie. but in spite of their lamentations they all saw enough of their future brother-in-law to grow fond of him; and notwithstanding some natural pangs of jealousy at having to share katy with an outsider, it was a happy visit, and every one was sorry when the leave of absence ended, and ned had to go away. a month later the "natchitoches" sailed for the bahamas. it was to be a six months' cruise only; and on her return she was for a while to make part of the home squadron. this furnished a good opportunity for her first lieutenant to marry; so it was agreed that the wedding should take place in june, and katy set about her preparations in the leisurely and simple fashion which was characteristic of her. she had no ambition for a great _trousseau_, and desired to save her father expense; so her outfit, as compared with that of most modern brides, was a very moderate one, but being planned and mostly made at home, it necessarily involved thought, time, and a good deal of personal exertion. dear little clover flung herself into the affair with even more interest than if it had been her own. many happy mornings that winter did the sisters spend together over their dainty stitches and "white seam." elsie and johnnie were good needle-women now, and could help in many ways. mrs. ashe often joined them; even amy could contribute aid in the plainer sewing, and thread everybody's needles. but the most daring and indefatigable of all was clover, who never swerved in her determination that katy's "things" should be as nice and as pretty as love and industry combined could make them. her ideas as to decoration soared far beyond katy's. she hem-stitched, she cat-stitched, she feather-stitched, she lace-stitched, she tucked and frilled and embroidered, and generally worked her fingers off; while the bride vainly protested that all this finery was quite unnecessary, and that simple hems and a little hamburg edging would answer just as well. clover merely repeated the words, "hamburg edging!" with an accent of scorn, and went straight on in her elected way. as each article received its last touch, and came from the laundry white and immaculate, it was folded to perfection, tied with a narrow blue or pale rose-colored ribbon, and laid aside in a sacred receptacle known as "the wedding bureau." the handkerchiefs, grouped in dozens, were strewn with dried violets and rose-leaves to make them sweet. lavender-bags and sachets of orris lay among the linen; and perfumes as of araby were discernible whenever a drawer in the bureau was pulled out. so the winter passed, and now spring was come; and the two girls on the doorsteps were talking about the wedding, which seemed very near now. "tell me just what sort of an affair you want it to be," said clover. "it seems more your wedding than mine, you have worked so hard for it," replied katy. "you might give your ideas first." "my ideas are not very distinct. it's only lately that i have begun to think about it at all, there has been so much to do. i'd like to have you have a beautiful dress and a great many wedding-presents and everything as pretty as can be, but not so many bridesmaids as cecy, because there is always such a fuss in getting them nicely up the aisle in church and out again,--that is as far as i've got. but so long as you are pleased, and it goes off well, i don't care exactly how it is managed." "then, since you are in such an accommodating frame of mind, it seems a good time to break my views to you. don't be shocked, clovy; but, do you know, i don't want to be married in church at all, or to have any bridesmaids, or anything arranged for beforehand particularly. i should like things to be simple, and to just _happen_." "but, katy, you can't do it like that. it will all get into a snarl if there is no planning beforehand or rehearsals; it would be confused and horrid." "i don't see why it would be confused if there were nothing to confuse. please not be vexed; but i always have hated the ordinary kind of wedding, with its fuss and worry and so much of everything, and just like all the other weddings, and the bride looking tired to death, and nobody enjoying it a bit. i'd like mine to be different, and more--more--real. i don't want any show or processing about, but just to have things nice and pretty, and all the people i love and who love me to come to it, and nothing cut and dried, and nobody tired, and to make it a sort of dear, loving occasion, with leisure to realize how dear it is and what it all means. don't you think it would really be nicer in that way?" "well, yes, as you put it, and 'viewed from the higher standard,' as miss inches would say, perhaps it would. still, bridesmaids and all that are very pretty to look at; and folks will be surprised if you don't have them." "never mind folks," remarked the irreverent katy. "i don't care a button for that argument. yes; bridesmaids and going up the aisle in a long procession and all the rest _are_ pretty to look at,--or were before they got to be so hackneyed. i can imagine the first bridal procession up the aisle of some early cathedral as having been perfectly beautiful. but nowadays, when the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker and everybody else do it just alike, the custom seems to me to have lost its charm. i never did enjoy having things exactly as every one else has them,--all going in the same direction like a flock of sheep. i would like my little wedding to be something especially my own. there was a poetical meaning in those old customs; but now that the custom has swallowed up so much of the meaning, it would please me better to retain the meaning and drop the custom." "i see what you mean," said clover, not quite convinced, but inclined as usual to admire katy and think that whatever she meant must be right. "but tell me a little more. you mean to have a wedding-dress, don't you?" doubtfully. "yes, indeed!" "have you thought what it shall be?" "do you recollect that beautiful white crape shawl of mamma's which papa gave me two years ago? it has a lovely wreath of embroidery round it; and it came to me the other day that it would make a charming gown, with white surah or something for the under-dress. i should like that better than anything new, because mamma used to wear it, and it would seem as if she were here still, helping me to get ready. don't you think so?" "it is a lovely idea," said clover, the ever-ready tears dimming her happy blue eyes for a moment, "and just like you. yes, that shall be the dress,--dear mamma's shawl. it will please papa too, i think, to have you choose it." "i thought perhaps it would," said katy, soberly. "then i have a wide white watered sash which aunt izzy gave me, and i mean to have that worked into the dress somehow. i should like to wear something of hers too, for she was really good to us when we were little, and all that long time that i was ill; and we were not always good to her, i am afraid. poor aunt izzy! what troublesome little wretches we were,--i most of all!" "were you? somehow i never can recollect the time when you were not a born angel. i am afraid i don't remember aunt izzy well. i just have a vague memory of somebody who was pretty strict and cross." "ah, you never had a back, and needed to be waited on night and day, or you would recollect a great deal more than that. cousin helen helped me to appreciate what aunt izzy really was. by the way, one of the two things i have set my heart on is to have cousin helen come to my wedding." "it would be lovely if she could. do you suppose there is any chance?" "i wrote her week before last, but she hasn't answered yet. of course it depends on how she is; but the accounts from her have been pretty good this year." "what is the other thing you have set your heart on? you said 'two.'" "the other is that rose red shall be here, and little rose. i wrote to her the other day also, and coaxed hard. wouldn't it be too enchanting? you know how we have always longed to have her in burnet; and if she could come now it would make everything twice as pleasant." "katy, what an enchanting thought!" cried clover, who had not seen rose since they all left hillsover. "it would be the greatest lark that ever was to have the roses. when do you suppose we shall hear? i can hardly wait, i am in such a hurry to have her say 'yes.'" "but suppose she says 'no'?" "i won't think of such a possibility. now go on. i suppose your principles don't preclude a wedding-cake?" "on the contrary, they include a great deal of wedding-cake. i want to send a box to everybody in burnet,--all the poor people, i mean, and the old people and the children at the home and those forlorn creatures at the poor-house and all papa's patients." "but, katy, that will cost a lot," objected the thrifty clover. "i know it; so we must do it in the cheapest way, and make the cake ourselves. i have aunt izzy's recipe, which is a very good one; and if we all take hold, it won't be such an immense piece of work. debby has quantities of raisins stoned already. she has been doing them in the evenings a few at a time for the last month. mrs. ashe knows a factory where you can get the little white boxes for ten dollars a thousand, and i have commissioned her to send for five hundred." "five hundred! what an immense quantity!" "yes; but there are all the hillsover girls to be remembered, and all our kith and kin, and everybody at the wedding will want one. i don't think it will be too many. oh, i have arranged it all in my mind. johnnie will slice the citron, elsie will wash the currants, debby measure and bake, alexander mix, you and i will attend to the icing, and all of us will cut it up." "alexander!" "alexander. he is quite pleased with the idea, and has constructed an implement--a sort of spade, cut out of new pine wood--for the purpose. he says it will be a sight easier than digging flower-beds. we will set about it next week; for the cake improves by keeping, and as it is the heaviest job we have to do, it will be well to get it out of the way early." "sha'n't you have a floral bell, or a bower to stand in, or something of that kind?" ventured clover, timidly. "indeed i shall not," replied katy. "i particularly dislike floral bells and bowers. they are next worst to anchors and harps and 'floral pillows' and all the rest of the dreadful things that they have at funerals. no, we will have plenty of fresh flowers, but not in stiff arrangements. i want it all to seem easy and to _be_ easy. don't look so disgusted, clovy." "oh, i'm not disgusted. it's your wedding. i want you to have everything in your own way." "it's everybody's wedding, i think," said katy, tenderly. "everybody is so kind about it. did you see the thing that polly sent this morning?" "no. it must have come after i went out. what was it?" "seven yards of beautiful nun's lace which she bought in florence. she says it is to trim a morning dress; but it's really too pretty. how dear polly is! she sends me something almost every day. i seem to be in her thoughts all the time. it is because she loves ned so much, of course; but it is just as kind of her." "i think she loves you almost as much as ned," said clover. "oh, she couldn't do that; ned is her only brother. there is amy at the gate now." it was a much taller amy than had come home from italy the year before who was walking toward them under the budding locust-boughs. roman fever had seemed to quicken and stimulate all amy's powers, and she had grown very fast during the past year. her face was as frank and childlike as ever, and her eyes as blue; but she was prettier than when she went to europe, for her cheeks were pink, and the mane of waving hair which framed them in was very becoming. the hair was just long enough now to touch her shoulders; it was turning brown as it lengthened, but the ends of the locks still shone with childish gold, and caught the sun in little shining rings as it filtered down through the tree branches. she kissed clover several times, and gave katy a long, close hug; then she produced a parcel daintily hid in silver paper. "tanta," she said,--this was a pet name lately invented for katy,--"here is something for you from mamma. it's something quite particular, i think, for mamma cried when she was writing the note; not a hard cry, you know, but just two little teeny-weeny tears in her eyes. she kept smiling, though, and she looked happy, so i guess it isn't anything very bad. she said i was to give it to you with her best, _best_ love." katy opened the parcel, and beheld a square veil of beautiful old blonde. the note said: this was my wedding-veil, dearest katy, and my mother wore it before me. it has been laid aside all these years with the idea that perhaps amy might want it some day; but instead i send it to you, without whom there would be no amy to wear this or anything else. i think it would please ned to see it on your head, and i know it would make me very happy; but if you don't feel like using it, don't mind for a moment saying so to your loving polly. [illustration: "katy opened the parcel, and beheld a square veil of beautiful old blonde."] katy handed the note silently to clover, and laid her face for a little while among the soft folds of the lace, about which a faint odor of roses hung like the breath of old-time and unforgotten loves and affections. "shall you?" queried clover, softly. "why, of course! doesn't it seem too sweet? both our mothers!" "there!" cried amy, "you are going to cry too, tanta! i thought weddings were nice funny things. i never supposed they made people feel badly. i sha'n't ever let mabel get married, i think. but she'll have to stay a little girl always in that case, for i certainly won't have her an old maid." "what do you know about old maids, midget?" asked clover. "why, miss clover, i have seen lots of them. there was that one at the pension suisse; you remember, tanta? and the two on the steamer when we came home. and there's miss fitz who made my blue frock; ellen said she was a regular old maid. i never mean to let mabel be like that." "i don't think there's the least danger," remarked katy, glancing at the inseparable mabel, who was perched on amy's arm, and who did not look a day older than she had done eighteen months previously. "amy, we're going to make wedding-cake next week,--heaps and heaps of wedding-cake. don't you want to come and help?" "why, of course i do. what fun! which day may i come?" the cake-making did really turn out fun. many hands made light work of what would have been a formidable job for one or two. it was all done gradually. johnnie cut the golden citron quarters into thin transparent slices in the sitting-room one morning while the others were sewing, and reading tennyson aloud. elsie and amy made a regular frolic of the currant-washing. katy, with debby's assistance, weighed and measured; and the mixture was enthusiastically stirred by alexander, with the "spade" which he had invented, in a large new wash-tub. then came the baking, which for two days filled the house with spicy, plum-puddingy odors; then the great feat of icing the big square loaves; and then the cutting up, in which all took part. there was much careful measurement that the slices might be an exact fit; and the kitchen rang with bright laughter and chat as katy and clover wielded the sharp bread-knives, and the others fitted the portions into their boxes, and tied the ribbons in crisp little bows. many delicious crumbs and odd corners and fragments fell to the share of the younger workers; and altogether the occasion struck amy as so enjoyable that she announced--with her mouth full--that she had changed her mind, and that mabel might get married as often as she pleased, if she would have cake like _that_ every time,--a liberality of permission which mabel listened to with her invariable waxen smile. when all was over, and the last ribbons tied, the hundreds of little boxes were stacked in careful piles on a shelf of the inner closet of the doctor's office to wait till they were wanted,--an arrangement which naughty clover pronounced eminently suitable, since there should always be a doctor close at hand where there was so much wedding-cake. but before all this was accomplished, came what katy, in imitation of one of miss edgeworth's heroines, called "the day of happy letters." chapter ii. the day of happy letters. the arrival of the morning boat with letters and newspapers from the east was the great event of the day in burnet. it was due at eleven o'clock; and everybody, consciously or unconsciously, was on the lookout for it. the gentlemen were at the office bright and early, and stood chatting with each other, and fingering the keys of their little drawers till the rattle of the shutter announced that the mail was distributed. their wives and daughters at home, meanwhile, were equally in a state of expectation, and whatever they might be doing kept ears and eyes on the alert for the step on the gravel and the click of the latch which betokened the arrival of the family news-bringer. doctors cannot command their time like other people, and dr. carr was often detained by his patients, and made late for the mail, so it was all the pleasanter a surprise when on the great day of the cake-baking he came in earlier than usual, with his hands quite full of letters and parcels. all the girls made a rush for him at once; but he fended them off with an elbow, while with teasing slowness he read the addresses on the envelopes. "miss carr--miss carr--miss katherine carr--miss carr again; four for you, katy. dr. p. carr,--a bill and a newspaper, i perceive; all that an old country doctor with a daughter about to be married ought to expect, i suppose. miss clover e. carr,--one for the 'confidante in white linen.' here, take it, clovy. miss carr again. katy, you have the lion's share. miss joanna carr,--in the unmistakable handwriting of miss inches. miss katherine carr, care dr. carr. that looks like a wedding present, katy. miss elsie carr; cecy's hand, i should say. miss carr once more,--from the conquering hero, judging from the post-mark. dr. carr,--another newspaper, and--hollo!--one more for miss carr. well, children, i hope for once you are satisfied with the amount of your correspondence. my arm fairly aches with the weight of it. i hope the letters are not so heavy inside as out." "i am quite satisfied, papa, thank you," said katy, looking up with a happy smile from ned's letter, which she had torn open first of all. "are you going, dear?" she laid her packages down to help him on with his coat. katy never forgot her father. "yes, i am going. time and rheumatism wait for no man. you can tell me your news when i come back." it is not fair to peep into love letters, so i will only say of ned's that it was very long, very entertaining,--katy thought,--and contained the pleasant information that the "natchitoches" was to sail four days after it was posted, and would reach new york a week sooner than any one had dared to hope. the letter contained several other things as well, which showed katy how continually she had been in his thoughts,--a painting on rice paper, a dried flower or two, a couple of little pen-and-ink sketches of the harbor of santa lucia and the shipping, and a small cravat of an odd convent lace folded very flat and smooth. altogether it was a delightful letter, and katy read it, as it were, in leaps, her eyes catching at the salient points, and leaving the details to be dwelt upon when she should be alone. this done, she thrust the letter into her pocket, and proceeded to examine the others. the first was in cousin helen's clear, beautiful handwriting:-- dear katy,--if any one had told us ten years ago that in this particular year of grace you would be getting ready to be married, and i preparing to come to your wedding, i think we should have listened with some incredulity, as to an agreeable fairy tale which could not possibly come true. we didn't look much like it, did we,--you in your big chair and i on my sofa? yet here we are! when your letter first reached me it seemed a sort of impossible thing that i should accept your invitation; but the more i thought about it the more i felt as if i must, and now things seem to be working round to that end quite marvellously. i have had a good winter, but the doctor wishes me to try the experiment of the water cure again which benefited me so much the summer of your accident. this brings me in your direction; and i don't see why i might not come a little earlier than i otherwise should, and have the great pleasure of seeing you married, and making acquaintance with lieutenant worthington. that is, if you are perfectly sure that to have at so busy a time a guest who, like the queen of spain, has the disadvantage of being without legs, will not be more care than enjoyment. think seriously over this point, and don't send for me unless you are certain. meanwhile, i am making ready. alex and emma and little helen--who is a pretty big helen now--are to be my escorts as far as buffalo on their way to niagara. after that is all plain sailing, and jane carter and i can manage very well for ourselves. it seems like a dream to think that i may see you all so soon; but it is such a pleasant one that i would not wake up on any account. i have a little gift which i shall bring you myself, my katy; but i have a fancy also that you shall wear some trifling thing on your wedding-day which comes from me, so for fear of being forestalled i will say now, please don't buy any stockings for the occasion, but wear the pair which go with this, for the sake of your loving cousin helen. "these must be they," cried elsie, pouncing on one of the little packages. "may i cut the string, katy?" permission was granted; and elsie cut the string. it was indeed a pair of beautiful white silk stockings embroidered in an open pattern, and far finer than anything which katy would have thought of choosing for herself. "don't they look exactly like cousin helen?" she said, fondling them. "her things always are choicer and prettier than anybody's else, somehow. i can't think how she does it, when she never by any chance goes into a shop. who can this be from, i wonder?" "this" was the second little package. it proved to contain a small volume bound in white and gold, entitled, "advice to brides." on the fly-leaf appeared this inscription:-- to katherine carr, on the occasion of her approaching bridal, from her affectionate teacher, marianne nipson. timothy, ii. . clover at once ran to fetch her testament that she might verify the quotation, and announced with a shriek of laughter that it was: "let the women learn in silence with all subjection;" while katy, much diverted, read extracts casually selected from the work, such as: "a wife should receive her husband's decree without cavil or question, remembering that the husband is the head of the wife, and that in all matters of dispute his opinion naturally and scripturally outweighs her own." or: "'a soft answer turneth away wrath.' if your husband comes home fretted and impatient, do not answer him sharply, but soothe him with gentle words and caresses. strict attention to the minor details of domestic management will often avail to secure peace." and again: "keep in mind the epitaph raised in honor of an exemplary wife of the last century,--'she never banged the door.' qualify yourself for a similar testimonial." "tanta never does bang doors," remarked amy, who had come in as this last "elegant extract" was being read. "no, that's true; she doesn't," said clover. "her prevailing vice is to leave them open. i like that truth about a good dinner 'availing' to secure peace, and the advice to 'caress' your bear when he is at his crossest. ned never does issue 'decrees,' though, i fancy; and on the whole, katy, i don't believe mrs. nipson's present is going to be any particular comfort in your future trials. do read something else to take the taste out of our mouths. we will listen in 'all subjection.'" katy was already deep in a long epistle from rose. "this is too delicious," she said; "do listen." and she began again at the beginning:-- my sweetest of all old sweets,--come to your wedding! of course i shall. it would never seem to me to have any legal sanction whatever if i were not there to add my blessing. only let me know which day "early in june" it is to be, that i may make ready. deniston will fetch us on, and by a special piece of good luck, a man in chicago--whose name i shall always bless if only i can remember what it is--has been instigated by our mutual good angel to want him on business just about that time; so that he would have to go west anyway, and would rather have me along than not, and is perfectly resigned to his fate. i mean to come three days before, and stay three days after the wedding, if i may, and altogether it is going to be a lark of larks. little rose can talk quite fluently now, and almost read; that is, she knows six letters of her picture alphabet. she composes poems also. the other day she suddenly announced,-- "mamma, i have made up a sort of a im. may i say it to you?" i naturally consented, and this was the im. jump in the parlor, jump in the hall, god made us all! now did you ever hear of anything quite so dear as that, for a baby only three years and five months old? i tell you she is a wonder. you will all adore her, clover particularly. oh, my dear little c.! to think i am going to see her! i met both ellen gray and esther dearborn the other day, and where do you think it was? at mary silver's wedding! yes, she is actually married to the rev. charles playfair strothers, and settled in a little parsonage somewhere in the hoosac tunnel,--or near it,--and already immersed in "duties." i can't think what arguments he used to screw her up to the rash act; but there she is. it wasn't exactly what one would call a cheerful wedding. all the connection took it very seriously; and mary's uncle, who married her, preached quite a lengthy funeral discourse to the young couple, and got them nicely ready for death, burial, and the next world, before he would consent to unite them for this. he was a solemn-looking old person, who had been a missionary, and "had laid away three dear wives in foreign lands," as he confided to me afterward over a plate of ice-cream. he seemed to me to be "taking notice," as they say of babies, and it is barely possible that he mistook me for a single woman, for his attentions were rather pronounced till i introduced my husband prominently into conversation; after that he seemed more attracted by ellen gray. mary cried straight through the ceremony. in fact, i imagine she cried straight through the engagement, for her eyes looked wept out and had scarlet rims, and she was as white as her veil. in fact, whiter, for that was made of beautiful _point de venise_, and was just a trifle yellowish. everybody cried. her mother and sister sobbed aloud, so did several maiden aunts and a grandmother or two and a few cousins. the church resounded with guggles and gasps, like a great deal of bath-water running out of an ill-constructed tub. mr. silver also wept, as a business man may, in a series of sniffs interspersed with silk handkerchief; you know the kind. altogether it was a most cheerless affair. i seemed to be the only person present who was not in tears; but i really didn't see anything to cry about, so far as i was concerned, though i felt very hard-hearted. i had to go alone, for deniston was in new york. i got to the church rather early, and my new spring bonnet--which is a superior one--seemed to impress the ushers, so they put me in a very distinguished front pew all by myself. i bore my honors meekly, and found them quite agreeable, in fact,--you know i always did like to be made much of,--so you can imagine my disgust when presently three of the stoutest ladies you ever saw came sailing up the aisle, and prepared to invade _my_ pew. "please move up, madam," said the fattest of all, who wore a wonderful yellow hat. but i was not "raised" at hillsover for nothing, and remembering the success of our little ruse on the railroad train long ago, i stepped out into the aisle, and with my sweetest smile made room for them to pass. "perhaps i would better keep the seat next the door," i murmured to the yellow lady, "in case an attack should come on." "an attack!" she repeated in an accent of alarm. she whispered to the others. all three eyed me suspiciously, while i stood looking as pensive and suffering as i could. then after confabulating together for a little, they all swept into the seat behind mine, and i heard them speculating in low tones as to whether it was epilepsy or catalepsy or convulsions that i was subject to. i presume they made signs to all the other people who came in to steer clear of the lady with fits, for nobody invaded my privacy, and i sat in lonely splendor with a pew to myself, and was very comfortable indeed. mary's dress was white satin, with a great deal of point lace and pearl passementerie, and she wore a pair of diamond ear-rings which her father gave her, and a bouquet almost but not quite as large, which was the gift of the bridegroom. he has a nice face, and i think silvery mary will be happy with him, much happier than with her rather dismal family, though his salary is only fifteen hundred a year, and pearl passementerie, i believe, quite unknown and useless in the hoosac region. she had loads of the most beautiful presents you ever saw. all the silvers are rolling in riches, you know. one little thing made me laugh, for it was so like her. when the clergyman said, "mary, wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband?" i distinctly saw her put her fingers over her mouth in the old, frightened way. it was only for a second, and after that i rather think mr. strothers held her hand tight for fear she might do it again. she sent her love to you, katy. what sort of a gown are _you_ going to have, by the way? i have kept my best news to the last, which is that deniston has at last given way, and we are to move into town in october. we have taken a little house in west cedar street. it is quite small and very dingy and i presume inconvenient, but i already love it to distraction, and feel as if i should sit up all night for the first month to enjoy the sensation of being no longer that horrid thing, a resident of the suburbs. i hunt the paper shops and collect samples of odd and occult pattern, and compare them with carpets, and am altogether in my element, only longing for the time to come when i may put together my pots and pans and betake me across the mill-dam. meantime, roslein is living in a state of quarantine. she is not permitted to speak with any other children, or even to look out of window at one, for fear she may contract some sort of contagious disease, and spoil our beautiful visit to burnet. she sends you a kiss, and so do i; and mother and sylvia and deniston and grandmamma, particularly, desire their love. your loving rose red. "oh," cried clover, catching katy round the waist, and waltzing wildly about the room, "what a delicious letter! what fun we are going to have! it seems too good to be true. tum-ti-ti, tum-ti-ti. keep step, katy. i forgive you for the first time for getting married. i never did before, really and truly. tum-ti-ti; i am so happy that i must dance!" "there go my letters," said katy, as with the last rapid twirl, rose's many-sheeted epistle and the "advice to brides" flew to right and left. "there go two of your hair-pins, clover. oh, do stop; we shall all be in pieces." clover brought her gyrations to a close by landing her unwilling partner suddenly on the sofa. then with a last squeeze and a rapid kiss she began to pick up the scattered letters. "now read the rest," she commanded, "though anything else will sound flat after rose's." "hear this first," said elsie, who had taken advantage of the pause to open her own letter. "it is from cecy, and she says she is coming to spend a month with her mother on purpose to be here for katy's wedding. she sends heaps of love to you, katy, and says she only hopes that mr. worthington will prove as perfectly satisfactory in all respects as her own dear sylvester." "my gracious, i should hope he would," put in clover, who was still in the wildest spirits. "what a dear old goose cecy is! i never hankered in the least for sylvester slack, did you, katy?" "certainly not. it would be a most improper proceeding if i had," replied katy, with a laugh. "whom do you think this letter is from, girls? do listen to it. it's written by that nice old mr. allen beach, whom we met in london. don't you recollect my telling you about him?" my dear miss carr,--our friends in harley street have told me a piece of news concerning you which came to them lately in a letter from mrs. ashe, and i hope you will permit me to offer you my most sincere congratulations and good wishes. i recollect meeting lieutenant worthington when he was here two years ago, and liking him very much. one is always glad in a foreign land to be able to show so good a specimen of one's young countrymen as he affords,--not that england need be counted as a foreign country by any american, and least of all by myself, who have found it a true home for so many years. as a little souvenir of our week of sight-seeing together, of which i retain most agreeable remembrances, i have sent you by my friends the sawyers, who sail for america shortly, a copy of hare's "walks in london," which a young _protégée_ of mine has for the past year been illustrating with photographs of the many curious old buildings described. you took so much interest in them while here that i hope you may like to see them again. will you please accept with it my most cordial wishes for your future, and believe me very faithfully your friend, allen beach. "what a nice letter!" said clover. "isn't it?" replied katy, with shining eyes, "what a thing it is to be a gentleman, and to know how to say and do things in the right way! i am so surprised and pleased that mr. beach should remember me. i never supposed he would, he sees so many people in london all the time, and it is quite a long time since we were there, nearly two years. was your letter from miss inches, john?" "yes, and mamma marian sends you her love; and there's a present coming by express for you,--some sort of a book with a hard name. i can scarcely make it out, the ru--ru--something of omar kay--y--well, anyway it's a book, and she hopes you will read emerson's 'essay on friendship' over before you are married, because it's a helpful utterance, and adjusts the mind to mutual conditions." "worse than timothy, ii. ," muttered clover. "well, katy dear, what next? what _are_ you laughing at?" "you will never guess, i am sure. this is a letter from miss jane! and she has made me this pincushion!" the pincushion was of a familiar type, two circles of pasteboard covered with gray silk, neatly over-handed together, and stuck with a row of closely fitting pins. miss jane's note ran as follows:-- hillsover, april . dear katy,--i hear from mrs. nipson that you are to be married shortly, and i want to say that you have my best wishes for your future. i think a man ought to be happy who has you for a wife. i only hope the one you have chosen is worthy of you. probably he isn't, but perhaps you won't find it out. life is a knotty problem for most of us. may you solve it satisfactorily to yourself and others! i have nothing to send but my good wishes and a few pins. they are not an unlucky present, i believe, as scissors are said to be. remember me to your sister, and believe me to be with true regard, yours, jane a. bangs. "dear me, is that her name?" cried clover. "i always supposed she was baptized 'miss jane.' it never occurred to me that she had any other title. what appropriate initials! how she used to j.a.b. with us!" "now, clovy, that's not kind. it's a very nice note indeed, and i am touched by it. it's a beautiful compliment to say that the man ought to be happy who has got me, i think. i never supposed that miss jane could pay a compliment." "or make a joke! that touch about the scissors is really jocose,--for miss jane. rose red will shriek over the letter and that particularly rigid pincushion. they are both of them so exactly like her. dear me! only one letter left. who is that from, katy? how fast one does eat up one's pleasures!" "but you had a letter yourself. surely papa said so. what was that? you haven't read it to us." "no, for it contains a secret which you are not to hear just yet," replied clover. "brides mustn't ask questions. go on with yours." "mine is from louisa agnew,--quite a long one, too. it's an age since we heard from her, you know." ashburn, april . dear katy,--your delightful letter and invitation came day before yesterday, and thank you for both. there is nothing in the world that would please me better than to come to your wedding if it were possible, but it simply isn't. if you lived in new haven now, or even boston,--but burnet is so dreadfully far off, it seems as inaccessible as kamchatka to a person who, like myself, has a house to keep and two babies to take care of. don't look so alarmed. the house is the same house you saw when you were here, and so is one of the babies; the other is a new acquisition just two years old, and as great a darling as daisy was at the same age. my mother has been really better in health since he came, but just now she is at a sort of rest cure in kentucky; and i have my hands full with papa and the children, as you can imagine, so i can't go off two days' journey to a wedding,--not even to yours, my dearest old katy. i shall think about you all day long on _the_ day, when i know which it is, and try to imagine just how everything looks; and yet i don't find that quite easy, for somehow i fancy that your wedding will be a little different from the common run. you always were different from other people to me, you know,--you and clover,--and i love you so much, and i always shall. papa has taken a kit-kat portrait of me in oils,--and a blue dress,--which he thinks is like, and which i am going to send you as soon as it comes home from the framers. i hope you will like it a little for my sake. dear katy, i send so much love with it. i have only seen the pages in the street since they came home from europe; but the last piece of news here is lilly's engagement to comte ernest de conflans. he has something to do with the french legation in washington, i believe; and they crossed in the same steamer. i saw him driving with her the other day,--a little man, not handsome, and very dark. i do not know when they are to be married. your cousin clarence is in colorado. with two kisses apiece and a great hug for you, katy, i am always your affectionate friend, louisa. "dear me!" said the insatiable clover, "is that the very last? i wish we had another mail, and twelve more letters coming in at once. what a blessed institution the post-office is!" chapter iii. the first wedding in the family. the great job of the cake-making over, a sense of leisure settled on the house. there seemed nothing left to be done which need put any one out of his or her way particularly. katy had among her other qualities a great deal of what is called "forehandedness." to leave things to be attended to at the last moment in a flurry and a hurry would have been intolerable to her. she firmly believed in the doctrine of a certain wise man of our own day who says that to push your work before you is easy enough, but to pull it after you is very hard indeed. all that winter, without saying much about it,--for katy did not "do her thinking outside her head,"--she had been gradually making ready for the great event of the spring. little by little, a touch here and a touch there, matters had been put in train, and the result now appeared in a surprising ease of mind and absence of confusion. the house had received its spring cleaning a fortnight earlier than usual, and was in fair, nice order, with freshly-beaten carpets and newly-washed curtains. katy's dresses were ordered betimes, and had come home, been tried on, and folded away ten days before the wedding. they were not many in number, but all were pretty and in good taste, for the frigate was to be in bar harbor and newport for a part of the summer, and katy wanted to do ned credit, and look well in his eyes and those of his friends. all the arrangements, kept studiously simple, were beautifully systematized; and their very simplicity made them easy to carry out. the guest chambers were completely ready, one or two extra helpers were engaged that the servants might not be overworked, the order of every meal for the three busiest days was settled and written down. each of the younger sisters had some special charge committed to her. elsie was to wait on cousin helen, and see that she and her nurse had everything they wanted. clover was to care for the two roses; johnnie to oversee the table arrangements, and make sure that all was right in that direction. dear little amy was indefatigable as a doer of errands, and her quick feet were at everybody's service to "save steps." cecy arrived, and haunted the house all day long, anxious to be of use to somebody; mrs. ashe put her time at their disposal; there was such a superabundance of helpers, in fact, that no one could feel over taxed. and katy, while still serving as main spring to the whole, had plenty of time to write her notes, open her wedding presents, and enjoy her friends in a leisurely, unfatigued fashion which was a standing wonderment to cecy, whose own wedding had been of the onerous sort, and had worn her to skin and bone. "i am only just beginning to recover from it now," she remarked plaintively, "and there you sit, katy, looking as fresh as a rose; not tired a bit, and never seeming to have anything on your mind. i can't think how you do it. i never was at a wedding before where everybody was not perfectly worn out." "you never were at such a simple wedding before," explained katy. "i'm not ambitious, you see. i want to keep things pretty much as they are every day, only with a little more of everything because of there being more people to provide for. if i were attempting to make it a beautiful, picturesque wedding, we should get as tired as anybody, i have no doubt." katy's gifts were numerous enough to satisfy even clover, and comprised all manner of things, from a silver tray which came, with a rather stiff note, from mrs. page and lilly, to mary's new flour-scoop, debby's sifter, and a bottle of home-made hair tonic from an old woman in the "county home." each of the brothers and sisters had made her something, katy having expressed a preference for presents of home manufacture. mrs. ashe gave her a beautiful sapphire ring, and cecy hall--as they still called her inadvertently half the time--an elaborate sofa-pillow embroidered by herself. katy liked all her gifts, both large and small, both for what they were and for what they meant, and took a good healthy, hearty satisfaction in the fact that so many people cared for her, and had worked to give her a pleasure. cousin helen was the first guest to arrive, five days before the wedding. when dr. carr, who had gone to buffalo to meet and escort her down, lifted her from the carriage and carried her indoors, all of them could easily have fancied that it was the first visit happening over again, for she looked exactly as she did then, and scarcely a day older. she happened to have on a soft gray travelling dress too, much like that which she wore on the previous occasion, which made the illusion more complete. but there was no illusion to cousin helen herself. everything to her seemed changed and quite different. the ten years which had passed so lightly over her head had made a vast alteration in the cousins whom she remembered as children. the older ones were grown up, the younger ones in a fair way to be so; even phil, who had been in white frocks with curls falling over his shoulders at the time of her former visit to burnet, was now fifteen and as tall as his father. he was very slight in build, and looked delicate, she thought; but katy assured her that he was perfectly well, and thin only because he had outgrown his strength. it was one of the delightful results of katy's "forehandedness" that she could command time during those next two days to thoroughly enjoy cousin helen. she sat beside her sofa for hours at a time, holding her hand and talking with a freedom of confidence such as she could have shown to no one else, except perhaps to clover. she had the feeling that in so doing she was rendering account to a sort of visible conscience of all the events, the mistakes, the successes, the glad and the sorry of the long interval that had passed since they met. it was a pleasure and relief to her; and to cousin helen the recital was of equal interest, for though she knew the main facts by letter, there was a satisfaction in collecting the little details which seldom get fully put into letters. one subject only katy touched rather guardedly; and that was ned. she was so desirous that her cousin should approve of him, and so anxious not to raise her expectations and have her disappointed, that she would not half say how very nice she herself thought him to be. but cousin helen could "read between the lines," and out of katy's very reserve she constructed an idea of ned which satisfied her pretty well. so the two happy days passed, and on the third arrived the other anxiously expected guests, rose red and little rose. they came early in the morning, when no one was particularly looking for them, which made it all the pleasanter. clover was on the porch twisting the honeysuckle tendrils upon the trellis when the carriage drove up to the gate, and rose's sunny face popped out of the window. clover recognized her at once, and with a shriek which brought all the others downstairs, flew down the path, and had little rose in her arms before any one else could get there. "you see before you a deserted wife," was rose's first salutation. "deniston has just dumped us on the wharf, and gone on to chicago in that abominable boat, leaving me to your tender mercies. o business, business! what crimes are committed in thy name, as madame roland would say!" "never mind deniston," cried clover, with a rapturous squeeze. "let us play that he doesn't exist, for a little while. we have got you now, and we mean to keep you." "how pleasant you look!" said rose, glancing up the locust walk toward the house, which wore a most inviting and hospitable air, with doors and windows wide open, and the soft wind fluttering the vines and the white curtains. "ah, there comes katy now." she ran forward to meet her while clover followed with little rose. "let me det down, pease," said that young lady,--the first remark she had made. "i tan walk all by myself. i am not a baby any more." "_will_ you hear her talk?" cried katy, catching her up. "isn't it wonderful? rosebud, who am i, do you think?" "my aunt taty, i dess, betause you is so big. is you mawwied yet?" "no, indeed. did you think i would get 'mawwied' without you? i have been waiting for you and mamma to come and help me." "well, we is here," in a tone of immense satisfaction. "now you tan." the larger rose meanwhile was making acquaintance with the others. she needed no introductions, but seemed to know by instinct which was each boy and each girl, and to fit the right names to them all. in five minutes she seemed as much at home as though she had spent her life in burnet. they bore her into the house in a sort of triumph, and upstairs to the blue bedroom, which katy and clover had vacated for her; and such a hubbub of talk and laughter presently issued therefrom that cousin helen, on the other side the entry, asked jane to set her door open that she might enjoy the sounds,--they were so merry. rose's bright, rather high-pitched voice was easily distinguishable above the rest. she was evidently relating some experience of her journey, with an occasional splash by way of accompaniment, which suggested that she might be washing her hands. "yes, she really has grown awfully pretty; and she had on the loveliest dark-brown suit you ever saw, with a fawn-colored hat, and was altogether dazzling; and, do you know, i was really quite glad to see her. i can't imagine why, but i was! i didn't stay glad long, however." "why not? what did she do?" this in clover's voice. "well, she didn't do anything, but she was distant and disagreeable. i scarcely observed it at first, i was so pleased to see one of the old hillsover girls; and i went on being very cordial. then lilly tried to put me down by running over a list of her fine acquaintances, lady this, and the marquis of that,--people whom she and her mother had known abroad. it made me think of my old autograph book with antonio de vallombrosa, and the rest. do you remember?" "of course we do. well, go on." "at last she said something about comte ernest de conflans,--i had heard of him, perhaps? he crossed in the steamer with 'mamma and me,' it seems; and we have seen a great deal of him. this appeared a good opportunity to show that i too have relations with the nobility, so i said yes, i had met him in boston, and my sister had seen a good deal of him in washington last winter. "'and what did she think of him?' demanded lilly. "'well,' said i, 'she didn't seem to think a great deal about him. she says all the young men at the french legation seem more than usually foolish, but comte ernest is the worst of the lot. he really _does_ look like an absolute fool, you know,' i added pleasantly. now, girls, what was there in that to make her angry? can you tell? she grew scarlet, and glared as if she wanted to bite my head off; and then she turned her back and would scarcely speak to me again. does she always behave that way when the aristocracy is lightly spoken of?" "oh, rose,--oh, rose," cried clover, in fits of laughter, "did you really tell her that?" "i really did. why shouldn't i? is there any reason in particular?" "only that she is engaged to him," replied katy, in an extinguished voice. "good gracious! no wonder she scowled! this is really dreadful. but then why did she look so black when she asked where we were going, and i said to your wedding? that didn't seem to please her any more than my little remarks about the nobility." "i don't pretend to understand lilly," said katy, temperately; "she is an odd girl." "i suppose an odd girl can't be expected to have an even temper," remarked rose, apparently speaking with a hairpin in her mouth. "well, i've done for myself, that is evident. i need never expect any notice in future from the comtesse de conflans." cousin helen heard no more, but presently steps sounded outside her door, and katy looked in to ask if she were dressed, and if she might bring rose in, a request which was gladly granted. it was a pretty sight to see rose with cousin helen. she knew all about her already from clover and katy, and fell at once under the gentle spell which seemed always to surround that invalid sofa, begged leave to say "cousin helen" as the others did, and was altogether at her best and sweetest when with her, full of merriment, but full too of a deference and sympathy which made her particularly charming. "i never did see anything so lovely in all my life before," she told clover in confidence. "to watch her lying there looking so radiant and so peaceful and so interested in katy's affairs, and never once seeming to remember that except for that accident she too would have been a bride and had a wedding! it's perfectly wonderful! do you suppose she is never sorry for herself? she seems the merriest of us all." "i don't think she remembers herself often enough to be sorry. she is always thinking of some one else, it seems to me." "well, i am glad to have seen her," added rose, in a more serious tone than was usual to her. "she and grandmamma are of a different order of beings from the rest of the world. i don't wonder you and katy always were so good; you ought to be with such a cousin helen." "i don't think we were as good as you make us out, but cousin helen has really been one of the strong influences of our lives. she was the making of katy, when she had that long illness; and katy has made the rest of us." little rose from the first moment became the delight of the household, and especially of amy ashe, who could not do enough for her, and took her off her mother's hands so entirely that rose complained that she seemed to have lost her child as well as her husband. she was a sedate little maiden, and wonderfully wise for her years. already, in some ways she seemed older than her erratic little mother, of whom, in a droll fashion, she assumed a sort of charge. she was a born housewife. "mamma, you have fordotten your wings," clover would hear her saying. "mamma, you has a wip in your seeve, you must mend it," or "mamma, don't fordet dat your teys is in the top dwawer,"--all these reminders and advices being made particularly comical by the baby pronunciation. rose's theory was that little rose was a messenger from heaven sent to buffet her and correct her mistakes. "the bane and the antidote," she would say. "think of my having a child with powers of ratiocination!" rose came down the night of her arrival after a long, freshening nap, looking rested and bonny in a pretty blue dress, and saying that as little rose too had taken a good sleep, she might sit up to tea if the family liked. the family were only too pleased to have her do so. after tea rose carried her off, ostensibly to go to bed, but clover heard a great deal of confabulating and giggling in the hall and on the stairs, and soon after, rose returned, the door-bell rang loudly, and there entered an astonishing vision,--little rose, costumed as a cupid or a carrier-pigeon, no one knew exactly which, with a pair of large white wings fastened on her shoulders, and dragging behind her by a loop of ribbon a sizeable basket quite full of parcels. straight toward katy she went, and with her small hands behind her back and her blue eyes fixed full on katy's face, repeated with the utmost solemnity the following "poem:" "i'm a messender, you see, fwom hymen's expwess tumpany. all these little bundles are for my aunty taty tarr; if she knows wot's dood for her she will tiss the messender." [illustration: "i'm a messender, you see, fwom hymen's expwess tumpany."] "you sweet thing!" cried katy, "tissing the messender" with all her heart. "i never heard such a dear little poem. did you write it yourself, roslein?" "no. mamma wote it, but she teached it to me so i tould say it." the bundles of course contained wedding gifts. rose seemed to have brought her trunk full of them. there were a pretty pair of salt-cellars from mrs. redding, a charming paper-knife of silver, with an antique coin set in the handle, from sylvia, a hand-mirror mounted in brass from esther dearborn, a long towel with fringed and embroidered ends from ellen gray, and from dear old mrs. redding a beautiful lace-pin set with a moonstone. next came a little _repoussé_ pitcher marked, "with love from mary silver," then a parcel tied with pink ribbons, containing a card-case of japanese leather, which was little rose's gift, and last of all rose's own present, a delightful case full of ivory brushes and combs. altogether never was such a satisfactory "fardel" brought by hymen's or any other express company before; and in opening the packages, reading the notes that came with them and exclaiming and admiring, time flew so fast that rose quite forgot the hour, till little rose, growing sleepy, reminded her of it by saying,-- "mamma, i dess i'd better do to bed now, betause if i don't i shall be too seepy to turn to aunt taty's wedding to-mowwow." "dear me!" cried rose, catching the child up. "this is simply dreadful! what a mother i am! things _are_ come to a pass indeed, if babes and sucklings have to ask to be put to bed. baby, you ought to have been christened nathan the wise." she disappeared with roslein's drowsy eyes looking over her shoulder. next afternoon came ned, and with him, to katy's surprise and pleasure, appeared the good old commodore who had played such a kind part in their affairs in italy the year before. it was a great compliment that he should think it worth while to come so far to see one of his junior officers married; and it showed so much real regard for ned that everybody was delighted. these guests were quartered with mrs. ashe, but they took most of their meals with the carrs; and it was arranged that they, with polly and amy, should come to an early breakfast on the marriage morning. after ned's arrival things did seem to grow a little fuller and busier, for he naturally wanted katy to himself, and she was too preoccupied to keep her calm grasp on events; still all went smoothly, and rose declared that there never was such a wedding since the world was made,--no tears, no worries, nobody looking tired, nothing disagreeable! clover's one great subject of concern was the fear that it might rain. there was a little haze about the sunset the night before, and she expressed her intention to cousin helen of lying awake all night to see how things looked. "i really feel as if i could not bear it if it should storm," she said, "after all this fine weather too; and i know i shall not sleep a wink, anyway." "i think we can trust god to take care of the weather even on katy's wedding-day," replied cousin helen, gently. and after all it was she who lay awake. pain had made her a restless sleeper, and as her bed commanded the great arch of western sky, she saw the moon, a sharp-curved silver shape, descend and disappear a little before midnight. she roused again when all was still, solemn darkness except for a spangle of stars, and later, opened her eyes in time to catch the faint rose flush of dawn reflected from the east. she raised herself on her elbow to watch the light grow. "it is a fair day for the child," she whispered to herself. "how good god is!" then she slept again for a long, restful space, and woke refreshed, so that katy's secret fear that cousin helen might be ill from excitement, and not able to come to her wedding, was not realized. clover, meantime, had slept soundly all night. she and katy shared the same room, and waked almost at the same moment. it was early still; but the sisters felt bright and rested and ready for work, so they rose at once. they dressed in silence, after a little whispered rejoicing over the beautiful morning, and in silence took their bibles and sat down side by side to read the daily portion which was their habit. then hand in hand they stole downstairs, disturbing nobody, softly opened doors and windows, carried bowls and jars out on the porch, and proceeded to arrange a great basket full of roses which had been brought the night before, and set in the dew-cool shade of the willows to keep fresh. before breakfast all the house had put on festal airs. summer had come early to burnet that year; every garden was in bud and blossom, and every one who had flowers had sent their best to grace katy's wedding. the whole world seemed full of delicious smells. each table and chimney-piece bore a fragrant load; a great bowl of jacqueminots stood in the middle of the breakfast-table, and two large jars of the same on the porch, where clover had arranged various seats and cushions that it might serve as a sort of outdoor parlor. nobody who came to that early breakfast ever forgot its peace and pleasantness and the sweet atmosphere of affection which seemed to pervade everything about it. after breakfast came family prayers as usual, dr. carr reading the chapter, and the dear old commodore joining with a hearty nautical voice in,-- "awake my soul! and with the sun," which was a favorite hymn with all of them. ned shared katy's book, and his face and hers alone would have been breakfast enough for the company if everything else had failed, as rose remarked to clover in a whisper, though nobody found any fault with the more substantial fare which debby had sent in previously. somehow this little mutual service of prayer and praise seemed to fit in with the spirit of the day, and give it its keynote. "it's just the sweetest wedding," mrs. ashe told her brother. "and the wonderful thing is that everything comes so naturally. katy is precisely her usual self,--only a little more so." "i'm under great obligations to amy for having that fever," was ned's somewhat indirect answer; but his sister understood what he meant. breakfast over, the guests discreetly removed themselves; and the whole family joined in resetting the table for the luncheon, which was to be at two, katy and ned departing in the boat at four. it was a simple but abundant repast, with plenty of delicious home-cooked food,--oysters and salads and cold chicken; fresh salmon from lake superior; a big virginia ham baked to perfection, red and translucent to its savory centre; hot coffee, and quantities of debby's perfect rolls. there were strawberries, also, and ice-cream, and the best of home-made cake and jellies, and everywhere vases of fresh roses to perfume the feast. when all was arranged, there was still time for katy to make cousin helen a visit, and then go to her room for a quiet rest before dressing; and still that same unhurried air pervaded the house. there had been a little discussion the night before as to just how the bride should make her appearance at the decisive moment; but katy had settled it by saying simply that she should come downstairs, and ned could meet her at the foot of the staircase. "it is the simplest way," she said; "and you know i don't want any fuss. i will just come down." "i dare say she's right," remarked rose; "but it seems to me to require a great deal of courage." and after all, it didn't. the simple and natural way of doing a thing generally turns out the easiest. clover helped katy to put on the wedding-gown of soft crape and creamy white silk. it was trimmed with old lace and knots of ribbon, and katy wore with it two or three white roses which ned had brought her, and a pearl pendant which was his gift. then clover had to go downstairs to receive the guests, and see that cousin helen's sofa was put in the right place; and rose, who remained behind, had the pleasure of arranging katy's veil. the yellow-white of the old blonde was very becoming, and altogether, the effect, though not "stylish," was very sweet. katy was a little pale, but otherwise exactly like her usual self, with no tremors or self-consciousness. presently little rose came up with a message. "aunty tover says dat dr. tone has tum, and everything is weddy, and you'd better tum down," she announced. katy gave rose a last kiss, and went down the hall. but little rose was so fascinated by the appearance of the white dress and veil that she kept fast hold of katy's hand, disregarding her mother's suggestion that she should slip down the back staircase, as she herself proposed to do. "no, i want to do with my aunt taty," she persisted. so it chanced that katy came downstairs with pretty little rose clinging to her like a sort of impromptu bridesmaid; and meeting ned's eyes as he stood at the foot waiting for her, she forgot herself, lost the little sense of shyness which was creeping over her, and responded to his look with a tender, brilliant smile. the light from the hall-door caught her face and figure just then, the color flashed into her cheeks; and she looked like a beautiful, happy picture of a bride, and all by accident,--which was the best thing about it; for pre-arranged effects are not always effective, and are apt to betray their pre-arrangement. then katy took ned's arm, little rose let go her hand, and they went into the parlor and were married. dr. stone had an old-fashioned and very solemn wedding service which he was accustomed to use on such occasions. he generally spoke of the bride as "thy handmaiden," which was a form that clover particularly deprecated. he had also been known to advert to the world where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage as a great improvement on this, which seemed, to say the least, an unfortunate allusion under the circumstances. but upon this occasion his feelings were warmed and touched, and he called katy "my dear child," which was much better than "thy handmaiden." when the ceremony was over, ned kissed katy, and her father kissed her, and the girls and dorry and phil; and then, without waiting for any one else, she left her place and went straight to where cousin helen lay on her sofa, watching the scene with those clear, tender eyes in which no shadow of past regrets could be detected. katy knelt down beside her, and they exchanged a long, silent embrace. there was no need for words between hearts which knew each other so well. after that for a little while all was congratulations and good wishes. i think no bride ever carried more hearty good-will into her new life than did my katy. all sorts of people took ned off into corners to tell him privately what a fortunate person he was in winning such a wife. each fresh confidence of this sort was a fresh delight to him, he so thoroughly agreed with it. "she's a prize, sir!--she's a prize!" old mr. worrett kept repeating, shaking ned's hand with each repetition. mrs. worrett had not been able to come. she never left home now on account of the prevailing weakness of carryalls; but she sent katy her best love and a gorgeous broom made of the tails of her own peacocks. "aren't you sorry you are not going to stay and have a nice time with us all, and help eat up the rest of the cake?" demanded clover, as she put her head into the carriage for a last kiss, two hours later. "very!" said katy; but she didn't look sorry at all. "there's one comfort," clover remarked valiantly, as she walked back to the house with her arm round rose's waist. "she's coming back in december, when the ship sails, and as likely as not she will stay a year, or perhaps two. that's what i like about the navy. you can eat your cake, and have it too. husbands go off for good long times, and leave their wives behind them. i think it's delightful!" "i wonder if katy will think it quite so delightful," remarked rose. "girls are not always so anxious to ship their husbands off for what you call 'good long times.'" "i think she ought. it seems to me perfectly unnatural that any one should want to leave her own family and go away for always. i like ned dearly, but except for this blessed arrangement about going to sea, i don't see how katy could." "clover, you are a goose. you'll be wiser one of these days, see if you aren't," was rose's only reply. chapter iv. two long years in one short chapter. katy's absence left a sad blank in the household. every one missed her, but nobody so much as clover, who all her life long had been her room-mate, confidante, and intimate friend. it was a great help that rose was there for the first three lonely days. dulness and sadness were impossible with that vivacious little person at hand; and so long as she stayed, clover had small leisure to be mournful. rose was so bright and merry and affectionate that elsie and john were almost as much in love with her as clover herself, and sat and sunned themselves in her warmth, so to speak, all day long, while phil and dorry fairly quarrelled as to which should have the pleasure of doing little services for her and baby rose. if she could have remained the summer through, all would have seemed easy; but that of course was impossible. mr. browne appeared with a provoking punctuality on the morning of the fourth day, prepared to carry his family away with him. he spent one night at dr. carr's, and they all liked him very much. no one could help it, he was so cordial and friendly and pleasant. still, for all her liking, clover could have found it in her heart to quite detest him as the final moment drew near. "let him go home without you," she urged coaxingly. "stay with us all summer,--you and little rose! he can come back in september to fetch you, and it would be so delightful to us." "my dear, i couldn't live without deniston till september," said the disappointing rose. "it may not show itself to a casual observer, but i am really quite foolish about deniston. i shouldn't be happy away from him at all. he's the only husband i've got,--a 'poor thing, but mine own,' as the 'immortal william' puts it." "oh, dear," groaned clover. "that is the way that katy is going to talk about ned, i suppose. matrimony is the most aggravating condition of things for outsiders that was ever invented. i wish nobody _had_ invented it. here it would be so nice for us to have you stay, and the moment that provoking husband of yours appears, you can't think of any one else." "too true--much too true. now, clovy, don't embitter our last moments with reproaches. it's hard enough to leave you as it is, when i've just found you again after all these years. i've had the most beautiful visit that ever was, and you've all been awfully dear and nice. 'kiss me quick and let me go,' as the song says. i only wish burnet was next door to west cedar street!" next day mr. browne sailed away with his "handful of roses," as elsie sentimentally termed them (and indeed, rose by herself would have been a handful for almost any man); and clover, like lord ullin, was "left lamenting." cousin helen remained, however; and it was not till she too departed, a week later, that clover fully recognized what it meant to have katy married. then indeed she could have found it in her heart to emulate eugénie de la ferronayes, and shed tears over all the little inanimate objects which her sister had left behind,--the worn-out gloves, the old dressing slippers in the shoe-bag. but dear me, we get used to everything, and it is fortunate that we do! life is too full, and hearts too flexible, and really sad things too sad, for the survival of sentimental regrets over changes which do not involve real loss and the wide separation of death. in time, clover learned to live without katy, and to be cheerful still. her cheerfulness was greatly helped by the letters which came regularly, and showed how contented katy herself was. she and ned were having a beautiful time, first in new york, and making visits near it, then in portsmouth and portland, when the frigate moved on to these harbors, and in newport, which was full and gay and amusing to the last degree. later, in august, the letters came from bar harbor, where katy had followed, in company with the commodore's wife, who seemed as nice as her husband; and clover heard of all manner of delightful doings,--sails, excursions, receptions on board ship, and long moonlight paddles with ned, who was an expert canoeist. everybody was so wonderfully kind, katy said; but ned wrote to his sister that katy was a great favorite; every one liked her, and his particular friends were all raging wildly round in quest of girls just like her to marry. "but it's no use; for, as i tell them," he added, "that sort isn't made in batches. there is only one katy; and happily she belongs to me, and the other fellows must get along as they can." this was all satisfactory and comforting; and clover could endure a little loneliness herself so long as her beloved katy seemed so happy. she was very busy besides, and there _were_ compensations, as she admitted to herself. she liked the consequence of being at the head of domestic affairs, and succeeding to katy's position as papa's special daughter,--the person to whom he came for all he wanted, and to whom he told his little secrets. she and elsie became more intimate than they had ever been before; and elsie in her turn enjoyed being clover's lieutenant as clover had been katy's. so the summer did not seem long to any of them; and when september was once past, and they could begin to say, "month after next," the time sped much faster. "mrs. hall asked me this morning when the worthingtons were coming," said johnnie, one day. "it seems so funny to have katy spoken of as 'the worthingtons.'" "i only wish the worthingtons would write and say when," remarked clover. "it is more than a week since we heard from them." the next day brought the wished-for letter, and the good news that ned had a fortnight's leave, and meant to bring katy home the middle of november, and stay for thanksgiving. after that the "natchitoches" was to sail for an eighteen months' cruise to china and japan; and then ned would probably have two years ashore at the torpedo station or naval academy or somewhere, and they would start a little home for themselves. "meantime," wrote katy, "i am coming to spend a year and a half with you, if urged. don't all speak at once, and don't mind saying so, if you don't want me." the bitter drop in this pleasant intelligence--there generally is one, you know--was that the fortnight of ned's stay was to be spent at mrs. ashe's. "it's her only chance to see ned," said katy; "so i know you won't mind, for afterward you will have me for such a long visit." but they _did_ mind very much! "i don't think it's fair," cried johnnie, hotly, while clover and elsie exchanged disgusted looks; "katy belongs to us." "katy belongs to her husband, on the contrary," said dr. carr, overhearing her; "you must learn that lesson once for all, children. there's no escape from the melancholy fact; and it's quite right and natural that ned should wish to go to his sister, and she should want to have him." "ned! yes. but katy--" "my dear, katy _is_ ned," answered dr. carr, with a twinkle. then noticing the extremely unconvinced expression of johnnie's face, he added more seriously, "don't be cross, children, and spoil all katy's pleasure in coming home, with your foolish jealousies. clover, i trust to you to take these young mutineers in hand and make them listen to reason." thus appealed to, clover rallied her powers, and while laboring to bring elsie and john to a proper frame of mind, schooled herself as well, so as to be able to treat mrs. ashe amiably when they met. dear, unconscious polly meanwhile was devising all sorts of pleasant and hospitable plans designed to make ned's stay a sort of continuous fête to everybody. she put on no airs over the preference shown her, and was altogether so kind and friendly and sweet that no one could quarrel with her even in thought, and johnnie herself had to forgive her, and be contented with a little whispered grumble to dorry now and then over the inconvenience of possessing "people-in-law." and then katy came, the same katy, only, as clover thought, nicer, brighter, dearer, and certainly better-looking than ever. sea air had tanned her a little, but the brown was becoming; and she had gained an ease and polish of manner which her sisters admired very much. and after all, it seemed to make little difference at which house they stayed, for they were in and out of both all day long; and mrs. ashe threw her doors open to the carrs and wanted some or all of them for every meal, so that except for the name of the thing, it was almost as satisfactory to have katy over the way as occupying her old quarters. the fortnight sped only too rapidly. ned departed, and katy settled herself in the familiar corner to wait till he should come back again. navy wives have to learn the hard lesson of patience in the long separations entailed by their husbands' profession. katy missed ned sorely, but she was too unselfish to mope, or to let the others know how hard to bear his loss seemed to her. she never told any one how she lay awake in stormy nights, or when the wind blew,--and it seemed to blow oftener than usual that winter,--imagining the frigate in a gale, and whispering little prayers for ned's safety. then her good sense would come back, and remind her that wind in burnet did not necessarily mean wind in shanghai or yokohama or wherever the "natchitoches" might be; and she would put herself to sleep with the repetition of that lovely verse of keble's "evening hymn," left out in most of the collections, but which was particularly dear to her:-- "thou ruler of the light and dark, guide through the tempest thine own ark; amid the howling, wintry sea, we are in port if we have thee." so the winter passed, and the spring; and another summer came and went, with little change to the quiet burnet household, and katy's brief life with her husband began to seem dreamy and unreal, it lay so far behind. and then, with the beginning of the second winter came a new anxiety. phil, as we said in the last chapter, had grown too fast to be very strong, and was the most delicate of the family in looks and health, though full of spirit and fun. going out to skate with some other boys the week before christmas, on a pond which was not so securely frozen as it looked, the ice gave way; and though no one was drowned, the whole party had a drenching, and were thoroughly chilled. none of the others minded it much, but the exposure had a serious effect on phil. he caught a bad cold which rapidly increased into pneumonia; and christmas day, usually such a bright one in the carr household, was overshadowed by anxious forebodings, for phil was seriously ill, and the doctor felt by no means sure how things would turn with him. the sisters nursed him devotedly, and by march he was out again; but he did not get _well_ or lose the persistent little cough, which kept him thin and weak. dr. carr tried this remedy and that, but nothing seemed to do much good; and katy thought that her father looked graver and more anxious every time that he tested phil's temperature or listened at his chest. "it's not serious yet," he told her in private; "but i don't like the look of things. the boy is just at a turning-point. any little thing might set him one way or the other. i wish i could send him away from this damp lake climate." but sending a half-sick boy away is not such an easy thing, nor was it quite clear where he ought to go. so matters drifted along for another month, and then phil settled the question for himself by having a slight hemorrhage. it was evident that something must be done, and speedily--but what? dr. carr wrote to various medical acquaintances, and in reply pamphlets and letters poured in, each designed to prove that the particular part of the country to which the pamphlet or the letter referred was the only one to which it was at all worth while to consign an invalid with delicate lungs. one recommended florida, another georgia, a third south carolina; a fourth and fifth recommended cold instead of heat, and an open air life with the mercury at zero. it was hard to decide what was best. "he ought not to go off alone either," said the puzzled father. "he is neither old enough nor wise enough to manage by himself, but who to send with him is the puzzle. it doubles the expense, too." "perhaps i--" began katy, but her father cut her short with a gesture. "no, katy, i couldn't permit that. your husband is due in a few weeks now. you must be free to go to him wherever he is, not hampered with the care of a sick brother. besides, whoever takes charge of phil must be prepared for a long absence,--at least a year. it must be either clover or myself; and as it seems out of the question that i shall drop my practice for a year, clover is the person." "phil is seventeen now," suggested katy. "that is not so very young." "no, not if he were in full health. plenty of boys no older than he have gone out west by themselves, and fared perfectly well. but in phil's condition that would never answer. he has a tendency to be low-spirited about himself too, and he needs incessant care and watchfulness." "out west," repeated katy. "have you decided, then?" "yes. the letter i had yesterday from hope, makes me pretty sure that st. helen's is the best place we have heard of." "st. helen's! where is that?" "it is one of the new health-resorts in colorado which has lately come into notice for consumptives. it's very high up; nearly or quite six thousand feet, and the air is said to be something remarkable." "clover will manage beautifully, i think; she is such a sensible little thing," said katy. "she seems to me, and he too, about as fit to go off two thousand miles by themselves as the babes in the wood," remarked dr. carr, who, like many other fathers, found it hard to realize that his children had outgrown their childhood. "however, there's no help for it. if i don't stay and grind away at the mill, there is no one to pay for this long journey. clover will have to do her best." "and a very good best it will be you'll see," said katy, consolingly. "does dr. hope tell you anything about the place?" she added, turning over the letter which her father had handed her. "oh, he says the scenery is fine, and the mean rain-fall is this, and the mean precipitation that, and that boarding-places can be had. that is pretty much all. so far as climate goes, it is the right place, but i presume the accommodations are poor enough. the children must go prepared to rough it. the town was only settled ten or eleven years ago; there hasn't been time to make things comfortable," remarked dr. carr, with a truly eastern ignorance of the rapid way in which things march in the far west. clover's feelings when the decision was announced to her it would be hard to explain in full. she was both confused and exhilarated by the sudden weight of responsibility laid upon her. to leave everybody and everything she had always been used to, and go away to such a distance alone with phil, made her gasp with a sense of dismay, while at the same time the idea that for the first time in her life she was trusted with something really important, roused her energies, and made her feel braced and valiant, like a soldier to whom some difficult enterprise is intrusted on the day of battle. many consultations followed as to what the travellers should carry with them, by what route they would best go, and how prepare for the journey. a great deal of contradictory advice was offered, as is usually the case when people are starting on a voyage or a long railway ride. one friend wrote to recommend that they should provide themselves with a week's provisions in advance, and enclosed a list of crackers, jam, potted meats, tea, fruit, and hardware, which would have made a heavy load for a donkey or mule to carry. how were poor clover and phil to transport such a weight of things? another advised against umbrellas and water-proof cloaks,--what was the use of such things where it never rained?--while a second letter, received the same day, assured them that thunder and hail storms were things for which travellers in colorado must live in a state of continual preparation. "who shall decide when doctors disagree?" in the end clover concluded that it was best to follow the leadings of commonsense and rational precaution, do about a quarter of what people advised, and leave the rest undone; and she found that this worked very well. as they knew so little of the resources of st. helen's, and there was such a strong impression prevailing in the family as to its being a rough sort of newly-settled place, clover and katy judged it wise to pack a large box of stores to go out by freight: oatmeal and arrowroot and beef-extract and albert biscuits,--things which philly ought to have, and which in a wild region might be hard to come by. debby filled all the corners with home-made dainties of various sorts; and clover, besides a spirit-lamp and a tea-pot, put into her trunks various small decorations,--japanese fans and pictures, photographs, a vase or two, books and a sofa-pillow,--things which took little room, and which she thought would make their quarters look more comfortable in case they were very bare and unfurnished. people felt sorry for the probable hardships the brother and sister were to undergo; and they had as many little gifts and notes of sympathy and counsel as katy herself when she was starting for europe. but i am anticipating. before the trunks were packed, dr. carr's anxieties about his "babes in the wood" were greatly allayed by a visit from mrs. hall. she came to tell him that she had heard of a possible "matron" for clover. "i am not acquainted with the lady myself," she said; "but my cousin, who writes about her, knows her quite well, and says she is a highly respectable person, and belongs to nice people. her sister, or some one, married a phillips of boston, and i've always heard that that family was one of the best there. she's had some malarial trouble, and is at the west now on account of it, staying with a friend in omaha; but she wants to spend the summer at st. helen's. and as i know you have worried a good deal over having clover and phil go off by themselves, i thought it might be a comfort to you to hear of this mrs. watson." "you are very good. if she proves to be the right sort of person, it _will_ be an immense comfort. do you know when she wants to start?" "about the end of may,--just the right time, you see. she could join clover and philip as they go through, which will work nicely for them all." "so it will. well, this is quite a relief. please write to your cousin, mrs. hall, and make the arrangement. i don't want mrs. watson to be burdened with any real care of the children, of course; but if she can arrange to go along with them, and give clover a word of advice now and then, should she need it, i shall be easier in my mind about them." clover was only doubtfully grateful when she heard of this arrangement. "papa always will persist in thinking that i am a baby still," she said to katy, drawing her little figure up to look as tall as possible. "i am twenty-two, i would have him remember. how do we know what this mrs. watson is like? she may be the most disagreeable person in the world for all papa can tell." "i really can't find it in my heart to be sorry that it has happened, papa looks so much relieved by it," katy rejoined. but all dissatisfactions and worries and misgivings took wings and flew away when, just ten days before the travellers were to start, a new and delightful change was made in the programme. ned telegraphed that the ship, instead of coming to new york, was ordered to san francisco to refit, and he wanted katy to join him there early in june, prepared to spend the summer; while almost simultaneously came a letter from mrs. ashe, who with amy had been staying a couple of months in new york, to say that hearing of ned's plan had decided her also to take a trip to california with some friends who had previously asked her to join them. these friends were, it seemed, the daytons of albany. mr. dayton was a railroad magnate, and had the control of a private car in which the party were to travel; and mrs. ashe was authorized to invite katy, and clover and phil also, to go along with them,--the former all the way to california, and the others as far as denver, where the roads separated. this was truly delightful. such an offer was surely worth a few days' delay. the plan seemed to settle itself all in one minute. mrs. watson, whom every one now regretted as a complication, was the only difficulty; but a couple of telegrams settled that perplexity, and it was arranged that she should join them on the same train, though in a different car. to have katy as a fellow-traveller, and mrs. ashe and amy, made a different thing of the long journey, and clover proceeded with her preparations in jubilant spirits. chapter v. car forty-seven. it is they who stay behind who suffer most from leave-takings. those who go have the continual change of scenes and impressions to help them to forget; those who remain must bear as best they may the dull heavy sense of loss and separation. the parting at burnet was not a cheerful one. clover was oppressed with the nearness of untried responsibilities; and though she kept up a brave face, she was inwardly homesick. phil slept badly the night before the start, and looked so wan and thin as he stood on the steamer's deck beside his sisters, waving good-by to the party on the wharf, that a new and sharp thrill of anxiety shot through his father's heart. the boy looked so young and helpless to be sent away ill among strangers, and round-faced little clover seemed such a fragile support! there was no help for it. the thing was decided on, decided for the best, as they all hoped; but dr. carr was not at all happy in his mind as he watched the steamer become a gradually lessening speck in the distance, and he sighed heavily when at last he turned away. elsie echoed the sigh. she, too, had noticed phil's looks and papa's gravity, and her heart felt heavy within her. the house, when they reached it, seemed lonely and empty. papa went at once to his office, and they heard him lock the door. this was such an unusual proceeding in the middle of the morning that she and johnnie opened wide eyes of dismay at each other. "is papa crying, do you suppose?" whispered john. "no, i don't think it can be _that_. papa never does cry; but i'm afraid he's feeling badly," responded elsie, in the same hushed tone. "oh, dear, how horrid it is not even to have clover at home! what _are_ we going to do without her and katy?" "i don't know i'm sure. you can't think how queer i feel, elsie,--just as if my heart had slipped out of its place, and was going down, down into my boots. i think it must be the way people feel when they are homesick. i had it once before when i was at inches mills, but never since then. how i wish philly had never gone to skate on that nasty pond!" and john burst into a passion of tears. "oh, don't, don't!" cried poor elsie, for johnnie's sobs were infectious, and she felt an ominous lump coming into her own throat, "don't behave so, johnnie. think if papa came out, and found us crying! clover particularly said that we must make the house bright for him. i'm going to sow the mignonette seed [desperately]; come and help me. the trowel is on the back porch, and you might get dorry's jack-knife and cut some little sticks to mark the places." this expedient was successful. johnnie, who loved to "whittle" above all things, dried her tears, and ran for her shade hat; and by the time the tiny brown seeds were sprinkled into the brown earth of the borders, both the girls were themselves again. dr. carr appeared from his retirement half an hour later. a note had come for him meanwhile, but somehow no one had quite liked to knock at the door and deliver it. elsie handed it to him now, with a timid, anxious look, whose import seemed to strike him, for he laughed a little, and pinched her cheek as he read. "i've been writing to dr. hope about the children," he said; "that's all. don't wait dinner for me, chicks. i'm off for the corners to see a boy who's had a fall, and i'll get a bite there. order something good for tea, elsie; and afterward we'll have a game of cribbage if i'm not called out. we must be as jolly as we can, or clover will scold us when she comes back." meanwhile the three travellers were faring through the first stage of their journey very comfortably. the fresh air and change brightened phil; he ate a good dinner, and afterward took quite a long nap on a sofa, clover sitting by to keep him covered and see that he did not get cold. late in the evening they changed to the express train, and there again, phil, after being tucked up behind the curtains of his section, went to sleep and passed a satisfactory night, so that he reached chicago looking so much better than when they left burnet that his father's heart would have been lightened could he have seen him. mrs. ashe came down to the station to meet them, together with mr. dayton,--a kind, friendly man with a tired but particularly pleasant face. all the necessary transfer of baggage, etc., was made easy, and they were carried off at once to the hotel where rooms had been secured. there they were rapturously received by amy, and introduced to mrs. dayton, a sweet, spirited little matron, with a face as kindly as her husband's, but not so worn. mr. dayton looked as if for years he had been bearing the whole weight of a railroad on his shoulders, as in one sense it may be said that he had. "we have been here almost a whole day," said amy, who had taken possession, as a matter of course, of her old perch on katy's knee. "chicago is the biggest place you ever saw, tanta; but it isn't so pretty as burnet. and oh! don't you think car forty-seven is nice,--the one we are going out west in, you know? and this morning mr. dayton took us to see it. it's the cunningest place that ever was. there's one dear little drawer in the wall that mrs. dayton says i may have to keep mabel's things in. i never saw a drawer in a car before. there's a lovely little bedroom too, and such a nice washing-basin, and a kitchen, and all sorts of things. i can hardly wait till i show them to you. don't you think that travelling is the most delightful thing in the world, miss clover?" "yes--if only--people--don't get too tired," said clover, with an anxious glance at phil, as he lay back in an easy-chair. she did not dare say, "if phil doesn't get too tired," for she had already discovered that nothing annoyed him so much as being talked about as an invalid, and that he was very apt to revenge himself by doing something imprudent immediately afterward, to disguise from an observant world the fact that he couldn't do it without running a risk. like most boys, he resented being "fussed over,"--a fact which made the care of him more difficult than it would otherwise have been. the room which had been taken for clover and katy looked out on the lake, which was not far away; and the reach of blue water would have made a pretty view if trains of cars had not continually steamed between it and the hotel, staining the sky and blurring the prospect with their smokes. katy wondered how it happened that the early settlers who laid out chicago had not bethought themselves to secure this fine water frontage as an ornament to the future city; but mr. dayton explained that in the rapid growth of western towns, things arranged themselves rather than were arranged for, and that the first pioneers had other things to think about than what a new englander would call "sightliness,"--and katy could easily believe this to be true. car forty-seven was on the track when they drove to the station at noon next day. it was the end car of a long express train, which, mr. dayton told them, is considered the place of honor, and generally assigned to private cars. it was of an old-fashioned pattern, and did not compare, as they were informed, with the palaces on wheels built nowadays for the use of railroad presidents and directors. but though katy heard of cars with french beds, plunge baths, open fireplaces, and other incredible luxuries, car forty-seven still seemed to her inexperienced eyes and clover's a marvel of comfort and convenience. a small kitchen, a store closet, and a sort of baggage-room, fitted with berths for two servants, occupied the end of the car nearest the engine. then came a dressing-closet, with ample marble basins where hot water as well as cold was always on tap; then a wide state-room, with a bed on either side, and then a large compartment occupying the middle of the car, where by day four nice little dining-tables could be set, with a seat on either side, and by night six sleeping sections made up. the rest of the car was arranged as a sitting-room, glassed all around, and furnished with comfortable seats of various kinds, a writing-desk, two or three tables of different sizes, and various small lockers and receptacles, fitted into the partitions to serve as catch-alls for loose articles of all sorts. bunches of lovely roses and baskets of strawberries stood on the tables; and quite a number of the daytons' friends had come down to see them off, each bringing some sort of good-by gift for the travellers,--flowers, hothouse grapes, early cherries, or home-made cake. they were all so cordial and pleasant and so interested in phil, that katy and clover lost their hearts to each in turn, and forever afterward were ready to stand up for chicago as the kindest place that ever was seen. then amid farewells and good wishes the train moved slowly out of the station, and the inmates of car forty-seven proceeded to "go to housekeeping," as mrs. dayton expressed it, and to settle themselves and their belongings in these new quarters. mrs. ashe and amy, it was decided, should occupy the state-room, and the other ladies were to dress there when it was convenient. sections were assigned to everybody,--clover's opposite phil's so that she might hear him if he needed anything in the night; and mr. dayton called for all the bonnets and hats, and amid much laughter proceeded to pin up each in thick folds of newspaper, and fasten it on a hook not to be taken down till the end of the journey. mabel's feathered turban took its turn with the rest, at amy's particular request. dust was the main thing to be guarded against, and katy, having been duly forewarned, had gone out in the morning, and bought for herself and clover soft hats of whity-gray felt and veils of the same color, like those which mrs. dayton and polly had provided for the journey, and which had the advantage of being light as well as unspoilable. but there was no dust that first morning, as the train ran smoothly across the fertile prairies of illinois first, and then of iowa, between fields dazzling with the fresh green of wheat and rye, and waysides studded with such wild-flowers as none of them had ever seen or dreamed of before. pink spikes and white and vivid blue spikes; masses of brown and orange cups, like low-growing tulips; ranks of beautiful vetches and purple lupines; escholtzias, like immense sweeps of golden sunlight; wild sweet peas; trumpet-shaped blossoms whose name no one knew,--all flung broadcast over the face of the land, and in such stintless quantities that it dazzled the mind to think of as it did the eyes to behold them. the low-lying horizons looked infinitely far off; the sense of space was confusing. here and there appeared a home-stead, backed with a "break-wind" of thickly-planted trees; but the general impression was of vast, still distance, endless reaches of sky, and uncounted flowers growing for their own pleasure and with no regard for human observation. in studying car forty-seven, katy was much impressed by the thoroughness of mrs. dayton's preparations for the comfort of her party. everything that could possibly be needed seemed to have been thought of,--pins, cologne, sewing materials, all sorts of softening washes for the skin, to be used on the alkaline plains, sponges to wet and fasten into the crown of hats, other sponges to breathe through, medicines of various kinds, sticking-plaster, witch-hazel and arnica, whisk brooms, piles of magazines and novels, telegraph blanks, stationery. nothing seemed forgotten. clover said that it reminded her of the mother of the swiss family robinson and that wonderful bag out of which everything was produced that could be thought of, from a grand piano to a bottle of pickles; and after that "mrs. robinson" became mrs. dayton's pet name among her fellow-travellers. she adopted it cheerfully; and her "wonderful bag" proving quite as unfailing and trustworthy as that of her prototype, the title seemed justified. pretty soon after starting came their first dinner on the car. such a nice one!--soup, roast chicken and lamb, green peas, new potatoes, stewed tomato; all as hot and as perfectly served as if they had been "on dry land," as amy phrased it. there was fresh curly lettuce too, with mayonnaise dressing, and a dessert of strawberries and ice-cream,--the latter made and frozen on the car, whose resources seemed inexhaustible. the cook had been attached to car forty-seven for some years, and had a celebrity on his own road for the preparation of certain dishes, which no one else could do as well, however many markets and refrigerators and kitchen ranges might be at command. one of these dishes was a peculiar form of cracked wheat, made crisp and savory after some mysterious fashion, and eaten with thick cream. like most _chefs_, the cook liked to do the things in which he excelled, and finding that it was admired, he gave the party this delicious wheat every morning. "the car seems paved with bottles of apollinaris and with lemons," wrote katy to her father. "there seems no limit to the supply. just as surely as it grows warm and dusty, and we begin to remember that we are thirsty, a tinkle is heard, and bayard appears with a tray,--iced lemonade, if you please, made with apollinaris water with strawberries floating on top! what do you think of that at thirty miles an hour? bayard is the colored butler. the cook is named roland. we have a fine flavor of peers and paladins among us, you perceive. "the first day out was cool and delicious, and we had no dust. at six o'clock we stopped at a junction, and our car was detached and run off on a siding. this was because mr. dayton had business in the place, and we were to wait and be taken on by the next express train soon after midnight. at first they ran us down to a pretty place by the side of the river, where it was cool, and we could look out on the water and a green bank opposite, and we thought we were going to have such a nice night; but the authorities changed their minds, and presently to our deep disgust a locomotive came puffing down the road, clawed us up, ran us back, and finally left us in the middle of innumerable tracks and switches just where all the freight trains came in and met. all night long they were arriving and going out. cars loaded with cattle, cars loaded with sheep, with pigs! such bleatings and mooings and gruntings, i never heard in all my life before. i could think of nothing but that verse in the psalms, 'strong bulls of bashan have beset me round,' and could only hope that the poor animals did not feel half as badly as they sounded. "then long before light, as we lay listening to these lamentable roarings and grunts, and quite unable to sleep for heat and noise, came the blessed express, and presently we were away out of all the din, with the fresh air of the prairie blowing in; and in no time at all we were so sound asleep that it seemed but a minute before morning. phil's slumbers lasted so long that we had to breakfast without him, for mrs. dayton would not let us wake him up. you can't think how kind she is, and mr. dayton too; and this way of travelling is so easy and delightful that it scarcely seems to tire one at all. phil has borne the journey wonderfully well so far." at omaha, on the evening of the second day, clover's future "matron" and adviser, mrs. watson, was to join them. she had been telegraphed to from chicago, and had replied, so that they knew she was expecting them. clover's thoughts were so occupied with curiosity as to what she would turn out to be, that she scarcely realized that she was crossing the mississippi for the first time, and she gave scant attention to the low bluffs which bound the river, and on which the indians used to hold their councils in those dim days when there was still an "undiscovered west" set down in geographies and atlases. as soon as they reached the omaha side of the river, she and katy jumped down from the car, and immediately found themselves face to face with an anxious-looking little old lady, with white hair frizzled and banged over a puckered forehead, and a pair of watery blue eyes peering from beneath, evidently in search of somebody. her hands were quite full of bags and parcels, and a little heap of similar articles lay on the platform near her, of which she seemed afraid to lose sight for a moment. "oh, is it miss carr?" was her first salutation. "i'm mrs. watson. i thought it might be you, from the fact that you got out of that car, and it seems rather different--i am quite relieved to see you. i didn't know but something--my daughter she said to me as i was coming away, 'now, mother, don't lose yourself, whatever you do. it seems quite wild to think of you in canyon this and canyon that, and the garden of the gods! do get some one to keep an eye on you, or we shall never hear of you again. you'll--' it's quite a comfort that you have got here. i supposed you would, but the uncertainty--oh, dear! that man is carrying off my trunks. please run after him and tell him to bring them back!" "it's all right; he's the porter," explained mr. dayton. "did you get your checks for denver or st. helen's?" "oh, i haven't any checks yet. i didn't know which it ought to be, so i waited till--miss carr and her brother would see to it for me i knew, and i wrote my daughter--my friend, mrs. peters,--i've been staying with her, you know,--was sick in bed, and i wouldn't let--dear me! what has that gentleman gone off for in such a hurry?" "he has gone to get your checks," said clover, divided between diversion and dismay at this specimen of her future "matron." "we only stay here a few minutes, i believe. do you know exactly when the train starts, mrs. watson?" "no, dear, i don't. i never know anything about trains and things like that. somebody always has to tell me, and put me on the cars. i shall trust to you and your brother to do that now. it's a great comfort to have a gentleman to see to things for you." a gentleman! poor philly! mr. dayton now came back to them. it was lucky that he knew the station and was used to the ways of railroads, for it appeared that mrs. watson had made no arrangements whatever for her journey, but had blindly devolved the care of herself and her belongings on her "young friends," as she called clover and phil. she had no sleeping section secured and no tickets, and they had to be procured at the last moment and in such a scramble that the last of her parcels was handed on to the platform by a porter, at full run, after the train was in motion. she was not at all flurried by the commotion, though others were, and blandly repeated that she knew from the beginning that all would be right as soon as miss carr and her brother arrived. mrs. dayton had sent a courteous invitation to the old lady to come to car forty-seven for tea, but mrs. watson did not at all like being left alone meantime, and held fast to clover when the others moved to go. "i'm used to being a good deal looked after," she explained. "all the family know my ways, and they never do let me be alone much. i'm taken faint sometimes; and the doctor says it's my heart or something that's the cause of it, so my daughter she--you ain't going, my dear, are you?" "i must look after my brother," said poor clover; "he's been ill, you know, and this is the time for his medicine." "dear me! is he ill?" said mrs. watson, in an aggrieved tone. "i wasn't prepared for that. you'll have your hands pretty full with him and me both, won't you?--for though i'm well enough just now, there's no knowing what a day may bring forth, and you're all i have to depend upon. you're sure you must go? it seems as if your sister--mrs. worthing, is that the name?--might see to the medicine, and give you a little freedom. don't let your brother be too exacting, dear. it is the worst thing for a young man. i'll sit here a little while, and then i'll--the conductor will help me, i suppose, or perhaps that gentleman might--i hate to be left by myself." these were the last words which clover heard as she escaped. she entered car forty-seven with such a rueful and disgusted countenance that everybody burst out laughing. "what is the matter, miss clover?" asked mr. dayton. "has your old lady left something after all?" "don't call her _my_ old lady! i'm supposed to be her young lady, under her charge," said clover, trying to smile. but the moment she got katy to herself, she burst out with,-- "my dear, what _am_ i going to do? it's really too dreadful. instead of some one to help me, which is what papa meant, mrs. watson seems to depend on me to take all the care of her; and she says she has fainting fits and disease of the heart! how can i take care of her? phil needs me all the time, and a great deal more than she does; i don't see how i can." "you can't, of course. you are here to take care of phil; and it is out of the question that you should have another person to look after. but i think you must mistake mrs. watson, clovy. i know that mrs. hall wrote plainly about phil's illness, for she showed me the letter." "just wait till you hear her talk," cried the exasperated clover. "you will find that i didn't mistake her at all. oh, why did mrs. hall interfere? it would all seem so easy in comparison--so perfectly easy--if only philly and i were alone together." katy thought that clover was fretted and disposed to exaggerate; but after mrs. watson joined them a little later, she changed her opinion. the old lady was an inveterate talker, and her habit of only half finishing her sentences made it difficult to follow the meanderings of her rambling discourse. it turned largely on her daughter, mrs. phillips, her husband, children, house, furniture, habits, tastes, and the phillips connection generally. "she's the only one i've got," she informed mrs. dayton; "so of course she's all-important to me. jane phillips--that's henry's youngest sister--often says that really of all the women she ever knew ellen is the most--and there's plenty to do always, of course, with three children and such a large elegant house and company coming all the--it's lucky that there's plenty to do with. henry's very liberal. he likes to have things nice, so ellen she--why, when i was packing up to come away he brought me that _repoussé_ fruit-knife there in my bag--oh, it's in my other bag! never mind; i'll show it to you some other time--solid silver, you know. bigelow and kennard--their things always good, though expensive; and my son-in-law he said, 'you're going to a fruit country, and--' mrs. peters doesn't think there is so much fruit, though. all sent on from california, as i wrote,--and i guess ellen and henry were surprised to hear it." katy held serious counsel with herself that night as to what she should do about this extraordinary "guide, philosopher, and friend" whom the fates had provided for clover. she saw that her father, from very over-anxiety, had made a mistake, and complicated clover's inevitable cares with a most undesirable companion, who would add to rather than relieve them. she could not decide what was best to do; and in fact the time was short for doing anything, for the next evening would bring them to denver, and poor clover must be left to face the situation by herself as best she might. katy finally concluded to write her father plainly how things stood, and beg him to set clover's mind quite at rest as to any responsibility for mrs. watson, and also to have a talk with that lady herself, and explain matters as clearly as she could. it seemed all that was in her power. next day the party woke to a wonderful sense of lightness and exhilaration which no one could account for till the conductor told them that the apparently level plain over which they were speeding was more than four thousand feet above the sea. it seemed impossible to believe it. hour by hour they climbed; but the climb was imperceptible. now four thousand six hundred feet of elevation was reported, now four thousand eight hundred, at last above five thousand; and still there seemed about them nothing but a vast expanse of flat levels,--the table-lands of nebraska. there was little that was beautiful in the landscape, which was principally made up of wide reaches of sand, dotted with cactus and grease-wood and with the droll cone-shaped burrows of the prairie-dogs, who could be seen gravely sitting on the roofs of their houses, or turning sudden somersaults in at the holes on top as the train whizzed by. they passed and repassed long links of a broad shallow river which the maps showed to be the platte, and which seemed to be made of two-thirds sand to one-third water. now and again mounted horsemen appeared in the distance whom mr. dayton said were "cow-boys;" but no cows were visible, and the rapidly moving figures were neither as picturesque nor as formidable as they had expected them to be. flowers were still abundant, and their splendid masses gave the charm of color to the rather arid landscape. soon after noon dim blue outlines came into view, which grew rapidly bolder and more distinct, and revealed themselves as the rocky mountains,--the "backbone of the american continent," of which we have all heard so much in geographies and the newspapers. it was delightful, in spite of dust and glare, to sit with that sweep of magnificent air rushing into their lungs, and watch the great ranges grow and grow and deepen in hue, till they seemed close at hand. to katy they were like enchanted land. somewhere on the other side of them, on the dim pacific coast, her husband was waiting for her to come, and the wheels seemed to revolve with a regular rhythmic beat to the cadence of the old scotch song,-- "and will i see his face again; and will i hear him speak?" but to clover the wheels sang something less jubilant, and she studied the mountains on her little travelling-map, and measured their distance from burnet with a sigh. they were the walls of what seemed to her a sort of prison, as she realized that presently she should be left alone among them, katy and polly gone, and these new friends whom she had learned to like so much,--left alone with phil and, what was worse, with mrs. watson! there was a comic side to the latter situation, undoubtedly, but at the moment she could not enjoy it. katy carried out her intention. she made a long call on mrs. watson in her section, and listened patiently to her bemoanings over the noise of the car which had kept her from sleeping; the "lady in gray over there" who had taken such a long time to dress in the morning that she--mrs. watson--could not get into the toilet-room at the precise moment that she wished; the newspaper boy who would not let her "just glance over" the denver "republican" unless she bought and paid for it ("and i only wanted to see the washington news, my dear, and something about a tin wedding in east dedham. my mother came from there, and i recognized one of the names and--but he took it away quite rudely; and when i complained, the conductor wouldn't attend to what i--"); and the bad piece of beefsteak which had been brought for her breakfast at the eating-station. katy soothed and comforted to the best of her ability, and then plunged into her subject, explaining phil's very delicate condition and the necessity for constant watchfulness on the part of clover, and saying most distinctly and in the plainest of english that mrs. watson must not expect clover to take care of her too. the old lady was not in the least offended; but her replies were so incoherent that katy was not sure that she understood the matter any better for the explanation. "certainly, my dear, certainly. your brother doesn't appear so very sick; but he must be looked after, of course. boys always ought to be. i'll remind your sister if she seems to be forgetting anything. i hope i shall keep well myself, so as not to be a worry to her. and we can take little excursions together, i dare say--girls always like to go, and of course an older person--oh, no, your brother won't need her so much as you think. he seems pretty strong to me, and--you mustn't worry about them, mrs. worthing--we shall all get on very well, i'm sure, provided i don't break down, and i guess i sha'n't, though they say almost every one does in this air. why, we shall be as high up as the top of mount washington." katy went back to forty-seven in despair, to comfort herself with a long confidential chat with clover in which she exhorted her not to let herself be imposed upon. "be good to her, and make her as happy as you can, but don't feel bound to wait on her, and run her errands. i am sure papa would not wish it; and it will half kill you if you attempt it. phil, till he gets stronger, is all you can manage. you not only have to nurse him, you know, but to keep him happy. it's so bad for him to mope. you want all your time to read with him, and take walks and drives; that is, if there are any carriages at st. helen's. don't let mrs. watson seize upon you, clover. i'm awfully afraid that she means to, and i can see that she is a real old woman of the sea. once she gets on your back you will never be able to throw her off." "she shall not get on my back," said clover, straightening her small figure; "but doesn't it seem _unnecessary_ that i should have an old woman of the sea to grapple with as well as phil?" "provoking things are apt to seem unnecessary, i fancy. you mustn't let yourself get worried, dear clovy. the old lady means kindly enough, i think, only she's naturally tiresome, and has become helpless from habit. be nice to her, but hold your own. self-preservation is the first law of nature." just at dusk the train reached denver, and the dreaded moment of parting came. there were kisses and tearful good-byes, but not much time was allowed for either. the last glimpse that clover had of katy was as the train moved away, when she put her head far out of the window of car forty-seven to kiss her hand once more, and call back, in a tone oracular and solemn enough to suit king charles the first, his own admonitory word, "remember!" chapter vi. st. helen's. never in her life had clover felt so small and incompetent and so very, very young as when the train with car forty-seven attached vanished from sight, and left her on the platform of the denver station with her two companions. there they stood, phil on one side tired and drooping, mrs. watson on the other blinking anxiously about, both evidently depending on her for guidance and direction. for one moment a sort of pale consternation swept over her. then the sense of the inevitable and the nobler sense of responsibility came to her aid. she rallied herself; the color returned to her cheeks, and she said bravely to mrs. watson,-- "now, if you and phil will just sit down on that settee over there and make yourselves comfortable, i will find out about the trains for st. helen's, and where we had better go for the night." mrs. watson and phil seated themselves accordingly, and clover stood for a moment considering what she should do. outside was a wilderness of tracks up and down which trains were puffing, in obedience, doubtless, to some law understood by themselves, but which looked to the uninitiated like the direst confusion. inside the station the scene was equally confused. travellers just arrived and just going away were rushing in and out; porters and baggage-agents with their hands full hurried to and fro. no one seemed at leisure to answer a question or even to listen to one. just then she caught sight of a shrewd, yet good-natured face looking at her from the window of the ticket-office; and without hesitation she went up to the enclosure. it was the ticket-agent whose eye she had caught. he was at liberty at the moment, and his answers to her inquiries, though brief, were polite and kind. people generally did soften to clover. there was such an odd and pretty contrast between her girlish appealing look and her dignified little manner, like a child trying to be stately but only succeeding in being primly sweet. the next train for st. helen's left at nine in the morning, it seemed, and the ticket-agent recommended the sherman house as a hotel where they would be very comfortable for the night. "the omnibus is just outside," he said encouragingly. "you'll find it a first-class house,--best there is west of chicago. from the east? just so. you've not seen our opera-house yet, i suppose. denver folks are rather proud of it. biggest in the country except the new one in new york. hope you'll find time to visit it." "i should like to," said clover; "but we are here for only one night. my brother's been ill, and we are going directly on to st. helen's. i'm very much obliged to you." her look of pretty honest gratitude seemed to touch the heart of the ticket-man. he opened the door of his fastness, and came out--actually came out!--and with a long shrill whistle summoned a porter whom he addressed as, "here, you pat," and bade, "take this lady's things, and put them into the 'bus for the sherman; look sharp now, and see that she's all right." then to clover,-- "you'll find it very comfortable at the sherman, miss, and i hope you'll have a good night. if you'll come to me in the morning, i'll explain about the baggage transfer." clover thanked this obliging being again, and rejoined her party, who were patiently sitting where she had left them. "dear me!" said mrs. watson as the omnibus rolled off, "i had no idea that denver was such a large place. street cars too! well, i declare!" "and what nice shops!" said clover, equally surprised. her ideas had been rather vague as to what was to be expected in the close neighborhood of the rocky mountains; but she knew that denver had only existed a few years, and was prepared to find everything looking rough and unfinished. "why, they have restaurants here and jewellers' shops!" she cried. "look, phil, what a nice grocery! we needn't have packed all those oatmeal biscuits if only we had known. and electric lights! how wonderful! but of course st. helen's is quite different." their amazement increased when they reached the hotel, and were taken in a large dining-room to order dinner from a bill of fare which seemed to include every known luxury, from oregon salmon and lake superior white-fish to frozen sherbets and california peaches and apricots. but wonderment yielded to fatigue, and again as clover fell asleep she was conscious of a deep depression. what had she undertaken to do? how could she do it? but a night of sound sleep followed by such a morning of unclouded brilliance as is seldom seen east of colorado banished these misgivings. courage rose under the stimulus of such air and sunshine. "i must just live for each day as it comes," said little clover to herself, "do my best as things turn up, keep phil happy, and satisfy mrs. watson,--if i can,--and not worry about to-morrows or yesterdays. that is the only safe way, and i won't forget if i can help it." with these wise resolves she ran down stairs, looking so blithe and bright that phil cheered at the sight of her, and lost the long morning face he had got up with, while even mrs. watson caught the contagion, and became fairly hopeful and content. a little leaven of good-will and good heart in one often avails to lighten the heaviness of many. the distance between denver and st. helen's is less than a hundred miles, but as the railroad has to climb and cross a range of hills between two and three thousand feet high, the journey occupies several hours. as the train gradually rose higher and higher, the travellers began to get wide views, first of the magnificent panorama of mountains which lies to the northwest of denver, sixty miles away, with long's peak in the middle, and after crossing the crest of the "divide," where a blue little lake rimmed with wild-flowers sparkled in the sun, of the more southern ranges. after a while they found themselves running parallel to a mountain chain of strange and beautiful forms, green almost to the top, and intersected with deep ravines and cliffs which the conductor informed them were "canyons." they seemed quite near at hand, for their bases sank into low rounded hills covered with woods, these melted into undulating table-lands, and those again into a narrow strip of park-like plain across which ran the track. flowers innumerable grew on this plain, mixed with grass of a tawny brown-green. there were cactuses, red and yellow, scarlet and white gillias, tall spikes of yucca in full bloom, and masses of a superb white poppy with an orange-brown centre, whose blue-green foliage was prickly like that of the thistle. here and there on the higher uplands appeared strange rock shapes of red and pink and pale yellow, which looked like castles with towers and pinnacles, or like primitive fortifications. clover thought it all strangely beautiful, but mrs. watson found fault with it as "queer." "it looks unnatural, somehow," she objected; "not a bit like the east. red never was a favorite color of mine. ellen had a magenta bonnet once, and it always worried--but henry liked it, so of course--people can't see things the same way. now the green hat she had winter before last was--don't you think those mountains are dreadfully bright and distinct? i don't like such high-colored rocks. even the green looks red, somehow. i like soft, hazy mountains like blue hill and wachusett. ellen spent a summer up at princeton once. it was when little cynthia had diphtheria--she's named after me, you know, and henry he thought--but i don't like the staring kind like these; and somehow those buildings, which the conductor says are not buildings but rocks, make my flesh creep." "they'd be scrumptious places to repel attacks of indians from," observed phil; "two or three scouts with breech-loaders up on that scarlet wall there could keep off a hundred piutes." "i don't feel that way a bit," clover was saying to mrs. watson. "i like the color, it's so rich; and i think the mountains are perfectly beautiful. if st. helen's is like this i am going to like it, i know." st. helen's, when they reached it, proved to be very much "like this," only more so, as phil remarked. the little settlement was built on a low plateau facing the mountains, and here the plain narrowed, and the beautiful range, seen through the clear atmosphere, seemed only a mile or two away, though in reality it was eight or ten. to the east the plain widened again into great upland sweeps like the kentish downs, with here and there a belt of black woodland, and here and there a line of low bluffs. viewed from a height, with the cloud-shadows sweeping across it, it had the extent and splendor of the sea, and looked very much like it. the town, seen from below, seemed a larger place than clover had expected, and again she felt the creeping, nervous feeling come over her. but before the train had fairly stopped, a brisk, active little man jumped on board, and walking into the car, began to look about him with keen, observant eyes. after one sweeping glance, he came straight to where clover was collecting her bags and parcels, held out his hand, and said in a pleasant voice, "i think this must be miss carr." "i am dr. hope," he went on; "your father telegraphed when you were to leave chicago, and i have come down to two or three trains in the hope of meeting you." "have you, indeed?" said clover, with a rush of relief. "how very kind of you! and so papa telegraphed! i never thought of that. phil, here is dr. hope, papa's friend; dr. hope, mrs. watson." "this is really a very agreeable attention,--your coming to meet us," said mrs. watson; "a very agreeable attention indeed. well, i shall write ellen--that's my daughter, mrs. phillips, you know--that before we had got out of the cars, a gentleman--and though i've always been in the habit of going about a good deal, it's always been in the east, of course, and things are--what are we going to do first, dr. hope? miss carr has a great deal of energy for a girl, but naturally--i suppose there's an hotel at st. helen's. ellen is rather particular where i stay. 'at your age, mother, you must be made comfortable, whatever it costs,' she says; and so i--an only daughter, you know--but you'll attend to all those things for us now, doctor." "there's quite a good hotel," said dr. hope, his eyes twinkling a little; "i'll show it to you as we drive up. you'll find it very comfortable if you prefer to go there. but for these young people i've taken rooms at a boarding-house, a quieter and less expensive place. i thought it was what your father would prefer," he added in a lower tone to clover. "i am sure he would," she replied; but mrs. watson broke in,-- "oh, i shall go wherever miss carr goes. she's under my care, you know--though at the same time i must say that in the long run i have generally found that the most expensive places turn out the cheapest. as ellen often says, get the best and--what do they charge at this hotel that you speak of, dr. hope?" "the shoshone house? about twenty-five dollars a week, i think, if you make a permanent arrangement." "that _is_ a good deal," remarked mrs. watson, meditatively, while clover hastened to say,-- "it is a great deal more than phil and i can spend, dr. hope; i am glad you have chosen the other place for us." "i suppose it _is_ better," admitted mm watson; but when they gained the top of the hill, and a picturesque, many-gabled, many-balconied structure was pointed out as the shoshone, her regrets returned, and she began again to murmur that very often the most expensive places turned out the cheapest in the end, and that it stood to reason that they must be the best. dr. hope rather encouraged this view, and proposed that she should stop and look at some rooms; but no, she could not desert her young charges and would go on, though at the same time she must say that her opinion as an older person who had seen more of the world was--she was used to being consulted. why, addy phillips wouldn't order that crushed strawberry bengaline of hers till mrs. watson saw the sample, and--but girls had their own ideas, and were bound to carry them out, ellen always said so, and for her part she knew her duty and meant to do it! dr. hope flashed one rapid, comical look at clover. western life sharpens the wits, if it does nothing else, and westerners as a general thing become pretty good judges of character. it had not taken ten minutes for the keen-witted little doctor to fathom the peculiarities of clover's "chaperone," and he would most willingly have planted her in the congenial soil of the shoshone house, which would have provided a wider field for her restlessness and self-occupation, and many more people to listen to her narratives and sympathize with her complaints. but it was no use. she was resolved to abide by the fortunes of her "young friends." while this discussion was proceeding, the carriage had been rolling down a wide street running along the edge of the plateau, opposite the mountain range. pretty houses stood on either side in green, shaded door-yards, with roses and vine-hung piazzas and nicely-cut grass. "why, it looks like a new england town," said clover, amazed; "i thought there were no trees here." "yes, i know," said dr. hope smiling. "you came, like most eastern people, prepared to find us sitting in the middle of a sandy waste, on cactus pincushions, picking our teeth with bowie-knives, and with no neighbors but indians and grizzly bears. well; sixteen years ago we could have filled the bill pretty well. then there was not a single house in st. helen's,--not even a tent, and not one of the trees that you see here had been planted. now we have three railroads meeting at our depot, a population of nearly seven thousand, electric lights, telephones, a good opera-house, a system of works which brings first-rate spring water into the town from six miles away,--in short, pretty much all the modern conveniences." "but what _has_ made the place grow so fast?" asked clover. "if i may be allowed a professional pun, it is built up on coughings. it is a town for invalids. half the people here came out for the benefit of their lungs." "isn't that rather depressing?" "it would be more so if most of them did not look so well that no one would suspect them of being ill. here we are." clover looked out eagerly. there was nothing picturesque about the house at whose gate the carriage had stopped. it was a large shabby structure, with a piazza above as well as below, and on these piazzas various people were sitting who looked unmistakably ill. the front of the house, however, commanded the fine mountain view. "you see," explained dr. hope, drawing clover aside, "boarding-places that are both comfortable and reasonable are rather scarce at st. helen's. i know all about the table here and the drainage; and the view is desirable, and mrs. marsh, who keeps the house, is one of the best women we have. she's from down your way too,--barnstable, mass., i think." clover privately wondered how barnstable, mass., could be classed as "down" the same way with burnet, not having learned as yet that to the soaring western mind that insignificant fraction of the whole country known as "the east," means anywhere from maine to michigan, and that such trivial geographical differences as exist between the different sections seem scarcely worth consideration when compared with the vast spaces which lie beyond toward the setting sun. but perhaps dr. hope was only trying to tease her, for he twinkled amusedly at her puzzled face as he went on,-- "i think you can make yourselves comfortable here. it was the best i could do. but your old lady would be much better suited at the shoshone, and i wish she'd go there." clover could not help laughing. "i wish that people wouldn't persist in calling mrs. watson my old lady," she thought. mrs. marsh, a pleasant-looking person, came to meet them as they entered. she showed clover and phil their rooms, which had been secured for them, and then carried mrs. watson off to look at another which she could have if she liked. the rooms were on the third floor. a big front one for phil, with a sunny south window and two others looking towards the west and the mountains, and, opening from it, a smaller room for clover. "your brother ought to live in fresh air both in doors and out," said dr. hope; "and i thought this large room would answer as a sort of sitting place for both of you." "it's ever so nice; and we are both more obliged to you than we can say," replied clover, holding out her hand as the doctor rose to go. he gave a pleased little laugh as he shook it. "that's all right," he said. "i owe your father's children any good turn in my power, for he was a good friend to me when i was a poor boy just beginning, and needed friends. that's my house with the red roof, miss clover. you see how near it is; and please remember that besides the care of this boy here, i'm in charge of you too, and have the inside track of the rest of the friends you are going to make in colorado. i expect to be called on whenever you want anything, or feel lonesome, or are at a loss in any way. my wife is coming to see you as soon as you have had your dinner and got settled a little. she sent those to you," indicating a vase on the table, filled with flowers. they were of a sort which clover had never seen before,--deep cup-shaped blossoms of beautiful pale purple and white. "oh, what are they?" she called after the doctor. "anemones," he answered, and was gone. "what a dear, nice, kind man!" cried clover. "isn't it delightful to have a friend right off who knows papa, and does things for us because we are papa's children? you like him, don't you, phil; and don't you like your room?" "yes; only it doesn't seem fair that i should have the largest." "oh, yes; it is perfectly fair. i never shall want to be in mine except when i am dressing or asleep. i shall sit here with you all the time; and isn't it lovely that we have those enchanting mountains just before our eyes? i never saw anything in my life that i liked so much as i do that one." it was cheyenne mountain at which she pointed, the last of the chain, and set a little apart, as it were, from the others. there is as much difference between mountains as between people, as mountain-lovers know, and like people they present characters and individualities of their own. the noble lines of mount cheyenne are full of a strange dignity; but it is dignity mixed with an indefinable charm. the canyons nestle about its base, as children at a parent's knee; its cedar forests clothe it like drapery; it lifts its head to the dawn and the sunset; and the sun seems to love it best of all, and lies longer on it than on the other peaks. clover did not analyze her impressions, but she fell in love with it at first sight, and loved it better and better all the time that she stayed at st. helen's. "dr. hope and mount cheyenne were our first friends in the place," she used to say in after-days. "how nice it is to be by ourselves!" said phil, as he lay comfortably on the sofa watching clover unpack. "i get so tired of being all the time with people. dear me! the room looks quite homelike already." clover had spread a pretty towel over the bare table, laid some books and her writing-case upon it, and was now pinning up a photograph over the mantel-piece. "we'll make it nice by-and-by," she said cheerfully; "and now that i've tidied up a little, i think i'll go and see what has become of mrs. watson. she'll think i have quite forgotten her. you'll lie quiet and rest till dinner, won't you?" "yes," said phil, who looked very sleepy; "i'm all right for an hour to come. don't hurry back if the ancient female wants you." clover spread a shawl over him before she went and shut one of the windows. [illustration: "clover spread a shawl over him before she left, and shut one of the windows."] "we won't have you catching cold the very first morning," she said. "that would be a bad story to send back to papa." she found mrs. watson in very low spirits about her room. "it's not that it's small," she said. "i don't need a very big room; but i don't like being poked away at the back so. i've always had a front room all my life. and at ellen's in the summer, i have a corner chamber, and see the sea and everything--it's an elegant room, solid black walnut with marble tops, and--lighthouses too; i have three of them in view, and they are really company for me on dark nights. i don't want to be fussy, but really to look out on nothing but a side yard with some trees--and they aren't elms or anything that i'm used to, but a new kind. there's a thing out there, too, that i never saw before, which looks like one of the giant ants' nests of africa in 'morse's geography' that i used to read about when i was--it makes me really nervous." clover went to the window to look at the mysterious object. it was a cone-shaped thing of white unburned clay, whose use she could not guess. she found later that it was a receptacle for ashes. "i suppose _your_ rooms are front ones?" went on mrs. watson, querulously. "mine isn't. it's quite a little one at the side. i think it must be just under this. phil's is in front, and is a nice large one with a view of the mountains. i wish there were one just like it for you. the doctor says that it's very important for him to have a great deal of air in his room." "doctors always say that; and of course dr. hope, being a friend of yours and all--it's quite natural he should give you the preference. though the phillips's are accustomed--but there, it's no use; only, as i tell ellen, boston is the place for me, where my family is known, and people realize what i'm used to." "i'm so sorry," clover said again. "perhaps somebody will go away, and mrs. marsh have a front room for you before long." "she did say that she might. i suppose she thinks some of her boarders will be dying off. in fact, there is one--that tall man in gray in the reclining-chair--who didn't seem to me likely to last long. well, we will hope for the best. i'm not one who likes to make difficulties." this prospect, together with dinner, which was presently announced, raised mrs. watson's spirits a little, and clover left her in the parlor, exchanging experiences and discussing symptoms with some ladies who had sat opposite them at table. mrs. hope came for a call; a pretty little woman, as friendly and kind as her husband. then clover and phil went out for a stroll about the town. their wonder increased at every turn; that a place so well equipped and complete in its appointments could have been created out of nothing in fifteen years was a marvel! after two or three turns they found themselves among shops, whose plate-glass windows revealed all manner of wares,--confectionery, new books, pretty glass and china, bonnets of the latest fashion. one or two large pharmacies glittered with jars--purple and otherwise--enough to tempt any number of rosamonds. handsome carriages drawn by fine horses rolled past them, with well-dressed people inside. in short, st. helen's was exactly like a thriving eastern town of double its size, with the difference that here a great many more people seemed to ride than to drive. some one cantered past every moment,--a lady alone, two or three girls together, or a party of rough-looking men in long boots, or a single ranchman sitting loose in his stirrups, and swinging a stock whip. clover and phil were standing on a corner, looking at some "rocky mountain curiosities" displayed for sale,--minerals, pueblo pottery, stuffed animals, and indian blankets; and phil had just commented on the beauty of a black horse which was tied to a post close by, when its rider emerged from a shop, and prepared to mount. he was a rather good-looking young fellow, sunburnt and not very tall, but with a lithe active figure, red-brown eyes and a long mustache of tawny chestnut. he wore spurs and a broad-brimmed sombrero, and carried in his hand a whip which seemed two-thirds lash. as he put his foot into the stirrup, he turned for another look at clover, whom he had rather stared at while passing, and then changing his intention, took it out again, and came toward them. "i beg your pardon," he said; "but aren't you--isn't it--clover carr?" "yes," said clover, wondering, but still without the least notion as to whom the stranger might be. "you've forgotten me?" went on the young man, with a smile which made his face very bright. "that's rather hard too; for i knew you at once. i suppose i'm a good deal changed, though, and perhaps i shouldn't have made you out except for your eyes; they're just the same. why, clover, i'm your cousin, clarence page!" "clarence page!" cried clover, joyfully; "not really! why, clarence, i never should have known you in the world, and i can't think how you came to know me. i was only fourteen when i saw you last, and you were quite a little boy. what good luck that we should meet, and on our first day too! some one wrote that you were in colorado, but i had no idea that you lived at st. helen's." "i don't; not much. i'm living on a ranch out that way," jerking his elbow toward the northwest, "but i ride in often to get the mail. have you just come? you said the first day." "yes; we only got here this morning. and this is my brother phil. don't you recollect how i used to tell you about him at ashburn?" "i should think you did," shaking hands cordially; "she used to talk about you all the time, so that i felt intimately acquainted with all the family. well, i call this first rate luck. it's two years since i saw any one from home." "home?" "well; the east, you know. it all seems like home when you're out here. and i mean any one that i know, of course. people from the east come out all the while. they are as thick as bumblebees at st. helen's, but they don't amount to much unless you know them. have you seen anything of mother and lilly since they got back from europe, clover?" "no, indeed. i haven't seen them since we left hillsover. katy has, though. she met them in nice when she was there, and they sent her a wedding present. you knew that she was married, didn't you?" "yes, i got her cards. pa sent them. he writes oftener than the others do; and he came out once and stayed a month on the ranch with me. that was while mother was in europe. where are you stopping? the shoshone, i suppose." "no, at a quieter place,--mrs. marsh's, on the same street." "oh, i know mother marsh. i went there when i first came out, and had caught the mountain fever, and she was ever so kind to me. i'm glad you are there. she's a nice woman." "how far away is your ranch?" "about sixteen miles. oh, i say, clover, you and phil must come out and stay with us sometime this summer. we'll have a round-up for you if you will." "what is a 'round-up' and who is 'us'?" said clover, smiling. "well, a round-up is a kind of general muster of the stock. all the animals are driven in and counted, and the young ones branded. it's pretty exciting sometimes, i can tell you, for the cattle get wild, and it's all we can do to manage them. you should see some of our boys ride; it's splendid, and there's one half-breed that's the best hand with the lasso i ever saw. phil will like it, i know. and 'us' is me and my partner." "have you a partner?" "yes, two, in fact; but one of them lives in new mexico just now, so he does not count. that's bert talcott. he's a new york fellow. the other's english, a devonshire man. geoff templestowe is his name." "is he nice?" "you can just bet your pile that he is," said clarence, who seemed to have assimilated western slang with the rest of the west. "wait till i bring him to see you. we'll come in on purpose some day soon. well, i must be going. good-by, clover; good-by, phil. it's awfully jolly to have you here." "i never should have guessed who it was," remarked clover, as they watched the active figure canter down the street and turn for a last flourish of the hat. "he was the roughest, scrubbiest boy when we last met. what a fine-looking fellow he has grown to be, and how well he rides!" "no wonder; a fellow who can have a horse whenever he has a mind to," said phil, enviously. "life on a ranch must be great fun, i think." "yes; in one way, but pretty rough and lonely too, sometimes. it will be nice to go out and see clarence's, if we can get some lady to go with us, won't it?" "well, just don't let it be mrs. watson, whoever else it is. she would spoil it all if she went." "now, philly, don't. we're supposed to be leaning on her for support." "oh, come now, lean on that old thing! why she couldn't support a postage stamp standing edgewise, as the man says in the play. do you suppose i don't know how you have to look out for her and do everything? she's not a bit of use." "yes; but you and i have got to be polite to her, philly. we mustn't forget that." "oh, i'll be polite enough, if she will just leave us alone," retorted phil. promising! chapter vii. making acquaintance. phil was better than his word. he was never uncivil to mrs. watson, and his distant manners, which really signified distaste, were set down by that lady to boyish shyness. "they often are like that when they are young," she told clover; "but they get bravely over it after a while. he'll outgrow it, dear, and you mustn't let it worry you a bit." meanwhile, mrs. watson's own flow of conversation was so ample that there was never any danger of awkward silences when she was present, which was a comfort. she had taken clover into high favor now, and clover deserved it,--for though she protected herself against encroachments, and resolutely kept the greater part of her time free for phil, she was always considerate, and sweet in manner to the older lady, and she found spare half-hours every day in which to sit and go out with her, so that she should not feel neglected. mrs. watson grew quite fond of her "young friend," though she stood a little in awe of her too, and was disposed to be jealous if any one showed more attention to clover than to herself. an early outburst of this feeling came on the third day after their arrival, when mrs. hope asked phil and clover to dinner, and did _not_ ask mrs. watson. she had discussed the point with her husband, but the doctor "jumped on" the idea forcibly, and protested that if that old thing was to come too, he would "have a consultation in pueblo, and be off in the five thirty train, sure as fate." "it's not that i care," mrs. watson assured clover plaintively. "i've had so much done for me all my life that of course--but i _do_ like to be properly treated. it isn't as if i were just anybody. i don't suppose mrs. hope knows much about boston society anyway, but still--and i should think a girl from south framingham (didn't you say she was from south framingham?) would at least know who the abraham peabodys are, and they're henry's--but i don't imagine she was much of anybody before she was married; and out here it's all hail fellow and well met, they say, though in that case i don't see--well, well, it's no matter, only it seems queer to me; and i think you'd better drop a hint about it when you're there, and just explain that my daughter lives next door to the lieutenant-governor when she is in the country, and opposite the assistant-bishop in town, and has one of the harvard overseers for a near neighbor, and is distantly related to the reveres! you'd think even a south framingham girl must know about the lantern and the old south, and how much they've always been respected at home." clover pacified her as well as she could, by assurances that it was not a dinner-party, and they were only asked to meet one girl whom mrs. hope wanted her to know. "if it were a large affair, i am sure you would have been asked too," she said, and so left her "old woman of the sea" partly consoled. it was the most lovely evening possible, as clover and phil walked down the street toward dr. hope's. soft shadows lay over the lower spurs of the ranges. the canyons looked black and deep, but the peaks still glittered in rosy light. the mesa was in shadow, but the nearer plain lay in full sunshine, hot and yellow, and the west wind was full of mountain fragrance. phil gave little skips as he went along. already he seemed like a different boy. all the droop and languor had gone, and given place to an exhilaration which half frightened clover, who had constant trouble in keeping him from doing things which she knew to be imprudent. dr. hope had warned her that invalids often harmed themselves by over-exertion under the first stimulus of the high air. "why, how queer!" she exclaimed, stopping suddenly before one of the pretty places just above mrs. marsh's boarding-house. "what?" "don't you see? that yard! when we came by here yesterday it was all green grass and rose-bushes, and girls were playing croquet; and now, look, it's a pond!" sure enough! there were the rose-bushes still, and the croquet arches; but they were standing, so to speak, up to their knees in pools of water, which seemed several inches deep, and covered the whole place, with the exception of the flagged walks which ran from the gates to the front and side doors of the house. clover noticed now, for the first time, that these walks were several inches higher than the grass-beds on either side. she wondered if they were made so on purpose, and resolved to notice if the next place had the same arrangement. but as they reached the next place and the next, lo! the phenomenon was repeated and dr. hope's lawn too was in the same condition,--everything was overlaid with water. they began to suspect what it must mean, and mrs. hope confirmed the suspicion. it was irrigation day in mountain avenue, it seemed. every street in the town had its appointed period when the invaluable water, brought from a long distance for the purpose, was "laid on" and kept at a certain depth for a prescribed number of hours. "we owe our grass and shrubs and flower-beds entirely to this arrangement," mrs. hope told them. "nothing could live through our dry summers if we did not have the irrigating system." "are the summers so dry?" asked clover. "it seems to me that we have had a thunder-storm almost every day since we came." "we do have a good many thunderstorms," mrs. hope admitted; "but we can't depend on them for the gardens." "and did you ever hear such magnificent thunder?" asked dr. hope. "colorado thunder beats the world." "wait till you see our magnificent colorado hail," put in mrs. hope, wickedly. "that beats the world, too. it cuts our flowers to pieces, and sometimes kills the sheep on the plains. we are very proud of it. the doctor thinks everything in colorado perfection." "i have always pitied places which had to be irrigated," remarked clover, with her eyes fixed on the little twin-lakes which yesterday were lawns. "but i begin to think i was mistaken. it's very superior, of course, to have rains; but then at the east we sometimes don't have rain when we want it, and the grass gets dreadfully yellow. don't you remember, phil, how hard katy and i worked last summer to keep the geraniums and fuschias alive in that long drought? now, if we had had water like this to come once a week, and make a nice deep pond for us, how different it would have been!" "oh, you must come out west for real comfort," said dr. hope. "the east is a dreadfully one-horse little place, anyhow." "but you don't mean new york and boston when you say 'one-horse little place,' surely?" "don't i?" said the undaunted doctor. "wait till you see more of us out here." "here's poppy, at last," cried mrs. hope, as a girl came hurriedly up the walk. "you're late, dear." "poppy," whose real name was marian chase, was the girl who had been asked to meet them. she was a tall, rosy creature, to whom clover took an instant fancy, and seemed in perfect health; yet she told them that when she came out to colorado three years before, she had travelled on a mattress, with a doctor and a trained nurse in attendance. "your brother will be as strong, or stronger than i at the end of a year," she said; "or if he doesn't get well as fast as he ought, you must take him up to the ute valley. that's where i made my first gain." "where is the valley?" "thirty miles away to the northwest,--up there among the mountains. it is a great deal higher than this, and such a lovely peaceful place. i hope you'll go there." "we shall, of course, if phil needs it; but i like st. helen's so much that i would rather stay here if we can." dinner was now announced, and mrs. hope led the way into a pretty room hung with engravings and old plates after the modern fashion, where a white-spread table stood decorated with wild-flowers, candle-sticks with little red-shaded tapers, and a pyramid of plums and apricots. there was the usual succession of soup and fish and roast and salad which one looks for at a dinner on the sea-level, winding up with ice-cream of a highly civilized description, but clover could scarcely eat for wondering how all these things had come there so soon, so very soon. it seemed like magic,--one minute the solemn peaks and passes, the prairie-dogs and the thorny plain, the next all these portières and rugs and etchings and down pillows and pretty devices in glass and china, as if some enchanter's wand had tapped the wilderness, and hey, presto! modern civilization had sprung up like jonah's gourd all in a minute, or like the palace which aladdin summoned into being in a single night for the occupation of the princess of china, by the rubbing of his wonderful lamp. and then, just as the fruit-plates were put on the table, came a call, and the doctor was out in the hall, "holloing" and conducting with some distant patient one of those mysterious telephonic conversations which to those who overhear seem all replies and no questions. it was most remarkable, and quite unlike her preconceived ideas of what was likely to take place at the base of the rocky mountains. a pleasant evening followed. "poppy" played delightfully on the piano; later came a rubber of whist. it was like home. "before these children go, let us settle about the drive," said dr. hope to his wife. "oh, yes! miss carr--" "oh, please, won't you call me clover?" "indeed i will,--clover, then,--we want to take you for a good long drive to-morrow, and show you something; but the trouble is, the doctor and i are at variance as to what the something shall be. i want you to see odin's garden; and the doctor insists that you ought to go to the cheyenne canyons first, because those are his favorites. now, which shall it be? we will leave it to you." "but how can i choose? i don't know either of them. what a queer name,--odin's garden!" "i'll tell you how to settle it," cried marian chase, whose nickname it seemed had been given her because when she first came to st. helen's she wore a bunch of poppies in her hat. "take them to cheyenne to-morrow; and the next day--or thursday--let me get up a picnic for odin's garden; just a few of our special cronies,--the allans and the blanchards and mary pelham and will amory. will you, dear mrs. hope, and be our matron? that would be lovely." mrs. hope consented, and clover walked home as if treading on air. was this the st. helen's to which she had looked forward with so much dread,--this gay, delightful place, where such pleasant things happened, and people were so kind? how she wished that she could get at katy and papa for five minutes--on a wishing carpet or something--to tell them how different everything was from what she had expected. one thing only marred her anticipations for the morrow, which was the fear that mrs. watson might be hurt, and make a scene. happily, mrs. hope's thoughts took the same direction; and by some occult process of influence, the use of which good wives understand, she prevailed on her refractory doctor to allow the old lady to be asked to join the party. so early next morning came a very polite note; and it was proposed that phil should ride the doctor's horse, and act as escort to miss chase, who was to go on horseback likewise. no proposal could have been more agreeable to phil, who adored horses, and seldom had the chance to mount one; so every one was pleased, and mrs. watson preened her ancestral feathers with great satisfaction. "you see, dear, how well it was to give that little hint about the reveres and the abraham peabodys," she said. clover felt dreadfully dishonest; but she dared not confess that she had forgotten all about the hint, still less that she had never meant to give one. "the better part of valor is discretion," she remembered; so she held her peace, though her cheeks glowed guiltily. at three o'clock they set forth in a light roomy carriage,--not exactly a carryall, but of the carryall family,--with a pair of fast horses, miss chase and phil cantering happily alongside, or before or behind, just as it happened. the sun was very hot; but there was a delicious breeze, and the dryness and elasticity of the air made the heat easy to bear. the way lay across and down the southern slope of the plateau on which the town was built. then they came to splendid fields of grain and "afalfa,"--a cereal quite new to them, with broad, very green leaves. the roadside was gay with flowers,--gillias and mountain balm; high pink and purple spikes, like foxgloves, which they were told were pentstemons; painters' brush, whose green tips seemed dipped in liquid vermilion, and masses of the splendid wild poppies. they crossed a foaming little river; and a sharp turn brought them into a narrower and wilder road, which ran straight toward the mountain side. this was overhung by trees, whose shade was grateful after the hot sun. narrower and narrower grew the road, more and more sharp the turns. they were at the entrance of a deep defile, up which the road wound and wound, following the links of the river, which they crossed and recrossed repeatedly. such a wonderful and perfect little river, with water clear as air and cold as ice, flowing over a bed of smooth granite, here slipping noiselessly down long slopes of rock like thin films of glass, there deepening into pools of translucent blue-green like aqua-marine or beryl, again plunging down in mimic waterfalls, a sheet of iridescent foam. the sound of its rush and its ripple was like a laugh. never was such happy water, clover thought, as it curved and bent and swayed this way and that on its downward course as if moved by some merry, capricious instinct, like a child dancing as it goes. regiments or great ferns grew along its banks, and immense thickets of wild roses of all shades, from deep jacqueminot red to pale blush-white. here and there rose a lonely spike of yucca, and in the little ravines to right and left grew in the crevices of the rocks clumps of superb straw-colored columbines four feet high. looking up, clover saw above the tree-tops strange pinnacles and spires and obelisks which seemed air-hung, of purple-red and orange-tawny and pale pinkish gray and terra cotta, in which the sunshine and the cloud-shadows broke in a multiplicity of wonderful half-tints. above them was the dazzling blue of the colorado sky. she drew a long, long breath. "so this is a canyon," she said. "how glad i am that i have lived to see one." "yes, this is a canyon," dr. hope replied. "some of us think it _the_ canyon; but there are dozens of others, and no two of them are alike. i'm glad you are pleased with this, for it's my favorite. i wish your father could see it." clover hardly understood what he said she was so fascinated and absorbed. she looked up at the bright pinnacles, down at the flowers and the sheen of the river-pools and the mad rush of its cascades, and felt as though she were in a dream. through the dream she caught half-comprehended fragments of conversation from the seat behind. mrs. watson was giving her impressions of the scenery. "it's pretty, i suppose," she remarked; "but it's so very queer, and i'm not used to queer things. and this road is frightfully narrow. if a load of hay or a big concord coach should come along, i can't think what we should do. i see that dr. hope drives carefully, but yet--you don't think we shall meet anything of the kind to-day, do you, doctor?" "not a concord coach, and certainly not a hay-wagon, for they don't make hay up here in the mountains." "well, that is a relief. i didn't know. ellen she always says, 'mother, you're a real fidget;' but when one grows old, and has valves in the heart as i have, you never--we might meet one of those big pedler's wagons, though, and they frighten horses worse than anything. oh, what's that coming now? let us get out, dr. hope; pray, let us all get out." "sit still, ma'am," said the doctor, sternly, for mrs. watson was wildly fumbling at the fastening of the door. "mary, put your arm round mrs. watson, and hold her tight. there'll be a real accident, sure as fate, if you don't." then in a gentler tone, "it's only a buggy, ma'am; there's plenty of room. there's no possible risk of a pedler's wagon. what on earth should a pedler be doing up here on the side of cheyenne! prairie-dogs don't use pomatum or tin-ware." "oh, i didn't know," repeated poor mrs. watson, nervously. she watched the buggy timorously till it was safely past; then her spirits revived. "well," she cried, "we're safe this time; but i call it tempting providence to drive so fast on such a rough road. if all canyons are as wild as this, i sha'n't ever venture to go into another." "bless me! this is one of our mildest specimens," said dr. hope, who seemed to have a perverse desire to give mrs. watson a distaste for canyons. "this is a smooth one; but some canyons are really rough. do you remember, mary, the day we got stuck up at the top of the westmoreland, and had to unhitch the horses, and how i stood in the middle of the creek and yanked the carriage round while you held them? that was the day we heard the mountain lion, and there were fresh bear-tracks all over the mud, you remember." "good gracious!" cried mrs. watson, quite pale; "what an awful place! bears and lions! what on earth did you go there for?" "oh, purely for pleasure," replied the doctor, lightly. "we don't mind such little matters out west. we try to accustom ourselves to wild beasts, and make friends of them." "john, don't talk such nonsense," cried his wife, quite angrily. "mrs. watson, you mustn't believe a word the doctor says. i've lived in colorado nine years; and i've never once seen a mountain lion, or a bear either, except the stuffed ones in the shops. don't let the doctor frighten you." but dr. hope's wicked work was done. mrs. watson, quite unconvinced by these well-meant assurances, sat pale and awe-struck, repeating under her breath,-- "dreadful! what _will_ ellen say? bears and lions! oh, dear me!" "look, look!" cried clover, who had not listened to a word of this conversation; "did you ever see anything so lovely?" she referred to what she was looking at,--a small point of pale straw-colored rock some hundreds of feet in height, which a turn in the road had just revealed, soaring above the tops of the trees. "i don't see that it's lovely at all," said mrs. watson, testily. "it's unnatural, if that's what you mean. rocks ought not to be that color. they never are at the east. it looks to me exactly like an enormous unripe banana standing on end." this simile nearly "finished" the party. "it's big enough to disagree with all the sunday-schools in creation at once," remarked the doctor, between his shouts, while even clover shook with laughter. mrs. watson felt that she had made a hit, and grew complacent again. "see what your brother picked for me," cried poppy, riding alongside, and exhibiting a great sheaf of columbine tied to the pommel of her saddle. "and how do you like north cheyenne? isn't it an exquisite place?" "perfectly lovely; i feel as if i must come here every day." "yes, i know; but there are so many other places out here about which you have that feeling." "now we will show you the other cheyenne canyon,--the twin of this," said dr. hope; "but you must prepare your mind to find it entirely different." after rather a rough mile or two through woods, they came to a wooden shed, or shanty, at the mouth of a gorge, and here dr. hope drew up his horses, and helped them all out. "is it much of a walk?" asked mrs. watson. "it is rather long and rather steep," said mrs. hope; "but it is lovely if you only go a little way in, and you and i will sit down the moment you feel tired, and let the others go forward." south cheyenne canyon was indeed "entirely different." instead of a green-floored, vine-hung ravine, it is a wild mountain gorge, walled with precipitous cliffs of great height; and its river--every canyon has a river--comes from a source at the top of the gorge in a series of mad leaps, forming seven waterfalls, which plunge into circular basins of rock, worn smooth by the action of the stream. these pools are curiously various in shape, and the color of the water, as it pauses a moment to rest in each before taking its next plunge, is beautiful. little plank walks are laid along the river-side, and rude staircases for the steepest pitches. up these the party went, leaving mrs. watson and mrs. hope far behind,--poppy with her habit over her arm, clover stopping every other moment to pick some new flower, phil shying stones into the rapids as he passed,--till the top of the topmost cascade was reached, and looking back they could see the whole wonderful way by which they had climbed, and down which the river made its turbulent rush. clover gathered a great mat of green scarlet-berried vine like glorified cranberry, which dr. hope told her was the famous kinnikinnick, and was just remarking on the cool water-sounds which filled the place, when all of a sudden these sounds seemed to grow angry, the defile of precipices turned a frowning blue, and looking up they saw a great thunder-cloud gathering overhead. "we must run," cried dr. hope, and down they flew, racing at full speed along the long flights of steps and the plank walks, which echoed to the sound of their flying feet. far below they could see two fast-moving specks which they guessed to be mrs. hope and mrs. watson, hurrying to a place of shelter. nearer and nearer came the storm, louder the growl of the thunder, and great hail-stones pattered on their heads before they gained the cabin; none too soon, for in another moment the cloud broke, and the air was full of a dizzy whirl of sleet and rain. others besides themselves had been surprised in the ravine, and every few minutes another and another wet figure would come flying down the path, so that the little refuge was soon full. the storm lasted half an hour, then it scattered as rapidly as it had come, the sun broke out brilliantly, and the drive home would have been delightful if it had not been for the sad fact that mrs. watson had left her parasol in the carriage, and it had been wet, and somewhat stained by the india-rubber blanket which had been thrown over it for protection. her lamentations were pathetic. "jane phillips gave it to me,--she was a sampson, you know,--and i thought ever so much of it. it was at hovey's--we were there together, and i admired it; and she said, 'mrs. watson, you must let me--' six dollars was the price of it. that's a good deal for a parasol, you know, unless it's really a nice one; but hovey's things are always--i had the handle shortened a little just before i came away, too, so that it would go into my trunk; it had to be mended anyhow, so that it seemed a good--dear, dear! and now it's spoiled! what a pity i left it in the carriage! i shall know better another time, but this climate is so different. it never rains in this way at home. it takes a little while about it, and gives notice; and we say that there's going to be a northeaster, or that it looks like a thunder-storm, and we put on our second-best clothes or we stay at home. it's a great deal nicer, i think." "i am so sorry," said kind little mrs. hope. "our storms out here do come up very suddenly. i wish i had noticed that you had left your parasol. well, clover, you've had a chance now to see the doctor's beautiful colorado hail and thunder to perfection. how do you like them?" "i like everything in colorado, i believe," replied clover, laughing. "i won't even except the hail." "she's the girl for this part of the world," cried dr. hope, approvingly. "she'd make a first-rate pioneer. we'll keep her out here, mary, and never let her go home. she was born to live at the west." "was i? it seems queer then that i should have been born to live in burnet." "oh, we'll change all that." "i'm sure i don't see how." "there are ways and means," oracularly. mrs. watson was so cast down by the misadventure to her parasol that she expressed no regret at not being asked to join in the picnic next day, especially as she understood that it consisted of young people. mrs. hope very rightly decided that a whole day out of doors, in a rough place, would give pain rather than pleasure to a person who was both so feeble and so fussy, and did not suggest her going. clover and phil waked up quite fresh and untired after a sound night's sleep. there seemed no limit to what might be done and enjoyed in that inexhaustibly renovating air. odin's garden proved to be a wonderful assemblage of rocky shapes rising from the grass and flowers of a lonely little plain on the far side of the mesa, four or five miles from st. helen's. the name of the place came probably from something suggestive in the forms of the rocks, which reminded clover of pictures she had seen of assyrian and egyptian rock carvings. there were lion shapes and bull shapes like the rudely chiselled gods of some heathen worship; there were slender, points and obelisks three hundred feet high; and something suggesting a cat-faced deity, and queer similitudes of crocodiles and apes,--all in the strange orange and red and pale yellow formations of the region. it was a wonderful rather than a beautiful place; but the day was spent very happily under those mysterious stones, which, as the long afternoon shadows gathered over the plain, and the sky glowed with sunset crimson which seemed like a reflection from the rocks themselves, became more mysterious still. of the merry young party which made up the picnic, seven out of nine had come to colorado for health; but no one would have guessed it, they seemed so well and so full of the enjoyment of life. altogether, it was a day to be marked; not with a white stone,--that would not have seemed appropriate to colorado,--but with a red one. clover, writing about it afterward to elsie, felt that her descriptions to sober stay-at-homes might easily sound overdrawn and exaggerated, and wound up her letter thus:-- "perhaps you think that i am romancing; but i am not a bit. every word i say is perfectly true, only i have not made the colors half bright or the things half beautiful enough. colorado is the most beautiful place in the world. [n.b.--clover had seen but a limited portion of the world so far.] i only wish you could all come out to observe for yourselves that i am not fibbing, though it sounds like it!" chapter viii. high valley. clover was putting phil's chamber to rights, and turning it into a sitting-room for the day, which was always her first task in the morning. they had been at st. helen's nearly three weeks now, and the place had taken on a very homelike appearance. all the books and the photographs were unpacked, the washstand had vanished behind a screen made of a three-leaved clothes-frame draped with chintz, while a ruffled cover of the same gay chintz, on which bunches of crimson and pink geraniums straggled over a cream-colored ground, gave to the narrow bed the air of a respectable wide sofa. "there! those look very nice, i think," she said, giving the last touch to a bowl full of beautiful garden roses. "how sweet they are!" "your young man seems rather clever about roses," remarked phil, who, boy-like, dearly loved to tease his sister. "my young man, as you call him, has a father with a gardener," replied clover, calmly; "no very brilliant cleverness is required for that." in a cordial, kindly place, like st. helen's, people soon make acquaintances, and clover and phil felt as if they already knew half the people in the town. every one had come to see them and deluged them with flowers, and invitations to dine, to drive, to take tea. among the rest came mr. thurber wade, whom phil was pleased to call clover's young man,--the son of a rich new york banker, whose ill-health had brought him to live in st. helen's, and who had built a handsome house on the principal street. this gilded youth had several times sent roses to clover,--a fact which phil had noticed, and upon which he was fond of commenting. "speaking of young men," went on clover, "what do you suppose has become of clarence page? he said he should come in to see us soon; but that was ever so long ago." "he's a fraud, i suspect," replied phil, lazily, from his seat in the window. he had a geometry on his knees, and was supposed to be going on with his education, but in reality he was looking at the mountains. "i suppose people are pretty busy on ranches, though," he added. "perhaps they're sheep-shearing." "oh, it isn't a sheep ranch. don't you remember his saying that the cattle got very wild, and they had to ride after them? they wouldn't ride after sheep. i hope he hasn't forgotten about us. i was so glad to see him." while this talk went on, clarence was cantering down the lower end of the ute pass on his way to st. helen's. three hours later his name was brought up to them. "how nice!" cried clover. "i think as he's a relative we might let him come here, phil. it's so much pleasanter than the parlor." clarence, who had passed the interval of waiting in noting the different varieties of cough among the sick people in the parlor, was quite of her opinion. "how jolly you look!" was almost his first remark. "i'm glad you've got a little place of your own, and don't have to sit with those poor creatures downstairs all the time." "it is much nicer. some of them are getting better, though." "some of them aren't. there's one poor fellow in a reclining-chair who looks badly." "that's the one whose room mrs. watson has marked for her own. she asks him three times a day how he feels, with all the solicitude of a mother," said phil. "who's mrs. watson?" "well, she's an old lady who is somehow fastened to us, and who considers herself our chaperone," replied clover, with a little laugh. "i must introduce you by-and-by, but first we want a good talk all by ourselves. now tell us why you haven't come to see us before. we have been hoping for you every day." "well, i've wanted to come badly enough, but there has been a combination of hindrances. two of our men got sick, so there was more to do than usual; then geoff had to be away four days, and almost as soon as he got back he had bad news from home, and i hated to leave him alone." "what sort of bad news?" "his sister's dead." "poor fellow! in england too! you said he was english, didn't you?" "yes. she was married. her husband was a clergyman down in cornwall somewhere. she was older than geoff a good deal; but he was very fond of her, and the news cut him up dreadfully." "no wonder. it is horrible to hear such a thing when one is far from home," observed clover. she tried to realize how she should feel if word came to st. helen's of katy's death, or elsie's, or johnnie's; but her mind refused to accept the question. the very idea made her shiver. "poor fellow!" she said again; "what could you do for him, clarence?" "not much. i'm a poor hand at comforting any one,--men generally are, i guess. geoff knows i'm sorry for him; but it takes a woman to say the right thing at such times. we sit and smoke when the work's done, and i know what he's thinking about; but we don't say anything to each other. now let's speak of something else. i want to settle about your coming to high valley." "high valley? is that the name of your place?" "yes. i want you to see it. it's an awfully pretty place to my thinking,--not so very much higher than this, but you have to climb a good deal to get there. can't you come? this is just the time,--raspberries ripe, and lots of flowers wherever the beasts don't get at them. phil can have all the riding he wants, and it'll do poor geoff lots of good to see some one." "it would be very nice indeed," doubtfully; "but who could we get to go with us?" "i thought of that. we don't take much stock in mrs. grundy out here; but i supposed you'd want another lady. how would it be if i asked mrs. hope? the doctor's got to come out anyway to see one of our herders who's put his shoulder out in a fall. if he would drive you out, and mrs. hope would stay on, would you come for a week? i guess you'll like it." "i 'guess' we should," exclaimed clover, her face lighting up. "clarence, how delightful it sounds! it will be lovely to come if mrs. hope says yes." "then that's all right," replied clarence, looking extremely pleased. "i'll ride up to the doctor's as soon as dinner's over." "you'll dine with us, of course?" "oh, i always come to mother marsh for a bite whenever i stay over the day. she likes to have me. we've been great chums ever since i had fever here, and she took care of me." clover was amused at dinner to watch the cool deliberation with which clarence studied mrs. watson and her tortuous conversation, and, as he would have expressed it, "took stock of her." the result was not favorable, apparently. "what on earth did they send that old thing with you for?" he asked as soon as they went upstairs. "she's as much out of her element here as a canary-bird would be in a cyclone. she can't be any use to you, clover." "well, no; i don't think she is. it was a sort of mistake; i'll tell you about it sometime. but she likes to imagine that she's taking care of me; and as it does no harm, i let her." "taking care of you! great thunder! i wouldn't trust her to take care of a blue-eyed kitten," observed the irreverent clarence. "well, i'll ride up and settle with the hopes, and stop and let you know as i come back." mrs. hope and the doctor were not hard to persuade. in colorado, people keep their lamps of enjoyment filled and trimmed, so to speak, and their travelling energies ready girt about them, and easily adopt any plan which promises pleasure. the following day was fixed for the start, and clover packed her valise and phil's bag, with a sense of exhilaration and escape. she was, in truth, getting very tired of the exactions of mrs. watson. mrs. watson, on her part, did not at all approve of the excursion. "i think," she said, swelling with offended dignity, "that your cousin didn't know much about politeness when he left me out of his invitation and asked mrs. hope instead. yes, i know; the doctor had to go up anyway. that may be true, and it may not; but it doesn't alter the case. what am i to do, i should like to know, if the valves of my heart don't open, or don't shut--whichever it is--while i'm left all alone here among strangers?" "send for dr. hope," suggested phil. "he'll only be gone one night. clover doesn't know anything about valves." "my cousin lives in a rather rough way, i imagine," interposed clover, with a reproving look at phil. "he would hardly like to ask a stranger and an invalid to his house, when he might not be able to make her comfortable. mrs. hope has been there before, and she's an old friend." "oh, i dare say! there are always reasons. i don't say that i should have felt like going, but he ought to have asked me. ellen will be surprised, and so will--he's from ashburn too, and he must know the parmenters, and mrs. parmenter's brother's son is partner to henry's brother-in-law. it's of no consequence, of course,--still, respect--older people--boston--not used to--phillips--" mrs. watson's voice died away into fragmentary and inaudible lamentings. clover attempted no further excuse. her good sense told her that she had a perfect right to accept this little pleasure; that mrs. watson's plans for western travel had been formed quite independently of their own, and that papa would not wish her to sacrifice herself and phil to such unreasonable humors. still, it was not pleasant; and i am sorry to say that from this time dated a change of feeling on mrs. watson's part toward her "young friends." she took up a chronic position of grievance toward them, confided her wrongs to all new-comers, and met clover with an offended air which, though clover ignored it, did not add to the happiness of her life at mrs. marsh's. it was early in the afternoon when they started, and the sun was just dipping behind the mountain wall when they drove into the high valley. it was one of those natural parks, four miles long, which lie like heaven-planted gardens among the colorado ranges. the richest of grass clothed it; fine trees grew in clumps and clusters here and there; and the spaces about the house where fences of barbed wire defended the grass from the cattle, seemed a carpet of wild-flowers. clover exclaimed with delight at the view. the ranges which lapped and held the high, sheltered upland in embrace opened toward the south, and revealed a splendid lonely peak, on whose summit a drift of freshly-fallen snow was lying. the contrast with the verdure and bloom below was charming. the cabin--it was little more--stood facing this view, and was backed by a group of noble red cedars. it was built of logs, long and low, with a rude porch in front supported on unbarked tree trunks. two fine collies rushed to meet them, barking vociferously; and at the sound clarence hurried to the door. he met them with great enthusiasm, lifted out mrs. hope, then clover, and then began shouting for his chum, who was inside. "hollo, geoff! where are you? hurry up; they've come." then, as he appeared, "ladies and gentleman, my partner!" geoffrey templestowe was a tall, sinewy young englishman, with ruddy hair and beard, grave blue eyes, and an unmistakable air of good breeding. he wore a blue flannel shirt and high boots like clarence's, yet somehow he made clarence look a little rough and undistinguished. he was quiet in speech, reserved in manner, and seemed depressed and under a cloud; but clover liked his face at once. he looked both strong and kind, she thought. the house consisted of one large square room in the middle, which served as parlor and dining-room both, and on either side two bedrooms. the kitchen was in a separate building. there was no lack of comfort, though things were rather rude, and the place had a bare, masculine look. the floor was strewn with coyote and fox skins. two or three easy-chairs stood around the fireplace, in which, july as it was, a big log was blazing. their covers were shabby and worn; but they looked comfortable, and were evidently in constant use. there was not the least attempt at prettiness anywhere. pipes and books and old newspapers littered the chairs and tables; when an extra seat was needed clarence simply tipped a great pile of these on to the floor. a gun-rack hung upon the wall, together with sundry long stock-whips and two or three pairs of spurs, and a smell of tobacco pervaded the place. clover's eyes wandered to a corner where stood a small parlor organ, and over it a shelf of books. she rose to examine them. to her surprise they were all hymnals and church of england prayer-books. there were no others. she wondered what it meant. clarence had given up his own bedroom to phil, and was to chum with his friend. some little attempt had been made to adorn the rooms which were meant for the ladies. clean towels had been spread over the pine shelves which did duty for dressing-tables, and on each stood a tumbler stuffed as full as it could hold with purple pentstemons. clover could not help laughing, yet there was something pathetic to her in the clumsy, man-like arrangement. she relieved the tumbler by putting a few of the flowers in her dress, and went out again to the parlor, where mrs. hope sat by the fire, quizzing the two partners, who were hard at work setting their tea-table. it was rather a droll spectacle,--the two muscular young fellows creaking to and fro in their heavy boots, and taking such an infinitude of pains with their operations. one would set a plate on the table, and the other would forthwith alter its position slightly, or lift and scrutinize a tumbler and dust it sedulously with a glass-towel. each spoon was polished with the greatest particularity before it was laid on the tray; each knife passed under inspection. visitors were not an every-day luxury in the high valley, and too much care could not be taken for their entertainment, it seemed. supper was brought in by a chinese cook in a pigtail, wooden shoes, and a blue mother hubbard, choo loo by name. he was evidently a good cook, for the corn-bread and fresh mountain trout and the ham and eggs were savory to the last degree, and the flapjacks, with which the meal concluded, and which were eaten with a sauce of melted raspberry jelly, deserved even higher encomium. "we are willing to be treated as company this first night," observed mrs. hope; "but if you are going to keep us a week, you must let us make ourselves useful, and set the table and arrange the rooms for you." "we will begin to-morrow morning," added clover. "may we, clarence? may we play that it is our house, and do what we like, and change about and arrange things? it will be such fun." "fire away!" said her cousin, calmly. "the more you change the more we shall like it. geoff and i aren't set in our ways, and are glad enough to be let off duty for a week. the hut is yours just as long as you will stay; do just what you like with it. though we're pretty good housekeepers too, considering; don't you think so?" "do you believe he meant it?" asked clover, confidentially afterward of mrs. hope. "do you think they really wouldn't mind being tidied up a little? i should so like to give that room a good dusting, if it wouldn't vex them." "my dear, they will probably never know the difference except by a vague sense of improved comfort. men are dreadfully untidy, as a general thing, when left to themselves; but they like very well to have other people make things neat." "mr. templestowe told phil that they go off early in the morning and don't come back till breakfast at half-past seven; so if i wake early enough i shall try to do a little setting to rights before they come in." "and i'll come and help if i don't over-sleep," declared mrs. hope; "but this air makes me feel dreadfully as if i should." "i sha'n't call you," said clover; "but it will be nice to have you, if you come." she stood at her window after mrs. hope had gone, for a last look at the peak which glittered sharply in the light of the moon. the air was like scented wine. she drew a long breath. "how lovely it is!" she said to herself, and kissed her hand to the mountain. "good-night, you beautiful thing." she woke with the first beam of yellow sun, after eight hours of dreamless sleep, with a keen sense of renovation and refreshment. a great splashing was going on in the opposite wing, and manly voices hushed to suppressed tones were audible. then came a sound of boots on the porch; and peeping from behind her curtain, she saw clarence and his friend striding across the grass in the direction of the stock-huts. she glanced at her watch. it was a quarter past five. "now is my chance," she thought; and dressing rapidly, she put on a little cambric jacket, knotted her hair up, tied a handkerchief over it, and hurried into the sitting-room. her first act was to throw open all the windows to let out the smell of stale tobacco, her next to hunt for a broom. she found one at last, hanging on the door of a sort of store-closet, and moving the furniture as noiselessly as she could, she gave the room a rapid but effectual sweeping. while the dust settled, she stole out to a place on the hillside where the night before she had noticed some mariposa lilies growing, and gathered a large bunch. then she proceeded to dust and straighten, sorted out the newspapers, wiped the woodwork with a damp cloth, arranged the disorderly books, and set the breakfast-table. when all this was done, there was still time to finish her toilet and put her pretty hair in its accustomed coils and waves; so that clarence and mr. templestowe came in to find the fire blazing, the room bright and neat, mrs. hope sitting at the table in a pretty violet gingham ready to pour the coffee which choo loo had brought in, and clover, the good fairy of this transformation scene, in a fresh blue muslin, with a ribbon to match in her hair, just setting the mariposas in the middle of the table. their lilac-streaked bells nodded from a tall vase of ground glass. "oh, i say," cried clarence, "this _is_ something like! isn't it scrumptious, geoff? the hut never looked like this before. it's wonderful what a woman--no, two women," with a bow to mrs. hope--"can do toward making things pleasant. where did that vase come from, clover? we never owned anything so fine as that, i'm sure." "it came from my bag; and it's a present for you and mr. templestowe. i saw it in a shop-window yesterday; and it occurred to me that it might be just the thing for high valley, and fill a gap. and mrs. hope has brought you each a pretty coffee-cup." it was a merry meal. the pleasant look of the room, the little surprises, and the refreshment of seeing new and kindly faces, raised mr. templestowe's spirits, and warmed him out of his reserve. he grew cheerful and friendly. clarence was in uproarious spirits, and phil even worse. it seemed as if the air of the high valley had got into his head. dr. hope left at noon, after making a second visit to the lame herder, and mrs. hope and clover settled themselves for a week of enjoyment. they were alone for hours every day, while their young hosts were off on the ranch, and they devoted part of this time to various useful and decorative arts. they took all manner of liberties, poked about and rummaged, mended, sponged, assorted, and felt themselves completely mistresses of the situation. a note to marian chase brought up a big parcel by stage to the ute valley, four miles away, from which it was fetched over by a cow-boy on horseback; and clover worked away busily at scrim curtains for the windows, while mrs. hope shaped a slip cover of gay chintz for the shabbiest of the armchairs, hemmed a great square of gold-colored canton flannel for the bare, unsightly table, and made a bright red pincushion apiece for the bachelor quarters. the sitting-room took on quite a new aspect, and every added touch gave immense satisfaction to "the boys," as mrs. hope called them, who thoroughly enjoyed the effect of these ministrations, though they had not the least idea how to produce it themselves. creature comforts were not forgotten. the two ladies amused themselves with experiments in cookery. the herders brought a basket of wild raspberries, and clover turned them into jam for winter use. clarence gloated over the little white pots, and was never tired of counting them. they looked so like new england, he declared, that he felt as if he must get a girl at once, and go and walk in the graveyard,--a pastime which he remembered as universal in his native town. various cakes and puddings appeared to attest the industry of the housekeepers; and on the only wet evening, when a wild thunder-gust was sweeping down the valley, they had a wonderful candy-pull, and made enough to give all the cow-boys a treat. it must not be supposed that all their time went in these domestic pursuits. no, indeed. mrs. hope had brought her own side-saddle, and had borrowed one for clover; the place was full of horses, and not a day passed without a long ride up or down the valley, and into the charming little side canyons which opened from it. a spirited broncho, named sorrel, had been made over to phil's use for the time of his stay, and he was never out of the saddle when he could help it, except to eat and sleep. he shared in the herders' wild gallops after stock, and though clover felt nervous about the risks he ran, whenever she took time to think them over, he was so very happy that she had not the heart to interfere or check his pleasure. she and mrs. hope rode out with the gentlemen on the great day of the round-up, and, stationed at a safe point a little way up the hillside, watched the spectacle,--the plunging, excited herd, the cow-boys madly galloping, swinging their long whips and lassos, darting to and fro to head off refractory beasts or check the tendency to stampede. both clarence and geoffrey templestowe were bold and expert riders; but the mexican and texan herders in their employ far surpassed them. the ladies had never seen anything like it. phil and his broncho were in the midst of things, of course, and had one or two tumbles, but nothing to hurt them; only clover was very thankful when it was all safely over. in their rides and scrambling walks it generally happened that clarence took possession of clover, and left geoff in charge of mrs. hope. cousinship and old friendship gave him a right, he considered, and he certainly took full advantage of it. clover liked clarence; but there were moments when she felt that she would rather enjoy the chance to talk more with mr. templestowe, and there was a look in his eyes now and then which seemed to say that he might enjoy it too. but clarence did not observe this look, and he had no idea of sharing his favorite cousin with any one, if he could help it. sunday brought the explanation of the shelf full of prayer-books which had puzzled them on their first arrival. there was no church within reach; and it was geoff's regular custom, it seemed, to hold a little service for the men in the valley. almost all of them came, except the few mexicans, who were roman catholics, and the room was quite full. geoff read the service well and reverently, gave out the hymns, and played the accompaniments for them, closing with a brief bit of a sermon by the elder arnold. it was all done simply and as a matter of course, and clarence seemed to join in it with much good-will; but clover privately wondered whether the idea of doing such a thing would have entered into his head had he been left alone, or, if so, whether he would have cared enough about it to carry it out regularly. she doubted. whatever the shortcomings of the church of england may be, she certainly trains her children into a devout observance of sunday. the next day, monday, was to be their last,--a fact lamented by every one, particularly phil, who regarded the high valley as a paradise, and would gladly have remained there for the rest of his natural life. clover hated to take him away; but dr. hope had warned her privately that a week would be enough of it, and that with phil's tendency to overdo, too long a stay would be undesirable. so she stood firm, though clarence urged a delay, and phil seconded the proposal with all his might. the very pleasantest moment of the visit perhaps came on that last afternoon, when geoff got her to himself for once, and took her up a trail where she had not yet been, in search of scarlet pentstemons to carry back to st. helen's. they found great sheaves of the slender stems threaded, as it were, with jewel-like blossoms; but what was better still, they had a talk, and clover felt that she had now a new friend. geoff told her of his people at home, and a little about the sister who had lately died; only a little,--he could not yet trust himself to talk long about her. clover listened with frank and gentle interest. she liked to hear about the old grange at the head of a chine above clovelley, where geoff was born, and which had once been full of boys and girls, now scattered in the english fashion to all parts of the world. there was ralph with his regiment in india,--he was the heir, it seemed,--and jim and jack in australia, and oliver with his wife and children in new zealand, and allen at harrow, and another boy fitting for the civil service. there was a married sister in scotland, and another in london; and isabel, the youngest of all, still at home,--the light of the house, and the special pet of the old squire and of geoff's mother, who, he told clover, had been a great beauty in her youth, and though nearly seventy, was in his eyes beautiful still. "it's pretty quiet there for isabel," he said; "but she has my sister helen's two children to care for, and that will keep her busy. i used to think she'd come out to me one of these years for a twelvemonth; but there's little chance of her being spared now." clover's sympathy did not take the form of words. it looked out of her eyes, and spoke in the hushed tones of her soft voice. geoff felt that it was there, and it comforted him. the poor fellow was very lonely in those days, and inclined to be homesick, as even a manly man sometimes is. "what an awful time adam must have had of it before eve came!" growled clarence, that evening, as they sat around the fire. "he had a pretty bad time after she came, if i remember," said clover, laughing. "ah, but he had _her_!" "stuff and nonsense! he was a long shot happier without her and her old apple, i think," put in phil. "you fellows don't know when you're well off." everybody laughed. "phil's notion of paradise is the high valley and sorrel, and no girls about to bother and tell him not to get too tired," remarked clover. "it's a fair vision; but like all fair visions it must end." and end it did next day, when dr. hope appeared with the carriage, and the bags and saddles were put in, and the great bundle of wild-flowers, with their stems tied in wet moss; and phil, torn from his beloved broncho, on whose back he had passed so many happy hours, was forced to accompany the others back to civilization. "i shall see you very soon," said clarence, tucking the lap-robe round clover. "there's the mail to fetch, and other things. i shall be riding in every day or two." "i shall see you very soon," said geoff, on the other side. "clarence is not coming without me, i can assure you." then the carriage drove away; and the two partners went back into the house, which looked suddenly empty and deserted. "i'll tell you what!" began clarence. "and i'll tell _you_ what!" rejoined geoff. "a house isn't worth a red cent which hasn't a woman in it." "you might ride down and ask miss perkins to step up and adorn our lives," said his friend, grimly. miss perkins was a particularly rigid spinster who taught a school six miles distant, and for whom clarence entertained a particular distaste. "you be hanged! i don't mean that kind. i mean--" "the nice kind, like mrs. hope and your cousin. well, i'm agreed." "i shall go down after the mail to-morrow," remarked clarence, between the puffs of his pipe. "so shall i." "all right; come along!" but though the words sounded hearty, the tone rather belied them. clarence was a little puzzled by and did not quite like this newborn enthusiasm on the part of his comrade. chapter ix. over a pass. true to their resolve, the young heads of the high valley ranch rode together to st. helen's next day,--ostensibly to get their letters; in reality to call on their late departed guests. they talked amicably as they went; but unconsciously each was watching the other's mood and speech. to like the same girl makes young men curiously observant of each other. a disappointment was in store for them. they had taken it for granted that clover would be as disengaged and as much at their service as she had been in the valley; and lo! she sat on the piazza with a knot of girls about her, and a young man in an extremely "fetching" costume of snow-white duck, with a flower in his button-hole, was bending over her chair, and talking in a low voice of something which seemed of interest. he looked provokingly cool and comfortable to the dusty horsemen, and very much at home. phil, who lounged against the piazza-rail opposite, dispensed an enormous and meaning wink at his two friends as they came up the steps. clover jumped up from her chair, and gave them a most cordial reception. "how delightful to see you again so soon!" she said. then she introduced them to a girl in pink and a girl in blue as miss perham and miss blanchard, and they shook hands with marian chase, whom they already knew, and lastly were presented to mr. wade, the youth in white. the three young men eyed one another with a not very friendly scrutiny, just veiled by the necessary outward politeness. "then you will be all ready for thursday,--and your brother too, of course,--and my mother will stop for you at half-past ten on her way down," they heard him say. "miss chase will go with the hopes. oh, yes; there will be plenty of room. no danger about that. we're almost sure to have good weather too. good-morning. i'm so glad you enjoyed the roses." there was a splendid cluster of jacqueminot buds in clover's dress, at which clarence glared wrathfully as he caught these words. the only consolation was that the creature in duck was going. he was making his last bows; and one of the girls went with him, which still farther reduced the number of what in his heart clarence stigmatized as "a crowd." "i must go too," said the girl in blue. "good-by, clover. i shall run in a minute to-morrow to talk over the last arrangements for thursday." "what's going to happen on thursday?" growled clarence as soon as she had departed. "oh, such a delightful thing," cried clover, sparkling and dimpling. "old mr. wade, the father of young mr. wade, whom you saw just now, is a director on the railroad, you know; and they have given him the director's car to take a party over the marshall pass, and he has asked phil and me to go. it is _such_ a surprise. ever since we came to st. helen's, people have been telling us what a beautiful journey it is; but i never supposed we should have the chance to take it. mrs. hope is going too, and the doctor, and miss chase and miss perham,--all the people we know best, in fact. isn't it nice?" "oh, certainly; very nice," replied clarence, in a tone of deep offence. he was most unreasonably in the sulks. clover glanced at him with surprise, and then at geoff, who was talking to marian. he looked a little serious, and not so bright as in the valley; but he was making himself very pleasant, notwithstanding. surely he had the same causes for annoyance as clarence; but his breeding forbade him to show whatever inward vexation he may have felt,--certainly not to allow it to influence his manners. clover drew a mental contrast between the two which was not to clarence's advantage. "who's that fellow anyway?" demanded clarence. "how long have you known him? what business has he to be bringing you roses, and making up parties to take you off on private cars?" something in clover's usually soft eyes made him stop suddenly. "i beg your pardon," he said in an altered tone. "i really think you should," replied clover, with pretty dignity. then she moved away, and began to talk to geoff, whose grave courtesy at once warmed into cheer and sun. clarence, thus left a prey to remorse, was wretched. he tried to catch clover's eye, but she wouldn't look at him. he leaned against the balustrade moody and miserable. phil, who had watched these various interludes with interest, indicated his condition to clover with another telegraphic wink. she glanced across, relented, and made clarence a little signal to come and sit by her. after that all went happily. clover was honestly delighted to see her two friends again. and now that clarence had recovered from his ill-temper, there was nothing to mar their enjoyment. geoff's horse had cast a shoe on the way down, it seemed, and must be taken to the blacksmith's, so they did not stay very long; but it was arranged that they should come back to dinner at mrs. marsh's. "what a raving belle you are!" remarked marian chase, as the young men rode away. "three is a good many at a time, though, isn't it?" "three what?" "three--hem! leaves--to one clover!" "it's the usual allowance, i believe. if there were four, now--" "oh, i dare say there will be. they seem to collect round you like wasps round honey. it's some natural law, i presume,--gravitation or levitation, which is it?" "i'm sure i don't know, and don't try to tease me, poppy. people out here are so kind that it's enough to spoil anybody." "kind, forsooth! do you consider it all pure kindness? really, for such a belle, you're very innocent." "i wish you wouldn't," protested clover, laughing and coloring. "i never was a belle in my life, and that's the second time you've called me that. nobody ever said such things to me in burnet." "ah, you had to come to colorado to find out how attractive you could be. burnet must be a very quiet place. never mind; you sha'n't be teased, clover dear. only don't let this trefoil of yours get to fighting with one another. that good-looking cousin of yours was casting quite murderous glances at poor thurber wade just now." "clarence is a dear boy; but he's rather spoiled and not quite grown up yet, i think." "when are you coming back from the marshall pass?" inquired geoff, after dinner, when clarence had gone for the horses. "on saturday. we shall only be gone two days." "then i will ride in on thursday morning, if you will permit, with my field-glass. it is a particularly good one, and you may find it useful for the distant views." "when are you coming back?" demanded clarence, a little later. "saturday? then i sha'n't be in again before monday." "won't you want your letters?" "oh, i guess there won't be any worth coming for till then." "not a letter from your mother?" "she only writes once in a while. most of what i get comes from pa." "cousin olivia never did seem to care much for clarence," remarked clover, after they were gone. "he would have been a great deal nicer if he had had a pleasanter time at home. it makes such a difference with boys. now mr. templestowe has a lovely mother, i'm sure." "oh!" was all the reply that phil would vouchsafe. "how queer people are!" thought little clover to herself afterward. "neither of those boys quite liked our going on this expedition, i think,--though i'm sure i can't imagine why; but they behaved so differently. mr. templestowe thought of us and something which might give us pleasure; and clarence only thought about himself. poor clarence! he never had half a chance till he came here. it isn't all his fault." the party in the director's car proved a merry one. mrs. wade, a jolly, motherly woman, fond of the good things of life, and delighting in making people comfortable, had spared no pains of preparation. there were quantities of easy-chairs and fans and eau-de-cologne; the larder was stocked with all imaginable dainties,--iced tea, lemonade, and champagne cup flowed on the least provocation for all the hot moments, and each table was a bank of flowers. each lady had a superb bouquet; and on the second day a great tin box of freshly-cut roses met them at pueblo, so that they came back as gayly furnished forth as they went. having the privilege of the road, the car was attached or detached to suit their convenience, and this enabled them to command daylight for all the finest points of the excursion. first of these was the royal gorge, where the arkansas river pours through a magnificent canyon, between precipices so steep and with curves so sharp that only engineering genius of the most daring order could, it would seem, have devised a way through. then, after a pause at the pretty town of salida, with the magnificent range of the sangre de cristo mountains in full sight, they began to mount the pass over long loops of rail, which doubled and re-doubled on themselves again and again on their way to the summit. the train had been divided; and the first half with its two engines was seen at times puffing and snorting directly overhead of the second half on the lower curve. with each hundred feet of elevation, the view changed and widened. now it was of over-lapping hills set with little mésas, like folds of green velvet flung over the rocks; now of dim-seen valley depths with winding links of silver rivers; and again of countless mountain peaks sharp-cut against the sunset sky,--some rosy pink, some shining with snow. the flowers were a continual marvel. at the top of the pass, eleven thousand feet and more above the sea, their colors and their abundance were more profuse and splendid than on the lower levels. there were whole fields of pentstemons, pink, blue, royal purple, or the rare scarlet variety, like stems of asparagus strung with rubies. there were masses of gillias, and of wonderful coreopsis, enormous cream-colored stars with deep-orange centres, and deep yellow ones with scarlet centres; thickets of snowy-cupped mentzelia and of wild rose; while here and there a tall red lily burned like a little lonely flame in the green, or regiments of convolvuli waved their stately heads. from below came now and again the tinkle of distant cow-bells. these, and the plaintive coo of mourning-doves in the branches, and the rush of the wind, which was like cool flower-scented wine, was all that broke the stillness of the high places. "to think i'm so much nearer heaven than when i was a boy," misquoted clover, as she sat on the rear platform of the car, with poppy, and thurber wade. "are you sure your head doesn't ache? this elevation plays the mischief with some people. my mother has taken to her berth with ice on her temples." "headache! no, indeed. this air is too delicious. i feel as though i could dance all the way from here to the black canyon." "you don't look as if your head ached, or anything," said mr. wade, staring at clover admiringly. her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes full of light and exhilaration. "oh dear! we are beginning to go down," she cried, watching one of the beautiful peaks of the sangre de cristos as it dipped out of sight. "i think i could find it in my heart to cry, if it were not that to-morrow we are coming up again." so down, down, down they went. dusk slowly gathered about them; and the white-gloved butler set the little tables, and brought in broiled chicken and grilled salmon and salad and hot rolls and peaches, and they were all very hungry. and clover did not cry, but fell to work on her supper with an excellent appetite, quite unconscious that they were speeding through another wonderful gorge without seeing one of its beauties. then the car was detached from the train; and when she awoke next morning they were at the little station called cimmaro, at the head of the famous black canyon, with three hours to spare before the train from utah should arrive to take them back to st. helen's. early as it was, the small settlement was awake. lights glanced from the eating-house, where cooks were preparing breakfast for the "through" passengers, and smokes curled from the chimneys. close to the car was a large brick structure which seemed to be a sort of hotel for locomotives. a number of the enormous creatures had evidently passed the night there, and just waked up. clover now watched their antics with great amusement from her window as their engineers ran them in and out, rubbed them down like horses, and fed them with oil and coal, while they snorted and backed and sidled a good deal as real horses do. clover could not at all understand what all these manoeuvres were for,--they seemed only designed to show the paces of the iron steeds, and what they were good for. "miss clover," whispered a voice outside her curtains, "i've got hold of a hand-car and a couple of men; and don't you want to take a spin down the canyon and see the view with no smoke to spoil it? just you and me and miss chase. she says she'll go if you will. hurry, and don't make a noise. we won't wake the others." of course clover wanted to. she finished her dressing at top-speed, hurried on her hat and jacket, stole softly out to where the others awaited her, and in five minutes they were smoothly running down the gorge, over high trestle-work bridges and round sharp curves which made her draw her breath a little faster. there was no danger, the men who managed the hand-car assured them; it was a couple of hours yet before the next train came in; there was plenty of time to go three or four miles down and return. anything more delicious than the early morning air in the black canyon it would be difficult to imagine. cool, odorous with pines and with the breath of the mountains, it was like a zestful draught of iced summer. close beside the track ran a wondrous river which seemed made of melted jewels, so curiously brilliant were its waters and mixed of so many hues. its course among the rocks was a flash of foaming rapids, broken here and there by pools of exquisite blue-green, deepening into inky-violet under the shadow of the cliffs. and such cliffs!--one, two, three thousand feet high; not deep-colored like those about st. helen's, but of steadfast mountain hues and of magnificent forms,--buttresses and spires; crags whose bases were lost in untrodden forests; needle-sharp pinnacles like the swiss aiguilles. the morning was just making its way into the canyon; and the loftier tops flashed with yellow sun, while the rest were still in cold shadow. breakfast was just ready when the hand-car arrived again at the upper end of the gorge, and loud were the reproaches which met the happy three as they alighted from it. phil was particularly afflicted. "i call it mean not to wake a fellow," he said. "but a fellow was _so_ sound asleep," said clover, "i really hadn't the heart. i did peep in at your curtain, and if you had moved so much as a finger, _perhaps_ i should have called you; but you didn't." the return journey was equally fortunate, and the party reached st. helen's late in the evening of the second day, in what mr. wade called "excellent form." monday brought the young men from the ranch in again; and another fortnight passed happily, clover's three "leaves" being most faithfully attentive to their central point of attraction. "three is a good many," as marian chase had said, but all girls like to be liked, and clover did not find this, her first little experience of the kind, at all disagreeable. the excursion to the marshall pass, however, had an after effect which was not so pleasant. either the high elevation had disagreed with phil, or he had taken a little cold; at all events, he was distinctly less well. with the lowering of his physical forces came a corresponding depression of spirits. mrs. watson worried him, the sick people troubled him, the sound of coughing depressed him, his appetite nagged, and his sleep was broken. clover felt that he must have a change, and consulted dr. hope, who advised their going to the ute valley for a month. this involved giving up their rooms at mrs. marsh's, which was a pity, as it was by no means certain that they would be able to get them again later. clover regretted this; but fate, as fate often does, brought a compensation. mrs. watson had no mind whatever for the ute valley. "it's a dull place, they tell me, and there's nothing to do there but ride on horseback, and as i don't ride on horseback, i really don't see what use there would be in my going," she said to clover. "if i were young, and there were young men ready to ride with me all the time, it would be different; though ellen never did care to, except with henry of course, after they--and i really can't see that your brother's much different from what he was, though if dr. hope says so, naturally you--he's a queer kind of doctor, it seems to me, to send lung patients up higher than this,--which is high already, gracious knows. no; if you decide to go, i shall just move over to the shoshone for the rest of the time that i'm here. i'm sure that dr. carr couldn't expect me to stay on here alone, just for the chance that you may want to come back, when as like as not, mrs. marsh won't be able to take you again." "oh, no; i'm quite sure he wouldn't. only i thought," doubtfully, "that as you've always admired phil's room so much, you might like to secure it now that we have to go." "well, yes. if you were to be here, i might. if that man who's so sick had got better, or gone away, or something, i dare say i should have settled down in his room and been comfortable enough. but he seems just about as he was when we came, so there's no use waiting; and i'd rather go to the shoshone anyway. i always said it was a mistake that we didn't go there in the first place. it was dr. hope's doing, and i have not the least confidence in him. he hasn't osculated me once since i came." "hasn't he?" said clover, feeling her voice tremble, and perfectly aware of the shaking of phil's shoulders behind her. "no; and i don't call just putting his ear to my chest, listening. dr. bangs, at home, would be ashamed to come to the house without his stethoscope. i mean to move this afternoon. i've given mrs. marsh notice." so mrs. watson and her belongings went to the shoshone, and clover packed the trunks with a lighter heart for her departure. the last day of july found clover and phil settled in the ute park. it was a wild and beautiful valley, some hundreds of feet higher than st. helen's, and seemed the very home of peace. a sunday-like quiet pervaded the place, whose stillness was never broken except by bird-songs and the rustle of the pine branches. the sides of the valley near its opening were dotted here and there with huts and cabins belonging to parties who had fled from the heat of the plains for the summer. at the upper end stood the ranch house,--a large, rather rudely built structure,--and about it were a number of cabins and cottages, in which two, four, or six people could be accommodated. clover and phil were lodged in one of these. the tiny structure contained only a sitting and two sleeping rooms, and was very plain and bare. but there was a fireplace; wood was abundant, so that a cheerful blaze could be had for cool evenings; and the little piazza faced the south, and made a sheltered sitting place on windy days. one pleasant feature of the spot was its nearness to the high valley. clarence and geoff templestowe thought nothing of riding four miles; and scarcely a day passed when one or both did not come over. they brought wild-flowers, or cream, or freshly-churned butter, as offerings from the ranch; and, what clover valued as a greater kindness yet, they brought phil's beloved broncho, sorrel, and arranged with the owner of the ute ranch that it should remain as long as phil was there. this gave phil hours of delightful exercise every day; and though sometimes he set out early in the morning for the high valley, and stayed later in the afternoon than his sister thought prudent, she had not the heart to chide, so long as he was visibly getting better hour by hour. sundays the friends spent together, as a matter of course. geoff waited till his little home service for the ranchmen was over, and then would gallop across with clarence to pass the rest of the day. there was no lack of kind people at the main house and in the cottages to take an interest in the delicate boy and his sweet, motherly sister; so clover had an abundance of volunteer matrons, and plenty of pleasant ways in which to spend those occasional days on which the high valley attaches failed to appear. it was a simple, healthful life, the happiest on the whole which they had led since leaving home. once or twice mr. thurber wade made his appearance, gallantly mounted, and freighted with flowers and kind messages from his mother to miss carr; but clover was never sorry when he rode away again. somehow he did not seem to belong to the happy valley, as in her heart she denominated the place. there was a remarkable deal of full moon that month, as it seemed; at least, the fact served as an excuse for a good many late transits between the valley and the park. now and then either clarence or geoff would lead over a saddle-horse and give clover a good gallop up or down the valley, which she always enjoyed. the habit which she had extemporized for her visit to the high valley answered very well, and mrs. hope had lent her a hat. on one of these occasions she and clarence had ridden farther than usual, quite down to the end of the pass, where the road dipped, and descended to the little watering-place of canyon creek,--a swiss-like village of hotels and lodging-houses and shops for the sale of minerals and mineral waters, set along the steep sides of a narrow green valley. they were chatting gayly, and had just agreed that it was time to turn their horses' heads homeward, when a sudden darkening made them aware that one of the unexpected thunder-gusts peculiar to the region was upon them. they were still a mile above the village; but as no nearer place of shelter presented itself, they decided to proceed. but the storm moved more rapidly than they; and long before the first houses came in sight the heavy drops began to pelt down. a brown young fellow, lying flat on his back under a thick bush, with his horse standing over him, shouted to them to "try the cave," waving his hand in its direction; and hurrying on, they saw in another moment a shelving brow of rock in the cliff, under which was a deep recess. to this clarence directed the horses. he lifted clover down. she half sat, half leaned on the slope of the rock, well under cover, while he stretched himself at full length on a higher ledge, and held the bridles fast. the horses' heads and the saddles were fairly well protected, but the hindquarters of the animals were presently streaming with water. "this isn't half-bad, is it?" clarence said. his mouth was so close to clover's ear that she could catch his words in spite of the noisy thunder and the roar of the descending rain. "no; i call it fun." "you look awfully pretty, do you know?" was the next and very unexpected remark. "nonsense." "not nonsense at all." at that moment a carriage dashed rapidly by, the driver guiding the horses as well as he could between the points of an umbrella, which constantly menaced his eyes. other travellers in the pass had evidently been surprised by the storm besides themselves. the lady who held the umbrella looked out, and caught the picture of the group under the cliff. it was a suggestive one. clover's hat was a little pushed forward by the rock against which she leaned, which in its turn pushed forward the waving rings of hair which shaded her forehead, but did not hide her laughing eyes, or the dimples in her pink cheeks. the fair, slender girl, the dark, stalwart young fellow so close to her, the rain, the half-sheltered horses,--it was easy enough to construct a little romance. the lady evidently did so. it was what photographers call an "instantaneous effect," caught in three seconds, as the carriage whirled past; but in that fraction of a minute the lady had nodded and flashed a brilliant, sympathetic smile in their direction, and clover had nodded in return, and laughed back. "a good many people seem to have been caught as we have," she said, as another streaming vehicle dashed by. "i wish it would rain for a week," observed clarence. "my gracious, what a wish! what would become of us if it did?" "we should stay here just where we are, and i should have you all to myself for once, and nobody could come in to interfere with me." "thank you extremely! how hungry we should be! how can you be so absurd, clarence?" "i'm not absurd at all. i'm perfectly in earnest." "do you mean that you really want to stay a week under this rock with nothing to eat?" "well, no; not exactly that perhaps,--though if you could, i would. but i mean that i would like to get you for a whole solid week to myself. there is such a gang of people about always, and they all want you. clover," he went on, for, puzzled at his tone, she made no answer, "couldn't you like me a little?" "i like you a great deal. you come next to phil and dorry with me." "hang phil and dorry! who wants to come next to them? i want you to like me a great deal more than that. i want you to love me. couldn't you, clover?" "how strangely you talk! i do love you, of course. you're my cousin." "i don't care to be loved 'of course.' i want to be loved for myself. clover, you know what i mean; you must know. i can afford to marry now; won't you stay in colorado and be my wife?" "i don't think you know what you are saying, clarence. i'm older than you are. i thought you looked upon me as a sort of mother or older sister." "only fifteen months older," retorted clarence. "i never heard of any one's being a mother at that age. i'm a man now, i would have you remember, though i am a little younger than you, and know my own mind as well as if i were fifty. dear clovy," coaxingly, "couldn't you? you liked the high valley, didn't you? i'd do anything possible to make it nice and pleasant for you." "i do like the high valley very much," said clover, still with the feeling that clarence must be half in joke, or she half in dream. "but, my dear boy, it isn't my home. i couldn't leave papa and the children, and stay out here, even with you. it would seem so strange and far away." "you could if you cared for me," replied clarence, dejectedly; clover's kind, argumentative, elder-sisterly tone was precisely that which is most discouraging to a lover. "oh, dear," cried poor clover, not far from tears herself; "this is dreadful!" "what?" moodily. "having an offer? you must have had lots of them before now." "indeed i never did. people don't do such things in burnet. please don't say any more, clarence. i'm very fond of you, just as i am of the boys; but--" "but what? go on." "how can i?" clover was fairly crying. "you mean that you can't love me in the other way." "yes." the word came out half as a sob, but the sincerity of the accent was unmistakable. "well," said poor clarence, after a long bitter pause; "it isn't your fault, i suppose. i'm not good enough for you. still, i'd have done my best, if you would have taken me, clover." "i am sure you would," eagerly. "you've always been my favorite cousin, you know. people can't _make_ themselves care for each other; it has to come in spite of them or not at all,--at least, that is what the novels say. but you're not angry with me, are you, dear? we will be good friends always, sha'n't we?" persuasively. "i wonder if we can," said clarence, in a hopeless tone. "it doesn't seem likely; but i don't know any more about it than you do. it's my first offer as well as yours." then, after a silence and a struggle, he added in a more manful tone, "we'll try for it, at least. i can't afford to give you up. you're the sweetest girl in the world. i always said so, and i say so still. it will be hard at first, but perhaps it may grow easier with time." "oh, it will," cried clover, hopefully. "it's only because you're so lonely out here, and see so few people, that makes you suppose i am better than the rest. one of these days you'll find a girl who is a great deal nicer than i am, and then you'll be glad that i didn't say yes. there! the rain is just stopping." "it's easy enough to talk," remarked clarence, gloomily, as he gathered up the bridles of the horses; "but i shall do nothing of the kind. i declare i won't!" chapter x. no. piute street. clover did not see clarence again for several days after this conversation, the remembrance of which was uncomfortable to her. she feared he was feeling hurt or "huffy," and would show it in his manner; and she disliked very much the idea that phil might suspect the reason, or, worse still, mr. templestowe. but when he finally appeared he seemed much the same as usual. after all, she reflected, it has only been a boyish impulse; he has already got over it, or not meant all he said. in this she did clarence an injustice. he had been very much in earnest when he spoke; and it showed the good stuff which was in him and his real regard for clover that he should be making so manly a struggle with his disappointment and pain. his life had been a lonely one in colorado; he could not afford to quarrel with his favorite cousin, and with him, as with other lovers, there may have been, besides, some lurking hope that she might yet change her mind. but perhaps clover in a measure was right in her conviction that clarence was still too young and undeveloped to have things go very deep with him. he seemed to her in many ways as boyish and as undisciplined as phil. with early september the summering of the ute park came to a close. the cold begins early at that elevation, and light frosts and red leaves warned the dwellers in tents and cabins to flee. clover made her preparations for departure with real reluctance. she had grown very fond of the place; but phil was perfectly himself again, and there seemed no reason for their staying longer. so back to st. helen's they went and to mrs. marsh, who, in reply to clover's letter, had written that she must make room for them somehow, though for the life of her she couldn't say how. it proved to be in two small back rooms. an irruption of eastern invalids had filled the house to overflowing, and new faces met them at every turn. two or three of the last summer's inmates had died during their stay,--one of them the very sick man whose room mrs. watson had coveted. his death took place "as if on purpose," she told clover, the very week after her removal to the shoshone. mrs. watson herself was preparing for return to the east. "i've seen the west now," she said,--"all i want to see; and i'm quite ready to go back to my own part of the country. ellen writes that she thinks i'd better start for home so as to get settled before the cold--and it's so cold here that i can't realize that they're still in the middle of peaches at home. ellen always spices a great--they're better than preserves; and as for the canned ones, why, peaches and water is what i call them. well--my dear--" (distance lends enchantment, and clover had become "my dear" again.) "i'm glad i could come out and help you along; and now that you know so many people here, you won't need me so much as you did at first. i shall tell mrs. perkins to write to mrs. hall to tell your father how well your brother is looking, and i know he'll be--and here's a little handkerchief for a keepsake." it was a pretty handkerchief, of pale yellow silk with embroidered corners, and clover kissed the old lady as she thanked her, and they parted good friends. but their intercourse had led her to make certain firm resolutions. "i will try to keep my mind clear and my talk clear; to learn what i want and what i have a right to want and what i mean to say, so as not to puzzle and worry people when i grow old, by being vague and helpless and fussy," she reflected. "i suppose if i don't form the habit now, i sha'n't be able to then, and it would be dreadful to end by being like poor mrs. watson." altogether, mrs. marsh's house had lost its homelike character; and it was not strange that under the circumstances phil should flag a little. he was not ill, but he was out of sorts and dismal, and disposed to consider the presence of so many strangers as a personal wrong. clover felt that it was not a good atmosphere for him, and anxiously revolved in her mind what was best to do. the shoshone was much too expensive; good boarding-houses in st. helen's were few and far between, and all of them shared in a still greater degree the disadvantages which had made themselves felt at mrs. marsh's. the solution to her puzzle came--as solutions often do--unexpectedly. she was walking down piute street on her way to call on alice blanchard, when her attention was attracted to a small, shut-up house, on which was a sign: "no. . to let, furnished." the sign was not printed, but written on a half-sheet of foolscap, which was what led clover to notice it. she studied the house a while, then opened the gate, and went in. two or three steps led to a little piazza. she seated herself on the top step, and tried to peep in at the closed blinds of the nearest window. while she was doing so, a woman with a shawl over her head came hastily down a narrow side street or alley, and approached her. "oh, did you want the key?" she said. "the key?" replied clover, surprised; "of this house, do you mean?" "yes. mis starkey left it with me when she went away, because, she said, it was handy, and i could give it to anybody who wished to look at the place. you're the first that has come; so when i see you setting here, i just ran over. did mr. beloit send you?" "no; nobody sent me. is it mr. beloit who has the letting of the house?" "yes; but i can let folks in. i told mis starkey i'd air and dust a little now and then, if it wasn't took. poor soul! she was anxious enough about it; and it all had to be done on a sudden, and she in such a heap of trouble that she didn't know which way to turn. it was just lock-up and go!" "tell me about her," said clover, making room on the step for the woman to sit down. "well, she come out last year with her man, who had lung trouble, and he wasn't no better at first, and then he seemed to pick up for a while; and they took this house and fixed themselves to stay for a year, at least. they made it real nice, too, and slicked up considerable. mis starkey said, said she, 'i don't want to spend no more money on it than i can help, but mr. starkey must be made comfortable,' says she, them was her very words. he used to set out on this stoop all day long in the summer, and she alongside him, except when she had to be indoors doing the work. she didn't keep no regular help. i did the washing for her, and come in now and then for a day to clean; so she managed very well. "then,--wednesday before last, it was,--he had a bleeding, and sank away like all in a minute, and was gone before the doctor could be had. mis starkey was all stunned like with the shock of it; and before she had got her mind cleared up so's to order about anything, come a telegraph to say her son was down with diphtheria, and his wife with a young baby, and both was very low. and between one and the other she was pretty near out of her wits. we packed her up as quick as we could, and he was sent off by express; and she says to me, 'mis kenny, you see how 't is. i've got this house on my hands till may. there's no time to see to anything, and i've got no heart to care; but if any one'll take it for the winter, well and good; and i'll leave the sheets and table-cloths and everything in it, because it may make a difference, and i don't mind about them nohow. and if no one does take it, i'll just have to bear the loss,' says she. poor soul! she was in a world of trouble, surely." "do you know what rent she asks for the house?" said clover, in whose mind a vague plan was beginning to take shape. "twenty-five a month was what she paid; and she said she'd throw the furniture in for the rest of the time, just to get rid of the rent." clover reflected. twenty-five dollars a week was what they were paying at mrs. marsh's. could they take this house and live on the same sum, after deducting the rent, and perhaps get this good-natured-looking woman to come in for a certain number of hours and help do the work? she almost fancied that they could if they kept no regular servant. "i think i _would_ like to see the house," she said at last, after a silent calculation and a scrutinizing look at mrs. kenny, who was a faded, wiry, but withal kindly-looking person, shrewd and clean,--a north of ireland protestant, as she afterward told clover. in fact, her accent was rather scotch than irish. they went in. the front door opened into a minute hall, from which another door led into a back hall with a staircase. there was a tiny sitting-room, an equally tiny dining-room, a small kitchen, and above, two bedrooms and a sort of unplastered space, which would answer to put trunks in. that was all, save a little woodshed. everything was bare and scanty and rather particularly ugly. the sitting-room had a frightful paper of mingled mustard and molasses tint, and a matted floor; but there was a good-sized open fireplace for the burning of wood, in which two bricks did duty for andirons, three or four splint and cane bottomed chairs, a lounge, and a table, while the pipe of the large "morning-glory" stove in the dining-room expanded into a sort of drum in the chamber above. this secured a warm sleeping place for phil. clover began to think that they could make it do. mrs. kenny, who evidently considered the house as a wonder of luxury and convenience, opened various cupboards, and pointed admiringly to the glass and china, the kitchen tins and utensils, and the cotton sheets and pillow-cases which they respectively held. "there's water laid on," she said; "you don't have to pump any. here's the washtubs in the shed. that's a real nice tin boiler for the clothes,--i never see a nicer. mis starkey had that heater in the dining-room set the very week before she went away. 'winter's coming on,' she says, 'and i must see about keeping my husband warm;' never thinking, poor thing, how 't was to be." "does this chimney draw?" asked the practical clover; "and does the kitchen stove bake well?" "first-rate. i've seen mis starkey take her biscuits out many a time,--as nice a brown as ever you'd want; and the chimney don't smoke a mite. they kep' a wood fire here in may most all the time, so i know." clover thought the matter over for a day or two, consulted with dr. hope, and finally decided to try the experiment. no. was taken, and mrs. kenny engaged for two days' work each week, with such other occasional assistance as clover might require. she was a widow, it seemed, with one son, who, being employed on the railroad, only came home for the nights. she was glad of a regular engagement, and proved an excellent stand-by and a great help to clover, to whom she had taken a fancy from the start; and many were the good turns which she did for love rather than hire for "my little miss," as she called her. to phil the plan seemed altogether delightful. this was natural, as all the fun fell to his share and none of the trouble; a fact of which mrs. hope occasionally reminded him. clover persisted, however, that it was all fair, and that she got lots of fun out of it too, and didn't mind the trouble. the house was so absurdly small that it seemed to strike every one as a good joke; and clover's friends set themselves to help in the preparations, as if the establishment in piute street were a kind of baby-house about which they could amuse themselves at will. it is a temptation always to make a house pretty, but clover felt herself on honor to spend no more than was necessary. papa had trusted her, and she was resolved to justify his trust. so she bravely withstood her desire for several things which would have been great improvements so far as looks went, and confined her purchases to articles of clear necessity,--extra blankets, a bedside carpet for phil's room, and a chafing-dish over which she could prepare little impromptu dishes, and so save fuel and fatigue. she allowed herself some cheap madras curtains for the parlor, and a few yards of deep-red flannel to cover sundry shelves and corner brackets which geoffrey templestowe, who had a turn for carpentry, put up for her. various loans and gifts, too, appeared from friendly attics and store-rooms to help out. mrs. hope hunted up some old iron firedogs and a pair of bellows, poppy contributed a pair of brass-knobbed tongs, and mrs. marsh lent her a lamp. no. began to look attractive. they were nearly ready, but not yet moved in, when one day as clover stood in the queer little parlor, contemplating the effect of geoff's last effort,--an extra pine shelf above the narrow mantel-shelf,--a pair of arms stole round her waist, and a cheek which had a sweet familiarity about it was pressed against hers. she turned, and gave a great shriek of amazement and joy, for it was her sister katy's arms that held her. beyond, in the doorway, were mrs. ashe and amy, with phil between them. "is it you; is it really you?" cried clover, laughing and sobbing all at once in her happy excitement. "how did it happen? i never knew that you were coming." "neither did we; it all happened suddenly," explained katy. "the ship was ordered to new york on three days' notice, and as soon as ned sailed, polly and i made haste to follow. there would have been just time to get a letter here if we had written at once, but i had the fancy to give you a surprise." "oh, it is _such_ a nice surprise! but when did you come, and where are you?" "at the shoshone house,--at least our bags are there; but we only stayed a minute, we were in such a hurry to get to you. we went to mrs. marsh's and found phil, who brought us here. have you really taken this funny little house, as phil tells us?" "we really have. oh, what a comfort it will be to tell you all about it, and have you say if i have done right! dear, dear katy, i feel as if home had just arrived by train. and polly, too! you all look so well, and as if california had agreed with you. amy has grown so that i should scarcely have known her." four delightful days followed. katy flung herself into all clover's plans with the full warmth of sisterly interest; and though the hopes and other kind friends made many hospitable overtures, and would gladly have turned her short visit into a continuous _fête_, she persisted in keeping the main part of her time free. she must see a little of st. helen's, she declared, so as to be able to tell her father about it, and she must help clover to get to housekeeping,--these were the important things, and nothing else must interfere with them. most effectual assistance did she render in the way of unpacking and arranging. more than that, one day, when clover, rather to her own disgust, had been made to go with polly and amy to denver while katy stayed behind, lo! on her return, a transformation had taken place, and the ugly paper in the parlor of no. was found replaced with one of warm, sunny gold-brown. "oh, why did you?" cried clover. "it's only for a few months, and the other would have answered perfectly well. why did you, katy?" "i suppose it _was_ foolish," katy admitted; "but somehow i couldn't bear to have you sitting opposite that deplorable mustard-colored thing all winter long. and really and truly it hardly cost anything. it was a remnant reduced to ten cents a roll,--the whole thing was less than four dollars. you can call it your christmas present from me, if you like, and i shall 'play' besides that the other paper had arsenic in it; i'm sure it looked as if it had, and corrosive sublimate, too." clover laughed outright. it was so funny to hear katy's fertility of excuse. "you dear, ridiculous darling!" she said, giving her sister a good hug; "it was just like you, and though i scold i am perfectly delighted. i did hate that paper with all my heart, and this is lovely. it makes the room look like a different thing." other benefactions followed. polly, it appeared, had bought more indian curiosities in denver than she knew what to do with, and begged permission to leave a big bear-skin and two wolf-skins with clover for the winter, and a splendid striped navajo blanket as a portière to keep off draughts from the entry. katy had set herself up in california blankets while they were in san francisco, and she now insisted on leaving a pair behind, and loaning clover besides one of two beautiful japanese silk pictures which ned had given her, and which made a fine spot of color on the pretty new wall. there were presents in her trunks for all at home, and ned had sent clover a beautiful lacquered box. somehow clover seemed like a new and doubly-interesting clover to katy. she was struck by the self-reliance which had grown upon her, by her bright ways and the capacity and judgment which all her arrangements exhibited; and she listened with delight to mrs. hope's praises of her sister. "she really is a wonderful little creature; so wise and judgmatical, and yet so pretty and full of fun. people are quite cracked about her out here. i don't think you'll ever get her back at the east again, mrs. worthington. there seems a strong determination on the part of several persons to keep her here." "what do you mean?" but mrs. hope, who believed in the old proverb about not addling eggs by meddling with them prematurely, refused to say another word. clover, when questioned, "could not imagine what mrs. hope meant;" and katy had to go away with her curiosity unsatisfied. clarence came in once while she was there, but she did not see mr. templestowe. katy's last gift to clover was a pretty tea-pot of japanese ware. "i meant it for cecy," she explained. "but as you have none i'll give it to you instead, and take her the fan i meant for you. it seems more appropriate." phil and clover moved into no. the day before the eastern party left, so as to be able to celebrate the occasion by having them all to an impromptu house-warming. there was not much to eat, and things were still a little unsettled; but clover scrambled some eggs on her little blazer for them, the newly-lit fire burned cheerfully, and a good deal of quiet fun went on about it. amy was so charmed with the minute establishment that she declared she meant to have one exactly like it for mabel whenever she got married. "and a spirit-lamp, too, just like clover's, and a cunning, teeny-weeny kitchen and a stove to boil things on. mamma, when shall i be old enough to have a house all of my own?" "not till you are tired of playing with dolls, i am afraid." "well, that will be never. if i thought i ever could be tired of mabel, i should be so ashamed of myself that i should not know what to do. you oughtn't to say such things, mamma; she might hear you, too, and have her feelings hurt. and please don't call her _that_," said amy, who had as strong an objection to the word "doll" as mice are said to have to the word "cat." next morning the dear home people proceeded on their way, and clover fell to work resolutely on her housekeeping, glad to keep busy, for she had a little fear of being homesick for katy. every small odd and end that she had brought with her from burnet came into play now. the photographs were pinned on the wall, the few books and ornaments took their places on the extemporized shelves and on the table, which, thanks to mrs. hope, was no longer bare, but hidden by a big square of red canton flannel. there was almost always a little bunch of flowers from the wade greenhouses, which were supposed to come from mrs. wade; and altogether the effect was cosey, and the little interior looked absolutely pretty, though the result was attained by such very simple means. phil thought it heavenly to be by themselves and out of the reach of strangers. everything tasted delicious; all the arrangements pleased him; never was boy so easily suited as he for those first few weeks at no. . "you're awfully good to me, clover," he said one night rather suddenly, from the depths of his rocking-chair. the remark was so little in phil's line that it quite made her jump. "why, phil, what made you say that?" she asked. "oh, i don't know. i was thinking about it. we used to call katy the nicest, but you're just as good as she is. [this clover justly considered a tremendous compliment.] you always make a fellow feel like home, as geoff templestowe says." "did geoff say that?" with a warm sense of gladness at her heart. "how nice of him! what made him say it?" "oh, i don't know; it was up in the canyon one day when we got to talking," replied phil. "there are no flies on you, he considers. i asked him once if he didn't think miss chase pretty, and he said not half so pretty as you were." "really! you seem to have been very confidential. and what is that about flies? phil, phil, you really mustn't use such slang." "i suppose it is slang; but it's an awfully nice expression anyway." "but what _does_ it mean?" "oh, you must see just by the sound of it what it means,--that there's no nonsense sticking out all over you like some of the girls. it's a great compliment!" "is it? well, i'm glad to know. but mr. templestowe never used such a phrase, i'm sure." "no, he didn't," admitted phil; "but that's what he meant." so the winter drew on,--the strange, beautiful colorado winter,--with weeks of golden sunshine broken by occasional storms of wind and sand, or by skurries of snow which made the plains white for a few hours and then vanished, leaving them dry and firm as before. the nights were often cold,--so cold that comfortables and blankets seemed all too few, and clover roused with a shiver to think that presently it would be her duty to get up and start the fires so that phil might find a warm house when he came downstairs. then, before she knew it, fires would seem oppressive; first one window and then another would be thrown up, and phil would be sitting on the piazza in the balmy sunshine as comfortable as on a june morning at home. it was a wonderful climate; and as clover wrote her father, the winter was better even than the summer, and was certainly doing phil more good. he was able to spend hours every day in the open air, walking, or riding dr. hope's horse, and improved steadily. clover felt very happy about him. this early rising and fire-making were the hardest things she had to encounter, though all the housekeeping proved more onerous than, in her inexperience, she had expected it to be. after the first week or two, however, she managed very well, and gradually learned the little labor-saving ways which can only be learned by actual experiment. getting breakfast and tea she enjoyed, for they could be chiefly managed by the use of the chafing-dish. dinners were more difficult, till she hit on the happy idea of having mrs. kenny roast a big piece of beef or mutton, or a pair of fowls every monday. these _pièces de résistance_ in their different stages of hot, cold, and warmed over, carried them well along through the week, and, supplemented with an occasional chop or steak, served very well. fairly good soups could be bought in tins, which needed only to be seasoned and heated for use on table. oysters were easily procurable there, as everywhere in the west; good brown-bread and rolls came from the bakery; and clover developed a hitherto dormant talent for cookery and the making of graham gems, corn-dodgers, hoe-cakes baked on a barrel head before the parlor fire, and wonderful little flaky biscuits raised all in a minute with royal baking powder. she also became expert in that other fine art of condensing work, and making it move in easy grooves. her tea things she washed with her breakfast things, just setting the cups and plates in the sink for the night, pouring a dipper full of boiling water over them. there was no silver to care for, no delicate glass or valuable china; the very simplicity of apparatus made the house an easy one to keep. clover was kept busy, for simplify as you will, providing for the daily needs of two persons does take time; but she liked her cares and rarely felt tired. the elastic and vigorous air seemed to build up her forces from moment to moment, and each day's fatigues were more than repaired by each night's rest, which is the balance of true health in living. little pleasures came from time to time. christmas day they spent with the hopes, who from first to last proved the kindest and most helpful of friends to them. the young men from the high valley were there also, and the day was brightly kept,--from the home letters by the early mail to the grand merry-making and dance with which it wound up. everybody had some little present for everybody else. mrs. wade sent clover a tall india-rubber plant in a china pot, which made a spire of green in the south window for the rest of the winter; and clover had spent many odd moments and stitches in the fabrication of a gorgeous mexican-worked sideboard cloth for the hopes. but of all clover's offerings the one which pleased her most, as showing a close observation of her needs, came from geoff templestowe. it was a prosaic gift, being a wagon-load of piñon wood for the fire; but the gnarled, oddly twisted sticks were heaped high with pine boughs and long trails of red-fruited kinnikinnick to serve as a christmas dressing, and somehow the gift gave clover a peculiar pleasure. "how dear of him!" she thought, lifting one of the big piñon logs with a gentle touch; "and how like him to think of it! i wonder what makes him so different from other people. he never says fine flourishing things like thurber wade, or abrupt, rather rude things like clarence, or inconsiderate things like phil, or satirical, funny things like the doctor; but he's always doing something kind. he's a little bit like papa, i think; and yet i don't know. i wish katy could have seen him." life at st. helen's in the winter season is never dull; but the gayest fortnight of all was when, late in january, the high valley partners deserted their duties and came in for a visit to the hopes. all sorts of small festivities had been saved for this special fortnight, and among the rest, clover and phil gave a party. "if you can squeeze into the dining-room, and if you can do with just cream-toast for tea," she explained, "it would be such fun to have you come. i can't give you anything to eat to speak of, because i haven't any cook, you know; but you can all eat a great deal of dinner, and then you won't starve." thurber wade, the hopes, clarence, geoff, marian, and alice made a party of nine, and it was hard work indeed to squeeze so many into the tiny dining-room of no. . the very difficulties, however, made it all the jollier. clover's cream-toast,--which she prepared before their eyes on the blazer,--her little tarts made of crackers split, buttered, and toasted brown with a spoonful of raspberry jam in each, and the big loaf of hot ginger-bread to be eaten with thick cream from the high valley, were pronounced each in its way to be absolute perfection. clarence and phil kindly volunteered to "shunt the dishes" into the kitchen after the repast was concluded; and they gathered round the fire to play "twenty questions" and "stage-coach," and all manner of what clover called "lead-pencil games,"--"crambo" and "criticism" and "anagrams" and "consequences." there was immense laughter over some of these, as, for instance, when dr. hope was reported as having met mrs. watson in the north cheyenne canyon, and he said that knowledge is power; and she, that when larks flew round ready roasted poor folks could stick a fork in; and the consequence was that they eloped together to a cannibal island where each suffered a process of disillusionation, and the world said it was the natural result of osculation. this last sentence was phil's, and i fear he had peeped a little, or his context would not have been so apropos; but altogether the "cream-toast swarry," as he called it, was a pronounced success. it was not long after this that a mysterious little cloud of difference seemed to fall on thurber wade. he ceased to call at no. , or to bring flowers from his mother; and by-and-by it was learned that he had started for a visit to the east. no one knew what had caused these phenomena, though some people may have suspected. later it was announced that he was in chicago and very attentive to a pretty miss somebody whose father had made a great deal of money in standard oil. poppy arched her brows and made great amused eyes at clover, trying to entangle her into admissions as to this or that, and clarence experimented in the same direction; but clover was innocently impervious to these efforts, and no one ever knew what had happened between her and thurber,--if, indeed, anything had happened. so may came to st. helen's in due course, of time. the sand-storms and the snow-storms were things of the past, the tawny yellow of the plains began to flush with green, and every day the sun grew more warm and beautiful. phil seemed perfectly well and sound now; their occupancy of no. was drawing to a close; and clover, as she reflected that colorado would soon be a thing of the past, and must be left behind, was sensible of a little sinking of the heart even though she and phil were going home. chapter xi. the last of the clover-leaves. last days are very apt to be hard days. as the time drew near for quitting no. , clover was conscious of a growing reluctance. "i wonder why it is that i mind it so much?" she asked herself. "phil has got well here, to be sure; that would be enough of itself to make me fond of the place, and we have had a happy winter in this little house. but still, papa, elsie, john,--it seems very queer that i am not gladder to go back to them. i can't account for it. it isn't natural, and it seems wrong in me." it was a rainy afternoon in which clover made these reflections. phil, weary of being shut indoors, had donned ulster and overshoes, and gone up to make a call on mrs. hope. clover was quite alone in the house, as she sat with her mending-basket beside the fireplace, in which was burning the last but three of the piñon logs,--geoff templestowe's christmas present. "they will just last us out," reflected clover; "what a comfort they have been! i would like to carry the very last of them home with me, and keep it to look at; but i suppose it would be silly." she looked about the little room. nothing as yet had been moved or disturbed, though the next week would bring their term of occupancy to a close. "this is a good evening to begin to take things down and pack them," she thought. "no one is likely to come in, and phil is away." she rose from her chair, moved restlessly to and fro, and at last leaned forward and unpinned a corner of one of the photographs on the wall. she stood for a moment irresolutely with the pin in her fingers, then she jammed it determinedly back into the photograph again, and returned to her sewing. i almost think there were tears in her eyes. "no," she said half aloud, "i won't spoil it yet. we'll have one more pleasant night with everything just as it is, and then i'll go to work and pull all to pieces at once. it's the easiest way." just then a foot sounded on the steps, and a knock was heard. clover opened the door, and gave an exclamation of pleasure. it was geoffrey templestowe, splashed and wet from a muddy ride down the pass, but wearing a very bright face. "how nice and unexpected this is!" was clover's greeting. "it is such a bad day that i didn't suppose you or clarence could possibly get in. come to the fire and warm yourself. is he here too?" "no; he is out at the ranch. i came in to meet a man on business; but it seems there's a wash-out somewhere between here and santa fé, and my man telegraphs that he can't get through till to-morrow noon." "so you will spend the night in town." "yes. i took marigold to the stable, and spoke to mrs. marsh about a room, and then i walked up to see you and phil. how is he, by the way?" "quite well. i never saw him so strong or so jolly. papa will hardly believe his eyes when we get back. he has gone up to the hopes, but will be in presently. you'll stay and take tea with us, of course." "thanks, if you will have me; i was hoping to be asked." "oh, we're only too glad to have you. our time here is getting so short that we want to make the very most of all our friends; and by good luck there is a can of oysters in the house, so i can give you something hot." "do you really go so soon?" "our lease is out next week, you know." "really; so soon as that?" "it isn't soon. we have lived here nearly eight months." "what a good time we have all had in this little house!" cried geoff, regretfully. "it has been a sort of warm little centre to us homeless people all winter." "you don't count yourself among the homeless ones, i hope, with such a pleasant place as the high valley to live in." "oh, the hut is all very well in its way, of course; but i don't look at it as a home exactly. it answers to eat and sleep in, and for a shelter when it rains; but you can't make much more of it than that. the only time it ever seemed home-like in the least was when you and mrs. hope were there. that week spoiled it for me for all time." "that's a pity, if it's true, but i hope it isn't. it was a delightful week, though; and i think you do the valley an injustice. it's a beautiful place. now, if you will excuse me, i am going to get supper." "let me help you." "oh, there is almost nothing to do. i'd much rather you would sit still and rest. you are tired from your ride, i'm sure; and if you don't mind, i'll bring my blazer and cook the oysters here by the fire. i always did like to 'kitch in the dining-room,' as mrs. whitney calls it." clover had set the tea-table before she sat down to sew, so there really was almost nothing to do. geoff lay back in his chair and looked on with a sort of dreamy pleasure as she went lightly to and fro, making her arrangements, which, simple as they were, had a certain dainty quality about them which seemed peculiar to all that clover did,--twisted a trail of kinnikinnick about the butter-plate, laid a garnish of fresh parsley on the slices of cold beef, and set a glass full of wild crocuses in the middle of the table. then she returned to the parlor, put the kettle, which had already begun to sing, on the fire, and began to stir and season her oysters, which presently sent out a savory smell. "i have learned six ways of cooking oysters this winter," she announced gleefully. "this is a dry-pan-roast. i wonder if you'll approve of it. and i wonder why phil doesn't come. i wish he would make haste, for these are nearly done." "there he is now," remarked geoff. but instead it was dr. hope's office-boy with a note. dear c.,--mrs. hope wants me for a fourth hand at whist, so i'm staying, if you don't mind. she says if it didn't pour so she'd ask you to come too. p. "well, i'm glad," said clover. "it's been a dull day for him, and now he'll have a pleasant evening, only he'll miss you." "i call it very inconsiderate of the little scamp," observed geoff. "he doesn't know but that he's leaving you to spend the evening quite alone." "oh, boys don't think of things like that." "boys ought to, then. however, i can stand his absence, if you can!" it was a very merry little meal to which they presently sat down, full of the charm which the unexpected brings with it. clover had grown to regard geoff as one of her very best friends, and was perfectly at her ease with him, while to him, poor lonely fellow, such a glimpse of cosey home-life was like a peep at paradise. he prolonged the pleasure as much as possible, ate each oyster slowly, descanting on its flavor, and drank more cups of tea than were at all good for him, for the pleasure of having clover pour them out. he made no further offers of help when supper was ended, but looked on with fascinated eyes as she cleared away and made things tidy. at last she finished and came back to the fire. there was a silence. geoff was first to break it. "it would seem like a prison to you, i am afraid," he said abruptly. "what would?" "i was thinking of what you said about the high valley." "oh!" "you've only seen it in summer, you know. it's quite a different place in the winter. i don't believe a--person--could live on the year round and be contented." "it would depend upon the person, of course." "if it were a lady,--yourself, for instance,--could it be made anyway tolerable, do you think? of course, one might get away now and then--" "i don't know. it's not easy to tell beforehand how people are going to feel; but i can't imagine the high valley ever seeming like a prison," replied clover, vexed to find herself blushing, and yet unable to help it, geoff's manner had such an odd intensity in it. "if i were sure that you could realize what it would be--" he began impetuously; then quieting himself, "but you don't. how could you? ranch life is well enough in summer for a short time by way of a frolic; but in winter and spring with the upper canyon full of snow, and the road down muddy and slippery, and the storms and short days, and the sense of being shut in and lonely, it would be a dismal place for a lady. nobody has a right to expect a woman to undergo such a life." clover absorbed herself in her sewing, she did not speak; but still that deep uncomfortable blush burned on her cheeks. "what do you think?" persisted geoff. "wouldn't it be inexcusable selfishness in a man to ask such a thing?" "i think;" said clover, shyly and softly, "that a man has a right to ask for whatever he wants, and--" she paused. "and--what?" urged geoff, bending forward. "well, a woman has always the right to say no, if she doesn't want to say yes." "you tempt me awfully," cried geoff, starting up. "when i think what this place is going to seem like after you've gone, and what the ranch will be with all the heart taken from it, and the loneliness made twice as lonely by comparison, i grow desperate, and feel as if i could not let you go without at least risking the question. but clover,--let me call you so this once,--no woman could consent to such a life unless she cared very much for a man. could you ever love me well enough for that, do you think?" "it seems to me a very unfair sort of question to put," said clover, with a mischievous glint in her usually soft eyes. "suppose i said i could, and then you turned round and remarked that you were ever so sorry that you couldn't reciprocate my feelings--" "clover," catching her hand, "how can you torment me so? is it necessary that i should tell you that i love you with every bit of heart that is in me, and need you and want you and long for you, but have never dared to hope that you could want me? loveliest, sweetest, i do, and i always shall, whether it is yes or no." "then, geoff--if you feel like that--if you're quite sure you feel like that, i think--" "what do you think, dearest?" "i think--that i could be very happy even in winter--in the high valley." and papa and the children, and the lonely and far-away feelings? there was never a mention of them in this frank acceptance. oh, clover, clover, circumstances _do_ alter cases! mrs. hope's rubber of whist seemed a long one, for phil did not get home till a quarter before eleven, by which time the two by the fire had settled the whole progress of their future lives, while the last logs of the piñon wood crackled, smouldered, and at length broke apart into flaming brands. in imagination the little ranch house had thrown out as many wings and as easily as a newly-hatched dragon-fly, had been beautified and made convenient in all sorts of ways,--a flower-garden had sprouted round its base, plenty of room had been made for papa and the children and katy and ned, who were to come out continually for visits in the long lovely summers; they themselves also were to go to and fro,--to burnet, and still farther afield, over seas to the old devonshire grange which geoff remembered so fondly. "how my mother and isabel will delight in you," he said; "and the squire! you are precisely the girl to take his fancy. we'll go over and see them as soon as we can, won't we, clover?" clover listened delightedly to all these schemes, but through them all, like that young irish lady who went over the marriage service with her lover adding at the end of every clause, "provided my father gives his consent," she interposed a little running thread of protest,--"if papa is willing. you know, geoff, i can't really promise anything till i've talked with papa." it was settled that until dr. carr had been consulted, the affair was not to be called an engagement, or spoken of to any one; only clover asked geoff to tell clarence all about it at once. the thought of clarence was, in truth, the one cloud in her happiness just then. it was impossible to calculate how he would take the news. if it made him angry or very unhappy, if it broke up his friendship with geoff, and perhaps interfered with their partnership so that one or other of them must leave the high valley, clover felt that it would grievously mar her contentment. there was no use in planning anything till they knew how he would feel and act. in any case, she realized that they were bound to consider him before themselves, and make it as easy and as little painful as possible. if he were vexatious, they must be patient; if sulky, they must be forbearing. phil opened his eyes very wide at the pair sitting so coseyly over the fire when at last he came in. "i say, have _you_ been here all the evening?" he cried. "well, that's a sell! i wouldn't have gone out if i'd known." "we've missed you very much," quoth geoff; and then he laughed as at some extremely good joke, and clover laughed too. "you seem to have kept up your spirits pretty well, considering," remarked phil, dryly. boys of eighteen are not apt to enjoy jokes which do not originate with themselves; they are suspicious of them. "i suppose i must go now," said geoff, looking at his watch; "but i shall see you again before i leave. i'll come in to-morrow after i've met my man." "all right," said phil; "i won't go out till you come." "oh, pray don't feel obliged to stay in. i can't at all tell when i shall be able to get through with the fellow." "come to dinner if you can," suggested clover. "phil is sure to be at home then." lovers are like ostriches. geoff went away just shaking hands casually, and was very particular to say "miss carr;" and he and clover felt that they had managed so skilfully and concealed their secret so well; yet the first remark made by phil as the door shut was, "geoff seems queer to-night, somehow, and so do you. what have you been talking about all the evening?" an observant younger brother is a difficult factor in a love affair. two days passed. clover looked in vain for a note from the high valley to say how clarence had borne the revelation; and she grew more nervous with every hour. it was absolutely necessary now to dismantle the house, and she found a certain relief in keeping exceedingly busy. somehow the break-up had lost its inexplicable pain, and a glad little voice sang all the time at her heart, "i shall come back; i shall certainly come back. papa will let me, i am sure, when he knows geoff, and how nice he is." she was at the dining-table wrapping a row of books in paper ready for packing, when a step sounded, and glancing round she saw clarence himself standing in the doorway. he did not look angry, as she had feared he might, or moody; and though he avoided her eye at first, his face was resolute and kind. "geoff has told me," were his first words. "i know from what he said that you, and he too, are afraid that i shall make myself disagreeable; so i've come in to say that i shall do nothing of the kind." "dear clarence, that wasn't what geoff meant, or i either," said clover, with a rush of relief, and holding out both her hands to him; "what we were afraid of was that you might be unhappy." "well," in a husky tone, and holding the little hands very tight, "it isn't easy, of course, to give up a hope. i've held on to mine all this time, though i've told myself a hundred times that i was a fool for doing so, and though i knew in my heart it was no use. now i've had two days to think it over and get past the first shock, and, clover, i've decided. you and geoff are the best friends i've got in the world. i never seemed to make friends, somehow. till you came to hillsover that time nobody liked me much; i don't know why. i can't get along without you two; so i give you up without any hard feeling, and i mean to be as jolly as i can about it. after all, to have you at the high valley will be a sort of happiness, even if you don't come for my sake exactly," with an attempt at a laugh. "clarence, you really are a dear boy! i can't tell you how i thank you, and how i admire you for being so nice about this." "then that's worth something, too. i'd do a good deal to win your approval, clover. so it's all settled. don't worry about me, or be afraid that i shall spoil your comfort with sour looks. if i find i can't stand it, i'll go away for a while; but i don't think it'll come to that. you'll make a real home out of the ranch house, and you'll let me have my share of your life, and be a brother to you and geoff; and i'll try to be a good one." clover was touched to the heart by these manful words so gently spoken. "you shall be our dear special brother always," she said. "only this was needed to make me quite happy. i am so glad you don't want to go away and leave us, or to have us leave you. we'll make the ranch over into the dearest little home in the world, and be so cosey there all together, and papa and the others shall come out for visits; and you'll like them so much, i know, elsie especially." "does she look like you?" "not a bit; she's ever so much prettier." "i don't believe a word of that" clover's heart being thus lightened of its only burden by this treaty of mutual amity, she proceeded joyously with her packing. mrs. hope said she was not half sorry enough to go away, and poppy upbraided her as a gay deceiver without any conscience or affections. she laughed and protested and denied, but looked so radiantly satisfied the while as to give a fair color for her friends' accusations, especially as she could not explain the reasons of her contentment or hint at her hopes of return. mrs. hope probably had her suspicions, for she was rather urgent with clover to leave this thing and that for safe keeping "in case you ever come back;" but clover declined these offers, and resolutely packed up everything with a foolish little superstition that it was "better luck" to do so, and that papa would like it better. quite a little group of friends assembled at the railway station to see her and phil set off. they were laden with flowers and fruit and "natural soda-water" with which to beguile the long journey, and with many good wishes and affectionate hopes that they might return some day. "something tells me that you will," mrs. hope declared. "i feel it in my bones, and they hardly ever deceive me. my mother had the same kind; it's in the family." "something tells me that you must," cried poppy, embracing clover; "but i'm afraid it isn't bones or anything prophetic, but only the fact that i want you to so very much." from the midst of these farewells clover's eyes crossed the valley and sought out mount cheyenne. "how differently i should be feeling," she thought, "if this were going away with no real hope of coming back! i could hardly have borne to look at you had that been the case, you dear beautiful thing; but i _am_ coming back to live close beside you always, and oh, how glad i am!" "is that good-by to cheyenne?" asked marian, catching the little wave of a hand. "yes, it _is_ good-by; but i have promised him that it shall soon be how-do-you-do again. mount cheyenne and i understand each other." "i know; you have always had a sentimental attachment to that mountain. now pike's peak is _my_ affinity. we get on beautifully together." "pike's peak indeed! i am ashamed of you." then the train moved away amid a flutter of handkerchiefs, but still clover and phil were not left to themselves; for dr. hope, who had a consultation in denver, was to see them safely off in the night express, and geoff had some real or invented business which made it necessary for him to go also. clover carried with her through all the three days' ride the lingering pressure of geoff's hand, and his whispered promise to "come on soon." it made the long way seem short. but when they arrived, amid all the kisses and rejoicings, the exclamations over phil's look of health and vigor, the girls' intense interest in all that she had seen and done, papa's warm approval of her management, her secret began to burn guiltily within her. what _would_ they all say when they knew? and what did they say? i think few of you will be at a loss to guess. life--real life as well as life in story-books--is full of such shocks and surprises. they are half happy, half unhappy; but they have to be borne. younger sisters, till their own turns come, are apt to take a severe view of marriage plans, and to feel that they cruelly interrupt a past order of things which, so far as they are concerned, need no improvement. and parents, who say less and understand better, suffer, perhaps, more. "to bear, to rear, to lose," is the order of family history, generally unexpected, always recurring. but true love is not selfish. in time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object. dr. carr did confide to katy in a moment of private explosion that he wished the great west had never been invented, and that such a prohibitory tax could be laid upon young englishmen as to make it impossible that another one should ever be landed on our shores; but he had never in his life refused clover anything upon which she had set her heart, and he saw in her eyes that her heart was very much set on this. john and elsie scolded and cried, and then in time began to talk of their future visits to high valley till they grew to anticipate them, and be rather in a hurry for them to begin. geoff's arrival completed their conversion. "nicer than ned," johnnie pronounced him; and even dr. carr was forced to confess that the sons-in-law with which fate had provided him were of a superior sort; only he wished that they didn't want to marry _his_ girls! phil, from first to last, was in favor of the plan, and a firm ally to the lovers. he had grown extremely western in his ideas, and was persuaded in his mind that "this old east," as he termed it, with its puny possibilities, did not amount to much, and that as soon as he was old enough to shape his own destinies, he should return to the only section of the country worthy the attention of a young man of parts. meanwhile, he was perfectly well again, and willing to comply with his father's desire that before he made any positive arrangements for his future, he should get a sound and thorough education. "so you are actually going out to the wild and barbarous west, to live on a ranch, milk cows, chase the wild buffalo to its lair, and hold the tiger-cat by its favorite forelock," wrote rose red. "what was that you were saying only the other day about nice convenient husbands, who cruise off for 'good long times,' and leave their wives comfortably at home with their own families? and here you are planning to marry a man who, whenever he isn't galloping after cattle, will be in your pocket at home! oh, clover, clover, how inconsistent a thing is woman,--not to say girl,--and what havoc that queer deity named cupid does make with preconceived opinions! i did think i could rely on you; but you are just as bad as the rest of us, and when a lad whistles, go off after him wherever he happens to lead, and think it the best thing possible to do so. it's a mad world, my masters; and i'm thankful that roslein is only four and a half years old." and clover's answer was one line on a postal card,-- "guilty, but recommended to mercy!" note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) patty's summer days by carolyn wells author of "idle idylls," "patty in the city," etc. illustrated [illustration] new york dodd, mead & company copyright, , by dodd, mead & company published, september, to eleanor shipley halsey contents chapter page i a gay household ii wedding bells iii atlantic city iv lessons again v a new home vi busy days vii a rescue viii commencement day ix the play x a motor trip xi dick phelps xii old china xiii a stormy ride xiv pine branches xv miss aurora bender xvi a quilting party xvii a summer christmas xviii at sandy cove xix rosabel xx the rolands xxi the crusoes xxii the bazaar of all nations xxiii the end of the summer illustrations "patty fairly reveled in nan's beautiful trousseau" "'there, you can see for yourself, there ain't no chip or crack into it'" "although a successful snapshot was only achieved after many attempts" "patty arrayed herself in a flowered silk of dresden effect" "in a few minutes patty was feeding rosabel bread and milk" patty's summer days chapter i a gay household "isn't mrs. phelps too perfectly sweet! that is the loveliest fan i ever laid eyes on, and to think it's mine!" "and _will_ you look at this? a silver coffee-machine! oh, nan, mayn't i make it work, sometimes?" "indeed you may; and oh, see this! a piece of antique japanese bronze! isn't it _great?_" "i don't like it as well as the sparkling, shiny things. this silver tray beats it all hollow. did you ever see such a brightness in your life?" "patty, you're hopelessly philistine! but that tray is lovely, and of an exquisite design." patty and nan were unpacking wedding presents, and the room was strewn with boxes, tissue paper, cotton wool, and shredded-paper packing. only three days more, and then nan allen was to marry mr. fairfield, patty's father. patty was spending the whole week at the allen home in philadelphia, and was almost as much interested in the wedding preparations as nan herself. "i don't think there's anything so much fun as a house with a wedding fuss in it," said patty to mrs. allen, as nan's mother came into the room where the girls were. "just wait till you come to your own wedding fuss, and then see if you think it's so much fun," said nan, who was rapidly scribbling names of friends to whom she must write notes of acknowledgment for their gifts. "that's too far in the future even to think of," said patty, "and besides, i must get my father married and settled, before i can think of myself." she wagged her head at nan with a comical look, and they all laughed. it was a great joke that patty's father should be about to marry her dear girl friend. but patty was mightily pleased at the prospect, and looked forward with happiness to the enlarged home circle. "the trouble is," said patty, "i don't know what to call this august personage who insists on becoming my father's wife." "i shall rule you with a rod of iron," said nan, "and you'll stand so in awe of me, that you won't dare to call me anything." "you think so, do you?" said patty saucily. "well, just let me inform you, mrs. fairfield, that is to be, that i intend to lead you a dance! you'll be responsible for my manners and behaviour, and i wish you joy of your undertaking. i think i shall call you _stepmamma_." "do," said nan placidly, "and i'll call you stepdaughter patricia." "joking aside," said patty, "honestly, nan, i am perfectly delighted that the time is coming so soon to have you with us. ever since last fall i have waited patiently, and it seemed as if easter would never come. won't we have good times though after you get back from your trip and we get settled in that lovely house in new york! if only i didn't have to go to school, and study like fury out of school, too, we could have heaps of fun." "i'm afraid you're studying too hard, patty," said mrs. allen, looking at her young guest. "she is, mother," said nan, "and i wish she wouldn't. why do you do it, patty?" "well, you see, it's this way. i found out the first of the year that i was ahead of my class in some studies, and that if i worked extra hard i could get ahead on the other studies, and,--well, i can't exactly explain it, but it's like putting two years' work into one; and then i could graduate from the oliphant school this june, instead of going there another year, as i had expected. then, if i do that, papa says i may stay home next year, and just have masters in music and french, and whatever branches i want to keep up. so i'm trying, but i hardly think i can pass the examinations after all." "well, you're not going to study while you're here," said mrs. allen, "and after we get nan packed off on thursday, you and i are going to have lovely times. you must stay with me as long as you can, for i shall be dreadfully lonesome without my own girl." "thank you, dear mrs. allen, i am very happy here, and i love to stay with you; but of course i can stay only as long as our easter vacation lasts. i must go back to new york the early part of next week." "well, we'll cram all the fun possible into the few days you are here then," and patty's gay little hostess bustled away to look after her household appointments. mrs. allen was of a social, pleasure-loving nature. indeed, it was often said that she cared more for parties and festive gatherings than did her daughter nan. nobody was surprised to learn that nan allen was to marry a man many years older than herself. the surprise came when they met mr. fairfield and discovered that that gentleman appeared to be much younger than he undoubtedly was. for patty's father, though nearly forty years old, had a frank, ingenuous manner, and a smile that was almost boyish in its gaiety. mrs. allen was in her element superintending her daughter's wedding, and the whole affair was to be on a most elaborate scale. far more so than nan herself wished, for her tastes were simple, and she would have preferred a quieter celebration of the occasion. but as mrs. allen said, it was her last opportunity to provide an entertainment for her daughter, and she would not allow her plans to be thwarted. so preparations for the great event went busily on. carpenters came and enclosed the wide verandas, and decorators came and hung the newly made walls with white cheese cloth, and trimmed them with garlands of green. the house was invaded with decorators, caterers, and helpers of all sorts, while neighbours and friends of mrs. allen and of nan flew in and out at all hours. the present-room was continually thronged by admiring friends who never tired of looking at the beautiful gifts already upon the tables, or watching the opening of new ones. "there's the thirteenth cut-glass ice-tub," said nan, as she tore the tissue paper wrapping from an exquisite piece of sparkling glass. "i should think it an unlucky number if i didn't feel sure that one or two more would come yet." "what are you going to do with them all, nan?" asked one of her girl friends; "shall you exchange any of your duplicate gifts?" "no indeed," said nan, "i'm too conservative and old-fashioned to exchange my wedding gifts. i shall keep the whole thirteen, and then when one gets broken, i can replace it with another. accidents will happen, you know." "but not thirteen times, and all ice-tubs!" said patty, laughing. "you'll have to use them as individuals, nan. when you give a dinner party of twelve, each guest can have a separate ice-tub, which will be very convenient." "i don't care," said nan, taking the jest good-humouredly, "i shall keep them all, no matter how many i get. and i always did like ice-tubs, anyway." another great excitement was when nan's gowns were sent home from the dressmaker's. patty was frankly fond of pretty clothes, and she fairly revelled in nan's beautiful _trousseau_. to please patty, the bride-elect tried them all on, one after another, and each seemed more beautiful than the one before. when at last nan stood arrayed in her bridal gown, with veil and orange blossoms complete, patty's ecstacy knew no bounds. "you are a picture, nan!" she cried. "a perfect dream! i never saw such a beautiful bride. oh, i am so glad you're coming to live with us, and then i can try on that white satin confection and prance around in it myself." they all laughed at this, and nan exclaimed, in mock reproach: "i'd like to see you do it, miss! prance around in my wedding gown, indeed! have you no more respect for your elderly and antiquated stepmamma than that?" patty giggled at nan's pretended severity, and danced round her, patting a fold here, and picking out a bow there, and having a good time generally. the next day there was a luncheon, to which mrs. allen had invited a number of nan's dearest girl friends. patty enjoyed this especially, for not only did she dearly love a pretty affair of this sort, but mrs. allen had let her help with the preparations, and patty had even suggested some original ideas which found favour in mrs. allen's eyes. over the table was suspended a floral wedding bell, which was supplied with not only one clapper, but a dozen. these clappers were ingenious little contrivances, and from each hung a long and narrow white ribbon. after the luncheon, each ribbon was apportioned to a guest, and at a given signal the ribbons were pulled, whereupon each clapper sprang open, and a tiny white paper fluttered down to the table. [illustration: "patty fairly reveled in nan's beautiful trousseau"] these papers each bore the name of one of the guests, and when opened were found to contain a rhymed jingle foretelling in a humorous way the fate of each girl. patty had written the merry little verses, and they were read aloud amid much laughter and fun. as patty did not know these philadelphia girls very well, many of her verses which foretold their fates were necessarily merely graceful little jingles, without any attempt at special appropriateness. one which fell to the lot of a dainty little golden-haired girl ran thus: your cheeks are red, your eyes are blue; your hair is gold, your heart is too. another which was applied to a specially good-humoured maiden read thus: the longer you live the sweeter you'll grow; your fair cup of joy shall have no trace of woe. but some of the girls had special hopes or interests, and these patty touched upon. an aspiring music lover was thus warned: if you would really learn to play, pray practice seven hours a day, and then perhaps at last you may. and an earnest art student received this somewhat doubtful encouragement: you'll try to paint in oil, and your persistent toil, will many a canvas spoil. patty's own verse was a little hit at her dislike for study, and her taste in another direction: little you care to read a book, but, goodness me, how you can cook! nan's came last of all, and she read it aloud amid the gay laughter of the girls: ere many days shall pass o'er your fair head, your fate is, pretty lady, to be wed; yet scarcely can you be a happy wife, for patty f. will lead you such a life! the girls thought these merry little jingles great fun, and each carefully preserved her "fortune" to take home as a souvenir of the occasion. bumble barlow was at this luncheon, for the barlows were friends and near neighbours of the allens. readers who knew patty in her earlier years, will remember bumble as the cousin who lived at the "hurly-burly" down on long island. although bumble was a little older, and insisted on being called by her real name of helen, she was the same old mischievous fly-away as ever. she was delighted to see patty again, and coaxed her to come and stay with them, instead of with the allens. but mrs. allen would not hear of such an arrangement, and could only be induced to give her consent that patty should spend one day with the barlows during her visit in philadelphia. the short time that was left before the wedding day flew by as if on wings. so much was going on both in the line of gaiety and entertainment, and also by way of preparation for the great event, that patty began to wonder whether social life was not, after all, as wearing as the more prosaic school work. but mrs. allen said, when this question was referred to her, "not a bit of it! all this gaiety does you good, patty. you need recreation from that everlasting grind of school work, and you'll go back to it next week refreshed, and ready to do better work than ever." "i'm sure of it," said patty, "and i shall never forget the fun we're having this week. it's just like a bit of fairyland. i've never had such an experience before." patty's life had been one of simple pleasures and duties. she had a great capacity for enjoyment, but heretofore had only known fun and frolic of a more childish nature. this glimpse into what seemed to be really truly grown-up society was bewildering and very enjoyable, and patty found it quite easy to adapt herself to its requirements. chapter ii wedding bells at last the wedding day arrived, and a brighter or more sunshiny day could not have been asked for by the most exacting of brides. it was to be an evening wedding, but from early in the morning there was a constant succession of exciting events. the last touches were being put to the decorations, belated presents were coming in, house guests were arriving, messengers coming and going, and through it all mrs. allen bustled about, supremely happy in watching the culminating success of her elaborate plans. patty looked at her with a wondering admiration, for she always admired capability, and mrs. allen was exhibiting what might almost be called generalship in her house that day. of course, patty had no care or responsibility, and nothing to do but enjoy herself, so she did this thoroughly. in the morning marian and frank elliott came. they were staying at the barlows', and mr. fairfield was staying there too. it sometimes seemed to patty that her father ought to have played a more prominent part in all the preliminary festivities, but mrs. allen calmly told her, in mr. fairfield's presence, that a bridegroom had no part in wedding affairs until the time of the ceremony itself. mr. fairfield laughed good-humouredly, and replied that he was quite satisfied to be left out of the mad rush, until the real occasion came. like nan, mr. fairfield would have preferred a quiet wedding, but mrs. allen utterly refused to hear of such a thing. nan was her only daughter, and this her only chance to arrange an entertainment such as her soul delighted in. mr. allen was willing to indulge his wife in her wishes, and was exceedingly hospitable by nature. moreover, he took great pride in his charming daughter, and wanted everything done that could in any way contribute to the success or add to the beauty of her wedding celebration. patty fluttered around the house in a sort of inconsequent delight. now in the present-room, looking over the beautiful collection, now chatting with her cousins, or other friends, now strolling through the great parlours with their wonderful decorations of banked roses and garland-draped ceilings. dinner was early that night, as the ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock, and after dinner patty flew to her room to don her own beautiful new gown. this dress delighted patty's beauty-loving heart. it was a white tulle sprinkled with silver, and its soft, dainty glitter seemed to patty like moonlight on the snow. her hair was done low on her neck, in a most becoming fashion, and her only ornament was a necklace of pearls which had belonged to her mother, and which her father had given her that very day. the first mrs. fairfield had died when patty was a mere baby, so of course she had no recollection of her, but she had always idealised the personality of her mother, and she took the beautiful pearls from her father with almost a feeling of reverence as she touched them. "i'm so glad it's nan you're going to marry, papa," she said. "i wouldn't like it as well if it were somebody who would really try to be a stepmother to me, but dear old nan is more like a sister, and i'm so glad she's ours." "i'm glad you're pleased, patty, dear, and i only hope nan will never regret marrying a man so much older than herself." "you're not old, papa fairfield," cried patty indignantly; "i won't have you say such a thing! why, you're not forty yet, and nan is twenty-four. why, that's hardly any difference at all." "so nan says," said mr. fairfield, smiling, "so i dare say my arithmetic's at fault." "of course it is," said patty, "and you don't look a bit old either. why, you look as young as mr. hepworth, and he looks nearly as young as kenneth, and kenneth's only two years older than i am." "that sounds a little complicated, patty, but i'm sure you mean it as a compliment, so i'll take it as such." a little before eight o'clock, patty, in her shimmering gown, went dancing downstairs. the rooms were already crowded with guests, and the first familiar face patty saw was that of mr. hepworth, who came toward her with a glad smile of greeting. "how grown-up we are looking to-night," he said. "i shall have to paint your portrait all over again, and you must wear that gown, and we will call it, 'a moonlight sonata,' and send it to the exhibition." "that will be lovely!" exclaimed patty; "but can you paint silver?" "well, i could try to get a silvery effect, at least." "that wouldn't do; it must be the real thing. i think you could only get it right by using aluminum paint like they paint the letter-boxes with." "yes," said mr. hepworth, "that would be realistic, at least, but i see a crowd of your young friends coming this way, and i feel quite sure they mean to carry you off. so won't you promise me a dance or two, when the time comes for that part of the programme?" "yes, indeed," said patty, "and there is going to be dancing after the supper." mr. hepworth looked after patty, as, all unconscious of his gaze, she went on through the rooms with the young friends who had claimed her. gilbert hepworth had long realised his growing interest in patty, and acknowledged to himself that he loved the girl devotedly. but he had never by word or look intimated this, and had no intention of doing so until she should be some years older. he, himself, was thirty-four, and he knew that must seem old indeed to a girl of seventeen. so he really had little hope that he ever could win her for his own, but he allowed himself the pleasure of her society whenever opportunity offered, and it pleased him to do for her such acts of courtesy and kindness as could not be construed into special attentions, or indication of an unwelcome devotion. among the group that surrounded patty was kenneth harper, a college boy who was a good chum of patty's and a favourite with mr. fairfield. marian and frank were with them, also bob and bumble, the barlow twins, and a number of the philadelphia young people. this group laughed and chatted merrily until the orchestra struck up the wedding march, and an expectant hush fell upon the assembly. at nan's special request, there were no bridesmaids, and when the bride entered with her father, she was, as patty had prophesied, a perfect picture in her beautiful wedding gown. mr. fairfield seemed to think so too, and his happy smile as he came to meet her, gave patty a thrill of gladness to think that this happiness had come to her father. his life had been lonely, and she was glad that it was to be shared by such a truly sweet and lovely woman as nan. patty was the first to congratulate the wedded pair, and mr. hepworth, who was an usher, escorted her up to them that she might do so. patty kissed both the bride and the bridegroom with whole-hearted affection, and after a few merry words turned away to give place to others. "come on, patty," said kenneth, "a whole crowd of us are going to camp out in one of those jolly cozy corners on the verandah, and have our supper there." so patty went with the merry crowd, and found that kenneth had selected a conveniently located spot near one of the dining-room windows. "i'm so glad it's supper time," she said, as they settled themselves comfortably in their chosen retreat. "i've been so busy and excited to-day that i've hardly eaten a thing, and i'm starving with hunger. and now that i've got my father safely married, and off my hands, i feel relieved of a great responsibility, and can eat my supper with a mind at rest." "when i'm married," said helen barlow, "i mean to have a wedding exactly like this one. i think it's the loveliest one i ever saw." "you won't, though, bumble," said patty, laughing. "in the first place, you'll forget to order your wedding gown until a day or two before the occasion, and of course it won't be done. and then you'll forget to send out the invitations, so of course you'll have no guests. and i'm sure you'll forget to invite the minister, so there'll be no ceremony, anyway." bumble laughed good-naturedly at this, for the helter-skelter ways of the barlow family were well known to everybody. "it would be that way," she said, "if i looked after things myself, but i shall expect you, patty, to take entire charge of the occasion, and then everything will go along like clockwork." "are you staying long in philadelphia, miss fairfield?" asked ethel banks, a philadelphia girl, who lived not far from the allens. "a few days longer," said patty. "i have to go back to new york next tuesday, and then no more gaiety for me. i don't know how i shall survive such a sudden change, but after this mad whirl of parties and things, i have to come down to plain everyday studying of lessons,--but we won't talk about that now; it's a painful subject to me at any time, but especially when i'm at a party." "me, too," said kenneth. "if ever i get through college, i don't think i'll want to see a book for the next twenty years." "i didn't know you hated your lessons so, kenneth," said marian. "i thought patty was the only one of my friends who was willing to avow that she was like that 'poor little paul, who didn't like study at all.'" "yes, i'm a paul too," said kenneth, "and i may as well own up to it." "but you don't let it interfere with your work," said patty; "you dig just as hard as if you really enjoyed it." "so do you," said kenneth, "but some day after we have both been graduated, i suppose we'll be glad that we did our digging after all." a little later, mr. and mrs. fairfield went away, amid showers of _confetti_, and after that there was an hour of informal dancing. patty was besieged with partners asking for a dance, and as there was no programme, she would make no promises, but accepted whoever might ask her first at the beginning of each dance. she liked to dance with kenneth, for his step suited hers perfectly, and her cousin bob was also an exceptionally good dancer. but patty showed no partiality, and enjoyed all the dances with her usual enthusiasm. suddenly she remembered that she had promised mr. hepworth a dance, but he had not come to claim it. wondering, she looked around to see where he might be, and discovered him watching her from across the room. there was an amused smile on his face, and patty went to him, and asked him in her direct way, why he didn't claim his dance. "you are so surrounded," he said, "by other and more attractive partners, that i hated to disturb you." "nonsense," said patty, without a trace of self-consciousness or embarrassment. "i like you better than lots of these philadelphia boys. come on." "thank you for the compliment," said mr. hepworth, as they began to dance, "but you seemed to be finding these philadelphia boys very agreeable." "they're nice enough," said patty, carelessly, "and some of them are good dancers, but not as good as you are, mr. hepworth. do you know you dance like a--like a--will-o'-the-wisp." "i never met a will-o'-the-wisp, but i'm sure they must be delightful people, to judge from the enthusiastic tone in which you mention them. do you never get tired of parties and dancing, patty?" "oh, no, indeed. i love it all. but you see i haven't had very much. i've never been to but two or three real dancing-parties in my life. why, i've only just outgrown children's parties. i may get tired of it all, after two or three seasons, but as yet it's such a novelty to me that i enjoy every speck of it." mr. hepworth suddenly realised how many social seasons he had been through, and how far removed he was from this young débutante in his views on such matters. he assured himself that he need never hope she would take any special interest in him, and he vowed she should never know of his feelings toward her. so he adapted his mood to hers, and chatted gaily of the events of the evening. patty told him of the many pleasures that had been planned for her, during the rest of her visit at mrs. allen's, and he was truly glad that the girl was to have a taste of the social gaiety that so strongly appealed to her. "miss fairfield," said ethel banks, coming up to patty, as the music stopped, "i've been talking with my father, and he says if you and mr. and mrs. allen will go, he'll take us all in the automobile down to atlantic city for the week-end." "how perfectly gorgeous!" cried patty, her eyes dancing with delight. "i'd love to go. i've never been in an automobile but a few times in my life, and never for such a long trip as that. let's go and ask mrs. allen at once." without further thought of mr. hepworth, save to give him a smiling nod as she turned away, patty went with ethel to ask mrs. allen about the projected trip. mrs. allen was delighted to go, and said she would also answer for her husband. so it was arranged, and the girls went dancing back to mr. banks to tell him so. ethel's father was a kind-hearted, hospitable man, whose principal thought was to give pleasure to his only child. ethel had no mother, and mrs. allen had often before chaperoned the girl on similar excursions to the one now in prospect. as mr. banks was an enthusiastic motorist, and drove his own car, there was ample room for mr. and mrs. allen and patty. soon the wedding guests departed, and patty was glad to take off her pretty gown and tumble into bed. she slept late the next morning, and awoke to find mrs. allen sitting on the bed beside her, caressing her curly hair. "i hate to waken you," said that lady, "but it's after ten o'clock, and you know you are to go to your cousin helen's to spend the day. i want you to come home early this evening, as i have a little party planned for you, and so it's only right that you should start as soon as possible this morning. here is a nice cup of cocoa and a bit of toast. let me slip a kimono around you, while you breakfast." in her usual busy way, mrs. allen fluttered about, while she talked, and after putting a kimono round her visitor, she drew up beside her a small table, containing a dainty breakfast tray. "it's just as well you're going away to-day," mrs. allen chattered on, "because the house is a perfect sight. not one thing is in its place, and about a dozen men have already arrived to try to straighten out the chaos. so, as you may judge, my dear, since i have to superintend all these things, i'll really get along better without you. now, you get dressed, and run right along to the barlows'. james will take you over in the pony cart, and he'll come for you again at eight o'clock this evening. mind, now, you're not to stay a minute after eight o'clock, for i have invited some young people here to see you. i'll send the carriage to-night, and then you can bring your barlow cousins back with you." as mrs. allen rattled on, she had been fussing around the room getting out patty's clothes to wear that day, and acting in such a generally motherly manner that patty felt sure she must be missing nan, and she couldn't help feeling very sorry for her, and told her so. "yes," said mrs. allen, "it's awful. i've only just begun to realise that i've lost my girl; still it had to come, i suppose, sooner or later, and i wouldn't put a straw in the way of nan's happiness. well, i shall get used to it in time, i suppose, and then sometimes i shall expect nan to come and visit me." chapter iii atlantic city patty's day at the barlows' was a decided contrast to her visit at mrs. allen's. in the allen home every detail of housekeeping was complete and very carefully looked after, while at the barlows' everything went along in a slipshod, hit-or-miss fashion. patty well remembered her visit at their summer home which they called the hurly-burly, and she could not see that their city residence was any less deserving of the name. her aunt grace and uncle ted were jolly, good-natured people, who cared little about system or method in their home. the result was that things often went wrong, but nobody cared especially if they did. "i meant to have a nicer luncheon for you, patty," said her aunt, as they sat down at the table, "but the cook forgot to order lobsters, and when i telephoned for fresh peas the grocer said i was too late, for they were all sold. i'm so sorry, for i do love hothouse peas, don't you?" "i don't care what i have to eat, aunt grace. i just came to visit you people, you know, and the luncheon doesn't matter a bit." "that's nice of you to say so, child. i remember what an adaptable little thing you were when you were with us down in the country, and really, you did us quite a lot of good that summer. you taught bumble how to keep her bureau drawers in order. she's forgotten it now, but it was nice while it lasted." "_helen_, mother, i do wish you would call me helen. bumble is such a silly name." "i know it, my dear," said mrs. barlow, placidly, "and i do mean to, but you see i forget." "i forget it, too," said patty. "but i'll try to call you helen if you want me to. what time does uncle ted come home, aunt grace?" "oh, about five o'clock, or perhaps six; and sometimes he gets here at four. i never know what time he's coming home." "it isn't only that," said bob; "in fact, father usually comes home about the same time. but our clocks are all so different that it depends on which room mother is in, as to what time she thinks it is." "that's so," said helen. "we have eleven clocks in this house, patty, and every one of them is always wrong. still, it's convenient in a way; if you want to go anywhere at a certain time, no matter what time you start, you can always find at least one clock that's about where you want it to be." "i'm sure i don't see why the clocks don't keep the right time," said mrs. barlow. "a man comes every saturday on purpose to wind and set them all." "we fool with them," confessed bob. "you see, patty, we all like to get up late, and we set our clocks back every night, so that we can do it with a good grace." "yes," said helen, "and then if we want each other to go anywhere through the day,--on time, you know,--we go around the house, and set all the clocks forward. that's the only possible way to make anybody hurry up." patty laughed. the whole conversation was so characteristic of the barlows as she remembered them, and she wondered how they could enjoy living in such a careless way. but they were an especially happy family, and most hospitable and entertaining. patty thoroughly enjoyed her afternoon, although they did nothing in particular for her entertainment. but aunt grace was very fond of her motherless niece, and the twins just adored patty. at five o'clock tea was served, and though the appointments were not at all like mrs. allen's carefully equipped service, yet it was an hour of comfortable enjoyment. uncle ted came home, and he was so merry and full of jokes, that he made them all laugh. two or three casual callers dropped in, and patty thought again, as she sometimes did, that perhaps she liked her barlow cousins best of all. dinner, not entirely to patty's surprise, showed some of the same characteristics as luncheon had done. the salad course was lacking, because the mayonnaise dressing had been upset in the refrigerator; the ice cream was spoiled, because by mistake the freezer had been set in the sun until the ice melted, and the pretty pink pyramid was in a state of soft collapse. but, as aunt grace cheerfully remarked, if it hadn't been that, it would have been something else, and it didn't matter much, anyway. it was this happy philosophy of the barlow family that charmed patty so, and it left no room for embarrassment at these minor accidents, either on the part of the family or their guest. "now," said patty, after dinner, "if necessary, i'm going to set all the clocks forward, for, helen, i do want you to be ready when mrs. allen sends for us. she doesn't like to be kept waiting, one bit." "never mind the clocks, patty," said helen good-naturedly. "i'll be ready." she scampered off to dress, and sure enough was entirely ready before the carriage came. "you see, patty," she said, "we _can_ do things on time, only we've fallen into the habit of not doing so, unless there's somebody like you here to spur us up." patty admitted this, but told bumble that she was sorry her influence was not more lasting. * * * * * on saturday they started with the banks's on the automobile trip. mrs. allen provided patty with a long coat for the journey, and a veil to tie over her hat. not being accustomed to motoring, patty did not have appropriate garments, and mrs. allen took delight in fitting her out with some of nan's. mr. banks's motor-car was of the largest and finest type. it was what is called a palace touring car, and represented the highest degree of comfort and luxury. patty had never been in such a beautiful machine, and when she was snugly tucked in the tonneau between mrs. allen and ethel, mr. banks and mr. allen climbed into the front seat, and they started off. the ride to atlantic city was most exhilarating, and patty enjoyed every minute of it. there was a top to the machine, for which reason the force of the wind was not so uncomfortable, and the tourists were able to converse with each other. "i thought," said patty, "that when people went in these big cars, at this fearful rate of speed, you could hardly hear yourself think, much less talk to each other. what's the name of your car, mr. banks?" "the flying dutchman," was the reply. "it's a flyer, all right," said patty, "but i don't see anything dutch about it." "that's in honour of one of my ancestors, who, they tell me, came over from holland some hundreds of years ago." "then it's a most appropriate name," said patty, "and it's the most beautiful and comfortable car i ever saw." they went spinning on mile after mile at what patty thought was terrific speed, but which mr. banks seemed to consider merely moderate. after a while, seeing how interested patty was in the mechanism of the car, mr. allen offered to change seats with her, and let her sit with mr. banks, while that gentleman explained to her the working of it. patty gladly made the change, and eagerly listened while mr. banks explained the steering gear, and as much of the motor apparatus as he could make clear to her. patty liked mr. banks. he was a kind and courteous gentleman, and treated her with a deference that gave patty a sudden sense of importance. it seemed strange to think that she, little patty fairfield, was the honoured guest of the well-known mr. banks of philadelphia. she did her best to be polite and entertaining in return, and the result was very pleasant, and also very instructive in the art of motoring. they reached atlantic city late in the afternoon, and went at once to a large hotel, where mr. banks had telegraphed ahead for rooms. patty and ethel had adjoining rooms, and the allens and mr. banks had rooms across the hall from them. patty had begun to like ethel before this trip had been planned, and as she knew her better she liked her more. ethel banks, though the only daughter of a millionaire, was not in the least proud or ostentatious. she was a sweet, simple-minded girl, with friendly ways, and a good comradeship soon developed between her and patty. she was a little older than patty, and had just come out in society during the past winter. as patty was still a schoolgirl, she could not be considered as "out," but of course on occasions like the present, such formalities made little or no difference. "now, my dear," said mr. banks to ethel, "if you and miss fairfield will hasten your toilettes a little, we will have time for a ride on the board walk before dinner." this pleased the girls, and in a short time they had changed their travelling clothes for pretty light-coloured frocks, and went downstairs to find mr. banks waiting for them on the verandah. he explained that the allens would not go with them on this expedition, so the three started off. as their hotel faced the ocean, it was just a step to the wide and beautiful board walk that runs for miles along the beach at atlantic city. in all her life patty had never seen such a sight as this before, and the beauty and wonder of it all nearly took her breath away. the board walk was forty feet wide, and was like a moving picture of gaily-dressed and happy-faced people. although early in april, it seemed like summer time, so balmy was the air, so bright the sunshine. patty gazed with delight at the blue ocean, dotted with whitecaps, and then back to the wonderful panorama of the gay crowd, the music of the bands, and the laughter of the children. "the best way to get an idea of the extent of this thing," said mr. banks, "is to take a ride in the wheeled chairs. you two girls hop into that double one, and i will take this single one, and we'll go along the walk for a mile or so." the chairs were propelled by strong young coloured men, who were affable and polite, and who explained the sights as they passed them, and pointed out places of interest. patty said to ethel that she felt as if she were in a perambulator, except that she wasn't strapped in. but she soon became accustomed to the slow, gentle motion of the chairs, and declared that it was indeed an ideal way to see the beautiful place. on one side was an endless row of small shops or bazaars, where wares of all sorts were offered for sale. at one of these, a booth of oriental trinkets, mr. banks stopped and bought each of the girls a necklace of gay-coloured beads. they were not valuable ornaments, but had a quaint, foreign air, and were very pretty in their own way. patty was greatly pleased, and when they passed another booth which contained exquisite armenian embroideries, she begged ethel to accept the little gift from her, and picking out some filmy needle-worked handkerchiefs, she gave them to her friend. on they went, past the several long piers, until mr. banks said it was time to turn around if they would reach the hotel in time for dinner. so back they went to the hotel, and, after finding the allens, they all went to the dining-room. privately, patty wondered how these people could spend so much time eating dinner, when they might be out on the beach. at last, to her great satisfaction, dinner was over, and mr. allen proposed that they all go out for a short stroll on the board walk. although it had been a gay scene in the afternoon, that was as nothing to the evening effect. thousands,--millions, it seemed to patty,--of electric lights in various wonderful devices, and in every possible colour, made the place as light as day, and the varied gorgeousness of the whole scene made it seem, as patty said, like a big kaleidoscope. they walked gaily along, mingling with the good-natured crowd, noticing various sights or incidents here and there, until they reached the great steel pier, where mr. allen invited them to go with him to the concert. so in they went to listen to a band concert. this pleased patty, for she was especially fond of a brass band, but mrs. allen said it was nothing short of pandemonium. "your tastes are barbaric, patty," she said, laughing. "you love light and colour and noise, and i don't believe you could have too much of any of the three." "i don't believe i could," said patty, laughing herself, as the music banged and crashed. "and that gewgaw you've got hanging around your neck," went on mrs. allen; "your fancy for that proves you a true barbarian." "i think it's lovely," said patty, looking at her gay-coloured beads. "i don't care if i do like crazy things. ethel likes these beads, too." "that's all right," said mrs. allen. "of course you like them, chickadees, and they look very pretty with your light frocks. it's no crime, patty, to be barbaric. it only means you have youth and enthusiasm and a capacity for enjoyment." "indeed i have," said patty. "i'm enjoying all this so much that i feel as if i should just burst, or fly away, or something." "don't fly away yet," said ethel. "we can't spare you. there are lots more things to see." and so there were. after the concert they walked on, and on, continually seeing new and interesting scenes of one sort or another. indeed, they walked so far that mr. allen said they must take chairs back. so again they got into the rolling chairs, and rolled slowly back to the hotel. patty was thoroughly tired out, but very happy, and went to sleep with the music of the dashing surf sounding in her ears. chapter iv lessons again but all this fun and frolic soon came to an end, and patty returned to new york to take up her studies again. grandma elliott was waiting for her in the pretty apartment home, and welcomed her warmly. mrs. elliott and patty were to stay at the wilberforce only about a fortnight longer. then mr. and mrs. fairfield were to return and take patty away with them to the new home on seventy-second street. then the apartment in the wilberforce was to be given up, and grandma elliott would return to vernondale, where her son's family eagerly awaited her. "i've had a perfectly beautiful time, grandma," said patty, as she took off her wraps, "but i haven't time to tell you about it now. just think, school begins again to-morrow, and i haven't even looked at my lessons. i thought i would study some in philadelphia, but goodness me, there wasn't a minute's time to do anything but frivol. the wedding was just gorgeous! nan was a dream, and papa looked like an adonis. i'll tell you more at dinner time, but now i really must get to work." it was already late in the afternoon, but patty brought out her books, and studied away zealously until dinner time. then making a hasty toilette, she went down to the dining-room with grandma, and during dinner gave the old lady a more detailed account of her visit. after dinner, lorraine hamilton and the hart girls joined them in the parlour. but after chatting for a few moments with them, patty declared she must go back to her studies. "it's awfully hard," she said to lorraine, as they walked to school next morning, "to settle down to work after having such a gay vacation. i do believe, lorraine, that i never was intended for a student." "you're doing too much," said lorraine. "it's perfectly silly of you, patty, to try to cram two years' work into one, the way you're doing." "no, it isn't," said patty, "because then i won't have to go to school next year, and that will be worth all this hard work now." "i'm awfully sorry you're going away from the wilberforce," said lorraine. "i shall miss you terribly." "i know it, and i'll miss you, too; but seventy-second street isn't very far away, and you must come to see me often." the schoolgirls all welcomed patty back, for she was a general favourite, and foremost in all the recreations and pleasures, as well as the classes of the oliphant school. "oh, patty," cried elise farrington, as she met her in the cloakroom, "what do you think? we're going to get up a play for commencement. an original play, and act it ourselves, and we want you to write it, and act in it, and stage-manage it, and all. will you, patty?" "of course i will," said patty. "that is, i'll help. i won't write it all alone, nor act it all by myself, either. i don't suppose it's to be a monologue, is it?" "no," said elise, laughing. "we're all to be in it, and of course we'll all help write it, but you must be at the head of it, and see that it all goes on properly." "all right," said patty, good-naturedly, "i'll do all i can, but you know i'm pretty busy this year, elise." "i know it, patty, and you needn't do much on this thing. just superintend, and help us out here and there." then the girls went into the class room and the day's work began. patty had grown very fond of elise, and though some of the other girls looked upon her as rather haughty, and what they called stuck-up, patty failed to discern any such traits in her friend; and though elise was a daughter of a millionaire, and lived a petted and luxurious life, yet, to patty's way of thinking, she was more sincere and simple in her friendship than many of the other girls. after school that day elise begged patty to go home with her and begin the play. "can't do it," said patty. "i must go home and study." "oh, just come for a little while; the other girls are coming, and if you help us get the thing started, we can work at it ourselves, you know." "well, i'll go," said patty, "but i can only stay a few minutes." so they all went home with elise, and settled themselves in her attractive casino to compose their great work. but as might be expected from a group of chattering schoolgirls, they did not progress very rapidly. "tell us all about your fun in philadelphia, patty," said adelaide hart. and as patty enthusiastically recounted the gaieties of her visit, the time slipped away until it was five o'clock, and not a word had been written. "girls, i must go," cried patty, looking at her watch. "i have an awful lot of studying to do, and i really oughtn't to have come here at all." "oh, wait a little longer," pleaded elise. "we must get the outline of this thing." "no, i can't," said patty, "i really can't; but i'll come saturday morning, and will work on it then, if you like." patty hurried away, and when she reached home she found kenneth harper waiting for her. "i thought you'd never come," he said, as she arrived. "your school keeps very late, doesn't it?" "oh, i've been visiting since school," said patty. "i oughtn't to have gone, but i haven't seen the girls for so long, and they had a plan on hand that they wanted to discuss with me." "i have a plan on hand, too," said kenneth. "i've been talking it over with mrs. elliott, and she has been kind enough to agree to it. a crowd of us are going to the matinée on saturday, and we want you to go. mrs. morse has kindly consented to act as chaperon, and there'll be about twelve in the party. will you go, patty?" "will i go!" cried patty. "indeed i will, ken. nothing could keep me at home. won't it be lots of fun?" "yes, it will," said kenneth, "and i'm so glad you will go. i was afraid you'd say those old lessons of yours were in the way." patty's face fell. "i oughtn't to go," she said, "for i've promised the girls to spend saturday morning with them, and now this plan of yours means that i shall lose the whole day, and i have so much to do on saturday; an extra theme to write, and a lot of back work to make up. oh, ken, i oughtn't to go." "oh, come ahead. you can do those things saturday evening." patty sighed. she knew she wouldn't feel much like work saturday evening, but she couldn't resist the temptation of the gay party saturday afternoon. so she agreed to go, and kenneth went away much pleased. "what do you think, grandma?" said she. "do you think i ought to have given up the matinée, and stayed at home to study?" "no, indeed," said grandma elliott, who was an easy-going old lady. "you'll enjoy the afternoon with your young friends, and, as kenneth says, you can study in the evening." so when saturday came patty spent the morning with elise. the other girls were there, and they really got to work on their play, and planned the scenes and the characters. "it will be perfectly lovely!" exclaimed adelaide hart. "i'm so glad for our class to do something worth while. it will be a great deal nicer than the tableaux of last year." "but it will be an awful lot of work," said hilda henderson. "all those costumes, though they seem so simple, will be quite troublesome to get up, and the scenery will be no joke." "perhaps mr. hepworth will help us with the scenery," said patty. "he did once when we had a kind of a little play in vernondale, where i used to live. he's an artist, you know, and he can sketch in scenes in a minute, and make them look as if they had taken days to do. he's awfully clever at it, and so kind that i think he'll consent to do it." "that will be regularly splendid!" said elise, "and you'd better ask him at once, patty, so as to give him as much time as possible." "no, i won't ask him quite yet," said patty, laughing. "i think i'll wait until the play is written, first. i don't believe it's customary to engage a scene painter before a play is scarcely begun." "well, then, let's get at it," said hilda, who was practical. so to work they went, and really wrote the actual lines of a good part of the first act. "now, that's something like," said patty, as, when the clock struck noon, she looked with satisfaction on a dozen or more pages, neatly written in hilda's pretty penmanship. "if we keep on like that, we can get this thing done in five or six saturday mornings, and then i'll ask mr. hepworth about the scenery. then we can begin to rehearse, and we'll just about be ready for commencement day." while patty was with the girls, her interest and enthusiasm were so great that the play seemed the only thing to be thought of. but when she reached home and saw the pile of untouched schoolbooks and remembered that she would be away all the afternoon, she felt many misgivings. however, she had promised to go, so off she went to the matinée, and had a thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable time. mrs. morse invited her to go home to dinner with clementine, saying that she would send her home safely afterward. clementine added her plea that this invitation might be accepted, but patty said no. although she wanted very much to go with the morses, yet she knew that duty called her home. so she regretfully declined, giving her reason, and went home, determined to work hard at her themes and her lessons. but after her merry day with her young friends, she was not only tired physically, but found great difficulty in concentrating her thoughts on more prosaic subjects. but patty had pretty strong will-power, and she forced herself to go at her work in earnest. grandma elliott watched her, as she pored over one book after another, or hastily scribbled her themes. a little pucker formed itself between her brows, and a crimson flush appeared on her cheeks. at ten o'clock mrs. elliott asserted her authority. "patty," she said, "you must go to bed. you'll make yourself ill if you work so hard." patty pushed back her books. "i believe i'll have to, grandma," she said. "my head's all in a whirl, and the letters are dancing jigs before my eyes." exhausted, patty crept into bed, and though she slept late next morning, grandma elliott imagined that her face still bore traces of worry and hard work. "nonsense, grandma," said patty, laughing. "i guess my robust constitution can stand a little extra exertion once in a while. i'll try to take it easier this week, and i believe i'll give up my gymnasium work. that will give me more time, and won't interfere with getting my diploma." but though patty gained a few extra half hours by omitting the gymnasium class, she missed the daily exercise more than she would admit even to herself. "you're getting round-shouldered, patty," said lorraine, one day; "and i believe it's because you work so hard over those old lessons." "it isn't the work, lorraine," said patty, laughing. "it's the play. i had to rewrite the whole of that garden scene last night, after i finished my lessons." "why, what was the matter with it?" "it was all wrong. we didn't think of it at the time, but in one place elise has to go off at one side of the stage, and, immediately after, come on at the other side, in different dress. now, of course, that won't do; it has to be arranged so that she will have time to change her costume. so i had to write in some lines for the others. and there were several little things like that to be looked after, so i had to do over pretty nearly the whole scene." "it's a shame, patty! we make you do all the hardest of the work." "not a bit of it. i love to do it; and when we all work together and chatter so, of course we don't think it out carefully enough, and so these mistakes creep in. don't say anything about it, lorraine. the girls will never notice my little changes and corrections, and i don't want to pose as a poor, pale martyr, growing round-shouldered in her efforts to help her fellow-sisters!" "you're a brick, patty, but i will tell them, all the same. if we're all going to write this play together, we're going to do it all, and not have you doing our work for us." lorraine's loyalty to patty was unbounded, and as she had, moreover, a trace of stubbornness in her character, patty knew that no amount of argument would move her from her determination to straighten matters out. so she gave up the discussion, only saying, "you won't do a bit of good, lorraine; and anyway, somebody ought to revise the thing, and if i don't do it, who will?" patty said this without a trace of egotism, for she and lorraine both knew that none of the other girls had enough constructive talent or dramatic capability to put the finishing touches on the lines of the play. that was patty's special forte, just as clementine morse was the one best fitted to plan the scenic effects, and elise farrington to design the costumes. "that's so," said lorraine, with a little sigh, "and i suppose, patty, you'll just go on in your mad career, and do exactly as you please." "i suppose i shall," said patty, laughing at lorraine's hopeless expression; "but i do want this play to be a success, and i mean to help all i can, in any way i can." "it's bound to be a success," said lorraine with enthusiasm, "because the girls are all so interested, and i think we're all working hard in our different ways. of course i don't have anything to do except to look after the incidental music, but i do hope that will turn out all right." "of course it will, lorraine," said patty. "your selections are perfect so far; and you do look after more than that. those two little songs you wrote are gems, and they fit into the second act just exactly right. i think you're a real poet, lorraine, and after the play is over i wish you'd get those little songs published. i'm sure they're worth it." "i wish i could," said lorraine, "and i do mean to try." chapter v a new home great was the rejoicing and celebration when mr. and mrs. fairfield returned from their wedding trip. they came to the apartment to remain there for a few days before moving to the new house. patty welcomed nan with open arms, and it was harder than ever for her to attend to her studies when there was so much going on in the family. the furnishing of the new house was almost completed, but there remained several finishing touches to be attended to. as patty's time was so much occupied, she was not allowed to have any hand in this work. mrs. allen had come on from philadelphia to help her daughter, and grandma elliott assisted in dismantling the apartment, preparatory to giving it up. so when patty started to school one friday morning, and was told that when the session was over she was to go to her new home to stay, she felt as if she were going to an unexplored country. it was with joyful anticipations that she put on her hat and coat, after school, and started home. her father had given her a latch-key, and as she stepped in at the front door, nan, in a pretty house dress, stood ready to welcome her. "my dear child," she said, "welcome home. how do you like the prospect?" "it's lovely," said patty, gazing around at as much as she could see of the beautiful house and its well-furnished rooms. "what a lot of new things there are, and i recognise a good many of the old ones, too. oh, nan, won't we be happy all here together?" "indeed we will," said nan. "i think it's the loveliest house in the world, and mother and fred have fixed it up so prettily. come up and see your room, patty." a large, pleasant front room on the third floor had been assigned to patty's use, and all her own special and favourite belongings had been placed there. "how dear of you, nan, to arrange this all for me, and put it all to rights. i really couldn't have taken the time to do it myself, but it's just the way i want it." "and this," said nan, opening a door into a small room adjoining, "is your own little study, where you can be quiet and undisturbed, while you're studying those terrific lessons of yours." patty gave a little squeal of delight at the dainty library, furnished in green, and with her own desk and bookcases already in place. "but don't think," nan went on, "that we shall let you stay here and grub away at those books much of the time. an hour a day is all we intend to allow you to be absent from our family circle while you're in the house." "an hour a day to study!" exclaimed patty. "it's more likely that an hour a day is all i can give you of my valuable society." "we'll see about that," said nan, wagging her head wisely. "you see i have some authority now, and i intend to exercise it." "ha," said patty, dramatically, "i see it will be war to the knife!" "to the knife!" declared nan, as she ran away laughing. patty looked about her two lovely rooms with genuine pleasure. she was like a cat in her love of comfortable chairs and luxurious cushions, and she fully appreciated the special and individual care with which nan and her father had considered her tastes. had she not been so busy she would have preferred to have a hand in the arranging of her rooms herself, but as it was, she was thankful that someone else had done it for her. hastily throwing off her hat and coat, she flung herself into a comfortable easy chair by her library table, and was soon deep in her french lesson. a couple of hours later nan came up and found her there. "patty fairfield!" she exclaimed. "you are the worst i ever saw! get right up and dress for dinner! your father will be home in a few minutes, and i want you to help me receive properly the master of the house." patty rubbed her eyes and blinked, as nan pulled the book away from her, and said, "why, what time is it?" "time for you to stop studying, and come out of your shell and mingle with the world. wake up!" and nan gave patty a little shake. patty came to herself and jumped up, saying, "indeed, i'm glad enough to leave my horrid books, and i'm hungry enough to eat any dinner you may set before me. what shall i wear, nan?" "put on that pretty light blue thing of yours, with the lace yoke. this is rather a festival night, and we're going to celebrate the first dinner in our new home." so patty brushed her curly hair and tied on a white ribbon bow of such exceeding size and freshness that she looked almost as if wings were sprouting from her shoulders. then she donned her light blue frock, and went dancing downstairs, to find that her father had already arrived. "well, pattikins," he said, "can you feel at home in this big house, after living so long in our apartment?" "yes, indeed," said patty, "any place is home where you and nan are." the dinner passed off gaily enough. only the three were present, as nan did not want any guests the first night. although the dining-room appointments were those that had furnished the fairfields'vernondale home, yet they were so augmented by numerous wedding gifts of nan's that patty felt as if she were at a dinner party of unusual splendour. "it's lovely to live in a house with a bride," she said, "because there are such beautiful silver and glass things on the table, and on the sideboard." "yes," said nan, glancing around her with satisfaction. "i intend to use all my things. i think it's perfectly silly to pack them away in a safe, and never have any good of them." "but suppose burglars break in and steal them," said patty. "well, even so," said nan, placidly, "they would be gone, but it wouldn't be much different from having them stored away in a safe deposit company." "nan's principle is right," said mr. fairfield. "now, here's the way i look at it: what you can't afford to lose, you can't afford to buy. remember that, patty, and if ever you are tempted to invest a large sum of money in a diamond or silver or any portable property, look upon that money as gone forever. true, you might realise on your possession in case of need, but more likely you could not, and, too, there is always the chance of losing it by carelessness or theft. so remember that you can't afford to buy what you can't afford to lose." "that's a new idea to me, papa," said patty, "but i see what you mean and i know you are right. however, there's little chance of my investing in silver at present, for i can just as well use nan's." "of course you can," said nan, heartily; "and whenever you want to have company, or a party of any kind, you've only to mention it, and not only my silver, but my servants and my own best efforts are at your disposal." "that's lovely," said patty, "and i would love to have parties and invite the schoolgirls and some of the boys, but i can't take the time now. why, i couldn't spare an evening from my studies to entertain the crowned heads of europe." "nonsense," said mr. fairfield, "you mustn't work so hard, puss; and anyway you'll have to spare this evening, for i asked hepworth to drop in, and i think two or three others may come, and we'll have a little informal housewarming." "yes," said patty, dubiously, "and kenneth said he would call this evening, and elise and roger may come in. so, as it's friday evening, i'll see them, of course; but after this i must study every evening except fridays." a little later on, when a number of guests had assembled in the fairfields' drawing-room, patty looked like anything but a bookworm, or a pale-faced student. her eyes danced, and the colour glowed in her pretty face, for she was very fond of merry society, and always looked her prettiest when thus animated. she and elise entertained the others by quoting some bits from the school play, nan sang for them, and kenneth gave some of his clever and funny impersonations. mr. hepworth declared that he had no parlour tricks, but patty asserted that he had, and she ran laughing from the room, to return with several large sheets of paper and a stick of drawing charcoal. then she decreed that mr. hepworth should draw caricature portraits of all those present. after a little demurring, the artist consented, and shrieks of laughter arose as his clever pencil swiftly sketched a humorous portrait of each one. "it's right down jolly," said kenneth to patty, "your having a big house of your own like this. mayn't i come often to see you? mrs. nan is so kind, she always has a welcome for me." "you may come and accept her welcome whenever you like," said patty, "but i can't promise to see you, ken, except friday evenings. honestly, i don't have one minute to myself. you see, we rehearse the play afternoons, and evenings i have to study, and saturday is crammed jam full." "but she will see you, kenneth," said nan, who had heard these remarks. "we're not going to let her retire from the world in any such fashion as she proposes; so you come to see us whenever you like, and my word for it, patty will be at home to you." nan passed on, laughing, and patty turned to kenneth with an appealing glance. "you know how it is, don't you, ken? i just have to stick to my work like everything, or i won't pass those fearful examinations, and now that i've made up my mind to try for them, i _do_ want to succeed." "yes, i know, patty, and i fully sympathise with your ambitions. stick to it, and you'll come out all right yet; and if i should call sometimes when you're studying, just say you're too busy to see me, and it will be all right." "what an old trump you are, ken. you always seem to understand." * * * * * but as the days passed on, patty found that other people did not understand. her study hours were continually interrupted. there were occasional callers in the afternoon, and when nan presented herself at the study door, and begged so prettily that patty would come down just this once, the girl hadn't the heart to refuse. then there was often company in the evenings, and again patty would be forced to break through her rules. or there were temptations which she really couldn't resist,--such as when her father came home to dinner, bringing tickets for the opera, or for some especially fine play. then, nan had a day each week on which she received her friends, and on these thursdays patty was supposed also to act as hostess. of course this pleasant duty was imperative, and patty always enjoyed the little receptions, though she felt guilty at losing her thursday afternoons. almost invariably, too, some of the guests accepted nan's invitation to remain to dinner, and that counted out thursday evening as well. altogether, poor patty was at her wits' end to find any time to herself. she tried rising very early in the morning and studying before breakfast, but she found it difficult to awaken early, and neither nan nor her father would allow her to be called. so she was forced to resort to sitting up late, and studying after the rest of the household had retired. as her room was on the third floor, she had no difficulty in pursuing this plan without anyone being aware of it, but burning the midnight oil soon began to tell on her appearance. one morning at breakfast, her father said, "patty, child, what is the matter with you? your eyes look like two holes burnt in a blanket! you weren't up late last night?" "not very," said patty, dropping her eyes before her father's searching gaze. nothing more was said on the subject, but though patty hated to do anything secretly, yet she felt she must continue her night work, as it was really her only chance. so that night as she sat studying until nearly midnight, her door slowly opened, and nan peeped in. she wore a kimono, and her hair was in a long braid down her back. "patty fairfield," she said, "go to bed at once! you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to sit up so late when you know your father doesn't want you to." "now, look here, nan," said patty, talking very seriously, "i _have_ to sit up late like this, because i can't get a minute's time through the day. you know how it is. there's always company, or something going on, and i can't wake up early in the morning, and i have to sit up late at night, even if it does make me tired and sleepy and good for nothing the next day. oh, nan, instead of hindering and making fun of me, and bothering me all you can, i think you might try to help me!" patty threw herself on her knees, and burying her face in nan's lap, burst into a convulsive flood of tears. nan was thoroughly frightened. she had never before seen patty cry, and this was more than crying. it was almost hysterical. then, like a flash, nan saw it all. overwork and worry had so wrought on patty's nerves that the girl was half sick and wholly irresponsible for her actions. with a ready tact, nan patted the golden head, and gently soothed the excited child. "never mind, patty, darling," she said, "and try to forgive me, won't you? i fear i have been rather blind to the true state of the case, but i see more plainly now, and i will help you, indeed i will. i will see to it that you shall have your hours for study just as you want them, and you shall not be interrupted. dear little girl, you're all tired out, and your nerves are all on edge, and no wonder. now, hop along to bed, and you'll see that things will go better after this." as she talked, nan had gently soothed the excited girl, and in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, she helped her prepare for bed, and finally tucked her up snugly under her down coverlet. "good-night, dearie," she said; "go to sleep without a bother on your mind, and remember that after this nan will see to it that you shall have other times to study than the middle of the night." "good-night," said patty, "and i'm sorry i made such a baby of myself. but truly, nan, i'm bothered to death with those old lessons and the play and everything." "that's all right; just go to sleep and dream of commencement day, when all the bothers will be over, and you'll get your diploma and your medal, and a few dozen bouquets besides." and with a final good-night kiss, nan left the worn-out girl and returned thoughtfully to her own room. chapter vi busy days nan was as good as her word. instead of trying to persuade patty not to study so hard, she did all she could to keep the study hours free from interruption. many a time when nan wanted patty's company or assistance, she refrained from telling her so, and unselfishly left the girl to herself as much as possible. the result of this was that patty gave herself up to her books and her school work to such an extent that she allowed herself almost no social recreation, and took little or no exercise beyond her walks to and from school. this went on for a time, but patty was, after all, of a sensitive and observing nature, and she soon discovered, by a certain wistful expression on nan's face, or a tone of regret in her voice, that she was often sacrificing her own convenience to patty's. patty's sense of proportion rebelled at this, and she felt that she must be more obliging to nan, who was so truly kind to her. and so she endeavoured to cram more duties into her already full days, and often after a hard day's work in school, when she would have been glad to throw on a comfortable house gown and rest in her own room, she dressed herself prettily and went out calling with her stepmother, or assisted her to receive her own guests. gay-hearted nan was not acutely observant, and it never occurred to her that all this meant any self-sacrifice on patty's part. she accepted with pleasure each occasion when patty's plans fell in with her own, and the more this was the case, the more she expected it, so that poor patty again found herself bewildered by her multitude of conflicting duties. "i have heard," she thought to herself one day, "that duties never clash, but it seems to me they never do anything else. now, this afternoon i'm sure it's my duty to write my theme, and yet i promised the girls i'd be at rehearsal, and then, nan is so anxious for me to go shopping with her, that i honestly don't know which i ought to do; but i believe i'll write my theme, because that does seem the most important." "patty," called nan's voice from the hall, "you'll go with me this afternoon, won't you? i have to decide between those two hats, you know, and truly i can't take the responsibility alone." "oh, nan," said patty, "it really doesn't matter which hat you get, they're both so lovely. i've seen them, you know, and truly i think one is just as becoming as the other. and honest, i'm fearfully busy to-day." "oh, pshaw, patty. i've let you alone afternoons for almost a week now, or at least for two or three days, anyhow. i think you might go with me to-day." good-natured patty always found it hard to resist coaxing, so with a little sigh she consented, and gave up her whole afternoon to nan. that meant sitting up late at night to study, but this was now getting to be the rule with patty, and not the exception. so the weeks flew by, and as commencement day drew nearer, patty worked harder and her nerves grew more strained and tense, until a breakdown of some sort seemed imminent. mr. fairfield at last awoke to the situation, and told patty that she was growing thin and pale and hollow-eyed. "never mind," said patty, looking at her father with an abstracted air, "i haven't time now, papa, even to discuss the subject. commencement day is next week, to-morrow my examinations begin, and i have full charge of the costumes for the play, and they're not nearly ready yet." "you mustn't work so hard, patty," said nan, in her futile way. "nan, if you say that to me again, i'll throw something at you! i give you fair warning, people, that i'm so bothered and worried that my nerves are all on edge, and my temper is pretty much the same way. now, until after commencement i've got to work hard, but if i just live through that, i'll be sweet and amiable again, and will do anything you want me to." patty was half laughing, but it was plain to be seen she was very much in earnest. commencement was to occur the first week in june, and the examinations, which took place the week before, were like a nightmare to poor patty. had she been free to give her undivided attention, she might have taken them more calmly. but her mind was so full of the troubles and responsibilities consequent on the play, that it was almost impossible to concentrate her thoughts on the examination work. and yet the examinations were of far more importance than the play, for patty was most anxious to graduate with honours, and she felt sure that she knew thoroughly the ground she had been over in her studies. at last examinations were finished, and though not yet informed of her markings, patty felt that on the whole she had been fairly successful, and friday night she went home from school with a heart lighter than it had been for many weeks. "thank goodness, it's over!" she cried as she entered the house, and clasping nan around the waist, she waltzed her down the hall in a mad joy of celebration. "well, i am glad," said nan, after she had recovered her breath; "now you can rest and get back your rosy cheeks once more." "not yet," said patty gaily; "there is commencement day and the play yet. they're fun compared to examinations, but still they mean a tremendous lot of work. to-morrow will be my busiest day yet, and i've bought me an alarm clock, because i have to get up at five o'clock in order to get through the day at all." "what nonsense," said nan, but patty only laughed, and scurried away to dress for dinner. when the new alarm clock went off at five the next morning, patty awoke with a start, wondering what in the world had happened. then, as she slowly came to her senses, she rubbed her sleepy eyes, jumped up quickly, and began to dress. by breakfast time she had accomplished wonders. "i've rewritten two songs," she announced at the breakfast table, "and sewed for an hour on hilda's fairy costume, and cut out a thousand gilt stars for the scenery, and made two hundred paper violets besides!" "you are a wonder, patty," said nan, but mr. fairfield looked at his daughter anxiously. her eyes were shining with excitement, and there was a little red spot on either cheek. "be careful, dear," he said. "it would be pretty bad if, after getting through your examinations, you should break down because of this foolish play." "it isn't a foolish play, papa," said patty gaily; "it's most wise and sensible. i ought to know, for i wrote most of it myself, and i've planned all the costumes and helped to make many of them. one or two, though, we have to get from a regular costumer, and i have to go and see about them to-day. want to go with me, nan?" "i'd love to go," said nan, "but i haven't a minute to spare all day long. i'm going to the photographer's, and then to mrs. stuart's luncheon, and after that to a musicale." "never mind," said patty, "it won't be much fun. i just have to pick out the costumes for joan of arc and queen elizabeth." "your play seems to include a variety of characters," said mr. fairfield. "yes, it does," said patty, "and most of the dresses we've contrived ourselves; but these two are beyond us, so we're going to hire them. good-bye, now, people; i must fly over to see elise before i go down town." "who's going with you, patty, to the costumer's?" asked her father. "miss sinclair, papa; one of the teachers in our school. i am to meet her at the school at eleven o'clock. we are going to the costume place, and then to the shops to buy a few things for the play. i'll be home to luncheon, nan, at one o'clock." patty flew away on her numerous errands, going first to elise farrington's to consult on some important matters. hilda and clementine were there, and there was so much to be decided that the time passed by unnoticed, until patty exclaimed, "why, girls, it's half-past eleven now, and i was to meet miss sinclair at eleven! oh, i'm so sorry! i make it a point never to keep anybody waiting. i don't know when i ever missed an engagement before. now, you must finish up about the programmes and things, and i'll scurry right along. she must be there waiting for me." the school was only two blocks away, and patty covered the ground as rapidly as possible. but when she reached there miss sinclair had gone. another teacher who was there told patty that miss sinclair had waited until twenty minutes after eleven, and then she had concluded that she must have mistaken the appointment, and that probably patty had meant she would meet her at the costumer's. so she had gone on, leaving word for patty to follow her there, if by any chance she should come to the school looking for her. patty didn't know what to do. the costumer's shop was a considerable distance away, and patty was not in the habit of going around the city alone. but this seemed to her a special occasion, and, too, there was no time to hesitate. she thought of telephoning to nan, but of course she had already gone out. she couldn't call her father up from down town, and it wouldn't help matters any to ask elise or any of the other girls to go with her. so, having to make a hasty decision, patty determined to go alone. she knew the address, and though she didn't know exactly how to reach it, she felt sure she could learn by a few enquiries. but, after leaving the broadway car, she discovered that she had to travel quite a distance east, and there was no cross-town line in that locality. regretting the necessity of keeping miss sinclair waiting, patty hurried on, and after some difficulty reached the place, only to find that the costumer had recently moved, and that his new address was some distance farther up town. patty did not at all like the situation. she was unfamiliar with this part of the town, she felt awkward and embarrassed at being there alone, and she was extremely sorry not to have kept her engagement with miss sinclair. all of this, added to the fact that she was nervous and overwrought, as well as physically tired out, rendered her unable to use her really good judgment and common sense. she stood on a street corner, uncertain what to do next; and her uncertainty was distinctly manifest on her countenance. the driver of a passing hansom called out, "cab, miss?" and this seemed to patty a providential solution of her difficulty. recklessly unheeding the fact that she had never before been in a public cab alone, she jumped in, after giving the costumer's number to the driver. as she rode up town she thought it over, and concluded that, after all, she had acted wisely, and that she could explain to her father how the emergency had really necessitated this unusual proceeding. it was a long ride, and when patty jumped out of the cab and asked the driver his price, she was a little surprised at the large sum he mentioned. however, she thought it was wiser to pay it without protest than to make herself further conspicuous by discussing the matter. she opened the little wrist-bag which she carried, only to make the startling discovery that her purse was missing. even as she realised this, there flashed across her memory the fact that her father had often told her that it was a careless way to carry money, and that she would sooner or later be relieved of her purse by some clever pickpocket. patty could not be sure whether this was what had happened in the present instance, or whether she had left her purse at home. as she had carried change for carfare in her coat pocket, she had not expected to need a large sum of money, and her confused brain refused to remember whether she had put her purse in her bag or not. she found herself staring at the cabman, who was looking distrustfully at her. "i think i have had my pocket picked," she said slowly, "or else i left my purse at home. i don't know which." "no, no, miss, that won't go down," said the cabman, not rudely, but with an uncomfortable effect of being determined to have his fare. "pay up, now, pay up," he went on, "and you'll save yourself trouble in the end." "but i can't pay you," said patty. "i haven't any money." "then you didn't ought to ride. it ain't the first time i've knowed a swell young lady to try to beat her way. come, miss, if you don't pay me i'll have to drive you to the station house." "what!" cried patty, her face turning white with anger and mortification. "yes, miss, that's the way we do. i s'pose you know you've stole a ride." "oh, wait a minute," said patty; "let me think." "think away, miss; perhaps you can remember where you've hid your money." "but i tell you i haven't any," said patty, her indignation rising above her fear. "now, look here, i have a friend right in here at this address; let me speak to her, and she'll come out and pay you." "no, no, miss; you can't ketch me that way. i've heard of them friends before. but i'll tell you what," he added, as patty stood looking at him blankly, "i'll go in there with you, and if so be's your friend's there and pays up the cash, i've nothing more to say." the hansom-driver climbed down from his seat and went with patty into the costumer's shop. a stolid-looking woman of italian type met them and enquired what was wanted. "is miss sinclair here?" asked patty eagerly. "no, miss, there's nobody here by way of a customer." "but hasn't a lady been here in the last hour, to look at costumes for a play?" "no, miss, nobody's been here this whole morning." "you see you can't work that game," said the cabman. "i'm sorry, miss, but i guess you'll have to come along with me." chapter vii a rescue perhaps it was partly owing to patty's natural sense of humour, or perhaps her overwrought nerves made her feel a little hysterically inclined, but somehow the situation suddenly struck her as being very funny. to think that she, patty fairfield, was about to be arrested because she couldn't pay her cab fare, truly seemed like a joke. but though it seemed like a joke, it wasn't one. as patty hesitated, the cabman grew more impatient and less respectful. patty's feeling of amusement passed as quickly as it came, and she realised that she must do something at once. nan was not at home, her father was too far away, and, curiously, the next person she thought of as one who could help her in her trouble was mr. hepworth. this thought seemed like an inspiration. instantly assuming an air of authority and dignity, she turned to the angry cabman and said, "you will be the one to be arrested unless you behave yourself more properly. come with me to the nearest public telephone station. i have sufficient money with me to pay for a telephone message, and i will then prove to your satisfaction that your fare will be immediately paid." patty afterward wondered how she had the courage to make this speech, but the fear of what might happen had been such a shock to her that it had reacted upon her timidity. and with good results, for the cabman at once became meek and even cringing. "there's a telephone across the street, miss," he said. "very well," said patty; "come with me." "there's a telephone here, miss," said the italian woman, "if you would like to use it." "that's better yet," said patty; "where's the book?" taking the telephone book, patty quickly turned the leaves until she found mr. hepworth's studio number. she had an aversion to speaking her own name before her present hearers, so when mr. hepworth responded she merely said, "do you know who i am?" of course the others listening could not hear when mr. hepworth responded that he did know her voice, and then called her by name. "very well," said patty, still speaking with dignity, "i have had the misfortune to lose my purse, and i am unable to pay my cab fare. will you be kind enough to answer the cabman over this telephone right now, and inform him that it will be paid if he will drive me to your address, which you will give him?" "certainly," replied mr. hepworth politely, though he was really very much amazed at this message. patty turned to the cabman and said, somewhat sternly, "take this receiver and speak to the gentleman at the other end of the wire." sheepishly the man took the receiver and timidly remarked, "hello." "what is your number?" asked mr. hepworth, and the cabman told him. "where are you?" was the next question, and the cabman gave the address of the costumer, which patty had not remembered to do. mr. hepworth's studio was not very many blocks away, and he gave the cabman his name and address, saying, "bring the young lady around here at once, as quickly as you can. i will settle with you on your arrival." mr. hepworth hung up his own receiver, much puzzled. his first impulse was to go to the address where patty was, but as it would take some time for him to get around there by any means, he deemed it better that she should come to him. as patty felt safe, now that she was so soon to meet mr. hepworth, she gave her remaining change to the italian woman, who had been kind, though stolidly disinterested, during the whole interview. the cabman, having given his number to mr. hepworth, felt a responsibility for the safety of his passenger, and assisted her into the cab with humble politeness. a few moments' ride brought them to the large building in which was mr. hepworth's studio, and that gentleman himself, hatted and gloved, stood on the curb awaiting them. "what's it all about?" he asked patty, making no motion, however, to assist her from the cab. but the reaction after her fright and embarrassment had made patty so weak and nervous that she was on the verge of tears. "i didn't have any money," she said; "i don't know whether i lost it or not, and if you'll please pay him, papa will pay you afterward." "of course, child; that's all right," said mr. hepworth. "don't get out," he added, as patty started to do so. "stay right where you are, and i'll take you home." he gave patty's address to the driver, swung himself into the cab beside patty, and off they started. "i wasn't frightened," said patty, though her quivering lip and trembling hands belied her words; "but when he said he'd arrest me, i--i didn't know what to do, and so i telephoned to you." "quite right," said hepworth, in a casual tone, which gave no hint of the joy he felt in being patty's protector in such an emergency. "but i say, child, you look regularly done up. what have you been doing? have you had your luncheon?" "no," said patty, faintly. "and it's after two o'clock," said hepworth, sympathetically. "you poor infant, i'd like to take you somewhere for a bite, but i suppose that wouldn't do. well, here's the only thing we can do, and it will at least keep you from fainting away." he signalled the cabman to stop at a drug shop, where there was a large soda fountain. here he ordered for patty a cup of hot bouillon. he made her drink it slowly, and was rejoiced to see that it did her good. she felt better at once, and when they returned to the cab she begged mr. hepworth to let her go on home alone, and not take any more of his valuable time. "no, indeed," said that gentleman; "it may not be according to the strictest rules of etiquette for me to be going around with you in a hansom cab, but it's infinitely better than for you to be going around alone. so i'll just take charge of you until i can put you safely inside your father's house." "and the girls are coming at two o'clock for a rehearsal!" said patty. "oh, i shall be late." "the girls will wait," said mr. hepworth, easily, and then during the rest of the ride he entertained patty with light, merry conversation. he watched her closely, however, and came to the conclusion that the girl was very nervous, and excitable to a degree that made him fear she was on the verge of a mental illness. "when is this play of yours to come off?" he enquired. "next thursday night," said patty, "if we can get ready for it, and we must; but oh, there is so much to do, and now i've wasted this whole morning and haven't accomplished a thing, and i don't know where miss sinclair is, and i didn't see about the costumes, after all, and now i'll be late for rehearsal. oh, what shall i do?" mr. hepworth had sufficient intuition to know that if he sympathised with patty in her troubles she was ready to break down in a fit of nervous crying. so he said, as if the matter were of no moment, "oh, pshaw, those costumes will get themselves attended to some way or another. why, i'll go down there this afternoon and hunt them up, if you like. just tell me what ones you want." this was help, indeed. patty well knew that mr. hepworth's artistic taste could select the costumes even better than her own, and she eagerly told him the necessary details. mr. hepworth also promised to look after some other errands that were troubling patty's mind, so that when she finally reached home she was calm and self-possessed once more. mr. hepworth quickly settled matters with the cabman, and then escorted patty up the steps to her own front door, where, with a bow and a few last kindly words, he left her and walked rapidly away. the girls who had gathered for rehearsal greeted her with a chorus of reproaches for being so late, but when patty began to tell her exciting experiences, the rehearsal was forgotten in listening to the thrilling tale. "come on, now," said patty, a little later, "we must get to work. get your places and begin your lines, while i finish these." patty had refused to go to luncheon, and the maid had brought a tray into the library for her. so, with a sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, she directed the rehearsal, taking her own part therein when the time came. so the days went on, each one becoming more and more busy as the fateful time drew near. also patty became more and more nervous. she had far more to do than any of the other girls, for they depended on her in every emergency, referred every decision to her, and seemed to expect her to do all the hardest of the work. moreover, the long strain of overstudy she had been through had left its effects on her system, and patty, though she would not admit it, and no one else realised it, was in imminent danger of an attack of nervous prostration. the last few days nan had begun to suspect this, but as nothing could be done to check patty's mad career, or even to assist her in the many things she had to do, nan devoted her efforts to keeping patty strengthened and stimulated, and was constantly appearing to her with a cup of hot beef tea, or of strong coffee, or a dose of some highly recommended nerve tonic. although these produced good temporary effects, the continued use of these remedies really aggravated patty's condition, and when thursday came she was almost a wreck, both physically and mentally, and nan was at her wits' end to know how to get the girl through the day. at the summons of her alarm clock patty rose early in the morning, for there was much to do by way of final preparation. before breakfast she had attended to many left-over odds and ends, and when she appeared at the table she said only an absent-minded "good-morning," and then knit her brows as if in deep and anxious thought. mr. and mrs. fairfield looked at each other. they knew that to say a word to patty by way of warning would be likely to precipitate the breakdown that they feared, so they were careful to speak very casually and gently. "anything i can do for you to-day, puss?" said her father, kindly. "no," said patty, still frowning; "but i wish the flowers would come. i have to make twenty-four garlands before i go over to the schoolroom, and i must be there by ten o'clock to look after the building of the platform." "can't i make the garlands for you?" asked nan. "no," said patty, "they have to be made a special way, and you'd only spoil them." "but if you showed me," urged nan, patiently. "if you did two or three, perhaps i could copy them exactly; at any rate, let me try." "very well," said patty, dully, "i wish you could do them, i'm sure." the flowers were delayed, as is not unusual in such cases, and it was nearly ten when they arrived. patty was almost frantic by that time, and nan, as she afterward told her husband, had to "handle her with gloves on." but by dint of tact and patience, nan succeeded in persuading patty, after making two or three garlands, to leave the rest for her to do. although they were of complicated design, nan was clever at such things, and could easily copy patty's work. and had she been herself, patty would have known this. but so upset was she that even her common sense seemed warped. when she reached the schoolroom there were a thousand and one things to see to, and nearly all of them were going wrong. patty flew from one thing to another, straightening them out and bringing order from confusion, and though she held herself well in hand, the tension was growing tighter, and there was danger of her losing control of herself at any minute. hilda henderson was the only one who realised this, and, taking patty aside, she said to her, quietly, "look here, girl, i'll attend to everything else; there's not much left that needs special attention. and i want you to go right straight home, take a hot bath, and then lie down and rest until time to dress for the afternoon programme. will you?" patty looked at hilda with a queer, uncomprehending gaze. she seemed scarcely to understand what was being said to her. "yes," she said, but as she turned she half stumbled, and would have fallen to the floor if hilda had not caught her strongly by the arm. "brace up," she said, and her voice was stern because she was thoroughly frightened. "patty fairfield, don't you dare to collapse now! if you do, i'll--i don't know _what_ i'll do to you! come on, now, i'll go home with you." hilda was really afraid to let patty go alone, so hastily donning her hat and coat she went with her to her very door. "take this girl," she said to nan, "and put her to bed, and don't let her see anybody or say anything until the programme begins this afternoon. i'll look after everything that isn't finished, if you'll just keep her quiet." nan was thoroughly alarmed, but she only said, "all right, hilda, i'll take care of her, and thank you very much for bringing her home." patty sank down on a couch in a limp heap, but her eyes were big and bright as she looked at hilda, saying, "see that the stars are put on the gilt wands, and the green bay leaves on the white ones. lorraine's spangled skirt is in miss oliphant's room, and please be sure,--" patty didn't finish this sentence, but lay back among the cushions, exhausted. "run along, hilda," said nan; "do the best you can with the stars and things, and i'll see to it that patty's all right by afternoon." chapter viii commencement day nan was a born nurse, and, moreover, she had sufficient common sense and tact to know how to deal with nervous exhaustion. instead of discussing the situation she said, cheerily, "now everything will be all right. hilda will look after the stars and wands, and you can have quite a little time to rest before you go back to the schoolroom. don't try to go up to your room now, just stay right where you are, and i'll bring you a cup of hot milk, which is just what you need." patty nestled among the cushions which nan patted and tucked around her, and after taking the hot milk felt much better. "i must get up now, nan," she pleaded, from the couch where she lay, "i have so many things to attend to." "patty," said nan, looking at her steadily, "do you want to go through with the commencement exercises this afternoon and the play to-night successfully, or do you want to collapse on the stage and faint right before all the audience?" "i won't do any such foolish thing," said patty, indignantly. "you will," said nan, "unless you obey me implicitly, and do exactly as i tell you." nan's manner more than her words compelled patty's obedience, and with a sigh, the tired girl closed her eyes, saying, "all right, nan, have your own way, i'll be good." "that's a good child," said nan, soothingly, "and now first we'll go right up to your own room." then nan helped patty into a soft dressing gown, made her lie down upon her bed, and threw a light afghan over her. then sitting beside her, nan talked a little on unimportant matters and then began to sing softly. in less than half an hour patty was sound asleep, and nan breathed a sigh of relief at finding her efforts had been successful. but there was not much time to spare, for the commencement exercises began at three o'clock. so at two o'clock patty found herself gently awakened, to see nan at her bedside, arranging a dainty tray of luncheon which a maid had brought in. "here you are, girlie," said the cheery voice, "sit up now, and see what we have for you here." patty awoke a little bewildered, but soon gathered her scattered senses, and viewed with pleasure the broiled chicken and crisp salad before her. exhaustion had made her hungry, and while she ate, nan busied herself in getting out the pretty costume that patty was to wear at commencement. but the sight of the white organdie frock with its fluffy ruffles and soft laces brought back patty's apprehensions. "oh, nan," she cried in dismay, "i'm not nearly ready for commencement! i haven't copied my poem yet, and i haven't had a minute to practice reading it for the last two weeks. what shall i do?" "that's all attended to," said nan,--"the copying, i mean. you've been so busy doing other people's work, that of course you haven't had time to attend to your own, so i gave your poem to your father, and he had it typewritten for you, and here it is all ready. now, while you dress, i'll read it to you, and that will bring it back to your memory." "nan, you are a dear," cried patty, jumping up and flying across the room to give her stepmother a hearty caress. "whatever would i do without you? i'm all right now, and if you'll just elocute that thing, while i array myself in purple and fine linen, i'm sure it will all come back to me." so nan read patty's jolly little class poem line by line, and patty repeated it after her as she proceeded with her toilette. she was ready before the appointed time, and the carriage was at the door, but nan would not let her go. "no, my lady," she said, "you don't stir out of this house until the very last minute. if you get over there ahead of time, you'll begin to make somebody a new costume, or build a throne for the fairy queen, or some foolish trick like that. now you sit right straight down in that chair and read your poem over slowly, while i whip into my own clothes, and then we'll go along together. fred can't come until a little later anyway. sit still now, and don't wriggle around and spoil that pretty frock." patty obeyed like a docile child, and nan flew away to don her own pretty gown for the occasion. when she returned in a soft grey crêpe de chine, with a big grey hat and feathers, she was such a pretty picture that patty involuntarily exclaimed in admiration. "i'm glad you like it," said nan, "i want to look my best so as to do you credit, and in return i want you to do your best so as to do me credit." "i will," said patty, earnestly, "i truly will. you've been awfully good to me, nan, and but for you i don't know what i should have done." away they went, and when they reached the schoolroom, and patty went to join her classmates, while nan took her place in the audience, she said as a parting injunction, "now mind, patty, this afternoon you're to attend strictly to your own part in the programme. don't go around helping other people with their parts, because this isn't the time for that. you'll have all you can do to manage patty fairfield." patty laughed and promised, and ran away to the schoolroom. the moment she entered, half a dozen girls ran to her with questions about various details, and nan's warning was entirely forgotten. indeed had it not been for hilda's intervention, patty would have gone to work at a piece of unfinished scenery. "drop that hammer!" cried hilda, as patty was about to nail some branches of paper roses on to a wobbly green arbour. "patty fairfield, are you crazy? the idea of attempting carpenter work with that delicate frock on! do for pity's sake keep yourself decent until after you've read your poem at least!" patty looked at hilda with that same peculiar vacantness in her glance which she had shown in the morning, and though hilda said nothing, she was exceedingly anxious and kept a sharp watch on patty's movements. but it was then time for the girls to march onto the platform, and as patty seemed almost like herself, though unusually quiet, hilda hoped it was all right. the exercises were such as are found on most commencement programmes, and included class history, class prophecy, class song and all of the usual contributions to a commencement programme. patty's class poem was near the end of the list, and nan was glad, for she felt it would give the girl more time to regain her poise. mr. fairfield had arrived, and both he and nan waited anxiously for patty's turn to come. when it did come, patty proved herself quite equal to the occasion. her poem was merry and clever, and she read it with an entire absence of self-consciousness, and an apparent enjoyment of its fun. she looked very sweet and pretty in her dainty white dress, and she stood so gracefully and seemed so calm and composed, that only those who knew her best noticed the feverish brightness of her eyes and a certain tenseness of the muscles of her hands. but this was not unobserved by one in the audience. mr. hepworth, though seated far back, noted every symptom of patty's nervousness, however little it might be apparent to others. although she went through her ordeal successfully, he knew how much greater would be the excitement and responsibility of the evening's performance and he wished he could help her in some way. but there seemed to be nothing he could do, and though he had sent her a beautiful basket of roses, it was but one floral gift among so many that he doubted whether patty even knew that he sent it; and he also doubted if she would have cared especially if she had known it. like most of the graduates, patty received quantities of floral tributes. as the ushers came again and again with clusters or baskets of flowers, the audience heartily applauded, and patty, though embarrassed a little, preserved a pretty dignity, and showed a happy enjoyment of it all. as soon as the diplomas were awarded, and patty had her cherished roll tied with its blue ribbon, nan told mr. fairfield that it was imperative that patty should be made to go straight home. "if she stays there," said nan, "she'll get excited and exhausted, and be good for nothing to-night. i gave her some stimulants this noon, although she didn't know it, but the effects are wearing off and a reaction will soon set in. she must come home with us at once." "you are right, mrs. fairfield," said mr. hepworth, who had crossed the room and joined them just in time to hear nan's last words. "patty is holding herself together by sheer nervous force, and she needs care if she is to keep up through the evening." "that is certainly true," said nan. "kenneth," she added, turning to young harper, who stood near by, "you have a good deal of influence with patty. go and get her, won't you? make her come at once." "all right," said kenneth, and he was off in a moment, while mr. hepworth looked after him, secretly wishing that the errand might have been entrusted to him. but kenneth found his task no easy one. although patty willingly consented to his request, and even started toward the dressing-room to get her wraps, she paused so many times to speak to different ones, or her progress was stopped by anxious-looking girls who wanted her help or advice, that kenneth almost despaired of getting her away. "can't you make her come, hilda?" he said. "i'll try," said hilda, but when she tried, patty only said, "yes, hilda, in just a minute. i want to coach mary a little in her part, and i want to show hester where to stand in the third act." "never mind," said hilda, impatiently. "let her stand on the roof, if she wants to, but for goodness' sake go on home. your people are waiting for you." again patty looked at her with that queer vacant gaze, and then lorraine hart stepped forward and took matters in her own hands. "march!" she said, as she grasped patty's arm, and steered her toward the dressing-room. "halt!" she said after they reached it, and then while patty stood still, seemingly dazed, lorraine put her cloak about her, threw her scarf over her head, wheeled her about, and marched her back to where kenneth stood waiting. "take her quick," she said. "take her right to the carriage; don't let her stop to speak to anybody." so kenneth grasped patty's arm firmly and led her through the crowd of girls, out of the door, and down the walk to the carriage. ordinarily, patty would have resented this summary treatment, but still in a half-dazed way she meekly went where she was led. once in the carriage, nan sat beside her and mr. fairfield opposite, and they started for home. no reference was made to patty herself, but the others talked lightly and pleasantly of the afternoon performance. on reaching home, nan put patty to bed at once, and telephoned for the doctor. but when dr. martin came, nan met him downstairs, and told him all about the case. they then decided that the doctor should not see patty, as to realise the fact that she was in need of medical attendance might prove a serious shock. "and really, doctor," said nan, "if the girl shouldn't be allowed at least to try to go through with the play this evening, i wouldn't like to answer for the consequences." "i understand," said dr. martin, "and though i think that with the aid of certain prescriptions i shall give you, she can probably get through the evening, it would be far better if she did not attempt it." "i know it doctor," said nan, "and with some girls it might be possible to persuade them to give it up, but i can't help feeling that if we even advised patty not to go to-night, she would fly into violent hysterics." "very likely," said dr. martin, "and i think, mrs. fairfield, you are right in your diagnosis. if you will give her these drops exactly as i have directed, i think she will brace up sufficiently to go through her part all right." nan thanked the doctor, and hurried back to patty's room to look after her charge. she found patty lying quietly, but in a state of mental excitement. when nan came in, she began to talk rapidly. "it's all right, nan, dear," she said. "i'm not ill a bit. please let me get up now, and dress so i can go around to the schoolroom a little bit early. there are two or three things i must look after, and then the play will go off all right." "very well," said nan, humouring her, "if you will just take this medicine it will brace you up for the evening, and you can go through with the play as successfully as you did your part this afternoon." patty agreed, and took the drops the doctor had left, without a murmur. soon their soothing effect became apparent, and patty's nervous enthusiasm quieted down to such an extent that she seemed in no haste to go. she ate her dinner slowly, and dawdled over her dressing, until nan again became alarmed lest the medicine had been too powerful. poor nan really had a hard time of it. patty was not a tractable patient, and nan was frequently at her wits' end to know just how to manage her. but at last she was ready, and they all started for the school again. although patty's own people, and a few of her intimate girl friends knew of her overwrought state, most of the class and even the teachers had no idea how near to a nervous breakdown she was. for her demeanour was much as usual, and though she would have moments of dazed bewilderment, much of the time she was unusually alert and she flew about attending to certain last details in an efficient and clear-headed manner. chapter ix the play the play went through beautifully. every girl did her part wonderfully well, but patty surpassed them all. buoyed up by excitement, she played her part with a dash and sprightliness that surprised even the girls who had seen her at rehearsal. she was roguish, merry and tragic by turns, and she sang her solos with a dramatic effect that brought down the house. she looked unusually pretty, which was partly the effect of her intense excitement, and though nan and mr. fairfield could not help admiring and applauding with the rest, they were very anxious and really alarmed, lest she might not be able to keep up to these emotional heights until the end of the play. without speaking his thoughts to anyone else, mr. hepworth, too, was very much concerned for patty's welfare. he realised the danger she was in, and noted every evidence of her artificial strength and merriment. seeing dr. martin in a seat near the back of the room, he quietly rose and went and sat beside the old gentleman. "doctor," he said, "i can't help fearing that a collapse of some sort will follow miss fairfield's performance." "i am sure of it," said the doctor, looking gravely at mr. hepworth. "then don't you think perhaps it would be wise for you to go around behind the scenes, presently, and be there in case of emergency." "i will gladly do so," said dr. martin, "if mr. and mrs. fairfield authorise it." mr. hepworth looked at his programme, and then he looked at patty. he knew the play pretty thoroughly, and he knew that she was making one of the final speeches. he saw too, that she had nearly reached the limit of her endurance, and he said, "dr. martin, i wish you would go on my authority. the fairfields are sitting in the front part of the house, and it would be difficult to speak to them about it without creating a commotion. and besides, i think there is no time to be lost; this is almost the end of the play, and in my judgment, miss fairfield is pretty nearly at the end of her self-composure." dr. martin gave the younger man a searching glance, and then said, "you are right, mr. hepworth. it may be advisable that i should be there when miss fairfield comes off the stage. i will go at once. will you come with me?" "yes," said mr. hepworth, and the two men quietly left the room, and hastened around the building to the side entrance. as mr. hepworth had assisted with the scenery for the play, and had been present at one or two rehearsals, he knew his way about, and guided dr. martin through the corridors to the room where the girls were gathered, waiting their cue to go on the stage for the final tableau and chorus. lorraine and hilda looked at each other comprehendingly, as the two men appeared, but the other girls wondered at this apparent intrusion. then as the time came, they all went on the stage, and dr. martin and mr. hepworth, watching from the side, saw them form the pretty final tableau. patty in a spangled dress and tinsel crown, waving a gilt wand, stood on a high pedestal. around her, on lower pedestals, and on the floor, were the rest of the fairy maidens in their glittering costumes. the last notes of the chorus rang out, and amidst a burst of applause the curtain fell. the applause continued so strongly that the curtain was immediately raised again, and the delighted audience viewed once more the pretty scene. mr. hepworth was nearer the stage than dr. martin, in fact, in his anxiety, he was almost edging on to it, and while the curtain was up, and the audience was applauding, and the orchestra was playing, and the calcium lights were flashing their vari-coloured rays, his intense watchfulness noticed a slight shudder pass over patty's form, then she swayed slightly, and her eyes closed. in a flash mr. hepworth had himself rung the bell that meant the drop of the curtain, and as the curtain came down, he sprang forward among the bewildered girls, and reached the tall pedestal just in time to catch patty as she tottered and fell. "she has only fainted," he said, as he carried her off the stage, "please don't crowd around, she will be all right in a moment." he carried her to the dressing-room and gently laid her on a couch. dr. martin followed closely, and mr. hepworth left patty in his charge. "you, miss hamilton, go in there," he said to lorraine, at the door, "and see if you can help dr. martin. i will speak to the fairfields and see that the carriage is ready. i don't think the audience knows anything about it, and there need be no fuss or commotion." quick-witted hilda grasped the situation, and kept the crowd of anxious girls out of the dressing-room, while dr. martin administered restoratives to patty. but it was not so easy to overcome the faintness that had seized upon her. when at last she did open her eyes, it was only to close them again in another period of exhaustion. however, this seemed to encourage dr. martin. "it's better than i feared," he said. "she isn't delirious. there is no threat of brain fever. she will soon revive now, and we can safely take her home." and so when the doctor declared that she might now be moved, mr. fairfield supported her on one side, and kenneth on the other as they took her to the carriage. "get in, mrs. fairfield," said kenneth, after patty was safely seated by her father, "and you too, dr. martin. i'll jump up on the box with the driver. perhaps i can help you at the house." so away they went, without a word or a thought for poor mr. hepworth, to whose watchfulness was really due the fact of dr. martin's opportune assistance. and too, if mr. hepworth had not seen the first signs of patty's loss of consciousness, her fall from the high pedestal might have proved a serious accident. although dr. martin told the family afterward of mr. hepworth's kind thoughtfulness, it went unnoted at the time. but of this, mr. hepworth himself was rather glad than otherwise. his affection for patty was such that he did not wish the girl to feel that she owed him gratitude, and he preferred to have no claim of the sort upon her. when the party reached the fairfield house, patty had revived enough to talk rationally, but she was very weak, and seemed to have lost all enthusiasm and even interest in the occasion. "it's all over, isn't it?" she asked of her father in a helpless, pathetic little voice. "yes, puss," said mr. fairfield, cheerily, "it's all over, and it was a perfect success. now don't bother your head about it any more, but just get rested, and get a good sleep, and then we'll talk it over." patty was quite willing not to discuss the subject, and with nan's assistance she was soon in bed and sound asleep. dr. martin stood watching her. "i don't know," he said to nan, "whether this sleep will last or not. if it does all will be well, but she may wake up soon, and become nervous and hysterical. in that case give her these drops, which will have a speedy effect. i will be around again early to-morrow morning." but the doctor's fears were not realised. patty slept deeply all through the night, and had not waked when the doctor came in the morning. "don't waken her," he said, as he looked at the sleeping girl. "she's all right. there's no fear of nervous prostration now. the stress is over, and her good constitution and healthy nature are reasserting themselves and will conquer. she isn't of a nervous temperament, and she is simply exhausted from overwork. don't waken her, let her sleep it out." and so patty slept until afternoon, and then awoke, feeling more like her old self than she had for many days. "nan," she called, and nan came flying in from the next room. "i'm awful hungry," said patty, "and i am pretty tired, but the play is over, isn't it, nan? i can't seem to remember about last night." "yes, it's over, patsy, and everything is all right, and you haven't a thing to do but get rested. will you have your breakfast now, or your luncheon?--because you've really skipped both." "then i'll have them both," said patty with decision. "i'm hungry enough to eat a house." later, patty insisted on dressing and going downstairs for dinner, declaring she felt perfectly well, but the exertion tired her more than she cared to admit, and when dr. martin came in the evening, she questioned him directly. "i'm not really ill, am i, dr. martin? i'll be all right in a day or two, won't i? it's so silly to get tired just walking downstairs." "don't be alarmed," said the old doctor, "you will be all right in a day or two. by day after to-morrow you can walk downstairs, or run down, if you like, without feeling tired at all." "then that's all right," said patty. "i suppose i did do too much with my school work, and the play, and everything, but i couldn't seem to help it, and if i get over it in a week i'll be satisfied. in fact, i shan't mind a bit, lounging around and resting for a few days." "that's just the thing for you to do," agreed dr. martin, "and i'll give you another prescription. after a week or two of rest, you need recreation. you must get out of the city, and go somewhere in the country. not seashore or the mountains just yet, but away into the country, where you'll have plenty of fresh air and nothing to do. you mustn't look at a book of any sort or description for a month or two at least. will you promise me that?" "with great pleasure," said patty, gaily, "i don't think i shall care to see a book all summer long; not a schoolbook anyway. i suppose i may read storybooks." "not at present," said the doctor. "let alone books of all sorts for a couple of months, and after that i'll see about it. what you want is plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise. then you'll get back the roses in your cheeks, and add a few pounds of flesh to your attenuated frame." "your prescription sounds attractive," said patty, "but where shall i go?" "we'll arrange all that," said mr. fairfield. "i think myself that all you need is recreation and rest, with a fair proportion of each." "so do i," said patty; "i don't want to go to an old farmhouse, where there isn't a thing to do but walk in the orchard; i want to go where i'll have some fun." "go ahead," said the doctor, "fun won't hurt you any as long as it's outdoor sports or merry society. but don't get up any plays, or any such foolishness, where fun is only a mistaken name for hard work." patty promised this, and dr. martin went away without any doubts as to the speedy and entire recovery of his patient. mr. fairfield and nan quite agreed with the doctor's opinion that patty ought to go away for a rest and a pleasant vacation. the next thing was to decide where she should go. it was out of the question, of course, to consider any strange place for her to go alone, and as mr. fairfield could not begin his vacation until july, and nan was not willing to leave him, there seemed to be no one to accompany patty. the only places, therefore, that mr. fairfield could think of, were for her to go to vernondale and visit the elliotts, or down to the hurly-burly where the barlows had already gone for their summer season. but neither of these plans suited patty at all, for she said that vernondale would be no rest and not much fun. she was fond of her elliott cousins, but she felt sure that they would treat her as a semi-invalid and coddle her until she went frantic. the hurly-burly, she said, would be just the opposite. they would have no consideration down there for the fact that she wanted a rest, but would make her jog about hither and thither, taking long tramps and going on tiresome picnics whether she wanted to or not. so neither of these plans seemed just the thing, and nan's proposal that patty go to philadelphia and spend june with mrs. allen wasn't quite what patty wanted. indeed, patty did not know herself exactly what she wanted, which was pretty good proof that she was not so far from the borders of nervous land as they had believed. and so when elise came over one afternoon, and brought with her an invitation for patty, that young woman showed no hesitation in announcing at once that it was exactly what she wanted. the invitation was nothing more nor less than to go on a long motor-car trip with the farringtons. "it will be perfectly splendid," said elise, "if you'll only go, patty." "go!" said patty, "i should think i would go! it's perfectly splendid of you to invite me. who are going?" "just father and mother, and roger and myself," said elise, "and you will make five. roger can run the car, or father can, either, for that matter, so we won't take a man, and father has had a new top put on his big touring-car and we can pile any amount of luggage up on it, so you can take all the frocks you want to. we'll stop at places here and there, you know, to visit, and of course, we'll always stop for meals and to stay over night." "but perhaps they wouldn't want me," said patty, "where you go to visit." "nonsense, of course they will. why, i wrote to bertha warner that i wanted to bring you, and she said she'd love to have you come." "how could she say so? she doesn't know me." "well, i told her all about you, and she's fully prepared to love you as i do. oh, do you suppose your people will let you go?" "of course they will. they'll be perfectly delighted to have me go." patty was right. when she told her father and nan about the delightful invitation, they were almost as pleased as she was herself, and mr. fairfield gave ready permission. the projected trip entirely fulfilled dr. martin's requisites of fresh air, out-of-door exercise, and a good time, and when he was told of the plan he also expressed his entire approval. chapter x a motor trip preparations began at once. it was now the first of june and they were to start on the sixth. there were delightful shopping excursions for the replenishing of patty's wardrobe, and nan gladly assisted patty to get everything in order for her trip. at last the day of starting came, and a more beautiful day could not be imagined. it was typical june weather, and the sun shone pleasantly, but not too warmly, from a clear blue sky. patty's only experience in motoring had been her trip to atlantic city, but that was only a short ride compared to the contemplated tour of the farringtons. mr. farrington's huge car seemed to be furnished with everything necessary for a long journey. although they would usually take their meals at hotels in the towns through which they passed, mrs. farrington explained they might occasionally wish to have tea or even luncheon on the road, so the car was provided with both tea-basket and luncheon-kit. the novelty of this paraphernalia was fascinating to patty, and she peeped into the well-appointed baskets with chuckles of delight at the anticipated pleasure of making use of them. patty's trunk was put up on top among the others, her hand-luggage was stowed away in its place, and with affectionate good-byes to nan and her father, she took her seat in the tonneau between mrs. farrington and elise, and away they started. mr. farrington and roger, who sat in front, were in the gayest of spirits and everything was promising for a happy journey. as they threaded their way through the crowded city streets, patty rejoiced to think that they would soon be out in the open country where they would have wide roads with comparatively few travellers. "what is the name of your machine, mr. farrington?" she asked, as they whizzed along. "i may as well own up," that gentleman answered, laughing. "i have named it 'the fact.'" "'the fact,'" repeated patty, "what a funny name. why do you call it that? you must have some reason." "i have," said mr. farrington, in a tone of mock despair. "i call it the fact because it is a stubborn thing." patty laughed merrily at this. "i'm afraid it's a libel," she said, "i'm sure i don't see anything stubborn about the way it acts. it's going beautifully." "yes, it is," said mr. farrington, "and i hope it will continue to do so, but i may as well warn you that it has a most reprehensible habit of stopping now and then, and utterly refusing to proceed. and this, without any apparent reason, except sheer stubbornness." "how do you finally induce it to move?" asked patty, interested by this trait. "we don't induce it," said elise, "we just sit and wait, and when the old thing gets ready to move, it just draws a long breath and humps itself up and down a few times, and turns a couple of somersaults, and moves on." "what an exciting experience," said patty. "when do you think it will begin any such performance as that?" "you can't tell," said mr. farrington. "it's as uncertain as the weather." "more so," said roger. "the weather sometimes gives you warning of its intentions, but the fact just selects a moment when you're the farthest possible distance from civilisation or help of any kind, and then it just sits down and refuses to get up." "well, we won't cross that bridge until we come to it," said mr. farrington. "sometimes we run a week without any such mishap." and truly there seemed no danger at present, for the big car drove ahead as smoothly and easily as a railroad train, and patty lay back in the luxurious tonneau, feeling that at last she could get rested and have a good time both at once. the wonderful exhilaration of the swift motion through the soft june air, the delightful sensation of the breeze which was caused by the motion of the car, and the ever-changing natural panorama on either side of her, gave patty the sensation of having suddenly been transported to some other country than that in which she had been living the past few weeks. and so pleasantly friendly were her relations with mrs. farrington and elise that it did not seem necessary to make remarks for the sake of keeping up the conversation. there was much pleasant chat and discussion as they passed points of interest or diverting scenes, but then again there were occasional pauses when they all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the delightful motion of the car. patty began to realise what was meant by the phrase, "automobile elation." she seemed to feel an uplifting of her spirit, and a strange thrill of exquisite happiness, while all trace of nervousness or petty worry was brushed away like a cobweb. her lungs seemed filled with pure air, and further, she had a whimsical sense that she was breathing the very blue of the sky. she said this to mrs. farrington, and that lady smiled as she answered, "that's right, patty; if you feel that way, you are a true motorist. not everyone does. there are some who only look upon a motor-car as a machine to transport them from one place to another, but to me it is the very fairyland of motion." patty's eyes shone in sympathy with this idea, but roger turned around laughingly, and said, "you'd better be careful how you breathe the blue sky, patty, for there's a little cloud over there that may stick in your throat." patty looked at the tiny white cloud, and responded, "if you go much faster, roger, i'm afraid we'll fly right up there, and run over that poor little cloud." "let's do it," said roger. "there's no fine for running over a cloud, is there, dad?" as he spoke, roger put on a higher speed, and then they flew so fast that patty began to be almost frightened. but her fear did not last long, for in a moment the great car gave a kind of a groan, and then a snort, and then a wheeze, and stopped; not suddenly, but with a provokingly determined slowness, that seemed to imply no intention of moving on again. after a moment the great wheels ceased to revolve, and the car stood stubbornly still, while mr. farrington and roger looked at each other, with faces of comical dismay. "we're in for it!" said mr. farrington, in a resigned tone. "then we must get out for it!" said roger, as he jumped down from his seat, and opened the tool-chest. mrs. farrington groaned. "now, you see, patty," she said, "how the car lives up to its name. i hoped this wouldn't happen so soon." "what is the matter?" asked patty. "why doesn't it go?" "patty," said elise, looking at her solemnly, "i see you have yet to learn the first lesson of automobile etiquette. never, my child, whatever happens, _never_ inquire why a car doesn't go! that is something that nobody ever knows, and they wouldn't tell if they did know, and, besides, if they did know, they'd know wrong." mrs. farrington laughed at elise's coherent explanation, but she admitted that it was pretty nearly right, after all. meanwhile, mr. farrington and roger, with various queer-looking tools, were tinkering at the car here and there, and though they did not seem to be doing any good, yet they were evidently not discouraged, for they were whistling gaily, and now and then made jesting remarks about the hopelessness of ever moving on again. "i think there's water in the tubes," said roger, "but dad thinks it's a choked carburetter. so we're going to doctor for both." "very well," said mrs. farrington, calmly; "as there's no special scenery to look at about here, i think i shall take a little nap. you girls can get out and stroll around, if you like." mrs. farrington settled herself comfortably in her corner, and closed her eyes. elise and patty did get out, and walked up and down the road a little, and then sat down on the bank by the roadside to chat. for the twentieth time or more they talked over all the details of commencement day, and congratulated themselves anew on the success of their entertainment. at last, after they had waited nearly two hours, roger declared that there was no earthly reason why they shouldn't start if they cared to. it was part of roger's fun, always to pretend that he could go on at any moment if he desired to, and when kept waiting by the misconduct of the car, he always made believe that he delayed the trip solely for his own pleasure. likewise, if under such trying circumstances as they had just passed through, he heard other automobiles or wagons coming, he would drop his tools, lean idly against the car, with his hands in his pockets, whistling, and apparently waiting there at his own pleasure. all this amused patty very much, and she began, as elise said, to learn the rules of automobile etiquette. it was not difficult with the farringtons, for they all had a good sense of humour, and were always more inclined to laugh than cry over spilled milk. when roger made this announcement, elise jumped up, and crying, "come on, patty," ran back to the car and jumped in, purposely waking her mother as she did so. mrs. farrington placidly took in the situation, and remarked that she was in no hurry, but if they cared to go on she was quite ready. and so with laughter and gay chatter they started on again, and the car ran as smoothly as it had before the halt. but it was nearly sundown, and there were many miles yet to travel before they reached the hotel where they had expected to dine and stay over night. "shall we go on, mother?" said mr. farrington. "can you wait until nine o'clock or thereabouts for your dinner? or shall we stop at some farmhouse, and so keep ourselves from starvation?" "i would rather go on," said mrs. farrington, "if the girls don't mind." the girls didn't mind, and so they plunged ahead while the sun set and the darkness fell. there was no moon, and a slight cloudiness hid the stars. roger lighted the lamps, but they cast such weird shadows that they seemed to make the darkness blacker than ever. patty was not exactly afraid, but the experience was so new to her that she felt she would be glad when they reached the hotel. perhaps mr. farrington discerned this, for he took especial pains to entertain his young guest, and divert her mind from thoughts of possible danger. so he beguiled the way with jokes and funny stories, until patty forgot her anxiety, and the first thing she knew they were rolling up the driveway to the hotel. floods of light streamed from the windows and the great doors, and strains of music could be heard from within. "thank goodness we're here!" said mrs. farrington. "jump out, girlies, and let us seek shelter at once." roger remained in the car to take it away to the garage, and mr. farrington accompanied the ladies into the hotel. much as she had enjoyed the ride, patty felt glad to get into the warm, lighted house, and very soon the party were shown to their rooms. patty and elise shared a large room whose twin beds were covered with spreads of gaily-flowered chintz. curtains of the same material hung at the windows, and draped the dressing-table. "what a pleasant, homelike room," said patty, as she looked about. "yes," said elise, "this is a nice old country hotel. we've been here before. hurry, patty, let's dress for dinner quickly." but patty was surveying herself in the long pierglass that hung between two windows. nan had selected her motoring outfit, and she had donned it that morning so hastily that she hadn't really had an opportunity to observe herself. but now, as she looked at the rather shapeless figure in the long pongee coat, and the queer shirred hood of the same material, and as she noted the voluminous chiffon veil with its funny little front window of mica, she concluded that she looked more like a goblin in a fairy play than a human being. "do stop admiring your new clothes, patty, and get dressed," said elise, who was on her knees before an open suitcase, shaking out patty's skirt and bodice. "get off those togs, and get ready to put these on. this is a sweet little dresden silk; i didn't know you had it. is it new?" "yes," said patty, "nan bought it for me. she said it wouldn't take much room in the suitcase, and would be useful for a dinner dress." "it's lovely," said elise. "now get into it, and i'll hook you up." so patty got out of what she called her goblin clothes, but was still giggling at them as she hung them away in the wardrobe. less than half an hour later the two girls, spick and span in their dainty dresses, and with fresh white bows on their hair, went together down the staircase. they found mr. and mrs. farrington awaiting them, and soon roger appeared, and they went to the dining-room for a late dinner. then patty discovered what automobile hunger was. "i'm simply ravenous," she declared, "but i didn't know it until this minute." "that's part of the experience," said mrs. farrington, "the appetite caused by motoring is the largest known variety, and that's why i wanted to push on here, where we could get a good dinner, instead of taking our chances at some farmhouse." they were the only guests in the dining-room at that late hour, and so they made a merry meal of it, and after dinner went back to the large parlours, to sit for a while listening to the music. but they did not tarry long, for as patty discovered, another consequence of a motor ride was a strong inclination to go to bed early. chapter xi dick phelps the travellers did not rise early the next morning, and ten o'clock found them still seated at the breakfast table. "i do hate to hurry," said mrs. farrington, comfortably sipping her coffee. "so many people think that an automobile tour means getting up early, and hustling off at daybreak." "i'm glad those are your sentiments," said patty, "for i quite agree with you. i've done enough hustling the last month or two, and i'm delighted to take things more slowly for a change." "i think," said mr. farrington, "that as it is such a pleasant day, it would be a good plan to take some luncheon with us and picnic by the roadside. we could then get to the warners'in time for dinner, though perhaps a little late." "lovely!" cried elise, "i'm perfectly crazy to use that new luncheon-kit. it's great, patty! it has the cunningest alcohol stove, and every little contraption you could possibly think of." "i know it," said patty. "i peeped inside yesterday, and the array of forks and spoons and plates and bottles was perfectly fascinating." "very well," said mrs. farrington to her husband, "ask them to fill the kit properly, and i think myself we will enjoy a little picnic." so mr. farrington went to see about the provisions, and roger to get the car ready, while the ladies sauntered about the piazza. the route of their journey lay along the shore of long island sound, and the hotel where they had stayed over night was not far from new haven, and quite near the water's edge. patty was very fond of the water, and gazed with delight at the sparkling sound, dotted with white steamers and various sorts of fishing-craft. for her part she would have been glad to stay longer at this hotel, but the warners, whom they were going to visit, were expecting them to dinner that evening. these people, patty knew, lived in a beautiful country place called "pine branches," which was near springfield in massachusetts. patty did not know the warners, but elise had assured her that they were delightful people and were prepared to give her a warm welcome. when the car came to the door the ladies were all ready to continue the journey. they had again donned their queer-looking motor-clothes, and though patty was beginning to get used to their appearance, they still seemed to her like a trio of brownies or other queer beings as they took their seats in the car. roger climbed to his place, touched a lever by his side, and swung the car down the drive with an air of what seemed to patty justifiable pride. the freshly cleaned car was so daintily spick and span, the day was so perfect, and the merry-hearted passengers in such a gay and festive mood, that there was indeed reason for a feeling of general satisfaction. away they went at a rapid speed, which patty thought must be beyond the allowed limit, but roger assured her to the contrary. for many miles their course lay along a fine road which followed the shore of the sound. this delighted patty, as she was still able to gaze out over the blue water, and at the same time enjoy the wonderful motion of the car. but soon their course changed and they turned inland, on the road to hartford. patty was surprised at roger's knowledge of the way, but the young man was well provided with road maps and guidebooks, of which he had made careful study. "how beautifully the car goes," said patty. "it doesn't make the least fuss, even on the upgrades." "you must learn the vocabulary, patty," said roger. "when a machine goes smoothly as the fact is doing now, the proper expression is that it runs sweetly." "sweetly!" exclaimed patty. "how silly. it sounds like a gushing girl." "that doesn't matter," said roger, serenely. "if you go on motor trips, you must learn to talk motor-jargon." "all right," said patty, "i'm willing to learn, and i do think the way this car goes it is just too sweet for anything!" they all laughed at this, but their gaiety was short-lived, for just then there was a peculiar crunching sound that seemed to mean disaster, judging from the expressions of dismay on the faces of the farrington family. "what is it?" asked patty, forgetting that she had been told never to ask questions on such occasions. "patty," said roger, making a comical face at her, "my countenance now presents an expression typical of disgust, irritation, and impatience. i now wave my right hand thus, which is a delsarte gesture expressing exasperation with a trace of anger. i next give voice to my sentiments, merely to remark in my usual calm and disinterested way, that a belt has broken and the mending thereof will consume a portion of time, the length of which may be estimated only after it has elapsed." patty laughed heartily at this harangue, but gathered from roger's nonsense the interesting fact that an accident had occurred, and that a delay was inevitable. nobody seemed especially surprised. indeed, they took it quite as a matter of course, and mrs. farrington opened a new magazine which she had brought with her, and calmly settled herself to read. but elise said, "well, i'm already starving with hunger, and i think we may as well open that kit of provisions, and have our picnic right here, while roger is mending the belt." "elise," said her father jestingly, "you sometimes show signs of almost human intelligence! your plan is a positive inspiration, for i confess that i myself feel the gnawings of hunger. let us eat the hard-boiled eggs and ham sandwiches that we have with us, and then if we like, we can stop at hartford this afternoon for a more satisfying lunch, as i begin to think we will not reach pine branches until sometime later than their usual dinner hour." they all agreed to this plan, and roger, with his peculiar sensitiveness toward being discovered with his car at a disadvantage, said seriously: "i see a racing machine coming, and when it passes us i hope you people will act as if we had stopped here only to lunch, and not because this ridiculous belt chose to break itself just now." this trait of roger's amused patty very much, but she was quite ready to humour her friend, and agreed to do her part. she looked where roger had indicated, and though she could see what looked like a black speck on a distant road, she wondered how roger could know it was a racing machine that was approaching. however, she realised that there were many details of motoring of which she had as yet no idea, and she turned her attention to helping the others spread out the luncheon. the beautifully furnished basket was a delight to patty. she was amazed to see how cleverly a large amount of paraphernalia could be stowed in a small amount of space. the kit was arranged for six persons, and contained half-dozens of knives, forks, spoons, and even egg-spoons; also plates, cups, napkins, and everything with which to serve a comfortable meal. there were sandwich-boxes, salad-boxes, butter-jars, tea and coffee cans, salt, pepper, and all necessary condiments. then there was the alcohol stove, with its water-kettle and chafing dish. at the sight of all these things, which seemed to come out of the kit as out of a magician's hat, patty's eyes danced. "let me cook," she begged, and mrs. farrington and elise were only too glad to be relieved of this duty. there wasn't much cooking to do, as sandwiches, cold meats, salad, and sweets were lavishly provided, but patty made tea, and then boiled a few eggs just for the fun of doing it. preparations for the picnic were scarcely under way when the racing-car that roger had seen in the distance came near them. there was a whirring sound as it approached, and patty glanced up from her alcohol stove to see that it was occupied by only one man. he was slowing speed, and evidently intended to stop. long before he had reached them, roger had hidden his tools, and though his work on the broken belt was not completed, he busied himself with the luncheon preparations, as if that was his sole thought. the racing-car stopped and the man who was driving it got out. at sight of him patty with difficulty restrained her laughter, for though their own garb was queer, it was rational compared to the appearance of this newcomer. a racing suit is, with perhaps the exception of a diver's costume, the most absurd-looking dress a man can get into. the stranger's suit was of black rubber, tightly strapped at the wrists and ankles, but it was his head-gear which gave the man his weird and uncanny effect. it was a combination of mask, goggles, hood, earflaps, and neckshield which was so arranged with hinges that the noseguard and mouthpiece worked independently of each other. at any rate, it seemed to patty the funniest show she had ever seen, and she couldn't help laughing. the man didn't seem to mind, however, and after he had bowed silently for a moment or two with great enjoyment of their mystification, he pulled off his astonishing head-gear and disclosed his features. "dick phelps!" exclaimed mr. farrington, "why, how are you, old man? i'm right down glad to see you!" mr. phelps was a friend of the farrington family, and quite naturally they invited him to lunch with them. "indeed i will," said the visitor, "for i started at daybreak, and i've had nothing to eat since. i can't tarry long though, as i must make new york city to-night." mr. phelps was a good-looking young man of about thirty years, and so pleased was he with patty's efforts in the cooking line, that he ate all the eggs she had boiled, and drank nearly all the tea, besides making serious inroads on the viands they had brought with them. "it doesn't matter if i do eat up all your food," said the young man, pleasantly, "for you can stop anywhere and get more, but i mustn't stop again until i reach the city, and i probably won't have a chance to eat then, as i must push on to long island." the farringtons were quite willing to refresh the stranger within their gates, and they all enjoyed the merry little picnic. "where are you bound?" asked mr. phelps as he prepared to continue his way. "to pine branches first," said mrs. farrington, "the country house of a friend. it's near springfield, and from there we shall make short trips, and later on, continue our way in some other direction,--which way we haven't yet decided." "good enough," said mr. phelps, "then i'll probably see you again. i am often a guest at pine branches myself, and shall hope to run across you." as every motorist is necessarily interested in his friend's car, mr. phelps naturally turned to inspect the farrington machine before getting into his own. and so, to roger's chagrin, he was obliged to admit that he was even then under the necessity of mending a broken belt. but to roger's relief, mr. phelps took almost no notice of it, merely saying that a detail defect was liable to happen to anybody. he looked over the vital parts of the motor, and complimented roger on its fine condition. this pleased the boy greatly, and resuming his work after mr. phelps' departure, he patched up the belt, while the others repacked the kit, and soon they started off again. swiftly and smoothly they ran along over the beautiful roads, occasionally meeting other touring-parties apparently as happy as they were themselves. sometimes they exchanged merry greetings as they passed, for all motorists belong to one great, though unorganised, fraternity. "i've already discovered that trifling accidents are a part of the performance, and i've also discovered that they're easily remedied and soon over, and that when they are over they are quickly forgotten and it seems impossible that they should ever occur again." "you've sized it up pretty fairly, patty," said roger, "and though i never before thought it out for myself, i agree with you that that is the true way to look at it." on they went, leaving the miles behind them, and as roger was anxious to make up for lost time he went at a slightly higher speed than he would have otherwise done. he slowed down, however, when they passed horses or when they went through towns or villages. patty was greatly interested in the many small villages through which they rode, as nearly every one showed quaint or humorous scenes. dogs would come out and bark at them, children would scream after them, and even the grown-up citizens of the hamlets would stare at them as if they had never seen a motor-car before, though patty reasoned that surely many of them must have travelled that same road. "when you meet another village, roger," she said, "do go through it more slowly, for i like to see the funny people." "very well," said roger, "you may stop and get a drink at the town pump, if you like." "no, thank you," said patty, "i don't want to get out, but i would like to stop a minute or two in one of them." roger would willingly have granted patty's wish, but he was deprived of this privilege by the car itself. just as they neared a small settlement known as huntley's corners, another ominous sound from the machine gave warning. "that belt again!" exclaimed roger. "patty, the probabilities are that you'll have all the time you want to study up this village, and even learn the life history of the oldest inhabitant." "what an annoying belt it is," said mrs. farrington in her pleasant way. "don't you think, roger dear, that you had better get a new belt and be done with it?" "that's just what i do think, mother, but somehow i can't persuade myself that they keep them for sale at this corner grocery." the car had reached the only store in the settlement, and stopped almost in front of it. patty was beginning to learn the different kinds of stops that a motor-car can make, and she felt pretty sure that this was not a momentary pause, but a stop that threatened a considerable delay. she said as much to roger, and he replied, "patty, you're an apt pupil. the fact has paused here not for a day, but for all time, unless something pretty marvellous can be done in the way of belt mending!" patty began to think that accidents were of somewhat frequent occurrence, but elise said, cheerfully, "this seems to be an off day. why, sometimes we run sweetly for a week, without a word from the belt. don't we, roger?" "yes, indeed," said roger, "but patty may as well get used to the seamy side of motoring, and learn to like it." "i do like it," declared patty, "and if we are going to take up our abode here for the present, i'm going out to explore the town." she jumped lightly from the car, and, accompanied by elise, strolled down the main, and, indeed, the only street of the village. chapter xii old china a few doors away from the country store in front of which the automobile stood, the girls saw a quaint old house, with a few toys and candies displayed for sale in a front window. "isn't it funny?" said elise, looking in at the unattractive collection. "see that old-fashioned doll, and just look at that funny jumping-jack!" "yes," said patty, whose quick eye had caught sight of something more interesting, "but just look at that plate of peppermint candies. the plate, i mean. why, elise, it's a millennium plate!" "what's that?" said elise, looking blank. "a millennium plate? why, elise, it's about the most valuable bit of old china there is in this country! why, nan would go raving crazy over that. i'd rather take it home to her than any present i could buy in the city shop. elise, do you suppose whoever keeps this little store would sell that plate?" "no harm in trying," said elise, "there's plenty of time, for it will take roger half an hour to fix that belt. let's go in and ask her." "no, no," said patty, "that isn't the way. wait a minute. i've been china hunting before, with nan, and with other people, and you mustn't go about it like that. we must go in as if we were going to buy some of her other goods, and then we'll work around to the plate by degrees. you buy something else, elise, and leave the plate part to me." "very well, i think i'll buy that rag doll, though i'm sure i don't know what i'll ever do with it. no self-respecting child would accept it as a gift." "well, buy something," said patty, as they went in. the opening of the door caused a big bell to jingle, and this apparently called an old woman in from the back room. she was not very tidy, but she was a good-natured body, and smiled pleasantly at the two girls. "what is it, young ladies?" she asked, "can i sell you anything to-day?" "yes," said elise, gravely, "i was passing your window, and i noticed a doll there,--that one with the blue gingham dress. how much is it, please?" "that one," said the old lady, "is fifty cents. seems sorter high, i know, but that 'ere doll was made by a blind girl, that lives a piece up the road; and though the sewin' ain't very good, it's a nine-days' wonder that she can do it at all. and them dolls is her only support, and land knows she don't sell hardly any!" "i'll give you a dollar for it," said elise, impulsively, for her generous heart was touched. "have you any more of them?" "no," said the woman, in some amazement. "malviny, she don't make many, 'cause they don't sell very rapid. but be you goin' her way? she might have one to home, purty nigh finished." "i don't know," said elise, "where does she live?" "straight along, on the main road. you can't miss it, an old yaller house, with the back burnt off." it was patty's turn now, and she said she would buy the peppermint candies that were in the window. "all of 'em?" asked the storekeeper, in surprise. "yes," said patty, "all of them," and as the old woman lifted the plate in from the window, patty added, "and if you care to part with it, i'll buy the plate too." "land, miss, that 'ere old plate ain't no good; it's got a crack in it, but if so be's you admire that pattern, i've got another in the keeping-room that's just like it, only 'tain't cracked. 'tain't even chipped." "would you care to part with them both?" asked patty, remembering that this phrase was the preferred formula of all china hunters. "laws, yes, miss, if you care to pay for 'em. of course, i can't sell 'em for nothin', for there's sometimes ladies as comes here, as has a fancy to them old things. but these two plates is so humbly, that i didn't have the face to show 'em to anybody as was lookin' for anteeks." patty's sense of honesty would not allow her to ignore the old woman's mistake. "they may seem homely to you," she said, "but i think it only right to tell you that these plates are probably the most valuable of any you have ever owned." "well, for the land o' goodness, ef you ain't honest! 'tain't many as would speak up like that! jest come in the back room, and look at the other plate." the girls followed the old woman as she raised a calico curtain of a flowered pattern, and let them through into the "keeping-room." "there," she said with some pride as she took down a plate from the high mantel. "there, you can see for yourself, there ain't no chip or crack into it." sure enough, patty held in her hand a perfect specimen of the millennium plate, so highly prized by collectors, and there was also the one she had seen in the window, which though slightly cracked, was still in fair condition. "how much do you want for them?" asked patty. the old woman hesitated. it was not difficult to see that, although she wanted to get as high a price as possible for her plates, yet she did not want to ask so much that patty would refuse to take them. "you tell me," she said, insinuatingly, "'bout what you think them plates is worth." "no," said patty, firmly, "i never buy things that way. you tell me your price, and then i will buy them or not as i choose." "well," said the old woman, slowly, "the last lady that i sold plates to, she give me fifty cents apiece for three of 'em, and though i think they was purtier than these here, yet you tell me these is more vallyble, and so," here the old woman made a great show of firmness, "and so my price for these plates is a dollar apiece." as soon as she had said it, she looked at patty in alarm, greatly fearing that she would not pay so much. but patty replied, "i will give you five dollars for the two,--because i know that is nearer their value than the price you set." "bless your good heart, and your purty face, miss," said the old woman, as the tears came into her eyes. "i'm that obliged to you! i'll send the money straight to my son john. he's in the hospital, poor chap, and he needs it sore." elise had rarely been brought in contact with poverty and want, and her generous heart was touched at once. she emptied her little purse out upon the table, and was rejoiced to discover that it contained something over ten dollars. "please accept that," she cried, "to buy things for your son, or for yourself, as you choose." [illustration: "'there, you can see for yourself, there ain't no chip or crack into it'"] the old woman was quite overcome at this kindness, and was endeavouring brokenly to express her thanks, when the bell on the shop door jangled loudly. patty being nearest to the calico curtain drew it aside, to find roger in the little shop, looking very breathless and worried. "well, of all things," he exclaimed. "you girls have given us a scare. we've hunted high and low through the whole of this metropolis. and if it hadn't been that a little girl said she saw you come in here, i suppose we'd now be dragging the brook. come along, quick, we're all ready to start." "how could you get that belt mended so quickly?" asked elise. "never mind that," said roger, "just come along." "wait a minute," said patty, hastily gathering up her precious plates, while the old woman provided some newspaper wrapping. roger hurried the two girls back to the motor-car, saying as they went, "we're not in any hurry to start, but mother thinks you're drowned, and i want to prove to her that she is mistaken." the sight of the car caused patty to go off into peals of laughter. in front of the beautiful machine was an old farm wagon, and in front of that were four horses. on the seat of the wagon sat a nonchalant-looking farmer who seemed to take little interest in the proceedings. "i wouldn't ask what's the matter for anything," said patty, looking at roger, demurely, "but i suppose i am safe in assuming that you have those horses there merely because you think they look well." "that's it," said roger. "nothing adds to the good effect of a motor-car like having a few fine horses attached to it. jump in, girls." the girls jumped in, and the caravan started. it was at a decidedly different rate of speed from the way they had travelled before. but patty soon learned that roger had found it impossible to fix the belt without going to a repair shop, and there was none nearer than hartford. with some difficulty, and at considerable expense, he had persuaded the gruff old farmer to tow them over the intervening ten miles. patty would have supposed that this would greatly humiliate the proud and sensitive boy, but, to her surprise, roger treated the affair as a good joke. he leaned back in his seat, apparently pleased with his enforced idleness, and chatted merrily as they slowly crawled along. occasionally he would plead with the old farmer to urge his horses a trifle faster, and even hint at certain rewards if they should reach hartford in a given time. but the grumpy old man was proof against coaxing or even bribing, and they jogged along, almost at a snail's pace. perceiving that there was no way of improving the situation, roger gave up trying, and turning partly around in his seat, proceeded to entertain the girls to the best of his ability. patty hadn't known before what a jolly, good-natured boy elise's brother was, and she came to the conclusion that he had a good sense of proportion, to be able to take things so easily, and to keep his temper under such trying circumstances. only once did the surly old farmer address himself to his employers. turning around to face the occupants of the motor-car he bawled out: "whar do ye wanter go in hartford?" "to the largest repair shop for automobiles," answered roger. "thought ye wanted ter go ter the state insane asylum," was the response to this, and a suppressed chuckle could be heard, as the old man again turned his attention to his not over-speedy steeds. though not a very subtle jest, this greatly amused the motor party, and soon they entered the outskirts of the beautiful city of hartford. mr. farrington looked at his watch. "i suppose," he said, "it will take the best part of an hour to have the machine attended to, for there are two or three little matters which i want to have put in order, besides the belt. i will stay and look after it, and the rest of you can take your choice of two proceedings. one is, to go to a hotel, rest and freshen yourselves up a bit, and have some luncheon. the other is, to take a carriage and drive around the city. hartford is a beautiful place, and if patty has never seen it, i am sure she will enjoy it." "it doesn't matter to me," said mrs. farrington, "which we do; but i'm quite sure i don't care to eat anything more just at present. we had our picnic not so very long ago, you know." "i know," said mr. farrington, "but consider this. when we start from here with the car in good order, i hope to run straight through to warner's. but at best we cannot reach there before ten o'clock to-night. so it's really advisable that you should fortify yourselves against the long ride, for i should hate to delay matters further by stopping again for dinner." "ten o'clock!" exclaimed mrs. farrington, "why, they expect us by seven, at latest. it is too bad to keep them waiting like that. can't we telephone to them?" "yes," said mr. farrington, "and i will attend to that while i am waiting for the car to be fixed. now what would you people rather do?" both the girls declared they could not eat another luncheon at present, and they thought it would be delightful to drive around and see the town. so mrs. farrington settled the matter by deciding to take the drive. and then she said, "we can leave the luncheon-kit at some hotel to be filled, then we can pick it up again, and take it along with us, and when we get hungry we can eat a light supper in the car." "great head, mother!" cried roger, "you are truly a genius!" an open landau was engaged, and roger and the three ladies started for the drive. they spent a delightful hour viewing the points of interest in the city, which the obliging driver pointed out to them. they smiled when they came to the insane asylum, and though the grounds looked attractive, they concluded not to go there to stay, even though their old farmer friend had seemed to think it an appropriate place for them. "it's a strange thing," said roger, "that people who do not ride in automobiles always think that people who do are crazy. i'm sure i don't know why." "i wouldn't blame anybody for thinking mr. phelps crazy, if they had seen him this morning," said patty. "that's only because you're not accustomed to seeing men in racing costume," said roger. "after you've seen a few more rigs like that, you won't think anything of them." "that's so," said patty thoughtfully, "and if i had never before seen a farmer in the queer overalls, and big straw hat, that our old country gentleman wore, i daresay i should have thought his appearance quite as crazy as that of mr. phelps." "you have a logical mind, patty," said mrs. farrington, "and on the whole i think you are right." chapter xiii a stormy ride the time passed quickly and soon the drive was over, and after calling for their well-filled luncheon-basket, the quartet returned to the repair shop to find mr. farrington all ready to start. so into the car they all bundled, and patty learned that each fresh start during a motor journey revives the same feeling of delight that is felt at the beginning of the trip. she settled herself in her place with a little sigh of contentment, and remarked that she had already begun to feel at home in the fact, and she only wished it was early morning, and they were starting for the day, instead of but for a few hours. "don't you worry, my lady," said roger, as he laid his hands lightly on the steering-wheel, "you've a good many solid hours of travel ahead of you right now. it's four o'clock, and if we reach pine branches by ten, i will pat this old car fondly on the head, before i put her to bed." the next few hours were perhaps the pleasantest they had yet spent. in june, from four to seven is a delightful time, and as the roads were perfect, and the car went along without the slightest jar or jolt, and without even a hint of an accident of any sort, there was really not a flaw to mar their pleasure. as the sun set, and the twilight began to close around them, patty thought she had never seen anything more beautiful than the landscape spread out before them. a broad white road stretched ahead like a ribbon. on either side were sometimes green fields, darkening in the fading light, and sometimes small groves of trees, which stood black against the sky. then the sunset's colours faded, the trees grew blacker and denser, and their shadows ceased to fall across the darkening road. roger lighted the lamps, and drew out extra fur robes, for the evening air was growing chill. "isn't it wonderful!" said patty, almost in a whisper. "motoring by daylight is gay and festive, but now, to glide along so swiftly and silently through the darkness, is so strange that it's almost solemn. as it grows darker and blacker, it seems as if we were gliding away,--away into eternity." "for gracious' sake, child," said mrs. farrington, "don't talk like that! you give me the shivers; say something more lively, quick!" patty laughed merrily. "that was only a passing mood," she said. "really, i think it's awfully jolly for us to be scooting along like this, with our lamps shining. we're just like a great big fire-fly or a dancing will-o'-the-wisp." "you have a well-trained imagination, patty," said mrs. farrington, laughing at the girl's quick change from grave to gay. "you can make it obey your will, can't you?" "yes, ma'am," said patty demurely, "what's the use of having an imagination, if you can't make it work for you?" the car was comfortably lighted inside as well as out, with electric lamps, and the occupants were, as mr. farrington said, as cozy and homelike as if they were in a gipsy waggon. patty laughed at the comparison and said she thought that very few gipsy waggons had the luxuries and modern appliances of the fact. "that may be," said mr. farrington, "but you must admit the gipsy waggon is the more picturesque vehicle. the way they shirr that calico arrangement around their back door, has long been my admiration." "it is beautiful," said patty, "and the way the stove-pipe comes out of the roof,----" "and the children's heads out 'most anywhere," added elise; "yes, it's certainly picturesque." "speaking of gipsy waggons makes me hungry," said mrs. farrington. "what time is it, and how soon shall we reach the warners'?" "it's after eight o'clock, my dear," said her husband, "and i'm sure we can't get there before ten, and then, of course, we won't have dinner at once, so do let us partake of a little light refreshment." "seems to me we are always eating," said patty, "but i'm free to confess that i'm about as hungry as a full grown anaconda." without reducing their speed, and they were going fairly fast, the tourists indulged in a picnic luncheon. there was no tea making, but sandwiches and little cakes and glasses of milk were gratefully accepted. "this is all very well," said mrs. farrington, after supper was over, "and i wouldn't for a moment have you think that i'm tired or frightened, or the least mite timid. but if i may have my way, hereafter we'll make no definite promises to be at any particular place at any particular time. i wish when you had telephoned, john, you had told the warners that we wouldn't arrive until to-morrow. then we could have stopped somewhere, and spent the night like civilised beings, instead of doing this gipsy act." "it would have been a good idea," said mr. farrington thoughtfully, "but it's a bit too late now, so there's no use worrying about it. but cheer up, my friend, i think we'll arrive shortly." "i think we won't," said roger. "i don't want to be discouraging, but we haven't passed the old stone quarry yet, and that's a mighty long way this side of pine branches." "you're sure you know the way, aren't you, roger?" asked his mother, her tone betraying the first trace of anxiety she had yet shown. "oh, yes," said roger, and patty wasn't sure whether she imagined it, or whether the boy's answer was not quite as positive as it was meant to sound. "well, i'm glad you do," said mr. farrington, "for i confess i don't. we're doubtless on the right road, but i haven't as yet seen any familiar landmarks." "we're on the right road, all right," said roger. "you know there's a long stretch this side of pine branches, without any villages at all." "i know it," said mrs. farrington, "but it is dotted with large country places, and farms. are you passing those, roger? i can't seem to see any?" "i haven't noticed very many, mother, but i think we haven't come to them yet. chirk up, it's quite some distance yet, but we'll keep going till we get there." "oh," said mrs. farrington, "what if the belt should break, or something give way!" "don't think of such things, mother; nothing is going to give way. but if it should, why, we'll just sit here till morning, and then we can see to fix it." mrs. farrington couldn't help laughing at roger's good nature, but she said, "of course, i know everything's all right, and truly, i'm not a bit frightened. but somehow, john, i'd feel more comfortable if you'd come back here with me, and let one of the girls sit in front in your place." "certainly," said her husband, "hop over here, elise." "let me go," cried patty, who somehow felt, intuitively, that elise would prefer to stay behind with her parents. as for patty herself, she had no fear, and really wanted the exciting experience of sitting up in front during this wild night ride. roger stopped the car, and the change was soon effected. as patty insisted upon it, she was allowed to go instead of elise, and in a moment they were off again. "do you know," said patty to roger, after they had started, "when i got out then, i felt two or three drops of rain!" "i do know it," said roger, in a low tone, "and i may as well tell you, patty, that there's going to be a hard storm before long. certainly before we reach pine branches." "how dreadful," said patty, who was awed more by the anxious note in roger's voice, than by the thought of the rain storm. "don't you think it would be better," she went on, hoping to make a helpful suggestion, "if we should put in to some house until the storm is over? surely anybody would give us shelter." "i don't see any houses," said roger, "and, patty, i may as well own up, we're off the road somehow. i think i must have taken the wrong turning at that fork a few miles back. and though i'm not quite sure, yet i feel a growing conviction that we're lost." although the situation was appalling, for some unexplainable reason patty couldn't help giggling. "lost!" she exclaimed in a tragic whisper, "in the middle of the night! in a desolate country region! and a storm coming on!" patty's dramatic summary of the situation made roger laugh too. and their peals of gaiety reassured the three who sat behind. "what are you laughing at?" said elise; "i wish you'd tell me, for i'm 'most scared to death, and roger, it's beginning to rain." "you don't say so!" said roger, in a tone of polite surprise, "why then we must put on the curtains." he stopped the car, and jumping down from his place, began to arrange the curtains which were always carried in case of rain. mr. farrington helped him, and as he did so, remarked, "looks like something of a storm, my boy." "father," said roger, in a low voice, "it's going to rain cats and dogs, and there may be a few thunders and lightnings. i hope mother won't have hysterics, and i don't believe she will, if you sit by her and hold her hand. i don't think we'd better stop. i think we'd better drive straight ahead, but, dad, i believe we're on the wrong road. we're not lost; i know the way all right, but to go around the way we are going, is about forty miles farther than the way i meant to go; and yet i don't dare turn back and try to get on the other road again, for fear i'll really get lost." "roger," said mr. farrington, "you're a first-class chauffeur, and i'll give you a reference whenever you want one, but i must admit that to-night you have succeeded in getting us into a pretty mess." roger was grateful enough for the light way in which his father treated the rather serious situation, but the boy keenly felt his responsibility. "good old dad," he said, "you're a brick! get in back now, and look after mother and elise. don't let them shoot me or anything, when i'm not looking. patty is a little trump; she is plucky clear through, and i am glad to have her up in front with me. now i'll do the best i can, and drive straight through the storm. if i see any sort of a place where we can turn in for shelter, i think we'd better do it, don't you?" "i do, indeed," said his father. "meantime, my boy, go ahead. i trust the whole matter to you, for you're a more expert driver than i am." it was already raining fast as the two men again climbed into the car. but the curtains all around kept the travellers dry, and with its cheery lights the interior of the car was cozy and pleasant. in front was a curtain with a large window of mica which gave ample view of the road ahead. with his strong and well-arranged lights, roger had no fear of collision, and as they were well protected from the rain, his chief worriment was because they were on the wrong road. "it's miles and miles longer to go around this way," he confided to patty. "i don't know what time we'll ever get there." "never mind," said patty, who wanted to cheer him up. "i think this is a great experience. i suppose there's danger, but somehow i can't help enjoying the wild excitement of it." "i'm glad you like it," said roger a little grimly. "i'm always pleased to entertain my guests." the storm was increasing, and now amounted to a gale. the rain dashed against the curtains in great wet sheets, and finally forced its way in at a few of the crevices. mrs. farrington, sitting between her husband and daughter, was thoroughly frightened and extremely uncomfortable, but she pluckily refrained from giving way to her nervousness, and succeeded in behaving herself with real bravery and courage. still the tempest grew. so wildly did it dash against the front curtain that patty and roger could see scarcely a foot before the machine. "there's one comfort," said roger, through his clenched teeth, "we're not in danger of running into anything, for no other fools would be abroad such a night as this. patty, i'm going to speed her! i'm going to race the storm!" "do!" said patty, who was wrought up to a tense pitch of excitement by the war of the elements without, and the novelty of the situation within. roger increased the speed, and they flew through the black night and dashed into the pouring rain, while patty held her breath, and wondered what would happen next. on they went and on. patty's imagination kept pace with her experiences and through her mind flitted visions of tam o'shanter's ride, john gilpin's ride and the ride of collins graves. but all of these seemed tame affairs beside their own break-neck speed through the wild night! "roger," said his mother, "roger, won't you please----" "ask her not to speak to me just now, patty, please," said the boy, in such a tense, strained voice that patty was frightened at last, but she knew that if roger were frightened, that was a special reason for her own calmness and bravery. turning slightly, she said, "please don't speak to him just now, mrs. farrington; he wants to put all his attention on his steering." "very well," said mrs. farrington, who had not the slightest idea that there was any cause for alarm, aside from the discomfort of the storm. "i only wanted to tell him to watch out for railroad trains." and then patty realised that that was just what roger was looking out for! she could not see ahead into the blinding rain, but she knew they were going down hill. she heard what seemed like the distant whistle of a locomotive, and suddenly realising that roger could not stop the car and must cross the track before the train came, she thought at the same moment that if mrs. farrington should impulsively reach over and grasp the boy's arm, or anything like that, it might mean terrible disaster. acting upon a quick impulse to prevent this, she turned round herself, and with a voice whose calmness surprised her, she said, "please, mrs. farrington, could you get me a sandwich out of the basket?" "bless you, no, child!" said that lady, her attention instantly diverted by patty's ruse. "that is, i don't believe i can, but i'll try." patty was far from wanting a sandwich, but she felt that she had at least averted the possible danger of mrs. farrington's suddenly clutching roger, and as she turned back to face the front, the great car whizzed across the slippery railroad track, just as patty saw the headlight of a locomotive not two hundred feet away from them. "oh, roger," she breathed, clasping her hands tightly, lest she herself should touch the boy, and so interfere with his steering. "it's all right, patty," said roger in a breathless voice, and as she looked at his white face, she realised the danger they had so narrowly escaped. those in the back seat could not see the train, and the roar of the storm drowned its noise. "patty," said roger, very softly, "you saved us! i understood just what you did. i felt _sure_ mother was going to grab at me, when she heard that whistle. it's a way she has, when she's nervous or frightened, and i can't seem to make her stop it. but you saved the day with your sandwich trick, and if ever we get in out of the rain, i'll tell you what i think of you!" chapter xiv pine branches there were still many miles to cover before they reached their destination, but there were no more railroad tracks to cross, and as there was little danger of meeting anyone, roger let the car fly along at a high rate of speed. the storm continued and though the party endeavoured to keep cheerful, yet the situation was depressing, and each found it difficult not to show it. roger, of course, devoted his exclusive attention to driving the car, and patty scarcely dared to breathe, lest she should disturb him in some way. the three on the back seat became rather silent also, and at last everybody was rejoiced when roger said, "those lights ahead are at the entrance gate of pine branches." then the whole party waxed cheerful again. mr. farrington looked at his watch. "it's quarter of two," he said, "do you suppose we can get in at this hour?" "indeed we will get in," declared roger, "if i have to drive this car smash through the gates, and _bang_ in at the front door!" the strain was beginning to tell on the boy, who had really had a fearful night of it, and he went dashing up to the large gates with a feeling of great relief that the end of the journey was at hand. when they reached the entrance, the rain was coming down in torrents. great lanterns hung either side of the portal, and disclosed the fact that the gates were shut and locked. roger had expected this, for he felt sure the warners had long ago given up all thought of seeing their guests that night. repeated soundings of the horn failed to bring any response from the lodge-keeper, and roger was just about to get out of the car, and ring the bell at the large door, when patty's quick eye discerned a faint light at one of the windows. "sure enough," said roger, as she called his attention to this, and after a few moments the large door was opened, and the porter gazed out into the storm. "all right, sir, all right," he called, seeing the car; and donning a great raincoat, he came out to open the gates. "well, well, sir," he said, as mr. farrington leaned out to speak with him, "this is a night, sure enough! mr. warner, sir, he gave up looking for you at midnight." "i don't wonder," said mr. farrington, "and now, my man, can you ring your people up, and is there anybody to take care of the car?" "yes, sir, yes, sir," said the porter, "just you drive on up to the house, and i'll go back to the lodge and ring up the chauffeur, and as soon as he can get around he'll take care of your car. i'll ring up the housekeeper too, but she's a slow old body, and you'd best sound your horn all the way up the drive." roger acted on this advice and the fact went tooting up the driveway, and finally came to a standstill at the front entrance of pine branches. they were under a _porte-cochère_, and as soon as they stopped, elise jumped out, and began a vigorous onslaught on the doorbell. roger kept the horn sounding, and after a few moments the door was opened by a somewhat sleepy-looking butler. as they entered, mr. warner, whose appearance gave evidence of a hasty toilet, came flying down the staircase, three steps at a time. "well, well, my friends," he exclaimed, "i'm glad to see you, i am overjoyed to see you! we were expecting you just at this particular minute, and i am so glad that you arrived on time. how do you do, mrs. farrington? and elise, my dear child, how you've grown since i saw you last! this is patty fairfield, is it? how do you do, patty? i am very glad to see you. roger, my boy, you look exhausted. has your car been cutting up jinks?" as mr. warner talked, he bustled around shaking hands with his guests, assisting them out of their wraps, and disposing of them in comfortable chairs. meantime the rest of the family appeared. bertha warner, a merry-looking girl of about patty's age, came flying downstairs, pinning her collar as she ran. "how jolly of you," she cried, "to come in the middle of the night! such fun! i'm so glad to see you, elise; and this is patty fairfield? patty, i think you're lovely." the impulsive bertha kissed patty on both cheeks, and then turned to make way for her mother. mrs. warner was as merry and as hearty in her welcome as the others. she acted as if it were an ordinary occurrence to be wakened from sleep at two o'clock in the morning, to greet newly arrived guests, and she greeted patty quite as warmly as the others. suddenly a wild whoop was heard, and winthrop warner, the son of the house, came running downstairs. "jolly old crowd!" he cried, "you wouldn't let a little thing like a tornado stop your progress, would you? i'm glad you persevered and reached here, even though a trifle late." winthrop was a broad-shouldered, athletic young man, of perhaps twenty-four, and though he chaffed roger merrily, he greeted the ladies with hospitable courtesy, and looked about to see what he could do for their further comfort. they were still in the great square entrance hall, which was one of the most attractive rooms at pine branches. a huge corner fireplace showed the charred logs of a fire which had only recently gone out, and winthrop rapidly twisted up some paper, which he lighted, and procuring a few small sticks, soon had a crackling blaze. "you must be damp and chilly," he said, "and a little fire will thaw you out. mother, will you get something ready for a feast?" "we should have waited dinner," began mrs. warner, "and we did wait until after ten, and then we gave you up." "it's nearer time for breakfast than for dinner," said elise. "i don't want breakfast," declared roger, "i don't like that meal anyway. no shredded whisk brooms for me." "we'll have a nondescript meal," said mrs. warner, gaily, "and each one may call it by whatever name he chooses." in a short time they were all invited to the dining-room, and found the table filled with a variety of delicious viands. such a merry tableful of people as partook of the feast! the warners seemed to enjoy the fact that their guests arrived at such an unconventional hour, and the farrington party were so glad to have reached their destination safely that they were in the highest of spirits. of course the details of the trip had to be explained, and roger was unmercifully chaffed by winthrop and his father for having taken the wrong road. but so good-naturedly did the boy take the teasing, and so successfully did he pretend that he came around that way merely for the purpose of extending a pleasant tour, that he got the best of them after all. at last mrs. warner declared that people who had been through such thrilling experiences must be in immediate need of rest, and she gave orders that they must all start for bed forthwith. it is needless to say that breakfast was not early next morning. nor did it consist as roger had intimated, of "shredded whisk brooms," but was a delightful meal, at which patty became better acquainted with the warner family, and confirmed the pleasant impressions she had received the night before. after breakfast mrs. warner announced that everybody was to do exactly as he or she pleased until the luncheon hour, but she had plans herself for their entertainment in the afternoon. so winthrop and roger went off on some affairs of their own, and bertha devoted herself to the amusement of the two girls. first, she suggested they should all walk around the place, and this proved a delightful occupation. pine branches was an immense estate, covering hundreds of acres, and there was a brook, a grove, golf grounds, tennis court and everything that could by any possibility add to the interest or pleasure of its occupants. "but my chief and dearest possession," said bertha, smiling, "is abiram." "a dog?" asked patty. "no," said bertha, "but come, and i will show him to you. he lives down here, in this little house." the little house was very like a large-sized dog-kennel, but when they reached it, its occupant proved to be a woolly black bear cub. "he's a perfect dear, abiram is," said bertha, as she opened the door, and the fat little bear came waddling out. he was fastened to a long chain, and his antics were funny beyond description. "he's a real picture-bear," said bertha; "see, his poses are just like those of the bears in the funny papers." and so they were. patty and elise laughed heartily to see abiram sit up and cross his paws over his fat little body. "how old is he?" asked patty. "oh, very young, he's just a cub. and of course, we can't keep him long. nobody wants a big bear around. at the end of the summer, papa says, he'll have to be sent to the zoo. but we have lots of fun looking at him now, and i take pictures of him with my camera. he's a dear old thing." bertha was sitting down by the bear, playing with him as with a puppy, and indeed the soft little creature showed no trace of wild animal habits, or even of mischievous intent. "he's just like a big baby," said patty. "wouldn't it be fun to dress him up as one?" "let's do it," cried bertha, gleefully. "come on, girls, let's fly up to the house, and get the things." leaving abiram sitting in the sun, the three girls scampered back to the house. bertha procured two large white aprons and declared they would make a lovely baby dress. and so they did. by sewing the sides together nearly to the top, and tying the strings in great bows to answer as shoulder straps, the dress was declared perfect. a dainty sunbonnet, with a wide fluffy ruffle, which was a part of bertha's own wardrobe, was taken also, and with a string of large blue beads, and an enormous baby's rattle which bertha unearthed from her treasure-chest, the costume was complete. bertha got her camera, and giving elise a small, light chair to carry, they all ran back to abiram's kennel. they found the little bear peacefully sleeping in the sun, and when bertha shook him awake he showed no resentment, and graciously allowed himself to be put into the clothes they had brought. his forepaws were thrust through the openings left for the purpose, and the stiff white bows sticking up from his black shoulders, made the girls scream with laughter. the ruffled sunbonnet was put on his head, and coquettishly tied on one side, and the string of blue beads was clasped around his fat neck. although abiram seemed willing to submit to the greatness that was being thrust upon him, he experienced some difficulty in sitting up in the chair in the position which bertha insisted upon. however, by dint of patty's holding his head up from behind, she herself being screened from view by a tree trunk, they induced abiram to hold the rattle long enough for bertha to get a picture. [illustration: "although a successful snapshot was only achieved after many attempts"] although a successful snapshot was only achieved after many attempts, yet the girls had great fun, and so silly and ridiculous did the little bear behave that patty afterward declared she had never laughed so much in all her life. after luncheon mrs. warner took her guests for a drive, declaring that after their automobile tour she felt sure that a carriage drive would be a pleasant change. after the drive there was afternoon tea in the library, when the men appeared, and everybody chatted gaily over the events of the day. then they all dispersed to dress for dinner, and patty suddenly realised that she was living in a very grown-up atmosphere, greatly in contrast to her schoolgirl life. bertha was a year or two older than patty, and though as merry and full of fun as a child, she seemed to have the ways and effects of a grown-up young lady. elise also had lived a life which had accustomed her to formality and ceremony, and though only a year older than patty in reality, she was far more advanced in worldly wisdom and ceremonious observances. but patty was adaptable by nature, and when in rome she was quite ready to do as the romans did. so she put on one of her prettiest frocks for dinner, and allowed bertha to do her hair in a new way which seemed to add a year or so to her appearance. there were a few other guests at dinner, and as patty always enjoyed meeting strangers, she took great interest in all the details of entertainment at pine branches. at the table she found herself seated between bertha and winthrop. this pleased her, for she was glad of an opportunity to get better acquainted with the young man, of whom she had seen little during the day. although frank and boyish in some ways, winthrop warner gave her the impression of being very wise and scholarly. she said as much to him, whereupon he explained that he was a student, and was making a specialty of certain branches of scientific lore. these included ethnology and anthropology, which names caused patty to feel a sudden awe of the young man beside her. but winthrop only laughed, and said, "don't let those long words frighten you. i assure you that they stand for most interesting subjects, and some day if you will come to my study, i will promise to prove that to you. meantime we will ignore my scientific side, and just consider that we are two gay young people enjoying a summer holiday." the young man's affable manner and kind smile put patty quite at her ease, and she chatted so merrily that when the dinner hour was over she and winthrop had become good friends and comrades. chapter xv miss aurora bender after a visit of a few days, it was decided that mr. and mrs. farrington and roger should continue the motor-trip on to boston, and to certain places along the new england coast, while patty and elise should stay at pine branches for a longer visit. the girls had expected to continue the trip with the others, but bertha had coaxed them to stay longer with her, and had held out such attractive inducements that they decided to remain. patty, herself, was pleased with the plan, because she still felt the effects of her recent mental strain, and realised that the luxurious ease of pine branches would be far more of a rest than the more exciting experiences of a motor trip. so the girls were installed for a fortnight or more in the beautiful home of the warners, and with so many means of pleasure at her disposal, patty looked forward to a delightful period of both rest and recreation. one morning, bertha declared her intention of taking the girls to call on miss aurora bender. "who is she?" inquired patty, as the three started off in bertha's pony-cart. "she's a character," said bertha, "but i won't tell you anything about her; you can see her, and judge for yourself." a drive of several miles brought them to a quaint old-fashioned farmhouse. the house, which had the appearance of being very old, was built of stone and painted a light yellow, with white trimmings. everything about the place was in perfect repair and exquisite order, and as they drove in around the gravel circle that surrounded a carefully kept bit of green lawn, bertha stopped the cart at an old-fashioned carriage-block, and the girls got out. running up the steps, bertha clanged the old brass knocker at what seemed to patty to be the kitchen door. it was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with sharp features and angular figure. "well, i declare to goodness, bertha warner, if you aren't here again! who's that you've got with you this time? city folks, i s'pose. well come in, all of you, but wipe your feet first. as you've been riding, i s'pose they ain't muddy much, but it's well to be on the safe side. so wipe 'em good and then troop in." miss aurora bender had pushed her heavy gold-bowed glasses up on the top of her head, and her whole-souled smile of welcome belied the gruffness of her tone, and the seeming inhospitality of her words. the girls took pains to wipe their dainty boots on the gaily-coloured braided rug which lay just outside the door. then they entered a spacious low-ceiled room, which seemed to partake of the qualities of both kitchen and dining-room. at one end was an immense fireplace, with an old-fashioned swinging crane, from which depended many skillets and kettles of highly polished brass or copper. on either side of the room was a large dresser, with glass doors, through which showed quantities of rare old china that made patty's eyes shine with delight. a quaint old settle and various old chairs of windsor pattern stood round the walls. the floor was painted yellow, and here and there were braided mats of various designs. "sit down, girls, sit down," said miss bender, cordially, "and now bertha, tell me these young ladies' names,--unless, that is to say, you'd rather sit in the parlour?" "we would rather sit in the parlour, miss bender," said bertha, quickly, and as if fearing her hostess might not follow up her suggestion, bertha opened a door leading to the front hall, and started toward the parlour, herself. "well," said miss bender, with a note of regret in her voice, "i s'pose if you must, you must; though for my part, i'm free to confess that this room's a heap more cozy and livable." "that may be," said bertha, who had beckoned to the girls to follow quickly, "but my friends are from the city, as you suspected, and they don't often have a chance in new york to see a parlour like yours, miss bender." as bertha had intended, this bit of flattery mollified the old lady, and she followed her guests along the dark hall. "well, if you're bound to have it so," she said, "do wait a minute, and let me get in there and pull up the blinds. it's darker than japhet's coat pocket. i haven't had this room opened since mis' perkins across the road had her last tea fight. and i only did it then, 'cause i wanted to set some vases of my early primroses in the windows, so's the guests might see 'em as they came by. seems to me it's a little musty in here, but land! a room will get musty if it's shut up, and what earthly good is a parlour except to keep shut up?" as miss bender talked, she had bustled about, and thrown open the six windows of the large room, into which bertha had taken the girls. the sunlight streamed in, and disclosed a scene which seemed to patty like a wonderful vision of a century ago. and indeed for more than a hundred years the furniture of the great parlour had stood precisely as they now saw it. the furniture was entirely of antique mahogany, and included sofas and chairs, various kinds of tables, bookcases, a highboy, a lowboy and other pieces of furniture of which patty knew neither the name nor the use. the pictures on the wall, the ornaments, the books and the old-fashioned brass candlesticks were all of the same ancient period, and patty felt as if she had been transported back into the life of her great-grandmother. as she had herself a pretty good knowledge of the styles and varieties of antique furniture, she won miss bender's heart at once by her appreciation of her heppelwhite chairs and her chippendale card-tables. "you don't say," said miss bender, looking at patty in admiration, "that you really know one style from another! lots of people pretend they do, but they soon get confused when i try to pin 'em down." patty smiled, as she disclaimed any great knowledge of the subject, but she soon found that she knew enough to satisfy her hostess, who, after all, enjoyed describing her treasures even more than listening to their praises. miss aurora bender was a lady of sudden and rapid physical motion. while the girls were examining the wonderful old relics, she darted from the room, and returned in a moment, carrying two large baskets. they were of the old-fashioned type of closely-woven reed, with a handle over the top, and a cover to lift up on either side. miss bender plumped herself down in the middle of a long sofa, and began rapidly to extract the contents of the baskets, which proved to be numerous fat rolls of gayly-coloured cotton material. "it's patchwork," she announced, "and i make it my habit to get all the help i can. i'm piecing a quilt, goose-chase pattern, and while i don't know as it's the prettiest there is, yet i don't know as 'tisn't. if you girls expect to sit the morning, and i must say you look like it, you might lend a helping hand. i made the geese smaller'n i otherwise would, 'cause i had so many little pieces left from my rising-sun quilt. looks just as well, of course, but takes a powerful sight of time to sew. and i must say i'm sorter particular about sewing. however, i don't s'pose you young things of this day and generation know much about sewing, but if you go slow you can't help doing it pretty well." as she talked, miss bender had hastily presented each of the girls with a basted block of patchwork, and had passed around a needle-cushion and a small box containing a number of old-fashioned silver thimbles. "lucky i had a big family," she commented, "else i don't know what i'd done for thimbles to go around. i can't abide brass things, that make your finger look like it had been dipped in ink, but thanks to my seven sisters who are all restin' comfortably in their graves, i have enough thimbles to provide quite a parcel of company. here's your thread. now sew away while we talk, and we'll have a real nice little bee." although not especially fond of sewing, the girls looked upon this episode as a good joke, and fell to work at their bits of cloth. elise was a dainty little needlewoman, and overhanded rapidly and neatly; patty did fairly well, though her stitches were not quite even, but poor bertha found her work a difficult task. she never did fancywork, and knew nothing of sewing, so her thread knotted and broke, and her patch presented a sorry sight. "land o' goshen!" exclaimed miss aurora, "is that the best you can do, bertha warner? the town ought to take up a subscription to put you in a sewin' school. here child, let me show you." miss bender took bertha's block and tried to straighten it out, while bertha herself made funny faces at the other girls over miss aurora's shoulder. "i can see you," said that lady calmly, "i guess you forget that big mirror opposite. but them faces you're makin' ain't half so bad as this sewin' of yours." the girls all laughed outright at miss bender's calm acceptance of bertha's sauciness, and bertha herself was in nowise embarrassed by the implied rebuke. "there, child," said miss aurora, smoothing out the seams with her thumb nail, "now try again, and see if you can't do it some better." "is your quilt nearly done, miss bender?" asked patty. "yes, it is. i've got three hundred and eighty-seven geese finished, and four hundred's enough. i work on it myself quite a spell every day, and i think in two or three days i'll have it all pieced." "oh, miss bender," cried bertha, "then won't you quilt it? won't you have a quilting party while my friends are here?" "humph," said miss aurora, scornfully, "you children can't quilt fit to be seen." "elise can," said bertha, looking at elise's dainty block, "and patty can do pretty well, and as i would spoil your quilt if i touched it, miss aurora, i'll promise to let it alone; but i can do other things to help you. oh, do have the party, will you?" "why, i don't know but i will. i kinder calculated to have it soon, anyhow, and if so be's you young people would like to come to it, i don't see anything to hinder. s'pose we say a week from to-day?" the date was decided on, and the girls went home in high glee over the quilting party, for bertha told them it would be great fun of a sort they had probably never seen before. * * * * * the days flew by rapidly at pine branches. patty rapidly recovered her usual perfect health and rosy cheeks. she played golf and tennis, she went for long rides in the warners' motor-car or carriages, and also on horseback. there were many guests at the house, coming and going, and among these one day came mr. phelps, whom they had met on their journey out from new york. this gentleman proved to be of a merry disposition, and added greatly to the gaiety of the party. while he was there, roger also came back for a few days, having left mr. and mrs. farrington for a short stay at nantucket. one morning, as patty and roger stood in the hall, waiting for the other young people to join them, they were startled to hear angry voices in the music-room. this room was separated from them by the length of the library, and though not quite distinct, the voices were unmistakably those of bertha and winthrop. "you did!" said winthrop's voice, "don't deny it! you're a horrid hateful old thing!" "i didn't! any such thing," replied bertha's voice, which sounded on the verge of tears. "you did! and if you don't give it back to me, i'll tell mother. mother said if she caught you at such a thing again, she'd punish you as you deserved, and i'm going to tell her!" patty felt most uncomfortable at overhearing this quarrel. she had never before heard a word of disagreement between bertha and her brother, and she was surprised as well as sorry to hear this exhibition of temper. roger looked horrified, and glanced at patty, not knowing exactly what to do. the voices waxed more angry, and they heard bertha declare, "you're a horrid old telltale! go on and tell, if you want to, and i'll tell what you stole out of father's desk last week!" "how did you know that?" and winthrop's voice rang out in rage. "oh, i know all about it. you think nobody knows anything but yourself, smarty-cat! just wait till i tell father and see what he'll do to you." "you won't tell him! promise me you won't, or i'll,--i'll hit you! there, take that!" "that" seemed to be a resounding blow, and immediately bertha's cries broke forth in angry profusion. "stop crying," yelled her brother, "and stop punching me. stop it, i say!" at this point the conversation broke off suddenly, and patty and roger stared in stupefied amazement as they saw bertha and winthrop walk in smiling, and hand in hand, from exactly the opposite direction from which their quarrelsome voices had sounded. "what's the matter?" said bertha. "why do you look so shocked and scared to death?" "n-nothing," stammered patty; while roger blurted out, "we thought we heard you talking over that way, and then you came in from this way. who could it have been? the voices were just like yours." bertha and winthrop broke into a merry laugh. "it's the phonograph," said bertha. "winthrop and i fixed up that quarrel record, just for fun; isn't it a good one?" roger understood at once, and went off into peals of laughter, but patty had to have it explained to her. "you see," said winthrop, "we have a big phonograph, and we make records for it ourselves. bertha and i fixed up that one just for fun, and elise is in there now looking after it. come on in, and see it." they all went into the music-room, and winthrop entertained them by putting in various cylinders, which they had made themselves. almost as funny as the quarrel was bertha's account of the occasion when she fell into the creek, and many funny recitations by mr. warner also made amusing records. patty could hardly believe that she had not heard her friends' voices really raised in anger, until winthrop put the same record in and let her hear it again. he also promised her that some day she should make a record for herself, and leave it at pine branches as a memento of her visit. chapter xvi a quilting party miss aurora bender's quilting party was to begin at three o'clock in the afternoon, and the girls started early in order to see all the fun. they were to stay to supper, and the young men were to come over and escort them home in the evening. when they reached miss bender's, they found that many and wonderful preparations had been made. miss aurora had two house servants, emmeline and nancy, but on this occasion she had called in two more to help. and indeed there was plenty to be done, for a quilting bee was to miss bender's mind a function of great importance. the last of a large family, miss bender was a woman of great wealth but of plain and old-fashioned tastes. though amply able to gratify any extravagant wish, she preferred to live as her parents had lived before her, and she had in no sense kept pace with the progress of the age. when the three girls reached the old country house, they were met at the front door by the elderly nancy. she courtesied with old-time grace, and invited them to step into the bedroom, and lay off their things. this bedroom, which was on the ground floor, was a large apartment, containing a marvellously carved four-post bedstead, hung with old-fashioned chintz curtains and draperies. the room also contained two massive bureaus, a dressing-table and various chairs of carved mahogany, and in the open fireplace was an enormous bunch of feathery asparagus, flecked with red berries. "oh," cried patty in delight, "if nan could see this room she'd go perfectly crazy. isn't this house great? why, it's quite as full of beautiful old things as washington's house at mt. vernon." "i haven't seen that," said bertha, "but it doesn't seem as if anything could be more complete or perfect in its way than this house is. come on, girls, are you ready?" the girls went to the parlour, and there found the quilt all prepared for working on. patty had never before seen a quilt stretched on a quilting-frame, and was extremely interested. it was a very large quilt, and its innumerable small triangles, which made up the goose-chase pattern, were found to present a methodical harmony of colouring, which had not been observable before the strips were put together. the large pieced portion was uppermost, and beneath it was the lining, with layers of cotton in between. each edge was pinned at intervals to a long strip of material which was wound round and round the frame. the four corners of the frame were held up by being tied to the backs of four chairs, and on each of the four sides of the quilt were three more chairs for the expected guests to occupy. almost on the stroke of three the visitors arrived, and though some of them were of a more modern type than miss bender, yet three or four were quite as old-fashioned and quaint-mannered as their hostess. "they are native up here," bertha explained to patty. "there are only a few of the old new england settlers left. most of the population here is composed of city people who have large country places. you won't often get an opportunity to see a gathering like this." patty realised the truth of this, and was both surprised and pleased to find that these country ladies showed no trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness before the city girls. it seemed not to occur to them that there was any difference in their effects, and indeed patty was greatly amused because one of the old ladies seemed to take it for granted that patty was a country girl, and brought up according to old-time customs. this old lady, whose name was mrs. quimby, sat next to patty at the quilt, and after she had peered through her glasses at the somewhat uneven stitches which poor patty was trying her best to do as well as possible, she remarked: "you ain't got much knack, have you? you'll have to practise quite a spell longer before you can quilt your own house goods. how old be you?" "seventeen," said patty, feeling that her work did not look very well, considering her age. "seventeen!" exclaimed mrs. quimby. "laws' sake, i was married when i was sixteen, and i quilted as good then as i do now. i'm over eighty now, and i'd ruther quilt than do anything, 'most. you don't look to be seventeen." "and you don't look to be eighty, either," said patty, smiling, glad to be able to turn the subject by complimenting the old lady. the quilting lasted all the afternoon. patty grew very tired of the unaccustomed work, and was glad when miss bender noticed it, and told her to run out into the garden with bertha. bertha was not allowed to touch the quilt with her incompetent fingers, but elise sewed away, thoroughly enjoying it all, and with no desire to avail herself of miss bender's permission to stop and rest. patty and bertha wandered through the old-fashioned garden, in great delight. the paths were bordered with tiny box hedges, which, though many years old, were kept clean and free from deadwood or blemish of any sort, and were perfectly trimmed in shape. the garden included quaint old flowers such as marigolds, sweet williams, bleeding hearts, bachelors' buttons, jacob's ladder and many others of which patty did not even know the names. tall hollyhocks, both single and double, grew against the wall, and a hop vine hung in green profusion. every flower bed was of exact shape, and looked as if not a leaf or a stem would dare to grow otherwise than straight and true. "what a lovely old garden," said patty, sniffing at a sprig of lemon verbena which she had picked. "yes, it's wonderful," said bertha. "i mean to ask miss bender if i mayn't bring my camera over, and get a picture of it, and if they're good, i'll give you one." "do," said patty, "and take some pictures inside the house too. i'd like to show them to nan." "tell me about nan," said bertha. "she's your stepmother, isn't she?" "yes," said patty, "but she's only six years older than i am, so that the stepmother part of it seems ridiculous. we're more like sisters, and she's perfectly crazy over old china and old furniture. she'd love miss bender's things." "perhaps she'll come up while you're here," said bertha. "i'll ask mother to write for her." "thank you," said patty, "but i'm afraid she won't. my father can't leave for his vacation until july, and then we're all going away together, but i don't know where." just then elise came flying out to them, with the announcement that supper was ready, and they were to come right in, quick. the table was spread in the large room which patty had thought was the kitchen. it probably had been built for that purpose, but other kitchens had been added beyond it, and for the last half century it had been used as a dining-room. the table was drawn out to its full length, which made it very long indeed, and it was filled with what seemed to patty viands enough to feed an army. at one end was a young pig roasted whole, with a lemon in his mouth, and a design in cloves stuck into his fat little side. at the other end was a baked ham whose crisp golden-brown crust could only be attained by the old cook who had been in the bender family for many years. up and down the length of the table on either side was a succession of various cold meats, alternating with pickles, jellies and savories of various sorts. after the guests were seated, nancy brought in platters of smoking-hot biscuits from the kitchen, and miss aurora herself made the tea. the furnishings of the table were of old blue and white china of great age and priceless value. the old family silver too was a marvel in itself, and the tea service which miss bender manipulated with some pride was over a hundred years old. patty was greatly impressed at this unusual scene, but when the plates were removed after the first course, and the busy maid-servants prepared to serve the dessert, she was highly entertained. for the next course, though consisting only of preserves and cake, was served in an unusual manner. the preserves included every variety known to housewives and a few more. in addition to this, miss aurora announced in a voice which was calm with repressed satisfaction, that she had fourteen kinds of cake to put at the disposal of her guests. none of these sorts could be mixed with any other sort, and the result was fourteen separate baskets and platters of cake. the table became crowded before they had all been brought in from the kitchen, and quite as a matter of course, the serving maids placed the later supplies on chairs, which they stood behind the guests, and the ladies amiably turned round in their seats, inspected the cake, partook of it if they desired, and gracefully pushed the chair along to the next neighbour. this seemed to the city girls a most amusing performance, but patty immediately adapted herself to what was apparently the custom of the house, and gravely looked at the cake each time, selected such as pleased her fancy and pushed the chair along. noticing patty's gravity as she accomplished this performance, elise very nearly lost her own, but patty nudged her under the table, and she managed to behave with propriety. the conversation at the table was without a trace of hilarity, and included only the most dignified subjects. the ladies ate mincingly, with their little fingers sticking out straight, or curved in what they considered a most elegant fashion. miss aurora was in her element. she was truly proud of her home and its appointments, and she dearly loved to entertain company at tea. to her mind, and indeed to the minds of most of those present, the success of a tea depended entirely upon the number of kinds of cake that were served, and miss bender felt that with fourteen she had broken any hitherto known record. it was an unwritten law that each kind of cake must be really a separate recipe. to take a portion of ordinary cup-cake batter, and stir in some chopped nuts, and another portion and mix in some raisins, by no means met the requirements of the case. this patty learned from remarks made by the visitors, and also from miss aurora's own delicately veiled intimations that each of her fourteen kinds was a totally different and distinct recipe. patty couldn't help wondering what would become of all this cake, for after all, the guests could eat but a small portion of it. and it occurred to her also that the ways of the people in previous generations, as exemplified in miss bender's customs, seemed to show quite as great a lack of a sense of proportion as many of our so-called modern absurdities. after supper the guests immediately departed for their homes. carriages arrived for the different ones, and they went away, after volubly expressing to their hostess their thanks for her delightful entertainment. the girls expected winthrop and roger to come for them in the motor-car, but they had not told them to come quite so early as now seemed necessary. in some embarrassment, they told miss bender that they would have to trespass on her hospitality for perhaps an hour longer. "my land o' goodness!" she exclaimed, looking at them in dismay, "why i've got to set this house to rights, and i can't wait an hour to begin!" "don't mind us, miss bender," said bertha. "just shut us up in some room by ourselves, and we'll stay there, and not bother you a bit; unless perhaps we can help you?" "help me! no, indeed. there can't anybody help me when i'm clearin' up after a quiltin', unless it's somebody that knows my ways. but i'd like to amuse you children, somehow. i'll tell you what, you can go up in the front bedroom, if you like, and there's a chest of old-fashioned clothes there. can't you play at dressin' up?" "yes, indeed," cried bertha. "just the thing! give us some candles." provided with two candles apiece, the girls followed miss aurora to a large bedroom on the second floor, which also boasted its carved four-poster and chintz draperies. "there," said miss aurora, throwing open a great chest, "you ought to get some fun out of trying on those fol-de-rols, and peacocking around; but don't come downstairs to show off to me, for you'll only bother me out of my wits. i'll let you know when your folks come for you." miss bender trotted away, and the girls, quite ready for a lark, tossed over the quaint old gowns. beautiful costumes were there, of the period of about a hundred years ago. lustrous silks and dainty dimities; embroidered muslins and heavy velvets; patty had never seen such a sight. after looking them over, the girls picked out the ones they preferred, and taking off their own frocks proceeded to try them on. bertha had chosen a blue and white silk of a bayadere stripe, with lace ruffles at the neck and wrists and a skirt of voluminous fulness. elise wore a white empire gown that made her look exactly like the empress josephine, while patty arrayed herself in a flowered silk of dresden effect with a pointed bodice, square neck, and elbow sleeves with lace frills. in great glee, the girls pranced around, regretting there was no one to whom they might exhibit their masquerade costumes. but miss bender had been so positive in her orders that they dared not go downstairs. suddenly they heard the toot of an automobile. [illustration: "patty arrayed herself in a flowered silk of dresden effect"] "that's our car," cried bertha. "i know the horn. let's go down just as we are, for the benefit of winthrop and roger." in answer to miss bender's call from below, the girls trooped downstairs, and merrily presented themselves for inspection. mr. phelps had come with the others, and if the young men were pleased at the picture the three girls presented, miss aurora herself was no less so. "my," she said, "you do look fine, i declare! now, i'll tell you what i'll do; i'll make each of you young ladies a present of the gown you have on, if you care to keep it. i'll never miss them, for i have trunks and chests full, besides those you saw, and i'm right down glad to give them to you. you can wear them sometimes at your fancy dress parties." the girls were overjoyed at miss bender's gift, and bertha declared they would wear them home, and she would send over for their other dresses the next day. so, donning their wraps, the merry modern maids in their antique garb made their adieus to miss aurora, and were soon in the big motor-car speeding for home. chapter xvii a summer christmas although they had intended to stay but a fortnight, patty and elise remained with the warners all through the month of june, and even then bertha begged them to stay longer. but the day for their departure was set in the first week of july, and bertha declared that they must have a big party of some kind as their last entertainment for the girls. so mrs. warner invited a number of young people for a house party during the last few days of patty's stay. "i wish," said bertha, a few days before the fourth, "that we could have some kind of a party on the fourth of july that would be different from just an ordinary party." "have an automobile party," suggested roger, who was present. "i don't mean that kind," said bertha, "i mean a party in the house, but something that would be fun. there isn't anything to do on fourth of july except have fireworks, and that isn't much fun." "i'll tell you what," said mr. phelps, who was at pine branches on one of his flying visits, "have a christmas party." "a christmas party on fourth of july!" exclaimed bertha, "that's just the thing! mr. phelps, you're a real genius. that's just what we'll do, and we'll have a christmas tree, and give each other gifts and everything." "great!" said roger, "and we'll have a yule log blazing, and we'll all wear our fur coats." "no, not that," said bertha, laughing, "we'd melt. but we'll have all the christmas effects that we can think of, and each one must help." the crowd of merry young people who were gathered at pine branches eagerly fell in with bertha's plan, and each began to make preparations for the festival. the girls made gifts which they carefully kept secret from the ones for whom they were intended, and many trips were made to the village for materials. the boys also had many mysterious errands, and mr. and mrs. warner, who entered heartily into the spirit of the fun, were frequently consulted under strict bonds of confidence. fourth of july came and proved to be a warm, though not a sultry summer day. invitations had been sent out, and a large party of young people were expected in the evening; and during the day those who were staying at pine branches found plenty to do by way of preparation. a large christmas tree had been cut down, and was brought into the library. as soon as it was set up, the work of decoration began, and it was hung with strings of popcorn, and tinsel filigree which mrs. warner had saved from previous christmas trees. dozens of candles too, were put on the branches, to be lighted at night. the boys brought in great boughs of evergreen, and cut them up, while the girls made ropes and wreaths and stars, with which to adorn the room. mr. phelps had sent to new york for a large boxful of artificial holly, and this added greatly to the christmas effect. patty was in her element helping with these arrangements, for she dearly loved to make believe, and the idea of a christmas party in midsummer appealed very strongly to her sense of humour. her energy and enthusiasm were untiring, and her original ideas called forth the hearty applause of the others. she was consulted about everything, and her decisions were always accepted. mr. phelps too, proved a clever and willing worker. he was an athletic young man, and he seemed to be capable of doing half a dozen different things at once. he cut greens, and hung wreaths, and ran up and down stepladders, and even managed to fasten a large gilt star to the very top branch of the christmas tree. after the decorations were all completed, everybody brought their gifts neatly tied up and labelled, and either hung them on the tree or piled them up around the platform on which it stood. "well, you children have done wonders," said mrs. warner, looking in at the library door. "you have transformed this room until i hardly can recognise it, and it looks for all the world exactly like christmas. it is hard to believe that it is really fourth of july." "it seems too bad not to have any of the fourth of july spirit mixed in with it," said winthrop, "but i suppose it would spoil the harmony. but we really ought to use a little gunpowder in honour of the day. come on, patty, your work is about finished, let's go out and put off a few firecrackers." "all right," said patty, "just wait till i tack up this 'merry christmas' motto, and i'll be ready." "i'll do that," said roger, "you infants run along and show off your patriotism, and i'll join you in a few minutes." "you must be tired," said winthrop to patty, as they sauntered out on the lawn. "you worked awfully hard with those evergreen things. let's go out on the lake and take our firecrackers with us; that will rest you, and it will be fun besides." the lake, so called by courtesy, was really an artificial pond, and though not large, it provided a great deal of amusement. there were several boats, and selecting a small cedar one, winthrop assisted patty in, sprang in himself, and pushed off. "if it's christmas, we ought to be going skating on the lake, instead of rowing," said patty. "it isn't christmas now," said winthrop, "you get your holidays mixed up. we've come out here to celebrate independence day. see what i've brought." from his pockets the young man produced several packs of firecrackers. "what fun!" cried patty, "i feel as if i were a child again. let me set some off. have you any punk?" "yes," said winthrop, gravely producing some short sticks of punk from another pocket; and lighting one, he gave it to patty. "but how can i set them off?" said patty, "i'm afraid to have them in the boat, and we can't throw them out on the water." "we'll manage this way," said winthrop, and drawing one of the oars into the boat, he laid a lighted firecracker on the blade and pushed it out again. the firecracker went off with a bang, and in great glee patty pulled in the other oar and tried the same plan. then they set off a whole pack at once, and as the length of the oar was not quite sufficient for safety winthrop let it slip from the row-lock and float away on the water. as he had previously tied a string to the handle so that he could pull the oar back at will, this was a great game, and the floating oar with its freight of snapping firecrackers provided much amusement. the noise of the explosions brought the others running to the scene, and three or four more boats were soon out on the lake. firecrackers went snapping in every direction, and torpedoes were thrown from one boat to another until the ammunition was exhausted. then the merry crowd trooped back to the house for luncheon. "i never had such a lovely fourth of july," said patty to her kind hostess. "everything is different from anything i ever did before. this house is just like fairyland. you never know what is going to happen next." after luncheon the party broke up in various small groups. some of the more energetic ones played golf or tennis, but patty declared it was too warm for any unnecessary exertion. "come for a little walk with me," said roger, "we'll walk down in the grove; it's cool and shady there, and we can play mumblety-peg if you like." "i'll go to the grove," said patty, "but i don't want to play anything. this is a day just to be idle and enjoy living, without doing anything else." they strolled down toward the grove, and were joined on the way by bertha and mr. phelps, who were just returning from a call on abiram. "i think abiram ought to come to the christmas party to-night," said bertha, "i know he'd enjoy seeing the tree lighted up." "he shall come," said dick phelps, "i'll bring him myself." "do," said patty, "and we'll tie a red ribbon round his neck with a sprig of holly, and i'll see to it that there's a present on the tree for him." the quartet walked on to the grove, and sat down on the ground under the pine trees. "i feel very patriotic," said patty, who was decorated with several small flags which she had stuck in her hair, and in her belt, "and i think we ought to sing some national anthems." so they sang "the star-spangled banner," and other patriotic airs, until they were interrupted by winthrop and elise who came toward them singing a christmas carol. "i asked you to come here," said roger aside, to patty, "because i wanted to see you alone for a minute, and now all these other people have come and spoiled my plan. come on over to the orchard, will you?" "of course i will," said patty jumping up, "what is the secret you have to tell me? some plan for to-night?" "no," said roger, hesitating a little, "that is, yes,--not exactly." they had walked away from the others, and roger took from his pocket a tiny box which he offered to patty. "i wanted to give you a little christmas present," he said, "as a sort of memento of this jolly day; and i thought maybe you'd wear it to-night." "how lovely!" cried patty, as she opened the box and saw a little pin shaped like a spray of holly. "it's perfectly sweet. thank you ever so much, roger, but why didn't you put it on the tree for me?" "oh, they are only having foolish presents on the tree, jokes, you know, and all that." "oh, is this a real present then? i don't know as i ought to accept it. i've never had a present from a young man before." roger looked a little embarrassed, but patty's gay delight was entirely free from any trace of self-consciousness. "anyway, i am going to keep it," she said, "because it's so pretty, and i like to think that you gave it to me." roger looked greatly gratified and seemed to take the matter with more seriousness than patty did. she pinned the pretty little trinket on her collar and thought no more about it. dinner was early that night, for there was much to be done in the way of final preparations before the guests came to the christmas party. the christmas pretence was intended as a surprise to those not staying in the house, and after all had arrived, the doors of the library were thrown open with shouts of "merry christmas!" and indeed it did seem like a sudden transition back into the winter. the christmas tree with its gay decorations and lighted candles was a beautiful sight, and the green-trimmed room with its spicy odours of spruce and pine intensified the illusion. shouts of delight went up on all sides, and falling quickly into the spirit of it all, the guests at once began to pretend it was really christmas, and greeted each other with appropriate good wishes. mischievous patty had slyly tied a sprig of mistletoe to the chandelier, and dick phelps by a clever manoeuvre had succeeded in getting mrs. warner to stand under it. the good lady was quite unaware of their plans, and when mr. phelps kissed her soundly on her plump cheek she was decidedly surprised. but the explanation amply justified his audacity, and mrs. warner laughingly declared that she would resign her place to some of the younger ladies. the greatest fun came when winthrop distributed the presents from the tree. none of them was expensive or valuable, but most of them were clever, merry little jokes which good-naturedly teased the recipients. true to his word mr. phelps brought abiram in, leading him by his long chain. patty had tied a red ribbon round his neck with a huge bow, and had further dressed him up in a paper cap which she had taken from a german cracker motto. abiram received a stick of candy as his gift, and was as much pleased, apparently, as the rest of the party. many of the presents were accompanied by little verses or lines of doggerel, and the reading of these caused much merriment and laughter. after the presentations, supper was served, and here mrs. warner had provided her part of the surprise. not even those staying in the house knew of their hostess' plans, and when they all trooped out to the dining-room, a real christmas feast awaited them. the long table was decorated with red ribbons and holly, and red candles with red paper shades. christmas bells hung above the table, and at each plate were appropriate souvenirs. in the centre of the table was a tiny christmas tree with lighted candles, a miniature copy of the one they had just left. even the viands partook of the christmas character, and from roast turkey to plum pudding no detail was spared to make it a true christmas feast. the young people did full justice to mrs. warner's hospitality, and warmly appreciated the kind thoughtfulness which had made the supper so attractive in every way. then they adjourned to the parlour for informal dancing, and wound up the party with an old-fashioned virginia reel, which was led by mr. and mrs. warner. mr. warner was a most genial host and his merry quips and repartee kept the young people laughing gaily. when at last the guests departed, it was with assurances that they had never had such a delightful christmas party, even in midwinter, and had never had such a delightful fourth of july party, even in midsummer. chapter xviii at sandy cove when the day came for patty and elise to leave pine branches, everyone concerned was truly sorry. elise had long been a favourite with the warners, and they had grown to love patty quite as well. roger was still there, and mr. and mrs. farrington came for the young people in their motor-car. they were returning from a most interesting trip, which had extended as far as portland. after hearing some accounts of it, patty felt sure that she would have enjoyed it; but then she had also greatly enjoyed her visit at pine branches, and she felt sure that it had been better for her physically than the exertion and excitement of the motor-trip. besides this, the farringtons assured her that there would be many other opportunities for her to go touring with them, and they would always be glad to have her. so one bright morning, soon after the fourth of july, the fact started off again with its original party. they made the trip to new york entirely without accident or mishap of any kind, which greatly pleased roger, as it demonstrated that the fact was not always a stubborn thing. patty was to spend the months of july and august with her father and nan, who had rented a house on long island. the house was near the barlows' summer home at sandy cove, for nan had thought it would be pleasant to be near her friends, who were also patty's relatives. mr. and mrs. fairfield had already gone to long island, and the farringtons were to take patty over there in the motor-car. so, after staying a day or two with elise in new york, patty again took her place in the car for the journey to her new home. mr. farrington and elise went with her, and after seeing her safely in her father's care, returned to the city that same day. patty was glad to see her father and nan again, and was delighted with the beautiful house which they had taken for the summer. "how large it is!" she exclaimed, as she looked about her. "we three people will be lost in it!" "we're going to have a lot of company," said nan, "i've invited nearly everyone i know, and i shall expect you to help me entertain them." "gladly," said patty; "there are no horrid lessons in the way now, and you may command my full time and attention." the day after patty's return to her family, she proposed that they go over to see the barlows. "it's an awful hot afternoon," said nan, "but i suppose we can't be any warmer there than here." so arraying themselves in fresh, cool white dresses, nan and patty started to make their call. the barlows' summer place was called the hurly-burly, and as nan and patty both knew, the name described the house extremely well. as bob barlow sometimes said, the motto of their home seemed to be, "no place for nothin', and nothin' in its place." but as the family had lived up to this principle for many years, it was not probable things would ever be any different with them, and it did not prevent their being a delightful family, while their vagaries often proved extremely entertaining. but when nan and patty neared the house they saw no sign of anybody about. the doors and windows were all open and the visitors walked in, looked in the various rooms, and even went upstairs, but found nobody anywhere. "i'll look in the kitchen," said patty; "surely old hopalong, the cook, will be there. they can't all be away, and the house all open like this." but the kitchen too, was deserted, and nan said, "well, let us sit on the front verandah a while; it must be that somebody will come home soon, and anyway i'm too warm and tired to walk right back in the broiling sun." so they sat on the verandah for half an hour, and then patty said, "let's give one more look inside the house, and if we can't find anybody let's go home." "all right," said nan, and in they went, through the vacant rooms, and again to the kitchen. "why, there's hopalong," said patty, as she saw the old coloured woman busy about her work, though indeed hopalong's slow movements could not be accurately described by the word busy. "hello, hopalong," said patty, "where are all the people?" "bless yo' heart miss patty, chile, how yo'done skeered me! and howdy, miss nan,--'scuse me, i should say missus fairfield. de ladies is at home, and i 'spects dey'll be mighty glad to see you folks." "where are they, then?" said nan, looking puzzled, "we can't find them." "well yo' see it's a mighty hot day, and dem barlows is mighty fond of bein' as comf'able as possible. i'm makin' dis yere lemonade for 'em, kase dey likes a coolin' drink. i'll jest squeeze in another lemon or two, and there'll be plenty for you, too." "but where are they, hopalong?" asked patty, "are they outdoors, down by the brook?" "laws no, miss patty, i done forgot to tell yo' whar dey am, but dey's down in de cellah." "in the cellar!" said patty, "what for?" "so's dey kin be cool, chile. jes' you trot along down, and see for yourselfs." hopalong threw open the door that led from the kitchen to the cellar stairs, and holding up their dainty white skirts, patty and nan started down the rather dark staircase. "look at those white shoes coming downstairs," they heard bumble's voice cry; "i do believe it's nan and patty!" "it certainly is," said patty, and as she reached the last step, she looked around in astonishment, and then burst into laughter. "well, you do beat all!" she said, "we've been sitting on the front verandah half an hour, wondering where you could be." "isn't it nice?" said mrs. barlow, after she had greeted her guests. "it is indeed," said patty, "it's the greatest scheme i ever heard of." the cellar, which had been recently white-washed, had been converted into a funny sort of a sitting-room. on the floor was spread a large white floor-cloth, whose original use had been for a dancing crash. the chairs and sofas were all of wicker, and though in various stages of dilapidation, were cool and comfortable. a table in the center was covered with a white cloth, and the sofa pillows were in white ruffled cases. bumble explained that the intent was to have everything white, but they hadn't been able to carry out that idea fully, as they had so few white things. "the cat is all right," said patty, looking at a large white cat that lay curled up on a white fur rug. "yes, isn't she a beautiful cat? her name is the countess, and when she's awake, she's exceedingly aristocratic and dignified looking, but she's almost never awake. oh, here comes hopalong, with our lemonade." the old negro lumbered down the steps, and bumble took the tray from her, and setting it on the table, served the guests to iced lemonade and tiny thin cakes of hopalong's concoction. "now isn't this nice?" said mrs. barlow, as they sat chatting and feasting; "you see how cool and comfortable it is, although it's so warm out of doors. i dare say i shall get rheumatism, as it seems a little damp here, but when i feel it coming on, i'm going to move my chair over onto that fur rug, and then i think there will be no danger." "it is delightfully cool," said patty, "and i think it a most ingenious idea. if we had only known sooner that you were here, though, we could have had a much longer visit." "it's so fortunate," said bumble, whom patty couldn't remember to call helen, "that you chanced to be dressed in white. you fit right in to the colour scheme. mother and i meant to wear white down here, but all our white frocks have gone to the laundry. but if you'll come over again after a day or two, we'll have this place all fixed up fine. you see we only thought of it this morning. it was so unbearably hot, we really had to do something." soon uncle ted and bob came in, and after a while mr. fairfield arrived. the merry party still stayed in the cellar room, and one and all pronounced it a most clever idea for a hot day. the barlows were delighted that the fairfields were to be near them for the summer, and many good times were planned for. patty was very fond of her barlow cousins, but after returning to her own home, which nan with the special pride of a young housekeeper, kept in the daintiest possible order, patty declared that she was glad her father had chosen a wife who had the proper ideas of managing a house. nan and patty were congenial in their tastes and though patty had had some experience in housekeeping, she was quite willing to accept any innovations that nan might suggest. "indeed," she said, "i am only too glad not to have any of the care and responsibility of keeping house, and i propose to enjoy an idle summer after my hard year in school." so the days passed rapidly and happily. there were many guests at the house, and as the fairfields were rather well acquainted with the summer people at sandy cove, they received many invitations to entertainments of various kinds. the farringtons often came down in their motor-car and made a flying visit, or took the fairfields for a ride, and patty hoped that the warners would visit them before the summer was over. one day mr. phelps appeared unexpectedly, and from nowhere in particular. he came in his big racing-car, and that day patty chanced to be the only one of the family at home. he invited her to go for a short ride with him, saying they could easily be back by dinner time, when the others were expected home. glad of the opportunity, patty ran for her automobile coat and hood, and soon they were flying along the country roads. part of the time they went at a mad rate of speed, and part of the time they went slower, that they might converse more easily. as they went somewhat slowly past a piece of woods, patty gave a sudden exclamation, and declared that she saw what looked like a baby or a young child wrapped in a blanket and lying on the ground. her face expressed such horror-stricken anxiety, as she thought that possibly the child had been abandoned and left there purposely, that mr. phelps consented to go back and investigate the matter, although he really thought she was mistaken in thinking it was a child at all. he turned his machine, and in a moment they were back at the place. mr. phelps jumped from the car, and ran into the wood where patty pointed. sure enough, under a tree lay a baby, perhaps a year old, fairly well dressed and with a pretty smiling face. he called to patty and she joined him where he stood looking at the child. "why, bless your heart!" cried patty, picking the little one up, "what are you doing here all alone?" the baby cooed and smiled, dimpling its little face and caressing patty's cheeks with its fat little hands. a heavy blanket had been spread on the ground for the child to lie on, and around its little form was pinned a lighter blanket with the name rosabel embroidered on one corner. "so that's your name, is it?" said patty. "well, rosabel, i'd like to know where you belong and what you're doing here. do you suppose," she said, turning an indignant face to mr. phelps, "that anybody deliberately put this child here and deserted it?" "i'm afraid that's what has happened," said mr. phelps, who really couldn't think of any other explanation. they looked all around, but nobody was in sight to whom the child might possibly belong. "i can't go away and leave her here," said patty, "the dear little thing, what shall we do with her?" "it is a mighty hard case," said mr. phelps, who was nonplussed himself. he was a most gentle-hearted man, and could not bear the thought of leaving the child there alone in the woods, and it was already nearing sundown. "we might take it along with us," he said, "and enquire at the nearest house." "there's no house in sight," said patty, looking about. "well, there are only two things to choose from; to stay here in hope that somebody will come along, who knows something about this baby, or else assume that she really has been deserted and take her home with us, for the night at least. i simply won't go off and leave her here, and if there was anybody here in charge of her they must have shown up by this time." mr. phelps could see no use in waiting there any longer, and though it seemed absurd to carry the child off with them, there really seemed nothing else to do. so with a last look around, hoping to see somebody, but seeing no one, patty climbed into the car and sitting in the front seat beside mr. phelps, held the baby in her lap. "she's awfully cunning," she declared, "and such a pretty baby! whoever abandoned this child ought to be fearfully punished in some way." "i can't think she was abandoned," said mr. phelps, but as he couldn't think of any other reason for the baby being there alone, he was forced to accept the desertion theory. having decided to take the baby with them, they sped along home, and drew up in front of the house to find nan and mr. fairfield on the verandah. "why, how do you do, mr. phelps?" cried nan. "we're very glad to see you. come in. for gracious goodness' sake, patty, what have you got there?" "this is rosabel," said patty, gravely, as she held the baby up to view. chapter xix rosabel "rosabel who?" exclaimed nan, as patty came up on the verandah with the baby in her arms. "i don't know, i'm sure. you may call her rosabel anything you like. we picked her up by the wayside." "yes," said dick phelps, who had followed patty up the steps. "miss rosabel seemed lonely without anyone to talk to, so we brought her back here to visit you." "you must be crazy!" cried nan, "but what a cunning baby it is! let me take her." nan took the good-natured little midget and sat down in a verandah rocker, with the baby in her arms. "tell a straight story, patty," said her father, "is it one of the neighbour's children, or did you kidnap it?" "neither," said patty, turning to her father; "we found the baby lying right near the edge of a wood, in plain sight from the road. and there was nobody around, and papa, i just know that the child's wretch of a mother deserted it, and left it there to die!" "nonsense," said her father. "mothers don't leave their little ones around as carelessly as that." "well, what else could it be?" said patty. "there was the baby all alone, smiling and talking to herself, and no one anywhere near, although we waited for some time." "it does seem strange," said mr. fairfield, "perhaps the mother did mean to desert the child, but if so, she was probably peeping from some hiding-place, to make sure that she approved of the people who took it." "well," said mr. phelps, "she evidently thought we were all right; at any rate she made no objection." "but isn't it awful," said nan, "to think of anybody deserting a dear little thing like this. why, the wild animals might have eaten her up." "of course they might," said mr. phelps, gravely, "the tigers and wolves that abound on long island are of the most ferocious type." "well, anyway," said patty, "something dreadful might have happened to her." "it may yet," said mr. phelps cheerfully, "when we take her back to-morrow and put her in the place we found her. for i don't suppose you intend to keep miss rosabel, do you?" "i don't know," said patty, "but i know one thing, we certainly won't put her back where we found her. what shall we do with her, papa?" "i don't know, my child, she's your find, and i suppose it's a case of 'findings is keepings.'" "of course we can't keep her," said patty, "how ridiculous! we'll have to put her in an orphan asylum or something like that." "it's a shame," said nan, "to put this dear little mite in a horrid old asylum. i think i shall adopt her myself." little rosabel had begun to grow restless, and suddenly without a word of warning she began to cry lustily, and not a quiet well-conducted cry either, but with ear-splitting shrieks and yells, indicative of great discomfort of some sort. "i've changed my mind," said nan, abruptly. "i don't want to adopt any such noisy young person as that. here, take her, patty, she's your property." patty took the baby, and carried her into the house, fearing that passers-by would think they must be torturing the child to make her scream like that. into the dining-room went patty, and on to the kitchen, where she announced to the astonished cook that she wanted some milk for the baby and she wanted it quick. "is there company for dinner, miss patty?" asked the cook, not understanding how a baby could have arrived as an only guest. "only this one," said patty, laughing, "what do you think she ought to eat?" "bread and milk," said the cook, looking at the child with a judicial air. "all right, kate, fix her some, won't you?" in a few moments patty was feeding rosabel bread and milk, which the child ate eagerly. impelled by curiosity, nan came tip-toeing to the kitchen, followed by the two men. "i thought she must be asleep," said nan, "as the concert seems to have stopped." "not at all," said patty, calmly, "she was only hungry, and the fact seemed to occur to her somewhat suddenly." little rosabel, all smiles again, looked up from her supper with such bewitching glances that nan cried out, "oh, she is a darling! let me help you feed her, patty." in fact they all succumbed to the charm of their uninvited guest. during dinner rosabel sat at the table, in a chair filled with pillows, and was made happy by being given many dainty bits of various delicacies, until nan declared the child would certainly be ill. "i don't believe she is more than a year old," said nan, "and she's probably unaccustomed to those rich cakes and bonbons." "i think she's more than a year," said patty, sagely, "and anyway, i want her to have a good time for once." "she seems to be having the time of her life," said dick phelps, as he watched the baby, who with a macaroon in one hand, and some candied cherries in the other, was smiling impartially on them all. "she's not much of a conversationalist," remarked mr. fairfield. "give her time," said patty, "she feels a little strange at first." "yes," said mr. phelps, "i think after two or three years she'll be much more talkative." "well, there's one thing certain," said patty, "she'll have to stay here to-night, whatever we do with her to-morrow." [illustration: "in a few minutes patty was feeding rosabel bread and milk"] after dinner they took their new toy with them to the parlour, and miss rosabel treated them all to a few more winning smiles, and then quietly, but very decidedly fell asleep in patty's arms. "i can't help admiring her decision of character," said patty, as she shook the baby to make her awaken, but without success. "don't wake her up," said nan. "come, patty, we'll take her upstairs, and put her to bed somewhere." this feat being accomplished, nan and patty rejoined the men, who sat smoking on the front verandah. "now," said patty, "we really must decide what we're going to do with that infant; for i warn you, papa fairfield, that if we keep that dear baby around much longer, i shall become so attached to her that i can't give her up." "of course," said mr. fairfield, "she must be turned over to the authorities. i'll attend to it the first thing in the morning." a little later mr. fairfield and nan strolled down the road to make a call on a neighbour, and patty and dick phelps remained at home. patty had declared she wouldn't leave the house lest rosabel should waken and cry out, so promising to make but a short call, mr. fairfield and nan went away. soon after they had gone, a strange young man came walking toward the house. he turned in at the gate and approached the front steps. "is this mr. richard phelps?" he asked, addressing himself to dick. "it is; what can i do for you?" "do you own a large black racing automobile?" "yes," replied mr. phelps. "and were you out in it this afternoon," continued the stranger, "driving rapidly between here and north point?" "yes," said mr. phelps again, wondering what was the intent of this peculiar interview. "then you're the man i'm after," declared the stranger, "and i'm obliged to tell you, sir, that you are under arrest." "for what offence?" enquired mr. phelps, rather amused at what he considered a good joke, and thinking that it must be a case of mistaken identity somehow. "for kidnapping little mary brown," was the astonishing reply. "why, we didn't kidnap her at all!" exclaimed patty, breaking into the conversation. "the idea, to think we would kidnap a baby! and anyway her name isn't mary, it's rosabel." "then you know where the child is, miss," said the man, turning to patty. "of course i do," said patty, "she's upstairs asleep. but it isn't mary brown at all. it's rosabel,--i don't know what her last name is." mr. phelps began to be interested. "what makes you think we kidnapped a baby, my friend?" he said to their visitor. the man looked as if he had begun to think there must be a mistake somewhere. "why, you see, sir," he said, "mrs. brown, she's just about crazy. her little girl, sarah, went out into the woods this afternoon, and took the baby, mary, with her. the baby went to sleep, and sarah left it lying on a blanket under a tree, while she roamed around the wood picking blueberries. somehow she strayed away farther than she intended and lost her way. when she finally managed to get back to the place where she left the baby, the child was gone, and she says she could see a large automobile going swiftly away, and the lady who sat in the front seat was holding little mary. sarah screamed, and called after you, but the car only went on more and more rapidly, and was soon lost to sight. i'm a detective, sir, and i looked carefully at the wheel tracks in the dust, and i asked a few questions here and there, and i hit upon some several clues, and here i am. now i'd like you to explain, sir, if you didn't kidnap that child, what you do call it?" "why, it was a rescue," cried patty, indignantly, without giving mr. phelps time to reply. "the dear little baby was all alone in the wood, and anything might have happened to her. her mother had no business to let her be taken care of by a sister that couldn't take care of her any better than that! we waited for some time, and nobody appeared, so we picked up the child and brought her home, rather than leave her there alone. but i don't believe it's the child you're after anyway, for the name rosabel is embroidered on the blanket." "it is the same child, miss," said the man, who somehow seemed a little crestfallen because his kidnapping case proved to be only in his own imagination. "mrs. brown described to me the clothes the baby wore, and she said that blanket was given to her by a rich lady who had a little girl named rosabel. the browns are poor people, ma'am, and the mother is a hard-working woman, and she's nearly crazed with grief about the baby." "i should think she would be," said patty, whose quick sympathies had already flown to the sorrowing mother. "she oughtn't to have left an irresponsible child in charge of the little thing. but it's dreadful to think how anxious she must be! now i'll tell you what we'll do; mr. phelps, if you'll get out your car, i'll just bundle that child up and we'll take her right straight back home to her mother. we'll stop at the ripleys' for papa and nan, and we'll all go over together. it's a lovely moonlight night for a drive, anyway, and even if it were pitch dark, or pouring in torrents, i should want to get that baby back to her mother just as quickly as possible. i don't wonder the poor woman is distracted." "very well," said mr. phelps, who would have driven his car to kamschatka if patty had asked him to, "and we'll take this gentleman along with us, to direct us to mrs. brown's." mr. phelps went for his car, and patty flew to bundle up the baby. she did not dress the child, but wrapped her in a warm blanket, and then in a fur-lined cape of her own. then making a bundle of the baby's clothes, she presented herself at the door, just as mr. phelps drove up with his splendid great car shining in the moonlight. a few moments' pause was sufficient to gather in mr. and mrs. fairfield, and away they all flew through the night, to mrs. brown's humble cottage. they found the poor woman not only grieving about the loss of her child, but angry and revengeful against the lady and gentleman in the motor-car, who, she thought, had stolen it. and so when the car stopped in front of her door, she came running out followed by her husband and several children. little sarah recognised the car, which was unusual in size and shape, and cried out, "that's the one, that's the one, mother! and those are the people who stole mary!" but the young detective, whose name was mr. faulks, sprang out of the car and began to explain matters to the astonished family. then patty handed out the baby, and the grief of the browns was quickly turned to rejoicing, mingled with apologies. mr. fairfield explained further to the somewhat bewildered mother, and leaving with her a substantial present of money as an evidence of good faith in the matter, he returned to his place in the car, and in a moment they were whizzing back toward home. "i'm glad it all turned out right," said patty with a sigh, "but i do wish that pretty baby had been named rosabel instead of mary. it really would have suited her a great deal better." chapter xx the rolands "there's a new family in that house across the road," said mr. fairfield one evening at dinner. "the fenwick house?" asked nan. "yes; a man named roland has taken it for august. i know a man who knows them, and he says they're charming people. so, if you ladies want to be neighbourly, you might call on them." nan and patty went to call and found the roland family very pleasant people, indeed. mrs. roland seemed to be an easy-going sort of lady who never took any trouble herself, and never expected anyone else to do so. miss roland, patty decided, was a rather inanimate young person, and showed a lack of energy so at variance with patty's tastes that she confided to nan on the way home she certainly did not expect to cultivate any such lackadaisical girl as that. as for young mr. roland, the son of the house, patty had great ado to keep from laughing outright at him. he was of the foppish sort, and though young and rather callow, he assumed airs of great importance, and addressed patty with a formal deference, as if she were a young lady in society, instead of a schoolgirl. patty was accustomed to frank, pleasant comradeship with the boys of her acquaintance; and the young men, such as mr. hepworth and mr. phelps, treated patty as a little girl, and never seemed to imply anything like grown-up attentions. but young mr. roland, with an affected drawl, and what were meant to be killing glances of admiration, so conducted himself that patty's sense of humour was stirred, and she mischievously led him on for the fun of seeing what he would do next. the result was that young mr. roland was much pleased with pretty patty, and fully believed that his own charms had made a decided impression on her. he asked permission to call, whereupon patty told him that she was only a schoolgirl, and did not receive calls from young men, but referred him to mrs. fairfield, and nan being in an amiable mood, kindly gave him the desired permission. "well," said patty, as they discussed the matter afterward, "if that young puff-ball rolls himself over here, you can have the pleasure of entertaining him. i'm quite ready to admit that another season of his conversation would affect my mind." "nonsense," said nan, carelessly, "you can't expect every young man to be as interesting as mr. hepworth, or as companionable as kenneth harper." "i don't," said patty, "but i don't have to bore myself to death talking to them, if i don't like them." "no," said nan, "but you must be polite and amiable to everybody. that's part of the penalty of being an attractive young woman." "all right," said patty, "since that's the way you look at it, you surely can't have any objection to receiving mr. roland if he calls, for i warn you that i shan't appear." but it so happened that when a caller came one afternoon, nan was not at home, and patty was. the maid brought the card to patty, who was reading in her own room, and when she looked at it and saw the name of mr. charles roland upon it, she exclaimed in dismay. "i don't want to go down," she said, "i wish he hadn't come." "it's a lady, miss patty," said the girl. "a lady?" said patty, wonderingly, "why this is a gentleman's card." "yes, ma'am, i know it, but it's a lady that called. she's down in the parlour, waiting, and that's the card she gave me. she's a large lady, miss patty, with greyish hair, and she seems in a terrible fluster." "very mysterious," said patty, "but i'll go down and see what it's all about." patty went down to the parlour, and found mrs. roland there. she did indeed look bewildered, and as soon as patty entered the room she began to talk volubly. "excuse my rushing over like this, my dear," she said, "but i am in such trouble, and i wonder if you won't help me out. we're neighbours, you know, and i'm sure i'd do as much for you. i asked for mrs. fairfield, but she isn't at home, so i asked for you." "but the card you sent up had mr. charles roland's name on it," said patty, smiling. "oh, my dear, is that so? what a mistake to make! you see i carry charlie's cards around with my own, and i must have sent the wrong one. i'm so nearsighted i can't see anything without my glasses, anyway, and my glasses are always lost." patty felt sorry for the old lady, who seemed in such a bewildered state, and she said, "no matter about the card, mrs. roland, what can i do for you?" "why it's just this," said her visitor. "i want to borrow your house. just for the night, i'll return it to-morrow in perfect order." "borrow this house?" repeated patty, wondering if her guest were really sane. "yes," said mrs. roland; "now wait, and i'll tell you all about it. i'm expecting some friends to dinner and to stay over night, and would you believe it, just now of all days in the year, the tank has burst and the water is dripping down all through the house. we can't seem to do anything to stop it. the ceilings had fallen in three rooms when i came away, and i dare say the rest of them are down by this time. and my friends are very particular people, and awfully exclusive. i wouldn't like to take them to the hotel; and i don't think it's a very nice hotel anyway, and so i thought if you'd just lend me this house over night, i could bring my friends right here, and as they leave to-morrow morning, it wouldn't be long, you know. and truly i don't see what else i can do." "but what would become of our family?" said patty, who was greatly amused at the unconventional request. "why, you could go to our house," said mrs. roland dubiously; "that is, if any of the ceilings will stay up over night; or," she added, her face brightening, "couldn't you go to the hotel yourselves? of course, it isn't a nice place to entertain guests, but it does very well for one's own family. oh, miss fairfield, please help me out! truly i'd do as much for you if the case were reversed." although the request was unusual, mrs. roland did not seem to think so, and the poor lady seemed to be in such distress, that patty's sympathies were aroused, and after all it was a mere neighbourly act of kindness to borrow and lend, even though the article in question was somewhat larger than the lemon or the egg usually borrowed by neighbourly housekeepers. so patty said, "what about the servants, mrs. roland? do you want to borrow them too?" "i don't care," was the reply, "just as it suits you best. you may leave them here; or take them with you, and i'll bring my own. oh, please, miss fairfield, do help me somehow." patty thought a minute. it was a responsibility to decide the question herself, but if she waited until nan or her father came home, it would be too late for mrs. roland's purpose. then she said, "i'll do it, mrs. roland. you shall have the house and servants at your disposal until noon to-morrow. you may bring your own servants also, or not, just as you choose. we won't go to your house, thank you, nor to the hotel. but mr. and mrs. fairfield and myself will go over to my aunt, mrs. barlow's, to dine and spend the night. they can put us up, and they won't mind a bit our coming so unexpectedly." "oh, my dear, how good you are!" said mrs. roland in a burst of gratitude. "i cannot tell you how i appreciate your kindness! are you sure your parents won't mind?" "i'm not at all sure of that," said patty, smiling, "but i don't see as they can help themselves; when they come home, you will probably be in possession, and your guests will be here, so there'll be nothing for my people to do but to fall in with my plans." "oh, how good you are," said mrs. roland. "i will surely make this up to you in some way, and now, will you just show me about the house a bit, as i've never been here before?" so patty piloted mrs. roland about the house, showed her the various rooms, and told the servants that they were at mrs. roland's orders for that night and the next morning. after mrs. roland had gone back home, made happy by patty's kindness, patty began to think that she had done a very extraordinary thing, and wondered what her father and nan would say. "but," she thought to herself, "i'm in for it now, and they'll have to abide by my decision, whatever they think. now i must pack some things for our visit. but first i must telephone to aunt grace." "hello, auntie," said patty, at the telephone, a few moments later. "papa and nan and i want to come over to the hurly-burly to dinner, and to stay all night. will you have us?" "why, of course, patty, child, we're glad to have you. come right along and stay as long as you like. but what's the matter? has your cook left, or is the house on fire?" "neither, aunt grace, but i'll explain when i get there. can you send somebody after me in a carriage? papa and nan have gone off in the cart, and i have two suit cases to bring." "certainly, patty, i'll send old dill after you right away, and i'll make him hurry, too, as you seem to be anxious to start." "i am," said patty, laughing. "good-bye." then she gathered together such clothing and belongings as were necessary for their visit, and had two suit cases ready packed when her aunt's carriage came for her. patty looked a little dubious as she left the house, but she didn't feel that she could have acted otherwise than as she had done, and, too, since their own trusty servants were to stay there, certainly no harm could come to the place. so, giggling at the whole performance, patty jumped into the barlow carriage and went to the hurly-burly. "well, of all things!" said her aunt grace, after patty had told her story. "i've had a suspicion, sometimes, that we barlows were an unconventional crowd, but we never borrowed anybody's house yet! it's ridiculous, patty, and you ought not to have let that woman have it!" "i just couldn't help it, aunt grace, she was in such a twitter, and threw herself on my mercy in such a way that i felt i had to help her out." "you're too soft-hearted, patty; you'd do anything for anybody who asked you." "you needn't talk, aunt grace, you're just the same yourself, and you know that if somebody came along this minute and wanted to borrow your house you'd let her have it if she coaxed hard enough." "i think very likely," said aunt grace, placidly. "now, how are you going to catch your father and nan?" "why, they'll have to drive past here on their way home," said patty, "and i mean to stop them and tell them about it. we can put the horse in your barn, i suppose." "yes, of course. and now we'll go out on the verandah, and then we can see the fairfield turn-out when it comes along." the fairfields were waylaid and stopped as they drove by the house, which was not astonishing, as patty and bumble and mrs. barlow watched from the piazza, while bob was perched on the front gate post, and uncle ted was pacing up and down the walk. "what's the matter?" cried mr. fairfield, as he reined up his horse in response to their various salutations. "the matter is," said patty, "that we haven't any home of our own to-night, and so we're visiting aunt grace." "earthquake swallowed our house?" inquired mr. fairfield, as he turned to drive in. "not quite," said patty, "but one of the neighbours wanted to borrow it, so i lent it to her." "that mrs. roland, i suppose," said nan; "she probably mislaid her own house, she's so careless and rattle-pated." "it was mrs. roland," said patty, laughing, "and she's having a dinner-party, and their tank burst, and most of the ceilings fell, and really, nan, you know yourself such things do upset a house, if they occur on the day of a dinner-party." fuller explanations ensued, and though the fairfields thought it a crazy piece of business, they agreed with patty, that it would have been difficult to refuse mrs. roland's request. and it really didn't interfere with the fairfields'comfort at all, and the barlows protested that it was a great pleasure to them to entertain their friends so unexpectedly, so, as mr. fairfield declared, mrs. roland was, after all, a public benefactor. "you'd better wait," said nan, "until you see the house to-morrow. i know a little about the rolands, and i wouldn't be a bit surprised to find things pretty much upside down." it was nearly noon the next day when mrs. roland telephoned to the hurly-burly and asked for mrs. fairfield. nan responded, and was told that the rolands were now leaving, and that the fairfields might again come into their home. mrs. roland also expressed voluble thanks for the great service the fairfields had done her, and said that she would call the next day to thank them in person. so the fairfields went back home, and happily nan's fears were not realised. nothing seemed to be spoiled or out of order, and the servants said that mrs. roland and her family and friends had been most kind, and had made no trouble at all. "now, you see," said patty, triumphantly, "that it does no harm to do a kind deed to a neighbour once in a while, even though it isn't the particular kind deed that you've done a hundred times before." "that's true enough, patty," said her father, "but all the same when you lend our home again, let it be our own house, and furnished with our own things. i don't mind owning up, now that it's all over, that i did feel a certain anxiety arising from the fact that this is a rented house, and almost none of the household appointments are our own." "goodness, gracious me!" said patty. "i never once thought of that! well, i'm glad they didn't smash all the china and bric-a-brac, for they're mortal homely, and i should certainly begrudge the money it would take to replace them." chapter xxi the crusoes plans were on foot for a huge fair and bazaar to be held in aid of the associated charities. everybody in and around sandy cove was interested, and the fair, which would be held the last week in august, was expected to eclipse all previous efforts of its kind. all three of the fairfields were energetically assisting in the work, and each was a member of several important committees. the barlows, too, were working hard, and the rolands thought they were doing so, though somehow they accomplished very little. as the time drew near for the bazaar to open, patty grew so excited over the work and had such a multitude of responsibilities, that she flew around as madly as when she was preparing for the play at school. "but i'm perfectly well, now," she said to her father when he remonstrated with her, "and i don't mind how hard i work as long as i haven't lessons to study at the same time." aside from assisting with various booths and tables, patty had charge of a gypsy encampment, which she spared no pains to make as gay and interesting as possible. the "romany rest" she called the little enclosure which was to represent the gypsies'home, and patty not only superintended the furnishing and arranging of the place, but also directed the details of the costumes which were to be worn by the young people who were to represent gypsies. the fairfields' house was filled with guests who had come down for the fair. patty had invited elise and roger farrington, and bertha and winthrop warner. mr. hepworth and kenneth harper were there, too, and the merry crowd of young people worked zealously in their endeavours to assist patty and nan. mr. hepworth, of course, was especially helpful in arranging the gypsy encampment, and designing the picturesque costumes for the girls and young men who were to act as gypsies. the white blouses with gay-coloured scarfs and broad sombreros were beautiful to look at, even if, as patty said, they were more like spanish fandangoes than like any gypsy garments she had ever seen. "don't expose your ignorance, my child," said mr. hepworth, smiling at her. "a romany is not an ordinary gypsy and is always clothed in this particular kind of garb." "then that's all that's necessary," said patty. "i bow to your superior judgment, and i feel sure that all the patrons of the fair will spend most of their time at the 'romany rest.'" the day on which the fair was to open was a busy one, and everybody was up betimes, getting ready for the grand event. a fancy dress parade was to be one of the features of the first evening, and as a prize was offered for the cleverest costume, all of the contestants were carefully guarding the secret of the characters their costumes would represent. although roger had given no hint of what his costume was to be, he calmly announced that he knew it would take the prize. the others laughed, thinking this a jest, and patty was of a private opinion that probably mr. hepworth's costume would be cleverer than roger's, as the artist had most original and ingenious ideas. the fair was to open at three in the afternoon, and soon after twelve o'clock patty rushed into the house looking for somebody to send on an errand. she found no one about but bertha warner, who was hastily putting some finishing touches to her own gypsy dress. "that's almost finished, isn't it, bertha?" began patty breathlessly. "yes; why? can i help you in any way?" "indeed you can, if you will. i have to go over to black island for some goldenrod. it doesn't grow anywhere else as early, at least i can't find any. i've hunted all over for somebody to send, but the boys are all so busy, and so i'm just going myself. i wish you'd come along and help me row. it's ever so much quicker to go across in a boat and get it there, than to drive out into the country for it." "of course i will," said bertha, "but will there be time?" "yes, if we scoot right along." the girls flew down to the dock, jumped into a small rowboat and began to row briskly over to black island. it was not very far, and they soon reached it. they scrambled out, pulled the boat well up onto the beach, and went after the flowers. sure enough, as patty had said, there was a luxuriant growth of goldenrod in many parts of the island. patty had brought a pair of garden shears, and by setting to work vigorously, they soon had as much as they could carry. "there," said patty, triumphantly, as she tied up two great sheaves, "i believe we gathered that quicker than if we had brought some boys along to help. now let's skip for home." the island was not very large, but in their search for the flowers they had wandered farther than they thought. "it's nearly one o'clock," said patty, looking at her watch, and carrying their heavy cargo of golden flowers, they hastened back to where they had left their boat. but no boat was there. "oh, bertha," cried patty, "the boat has drifted away!" "oh, pshaw," said bertha, "i don't believe it. we pulled it ever so far up on the sand." "well, then, where is it?" "why, i believe winthrop or kenneth or somebody came over and pulled it away, just to tease us. i believe they're around the corner waiting for us now." patty tried to take this view of it, but she felt a strange sinking of her heart, for it wasn't like kenneth to play a practical joke, and she didn't think winthrop would, either. laying down her bundle of flowers, bertha ran around the end of the island, fully expecting to see her brother's laughing face. but there was no one to be seen, and no sign of the boat. then bertha became alarmed, and the two girls looked at each other in dismay. "look off there," cried patty, suddenly, pointing out on the water. far away they saw an empty boat dancing along in the sunlight! bertha began to cry, and though patty felt like it, it seemed really too babyish, and she said, "don't be a goose, bertha, we're not lost on a desert island, and of course somebody will come after us, anyway." but patty was worried more than she would admit. for no one knew where they had gone, and the empty boat was drifting away from sandy cove instead of toward it. at first, the girls were buoyed up by the excitement of the situation, and felt that somebody must find them shortly. but no other boat was in sight, and as patty said, everybody was getting ready for the fair and no one was likely to go out rowing that day. one o'clock came, and then half-past one, and though the girls had tried to invent some way out of their difficulty they couldn't think of a thing to do, but sit still and wait. they had tied their handkerchiefs on the highest bushes of the island, there being no trees, but they well knew that these tiny white signals were not likely to attract anybody's attention. they had shouted until they were hoarse, and they had talked over all the possibilities of the case. "of course they have missed us by this time," said patty, "and of course they are looking for us." "i don't believe they are," said bertha disconsolately, "because all the people at the house will think we're down at the fair grounds, and all the people there will think we're up at the house." "that's so," patty admitted, for she well knew how everybody was concerned with his or her own work for the fair, and how little thought they would be giving to one another at this particular time. and yet, though patty would not mention it, and would scarcely admit the thought to herself, she couldn't help feeling sure that mr. hepworth would be wondering where she was. "the only hope is," she said to bertha, "if somebody should want to see me especially, about some of the work, and should try to hunt me up." "well," said bertha, "even if they did, it never would occur to them that we are over here." "no, they'd never think of that; even if they do miss us, and try to hunt for us. they'll only telephone to different houses, or something like that. it will never occur to them that we're over here, and why should it?" "i'm glad i came with you," said bertha, affectionately. "i should hate to think of you over here all alone." "if i were here alone," said patty, laughing, "you wouldn't be thinking of me as here alone. you'd just be wondering where i was." "so i would," said bertha, laughing, too; "but oh, patty, do let's do _something!_ it's fearful to sit here helpless like this." "i know it," said patty, "but what can we do? we're just like robinson crusoe and his man friday, except that we haven't any goat." "no, and we haven't any raft, from which to select that array of useful articles that he had at his disposal. do you remember the little bag, that always held everything that could possibly be required?" "oh, that was in 'swiss family robinson,'" said patty; "your early education is getting mixed up. i hope being cast on a desert island hasn't affected your brain. i don't want to be over here with a lunatic." "you will be, if this keeps up much longer," said poor bertha, who was of an emotional nature, and was bravely trying hard not to cry. "we might make a fire," said patty, "if we only had some paper and matches." "i don't know what good a fire would do. nobody would think that meant anything especial. i wish we could put up a bigger signal of some sort." "we haven't any bigger signal, and if we had, we haven't any way of raising it any higher than these silly low bushes. i never saw an island so poorly furnished for the accommodation of two young lady crusoes." "i never did, either. i'm going to shout again." "do, if it amuses you, but truly they can't hear you. it's too far." "what do you think will happen, patty? do you suppose we'll have to stay here all night?" "i don't know," said patty, slowly. "of course when it's time for the fair to open, and we're not there, they'll miss us; and of course papa will begin a search at once. but the trouble is, bertha, they'll never think of searching over here. they'll look in every other direction, but they'll never dream that we came out in the boat." so the girls sat and waited, growing more and more down-hearted, with that peculiar despondency which accompanies enforced idleness in a desperate situation. "look!" cried patty, suddenly, and startled, bertha looked where patty pointed. yes, surely, a boat had put out from the shore, and was coming toward them. at least it was headed for the island, though not directly toward where they sat. "they're going to land farther down," cried patty, excitedly, "come on, bertha." the two girls rushed along the narrow rough beach, wildly waving their handkerchiefs at the occupants of the boat. "it's mr. hepworth," cried patty, though the knowledge seemed to come to her intuitively, even before she recognised the man who held the stroke oar. "and winthrop is rowing, too," said bertha, recognising her brother, "and i think that's kenneth harper, steering." by this time the boat was near enough to prove that these surmises were correct. relieved of her anxiety, mischievous patty, in the reaction of the moment, assumed a saucy and indifferent air, and as the boat crunched its keel along the pebbly beach she called out, gaily, "how do you do, are you coming to call on us? we're camping here for the summer." "you little rascals!" cried winthrop warner. "what do you mean by running away in this fashion, and upsetting the whole bazaar, and driving all your friends crazy with anxiety about you?" "our boat drifted away," said bertha, "and we couldn't catch it, and we thought we'd have to stay here all night." "i didn't think we would," said patty. "i felt sure somebody would come after us." "i don't know why you thought so," said winthrop, "for nobody knew where you were." "i know that," said patty, smiling, "and yet i can't tell you why, but i just felt sure that somebody would come in a boat, and carry us safely home." "whom did you expect?" asked kenneth, "me?" patty looked at kenneth, and then at mr. hepworth, and then dropping her eyes demurely, she said: "i didn't know _who_ would come, only i just knew _somebody_ would." "well, somebody did," said kenneth, as he stowed the great bunches of goldenrod in the bow of the boat. "yes, somebody did," said patty, softly, flashing a tiny smile at mr. hepworth, who said nothing, but he smiled a little, too, as he bent to his oars. chapter xxii the bazaar of all nations "how did you know where we were?" said bertha to her brother. "we didn't know," said winthrop, "but after we had hunted everywhere, and put a squad of policemen on your track, and got out the fire department, and sent for an ambulance, hepworth, here, did a little detective work on his own account." "what did you do?" asked patty. "why, nothing much," said mr. hepworth, "i just tried to account for the various boats, and when i found one was missing, i thought you must have gone on the water somewhere. and so i got a field glass and looked all around, and though i thought i saw your white flags fluttering. i wasn't sure, but i put over here on the chance." "seems to me," said kenneth, "hepworth is a good deal like that man in the story. a horse had strayed away and several people had tried to find it, without success. presently, a stupid old countryman came up leading the horse. when asked how he found it he only drawled out, 'wal, i jest considered a spell. i thought ef i was a horse whar would i go? and i went there,--and he had!' that's a good deal the way hepworth did." they all laughed at kenneth's funny story, but patty said, "it was a sort of intuition, but all the same i object to having mr. hepworth compared to a stupid old countryman." "i don't care what i'm compared to," said mr. hepworth, gaily, "as long as we've found you two runaways, and if we can get you back in time for the opening of the fair." the time was very short indeed, and as soon as they landed at the dock, patty and bertha started for the house to don their costumes as quickly as possible. the fair, or "bazaar of all nations," as it was called, was really arranged on an elaborate scale. it was held on the spacious grounds of mr. ashton, one of the wealthiest of the summer residents of sandy cove. so many people had interested themselves in the charity, and so much enthusiasm had they put into their work, that when it was time to throw the gates open to the public, it was a festive and gorgeous scene indeed. the idea of representing various nations had been picturesquely, if not always logically, carried out. a japanese tea-booth had been built with some regard to japanese fashion, but with even more effort at comfort and attractive colour effects. the young ladies who attended it wore most becoming japanese costumes, and with slanting pencilled eyebrows, and japanese headdresses, they served tea in oriental splendour. in competition with them was an english dairy, where the rosy-cheeked maids in their neat cotton dresses and white aprons dispensed cheese cakes and devonshire cream to admiring customers. the representatives of other countries had even more elaborate results to show for their labours. italy's booth was a beautiful pergola, which had been built for the occasion, but which mr. ashton intended to keep as a permanent decoration. over the structure were beautiful vines and climbing plants, and inside was a gorgeous collection of blossoms of every sort. italian girls in rich-coloured costumes and a profuse array of jewelry sold bouquets or growing plants, and were assisted in their enterprise by swarthy young men who wore the dress of venetian gondoliers, or italian nobles, with a fine disregard of rank or caste. spain boasted a vineyard. mr. hepworth had charge of this, and it truly did credit to his artistic ability. built on the side of a hill, it was a clever imitation of a spanish vineyard, and large grape vines had been uprooted and transplanted to complete the effect. to be sure, the bunches of grapes were of the hothouse variety, and were tied on the vines, but they sold well, as did also the other luscious fruits that were offered for sale in arbours at either end of the grapery. the young spaniards of both sexes who attended to the wants of their customers were garbed exactly in accordance with mr. hepworth's directions, and he himself had artistically heightened the colouring of their features and complexions. germany offered a restaurant where _delicatessen_ foods and tempting savories were served by _fräuleins_. helen barlow was one of the jolliest of these, and her plump prettiness and long flaxen braids of hair suited well the white kerchief and laced bodice of her adopted country. the french girls, with true parisian instinct, had a millinery booth. here were sold lovely feminine bits of apparel, including collars, belts, laces and handkerchiefs, but principally hats. the hats were truly beautiful creations, and though made of simple materials, light straw, muslin, and even of paper, they were all dainty confections that any summer girl might be glad to wear. the little french ladies who exhibited these goods were voluble and dramatic, and in true french fashion, and with more or less true french language, they extolled the beauty of their wares. in a swiss châlet the peasants sold dolls and toys; in a cuban construction, of which no one knew the exact title, some fierce-looking native men sold cigars, and in a strange kind of a hut which purported to be an eskimo dwelling, ice cream could be bought. the stars and stripes waved over a handsome up-to-date soda-water fountain, as the authorities had decided that ice-cream soda was the most typical american refreshment they could offer to their patrons. but an indian encampment also claimed american protection, and a group of western cowboys took pride in their ranch, and even more pride in their swaggering costumes. altogether the bazaar was a great show, and as it was to last for three days, nobody expected to exhaust all its entertainments in one visit. the romany rest was one of the prettiest conceits, and though an idealised gypsy encampment, it proved a very popular attraction. half a dozen girls and as many young men wore what they fondly hoped looked enough like gypsy costumes to justify the name, but at any rate, they were most becoming and beautiful to look upon. patty was the gypsy queen, and looked like that personage as represented in comic opera. seated on a queerly constructed, and somewhat wobbly throne, she told fortunes to those who desired to know what the future held for them. apparently there was great curiosity in this respect, for patty was kept steadily busy from the time she arrived at her place. other gypsies sold gaily coloured beads, amulets and charms, and others stirred a queer-looking brew in a gypsy kettle over a real fire, and sold cupfuls of it to those who wished in this way to tempt fate still further. it was a perfect day, and the afternoon was progressing most satisfactorily. bertha was one of the swiss peasants, and by dint of much hurrying, she and patty had been able to get ready in time to join the parade of costumed attendants as they marched to their various stations. though had it not been for mr. phelps and his swift motor-car, they could scarcely have reached the fair grounds in time. elise was one of the italian flower girls, and kenneth also wore the garb of italy. mr. hepworth and roger farrington were ferocious-looking indians, and brandished their tomahawks and tossed their feathered heads in fearsome fashion. dick phelps was a cowboy, and his herculean frame well suited the picturesque western dress. and charlie roland flattered himself that arrayed as a chinaman he was too funny for anything. although patty had become better acquainted with young mr. roland, she had not learned to like him. his conceited ways and pompous manner seemed to her silly and artificial beside the frank comradeship of her other friends. he came early to have his fortune told by the gypsy queen, and though, of course, patty was in no way responsible for the way in which the cards fell, and though she told the fortunes strictly according to the instructions in a printed book, which she had learned by heart, she was not especially sorry when mr. roland's fortune proved to be not altogether a desirable one. but the young man was in nowise disconcerted. "it doesn't matter," he said, cheerfully, "i've had my fortune told lots of times, and things always happen just contrary to what is predicted. but i say, miss romany, can't you leave your post for a few minutes and go with me to the japanese tea place, for a cup of their refreshing beverage?" "thank you ever so much," said patty, "but i really can't leave here. there's a whole string of people waiting for their fortunes, and i must stand by my post. perhaps i can go later," she added, for though she did not care for charlie roland's attentions, she was too good-natured to wish to hurt his feelings. "i consider that a promise," said mr. roland, as he moved away to make place for the next seeker after knowledge. patty turned to her work, and thought no more of charlie roland and his undesirable invitation. soon kenneth came to have his fortune told, for it had been arranged that each booth should have plenty of attendants, in order that they might take turns in leaving their posts and promenading about the grounds. this was supposed to advertise their own particular nation, besides giving all a chance to see the sights. kenneth's fortune proved to be a bright and happy one, but he was not unduly elated over it, for his faith in such things was not implicit. "thank you," he said gravely, as patty finished telling of the glories which would attend his future career. "i don't think there's anything omitted from that string of good luck, unless it's being president, and i'm not quite sure i want to be that." "yes, you do," said patty, "every good american ought to want that, if only as a matter of patriotism." "well, i'm patriotic enough," said kenneth, "and i'll want it if you want me to want it. and now, patty, you've worked here long enough for the present. let somebody else take your place, and you come with me for a walk about the grounds. i'll take you to the pergola, and we'll buy some flowers from elise." "i'd love to go, ken, but truly i ought to stay here a while longer. lots of people want their fortune told, and nobody can do it but me, because i learnt all that lingo out of a book. no, i can't go now. run along,--i'm busy." patty spoke more shortly than she meant to, for the very reason that she wanted to go with kenneth, but she felt it her duty to remain at her post. kenneth appreciated the principle of the thing, but he thought that patty might have been a little kinder about it. his own temper was a little stirred by the incident, and rising quickly, he said, "all right, stay here, then!" and turning on his heel, he sauntered carelessly away. patty looked after him, thinking what a handsome boy he was, and how well his italian suit became him. kenneth's skin was naturally rather dark, and his black eyes and hair and heavy eyebrows were somewhat of the italian type. his white linen blouse was slightly turned in at the throat and he wore a crimson silk tie, and sash to match, knotted at one side. a broad-brimmed hat of soft grey felt sat jauntily on his head, and as he swung himself down the path, patty thought she had never seen him look so well. soon after this, charlie roland came back again. "i've brought someone to help you out," he said, as he introduced a young girl who accompanied him. "this is miss leslie and she knows fortune telling from the ground up. give her a red sash, and a bandana handkerchief to tie around her head, and let her take your place, if only for a short time; and you come with me to buy some flowers. do you know, your costume really calls for some scarlet blossoms in your hair, and over in the pergola they have some red geraniums that are simply great. come on, let's get some." patty did want some red flowers, and had meant to have some, but she dressed in such a hurry that there was no time to find any. moreover, she had never known charlie roland to appear to such good advantage. he seemed to have dropped his pompous manner with his civilised dress, and in his comical chinaman's costume, he seemed far more attractive than in his own everyday dress. and since he had provided her with a substitute, patty saw no reason for refusing his invitation. so together they left the romany rest, and walked about the fair, chatting with people here and there, until they reached the pergola. elise was delighted to see them, and while the italian girls besought mr. roland to buy their flowers, the italian young men clustered around patty, and with merry laugh and jest, presented her with sundry floral offerings. there was one exception, however; kenneth stood aloof. for the first time in his life, he felt that patty had intentionally slighted him. he had asked her to come to the pergola for flowers, and she had refused. then a few minutes later she had accepted a similar invitation from that stupid young roland. kenneth was obliged to admit to himself that young roland did not look stupid just at present, for he had some talent as a comedian, and was acting the part of a funny chinaman with success. but that didn't make any difference to kenneth, and he looked reproachfully at patty, as she accepted the flowers and gay compliments from her attendant cavalier. patty had intended to explain to kenneth why it had been possible for her to leave the gypsy camp in charge of another fortune teller, but when she saw the boy's moody expression and sulky attitude her sense of humour was touched, and she giggled to herself at the idea of kenneth being angry at such a trifle. she thought it distinctly silly of him, and being in a mischievous mood, she concluded he ought to be punished for such foolishness. so instead of smiling at him, she gave him only a careless glance, and then devoted her attention to the others. patty was a general favourite, and her happy, sunny ways made friends for her wherever she went. she was therefore surrounded by a crowd of merry young people, some of whom had just been introduced to her, and others whom she had known longer; and as she laughed and chatted with them, kenneth began to think that he was acting rather foolishly, and longed to join the group around the gypsy queen. but the boy was both sensitive and proud, and he could not quite bring himself to overlook what he considered an intentional unkindness on the part of patty. so, wandering away from the pergola, he visited other booths, and chatted with other groups, determined to ignore patty and her perversities. patty, not being an obtuse young person, saw through all this, and chose to be amused by it. "dear old ken," she thought to herself, "what a goose he is! i'll get nan to ask him to have supper with us all in the english dairy, and then i expect he'll thaw out that frozen manner of his." feeling that she ought to return to her own post, patty told her chinaman so, and together they went back to the romany rest; but as patty was about to take her place again at the fortune teller's table, mr. phelps came along and desired her to go with him, and have her photograph taken. at first patty demurred, though she greatly wanted to go, but miss leslie said she was not at all tired of fortune telling, and would gladly continue to substitute for patty a while longer. "come on, then," said dick phelps, "there's no reason why you shouldn't, since miss leslie is kind enough to fill your place." patty still hesitated, for she thought that kenneth would be still more offended if he saw her walking around with mr. phelps, after having told him that she could not leave the gypsy camp. but dick phelps was of an imperious nature. he was accustomed to having his own way, and was impatient at patty's hesitation. "come on," he said. "march!" and taking her by the arm, he led her swiftly down the path toward the photograph booth. as he strode along, cowboy fashion, patty said, meekly, "let go of my arm, please, mr. phelps. i think you've broken two bones already! and _don't_ walk so fast. i'm all out of breath!" "forgive me," said dick phelps, suddenly checking his speed, and smiling down at the girl beside him, "you see this cowboy rig makes me feel as if i were back on the plains again, and i can't seem to adjust myself to civilised conditions." mr. phelps looked very splendid as a cowboy, and patty listened with interest, as he told her of an exciting episode which had occurred during his ranch life, in a distant western territory. so engrossed did they become in this conversation that the photographs were forgotten for the moment, and they strolled along past the various booths, unheeding the numerous invitations to enter. of course kenneth saw them, and from a trifling offence, patty's conduct seemed to him to have grown into a purposed rudeness. as they passed him, patty smiled pleasantly, and paused, saying, "we're all going to have supper in the dairy, and of course you'll be with us, ken?" "of course i won't!" said kenneth, and deliberately turning on his heel, he walked the other way. chapter xxiii the end of the summer "whew!" said dick phelps, in his straightforward way, "he's mad at you, isn't he?" "yes," said patty, "and it's so silly! all about nothing at all. i wish you'd take me back to him, mr. phelps, and leave us alone, and i think i can straighten matters out in two minutes." "indeed, i'll do nothing of the sort," returned mr. phelps, in his masterful way; "you promised to go to the photograph place, and that's where we're going. i don't propose to give you up to any young man we chance to meet!" patty laughed, and they went on. at the photograph booth they found many of the gaily dressed young people, anxious to have pictures of themselves in their pretty costumes. patty and mr. phelps had to wait their turn, but finally succeeded in getting a number of pictures. patty had some taken alone, and some in which she was one of a gay group. some were successful portraits, and others were not, but all were provocative of much laughter and fun. by a rapid process of development, the photographers were enabled to furnish the completed pictures in less than a half hour after the cameras did their work, and as a consequence, this booth was exceedingly popular and promised handsome returns for the benefit of charity. mr. phelps and patty loitered about, waiting for their pictures, when patty caught sight of nan, and running to her she said, "for goodness' sake, nan, do help me out! kenneth's as mad as hops, and all about nothing! now i want you to ask him to come to supper with our crowd, and you must _make_ him come!" "i can't make him come, if he doesn't want to. you've been teasing him, patty, and you must get out of your own scrapes." "ah, nan, dear," coaxed patty, "do be good, and truly, if you'll just persuade him to come to supper with us, i'll do the rest." "i'll try," said nan as she walked away, "but i won't promise that i'll succeed." she did succeed, however, and some time later mr. fairfield gathered the large party whom he had invited to supper, in the english dairy. the supper was to be a fine one, far exceeding the bounds of dairy fare, and mr. fairfield had reserved a long table for his guests. as they trooped in, laughing and talking, and seated themselves for the feast, patty was relieved to see that kenneth was among them, after all. he took a seat between elise and helen barlow, and knowing bumble's good nature, patty went directly to her, and asked her if she wouldn't move, as she wanted to sit there herself. "of course i will," said bumble, and jumping up, she ran around to the other side of the table. then patty deliberately sat down by kenneth, who couldn't very well get up and walk away, himself, though he looked at her with no expression of welcome in his glance. without a word, patty leaned over and selected from a dish of olives on the table one which had a stem to it. with a tiny bit of ribbon she tied the olive to a little green branch she had brought in with her, and then demurely held the token toward kenneth. for a moment the boy looked rather blank, and then realising that patty was offering him the olive branch of peace, and that she had gone to some trouble to do this, and that moreover she had done it rather cleverly, the boy's face broke into a smile, and he turned toward patty. "thank you," he said, as he took the little spray, and attached it to the rolling collar of his blouse. "i accept it, with its full meaning." "you're such a goose, kenneth!" said patty, her eyes dancing with laughter. "there was nothing to get huffy about." "well," said kenneth, feeling his grounds for complaint slipping away from him, "you pranced off with that roland chap, after you had just told me you couldn't leave your gypsy queen business." "i know it," said patty, "but ken, he brought a nice lady to fill my place, and besides, he asked me to go to get red flowers and i really wanted red flowers." "i asked you to go for flowers too," said kenneth, not yet entirely mollified. "yes," said patty, "but you didn't say _red_ flowers. how did i know but that you'd buy pink or blue ones, and so spoil my whole gypsy costume?" kenneth had to laugh in spite of himself, at this bit of audacity. "and then right afterwards you went off again with dick phelps," he continued. "kenneth," said patty, looking at him with an expression of mock terror, "i couldn't help myself that time! honest, i couldn't. mr. phelps is a fearful tyrant. he's an ogre, and when he commanded me to go, i just had to go! he's a man that makes you do a thing, whether you want to or not. why, kenneth, he just marched me off!" "all right," said kenneth, "i'll take a leaf out of his book. after this, when i want you to go anywhere, _i'll_ just march you off." "you can try," said patty, saucily, "but i'm not sure you can do it. it takes a certain type of man to do that sort of thing successfully, and i don't know anybody but dick phelps who's just that kind." but peace was restored, for kenneth realised that patty's explanation was a fair one, and that he had been foolishly quick to take offence. after supper they all went to the grand stand to see the parade of fancy costumes. these were quite separate from the booth attendants, and a prize had been offered for the cleverest conceit, most successfully carried out. when at last the grand march took place, it showed a wonderful array of thoroughly ingenious costumes. of course there were many clowns, historical characters, fairies, and queer nondescript creatures, but there were also many characters which were unique and noteworthy. mr. hepworth, who was in the parade, had chosen to represent the full moon. how he did it, no one quite knew; but all that was visible was an enormous sphere, of translucent brightness and a luminous yellow color. mr. fairfield declared that the medium must be phosphorus, but all agreed that it was a wonderful achievement, and many thought it would surely take the prize. the sphere was hollow, and made of a light framework, and mr. hepworth walked inside of it, really carrying it along with him. it so nearly touched the ground that his feet were scarcely observable, and the great six foot globe made a decided sensation, as it moved slowly along. patty remembered that roger had declared he was going to take the prize, and as she had knowledge of the boy's ability along these lines, she felt by no means sure that it wouldn't eclipse mr. hepworth's shining orb. and sure enough, when roger appeared, it was in the character of a christmas tree! the clever youth had selected just the right kind of a tree, and cutting away enough twigs and branches near the trunk on one side, he had made a space in which he could thrust the whole of his tall slender self. to protect his face and hands from the scratchy foliage, and also to render himself inconspicuous, he wore a tight-fitting robe of dark brown muslin, which concealed even his face and arms, though eyeholes allowed him to see where he was going. in a word, the boy himself almost constituted the trunk of the tree, and by walking slowly, it looked as if the tree itself was moving along without assistance. the tree was gaily hung with real christmas trinkets and decorations, and lighted with candles. the idea was wonderfully clever, and though it had been hard work to arrange the boughs to conceal him entirely, roger had accomplished it, and the gay decorations hid all defects. the judges awarded the prize to roger, who calmly remarked to patty, afterward, "i told you i'd get it, didn't i?" "yes," said patty, "and so then of course i knew you would." it was a rather tired party that went back to the fairfields' house at the close of the evening. nan and mr. fairfield issued strict orders that everybody must go to bed at once, as there were two more strenuous days ahead, and they needed all the rest they could get. but next morning they reappeared, quite ready for fresh exertions, and patty declared that for her part she'd like to be a gypsy all the year round. "well i never want to be a christmas tree again," said roger, "in spite of my precautions, i'm all scratched up!" "never mind," said his sister consolingly, "you took the prize, and that's glory enough to make up for lots of scratches." the second and third days of the fair were much like the first, except that the crowds of visitors continually increased. the fame of the entertainment spread rapidly, and people came, even from distant parts of long island, to attend the festivities. but at last it was all over, and the fairfield verandah was crowded with young people, apparently of all nations, who were congratulating each other on the wonderful success. "of course," said patty, "the greatest thing was that we had such perfect weather. if it had rained, the whole thing would have been spoiled." "but it didn't rain," said nan, "and everything went off all right, and they must have made bushels of money." "well, it was lovely," said patty with a little sigh, "and i enjoyed every minute of it, but i don't want to engage in another one right away. i think i shall go to bed and sleep for a week!" "i wish i were a bear," said kenneth, "they can go to sleep and sleep all winter." "you'd make a good bear," said patty, in an aside to him, "because you can be so cross." but the merry smile that accompanied her words robbed them of any unpleasant intent, and kenneth smiled back in sympathy. "just to think," said nan, "a week from to-day we'll all be back in the city, and our lovely summer vacation a thing of the past." "it has been a beautiful summer," said patty, her thoughts flying backward over the past season. "i've never had such a happy summer in my life. it's been just one round of pleasure after another. everybody has been so good to me and the whole world seems to have connived to help me have a good time." "in so far as i'm part of the whole world, allow me to express my willingness to keep right on conniving," said big dick phelps, in his funny way. "me, too," said kenneth, in his hearty, boyish voice. mr. hepworth said nothing, but he smiled at patty from where he sat at the other end of the long verandah. works of annie fellows johnston =the little colonel series= (_trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of._) each one vol., large mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel stories $ . (containing in one volume the three stories, "the little colonel," "the giant scissors," and "two little knights of kentucky.") the little colonel's house party . the little colonel's holidays . the little colonel's hero . the little colonel at boarding-school . the little colonel in arizona . the little colonel's christmas vacation . the little colonel: maid of honor . the little colonel's knight comes riding . the above vols., boxed . _in preparation_--a new little colonel book . * * * * * the little colonel good times book . =illustrated holiday editions= each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in colour the little colonel $ . the giant scissors . two little knights of kentucky . big brother . =cosy corner series= each one vol., thin mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel $. the giant scissors . two little knights of kentucky . big brother . ole mammy's torment . the story of dago . cicely . aunt 'liza's hero . the quilt that jack built . flip's "islands of providence" . mildred's inheritance . =other books= joel: a boy of galilee $ . in the desert of waiting . the three weavers . keeping tryst . the legend of the bleeding heart . asa holmes . songs ysame (poems, with albion fellows bacon) . * * * * * =l. c. page & company= = summer street boston, mass.= [illustration: "lloyd ... took her place beside the harp" (_see page _)] the little colonel: maid of honor by annie fellows johnston author of "the little colonel series," "big brother," "ole mammy's torment," "joel: a boy of galilee," "asa holmes," etc. illustrated by etheldred b. barry [illustration] boston * l. c. page & company * publishers _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) * * * * * _entered at stationers' hall, london_ * * * * * _all rights reserved_ first impression, october, third impression, august, fourth impression, april, fifth impression, march, sixth impression, february, contents chapter page i. at warwick hall ii. at ware's wigwam iii. in beauty's quest iv. mary's "promised land" v. at "the locusts" vi. the fox and the stork vii. the coming of the bride viii. at the beeches ix. "something blue" x. "a coon hunt" xi. the four-leaved clover xii. the wedding xiii. dreams and warnings xiv. a second maid of honor xv. the end of the house-party xvi. the golden leaf of honor list of illustrations page "lloyd ... took her place beside the harp" (_see page _) _frontispiece_ "it needed no second glance to tell him who she was" "he was leaning forward in his chair, talking to joyce" "a tall, athletic figure in outing flannels" "a long-drawn 'o-o-oh' greeted the beautiful tableau" "'all you girls standing with your hands stuck through the bars'" "'they stepped in and rowed off down the shining waterway'" "'one, two, three--_throw_!'" the little colonel, maid of honor chapter i. at warwick hall it was mid-afternoon by the old sun-dial that marked the hours in warwick hall garden; a sunny afternoon in may. the usual busy routine of school work was going on inside the great hall, but no whisper of it disturbed the quiet of the sleepy old garden. at intervals the faint clang of the call-bell, signalling a change of classes, floated through the open windows, but no buzz of recitations reached the hedge-hidden path where betty lewis sat writing. the whole picturesque place seemed as still as the palace of the sleeping beauty. even the peacocks on the terraced river-front stood motionless, their resplendent tails spread out in the sun; and although the air was filled with the odor of wild plum blossoms, the breeze that bore it through the arbor where betty sat, absorbed in her work, was so gentle that it scarcely stirred the vines around her. with her elbows resting on the rustic table in front of her, and one finger unconsciously twisting the lock of curly brown hair that strayed over her ear, she sat pushing her pencil rapidly across the pages of her note-book. at times she stopped to tap impatiently on the table, when the word she wanted failed to come. then she would sit looking through half-closed eyes at the sun-dial, or let her dreamy gaze follow the lazy windings of the river, which, far below, took its slow way along between the willows. as editor-in-chief of _the spinster_, there was good reason why she should be excused from recitations now and then, to spend an afternoon in this retreat. this year's souvenir volume bade fair to be the brightest and most creditable one ever issued by the school. the english professor not only openly said so, but was plainly so proud of betty's ability that the lower classes regarded her with awe, and adored her from a distance, as a real live genius. whether she was a genius or not, one thing is certain, she spent hours of patient, painstaking work to make her writing measure up to the standard she had set for it. it was work that she loved better than play, however, and to-day she sighed regretfully when the hunter's horn, blowing on the upper terrace, summoned the school to its outdoor sports. instantly, in answer to the winding call, the whole place began to awaken. there was a tread of many feet on the great staircase, the outer doors burst open, and a stream of rollicking girls poured out into the may sunshine. betty knew that in a few minutes the garden would be swarming with them as if a flock of chattering magpies had taken possession of it. with a preoccupied frown drawing her eyebrows together, she began gathering up her papers, preparatory to making her escape. she glanced down the long flight of marble steps leading to the river. there on the lowest terrace, a fringe of willow-trees trailed their sweeping branches in the water. around the largest of these trees ran a circular bench. seated on the far side of this, the huge trunk would shield her from view of the hall, and she decided to go down there to finish. it would never do to stop now, when the verses were spinning themselves out so easily. none of the girls, except her four most intimate friends, would dare think of following her down there, and if she could slip away from that audacious quartette, she would be safe for the rest of the afternoon. peering through a hole in the hedge, she stood waiting for them to pass. a section of the botany class came first, swinging their baskets, and bound for a wooded hillside where wild flowers grew in profusion. a group on their way to the golf links came next, then half a dozen tennis players, and the newly organized basket-ball team. a moment more, and the four she was waiting for tramped out abreast, arm in arm: lloyd sherman, gay melville, allison and kitty walton. gay carried a kodak, and, from the remarks which floated over the hedge, it was evident they were on their way to the orchard, to take a picture which would illustrate the nonsense rhyme kitty was chanting at the top of her voice. they all repeated it after her in a singsong chorus, the four pairs of feet keeping time in a soldierly tread as they marched past the garden: "diddledy diddledy dumpty! three old maids in a plum-tree! half a crown to get them down, diddledy diddledy dumpty!" only in this instance betty knew they were to be young maids instead of old ones, all in a row on the limb of a plum-tree in the orchard, their laughing faces thrust through the mass of snowy blossoms, as they waited to be photographed. "diddledy diddledy dumpty"--the ridiculous refrain grew fainter and died away as the girls passed on to the orchard, and betty, smiling in sympathy with their high spirits, ran down the stately marble steps to the seat under the willow. it was so cool and shadowy down there that at first it was a temptation just to sit and listen to the lap of the water against the shore, but the very length of the shadows warned her that the afternoon was passing, and after a few moments she fell to work again with conscientious energy. so deeply did she become absorbed in her task, she did not look up when some one came down the steps behind her. it was an adoring little freshman, who had caught the glimmer of her pink dress behind the tree. the special-delivery letter she carried was her excuse for following. she had been in a flutter of delight when madame chartley put it in her hand, asking her to find elizabeth lewis and give it to her. but now that she stood in the charmed presence, actually watching a poem in the process of construction, she paused, overwhelmed by the feeling that she was rushing in "where angels feared to tread." still, special-delivery letters are important things. like time and tide they wait for no man. somebody might be dead or dying. so summoning all her courage, she cleared her throat. then she gave a bashful little cough. betty looked up with an absent-minded stare. she had been so busy polishing a figure of speech to her satisfaction that she had forgotten where she was. for an instant the preoccupied little pucker between her eyebrows smote the timid freshman with dismay. she felt that she had gained her idol's everlasting displeasure by intruding at such a time. but the next instant betty's face cleared, and the brown eyes smiled in the way that always made her friends wherever she went. "what is it, dora?" she asked, kindly. dora, who could only stammer an embarrassed reply, held out the letter. then she stood with toes turned in, and both hands fumbling nervously with her belt ribbon, while betty broke the seal. "i--i hope it isn't bad news," she managed to say at last. "i--i'd hate to bring _you_ bad news." betty looked up with a smile which brought dora's heart into her throat. "thank you, dear," she answered, cordially. then, as her eye travelled farther down the page, she gave a cry of pleasure. "oh, it is perfectly lovely news, dora. it's the most beautiful surprise for lloyd's birthday that ever was. she's not to know till to-morrow. it's too good a secret to keep to myself, so i'll share it with you in a minute if you'll swear not to tell till to-morrow." scarcely believing that she heard aright, dora dropped down on the grass, regardless of the fact that her roommate and two other girls were waiting on the upper terrace for her to join them. they were going to mammy easter's cabin to have their fortunes told. feeling that this was the best fortune that had befallen her since her arrival at warwick hall, and sure that mammy easter could foretell no greater honor than she was already enjoying, she signalled wildly for them to go on without her. at first they did not understand her frantic gestures for them to go on, and stood beckoning, till she turned her back on them. then they moved away reluctantly and in great disgust at her abandoning them. when a glance over her shoulder assured her that she was rid of them, she settled down with a blissful sigh. what greater honor could she have than to be chosen as the confidante of the most brilliant pupil ever enrolled at warwick hall? at least it was reported that that was the faculty's opinion of her. dora's roommate, cornie dean, had chosen lloyd sherman as the shrine of her young affections, and it was from cornie that dora had learned the personal history of her literary idol. she knew that lloyd sherman's mother was betty's godmother, and that the two girls lived together as sisters in a beautiful old home in kentucky called "the locusts." she had seen the photograph of the place hanging in betty's room, and had heard scraps of information about the various house-parties that had frolicked under the hospitable rooftree of the fine old mansion. she knew that they had travelled abroad, and had had all sorts of delightful and unusual experiences. now something else fine and unusual was about to happen, and betty had offered to share a secret with her. a little shiver of pleasure passed over her at the thought. this was so delightfully intimate and confidential, almost like taking one of those "little journeys to the homes of famous people." as betty turned the page, dora felt with another thrill that that was the hand which had written the poem on "friendship," which all the girls had raved over. she herself knew it by heart, and she knew of at least six copies which, cut from the school magazine in which it had been published, were stuck in the frames of as many mirrors. and that was the hand that had written the junior class song and the play that the juniors gave on valentine night. if reports were true that was also the hand which would write the valedictory next year, and which was now secretly at work upon a book which would some day place its owner in the ranks with george eliot and thackeray. while she still gazed in a sort of fascination at the daintily manicured pink-tipped fingers, betty looked up with a radiant face. "now i'll read it aloud," she said. "it will take several readings to make me realize that such a lovely time is actually in store for us. it's from godmother," she explained. "dear elizabeth:--as i cannot be sure just when this will reach warwick hall, i am sending the enclosed letter to lloyd in your care. a little package for her birthday has already gone on to her by express, but as this bit of news will give her more pleasure than any gift, i want her to receive it also on her birthday. i have just completed arrangements for a second house-party, a duplicate of the one she had six years ago, when she was eleven. i have bidden to it the same guests which came to the first one, you and eugenia forbes and joyce ware, but eugenia will come as a bride this time. i have persuaded her to have her wedding here at locust, among her only kindred, instead of in new york, where she and her father have no home ties. it will be a rose wedding, the last of june. the bridegroom's brother, phil tremont, is to be best man, and lloyd maid of honor. stuart's best friend, a young doctor from boston, is to be one of the attendants, and rob another. you and joyce are to be bridesmaids, just as you would have been had the wedding been in new york. "eugenia writes that she bought the material in paris for your gowns. i enclose a sample, pale pink chiffon. like a rose-leaf, is it not? dressed in this dainty color, you will certainly carry out my idea of a rose wedding. now do not let the thoughts of all this gaiety interfere with your studies. that is all i can tell you now, but you may spend your spare time until school is out planning things to make this the happiest of house-parties, and we will try to carry out all the plans that are practicable. your devoted godmother, "elizabeth sherman." betty spread the sample of chiffon out over her knee, and stroked it admiringly, before she slipped it back into the envelope with the letter. "the princess is going to be so happy over this," she exclaimed. "i'm sure she'll enjoy this second house-party at seventeen a hundred times more than she did the first one at eleven, and yet nobody could have had more fun than we did at that time." dora's eager little face was eloquent with interest. betty could not have chosen a more attentive listener, and, inspired by her flattering attention, she went on to recall some of the good times they had had at locust, and in answer to dora's timid questions explained why lloyd was called the little colonel and the princess winsome and the queen of hearts and hildegarde, and all the other titles her different friends had showered upon her. "she must have been born with a gold spoon in her mouth, to be so lucky," sighed dora, presently. "life has been all roses for her, and no thorns whatever." "no, indeed!" answered betty, quickly. "she had a dreadful disappointment last year. she was taken sick during the christmas vacation, and had to stay out of school all last term. it nearly broke her heart to drop behind her class, and she still grieves over it every day. the doctors forbade her taking extra work to catch up with it. then so much is expected of an only child like her, who has had so many advantages, and it is no easy matter living up to all the expectations of a family like the old colonel's." betty's back was turned to the terraces, but dora, who faced them, happened to look up just then. "there she comes now," she cried in alarm. "hide the letter! quick, or she'll see you!" glancing over her shoulder, betty saw, not only the four girls she had run away from, but four others, running down the terraces, taking the flight of marble steps two at a time. gay's shoe-strings were tripping her at every leap, and lloyd's hair had shaken down around her shoulders in a shining mass in the wild race from the orchard. lloyd reached the willow first. dropping down on the bench, almost breathless, she began fanning herself with her hat. "oh!" she gasped. "tell me quick, betty! what is the mattah? cornie dean said a messenger boy had just come out to the hall on a bicycle with a special-delivery lettah from home. i was so suah something awful had happened i could hardly run, it frightened me so." "and we thought maybe something had happened at 'the beeches,'" interrupted allison, "and that mamma had written to you to break the news to us." "why, nothing at all is the matter," answered betty, calmly, darting a quick look at dora to see if her face was betraying anything. "it was just a little note from godmother. she wanted me to attend to something for her." "but why should she send it by special delivery if it isn't impawtant?" asked lloyd, in an aggrieved tone. "it is important," laughed betty. "very." "for goodness' sake, what is it, then?" demanded lloyd. "don't tease me by keeping me in suspense, betty. you know that anything about mothah or the locusts must concern me, too, and that i am just as much interested in the special lettah as you are. i should think it would be just as much my business as yoah's." "this does concern you," admitted betty, "and i'm dying to tell you, but godmother doesn't want you to know until to-morrow." "to-morrow," echoed lloyd, much puzzled. then her face lighted up. "oh, it's about my birthday present. tell me what it is _now_, betty," she wheedled. "i'd lots rathah know now than to wait. i could be enjoying the prospect of having whatevah it is all the rest of the day." betty clapped her hands over her mouth, and rocked back and forth on the bench, her eyes shining mischievously. "_do_ go away," she begged. "_don't_ ask me! it's so lovely that i can hardly keep from telling you, and i'm afraid if you stay here i'll not have strength of character to resist." "tell _us_, betty," suggested kitty. "lloyd will hide her ears while you confide in us." "no, indeed!" laughed betty. "the cat is half out of the bag when a secret is once shared, and i know you couldn't keep from telling lloyd more than an hour or two." just then lloyd, leaning forward, pounced upon something at betty's feet. it was the sample of pink chiffon that had dropped from the envelope. "sherlock holmes the second!" she cried. "i've discovahed the secret. it has something to do with eugenia's rose wedding, and mothah is going to give me my bridesmaid's dress as a birthday present. own up now, betty. isn't that it?" betty darted a startled look at dora. "well," she admitted, cautiously, "if it were a game of hunt the slipper, i'd say you were getting rather warm. that is _not_ the present your mother mentioned, although it _is_ a sample of the bridesmaids' dresses. eugenia got the material in paris for all of them. i'm at liberty to tell you that much." "is that the wedding where you are to be maid of honor, princess?" asked grace campman, one of the girls who had been posing in the plum-tree, and who had followed her down to hear the news. "yes," answered lloyd. "is it any wondah that i'm neahly wild with curiosity?" "make her tell," urged an excited chorus. "just half a day beforehand won't make any difference." "let's all begin and beg her," suggested grace. lloyd, long used to gaining her own way with betty by a system of affectionate coaxing hard to resist, turned impulsively to begin the siege to wrest the secret from her, but another reference to the maid of honor by grace made her pause. then she said suddenly, with the well-known princess-like lifting of the head that they all admired: "no, don't tell me, betty. a maid of _honah_ should be too honahable to insist on finding out things that were not intended for her to know. i hadn't thought. if mothah took all the trouble of sending a special-delivery lettah to you to keep me from knowing till my birthday, i'm not going to pry around trying to find out." "well, if you aren't the _queerest_," began grace. "one would think to hear you talk that 'maid of honor' was some great title to be lived up to like the 'maid of orleans,' and that only some high and mighty creature like joan of arc could do it. but it's nothing more than to go first in the wedding march, and hold the bride's bouquet. i shouldn't think you'd let a little thing like that stand in the way of your finding out what you're so crazy to know." "_wouldn't_ you?" asked lloyd, with a slight shrug, and in a tone which dora described afterward to cornie as simply withering. "'well, that's the difference, as you see, betwixt my lord the king and _me_!'" to grace's wonder, she dropped the sample of pink chiffon in betty's lap, as if it had lost all interest for her, and stood up. "come on, girls," she exclaimed. "let's take the rest of those pictuahs. there are two moah films left in the roll." "i might as well go with you," said betty, gathering up the loose leaves that had fallen from her note-book. "it's no use trying to write with my head so full of the grand secret. i couldn't possibly think of anything else." arm in arm with allison, she sauntered up the steps behind the others to the old garden, which was the pride of every pupil in warwick hall. the hollyhocks from ann hathaway's cottage had not yet begun to flaunt their rosettes of color, but the rhododendrons from killarney were in gorgeous bloom. as lloyd focussed the camera in such a way as to make them a background for a picture of the sun-dial, betty heard kitty ask: "you'll let us know early in the morning what your present is, won't you, princess?" "yes, i'll run into yoah room with it early in the mawning, just as soon as i lay eyes on it myself," promised lloyd, solemnly. "she can't!" whispered betty to allison, with a giggle. "in the first place, it's something that can't be carried, and in the second place it will take a month for her to see all of it herself." allison stopped short in the path, her face a picture of baffled curiosity. "betty lewis," she said, solemnly, "i could find it in my heart to choke you. don't tempt me too far, or i'll do it with a good grace." betty laughed and pushed aside the vines at the entrance to the arbor. "come in here," she said, in a low tone. "i've intended all along to tell you as soon as we got away from grace campman and those freshmen, for it concerns you and kitty, too. you missed the first house-party we had at the locusts, but you'll have a big share in the second one. for a june house-party with a wedding in it is the 'surprise' godmother has written about in lloyd's birthday letter." chapter ii. at ware's wigwam in order that lloyd's invitation to her own house-party might reach her on her birthday, it had not been mailed until several days after the others. so it happened that the same morning on which she slipped across the hall in her kimono, to share her first rapturous delight with kitty, joyce ware's letter reached the end of its journey. the postman on the first rural delivery route out of phoenix jogged along in his cart toward ware's wigwam. he had left the highway and was following the wheel-tracks which led across the desert to camelback mountain. the horse dropped into a plodding walk as the wheels began pulling heavily through the sand, and the postman yawned. this stretch of road through the cactus and sage-brush was the worst part of his daily trip. he rarely passed anything more interesting than a jack-rabbit, but this morning he spied something ahead that aroused his curiosity. at first it seemed only a flash of something pink beating the air; but, as he jogged nearer, he saw that the flash of pink was a short-skirted gingham dress. a high-peaked mexican hat hid the face of the wearer, but it needed no second glance to tell him who she was. every line of the sturdy little figure, from the uplifted arms brandishing a club to the dusty shoes planted widely apart to hold her balance, proclaimed that it was mary ware. as the blows fell with relentless energy, the postman chuckled. "must be killing a snake," he thought. "whatever it is, it will be flatter than a pancake when she gets through with it." somehow he always felt like chuckling when he met mary ware. whatever she happened to be doing was done with a zeal and a vim that made this fourteen-year-old girl a never-failing source of amusement to the easy-going postman. now as he came within speaking distance, he saw a surrey drawn up to the side of the road, and recognized the horse as old bogus from lee's ranch. [illustration: "it needed no second glance to tell him who she was"] a thin, tall woman, swathed in a blue veil, sat stiffly on the back seat, reaching forward to hold the reins in a grasp that showed both fear and unfamiliarity in the handling of horses. she was a new boarder at lee's ranch. evidently they had been out on some errand for mrs. lee, and were returning from one of the neighboring orange-groves, for the back of the surrey was filled with oranges and grapefruit. the postman's glance turned from the surrey to the object in the road with an exclamation of surprise. one of the largest rattlesnakes he had ever seen lay stretched out there, and mary, having dropped her club, was proceeding to drag it toward the surrey by a short lasso made of a piece of the hitching-rope. the postman stood up in his cart to look at it. "better be sure it's plumb dead before you give it a seat in your carriage," he advised. mary gave a glance of disgust toward the blue-veiled figure in the surrey. "oh, it's _dead_," she said, witheringly. "mr. craydock shot its head off to begin with, over at the orange-grove this morning, and i've killed it four different times on our way home. he gave it to me to take to norman for his collection. but miss scudder is so scared of it that she makes me get out every half-mile to pound a few more inches off its neck. it was a perfect beauty when we started,--five feet long and twelve rattles. i'm so afraid i'll break off some of the rattles that i'll be mighty glad when i get it safely home." "so will i!" ejaculated miss scudder, so fervently that the postman laughed as he drove on. "any mail for us?" mary called after him. "only some papers and a letter for your sister," he answered over his shoulder. "now why didn't i ask him to take me and the snake on home in the cart with him?" exclaimed mary, as she lifted the rattler into the surrey by means of the lasso, and took the reins from the new boarder's uneasy hands. "even if you can't drive, bogus could take you to the ranch all right by himself. lots of times when hazel lee and i are out driving, we wrap the reins around the whipholder and let him pick his own way. now i'll have to drag this snake all the way from the ranch to the wigwam, and it will be a dreadful holdback when i'm in such a hurry to get there and see who joyce's letter is from. "you see," she continued, clucking cheerfully to bogus, "the postman's mail-pouch is almost as interesting as a grab-bag, since my two brothers went away. holland is in the navy," she added, proudly, "and my oldest brother, jack, has a position in the mines up where mamma and norman and i are going to spend the summer." three years in the desert had not made mary ware any the less talkative. at fourteen she was as much of a chatterbox as ever, but so diverting, with her fund of unexpected information and family history and her cheerful outlook on life, that mrs. lee often sent for her to amuse some invalid boarder, to the mutual pleasure of the small philosopher and her audience. the experiment this morning had proved anything but a pleasure drive for either of them, however. timid miss scudder, afraid of horses, afraid of the lonely desert, and with a deathly horror of snakes, gave a sigh of relief when they came in sight of the white tents clustered around the brown adobe ranch house on the edge of the irrigating canal. but with the end of her journey in sight, she relaxed her strained muscles and nerves somewhat, and listened with interest to what mary was saying. "this year has brought three of us our heart's desires, anyhow. holland has been wild to get into the navy ever since he was big enough to know that there is one. jack has been looking forward to this position in the mines ever since we came out west. it will be the making of him, everybody says. and joyce's one dream in life has been to save enough money to go east to take lessons in designing. her bees have done splendidly, but i don't believe she could have _quite_ managed it if eugenia forbes hadn't invited her to be one of the bridesmaids at her wedding, and promised to send her a pass to new york." she broke off abruptly as bogus came to a stop in front of the tents, and, standing up, she proceeded to dangle the snake carefully over the wheel, till it was lowered in safety to the ground. ordinarily she would have lingered at the ranch until the occupant of every tent had strolled out to admire her trophy, and afterward might have accepted hazel lee's invitation to stay to dinner. it was a common occurrence for them to spend their saturdays together. but to-day not even the promise of strawberry shortcake and a ride home afterward, when it was cooler, could tempt her to stay. the yellow road stretched hot and glaring across the treeless desert. the snake was too heavy to carry on a pole over her shoulder. she would have to drag it through the sun and sand if she went now. but her curiosity was too strong to allow her to wait. she must find out what was in that letter to joyce. if it were from jack, there would be something in it about their plans for the summer; maybe a kodak picture of the shack in the pine woods near the mines, where they were to board. if it were from holland, there would be another interesting chapter of his experiences on board the training-ship. once as she trudged along the road, it occurred to her that the letter might be from her cousin kate, the "witch with a wand," who had so often played fairy godmother to the family. she might be writing to say that she had sent another box. straightway mary's active imagination fell to picturing its contents so blissfully that she forgot the heat of the sun-baked road over which she was going. her face was beaded with perspiration and her eyes squinted nearly shut under the broad brim of the mexican sombrero, but, revelling in the picture her mind called up of cool white dresses and dainty thin-soled slippers, she walked faster and faster, oblivious to the heat and the glaring light. her sunburned cheeks were flaming red when she finally reached the wigwam, and the locks of hair straggling down her forehead hung in limp wet strings. lifting the snake carefully across the bridge which spanned the irrigating canal, she trailed it into the yard and toward the umbrella-tree which shaded the rustic front porch. under this sheltering umbrella-tree, which spread its dense arch like a roof, sat joyce and her mother. the heap of muslin goods piled up around them showed that they had spent a busy morning sewing. but they were idle now. one glance showed mary that the letter, whosever it was, had brought unusual news. joyce sat on the door-step with it in her lap and her hands clasped over her knees. mrs. ware, leaning back in her sewing-chair, was opening and shutting a pair of scissors in an absent-minded manner, as if her thoughts were a thousand miles away. "well, it's good news, anyway," was mary's first thought, as she glanced at her sister's radiant face. "she wouldn't look so pretty if it wasn't. it's a pity she can't be hearing good news all the time. when her eyes shine like that, she's almost beautiful. now me, all the good news in the world wouldn't make _me_ look beautiful, freckled and fat and sunburned as i am, and my hair so fine and thin and straight--" she paused in her musings to look up each sleeve for her handkerchief, and not finding it in either, caught up the hem of her short pink skirt to wipe her perspiring face. "oh, _what_ did the postman bring?" she demanded, seating herself on the edge of the hammock swung under the umbrella-tree. "i've almost walked myself into a sunstroke, hurrying to get here and find out. is it from jack or holland or cousin kate?" "it is from the locusts," answered joyce, leaning forward to see what was tied to the other end of the rope which mary still held. seeing that it was only a snake, something which mary and holland were always dragging home, to add to their collection of skins and shells, she went on: "the little colonel is to have a second house-party. the same girls that were at the first one are invited for the month of june, and eugenia is to be married there instead of in new york. think what a wedding it will be, in that beautiful old southern home! a thousand times nicer than it would have been in new york." she stopped to enjoy the effect her news had produced. mary's face was glowing with unselfish pleasure in her sister's good fortune. "and we're to wear pale pink chiffon dresses, just the color of wild roses. eugenia got the material in paris when she ordered her wedding-gown, and they're to be made in louisville after we get there." the light in mary's face was deepening. "and phil tremont is to be there the entire month of june. he is to be best man, you know, since eugenia is to marry his brother." "oh, joyce!" gasped mary. "what a heavenly time you are going to have! just the locusts by itself would be good enough, but to be there at a house-party, and have phil there and to see a wedding! i've always wanted to go to a wedding. i never saw one in my life." "tell her the rest, daughter," prompted mrs. ware, gently. "don't keep her in the dark any longer." "well, then," said joyce, smiling broadly. "let me break it to you by degrees, so the shock won't give you apoplexy or heart-failure. the rest of it is, that _you_--mary ware, are invited also. _you_ are invited to go with me to the house-party at the locusts! and _you'll_ see the wedding, for mr. sherman is going to send tickets for both of us, and mamma and i have made all the plans. now that she is so well, she won't need either of us while she's up at the camp with jack, and the money it would have taken to pay your board will buy the new clothes you need." all the color faded out of the hot little face as mary listened, growing pale with excitement. "oh, mamma, is it _true_?" she asked, imploringly. "i don't see how it can be. but joyce wouldn't fool me about anything as big as this, would she?" she asked the question in such a quiver of eagerness that the tears sprang to her eyes. joyce had expected her to spin around on her toes and squeal one delighted little squeal after another, as she usually did when particularly happy. she did not know what to expect next, when all of a sudden mary threw herself across her mother's lap and began to sob and laugh at the same time. "oh, mamma, the old vicar was right. it's been awfully hard sometimes to k-keep inflexible. sometimes i thought it would nearly k-kill me! but we did it! we did it! and now fortune _has_ changed in our favor, and everything is all right!" a rattle of wheels made her look up and hastily wipe the hem of her pink skirt across her face again. a wagon was stopping at the gate, and the man who was to stay in one of the tents and take care of the bees in their absence was getting out to discuss the details of the arrangement. joyce tossed the letter into mary's lap and rose to follow her mother out to the hives. there were several matters of business to arrange with him, and mary knew it would be some time before they could resume the exciting conversation he had interrupted. she read the letter through, hardly believing the magnitude of her good fortune. but, as the truth of it began to dawn upon her, she felt that she could not possibly keep such news to herself another instant. it might be an hour before joyce and her mother had finished discussing business with the man and norman was away fishing somewhere up the canal. so, settling her hat on her head, she started back over the hot road, so absorbed in the thought of all she had to tell hazel that she was wholly unconscious of the fact that she was still holding tightly to the rope tied around the rattler's neck. five feet of snake twitched along behind her as she started on a run toward the ranch. chapter iii. in beauty's quest "fortune has at last--fortune has at last-- fortune has at last changed in our _fa_-vor!" a hundred times, in the weeks that followed, mary turned the old vicar's saying into sort of a chant, and triumphantly intoned it as she went about the house, making preparations for her journey. most of the time she was not aware that her lips were repeating what her heart was constantly singing, and one day, to her dire mortification, she chanted the entire strain in one of the largest dry-goods stores in phoenix, before she realized what she was doing. she had gone with joyce to select some dress material for herself. it had been so long since mary had had any clothes except garments made over and handed down, that the wealth of choice offered her was almost overpowering. to be sure it was a bargain counter they were hanging over, but the remnants of lawn and organdy and gingham were so entrancingly new in design and dainty in coloring, that without a thought to appearances she caught up the armful of pretty things which joyce had decided they could afford. clasping them ecstatically in an impulsive hug, she sang at the top of her voice, just as she would have done had she been out alone on the desert: "fortune has at last changed in our _fa_-vor!" when joyce's horrified exclamation and the clerk's amused smile recalled her to her surroundings, she could have gone under the counter with embarrassment. although she flushed hotly for several days whenever she thought of the way everybody in the store turned to stare at her, she still hummed the same words whenever a sense of her great good fortune overwhelmed her. such times came frequently, especially whenever a new garment was completed and she could try it on with much preening and many satisfied turns before the mirror. it was on one of these occasions, when she was proudly revolving in the daintiest of them all, a pale blue mull which she declared was the color of a wild morning-glory, that a remark of her mother's, in the next room, filled her with dismay. it had not been intended for her ears, but it floated in distinctly, above the whirr of the sewing-machine. "joyce, i am sorry we made up that blue for mary. she's so tanned and sunburned that it seems to bring out all the red tints in her skin, and makes her look like a little squaw. i never realized how this climate has injured her complexion until i saw her in that shade of blue, and remembered how becoming it used to be. she was like an apple-blossom, all white and pink, when we came out here." mary had been so busy looking at her new clothes that she had paid little attention to the face above them, reflected in the mirror. it had tanned so gradually that she had become accustomed to having that sunbrowned little visage always smile back at her. besides, every one she met was tanned by the wind and weather, some of them spotted with big dark freckles. joyce wasn't. joyce had always been careful about wearing a sunbonnet or a wide brimmed hat when she went out in the sun. mary remembered now, with many compunctions, how often she had been warned to do the same. she wished with all her ardent little soul that she had not been so careless, and presently, after a serious, half-tearful study of herself in the glass, she went away to find a remedy. in the back of the cook-book, she remembered, there was a receipt for cold cream, and in a magazine mrs. lee had loaned them was a whole column devoted to face bleaches and complexion restorers. having read each formula, she decided to try them all in turn, if the first did not prove effective. buttermilk and lemon juice were to be had for the taking and could be applied at night after joyce had gone to sleep. half-ashamed of this desire to make herself beautiful, mary shrank from confiding her troubles to any one. but several nights' use of all the home remedies she could get, failed to produce the desired results. when she anxiously examined herself in the glass, the unflattering mirror plainly showed her a little face, not one whit fairer for all its treatment. the house-party was drawing near too rapidly to waste time on things of such slow action, and at last, in desperation, she took down the savings-bank in which, after long hoarding, she had managed to save nearly two dollars. by dint of a button-hook and a hat-pin and an hour's patient poking, she succeeded in extracting five dimes. these she wrapped in tissue paper, and folded in a letter. in a phoenix newspaper she had seen an advertisement of a magical cosmetic, to be found on sale at one of the local drug-stores, and this was an order for a box. she was accustomed to running out to watch for the postman. often in her eagerness to get the mail she had met him half a mile down the road. so she had ample opportunity to send her order and receive a reply without the knowledge of any of the family. it was a delicious-smelling ointment. the directions on the wrapper said that on retiring, it was to be applied to the face like a thick paste, and a linen mask worn to prevent its rubbing off. now that the boys were away, mary shared the circular tent with joyce. the figures "mystical and awful" which she and holland had put on its walls with green paint the day they moved to the wigwam, had faded somewhat in the fierce sun of tropical summers, but they still grinned hideously from all sides. outlandish as they were, however, no face on all the encircling canvas was as grotesque as the one which emerged from under the bed late in the afternoon, the day the box of cosmetic was received. mary had crept under the bed in order to escape norman's prying eyes in case he should glance into the tent in search of her. there, stretched out on the floor with a pair of scissors and a piece of one of her old linen aprons, she had fashioned herself a mask, in accordance with the directions on the box. the holes cut for the eyes and nose were a trifle irregular, one eye being nearly half an inch higher than the other, and the mouth was decidedly askew. but tapes sewed on at the four corners made it ready for instant use, and when she had put it on and crawled out from under the bed, she regarded herself in the glass with great satisfaction. "i hope joyce won't wake up in the night and see me," she thought. "she'd be scared stiff. this is a lot of trouble and expense, but i just can't go to the house-party looking like a fright. i'd do lots more than this to keep the princess from being ashamed of me." then she put it away and went out to the hammock, under the umbrella-tree, and while she sat swinging back and forth for a long happy hour, she pictured to herself the delights of the coming house-party. the princess would be changed, she knew. her last photograph showed that. one is almost grown up at seventeen, and she had been only fourteen, mary's age, when she made that never to be forgotten visit to the wigwam. and she would see betty and betty's godmother and papa jack and the old colonel and mom beck. the very names, as she repeated them in a whisper, sounded interesting to her. and the two little knights of kentucky, and miss allison and the waltons--they were all mythical people in one sense, like alice in wonderland and bo-peep, yet in another they were as real as holland or hazel lee, for they were household names, and she had heard so much about them that she felt a sort of kinship with each one. with the mask and the box tucked away in readiness under her pillow, it was an easy matter after joyce had gone to sleep for mary to lift herself to a sitting posture, inch by inch. cautiously as a cat she raised herself, then sat there in the darkness scooping out the smooth ointment with thumb and finger, and spreading it thickly over her inquisitive little nose and plump round cheeks. all up under her hair and down over her chin she rubbed it with energy and thoroughness. then tying on the mask, she eased herself down on her elbow, little by little, and snuggled into her pillow with a sigh of relief. it was a long time before she fell asleep. the odor of the ointment was sickeningly sweet, and the mask gave her a hot smothery feeling. when she finally dozed off it was to fall into a succession of uneasy dreams. she thought that the cat was sitting on her face; that an old ogre had her head tied up in a bag and was carrying it home to change into an apple dumpling, then that she was a fly and had fallen into a bottle of mucilage. from the last dream she roused with a start, hot and uncomfortable, but hardly wide awake enough to know what was the matter. the salty dried beef they had had for supper made her intensely thirsty, and remembering the pitcher of fresh water which joyce always brought into the tent every night, she slipped out of bed and stumbled across the floor toward the table. the moon was several nights past the full now, so that at this late hour the walls of the tent glimmered white in its light, and where the flap was turned back at the end, it shone in, in a broad white path. not more than half awake, mary had forgotten the elaborate way in which she had tied up her face, and catching sight in the mirror of an awful spook gliding toward her, she stepped back, almost frozen with terror. never had she imagined such a hideous ghost, white as flour, with one round eye higher than the other, and a dreadful slit of a mouth, all askew. she was too frightened to utter a sound, but the pitcher fell to the floor with a crash, and as the cold water splashed over her feet she bounded back into bed and pulled the cover over her head. instantly, as her hand came in contact with the mask on her face, she realized that it was only her own reflection in the glass which had frightened her, but the shock was so great she could not stop trembling. wakened by the sound of the breaking pitcher and mary's wild plunge back into bed, joyce sat up in alarm, but in response to her whisper mary explained in muffled tones from under the bedclothes that she had simply gotten up for a drink of water and dropped the pitcher. all the rest of the night her sleep was fitful and uneasy, for toward morning her face began to burn as if it were on fire. she tore off the mask and used it to wipe away what remained of the ointment. most of it had been absorbed, however, and the skin was broken out in little red blisters. maybe in her zeal she had used too much of the magical cosmetic, or maybe her face, already made tender by various applications, resented the vigorous rubbings she gave it. at any rate she had cause to be frightened when she saw herself in the mirror. as she lifted the pitcher from the wash-stand, she happened to glance at the proverb calendar hanging over the towel-rack, and saw the verse for the day. it was "pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." the big red letters stood out accusingly. "oh dear," she thought, as she plunged her burning face into the bowl of cold water, "if i hadn't had so much miserable pride, i wouldn't have destroyed what little complexion i had left. like as not the skin will all peel off now, and i'll look like a half-scaled fish for weeks." she was so irritable later, when joyce exclaimed over her blotched and mottled appearance, that mrs. ware decided she must be coming down with some kind of rash. it was only to prevent her mother sending for a doctor, that mary finally confessed with tears what she had done. "why didn't you ask somebody?" said joyce trying not to let her voice betray the laughter which was choking her, for mary showed a grief too deep to ridicule. "i--i was ashamed to," she confessed, "and i wanted to surprise you all. the advertisement said g-grow b-beautiful while you sleep, and now--oh, it's _spoiled_ me!" she wailed. "and i can't go to the house-party--" "yes, you can, goosey," said joyce, consolingly. "mamma has grandma ware's old receipt for rose balm, that will soon heal those blisters. you would have saved yourself a good deal of trouble and suffering if you had gone to her in the first place." "well, don't i know that?" blazed mary, angrily. then hiding her face in her arms she began to sob. "you don't know what it is to be uh-ugly like me! i heard mamma say that i was as brown as a squaw, and i couldn't bear to think of lloyd and betty and everybody at the locusts seeing me that way. _that's_ why i did it!" "you are not ugly, mary ware," insisted joyce, in a most reproving big-sisterly voice. "everybody can't be a raving, tearing beauty, and anybody with as bright and attractive a little face as yours ought to be satisfied to let well enough alone." "that's all right for _you_" replied mary, bitterly. "but you aren't fat, with a turned-up nose and just a little thin straight pigtail of hair. you're pretty, and an artist, and you're going to be somebody some day. but i'm just plain 'little mary,' with no talents or _anything_!" choking with tears, she rushed out of the room, and took refuge in the swing down by the beehives. for once the "school of the bees" failed to whisper a comforting lesson. this was a trouble which she could not seal up in its cell, and for many days it poisoned all life's honey. presently she slipped back into the house for a pencil and box of paper, and sitting on the swing with her geography on her knees for a writing-table, she poured out her troubles in a letter to jack. it was only a few hundred miles to the mines, and she could be sure of a sympathetic answer before the blisters were healed on her face, or the hurt had faded out of her sensitive little heart. chapter iv. mary's "promised land" it was a hot, tiresome journey back to kentucky. joyce, worn out with all the hurried preparations of packing her mother and norman off to the mines, closing the wigwam for the summer, and putting her own things in order for a long absence, was glad to lean back in her seat with closed eyes, and take no notice of her surroundings. but mary travelled in the same energetic way in which she killed snakes. nothing escaped her. every passenger in the car, every sight along the way was an object of interest. she sat up straight and eager, scarcely batting an eyelash, for fear of missing something. to her great relief the peeling process had been a short one, and thanks to the rose balm, not a trace of a blister was left on her smooth skin to remind her of her foolish little attempt to beautify herself in secret. the first day she made no acquaintances, for she admired the reserved way in which her pretty nineteen-year-old sister travelled, and tried to imitate her, but after one day of elegant composure she longed for a chance to drop into easy sociability with some of her neighbors. they no longer seemed like strangers after she had travelled in their company for twenty-four hours. so she seized the first social opportunity which came to her next morning. a middle-aged woman, who was taking up all the available space in the dressing-room, grudgingly moved over a few inches when mary tried to squeeze in to wash her face. any one but mary would have regarded her as a most unpromising companion, when she answered her question with a grumbling "yes, been on two days, and got two more to go." the tone was as ungracious as if she had said, "mind your own business." the train was passing over a section of rough road just then, and they swayed against each other several times, with polite apologies on mary's part. then as the woman finished skewering her hair into a tight knot she relaxed into friendliness far enough to ask, "going far yourself?" "yes, indeed!" answered mary, cheerfully, reaching for a towel. "going to the promised land." the car gave a sudden lurch, and the woman dropped her comb, as she was sent toppling against mary so forcibly that she pinned her to the wall a moment. "my!" she exclaimed as she regained her balance. "you don't mean clear to palestine!" "no'm; our promised land is kentucky," mary hastened to explain. "mamma used to live there, and she's told us so much about the beautiful times that she used to have in lloydsboro valley that it's been the dream of our life to go there. since we've been wandering around in the desert, sort of camping out the way the old israelites did, we've got into the way of calling that our promised land." "well, i wouldn't count too much on it," advised the woman, sourly. "they say distance lends enchantment, and things hardly ever turn out as nice as you think they're going to." "they do at our house," persisted mary, with unfailing cheerfulness. "they generally turn out nicer." evidently her companion felt the worse for a night in a sleeper and had not yet been set to rights with the world by her morning cup of coffee, for she answered as if mary's rose-colored view of life so early in the day irritated her. "well, maybe your folks are an exception to the rule," she said, sharply, "but i know how it is with the world in general. even old moses himself didn't have his journey turn out the way he expected to. he looked forward to _his_ promised land for forty years, and then didn't get to put foot on it." "but he got to go to heaven instead," persisted mary, triumphantly, "and that's the best thing that could happen to anybody, especially if you're one hundred and twenty years old." there was no answer to this statement, and another passenger appearing at the dressing-room door just then, the woman remarked something about two being company and three a crowd, and squeezed past mary to let the newcomer take her place. "_she_ was more crowd than company," remarked mary confidentially to the last arrival. "she took up most as much room as two people, and it's awful the way she looks on the dark side of things." there was an amused twinkle in the newcomer's eyes. she was a much younger woman than the one whose place she had taken, and evidently it was no trial for her to be sociable before breakfast. in a few minutes she knew all about the promised land to which the little pilgrim was journeying, and showed such friendly interest in the wedding and the other delights in store for her that mary lingered over her toilet as long as possible, in order to prolong the pleasure of having such an attentive audience. but she found others just as attentive before the day was over. the grateful mother whose baby she played with, welcomed her advances as she would have welcomed sunshine on a rainy day. the tired tourists who yawned over their time-tables, found her enthusiastic interest in everybody the most refreshing thing they had met in their travels. by night she was on speaking terms with nearly everybody in the car, and at last, when the long journey was done, a host of good wishes and good-byes followed her all down the aisle, as her new-made friends watched her departure, when the train slowed into the union depot in louisville. she little dreamed what an apostle of good cheer she had been on her journey, or how long her eager little face and odd remarks would be remembered by her fellow passengers. all she thought of as the train stopped was that at last she had reached her promised land. those of the passengers who had thrust their heads out of the windows, saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man come hurrying along toward the girls, and heard joyce exclaim in surprise, "why, rob moore! who ever dreamed of seeing _you_ here? i thought you were in college?" "so i was till day before yesterday," he answered, as they shook hands like the best of old friends. "but grandfather was so ill they telegraphed for me, and i got leave of absence for the rest of the term. we were desperately alarmed about him, but 'all's well that ends well,' he is out of danger now, and it gave me this chance of coming to meet you." mary, standing at one side, watched in admiring silence the easy grace of his greeting and the masterful way in which he took possession of joyce's suit-case and trunk checks. when he turned to her to acknowledge his introduction as respectfully as if she had been forty instead of fourteen, her admiration shot up like mercury in a thermometer. she had felt all along that she knew rob moore intimately, having heard so much of his past escapades from joyce and lloyd. it was rob who had given joyce the little fox terrier, bob, which had been such a joy to the whole family. it was rob who had shared all the interesting life at the locusts which she had heard pictured so vividly that she had long felt that she even knew exactly how he looked. it was somewhat of a shock to find him grown up into this dignified young fellow, broad of shoulders and over six feet tall. as he led the way out to the street and hailed a passing car, he explained why lloyd had not come in to meet them, adding, "your train was two hours late, so i telephoned out to mrs. sherman that we would have lunch in town. i'll take you around to benedict's." mary had never eaten in a restaurant before, so it was with an inward dread that she might betray the fact that she followed joyce and rob to a side-table spread for three. in her anxiety to do the right thing she watched her sister like a hawk, copying every motion, till they were safely launched on the first course of their lunch. then she relaxed her watchfulness long enough to take a full breath and look at some of the people to whom rob had bowed as they entered. she wanted to ask the name of the lady in black at the opposite table. the little girl with her attracted her interest so that she could hardly eat. she was about her own age and she had such lovely long curls and such big dark eyes. to mary, whose besetting sin was a love of pretty clothes, the picture hat the other girl wore was irresistible. she could not keep her admiring glances away from it, and she wished with all her heart she had one like it. presently joyce noticed it too, and asked the very question mary had been longing to ask. "that is mrs. walton, the general's wife, you know," answered rob, "and her youngest daughter, elise. you'll probably see all three of the girls while you're at the locusts, for they're living in the valley now and are great friends of lloyd and betty." "oh, i know all about them," answered joyce, "for allison and kitty go to warwick hall, and lloyd and betty fill their letters with their sayings and doings." mary stole another glance at the lady in black. so this was an aunt of the two little knights of kentucky, and the mother of the "little captain," whose name had been in all the papers as the youngest commissioned officer in the entire army. she would have something to tell holland in her next letter. he had always been so interested in everything pertaining to ranald walton, and had envied him his military career until he himself had an opportunity to go into the navy. presently mrs. walton finished her lunch, and on her way out stopped at their table to shake hands with rob. "i was sure that this is joyce ware and her sister," she exclaimed, cordially, as rob introduced them. "my girls are so excited over your coming they can hardly wait to meet you. they are having a little house-party themselves, at present, some girls from lexington and two young army officers, whom i want you to know. come here, elise, and meet the little colonel's wild west friends. oh, we've lived in arizona too, you know," she added, laughing, "and i've a thousand questions to ask you about our old home. i'm looking forward to a long, cozy toe-to-toe on the subject, every time you come to the beeches." after a moment's pleasant conversation she passed on, leaving such an impression of friendly cordiality that joyce said, impulsively, "she's just _dear_! she makes you feel as if you'd known her always. now toe-to-toe, for instance. that's lots more intimate and sociable than tête-à-tête." "that's what i thought, too," exclaimed mary. "and isn't it nice, when you come visiting this way, to know everybody's history beforehand! then just as soon as they appear on the scene you can fit in a background behind them." it was the first remark mary had made in rob's hearing, except an occasional monosyllable in regard to her choice of dishes on the bill of fare, and he turned to look at her with an amused smile, as if he had just waked up to the fact that she was present. "she's a homely little thing," he thought, "but she looks as if she might grow up to be diverting company. she couldn't be a sister of joyce's and not be bright." then, in order to hear what she might say, he began to ask her questions. she was eating ice-cream. joyce, who had refused dessert on account of a headache, opened her chatelaine bag to take out an envelope already stamped and addressed. "if you'll excuse me while you finish your coffee," she said to rob, "i'll scribble a line to mamma to let her know we've arrived safely. i've dropped notes all along the way, but this is the one she'll be waiting for most anxiously. it will take only a minute." "certainly," answered rob, looking at his watch. "we have over twenty minutes to catch the next trolley out to the valley. they run every half-hour now, you know. so take your time. it will give me a chance to talk to mary. she hasn't told me yet what her impressions are of this grand old commonwealth." if he had thought his teasing tone would bring the color to her face, it was because he was not as familiar with her background as she was with his. a long apprenticeship under jack and holland had made her proof against ordinary banter. "well," she began, calmly, mashing the edges of her ice-cream with her spoon to make it melt faster, "so far it is just as i imagined it would be. i've always thought of kentucky as a place full of colored people and pretty girls and polite men. of course i've not been anywhere yet but just in this room, and it certainly seems to be swarming with colored waiters. i can't see all over the room without turning around, but the ladies at the tables in front of me and the ones reflected in the mirrors are good-looking and stylish. those girls you bowed to over there are pretty enough to be gibson girls, just stepped out of a magazine; and so far--_you_ are the only man i have met." "well," he said after a moment's waiting, "you haven't given me your opinion of _me_." there was a quizzical twinkle in his eye, which mary, intent upon her beloved ice-cream, did not see. her honest little face was perfectly serious as she replied, "oh, _you_,--you're like marse phil and marse chan and those men in thomas nelson page's stones of 'ole virginia,' i love those stories, don't you? especially the one about 'meh lady.' of course i know that everybody in the south can't be as nice as they are, but whenever i think of kentucky and virginia i think of people like that." such a broad compliment was more than rob was prepared for. an embarrassed flush actually crept over his handsome face. joyce, glancing up, saw it and laughed. "mary is as honest as the father of his country himself," she said. "i'll warn you now. she'll always tell exactly what she thinks." "now, joyce," began mary, indignantly, "you know i don't tell everything i think. i'll admit that i did use to be a chatterbox, when i was little, but even holland says i'm not, now." "i didn't mean to call you a chatterbox," explained joyce. "i was just warning rob that he must expect perfectly straightforward replies to his questions." joyce bent over her letter, and in order to start mary to talking again, rob cast about for another topic of conversation. "you wouldn't call those three girls at that last table, gibson girls, would you?" he asked. "look at that dark slim one with the red cherries in her hat." mary glanced at her critically. "no," she said, slowly. "she is not exactly pretty now, but she's the ugly-duckling kind. she may turn out to be the most beautiful swan of them all. i like that the best of any of andersen's fairy tales. don't you? i used to look at myself in the glass and tell myself that it would be that way with me. that my straight hair and pug nose needn't make any difference; that some day i'd surprise people as the ugly duckling did. but jack said, no, i am not the swan kind. that no amount of waiting will make straight hair curly and a curly nose straight. jack says i'll have my innings when i am an old lady--that i'll not be pretty till i'm old. then he says i'll make a beautiful grandmother, like grandma ware. he says her face was like a benediction. that's what he wrote to me just before i left home. of course i'd rather be a beauty than a benediction, any day. but jack says he laughs best who laughs last, and it's something to look forward to, to know you're going to be nice-looking in your old age when all your friends are wrinkled and faded." rob's laugh was so appreciative that mary felt with a thrill that he was finding her really entertaining. she was sorry that joyce's letter came to an end just then. her mother's last warning had been for her to remember on all occasions that she was much younger than joyce's friends, and they would not expect her to take a grown-up share of their conversation. she had promised earnestly to try to curb her active little tongue, no matter how much she wanted to be chief spokesman, and now, remembering her promise, she relapsed into sudden silence. all the way out to the valley she sat with her hands folded in her lap, on the seat opposite joyce and rob. the car made so much noise she could catch only an occasional word of their conversation, so she sat looking out of the window, busy with her thoughts. "sixty minutes till we get there. now it's only fifty-nine. now it's fifty-eight--just like the song 'ten little, nine little, eight little indians.' pretty soon there'll just be one minute left." at this exciting thought the queer quivery feeling inside was so strong it almost choked her. her heart gave a great thump when joyce finally called, "here we are," and rob signalled the conductor to stop outside the great entrance gate. "the locusts" at last. pewees in the cedars and robins on the lawn; everywhere the cool deep shadows of great trees, and wide stretches of waving blue-grass. stately white pillars of an old southern mansion gleamed through the vines at the end of the long avenue. then a flutter of white dresses and gay ribbons, and lloyd and betty came running to meet them. chapter v. at "the locusts" lloyd and betty had been home from warwick hall only two days, and the joyful excitement of arrival had not yet worn off. the locusts had never looked so beautiful to them as it did this vacation, and their enthusiasm over all that was about to happen kept them in a flutter from morning till night. when rob's telephone message came that the train was late and that he could not bring the girls out until after lunch, lloyd chafed at the delay at first. then she consoled herself with the thought that she could arrange a more effective welcome for the middle of the afternoon than for an earlier hour. "grandfathah will have had his nap by that time," she said, with a saucy glance in his direction, "and he will be as sweet and lovely as a may mawning. and he'll have on a fresh white suit for the evening, and a cah'nation in his buttonhole." then she gave her orders more directly. "you must be suah to be out on the front steps to welcome them, grandfathah, with yoah co'tliest bow. and mothah, you must be beside him in that embroidered white linen dress of yoahs that i like so much. mom beck will stand in the doahway behind you all just like a pictuah of an old-time south'n welcome. of co'se joyce has seen it all befoah, but little mary has been looking foh'wa'd to this visit to the locusts as she would to heaven. you know what joyce wrote about her calling this her promised land." "i know how it is going to make her feel," said betty. "just as it made me feel when i got here from the cuckoo's nest, and found this 'house beautiful' of my dreams. and if she is the little dreamer that i was the best time will not be the arrival, but early candle-lighting time, when you are playing on your harp. i used to sit on a foot-stool at godmother's feet, so unutterably happy, that i would have to put out my hand to feel her dress. i was so afraid that she might vanish--that everything was too lovely to be real. "and now, to think," she added, turning to mrs. sherman and affectionately laying a hand on each shoulder, "it's lasted all this time, till i have grown so tall that i could pick you up and carry you off, little godmother. i am going to do it some day soon, lift you up bodily and put you into a story that i have begun to write. it will be my best work, because it is what i have lived." "you'd better live awhile longer," laughed mrs. sherman, "before you begin to settle what your best work will be. think how the shy little elizabeth of twelve has blossomed into the stately elizabeth of eighteen, and think what possibilities are still ahead of you in the next six years." "when mothah and betty begin to compliment each othah," remarked lloyd, seating herself on the arm of the old colonel's chair, "they are lost to all else in the world. so while we have this moment to ou'selves, my deah grandfathah, i want to impress something on yoah mind, very forcibly." the playful way in which she held him by the ears was a familiarity no one but lloyd had ever dared take with the dignified old colonel. she emphasized each sentence with a gentle pull and pinch. "maybe you wouldn't believe it, but this little mary ware who is coming, has a most exalted opinion of me. from what joyce says she thinks i am perfect, and i don't want her disillusioned. it's so nice to have somebody look up to you that way, so i want to impress it on you that you're not to indulge in any reminiscence of my past while she is heah. you mustn't tell any of my youthful misdemeanahs that you are fond of telling--how i threw mud on yoah coat, in one of my awful tempahs, and smashed yoah shaving-mug with a walking-stick, and locked walkah down in the coal cellah when he wouldn't do what i wanted him to. you must 'let the dead past bury its dead, and act--act in the living present,' so that she'll think that _you_ think that i'm the piece of perfection she imagines me to be." "i'll be a party to no such deception," answered the old colonel, sternly, although his eyes, smiling fondly on her, plainly spoke consent. "you know you're the worst spoiled child in oldham county." "whose fault is it?" retorted lloyd, with a final pinch as she liberated his ears and darted away. "ask colonel george lloyd. if there was any spoiling done, he did it." two hours later, still in the gayest of spirits, lloyd and betty raced down the avenue to meet their guests, and tired and travel-stained as the newcomers were, the impetuous greeting gave them a sense of having been caught up into a gay whirl of some kind. it gave them an excited thrill which presaged all sorts of delightful things about to happen. the courtly bows of the old colonel, standing between the great white pillars, mrs. sherman's warm welcome, and mom beck's old-time curtseys, seemed to usher them into a fascinating story-book sort of life, far more interesting than any mary had yet read. several hours later, sitting in the long drawing-room, she wondered if she could be the same girl who one short week before was chasing across the desert like a comanche indian, beating the bushes for rattlesnakes, or washing dishes in the hot little kitchen of the wigwam. here in the soft light shed from many waxen tapers in the silver candelabra, surrounded by fine old ancestral portraits, and furniture that shone with the polish of hospitable generations, mary felt civilized down to her very finger-tips: so thoroughly a lady, through and through, that the sensation sent a warm thrill over her. that feeling had begun soon after her arrival, when mom beck ushered her into a luxurious bathroom. mary enjoyed luxury like a cat. as she splashed away in the big porcelain tub, she wished that hazel lee could see the tiled walls, the fine ample towels with their embroidered monograms, the dainty soaps, and the cut-glass bottles of toilet-water, with their faint odor as of distant violets. then she wondered if mom beck would think that she had refused her offers of assistance because she was not used to the services of a lady's maid. she was half-afraid of this old family servant in her imposing head-handkerchief and white apron. recalling joyce's experiences in france and what had been the duties of her maid, marie, she decided to call her in presently to brush her hair and tie her slippers. afterward she was glad that she had done so, for mom beck was a practised hair-dresser, and made the most of mary's thin locks. she so brushed and fluffed and be-ribboned them in a new way, with a big black bow on top, that mary beamed with satisfaction when she looked in the glass. the new way was immensely becoming. then when she went down to dinner, it seemed so elegant to find mr. sherman in a dress suit. the shaded candles and cut glass and silver and roses on the table made it seem quite like the dinner-parties she had read about in novels, and the talk that circled around of the latest books and the new opera, and the happenings in the world at large, and the familiar mention of famous names, made her feel as if she were in the real social whirl at last. the name of copy-cat which holland had given her proved well-earned now, for so easily did she fall in with the ways about her, that one would have thought her always accustomed to formal dinners, with a deft colored waiter like alec at her elbow. rob dined with them, and later in the evening mrs. walton came strolling over in neighborly fashion, bringing her house-party to call on the other party, she said, though to be sure only half of her guests had arrived, the two young army officers, george logan and robert stanley. allison and kitty were with them, and--mary noted with a quick indrawn breath--_ranald_. the title of _little_ captain no longer fitted him. he was far too tall. she was disappointed to find him grown. somehow all the heroes and heroines whom she had looked upon as her own age, who _were_ her own age when the interesting things she knew about them had happened, were all grown up. her first disappointment had been in rob, then in betty. for this betty was not the one joyce had pictured in her stories of the first house-party. this one had long dresses, and her curly hair was tucked up on her head in such a bewitchingly young-ladified way that mary was in awe of her at first. she was not disappointed in her now, however, and no longer in awe, since betty had piloted her over the place, swinging hands with her in as friendly a fashion as if she were no older than hazel lee, and telling the way she looked when _she_ saw the locusts for the first time--a timid little country girl in a sunbonnet, with a wicker basket on her arm. the military uniforms lent an air of distinction to the scene, and allison and kitty each began a conversation in such a vivacious way, that mary found it difficult to decide which group to attach herself to. she did not want to lose a word that any one was saying, and the effort to listen to several separate conversations was as much of a strain as trying to watch three rings at the circus. through the laughter and the repartee of the young people she heard mrs. walton say to mr. sherman: "yes, only second lieutenants, but i've been an army woman long enough to appreciate them as they deserve. they have no rank to speak of, few privileges, are always expected to do the agreeable to visitors (and they do it), obliged to give up their quarters at a moment's notice, take the duties nobody else wants, be cheerful under all conditions, and ready for anything. it is an exception when a second lieutenant is not dear and fascinating. as for these two, i am doubly fond of them, for their fathers were army men before them, and old-time friends of ours. george i knew as a little lad in washington. i must tell you of an adventure of his, that shows what a sterling fellow he is." mary heard only part of the anecdote, for at the same time kitty was telling an uproariously funny joke on ranald, and all the rest were laughing. but she heard enough to make her take a second look at lieutenant logan. he was leaning forward in his chair, talking to joyce with an air of flattering interest. and joyce, in one of her new dresses, her face flushed a little from the unusual excitement, was talking her best and looking her prettiest. [illustration: "he was leaning forward in his chair, talking to joyce"] "she's having a good time just like other girls," thought mary, thankfully. "this will make up for lots of lonely times in the desert, when she was homesick for the high-school girls and boys at plainsville. it would be fine if things would turn out so that joyce liked an army man. if she married one and lived at a post she'd invite me to visit her. lieutenant logan might be a general some day, and it would be nice to have a great man in the family. i wish mamma and jack and holland could see what a good time we are having." it did not occur to mary that, curled up in a big chair in the corner, she was taking no more active share in the good times than the portraits on the wall. her eager smile and the alert happy look in her eyes showed that she was all a-tingle with the unusual pleasure the evening was affording her. she laughed and looked and listened, sure that the scene she was enjoying was as good as a play. she had never seen a play, it is true; but she had read of them, and of player folk, until she knew she was fitted to judge of such things. it was a pleasure just to watch the gleam of the soft candle-light on kitty's red ribbons, or on the string of gold beads around allison's white throat. maybe it was the candle-light which threw such a soft glamour over everything and made it seem that the pretty girls and the young lieutenants were only portraits out of a beautiful old past who had stepped down from their frames for a little while. yet when mary glanced up, the soldier boy was still in his picture on the wall, and the beautiful girl with the june rose in her hair was still in her frame, standing beside her harp, her white hand resting on its shining strings. "it is my grandmothah amanthis," explained lloyd in answer to the lieutenant's question, as his gaze also rested admiringly on it. "yes, this is the same harp you see in the painting. yes, i play a little. i learned to please grandfathah." then, a moment later, mary reached the crown of her evening's enjoyment, for lloyd, in response to many voices, took her place beside the harp below the picture, and struck a few deep, rich chords. then, with an airy running accompaniment, she began the dove song from the play of "the princess winsome:" "flutter and fly, flutter and fly, bear him my heart of gold." it was all as mary had imagined it would be, a hundred times in her day-dreams, only far sweeter and more beautiful. she had not thought how the white sleeves would fall back from the round white arms, or how her voice would go fluttering up like a bird, sweet and crystal clear on the last high note. afterward, when the guests were gone and everybody had said good night, mary lay awake in the pink blossom of a room which she shared with joyce, the same room joyce had had at the first house-party. she was having another good time, thinking it all over. she thought scornfully of the woman on the sleeping-car who had told her that distance lends enchantment, and that she must not expect too much of her promised land. she hoped she might meet that woman again some day, so that she could tell her that it was not only as nice as she had expected to find it, but a hundred times nicer. she reminded herself that she must tell betty about her in the morning. as she recalled one pleasant incident after another, she thought, "now _this_ is _life_! no wonder lloyd is so bright and interesting when she has been brought up in such an atmosphere." chapter vi. the fox and the stork lloyd sherman at seventeen was a combination of all the characters her many nicknames implied. the same imperious little ways and hasty outbursts of temper that had won her the title of little colonel showed themselves at times. but she was growing so much like the gentle maiden of the portrait that the name "amanthis" trembled on the old colonel's lips very often when he looked at her. the tusitala ring on her finger showed that she still kept in mind the road of the loving heart, which she was trying to leave behind her in every one's memory, and the string of tiny roman pearls she sometimes clasped around her throat bore silent witness to her effort to live up to the story of ederyn, and keep tryst with all that was expected of her. when a long line of blue-blooded ancestors has handed down a heritage of proud traditions and family standards, it is no easy matter to be all that is expected of an only child. but lloyd was meeting all expectations, responding to the influence of beauty and culture with which she had always been surrounded, as unconsciously as a bud unfolds to the sunshine. her ambition "to make undying music in the world," to follow in the footsteps of her beautiful grandmother amanthis, was in itself a reaching-up to one of the family ideals. when the girls began calling her the princess winsome, unconsciously she began to reach up to be worthy of that title also, but when she found that mary ware was taking her as a model maid of honor, in all that that title implies, she began to feel that a burden was laid upon her shoulders. she had had such admirers before: little magnolia budine at lloydsboro seminary, and cornie dean at warwick hall. it was pleasant to know that they considered her perfection, but it was a strain to feel that she was their model, and that they copied her in everything, her faults as well as her graces. they had followed her like shadows, and such devotion grows tiresome. happily for mary ware, whatever else she did, she never bored any one. she was too independent and original for that. when she found an occasion to talk, she made the most of her opportunity, and talked with all her might, but her sensitiveness to surroundings always told her when it was time to retire into the background, and she could be so dumb as to utterly efface herself when the time came for her to keep silent. a long list of delights filled her first letter home, but the one most heavily underscored, and chief among them all, was the fact that the big girls did not seem to consider her a "little pitcher" or a "tag." no matter where they went or what they talked about, she was free to follow and to listen. it was interesting to the verge of distraction when they talked merely of warwick hall and the schoolgirls, or recalled various things that had happened at the first house-party. but when they discussed the approaching wedding, the guests, the gifts, the decorations, and the feast, she almost held her breath in her eager enjoyment of it. several times a day, after the passing of the trains, alec came up from the station with express packages. most of them were wedding presents, which the bridesmaids pounced upon and carried away to the green room to await eugenia's arrival. every package was the occasion of much guessing and pinching and wondering, and the mystery was almost as exciting as the opening would have been. the conversation often led into by-paths that were unexplored regions to the small listener in the background among the window-seat cushions: husbands and lovers and engagements, all the thrilling topics that a wedding in the family naturally suggests. sometimes a whole morning would go by without her uttering a word, and mrs. sherman, who had heard what a talkative child she was, noticed her silence. thinking it was probably dull for her, she reproached herself for not having provided some especial company for the entertainment of her youngest guest, and straightway set to work to do so. next morning a box of pink slippers was sent out from louisville on approval, and the bridesmaids and maid of honor, seated on the floor in betty's room, tried to make up their minds which to choose,--the kid or the satin ones. with each slim right foot shod in a fairy-like covering of shimmering satin, and each left one in daintiest pink kid, the three girls found it impossible to determine which was the prettier, and called upon mary for her opinion. all in a flutter of importance, she was surveying the pretty exhibit of outstretched feet, when mom beck appeared at the door with a message from mrs. sherman. there was a guest for miss mary in the library. would she please go down at once. her curiosity was almost as great as her reluctance to leave such an interesting scene. she stood in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands. "oh, if i could only be in two places at once!" she exclaimed. "but maybe whoever it is won't stay long, and i can get back before you decide." hurrying down the stairs, she went into the library, where mrs. sherman was waiting for her. "this is one of our little neighbors, mary," she said, "girlie dinsmore." a small-featured child of twelve, with pale blue eyes and long, pale flaxen curls, came forward to meet her. to mary's horror, she held a doll in her arms almost as large as herself, and on the table beside her stood a huge toy trunk. "i brought all of evangeline's clothes with me," announced girlie, as soon as mrs. sherman had left them to themselves. "'cause i came to stay all morning, and i knew she'd have plenty of time to wear every dress she owns." mary could not help the gasp of dismay that escaped her, thinking of that fascinating row of pink slippers awaiting her up-stairs. from bridesmaids to doll-babies is a woful fall. "where is your doll?" demanded girlie. "oh, i haven't any," said mary, with a grown-up shrug of the shoulders. "i stopped playing with them ages ago." then realizing what an impolite speech that was, she hastened to make amends by adding: "i sometimes dress hazel lee's, though. hazel is one of my friends back in arizona. once i made a whole indian costume for it like the squaws make. the moccasins were made out of the top of a kid glove, and beaded just like real ones." girlie's pale eyes opened so wide at the mention of indians that mary almost forgot her disappointment at being called away from the big girls, and proceeded to make them open still wider with her tales of life on the desert. in a few moments she carried the trunk out on to a vine-covered side porch, where they made a wigwam out of two hammocks and a sunshade, and changed the waxen evangeline into a blanketed squaw, with feathers in her blond parisian hair. mom beck looked out several times, and finally brought them a set of lloyd's old doll dishes and the daintiest of luncheons to spread on a low table. there were olive sandwiches, frosted cakes, berries and cream, and bonbons and nuts in a silver dish shaped like a calla-lily. for the first two hours mary really enjoyed being hostess, although now and then she wished she could slip up-stairs long enough to see what the girls were doing. but when she had told all the interesting tales she could think of, cleared away the remains of the feast, and played with the doll until she was sick of the sight of it, she began to be heartily tired of girlie's companionship. "she's such a baby," she said to herself, impatiently. "she doesn't know much more than a kitten." it seemed to her that the third long hour never would drag to an end. but girlie evidently enjoyed it. when the carriage came to take her home, she said, enthusiastically: "i've had such a good time this morning that i'm coming over every single day while you're here. i can't ask you over to our house 'cause my grandma is so sick it wouldn't be any fun. we just have to tiptoe around and not laugh out loud. but i don't mind doing all the visiting." "oh, it will spoil everything!" groaned mary to herself, as she ran up-stairs when girlie was at last out of sight. she felt that nothing could compensate her for the loss of the whole morning, and the thought of losing any more precious time in that way was unendurable. mrs. sherman met her in the hall, and pinched her cheek playfully as she passed her. "you make a charming little hostess, my dear," she said. "i looked out several times, and you were so absorbed with your play that it made me wish that i could be a little girl again, and join you with my poor old nancy blanche doll and my grand amanthis that papa brought me from new orleans. i'll have to resurrect them for you out of the attic, for i'm afraid it has been stupid for you here, with nobody your own age." "oh, no'm! don't! please don't!" protested mary, a worried look on her honest little face. she was about to add, "i can't bear dolls any more. i only played with them to please girlie," when lloyd came out of her room with a letter. "it's from the bride-to-be, mothah," she called, waving it gaily. "she'll be heah day aftah to-morrow, so we can begin to put the finishing touches to her room. the day she comes i'm going to take the girls ovah to rollington to get some long sprays of bride's wreath. mrs. crisp has two big bushes of it, white as snow. it will look so cool and lovely, everything in the room all green and white." mary stole away to her room, ready to cry. if every morning had to be spent with that tiresome dinsmore child, she might as well have stayed on the desert. "i simply have to get rid of her in some way," she mused. "it won't do to snub her, and i don't know any other way. i wish i could see holland for about five minutes. he'd think of a plan." so absorbed was she in her problem that she forgot to ask whether the kid or the satin slippers had been chosen, and she went down to lunch still revolving her trouble in her mind. on the dining-room wall opposite her place at table were two fine old engravings, illustrating the fable of the famous dinners given by the fox and the stork. in the first the stork strove vainly to fill its bill at the flat dish from which the fox lapped eagerly, while in the companion picture the fox sat by disconsolate while the stork dipped into the high slim pitcher, which the hungry guest could not reach. mary had noticed the pictures in a casual way every time she took a seat at the table, for the beast and the bird were old acquaintances. she had learned la fontaine's version of the fable one time to recite at school. to-day, with the problem in her mind of how to rid herself of an unwelcome guest, they suddenly took on a new meaning. "i'll do just the way the stork did," she thought, gleefully. "this morning girlie had everything her way, and we played little silly baby games till i felt as flat as the dish that fox is eating out of. but she had a beautiful time. to-morrow morning i'm going to be stork, and make my conversation so deep she can't get her little baby mind into it at all. i'll be awfully polite, but i'll hunt up the longest words i can find in the dictionary, and talk about the books i've read, and she'll have such a stupid time she won't want to come again." the course of action once settled upon, mary fell to work with her usual energy. while the girls were taking their daily siesta, she dressed early and went down into the library. if it had not been for the fear of missing something, she would have spent much of her time in that attractive room. books looked down so invitingly from the many shelves. all the june magazines lay on the library table, their pages still uncut. everybody had been too busy to look at them. she hesitated a moment over the tempting array, but remembering her purpose, grimly passed them by and opened the big dictionary. rob found her still poring over it, pencil and paper in hand, when he looked into the room an hour later. "what's up now?" he asked. she evaded his question at first, but, afraid that he would tease her before the girls about her thirst for knowledge and her study of the dictionary, and that that might lead to the thwarting of her plans, she suddenly decided to take him into her confidence. "well," she began, solemnly, "you know mostly i loathe dolls. sometimes i do dress hazel lee's for her, but i don't like to play with them regularly any more as i used to,--talk for them and all that. but girlie dinsmore was here this morning, and i had to do it because she is company. she had such a good time that she said she was coming over here every single morning while i'm here. i just can't have my lovely visit spoiled that way. the bride is coming day after to-morrow, and she'll be opening her presents and showing her trousseau to the girls, and i wouldn't miss it for anything. so i've made up my mind i'll be just as polite as possible, but i'll do as the stork did in the fable; make my entertainment so deep she won't enjoy it. i'm hunting up the longest words i can find and learning their definitions, so that i can use them properly." rob, looking over her shoulder, laughed to see the list she had chosen: "indefatigability, juxtaposition, loquaciousness, pabulum, peregrinate, longevous." "you see," explained mary, "sometimes there is a quotation after the word from some author, so i've copied a lot of them to use, instead of making up sentences myself. here's one from shakespeare about alacrity. and here's one from arbuthnot, whoever he was, that will make her stare." she traced the sentence with her forefinger, for rob's glance to follow: "_instances of longevity are chiefly among the abstemious_." "girlie won't have any more idea of what i'm talking about than a jay-bird." to mary's astonishment, the laugh with which rob received her confidence was so long and loud it ended in a whoop of amusement, and when he had caught his breath he began again in such an infectious way that the girls up-stairs heard it and joined in. then lloyd leaned over the banister to call: "what's the mattah, rob? you all seem to be having a mighty funny time down there. save your circus for us. we'll be down in a few minutes." "this is just a little private side-show of mary's and mine," answered rob, going off into another peal of laughter at sight of mary's solemn face. there was nothing funny in the situation to her whatsoever. "oh, don't tell, mister rob," she begged. "please don't tell. joyce might think it was impolite, and would put a stop to it. it seems funny to you, but when you think of my whole lovely visit spoiled that way--" she stopped abruptly, so much in earnest that her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. instantly rob's laughter ceased, and he begged her pardon in such a grave, kind way, assuring her that her confidence should be respected, that her admiration of him went up several more degrees. when the girls came down, he could not be prevailed upon to tell them what had sent him off into such fits of laughter. "just mary's entertaining remarks," was all he would say, looking across at her with a meaning twinkle in his eyes. she immediately retired into the background as soon as the older girls appeared, but she sat admiring every word rob said, and watching every movement. "he's the very nicest man i ever saw," she said to herself. "he treats me as if i were grown up, and i really believe he likes to hear me talk." once when they were arranging for a tennis game for the next morning, he crossed the room with an amused smile, to say to her in a low aside: "i've thought of something to help along the stork's cause. bring the little fox over to the tennis-court to watch the game. if she doesn't find that sufficiently stupid, and you run short of big words, read aloud to her, and tell her that is what you intend to do every day." such a pleased, gratified smile flashed over mary's face that betty exclaimed, curiously: "i certainly would like to know what mischief you two are planning. you laugh every time you look at each other." girlie dinsmore arrived promptly next morning, trunk, doll, and all, expecting to plunge at once into an absorbing game of lady-come-to-see. but mary so impressed her with the honor that had been conferred upon them by mr. moore's special invitation to watch the tennis game that she was somewhat bewildered. she dutifully followed her resolute hostess to the tennis-court, and took a seat beside her with evangeline clasped in her arms. neither of the children had watched a game before, and girlie, not being able to understand a single move, soon found it insufferably stupid. but mary became more and more interested in watching a tall, athletic figure in outing flannels and white shoes, who swung his racket with the deftness of an expert, and who flashed an amused smile at her over the net occasionally, as if he understood the situation and was enjoying it with her. several times when rob's playing brought him near the seat where the two children sat, he went into unaccountable roars of laughter, for which the amazed girls scolded him soundly, when he refused to explain. one time was when he overheard a scrap of conversation. girlie had suggested a return to the porch and the play-house, and mary responded, graciously: [illustration: "a tall, athletic figure in outing flannels"] "oh, we did all that yesterday morning, and i think that even in the matter of playing dolls one ought to be abstemious. don't you? you know arbuthnot says that 'instances of longevity are chiefly among the abstemious,' and i certainly want to be longevous." a startled expression crept into girlie's pale blue eyes, but she only sat back farther on the seat and tightened her clasp on evangeline. the next time rob sauntered within hearing distance, a discussion of literature was in progress, mary was asking: "have you ever read 'old curiosity shop?'" the flaxen curls shook slowly in the motion that betokened she had not. "nothing of dickens or scott or irving or cooper?" still the flaxen curls shook nothing but no. "then what have you read, may i ask?" the superior tone of mary's question made it seem that she was twenty years older than the child at her side, instead of only two. "i like the dotty dimple books," finally admitted girlie. "mamma read me all of them and several of the prudy books, and i have read half of 'flaxie frizzle' my own self." "_oh!_" exclaimed mary, in a tone expressing enlightenment. "i _see_! nothing but juvenile books! no wonder that, with such mental pabulum, you don't care for anything but dolls! now when i was your age, i had read 'the vicar of wakefield' and 'pride and prejudice' and leather-stocking tales, and all sorts of things. probably that is why i lost my taste for dolls so early. wouldn't you like me to read to you awhile every morning?" the offer was graciousness itself, but it implied such a lack on girlie's part that she felt vaguely uncomfortable. she sat digging the toe of her slipper against the leg of the bench. "i don't know," she stammered finally. "maybe i can't come often. it makes me wigglesome to sit still too long and listen." "we might try it this morning to see how you like it," persisted mary. "i brought a copy of longfellow out from the house, and thought you might like to hear the poem of 'evangeline,' as long as your doll is named that." rob heard no more, for the game called him to another part of the court, but mary's plan was a success. when the dinsmore carriage came, girlie announced that she wouldn't be over the next day, and maybe not the one after that. she didn't know for sure when she could come. rob stayed to lunch. as he passed mary on the steps, he stooped to the level of her ear to say in a laughing undertone: "congratulations, miss stork. i see your plan worked grandly." elated by her success and the feeling of good-comradeship which this little secret with rob gave her, mary skipped up on to the porch, well pleased with herself. but the next instant there was a curious change in her feeling. lloyd, tall and graceful in her becoming tennis suit, was standing on the steps taking leave of some of the players. with hospitable insistence she was urging them to stay to lunch, and there was something in the sweet graciousness of the young hostess that made mary uncomfortable. she felt that she had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. the princess never would have stooped to treat a guest as she had treated girlie. her standard of hospitality was too high to allow such a breach of hospitality. mary had carried her point, but she felt that if lloyd knew how she had played stork, she would consider her ill-bred. the thought worried her for days. chapter vii. the coming of the bride early in the june morning mary awoke, feeling as if it were christmas or fourth of july or some great gala occasion. she lay there a moment, trying to think what pleasant thing was about to happen. then she remembered that it was the day on which the bride was to arrive. not only that,--before the sun went down, the best man would be at the locusts also. she raised herself on her elbow to look at joyce, in the white bed across from hers. she was sound asleep, so mary snuggled down on her pillow again, and lay quite still. if joyce had been awake, mary would have begun a long conversation about phil tremont. instead, she began recalling to herself the last time she had seen him. it was three years ago, down by the beehives, and she had had no idea he was going away until he came to the wigwam to bid them all good-by. and joyce and lloyd were away, so he had left a message for them with her. she thought it queer then, and she had wondered many times since why his farewell to the girls should have been a message about the old gambling god, alaka. she remembered every word of it, even the tones of his voice as he said: "try to remember just these words, please, mary. tell them that '_alaka has lost his precious turquoises, but he will win them back again some day_.' can you remember to say just that?" he must have thought she wasn't much more than a baby to repeat it so carefully to her several times, as if he were teaching her a lesson. well, to be sure, she was only eleven then, and she had almost cried when she begged him not to go away, and insisted on knowing when he was coming back. he had looked away toward old camelback mountain with a strange, sorry look on his face as he answered: "not till i've learned your lesson--to be 'inflexible.' when i'm strong enough to keep stiff in the face of any temptation, then i'll come back, little vicar." then he had stooped and kissed her hastily on both cheeks, and started off down the road, with her watching him through a blur of tears, because it seemed that all the good times in the world had suddenly come to an end. away down the road he had turned to look back and wave his hat, and she had caught up her white sunbonnet and swung it high by its one limp string. afterward, when she went back to the swing by the beehives, she recalled all the old stories she had ever heard of knights who went out into the world to seek their fortunes, and waved farewell to some ladye fair in her watch-tower. she felt, in a vague way, that she had been bidden farewell by a brave knight errant. although she was burning with curiosity when she delivered the message about the turquoises and alaka, and wondered why lloyd and joyce exchanged such meaning glances, something kept her from asking questions, and she had gone on wondering all these years what it meant, and why there was such a sorry look in his eyes when he gazed out toward the old camelback mountain. now, in the wisdom of her fourteen years, she began to suspect what the trouble had been, and resolved to ask joyce for the solution of the mystery. now that phil was twenty years old and doing a man's work in the world, she supposed she ought to call him mr. tremont, or, at least, mr. phil. probably in his travels, with all the important things that a civil engineer has to think of, he had forgotten her and the way he had romped with her at the wigwam, and how he had saved her life the time the indian chased her. being the bridegroom's brother and best man at the wedding, he would scarcely notice her. or, if he did cast a glance in her direction, she had grown so much probably he never would recognize her. still, if he _should_ remember her, she wanted to appear at her best advantage, and she began considering what was the best her wardrobe afforded. she lay there some time trying to decide whether she should be all in white when she met him, or in the dress with the little sprigs of forget-me-nots sprinkled over it. white was appropriate for all occasions, still the forget-me-nots would be suggestive. then she remembered her mother's remark about that shade of blue being a trying one for her to wear. that recalled mom beck's prescription for beautifying the complexion. nothing, so the old colored woman declared, was so good for one's face as washing it in dew before the sun had touched the grass, at the same time repeating a hoodoo rhyme. mary had been intending to try it, but never could waken early enough. now it was only a little after five. slipping out of bed, she drew aside the curtain. smoke was rising from the chimney down in the servants' quarters, and the sun was streaming red across the lawn. but over by the side of the house, in the shadow of hero's monument, the dew lay sparkling like diamonds on the daisies and clover that bloomed there--the only place on the lawn where the sun had not yet touched. thrusting her bare feet into the little red turkish slippers beside her bed, mary caught up her kimono lying over a chair. it was a long, oriental affair, cousin kate's christmas gift; a mixture of gay colors and a pattern of japanese fans, and so beautiful in mary's eyes that she had often bemoaned the fact that she was not a japanese lady so that she could wear the gorgeous garment in public. it seemed too beautiful to be wasted on the privacy of her room. fastening it together with three of joyce's little gold pins, she stole down the stairway. mom beck was busy in the dining-room, and the doors and windows stood open. stepping out of one of the long french windows that opened on the side porch, mary ran across to the monument. it was a glorious june morning. the myriads of roses were doubly sweet with the dew in their hearts. a kentucky cardinal flashed across the lawn ahead of her, darting from one locust-tree to another like a bit of live flame. the little red turkish slippers chased lightly over the grass till they reached the shadow of the monument. then stooping, mary passed her hands over the daisies and clover, catching up the dewdrops in her pink palms, and rubbing them over her face as she repeated mom beck's charm: "beauty come, freckles go! dewdops, make me white as snow!" the dew on her face felt so cool and fresh that she tried it again, then several times more. then she stooped over farther and buried her face in the wet grass, repeating the rhyme again with her eyes shut and in the singsong chant in which she often intoned things, without giving heed to what she was uttering. suddenly, in the midst of this joyful abandon, an amused exclamation made her lift her head a little and open her eyes. "by all the powers! what are you up to now, miss stork?" mary's head came up out of the wet grass with a jerk. then her face burned an embarrassed crimson, for striding along the path toward her was bob moore, cutting across lots from oaklea. he was bareheaded, and swinging along as if it were a pleasure merely to be alive on such a morning. she sprang to her feet, so mortified at being caught in this secret quest for beauty that her embarrassment left her speechless. then, remembering the way she was dressed, she sank down on the grass again, and pulled her kimono as far as possible over the little bare feet in the red slippers. there was no need for her to answer his question. the rhyme she had been chanting was sufficient explanation. "i thought you said," he began, teasingly, "that you were to have _your_ innings when you were a grandmother; that you didn't care for beauty now if you could have a face like a benediction then." "oh, i didn't say that i didn't care!" cried mary, crouching closer against the monument, and putting her arm across her face to hide it. "it's because i care so much that i'm always doing silly things and getting caught. i just wish the earth could open and swallow me!" she wailed. her head was bowed now till it was resting on her knees. rob looked down on the little bunch of misery in the gay kimono, thinking he had never seen such a picture of woe. he could not help smiling, but he felt mean at having been the cause of her distress, and tried to think of something comforting to say. "sakes alive, child! that's nothing to feel bad about. bathing your face in may-day dew is an old english custom that the prettiest girls in the kingdom used to follow. i ought to apologize for intruding, but i didn't suppose any one was up. i just came over to say that some business for grandfather will take me to town on the earliest train, so that i can't be on hand when the best man arrives. i didn't want to wake up the entire household by telephoning, so i thought i'd step over and leave a message with alec or some of them. if you'll tell lloyd, i'll be much obliged." "all right, i'll tell her," answered mary, in muffled tones, without raising her head from her knees. she was battling back the tears, and felt that she could never face the world again. she waited till she was sure rob was out of sight, and then, springing up, ran for the shelter of her room. as she stole up the stairs, her eyes were so blinded with tears that she could hardly see the steps; tears of humiliation, that rob, of all people, whose good opinion she valued, should have discovered her in a situation that made her appear silly and vain. luckily for the child's peace of mind, betty had also wakened early that morning, and was taking advantage of the quiet hours before breakfast to attend to her letter-writing. through her open door she caught sight of the woebegone little figure slipping past, and the next instant mary found herself in the white and gold room with betty's arm around her, and her tearful face pressed against a sympathetic shoulder. little by little betty coaxed from her the cause of her tears, then sat silent, patting her hand, as she wondered what she could say to console her. to the older girl it seemed a matter to smile over, and the corners of her mouth did dimple a little, until she realized that to mary's supersensitive nature this was no trifle, and that she was suffering keenly from it. "oh, i'm so ashamed," sobbed mary. "i never want to look mister rob in the face again. i'd rather go home and miss the wedding than meet him any more." "nonsense," said betty, lightly. "now you're making a mountain out of a mole-hill. probably rob will never give the matter a second thought, and he would be amazed if he thought you did. i've heard you say you wished you could be just like lloyd. do you know, her greatest charm to me is that she never seems to think of the impression she is making on other people. now, if she should decide that her complexion would be better for a wash in the dew, she would go ahead and wash it, no matter who caught her at it, and, first thing you know, all the valley would be following her example. "i'm going to preach you a little sermon now, because i've found out your one fault. it isn't very big yet, but, if you don't nip it in the bud, it will be like meddlesome matty's,-- "'which, like a cloud before the skies, hid all her better qualities.' "you are self-conscious, mary. always thinking about the impression you are making on people, and so eager to please that it makes you miserable if you think you fall short of any of their standards. i knew a girl at school who let her sensitiveness to other people's opinions run away with her. she was so anxious for her friends to be pleased with her that she couldn't be natural. if anybody glanced in the direction of her head, she immediately began to fix her side-combs, or if they seemed to be noticing her dress, she felt her belt and looked down at herself to see if anything was wrong. half the time they were not looking at her at all, and not even giving her a thought. and i've known her to agonize for days over some trifle, some remark she had made or some one had made to her, that every one but her had forgotten. she developed into a dreadful bore, because she never could forget herself, and was always looking at her affairs through a magnifying-glass. "now if you should keep out of rob's way after this, and act as if you had done something to be ashamed of, which you have not, don't you see that your very actions would remind him of what you want him to forget? but if when you meet him you are your own bright, cheerful, friendly little self, this morning's scene will fade into a dim background." only half-convinced, mary nodded that she understood, but still proceeded to wipe her eyes at intervals. "then, there's another thing," continued betty. "if you sit and brood over your mortification, it will spread all over your sky like a black cloud, till it will seem bigger than any of the good times you have had. in the dear old garden at warwick hall there is a sun-dial that has this inscription on it, 'i only mark the hours that shine,' so i am going to give you that as a text. now, dear, that is the end of my sermon, but here is the application." she pointed to a row of little white books on the shelf above her desk, all bound in kid, with her initials stamped on the back in gold. "those are my good-times books. 'i only mark the hours that shine' in them, and when things go wrong and i get discouraged over my mistakes, i glance through them and find that there's lots more to laugh over than cry about, and i'm going to recommend the same course to you. godmother gave me the first volume when i came to the first house-party, and the little record gave me so much pleasure that i've gone on adding volume after volume. suppose you try it, dear. will you, if i give you a book?" "yes," answered mary, who had heard of these books before, and longed for a peep into them. she had her wish now, for, taking them down from the shelf, betty read an extract here and there, to illustrate what she meant. presently, to their astonishment, they heard mom beck knocking at lloyd's door to awaken her, and betty realized with a start that she had been reading over an hour. her letters were unanswered, but she had accomplished something better. mary's tears had dried, as she listened to these accounts of their frolics at boarding-school and their adventures abroad, and in her interest in them her own affairs had taken their proper proportion. she was no longer heart-broken over having been discovered by rob, and she was determined to overcome the sensitiveness and self-consciousness which betty had pointed out as her great fault. as she rose to go, betty opened a drawer in her desk and took out a square, fat diary, bound in red morocco. "one of the girls gave me this last christmas," she said. "i never have used it, because i want to keep my journals uniform in size and binding, and i'll be so glad to have you take it and start a record of your own, if you will." "oh, i'll begin this very morning!" cried mary, in delight, throwing her arms around betty's neck with an impulsive kiss, and trying to express her thanks. "then wait till i write my text in it," said betty, "so that it will always recall my sermon. i've talked to you as if i were your grandmother, haven't i?" "you've made me feel a lot more comfortable," answered mary, humbly, with another kiss as betty handed her the book. on the fly-leaf she had written her own name and mary's and the inscription borne by the old sun-dial in warwick hall garden: "_i only mark the hours that shine._" it was after lunch before mary found a moment in which to begin her record, and then it was in unconscious imitation of betty's style that she wrote the events of the morning. probably she would not have gone into details and copied whole conversations if she had not heard the extracts from betty's diaries. betty was writing for practice as well as with the purpose of storing away pleasant memories, so it was often with the spirit of the novelist that she made her entries. "it seems hopeless to go back to the beginning," wrote mary, "and tell all that has happened so far, so i shall begin with this morning. soon after breakfast we went to rollington in the carriage, joyce and betty and i on the back seat, and lloyd in front with the coachman. and mrs. crisp cut down nearly a whole bushful of bridal wreath to decorate eugenia's room with. when we got back may lily had just finished putting up fresh curtains in the room, almost as fine and thin as frost-work. the furniture is all white, and the walls a soft, cool green, and the rugs like that dark velvety moss that grows in the deepest woods. when we had finished filling the vases and jardinières, the room itself all snowy white and green made you think of a bush of bridal wreath. "we were barely through with that when it was time for lloyd and aunt elizabeth to go to the station to meet eugenia. there wasn't room for the rest of us in the carriage, so betty and joyce and i hung out of the windows and watched for them, and betty and joyce talked about the other time eugenia came, when they walked up and down under the locusts waiting for her and wondering what she would be like. when she did come, they were half-afraid of her, she was so stylish and young-ladified, and ordered her maid about in such a superior way. "betty said it was curious how snippy girls of that age can be sometimes, and then turn out to be such fine women afterward, when they outgrow their snippiness and snobbishness. then she told us a lot we had never heard about the school eugenia went to in germany to take a training in housekeeping, and so many interesting things about her that i was all in a quiver of curiosity to see her. "when we heard the carriage coming, betty and joyce tore down-stairs to meet her, but i just hung farther out of the window. and, oh, but she was pretty and stylish and tall--and just as betty had said, _patrician_-looking, with her dusky hair and big dark eyes. she is the spanish type of beauty. she swept into the house so grandly, with her maid following with her satchels (the same old eliot who was here before), that i thought for a moment maybe she was as stuck-up as ever. but when she saw her old room, she acted just like a happy little girl, ready to cry and laugh in the same breath because everything had been made so beautiful for her coming. while she was still in the midst of admiring everything, she sat right down on the bed and tore off her gloves, so that she could open the queer-looking parcel she carried. i had thought maybe it was something too valuable to put in the satchels, but it was only a new kind of egg-beater she had seen in a show-window on her way from one depot to another. you would have thought from the way she carried on that she had found a wonderful treasure. and in the midst of showing us that she exclaimed: "'oh, girls, what do you think? i met the dearest old lady on the sleeper, and she gave me a receipt for a new kind of salad. that makes ten kinds of salad that i know how to make. oh, i just can't wait to tell you about our little love of a house! it's all furnished and waiting for us. papa and i were out to look all over it the day i started, and everything was in place but the refrigerator, and stuart had already ordered one sent out.' "then lloyd opened the closet door and called her attention to the great pile of packages waiting to be opened. she flew at them and called us all to help, and for a little while mom beck and eliot were kept busy picking up strings and wrapping-paper and cotton and excelsior. when we were through, the bed and the chairs and mantel and two extra tables that had been brought in were piled with the most beautiful things i ever saw. i never dreamed there were such lovely things in the world as some of the beaten silver and hand-painted china and tiffany glass. there was a jewelled fan, and all sorts of things in gold and mother-of-pearl, and there was some point lace that she said was more suitable for a queen than a young american girl. her father has so many wealthy friends, and they all sent presents. "opening the bundles was so much fun,--like a continual surprise-party, betty said, or a hundred christmases rolled into one. between times when eugenia wasn't exclaiming over how lovely everything was, she was telling us how the house was furnished, and what a splendid fellow stuart is, and how wild she is for us to know him. i had never heard a bride talk before, and she was so _happy_ that somehow it made you feel that getting married was the most beautiful thing in the world. "one of the first things she did when she opened her suit-case was to take out a picture of stuart. it was a miniature on ivory in a locket of venetian gold, because it was in venice he had proposed to her. after she had shown it to us, she put it in the centre of her dressing-table, with the white flowers all around it, as if it had been some sort of shrine. there was a look in her eyes that made me think of the picture in betty's room of a nun laying lilies on an altar. "it is after luncheon now, and she has gone to her room to rest awhile. so have the other girls. but i couldn't sleep. the days are slipping by too fast for me to waste any time that way." the house was quiet when mary closed her journal. joyce was still asleep on the bed, and through the open door she could see betty, tilted back in a big chair, nodding over a magazine. she concluded it would be a good time to dash off a letter to holland, but with a foresight which prompted her to be ready for any occasion, she decided to dress first for the evening. tiptoeing around the room, she brushed her hair in the new way mom beck had taught her, and, taking out her prettiest white dress, proceeded to array herself in honor of the best man's coming. then she rummaged in the tray of her trunk till she found her pink coral necklace and fan-chain, and, with a sigh of satisfaction that she was ready for any emergency, seated herself at her letter-writing. she had written only a page, however, when the clock on the stairs chimed four. the deep tones echoing through the hall sent lloyd bouncing up from her couch, her hair falling over her shoulders and her long kimono tripping her at every step, as she ran into joyce's room. "what are we going to do?" she cried in dismay. "i ovahslept myself, and now it's foah o'clock, and phil's train due in nine minutes. the carriage is at the doah and none of us dressed to go to meet him. i wrote that the entiah bridal party would be there." joyce sprang up in a dazed sort of way, and began putting on her slippers. the bridesmaids had talked so much about the grand welcome the best man was to receive on his entrance to the valley that, half-awake as she was, she could not realize that it was too late to carry out their plans. "oh, it's no use trying to get ready now," said lloyd, in a disappointed tone. "we couldn't dress and get to the station in time to save ou' lives." then her glance fell on mary, sitting at her desk in all her brave array of pink ribbons and corals. "why, mary can go!" she cried, in a relieved tone. "i had forgotten that she knows phil as well as we do. run on, that's a deah! don't stop for a hat! you won't need it in the carriage. tell him that you're the maid of honah on this occasion!" it was all over so quickly, the rapid drive down the avenue, the quick dash up to the station as the train came puffing past, that mary had little time to rehearse the part she had been bidden to play. she was so afraid that phil would not recognize her that she wondered if she ought not to begin by introducing herself. she pictured the scene in her mind as they rolled along, unconscious that she was smiling and bowing into empty air, as she rehearsed the speech with which she intended to impress him. she would be as dignified and gracious as the princess herself; not at all like the hoydenish child of eleven who had waved her sunbonnet at him in parting three years before. the sight of the train as it slowed up sent a queer inward quiver of expectancy through her, and her cheeks were flushed with eagerness as she leaned forward watching for him. with a nervous gesture, she put her hand up to her hair-ribbons to make sure that her bows were in place, and then clutched the coral necklace. then betty's sermon flashed across her mind, and the thought that she had done just like the self-conscious girl at school brought a distressed pucker between her eyebrows. but the next instant she forgot all about it. she forgot the princess-like way in which she was to step from the carriage, the dignity with which she was to offer phil her hand, and the words wherewith she was to welcome him. she had caught sight of a wide-brimmed gray hat over the heads of the crowd, and a face, bronzed and handsome, almost as dear in its familiar outlines as jack's or holland's. her carefully rehearsed actions flew to the winds, as, regardless of the strangers all about, she sprang from the carriage and ran along bareheaded in the sun. and phil, glancing around him for the bridal party that was to meet him, was surprised beyond measure when this little apparition from the arizona wigwam caught him by the hand. "bless my soul, it's the little vicar!" he exclaimed. "why, it's like getting back home to see _you_! and how you've grown, and how really civilized you are!" so he _had_ remembered her. he was glad to see her. with her face glowing and her feet fairly dancing, she led him to the carriage, pouring out a flood of information as they went, about the locusts and the wedding and the people they passed, and how lovely everything was in the valley, till he said, with a twinkle in his eyes: "you're the same enthusiastic little soul that you used to be, aren't you? i hope you'll speak as good a word for me at the locusts as you did at lee's ranch. i am taking it as a good omen that you were sent to conduct me into this happy land. you made a success of it that other time; somehow i'm sure you will this time." all the way to the house mary sat and beamed on him as she talked, thinking how much older he looked, and yet how friendly and brotherly he still was. she introduced him to mrs. sherman with a proud, grandmotherly air of proprietorship, and took a personal pride in every complimentary thing said about him afterward, as if she were responsible for his good behavior, and was pleased with the way he was "showing off." rob came over as usual in the evening. phil was not there at first. he and eugenia were strolling about the grounds. mary, sitting in a hammock on the porch, was impatient for them to come in, for she wanted to see what impression he would make on rob, whom she had been thinking lately was the nicest man she ever met. she wanted to see them together to contrast the two, for they seemed wonderfully alike in size and general appearance. in actions, too, mary thought, remembering how they both had teased her. she had not seen rob since their unhappy encounter early that morning, when she had been so overcome with mortification; and if betty had not been on the porch also, she would have found it hard to stay and face him. but she wanted to show betty that she had taken her little sermon to heart. then, besides, the affair did not look so big, after all that had happened during this exciting day. as they waited, joyce joined them, and presently they heard lloyd coming through the hall. she was singing a verse from ingelow's "songs of seven:" "'there is no dew left on the daisies and clover. there is no rain left in the heaven. i've said my seven times over and over-- seven times one are seven.'" then she began again, "'there is no dew left on the daisies and clover--'" rob turned to mary. "i wonder why," he said, meaningly. the red flashed up into mary's face and she made no audible answer, but joyce, turning suddenly, saw to her horror that mary had made a saucy face at him and thrust out her tongue like a naughty child. "why, mary ware!" she began, in a shocked tone, but betty interrupted with a laugh. "let her alone, joyce; he richly deserved it. he was teasing her." "betty was right," thought mary afterward. "it _was_ better to make fun of his teasing than to run off and cry because he happened to mention the subject. if i had done that, he never would have said to betty afterward that i was the jolliest little thing that ever came over the pike. how much better this day has ended than it began." chapter viii. at the beeches the invitation came by telephone while the family was at breakfast next morning. would the house-party at the locusts join the house-party at the beeches in giving a series of tableaux at their lawn fête that night? if so, would the house-party at the locusts proceed immediately to the beeches to spend the morning in the rehearsing of tableaux, the selection of costumes, the manufacture of paper roses, and the pleasure of each other's honorable company in the partaking of a picnic-lunch under the trees? there was an enthusiastic acceptance from all except eugenia, who, tired from her long journey and with many important things to attend to, begged to be left behind for a quiet day with her cousin elizabeth. mary, tormented by a fear that maybe she was not included in the invitation, since she was a child, and all the guests at the beeches were grown, could scarcely finish her breakfast in her excitement. but long before the girls were ready to start, her fears were set at rest by the arrival of elise walton in her pony-cart. she wanted mary to drive to one of the neighbors with her, to borrow a bonnet and shawl over fifty years old, which were to figure in one of the tableaux. elise had not been attracted by mary's appearance the day she met her in the restaurant and was not sure that she would care for her. it was only her hospitable desire to be nice to a guest in the valley that made her comply so willingly to her mother's request to show her some especial attention. mary, spoiled by the companionship of the older girls for the society of those her own age, was afraid that elise would be a repetition of girlie dinsmore; but before they had gone half a mile together they were finding each other so vastly entertaining that by the time they reached the beeches they felt like old friends. it was mary's first sight of the place, except the glimpse she had caught through the trees the morning they passed on their way to rollington. as the pony-cart rattled up the wide carriage drive which swept around in front of the house, she felt as if she were riding straight into a beautiful old southern story of ante-bellum days. back into the times when people had leisure to make hospitality their chief business in life, and could afford for every day to be a holiday. when there were always guests under the spreading rooftree of the great house, and laughter and plenty in the servants' quarters. the sound of a banjo and a negro melody somewhere in the background heightened the effect of that illusion. the wide front porch seemed full of people. allison and kitty looked up with a word of greeting as the two girls came up, one carrying the bonnet and the other the shawl, but nobody seemed to think it necessary to introduce elise's little friend to the other guests. it would have been an embarrassing ordeal for her, for there were so many strangers. mary recognized the two young lieutenants. with the help of a pretty brunette in white, whom elise whispered was miss bonham from lexington, they were rigging up some kind of a coat of mail for lieutenant logan to wear in one of the tableaux. ranald, with a huge sheet of cardboard and the library shears, was manufacturing a pair of giant scissors, half as long as himself, which a blonde in blue was waiting to cover with tin foil. she was singing coon songs while she waited, to the accompaniment of a mandolin, and in such a gay, rollicking way, that every one was keeping time either with hand or foot. "that is miss bernice howe," answered elise, in response to mary's whispered question. "she lives here in the valley. and that's malcolm macintyre, my cousin, who is sitting beside her. that's his brother keith helping aunt allison with the programme cards." mary stared at the two young men, vaguely disappointed. they were the two little knights of kentucky, but they were grown up, like all the other heroes and heroines she had looked forward to meeting. she told herself that she might have expected it, for she knew that malcolm was joyce's age; but she had associated them so long with the handsome little fellows in the photograph lloyd had, clad in the knightly costumes of king arthur's time, that it was hard to recognize them now, in these up-to-date, american college boys, who had long ago discarded their knightly disguises. "and that," said elise, as another young man came out of the house with a sheet of music in his hand for miss howe, "is mister alex shelby. he lives in louisville, but he comes out to the valley all the time to see bernice. i'll tell you about them while we drive over to mrs. bisbee's. "it's this way," she began a few moments later, as they rattled down the road; "bernice asked allison if mister shelby couldn't be in one of the tableaux. allison said yes, that they had intended to ask him before she spoke of it; that they had decided to ask him to be the boatman in the tableau of 'elaine, the lily maid of astolat.' but when bernice found that lloyd had already been asked to be elaine, she was furious. she said she was just as good as engaged to him, or something of the sort, i don't know exactly what. and she knew, if lloyd had a chance to monopolize him in that beautiful tableau, what it would lead to. it wouldn't be the first time that lloyd had quietly stepped in and taken possession of her particular friends. she made such a fuss about it, that allison finally said she'd change, and make malcolm take the part of boatman, and give alex the part they had intended for malcolm, even if they didn't fit as well." "the hateful thing!" sputtered mary, indignantly. "i don't see how she can insinuate such mean things about any one as sweet and beautiful as lloyd is." "i don't either," agreed elise, "but allison says it is true that everybody who has ever started out as a special friend of bernice, men i mean, have ended by thinking the most of lloyd. but everybody knows that it is simply because she is more attractive than bernice. as ranald says lloyd isn't a girl to fish for attention, and that bernice would have more if she didn't show the fellows that she was after them with a hook. don't you tell lloyd i told you all this," warned elise. "oh, i wouldn't think of doing such a thing!" cried mary. "it would hurt her dreadfully to know that anybody talked so mean about her. i wouldn't be the one to repeat it, for worlds!" left to hold the pony while elise went in at mrs. bisbee's, mary sat thinking of the snake she had discovered in her eden. it was a rude shock to find that every one did not admire and love the "queen of hearts," who to her was without fault or flaw. all the rest of that day and evening, she could not look in bernice howe's direction, without a savage desire to scratch her. once, when she heard her address lloyd as "dearie," she could hardly keep from crying out, "oh, you sly, two-faced creature!" lloyd and her guests arrived on the scene while mary was away in the pony-cart on another borrowing expedition. all of the tableaux, except two, were simple in setting, requiring only the costumes that could be furnished by the chests of the neighborhood attics. but those two kept everybody busy all morning long. one was the reproduction of a famous painting called june, in which seven garlanded maidens in greek costumes posed in a bewitching rose bower. quantities of roses were needed for the background, great masses of them that would not fade and droop; and since previous experience had proved that artificial flowers may be used with fine stage effect in the glare of red foot-lights the whole place was bursting into tissue-paper bloom. the girls cut and folded the myriad petals needed, the boys wired them, and a couple of little pickaninnies sent out to gather foliage, piled armfuls of young oak-leaves on the porch to twine into long conventional garlands, like the ones in the painting. agnes waring had come over to help with the greek costumes, and since the long folds of cheesecloth could be held in place by girdles, basting threads, and pins, the gowns were rapidly finished. down by the tea-house the colored coachman sawed and pounded and planed under malcolm's occasional direction. he was building a barge like the one described in tennyson's poem of the lily maid of astolat. from time to time, lloyd, who was to personate elaine, was called to stretch herself out on the black bier in the centre, to see if it was long enough or high enough or wide enough, before the final nails were driven into place. malcolm, with a pole in his hand, posed as the old dumb servitor who was to row her up the river. it all looked unpromising enough in the broad daylight; the boat with its high stiff prow made of dry goods boxes and covered with black calico, and lloyd stretched out on the bier in a modern shirtwaist suit with side-combs in her hair. she giggled as she meekly crossed her hands on her breast, with a piece of newspaper folded in one to represent the letter, and a bunch of lilac leaves in the other, which later was to clasp the lily. from under the long eyelashes lying on her cheeks, she smiled mischievously at malcolm, who was vainly trying to put a decrepit bend into his athletic young back, as he bent over the pole in the attitude of an old, old man. "yes, it does look silly now," admitted miss allison in answer to his protest that he felt like a fool. "but wait till you get on the long white beard and wig i have for you, and the black robe. you'll look like methuselah. and lloyd will be covered with a cloth of gold, and her hair will be rippling down all over her shoulders like gold, too. and we've a real lily for the occasion, a long stalk of them. oh, this tableau is to be the gem of the collection." "but half the people here won't understand it," said malcolm. "yes, they will, for we're to have readings behind the scenes in explanation of each one. we've engaged an amateur elocutionist for the occasion. i'll show you just the part she'll read for this scene, so you'll know how long you have to pose to-night. it begins with those lines, 'and the dead, oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood. in her right hand the lily, in her left the letter.' where did i put that volume of tennyson?" "here it is," answered mary ware, unexpectedly, springing up from her seat on the grass to hand her the volume. she had been watching the rehearsal with wide-eyed interest. deep down in her romance-loving little soul had long been the desire to see sir feal the faithful face to face, and hear him address the princess. the play of the "rescue of the princess winsome" had become a real thing to her, that she felt that it must have happened; that malcolm really was lloyd's true knight, and that when they were alone together they talked like the people in books. she was disappointed when the rehearsal was over because the conversation she had imagined did not take place. the coachman's carpenter-work was not of the steadiest, and lloyd lay laughing on the shaky bier because she could not rise without fear of upsetting it. "help me up, you ancient mariner," she ordered, and when malcolm, instead of springing forward in courtly fashion to her assistance as sir feal should have done, playfully held out his pole for her to pull herself up by, mary felt that something was wrong. a playful manner was not seemly on the part of a sir feal. it would have been natural enough for phil or rob to do teasing things, but she resented it when there seemed a lack of deference on malcolm's part toward the princess. after they had gone back to the porch, mary sat on the grass a long time, reading the part of the poem relating to the tableau. she and holland had committed to memory several pages of the "idylls of the king," and had often run races repeating them, to see which could finish first. now mary found that she still remembered the entire page that miss allison had read. she closed the book, and repeated it to herself. "so that day there was dole in astolat. . . . . . . . . . then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- in her right hand the lily, in her left the letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- and all the coverlid was cloth of gold-- drawn to her waist, and she herself in white. all but her face, and that clear-featured face was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, but fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled." that was as far as mary got with her whispered declamation, for two white-capped maids came out and began spreading small tables under the beech-tree where she sat. she opened the book and began reading, because she did not know what else to do. while she had been watching lloyd in the boat, elise had been summoned to the house to try on the dress she was to wear in the tableau of the gipsy fortune-teller. the people on the porch had divided into little groups which she did not feel free to join. she was afraid they would think she was intruding. even her own sister seemed out of her reach, for she and lieutenant logan had taken their share of paper roses over to a rustic seat near the croquet grounds and were talking more busily than they were fashioning tissue flowers. mary was unselfishly glad that joyce was having attention like the other girls and that she had been chosen for one of the greek maidens in the tableau of june. and she wasn't really jealous of elise because she was to be tambourine girl in the gipsy scene, but she did wish, with a little fluttering sigh, that she could have had some small part in it all. it was hard to be the only plain one in the midst of so many pretty girls; so plain that nobody even thought of suggesting her for one of the characters. "i know very well," she said to herself, "that a lily maid of astolat with freckles would be ridiculous, and i'm not slim and graceful enough to be a tambourine girl, but it would be so nice to have some part in it. it would be such a comfortable feeling to know that you're pretty enough always to be counted in." her musings were interrupted by the descent of the party upon the picnic tables, and she looked up to see elise beckoning her to a seat. to her delight it was at the table opposite the one where lloyd and phil, anna moore and keith were seated. malcolm was just across from them, with miss bonham on one side and betty and lieutenant stanley on the other. mary looked around inquiringly for her sister. she was with rob now, and lieutenant logan was placing chairs for allison and himself on the other side of the tree. mr. shelby and the hateful miss bernice howe were over there, too, mary noted, glad that they were at a distance. malcolm was still in a teasing mood, it seemed, for as lloyd helped herself in picnic fashion from a plate of fried chicken, he said, laughing, "look at elaine now. tennyson wouldn't know his lily maid if he saw her in this way." he struck an attitude, declaiming dramatically, "in her right hand the wish-bone, in her left the olive." "that's all right," answered lloyd, tossing the olive stone out on the grass, and helping herself to a beaten biscuit. "i always did think that elaine was a dreadful goose to go floating down the rivah to a man who didn't care two straws about her. she'd much bettah have held on to a wish-bone and an olive and stayed up in her high towah with her fathah and brothahs who appreciated her. she would have had a bettah time and he would have had lots moah respect for her." "oh, i don't think so," cooed miss bonham, with a coquettish side glance at phil. "that always seemed such a beautifully romantic situation to me. doesn't it appeal to you, mr. tremont?" mary listened for phil's answer with grave attention, for she, too, considered it a touching situation, and more than once had pictured, in pleasing day-dream, herself as elaine, floating down a stream in that poetic fashion. "well, no, miss bonham," said phil, laughingly. "i'm free to confess that if i had been sir lancelot, i'd have liked her a great deal better if she had been a cheerful sort of body, and had stayed alive. then if she had come rowing up in a nice trig little craft, instead of that spooky old funeral barge, and had offered me a wish-bone and an olive, i'd have thought them twice as fetching as a lily and that doleful letter. i'd have joined her picnic in a jiffy, and probably had such a jolly time that the poem would have ended with wedding bells in the high tower instead of a funeral dirge in the palace. "she wasn't game," he continued, smiling across at mary, who was listening with absorbing attention. "now if she had only lived up to the vicar of wakefield's motto--instead of mooning over lancelot's old shield, and embroidering things for it, and acting as if it were something too precious for ordinary mortals to touch--if she'd batted it into the corner, or made mud pies on it, to show that she was inflexible, fortune _would_ have changed in her favor. sir lancelot would have had some respect for her common sense." mary, who felt that the remark was addressed to her, crimsoned painfully. rob took up the question, and his opinion was the same as phil's and malcolm's. long after the conversation passed to other topics, mary puzzled over the fact that the three knightliest-looking men she knew, the three who, she supposed, would make ideal lovers, had laughed at one of the most romantic situations in all poesy, and had agreed that elaine was silly and sentimental. maybe, she thought with burning cheeks, maybe they would think she was just as bad if they knew how she had admired elaine and imagined herself in her place, and actually cried over the poor maiden who loved so fondly and so truly that she could die of a broken heart. when she reflected that lloyd, too, had agreed with them, she began to think that her own ideals might need reconstructing. she was glad that phil's smile had seemed to say that he took it for granted that she would have been inflexible to the extent of making mud pies on lancelot's shield. unconsciously her reconstruction began then and there, for although the seeds sown by the laughing discussion at the picnic table lay dormant in her memory many years, they blossomed into a saving common sense at last, that enabled her to see the humorous side of the most sentimental situation, and gave her wisdom to meet it as it deserved. the outdoor tableaux that night proved to be one of the most successful entertainments ever given in the valley. a heavy wire, stretched from one beech-tree to another, held the curtains that hid the impromptu stage. the vine-covered tea-house and a dense clump of shrubbery formed the background. rows of japanese lanterns strung from the gate to the house, and from pillar to pillar of the wide porches, gave a festive appearance to the place, but they were not really needed. the full moon flooded the lawn with a silvery radiance, and as the curtains parted each time, a flash of red lights illuminated the tableaux. it was like a glimpse of fairy-land to mary, and she had the double enjoyment of watching the arrangement of each group behind the scenes, and then hurrying back with elise to their chairs in the front row, just as ranald gave the signal to burn the red lights. there was the usual confusion in the dressing-room, the tea-house having been taken for that purpose. there was more than usual in some instances, for while the fête had been planned for some time, the tableaux were an afterthought, and many details had been overlooked. still, with slight delays, they moved along toward a successful finish. group by group posed for its particular picture and returned to seats in the audience to enjoy the remainder of the performance. at last only three people were left in the tea-house, and miss allison sent keith, rob, phil, and lieutenant logan before the curtain, with instructions to sing one of the longest songs they knew and two encores, while gibbs repaired the prow of the funeral barge. some one had used it for a step-ladder, and had broken it. mary, waiting in the audience till the quartette had finished its first song, did not appear on the scene behind the curtain until malcolm was dressed in his black robe and long white beard and wig, and lloyd was laid out on the black bier. "stay just as you are," whispered miss allison. "it's perfect. i'm going out into the audience to enjoy the effect as the curtain rises." as she passed miss casey, the elocutionist, she felt some one catch her sleeve. "i've left that copy of tennyson at the house," she gasped. "what shall i do?" "i'll run and get it," volunteered elise in a whisper, and promptly started off. mary, standing back in the shadow of a tall lilac bush, clasped her hands in silent admiration of the picture. it was wonderful how the moonlight transformed everything. here was the living, breathing poem itself before her. she forgot it was lloyd and malcolm posing in makeshift costumes on a calico-covered dry goods box. it seemed the barge itself, draped all in blackest samite, going upward with the flood, that day that there was dole in astolat. while she gazed like one in a dream, lloyd half-opened her eyes, to peep at the old boatman. "i wish they'd hurry," she said, in a low tone. "i never felt so foolish in my whole life." "and never looked more beautiful," malcolm answered, trying to get another glimpse of her without changing his pose. "sh," she whispered back, saucily. "you forget that you are dumb. you mustn't say a word." "i will," he answered, in a loud whisper. "for even if i were really dumb i think i should find my voice to tell you that with your hair rippling down on that cloth of gold in the moonlight, and all in white, with that lily in your hand, you look like an angel, and i'm in the seventh heaven to be here with you in this boat." "and with you in that white hair and beard i feel as if it were fathah time paying me compliments," said lloyd, her cheeks dimpling with amusement. "hush! it's time for me to look dead," she warned, as the applause followed the last encore. "don't say anything to make me laugh. i'm trying to look as if i had died of a broken heart." elise darted back just as the prompter's bell rang, and mary, turning to follow her to their seats in the audience, saw miss casey tragically throw up her hands, with a horrified exclamation. it was not the copy of tennyson elise had brought her. in her haste she had snatched up a volume of essays bound in the same blue and gold. "go on!" whispered malcolm, sternly. "say something. at least go out and explain the tableau in your own words. there are lots of people who won't know what we are aiming at." miss casey only wrung her hands. "oh, i can't! i can't!" she answered, hoarsely. "i couldn't think of a word before all those people!" as the curtain drew slowly apart, she covered her face with her hands and sank back out of sight in the shrubbery. the curtain-shifter had answered the signal of the prompter's bell, which at miss allison's direction was to be rung immediately after the last applause. neither knew of the dilemma. a long-drawn "o-o-oh" greeted the beautiful tableau, and then there was a silence that made miss allison rise half-way in her seat, to see what had become of the interpreter. then she sank back again, for a clear, strong voice, not miss casey's, took up the story. "and that day there was dole in astolat. then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood." [illustration: "a long-drawn 'o-o-oh' greeted the beautiful tableau"] she did not know who had sprung to the rescue, but joyce, who recognized mary's voice, felt a thrill of pride that she was doing it so well. it was better than miss casey's rendering, for it was without any professional frills and affectations; just the simple story told in the simplest way by one who felt to the fullest the beauty of the picture and the music of the poem. the red lights flared up, and again the exclamation of pleasure swept through the audience, for lloyd, lying on the black bier with her hair rippling down and the lily in her hand, might indeed have been the dead elaine, so ethereal and fair she seemed in that soft glow. three times the curtains were parted, and even then the enthusiastic guests kept applauding. there was a rush from the seats, and half a dozen admiring friends pushed between the curtains to offer congratulations. but before they reached her, lloyd had rolled off her bier to catch mary in an impulsive hug, crying, "you were a perfect darling to save the day that way! wasn't she, malcolm? it was wondahful that you happened to know it!" the next moment she had turned to judge moore and alex shelby and the ladies who were with them, to explain how mary had had the presence of mind and the ability to throw herself into miss casey's place on the spur of the moment, and turn a failure into a brilliant success. the congratulations and compliments which she heard on every side were very sweet to mary's ears, and when phil came up a little later to tell her that she was a brick and the heroine of the evening, she laughed happily. "where is the fair elaine?" he asked next. "i see her boat is empty. can you tell me where she has drifted?" "no," answered mary, so eager to be of service that she was ready to tell all she knew. "she was here with sir feal till just a moment ago." "sir feal!" echoed phil, in amazement. "oh, i forgot that you don't know the princess play. i meant mister malcolm. while so many people were in here congratulating us and shaking hands, i heard him say something to her in an undertone, and then he sang sort of under his breath, you know, so that nobody else but me heard him, that verse from the play: "'go bid the princess in the tower forget all thought of sorrow. her true love will return to her with joy on some glad morrow.' "then he bent over her and said still lower, 'by _my_ calendar it's the glad morrow _now_, princess.' "he went on just like he was in the play, you know. i suppose they have rehearsed it so much that it is sort of second nature for them to talk in that old-time way, like kings and queens used to do." "maybe," answered phil. "then what did _she_ say?" he demanded, frowning. "i don't know. she walked off toward the house with him, and that's the last i saw of them. why, what's the matter?" "oh, nothing!" he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "nothing's the matter, little vicar. _let us keep inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favor._" "now whatever did he mean by that!" exclaimed mary, as she watched him walk away. it puzzled her all the rest of the evening that he should have met her question with the family motto. chapter ix. "something blue" a rainy day followed the lawn fête, such a steady pour that little rivers ran down the window-panes, and the porches had to be abandoned. but nobody lamented the fact that they were driven indoors. rob and joyce began a game of chess in the library. lloyd and phil turned over the music in the cabinet until they found a pile of duets which they both knew, and began to try them, first to the accompaniment of the piano, then the harp. mary, sitting in the hall where she could see both the chess-players and the singers, waited in a state of bliss to be summoned to the sewing-room. only that morning it had been discovered that there was enough pink chiffon left, after the bridesmaids' gowns were completed, to make her a dress, and the seamstress was at work upon it now. so it was a gay, rose-colored world to mary this morning, despite the leaden skies and pouring rain outside. not only was she to have a dress, the material for which had actually been brought from paris, but she was to have little pink satin slippers like the bridesmaids, and she was to have a proud place in the wedding itself. when the bridal party came down the stairs, it was to be her privilege to swing wide the gate of roses for them to pass through. joyce had designed the gate. it was to be a double one, swung in the arch between the hall and the drawing-room, and it would take hundreds of roses to make it, the florist said. in mary's opinion the office of gate-opener was more to be desired than that of bridesmaid. as she sat listening to the music, curled up in a big hall chair like a contented kitten, she decided that there was nobody in all the world with whom she would change places. there had been times when she would have exchanged gladly with joyce, thinking of the artist career ahead of her, or with betty, who was sure to be a famous author some day, or with lloyd, who seemed to have everything that heart could wish, or with eugenia with all her lovely presents and trousseau and the new home on the hudson waiting for her. but just now she was so happy that she wouldn't even have stepped into a fairy-tale. presently, through the dripping window-panes, she saw alec plodding up the avenue under an umbrella, his pockets bulging with mail packages, papers, and letters. betty, at her window up-stairs, saw him also, and came running down the steps, followed by eugenia. the old colonel, hearing the call, "the mail's here," opened the door of his den, and joined the group in the hall where betty proceeded to sort out the letters. a registered package from stuart was the first thing that eugenia tore open, and the others looked up from their letters at her pleased exclamation: "oh, it's the charms for the bride's cake!" "ornaments for the top?" asked rob, as she lifted the layer of jeweller's cotton and disclosed a small gold thimble, and a narrow wedding-ring. "no! who ever heard of such a thing!" she laughed. "haven't you heard of the traditional charms that must be baked in a bride's cake? it is a token of the fate one may expect who finds it in his slice of cake. eliot taught me the old rhyme: "'four tokens must the bridescake hold: a silver shilling and a ring of gold, a crystal charm good luck to symbol, and for the spinster's hand a thimble.' "eliot firmly believes that the tokens are a prophecy, for years ago, at her cousin's wedding in england, she got the spinster's thimble. the girl who found the ring was married within the year, and the one who found the shilling shortly came into an inheritance. true, it didn't amount to much,--about five pounds,--but the coincidence firmly convinced eliot of the truth of the superstition. in this country people usually take a dime instead of a shilling, but i told stuart that i wanted to follow the custom strictly to the letter. and look what a dear he is! here is a _bona fide_ english shilling, that he took the trouble to get for me." phil took up the bit of silver she had placed beside the thimble and the ring, and looked it over critically. "well, i'll declare!" he exclaimed. "that was aunt patricia's old shilling! i'd swear to it. see the way the hole is punched, just between those two ugly old heads? and i remember the dent just below the date. looks as if some one had tried to bite it. aunt patricia used to keep it in her treasure-box with her gold beads and other keepsakes." the old colonel, who had once had a fad for collecting coins, and owned a large assortment, held out his hand for it. adjusting his glasses, he examined it carefully. "ah! most interesting," he observed. "coined in the reign of 'bloody mary,' and bearing the heads of queen mary and king philip. you remember this shilling is mentioned in butler's 'hudibras:' "'still amorous and fond and billing, like philip and mary on a shilling.' "you couldn't have a more appropriate token for your cake, my dear," he said to eugenia with a smile. then he laid it on the table, and taking up his papers, passed back into his den. "that's the first time i ever heard my name in a poem," said phil. "by rights i ought to draw that shilling in my share of cake. if i do i shall take it as a sign that history is going to repeat itself, and shall look around for a ladye-love named mary. now i know a dozen songs with that name, and such things always come in handy when 'a frog he would a-wooing go,' there's 'my highland mary' and 'mary of argyle,' and 'mistress mary, quite contrary,' and 'mary, call the cattle home, across the sands of dee!'" as he rattled thoughtlessly on, nothing was farther from his thoughts than the self-conscious little mary just behind him. nobody saw her face grow red, however, for lloyd's exclamation over the last token made every one crowd around her to see. it was a small heart-shaped charm of crystal, probably intended for a watch-fob. there was a four-leaf clover, somehow mysteriously imbedded in the centre. "that ought to be doubly lucky," said eugenia. "oh, _what_ a dear stuart was to take so much trouble to get the very nicest things. they couldn't be more suitable." "eugenia," asked betty, "have you thought of that other rhyme that brides always consider? you know you should wear "'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.'" "yes, eliot insisted on that, too. the whole outfit will, itself, be something new, the lace that was on my mother's wedding-gown will be the something old. i thought i'd borrow a hairpin apiece from you girls, and i haven't decided yet about the something blue." "no," objected lloyd. "the borrowed articles ought to be something really valuable. let me lend you my little pearl clasps to fasten your veil, and then for the something blue, there is your turquoise butterfly. you can slip it on somewhere, undah the folds of lace." "what a lot of fol-de-rol there is about a wedding," said rob. "as if it made a particle of difference whether you wear pink or green! _why_ must it be blue?" there was an indignant protest from all the girls, and rob made his escape to the library, calling to joyce to come and finish the game of chess. that evening, mary, sitting on the floor of the library in front of the poets' corner, took down volume after volume to scan its index. she was looking for the songs phil had mentioned, which contained her name. at the same time she also kept watch for the name of philip. she remembered she had read some lines one time about "philip my king." as she pored over the poems in the dim light, for only the shaded lamp on the central table was burning, she heard steps on the porch outside. the rain had stopped early in the afternoon, and the porches had dried so that the hammocks and chairs could be put out again. now voices sounded just outside the window where she sat, and the creaking of a screw in the post told that some one was sitting in the hammock. evidently it was lloyd, for phil's voice sounded nearer the window. he had seated himself in the armchair that always stood in that niche, and was tuning a guitar. as soon as it was keyed up to his satisfaction, he began thrumming on it, a sort of running accompaniment to their conversation. it did not occur to mary that she was eavesdropping, for they were talking of impersonal things, just the trifles of the hour; and she caught only a word now and then as she scanned the story of enoch arden. the name philip, in it, had arrested her attention. "i think the maid of honor ought to wear something blue as well as the bride," remarked phil. "_why?_" asked lloyd. there was such a long pause that mary looked up, wondering why he did not answer. "_why?_" asked lloyd again. phil thrummed on a moment longer, and then began playing in a soft minor key, and his answer, when it finally came, seemed at first to have no connection with what he had been talking about. "do you remember when we were in arizona, the picnic we had at hole-in-the-rock, and the story that that old norwegian told about alaka, the gambling god, who lost his string of precious turquoises and even his eyes?" "yes." mary looked up from her book, listening alertly. the mystery of years was about to be explained. "well, do you remember a conversation you had with joyce about it afterward, in which you called the turquoise the 'friendship stone,' because it was true blue? and you said it was a pity that some people you knew, not a thousand miles away, couldn't go to the school of the bees, and learn that line from watts about satan finding mischief for idle hands to do. and joyce said yes, it was too bad for a fine fellow to get into trouble just because he was a drone, and had no ambition to make anything of himself; that if alaka had gone to the school of the bees he wouldn't have lost his eyes. and then you said that if somebody kept on he would at least lose his turquoises. do you remember all that?" the screw in the post stopped creaking as lloyd sat straight up in the hammock to exclaim in astonishment: "yes, i remembah, but how undah the sun, phil tremont, do _you_ happen to know anything about that convahsation? you were not there." "no, but little mary ware was. she didn't have the faintest idea that you meant me, and that sunday morning when i called at the wigwam for the last time to make my apologies and farewells, and you were not there, she told me all about it like the blessed little chatterbox that she was. then, when i saw plainly that i had forfeited my right to your friendship, i did not wait to say good-by, just left a message for you with mary. i knew she would attempt to deliver it, but i have wondered many times since if she gave it in the words i told her. of course i couldn't expect you to remember the exact words after all this time." "but it happens that i do," answered lloyd. "she said, 'alaka has lost his precious turquoises, but he will win them back again some day.'" "did you understand what i meant, lloyd?" "well, i--i guessed at yoah meaning." "mary unwittingly did me a good turn that morning. she was an angel unawares, for she showed me myself as you saw me, a drone in the hive, with no ambition, and the gambling fever in my veins making a fool of me. i went away vowing i would win back your respect and make myself worthy of your friendship, and i can say honestly that i have kept that vow. soon after, while i was out on that first surveying trip i came across some unset stones for a mere song. this little turquoise was among them." he took the tiny stone from his pocket and held it out on his palm, so that the light streaming out from the library fell across it. "i have carried it ever since. many a time it has reminded me of you and your good opinion i was trying to win back. i've had lots of temptations to buck against, and there have been times when they almost downed me, but i say it in all humility, lloyd, this little bit of turquoise kept me 'true blue,' and i've lived straight enough to ask you to take it now, in token that you do think me worthy of your friendship. when i heard eugenia talking about wearing something blue at the wedding, i had a fancy that it would be an appropriate thing for the maid of honor to do, too." lloyd took the little stone he offered, and held it up to the light. "it certainly is true blue," she said, with a smile, "and i'm suah you are too, now. i didn't need this to tell me how well you've been doing since you left arizona. we've heard a great deal about yoah successes from cousin carl." "then let me have it set in a ring for you," he added. "there will be plenty of time before the wedding." "no," she answered, hastily. "i couldn't do that. papa jack wouldn't like it. he wouldn't allow me to accept anything from a man in the way of jewelry, you know. i couldn't take it as a ring. now just this little unset stone"--she hesitated. "just this bit of a turquoise that you say cost only a trifle, i'm suah he wouldn't mind that. i'll tell him it's just my friendship stone." "what a particular little maid of honor you are!" he exclaimed. "how many girls of seventeen do you know who would take the trouble to go to their fathers with a trifle like that, and make a careful explanation about it? besides, you can't tell him that it is _only_ a friendship stone. i want it to mean more than that to you, lloyd. i want it to stand for a great deal more between us. don't you see how i care--how i must have cared all this time, to let the thought of you make such a difference in my life?" there was no mistaking the deep tenderness of his voice or the earnestness of his question. lloyd felt the blood surge up in her face and her heart throbbed so fast she could hear it beat. but she hastily thrust back the proffered turquoise, saying, in confusion: "then i can't wear it! take it back, please; i promised papa jack--" "promised him what?" asked phil, as she hesitated. "well, it's rathah hard to explain," she began in much confusion, "unless you knew the story of 'the three weavahs.' then you'd undahstand." "but i don't know it, and i'd rather like an explanation of some kind. i think you'll have to make it clear to me why you can't accept it, and what it was you promised your father." "oh, i can't tell it to make it sound like anything," she began, desperately. "it was like this. no, i can't tell it. come in the house, and i'll get the book and let you read it for yoahself!" "no, i'd rather hear the reason from your own lips. besides, some one would interrupt us in there, and i want to understand where i'm 'at' before that happens." "well," she began again, "it is a story mrs. walton told us once when our shadow club was in disgrace, because one of the girls eloped, and we were all in such trouble about it that we vowed we'd be old maids. afterward it was the cause of our forming another club that we called the 'ordah of hildegarde.' i'll give you a sawt of an outline now, if you'll promise to read the entiah thing aftahward." "i'll promise," agreed phil. "then, this is it. once there were three maidens, of whom it was written in the stahs that each was to wed a prince, provided she could weave a mantle that should fit his royal shouldahs as the falcon's feathahs fit the falcon. each had a mirror beside her loom like the lady of shalott's in which the shadows of the world appeahed. "one maiden wove in secret, and falling in love with a page who daily passed her mirror, imagined him to be a prince, and wove her web to fit his unworthy shouldahs. of co'se when the real prince came it was too small, and so she missed the happiness that was written for her in the stahs. "the second squandahed her warp of gold first on one, then anothah, weaving mantles for any one who happened to take her fancy--a shepherd boy and a troubador, a student and a knight. when her prince rode by she had nothing left to offah him, so she missed _her_ life's happiness. "but the third had a deah old fathah like papa jack, and he gave her a silvah yahdstick on which was marked the inches and ells that a true prince ought to be. and he warned her like this: "'many youths will come to thee, each begging, "give _me_ the royal mantle, hildegarde. _i_ am the prince the stahs have destined for thee." and with honeyed words he'll show thee how the mantle in the loom is just the length to fit his shouldahs. but let him not persuade thee to cut it loose and give it to him as thy young fingahs will be fain to do. weave on anothah yeah and yet anothah, till thou, a woman grown, can measuah out a perfect web, moah ample than these stripling youths could carry, but which will fit thy prince in faultlessness, as the falcon's feathahs fit the falcon.' "then hildegarde took the silvah yahdstick and said, 'you may trust me, fathah. i will not cut the golden warp from out the loom, until i, a woman grown, have woven such a web as thou thyself shalt say is worthy of a prince's wearing.' (that's what i promised papa jack.) "of co'se it turned out, that one day with her fathah's blessing light upon her, she rode away beside the prince, and evah aftah all her life was crowned with happiness, as it had been written for her in the stahs." there was a long pause when she finished, so long that the silence began to grow painful. then phil said, slowly: "i understand now. would you mind telling me what the measure was your father gave you that your prince must be?" "there were three notches. he must be clean and honahable and strong." there was another long pause before phil said, "well, i wouldn't be measuring up to that second notch if i asked you to break your promise to your father, and you wouldn't do it even if i did. so there's nothing more for me to say at present. but i'll ask this much. you'll keep the turquoise if we count it merely a friendship stone, won't you?" "yes, i'll be glad to do that. and i'll weah it at the wedding if you want me to, as my bit of something blue. i'll slip it down into my glove." "thank you," he answered, then added, after a pause: "and i suppose there's another thing. that yardstick keeps all the other fellows at a distance, too. that's something to be cheerful over. but you mark my words--i'm doing a bit of prophesying now--when your real prince comes you'll know him by this: he'll come singing this song. listen." picking up his guitar again, he struck one full deep chord and began singing softly the "bedouin love-song," "from the desert i come to thee." the refrain floated tremulously through the library window. "till the stars are old, and the sun grows cold, and the leaves of the judgment book unfold." it brought back the whole moonlighted desert to lloyd, with the odor of orange-blossoms wafted across it, as it had been on two eventful occasions they rode over it together. she sat quite still in the hammock, with the bit of turquoise clasped tight in her hand. it was hard to listen to such a beautiful voice unmoved. it thrilled her as no song had ever done before. as it floated into the library, it thrilled mary also, but in a different way; for with a guilty start she realized that she had been listening to something not meant for her to hear. "oh, what have i done! what have i done!" she whispered to herself, dropping the book and noiselessly wringing her hands. she could hear voices on the stairs now. eugenia and betty were coming down, and rob's whistle down the avenue told that he was on his way to join them. too ashamed to face any one just then, and afraid that her guilty face would betray the fact to phil and lloyd that she shared their secret, she hurried out of the library and up to her room, where joyce was rearranging her hair. in response to joyce's question about her coming up so early in the evening, she said she had thought of something she wanted to write in her journal. but when joyce had gone down she did not begin writing immediately. turning down the lamp until the room was almost in darkness, she sat with her elbows on the window-sill staring out into the night. "i never _meant_ to do it!" she kept explaining to her conscience. "it just did itself. it seemed all right to listen at first, when they were talking about things i had a right to know, and then i got so interested, it was like reading a story, and i couldn't go away because i forgot there was such a person living as _me_. but lloyd mightn't understand how it was. she'd scorn to be an eavesdropper herself, and she'd scorn and despise me if she knew that i just sat there like a graven image and listened to phil the same as propose to her." hitherto mary had looked upon malcolm as lloyd's especial knight, and had planned to be his valiant champion should need for her services ever arise. but this put matters in a different light. all her sympathies were enlisted in phil's behalf now. she liked phil the best, and she wanted him to have whatever he wanted. he had called her his "angel unawares," and she wished she could do something to further deserve that title. then she began supposing things. suppose she should come tripping down the stairs some day (this would be sometime in the future, of course, when lloyd's promise to her father was no longer binding) and should find phil pacing the room with impatient strides because the maid of honor had gone off with sir feal to the opera or somewhere, in preference to him, on account of some misunderstanding. "the little rift within the lute" would be making the best man's music mute, and now would be her time to play angel unawares again. she would trip in lightly, humming a song perhaps, and finding him moody and downcast, would begin the conversation with some appropriate quotation. in looking through the dictionary the day before, her eye had caught one from shakespeare, which she had stored away in her memory to use on some future occasion. yes, that one would be very appropriate to begin the conversation. she would go up to him and say, archly: "my lord leans wondrously to discontent. his comfortable temper has forsook him." with that a smile would flit across his stern features, and presently he would be moved to confide in her, and she would encourage him. then, she didn't know yet exactly in what way it could come about, she would do something to bring the two together again, and wipe out the bitter misunderstanding. it was a very pleasing dream. that and others like it kept her sitting by the window till nearly bedtime. then, just before the girls came up-stairs, she turned up the lamp and made an entry in her journal. with the fear that some prying eye might some day see that page, she omitted all names, using only initials. it would have puzzled the sphinx herself to have deciphered that entry, unless she had guessed that the initials stood for titles instead of names. the last paragraph concluded: "it now lies between sir f. and the b. m., but i think it will be the b. m. who will get the mantle, for sir f. and his brother have gone away on a yachting trip. the m. of h. does not know that i know, and the secret weighs heavy on my mind." she was in bed when the girls came up, but the door into the next room stood open and she heard betty say, "oh, we forgot to give you alex shelby's message, lloyd. joyce and i met him on our way to the post-office. he was walking with bernice. he sent his greetings to the fair elaine. he fairly raved over the way you looked in that moonlight tableau." "it was evident that bernice didn't enjoy his raptures very much," added joyce. "her face showed that she was not only bored, but displeased." "i can imagine it," said lloyd. "really, girls, i think this is a serious case with bernice. she seems to think moah of mistah shelby than any one who has evah gone to see her, and she is old enough now to have it mean something. she's neahly twenty, you know. i do hope he thinks as much of her as she does of him." "there!" whispered mary to herself, nodding wisely in the darkness of her room, as if to an unseen listener. "i knew it! i told you so! all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't make me believe she'd stoop to such a thing as that nasty bernice howe insinuated. she's a maid of honor in every way!" chapter x. "a coon hunt" the morning after the arrival of the rest of the bridal party, betty was out of bed at the first sound of any one stirring in the servants' quarters. she and lloyd had given up their rooms to the new guests, and moved back into the sewing-room together. now in order not to awaken lloyd she tiptoed out to the little vine-covered balcony, through the window that opened into it from the sewing-room. she was in her nightgown, for she could not wait to dress, when she was so eager to find out what kind of a day eugenia was to have for her wedding. not a cloud was in sight. it was as perfect as only a june morning can be, in kentucky. the fresh smell of dewy roses and new-mown grass mingled with the pungent smoke of the wood fire, just beginning to curl up in blue rings from the kitchen chimney. soft twitterings and jubilant bird-calls followed the flash of wings from tree to tree. she peeped out between the thick mass of wistaria vines, across the grassy court, formed by the two rear wings of the house, to another balcony opposite the one in which she stood. it opened off eugenia's room, and was almost hidden by a climbing rose, which made a perfect bride's bower, with its gorgeous full-blown gloire dijon roses. stray rhymes and words suggestive of music and color and the morning's glory began to flit through her mind as she stood there, as if a little poem were about to start to life with a happy fluttering of wings; a madrigal of june. but in a few moments she slipped back into the house through the window, put on her kimono and slippers, and gathering up her journal in one hand and pen and ink with the other, she stole back to the balcony again. the seamstress had left her sewing-chair out there the afternoon she finished mary's dress, and it still stood there, with the lap-board beside it. taking the board on her knees, and opening her journal upon it, betty perched her ink-bottle on the balcony railing and began to write. she knew there would be no time later in the day for her to bring her record up-to-date, and she did not want to let the happenings pile up unrecorded. she was afraid she might leave out something she wanted to include, and she had found that the trivial conversations and the trifles she noted were often the things which recalled a scene most vividly, and almost made it seem to live again. she began her narrative just where she had left off, so that it made a continuous story. "we didn't settle down to anything yesterday morning. phil went to town with papa jack directly after breakfast, and we girls just strolled up and down the avenue and talked. it was delightfully cool under the locusts, and we knew it would be our last morning with eugenia; that after the arrival of the rest of the bridal party, everything would be in confusion until after the wedding, and then she would never be eugenia forbes again. she would be mrs. stuart tremont. "she told us that her being married wouldn't make any difference, that she'd always be the same to us. but it's bound to make a difference. a married woman can't be interested in the same things that young girls are. her husband is bound to come first in her consideration. "joyce asked her if it didn't make her feel queer to know that her wedding-day was coming closer and closer, and quoted that line from 'the siege of lucknow,'--'_day by day the bengal tiger nearer drew and closer crept_.' she said she'd have a fit if she knew her wedding-day was creeping up on her that way. eugenia was horrified to have her talk that way, and said that it was because she didn't know stuart, and didn't know what it meant to care enough for a man to be glad to join her life to his, forever and ever. there was such a light in her eyes as she talked about him, that we didn't say anything more for awhile, just wondered how it must feel to be so supremely happy as she is. there is no doubt about it, he is certainly the one written for her in the stars, for he measures up to every ideal of hers, as faultlessly 'as the falcon's feathers fit the falcon.' "we had heard so much from her and phil about doctor miles bradford, stuart's friend who is coming with him to be one of the ushers, that we dreaded meeting him. when she told us that he is from boston and belongs to one of its most exclusive families, and is very conventional, and twenty-five years old, joyce nicknamed him 'the pilgrim father,' and vowed she wouldn't have him for her attendant; that i had to take him and let her walk in with rob. she said she'd shock him with her wild west slang and uncivilized ways, and that i was the literary lady of the establishment, and would know how to entertain such a personage. "i was just as much afraid of him as she was, and wanted rob myself, so we squabbled over it all the way up and down the avenue. we were walking five abreast, swinging hands. when we got to the gate we saw some one coming up the road, and we all stood in a row, peeping out between the bars till we saw that it was rob himself. then joyce said that we would make him decide the matter--that we'd all put our hands through the bars as if we had something in them, and make him choose which he'd take, right or left. if he said right, i could have him for my attendant and she'd take doctor bradford, but if he said left i'd have to put up with the pilgrim father, and she'd take rob. [illustration: "'all you girls standing with your hands stuck through the bars'"] "he came along bareheaded, swinging his hat in his hand, and we were so busy explaining to him that he was to choose which hand he'd take, right or left, that we did not notice that he had a kodak hidden behind his hat. he held it up in front of him, and bowed and scraped and did all sorts of ridiculous things to keep us from noticing what he was doing, till all of a sudden we heard the shutter click and he gave a whoop and said, 'there! that will be one of the best pictures in my collection. all you girls standing with your hands stuck through the bars, like monkeys at the zoo, begging for peanuts. i don't know whether to call it "behind the bars," or "don't feed the animals."' "then lloyd said he shouldn't come in for making such a speech, and he sat down on the grass and began to sing in a ridiculous way, the old song that goes: "'oh, angel, sweet angel, i pray thee set the beautiful gates ajar.' "he was off the key, as he usually is when he sings without an accompaniment, and it was so funny, such a howl of a song, that we laughed till the tears came. then he said he'd name the picture 'at the gate of paradise,' and make a foot-note to the effect that she was a peri, if she'd let him in. "after awhile she said she'd let him in to paradise if he could name one good deed he'd ever done that had benefited human kind. he said certainly he could, and that he wouldn't have to dig it up from the dead past. he could give it to her hot from the griddle, for only ten minutes before he had completed arrangements for the evening's entertainment of the bridal party. "lloyd opened the gate in a hurry then, and fairly begged him to come in, for we had been wild all week to know what godmother had decided upon. she only laughed when we teased her to tell us, and said we'd see. we were sure it would be something very elegant and formal. maybe a real grown-up affair, with an orchestra from town and distinguished strangers to meet the three fathers, eugenia's, stuart's and the pilgrim f. "we couldn't believe rob when he told us that we were to go on a _coon hunt_, and went racing up to the house to ask godmother herself. "and she said yes, she was sure they would enjoy a glimpse of real country southern life, and some of our informal fun, far more than the functions they could attend any time in the east. besides she wanted everybody to keep in mind that we were still little schoolgirls, even if we were to be bridesmaids, and that was why she was taking us all off to the woods for an old-time country frolic, instead of having a grand dinner or a formal dance. "then rob asked us if we didn't want to beg his pardon for doubting his word, but lloyd told him no, that "'the truth itself is not believed from one who often has deceived.' "then we tried to make him choose which he'd have, right or left, and held out our hands again, but he said he knew that some great question of choice was being involved, and that he would not assume the responsibility. that we'd have to draw straws, if we wanted to decide anything. so eugenia held two blades of grass between her palms, and joyce drew the longest one. i couldn't help groaning, for that meant that the pilgrim father must fall to my lot. "but it didn't seem so bad after i met him. they all came out on the three o'clock train with phil. when the carriage came up from the station we had a grand jubilee. cousin carl seemed so glad to get back to the valley, but no gladder than everybody was to see him. stuart is so much like phil that we felt as if we were already acquainted with him. he is very boyish-looking and young, but there is something so dignified and gentle in his manner that one feels he is cut out to be a staid old family physician, and that in time he will grow into the love and confidence of his patients like maclaren's doctor of the old school. but dear old doctor tremont is the flower of _that_ family. we all fell in love with him the moment we saw him. it is easy to see what he has been to his boys. the very tone in which they call him 'daddy' shows how they adore him; and he is so sweet and tender with eugenia. "contrasted with him and cousin carl, i must say that the pilgrim father is not a suitable name for doctor bradford. really, with his smooth shaven face, and clear ruddy complexion like an englishman's, he doesn't seem much older than malcolm. still his dignity is rather awe-full, and his grave manner and boston accent make him seem sort of foreign, so different from the boys whom we have always known. we were afraid at first that godmother had made a great mistake in planning to take him on a coon hunt. but it turned out that she was right, as she always is. he told us afterward he had never enjoyed anything so much in all his life. "it was just eight o'clock when we set out on the hunt last night. a big hay-wagon drove up to the door with the party from the beeches already stowed away in it, sitting flat on the hay in the bottom. mrs. walton was with them, and miss allison and katie mallard and her father, and several others they had picked up on the way. "while they were laughing and talking and everybody was being introduced, alec came driving up from the barn with another big wagon, and we all piled into it except lloyd and rob, joyce and phil. they were on horseback and kept alongside of us as outriders. the moon hadn't come up, but the starlight was so bright that the road gleamed like a white ribbon ahead of us, and we sang most of the way to the woods. "old unc' jefferson led the procession on his white mule, with three lanky coon dogs following. they struck the trail before we reached our stopping-place, and went dashing off into the woods. unc' jefferson fairly rolled off his old mule, and threw the rope bridle over the first fence-post, and went crashing through the underbrush after them. the wagons kept on a few rods farther and landed us on the creek bank, up by the black bridge. "it seemed as if the whole itinerary of the hunt had been planned for our especial benefit, for just as we reached the creek the moon began to roll up through the trees like a great golden mill-wheel, and we could see our way about in the woods. evidently the coon's home was in some hollow near our stopping-place, for instead of staying in the dense beech woods, up where it would have been hard for us to climb, the first dash of the dogs sent him scurrying toward the row of big sycamores that overhang the creek. "it whizzed by us so fast that at first we did not know what had passed us till the dogs came tumbling after at breakneck speed. they were such old hands at the game that they gave their quarry a bad time of it for awhile, turning and doubling on his tracks till we were almost as excited and bewildered as the poor coon. little mary ware just stood and wrung her hands, and once when the dogs were almost on him she teetered up and down on her tiptoes and squealed. "all of a sudden the coon dodged to one side and disappeared. we thought he had escaped, but a little later on we heard the dogs baying frantically farther down the creek, and rob shouted that they had treed him, and for everybody to hurry up if they wanted to be in at the death. so away we went, helter-skelter, in a wild race down the creek bank, godmother, papa jack, cousin carl, and everybody. it was a rough scramble, and as we pitched over rolling stones, and caught at bushes to pull ourselves up, and swung down holding on to the saplings, i wondered what doctor bradford would think of our tomboy ways. "nobody waited to be helped. it was every fellow for himself, we were in such a hurry to get to the coon. lloyd kept far in the lead, ahead of everybody, and joyce walked straight up a steep bank as if she had been a fly. when we got to the tree where the dogs were howling and baying we had to look a long time before we could see the coon. then all we could distinguish was the shine of its eyeballs, for it crouched so flat against the limb that it seemed a part of the bark. it was away out on the tip-end of one of the highest branches. "the only way to get it was to shake it down, and to our surprise, before we knew who had volunteered, we saw doctor bradford, in his immaculate white flannels, throw off his coat and go shinning up the tree like an acrobat in a circus. he had to shake and shake the limb before he could dislodge the coon, but at last it let go, and the dogs had it before it fairly touched the ground. we girls didn't wait to see what they did with it, but stuck our fingers in our ears and tore back to the wagons. rob made fun of lloyd when she said she didn't see why they couldn't have coon hunts without coon killings, and that they ought to have made the dogs let go. they had had the fun of catching it, and they ought to be satisfied with that. "joyce whispered to me that the hunt had had one desirable result. it had limbered up the pilgrim father so thoroughly, that he couldn't be stiff and dignified again after his acrobatic feat. it really did make a difference, for after that he was one of the jolliest men in the party. "as it was out of season and old unc' jefferson didn't care for the coons, he called off the dogs after they had caught one, to show us what the sport was like, and then he built us a grand camp-fire on the creek bank, and we had what mrs. walton called the sequel. she and miss allison and godmother made coffee and unpacked the hampers we had brought with us. there was beaten biscuit and fried chicken and iced watermelon, and all sorts of good things. as we ate, the moon came up higher and higher, and silvered the white trunks of the sycamores till they looked like a row of ghosts standing with outstretched arms along the creek. it was so lovely there above the water. all the sweet woodsy smells of fern and mint and fallen leaves seem stronger after nightfall. everybody enjoyed the feast so much, and was in such high spirits that we all felt a shade of regret that it had to come to an end so soon. [illustration: "'they stepped in and rowed off down the shining waterway'"] "there were two boats down by the bridge which we found that rob had had sent over that morning for the occasion. they had brought the oars over in the wagon. pretty soon we saw eugenia and stuart going down toward one of them, a little white canvas one, and they stepped in and rowed off down the shining waterway. it was only a narrow creek, but the moonlight seemed to glorify it, and we knew that it made them think of that boat-ride that had been the beginning of their happiness, in far-away venice. "the other boat was larger. allison and miss bonham, phil and lieutenant stanley went out in that. the music of their singing, as it floated back to us, was so beautiful, that those of us on the bank stopped talking to listen. when they came back presently, kitty and joyce, rob and lieutenant logan pushed out in it for awhile. they sang too. "when the little boat came back, doctor bradford asked lloyd to go out with him, and she said she would as soon as she had given her chatelaine watch to her father to keep for her. the clasp kept coming unfastened and she was afraid she would lose it." here betty laid down her pen a moment and sat peering dreamily out between the vines. she was about to record a little conversation she had overheard between lloyd and her father as they stood a moment in the bushes behind her, but paused as she reflected that it would be like betraying a confidence to make an entry of it in her journal. it would be even worse, since it was no confidence of hers, but a matter lying between lloyd and her father alone. she sat tapping the rim of the ink-bottle with her pen as she recalled the conversation. "yes, it's all right for you to go, lloyd, but wait a moment. have you my silver yardstick with you to-night, dear?" "why of co'se, papa jack. what makes you ask such a question?" "well," he answered, "there is so much weaving going on around you lately, and weddings are apt to put all sorts of notions into a girl's head. i just wanted to remind you that only village lads and shepherd boys are in sight, probably not even a knight, and the mantle must be worthy of a prince's wearing, you know." then lloyd pretended to be hurt, and betty could tell from her voice just how she lifted her head with an air of injured dignity. "remembah i gave you my promise, suh, the promise of a lloyd. isn't that enough?" "more than enough, my little hildegarde." as they stepped out of the bushes together betty saw him playfully pinch her cheek. then lloyd went on down the bank. here betty took up her pen again. "when she stepped into the boat the moonlight on her white dress and shining hair made her look almost as ethereal and fair as she had in the elaine tableau. the boats could only go as far as the shallows, just a little way below the bridge, so they went back and forth a number of times, making such a pretty picture for those who waited on the bank. "after doctor bradford had brought lloyd back he asked me to go with him, and oh, it was so beautiful out there on the water. i'll enjoy the memory of it as long as i live. at first i couldn't think of anything to say, and the more i tried to think of something that would interest a man like him, the more embarrassed i grew. it was the first time i had ever tried to talk to any but old men or the home boys. "after we had rowed a little way in silence he turned to me with the jolliest twinkle in his eyes and asked me why the boat ought to be called the mayflower. i was _so_ surprised, i asked him if that was a riddle, and he said no, but he wondered if i wouldn't feel that it was the mayflower because i was adrift in it with the pilgrim father. "i was so embarrassed i didn't know what to say, for i couldn't imagine how he had found out that we had called him that. i couldn't have talked to him at all if i had known what lloyd told me afterward when we had gone to our room. it seems that by some unlucky chance he was left alone with mary ware for awhile before dinner. godmother told her to entertain him, and she proceeded to do so by showing him the collection of all the kodak pictures rob had taken of us during the house-party. after he left us yesterday morning he went straight to work to develop and print the films he had just taken, and when he brought us the copies that afternoon, we were busy, and he slipped them into the album with the others without saying anything about them. so none of us saw them until mary came across them in showing them to doctor bradford. "there was the one of us with our hands thrust through the bars, when we were trying to make rob choose right or left, and one of joyce and me drawing straws. neither of us had the slightest idea that he had taken us in that act, and mary was so surprised that she gave the whole thing away--blurted out what we were doing, before she thought that he was the pilgrim father. then in her confusion, to cover up her mistake, she began to explain as only mary ware can, and the more she explained, the more ridiculous things she told about us. doctor bradford must have found her vastly entertaining from the way he laughed whenever he quoted her, which he did frequently. "i wish she wouldn't be so alarmingly outspoken when she sings our praises to strangers. she gave him to understand that i am a full-fledged author and playwright, the peer of any poet laureate who ever held a pen; that lloyd is a combination of princess and angel and halo-crowned saint, and joyce a model big sister and an all-round genius. how she managed in the short time they were alone to tell him as much as she did will always remain a mystery. "he knew all about joyce raising bees at the wigwam to earn money for her art lessons, and my nearly going blind at the first house-party, and why we all wear tusitala rings. only time will reveal what else she told. maybe, after all, her confidences made things easier, for it gave us something to laugh about right in the beginning, and that took away the stiff feeling, and we were soon talking like old friends. by the time the boat landed i was glad that he had fallen to my lot as attendant instead of rob, for he is so much more entertaining. he told about a moonlight ride he had on the nile last winter when he was in egypt, and that led us to talking of lotus flowers, and that to tennyson's poem of the 'lotus eaters.' he quoted a verse from it which he said was, to him, one of the best comparisons in english verse. "'there is sweet music here that softer falls than petals from blown roses on the grass, or night dews upon still waters, between walls of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass. _music that gentlier on the spirit lies_ _than tired eyelids upon tired eyes._' "the other boat-load, far down the creek, was singing 'sweet and low, wind of the western sea,' and he rested on his oars for us to listen. i had often repeated that verse to myself when i closed my eyes after a hard day's study. nothing falls gentlier than tired eyelids upon tired eyes, and to have him understand the feeling and admire the poem in the same way that i did, was such a pleasant sensation, as if i had come upon a delightful unexplored country, full of pleasant surprises. "such thoughts as that about music are the ones i love best, and yet i never would dream of speaking of such things to rob or malcolm, who are both old and dear friends. "after all, the coon hunt proved a very small part of the evening's entertainment, and he must have liked it, for i heard him say to godmother, as he bade her good night, that if this was a taste of real kentucky life, he would like a steady diet of it all the rest of his days." chapter xi. the four-leaved clover as betty carefully blotted the last page and placed the stopper in the ink-bottle, the clock in the hall began to strike, and she realized that she must have been writing fully an hour. the whole household was astir now. she would be late to breakfast unless she hurried with her dressing. steps on the gravelled path below the balcony made her peep out between the vines. stuart and doctor bradford were coming back from an early stroll about the place. the wistaria clung too closely to the trellis for them to see her, but, as they crossed the grassy court between the two wings, they looked up at eugenia's balcony opposite. betty looked too. that bower of golden-hearted roses had drawn her glances more than once that morning. now in the midst of it, in a morning dress of pink, fresh and fair as a blossom herself, stood eugenia, reaching up for a half-blown bud above her head. her sleeves fell back from her graceful white arms, and as she broke the bud from its stem a shower of rose-petals fell on her dusky hair and upturned face. then betty saw that doctor bradford had passed on into the house, leaving stuart standing there with his hat in his hand, smiling up at the beautiful picture above him. "good morrow, juliet," he called, softly. "happy is the bride the sun shines on. was there ever such a glorious morning?" "it's perfect," answered eugenia, leaning out of her rose bower to smile down at him. "i wonder if the bride's happiness measures up to the morning," he asked. "mine does." for answer she glanced around, her finger on her lips as if to warn him that walls have ears, and then with a light little laugh tossed the rosebud down to him. "wait! i'll come and tell you," she said. betty, gathering up her writing material, saw him catch the rose, touch it to his lips and fasten it in his coat. then, conscience-smitten that she had seen the little by-play not intended for other eyes, she bolted back into her room through the window, so hurriedly that she struck her head against the sash with a force which made her see stars for several minutes. the first excitement after breakfast was the arrival of the bride's cake. aunt cindy had baked it, the bride herself had stirred the charms into it, but it had been sent to louisville to be iced. lloyd called the entire family into the butler's pantry to admire it, as it sat imposingly on a huge silver salver. "it looks as if it might have come out of the snow queen's palace," she said, "instead of the confectionah's. wouldn't you like to see the place where those snow-rose garlands grow?" "somebody take phil away from it! quick!" said stuart. "once i had a birthday cake iced in pink with garlands of white sugar roses all around it, and he sneaked into the pantry before the party and picked off so many of the roses that it looked as if a mouse had nibbled the edges. aunt patricia put him to bed and he missed the party, but we couldn't punish him that way if he should spoil the wedding cake, because we need his services as best man. so we'd better remove him from temptation." "look here, son," answered phil, taking stuart by the shoulders and pushing him ahead of him. "when it comes to raking up youthful sins you'd better lie low. 'i could a tale unfold' that would make eugenia think that this is 'a fatal wedding morn,' if she knew all she wouldn't have you." "then you sha'n't tell anything," declared lloyd. "i'm not going to be cheated out of my share of the wedding, no mattah what a dahk past eithah of you had. forget it, and come and help us hunt the foah-leaf clovahs that eugenia wants for the dream-cake boxes." "what are they?" asked miles bradford, as he edged out of the pantry after the others. mary happened to be the one in front of him, and she turned to answer, pointing to one of the shelves, where lay a pile of tiny heart-shaped boxes, tied with white satin ribbons. "each guest is to have one of those," she explained. "there'll be a piece of wedding cake in it, and a four-leaf clover if we can find enough to go around. most people don't have the clovers, but eugenia heard about them, and she wants to try all the customs that everybody ever had. you put it under your pillow for three nights, and whatever you dream will come true. if you dream about the same person all three nights, that is the one you will marry." "horrible!" exclaimed he, laughing. "suppose one has nightmares. will they come true?" mary nodded gravely. "mom beck says so, and eliot. so did old mrs. bisbee. she's the one that told eugenia about the clovers. there was one with her piece of cake from her sister's wedding, that she dreamed on nearly fifty years ago. she dreamed of mr. bisbee three nights straight ahead, and she said there never was a more fortunate wedding. they'll celebrate their golden anniversary soon." "miss mary," asked her listener, solemnly, "do you girls really believe all these signs and wonders? i have heard more queer superstitions the few hours i have been in this valley, than in all my life before." "oh, no, we don't really believe in them. only the darkies do that. but you can't help feeling more comfortable when they 'point right' for you than when they don't; like seeing the new moon over your right shoulder, you know. and it's fun to try all the charms. eugenia says so many brides have done it that it seems a part of the performance, like the veil and the trail and the orange-blossoms." they passed from the dining-room into the hall, then out on to the front porch, where they stood waiting for joyce and eugenia to get their hats. while they waited, rob moore joined them, and they explained the quest they were about to start upon. "where are you going to take us, miss lloyd?" asked miles bradford. "according to the old legend the four-leaved clover is to be found only in paradise." "oh, do you know a legend about it?" asked betty, eagerly. "i've always thought there ought to be one." "then you must read the little book, miss betty, called 'abdallah, or the four-leaved shamrock.' abdallah was a son of the desert who spent his life in a search for the lucky shamrock. he had been taught that it was the most beautiful flower of paradise. one leaf was red like copper, another white like silver, the third yellow like gold, and the fourth was a glittering diamond. when adam and eve were driven out of the garden, poor eve reached out and clutched at a blossom to carry away with her. in her despair she did not notice what she plucked, but, as she passed through the portal, curiosity made her open her hand to look at the flower she had snatched. to her joy it was the shamrock. but while she looked, a gust of wind caught up the diamond leaf and blew it back within the gates, just as they closed behind her. the name of that leaf was perfect happiness. that is why men never find it in this world for all their searching. it is to be found only in paradise." "oh, but i don't believe that!" cried lloyd. "lots and lots of times i have been perfectly happy, and i am suah that everybody must be at some time or anothah in this world." "yes, but you didn't stay happy, did you?" asked joyce, who had come back in time to hear part of the legend. "we get glimpses of it now and then, as poor eve did when she opened her hand, but part of it always flies away while we are looking at it. people can be contented all the time, and happy in a mild way, but nobody can be perfectly, radiantly happy all the time, day in and day out. the legend is right. it is only in paradise that one can find the diamond leaf." "joyce talks as if she were a hundred yeahs old," laughed lloyd, looking up at doctor bradford. "maybe there is some truth in yoah old oriental legend, but i believe times have changed since abdallah went a-hunting. phil and i came across a song the othah day that i want you all to heah. maybe it will make you change yoah minds." phil protested with many grimaces and much nonsense that he "could not sing the old songs now." that he would not "be butchered to make a roman holiday." but all the time he protested, he was stepping toward the piano in a fantastic exaggerated cake-walk that set his audience to laughing. at the first low notes of the accompaniment, he dropped his foolishness and began to sing in a full, sweet voice that brought the old colonel to the door of his den to listen. eliot, packing trunks in the upper hall, leaned over the banister: "i know a place where the sun is like gold, and the cherry blooms burst with snow. and down underneath is the loveliest nook where the four-leaf clovers grow. "one leaf is for hope and one is for faith, and one is for love you know, and god put another one in for luck. if you search you will find where they grow. "and you must have hope and you must have faith. you must love and be strong, and so if you work, if you wait, you will find the place where the four-leaf clovers grow." it was a sweet, haunting melody that accompanied the words, and the gay party of nine, strolling toward the orchard, hummed it all the way. there in the shade of the big apple-trees, where the clover grew in thick patches, they began their search; all together at first, then in little groups of twos and threes, until they had hunted over the entire orchard. stuart, who had been doing more talking than hunting, went to groping industriously around on his hands and knees, when they all came together again after an hour's search. "bradford," he said, emphatically, "i am beginning to think that you and miss joyce are right, and that paradise has a monopoly on the four-leaf kind. i haven't caught a glimpse of one. not even its shadow." lloyd held up a handful. "i found them in several places, thick as hops." "which goes to show," he insisted, "that the song, 'if you work, if you wait, you will find the place,' is all a delusion and a snare. you all have worked, and eugenia and i have waited, and only you, who are 'bawn lucky,' have found any. it's pure luck." "no," interrupted miles bradford, "you can't call strolling around a shady orchard with a pretty girl work, and the song does correspond with the legend. abdallah worked hard for his first leaf, dug a well with which to bless the thirsty desert for all time. the bit of copper was at the bottom of it. the effort he made for the second almost cost him his life. he rescued a poor slave girl in order to be faithful to a trust imposed in him, and taught her the truths of allah. the silver leaf was his reward. he found it in the heathen fetish which she gave him in her gratitude. it had been her god. "i am not sure about the golden leaf, but i think it was the reward of living a wise and honorable life. the day of his birth it was said that he alone wept, while all around him rejoiced; and he resolved to live so well that at the day of his death he should have no cause for tears, and all around him should mourn. no, i'll not have you belittling my hero, tremont. there was no luck about it whatsoever. he won the first three leaves by unselfish service, faithfulness to every trust, and wise, honorable living, so that he well deserved that paradise should bring him perfect happiness." "girls!" cried betty, her face lighting up, "_we_ must be warm on the trail, with our tusitala rings, our warwick hall motto, and our order of hildegarde. a road of the loving heart is as hard to dig in every one's memory as a well in the desert. if we keep the tryst in all things, we're bound to find the silver leaf, and think of the wisdom it takes to weave with the honor of a hildegarde!" eugenia interrupted her: "oh, betty, _please_ write a legend of the shamrock for girls that will fit modern times. in the old style there are always three brothers or three maidens who start out to find a thing, and only the last one or the youngest one is successful. the others all come to grief. in yours give _everybody_ a chance to be happy. "there is no reason why _every_ maiden shouldn't find the leaves according to the tusitala rings and ederyn's motto and hildegarde's yardstick. and then, don't you see, they needn't wait till the end of their lives for the diamond, for _the prince_ will bring it! don't you see? it is his coming that _makes_ the perfect happiness!" phil laughed. "stuart's face shows how he appreciates that compliment," he said, "and as for me and all the other sons of adam, oh, fair layde, i make my bow!" springing to his feet, he swept her an elaborate curtsey, holding out his coat as if it were the ball-gown of some stately dame in a minuet. lloyd, sitting on the grass with her hands clasped on her knees, looked around the circle of smiling faces, and then gave her shoulders a whimsical shrug. "that's all right if the prince _comes_," she exclaimed. "but how is one to get the diamond leaf if he doesn't? mammy eastah told my fortune in a teacup, and she said: 'i see a risin' sun, and a row of lovahs, but i don't see you a-takin' any of 'em, honey. yo' ways am ways of pleasantness, and all yo' paths is peace, but i'se powahful skeered you'se goin' to be an ole maid. i sholy is, if the teacup signs p'int right.'" "it will be your own fault, then," answered phil. "the row of lovers is there in the teacup for you. you've only to take your pick." "but," began rob, "maybe it is just as well that she shouldn't choose any of them. the prince's coming doesn't always bring happiness. look at old mr. deckly. for thirty years he and his fair bride have led a regular cat and dog life. and there are the twicketts and the graysons and the blackstones right in this one little valley, to say nothing of all the troubles one reads of in the papers." "no!" contradicted eugenia, emphatically. "you have no right to hold them up as examples. it is plainly to be seen that mrs. deckly and mrs. twickett and mrs. grayson and mrs. blackstone were not hildegardes. they failed to earn their third leaf by doing their weaving wisely. they didn't use their yardsticks. they looked only at the 'village churls,' and wove their webs to fit their unworthy shoulders, so that the men they married were not princes, and they couldn't bring the diamond leaf." "the name of the prince need not always be _man_, need it?" ventured joyce. "couldn't it be success? it seems to me that if i had struggled along for years, trying to make the most of my little ability, had worked just as faithfully and wisely at my art as i could, it would be perfect happiness to have the world award me the place of a great artist. it would be as much to me as the diamond leaf that marriage could bring. i should think you'd feel that way, too, betty, about your writing. there are marriages that are failures just as there are artistic and literary careers that are failures, and there are diamond leaves to reward the work and waiting of old maids, just as there are diamond leaves to reward the hildegardes who use their yardsticks. sometimes there are girls who don't marry because they sacrifice their lives to taking care of their families, or living for those who are dependent on them. surely there must be a blessedness and a happiness for them greater than any diamond leaf a prince could bring." "there is probably," answered eugenia, "but it seems as if most people of that kind have to wait till they get to paradise to find it." "i don't think so," said betty. "i believe all the dear old-maid aunts and daughters, _who earn the first three leaves_, find the fourth waiting somewhere in this world. it is only the selfish ones, who slight their share of the duties life imposes on every one, who are cross and unlovely and unloved. they probably would not have been happy wives if they had married." "well, but what about _me_!" persisted lloyd. "i nevah expect to have a career, so success in big lettahs will nevah bring me a medal or a chromo. i am not sacrificing my life for anybody's comfort, and i can nevah have any little nieces and nephews to whom i can be one of those deah old aunts betty talks about, and there is that dreadful teacup!" she did not hear doctor bradford's laughing answer, for phil, turning his back on the others, looked down into her upturned face and began to hum, as if to himself, "_from the desert i come to thee!_" only mary understood the significance of it as lloyd did, and she knew why lloyd suddenly turned away and began passing her hands over the grass around her, as if resuming her search. she wanted to hide her face, into which the color was creeping. a train whistled somewhere far across the orchard, and rob took out his watch. the sight of it suggested something in line with the conversation, for when he had noted the time, he touched the spring that opened the back of the case. "never you mind, little colonel," he said, in a patronizing, big-brotherly tone. "if nobody else will stand between you and that teacup, _i'll_ come to the rescue. bobby won't go back on his old chum. _i'll_ bring you a four-leaf clover. here's one, all ready and waiting." lloyd looked across at the watch he held out to her. "law, bobby," she exclaimed, giving him the old name she had called him when they first played together, "i supposed you had lost that clovah long ago." "not much," he answered. "it's the finest hoodoo ever was. it helped me through high school. i swear i never could have passed in latin but for your good-luck charm. it's certainly to my interest to hang on to it. "think of it, mary," he added, seeing that her eyes were round with interest, "that was given to me by a princess." mary darted a quick look at lloyd and another one at him to see if he were teasing. "oh, i _see_!" she remarked, in a tone of enlightenment. "what do you see?" he demanded, laughing. she would not answer, but, ignoring his further attempts to make her talk, she, too, turned again to search for clovers, inwardly excited over the discovery she thought she had made. she would make a note of it in her journal, she decided, something like this: "the plot thickens. the b. m. and sir f. have a rival they little suspect. r. carries the charm the m. of h. gave him in years gone by, and i can see many reasons why he should be the one to bring her the diamond leaf." only two dozen clovers rewarded their united search, but eugenia was satisfied. "we'll put them in the boxes haphazard," she said, "and the uncertainty of getting one will make it more exciting than if there were one for every box." the path back to the house led past the kitchen, where several colored women were helping aunt cindy. just as they passed, one of them put her head out of the door to call to a group of children crowded around one of the windows of the great house. they were watching the decorators at work inside the drawing-room, hanging the gate of roses in the arch. the youngest one was perched on a barrel that had been dragged up for that purpose, so that his older brothers and sisters might be spared the weariness of holding him up to see. a narrow board laid across the top made an uneasy and precarious perch for him. he was seated astride, with his bare black legs dangling down inside the barrel. "you m'haley gibbs," called the woman, "don't you let ca'line allison lean agin that bo'd. it'll upset sweety into the bar'l." her warning came too late, for even as she called the slight board was pushed off its foundations by the weight of the roly-poly ca'line allison, and the pickaninny went down into the barrel as suddenly as a candle is snuffed out by the wind. "you m'haley, i'll natcherly lay you out," shrieked the woman, hurrying up the path to the rescue. but m'haley, made agile by fifteen years of constant practice, dodged the cuffing as it was about to descend, and scuttled around the house to wait till sweety stopped howling. "they are sylvia gibbs's children," said lloyd, in answer to doctor bradford's astonished comment at seeing so many little negroes in a row. "they can scent a pahty five miles away, and they hang around like little black buzzahds waiting for scraps of the feast. i suppose they feel they have a right to be heah to-day, as sylvia is helping in the kitchen. they're the same children, eugenia," she added, "who were heah so much when i had my first house-pahty. m'haley is the one who brought you that awful, skinny, mottled chicken in a bandbox for you to 'take home on the kyers fo' a pet,' she said." "so she is!" exclaimed eugenia, as they passed around the corner of the house and caught sight of m'haley, who was peeping out to see if the storm was over, and if it would be safe to return to the sightseeing at the window. her teeth and eyeballs were a-shine with pleasure when eugenia passed on, after a pleasant greeting and some reference to the chicken. she felt it a great honor to be remembered by the bride, and thanked again, after all these years, for her parting gift. she gave a little giggle when lloyd came up, and said, with a coy self-conscious air that was extremely amusing to the northern man, who had never met this type of the race before, "i'se a maid of honah, too, miss lloyd." "you are!" was the surprised answer. "how does that happen?" "mammy's gwine to git married agin, to mistah robinson, and she says nobody has a bettah right than me to be maid of honah to her own ma's weddin'. so that's how come she toted us all along to you-all's weddin', so that sweety and ca'line and the boys could learn how to act at her and mistah robinson's." "when is it to be?" inquired lloyd. "to-morrow night. mammy's done give her fish-fry and ice-cream festible, and she cleahed enough to pay the weddin' expenses. you-all's suah gwine to git an invite, miss lloyd." "it is sort of a benefit," betty explained to miles bradford, as they walked on. "instead of giving a concert or a recital, the colored people here give a fish-fry and festival whenever they are in need of money. they used to have them just to raise funds for the church, but now it is quite popular for individuals to give them when there is a funeral or a wedding to be paid for. i am so glad you are going to stay over a few days. we can show you sights you've never dreamed of in the north." eugenia, first to step into the hall, gave a cry of pleasure. the florist and his assistants had been there in their absence, and were just leaving. they had turned the entire house into a rose-garden. hall, drawing-room, and library, and the dining-room beyond were filled with such lavishness that it seemed as if june herself had taken possession, with all her court. stuart and eugenia paused before the tall gate of smilax and american beauties. "it is the gate into paradise, sweetheart," he whispered, looking through its blossom-covered bars to the altar beyond, that had been built in the bay-window of the drawing-room, and covered with white roses. "yes," answered eugenia, smiling up at him. "the legend is right. we must enter paradise to find the diamond leaf. but i was right, too. it is my prince who will bring mine to me." chapter xii. the wedding lunch was served on the porch, for the tables for the wedding supper were already spread in the dining-room, and alec had locked the doors that nothing might disturb its perfect order. "i think we are really going to be able to avoid that last wild rush which usually accompanies home weddings," said mrs. sherman, as they sat leisurely talking over the dessert. "usually the bridesmaids' gloves are missing, or the bride's slippers have been packed into one of the trunks and sent on ahead to the depot. but this time i have tried to have everything so perfectly arranged that the wedding will come to pass as quietly and naturally as a flower opens. i want to have everything give the impression of having _bloomed_ into place." "eliot and mom beck are certainly doing their part to make such an impression," said eugenia. "eliot has already counted over every article i am to wear, a dozen times, and they're all laid out in readiness, even to the 'something blue.'" "oh, that reminds me!" began lloyd, then stopped abruptly. nobody noticed the exclamation, however, but mary, and, with swift intuition, she guessed what the something blue had suggested to the maid of honor. it was that bit of turquoise that caused the only scramble in the preparations, for lloyd could not remember where she had put it. "i was suah i dropped it into one of the boxes in my top bureau drawer," she said to herself on the way up-stairs. then, with her finger on her lip, she stopped on the threshold of the sewing-room to consider. she remembered that when she gave up her room to the guests, all the boxes had been taken out of that drawer. some of them had been put in the sewing-room closet, and some carried to a room at the end of the back hall, where trunks and hampers were stored. now, while betty was down-stairs, helping with a few last details, lloyd took advantage of her absence to search all the boxes in the closet and drawers of the sewing-room, but the missing turquoise was not in any of them. "i know i ought to be taking a beauty sleep," she thought, "so i'll be all fresh and fine for the evening, but i must find it, for i promised phil i'd wear it." in the general shifting of furniture to accommodate so many guests, several articles had found their way back among the trunks. among them was an old rocking-chair. it was drawn up to the window now, and, as lloyd pushed open the door, to her surprise she found mary ware half-hidden in its roomy depths. she was tilted back in it with a book in her hands. mary was as surprised as lloyd. she had been so absorbed in the story that she did not hear the knob turn, and as the hinges suddenly creaked, she started half out of her chair. "oh!" she exclaimed, settling back when she saw it was only lloyd. "you frightened me nearly out of my wits. i didn't know that anybody ever came in here." then she seemed to feel that some explanation of her presence was necessary. "i came in here because our room is full of clothes, spread out ready to wear. they're all over the room,--mine on one side and joyce's on the other. i was so afraid i'd forget and flop down on them, or misplace something, that i came in here to read awhile. it makes the afternoon go faster. seems to me it never will be time to dress." lloyd stood looking at the shelves around the room, then said: "if time hangs so heavy on yoah hands, i believe i'll ask you to help me hunt for something i have lost. it's just a trifle, and maybe it is foolish for me to try to find it now, when everything is in such confusion, but it is something that i want especially." "i'd love to help hunt," exclaimed mary, putting down her book and holding out her arms to take the boxes which lloyd was reaching down from the shelves. one by one she piled them on a packing-trunk behind her, and then climbed up beside them, sitting turk fashion in their midst, and leaving the chair by the window for lloyd. "it's just a scrap of unset turquoise," explained lloyd, as she unwrapped a small package, "no larger than one of the beads on this fan-chain. i was in a big hurry when i dropped it into my drawer, and i didn't notice which box i put it in. so we'll have to take out all these ribbons and laces and handkerchiefs and sachet-bags." it was the first time during her visit that mary had been entirely alone with her adored princess, and to be with her now in this intimate way, smoothing her dainty ribbons, peeping into her private boxes, and handling her pretty belongings, gave her a pleasure that was indescribable. "shall i open this, too?" she asked, presently, picking up a package wrapped in an old gauze veil. lloyd glanced up. "yes; although i haven't the slightest idea what it can be." a faint, delicious odor stole out as mary unwound the veil, an odor of sandalwood, that to her was always suggestive of the "arabian nights," of beautiful oriental things, and of hidden treasures in secret panels of old castles. "i've hunted for that box high and low!" cried lloyd, reaching forward to take it. "mom beck must have wrapped it so, to keep the dust out of the carving. i nevah thought of looking inside that old veil for anything of any account. i think moah of what it holds than any othah ornament i own." mary watched her curiously as she threw back the lid and lifted out a necklace of little roman pearls. lloyd dangled it in front of her, lifting the shining string its full length, then letting it slip back into her palm, where it lay a shimmering mass of tiny lustrous spheres. regarding it intently, she said, with one of those unaccountable impulses which sometimes seize people: "mary, i've a great mind to tell you something i've nevah yet told a soul,--how it was i came to make this necklace. i believe i'll weah it when i stand up at the altah with eugenia. it seems the most appropriate kind of a necklace that a maid of honah could weah." the story of ederyn and the king's tryst was fresh in mary's mind, for betty had told it at the lunch-table half an hour before, in answer to doctor bradford's question about the motto of warwick hall; the motto which betty declared was a surer guide-post to the silver leaf of the magic shamrock than the one abdallah followed. "i can't undahstand," began lloyd, "why i should be telling this to a little thing like you, when i hid it from betty as if it were a crime. i knew she would think it a beautiful idea,--marking each day with a pearl when its duties had been well done, but i was half-afraid that she would think it conceited of me--conceited for me to count that any of my days were perfect enough to be marked with a pearl. but it wasn't that i thought them so. it was only that i tried my hardest to make the most of them,--in my classes and every way, you know." as lloyd went on, telling of the times she had failed and times she had succeeded, mary felt as if she were listening to the confessions of a white easter lily. it seemed perfectly justifiable to her that lloyd should have had tantrums, and stormed at the doctor when he forbade her going back to school after the christmas vacation, and that she should have cried and moped and made everybody around her miserable for days. mary's overweening admiration for the princess carried her to the point of feeling that everybody _ought_ to be miserable when she was unhappy. in mary's opinion it was positively saintly of her the way she took up her rosary again after awhile, trying to string it with tokens of days spent unselfishly at home; days unstained by regrets and tears and idle repinings for what could not be helped. mary laughed over the story of one hard-earned pearl, the day spent in making pies and cleaning house for the disagreeable old mrs. perkins, who didn't want to be reformed, and who wouldn't stay clean. "i haven't the faintest idea why i told you all this," said lloyd at last, once more lifting the string to watch the light shimmer along its lustrous length. "but now you see why i prize this little rosary so highly. it was what lifted me out of my dungeon of disappointment." afterward mary thought of a dozen things she wished she had said to lloyd while they were there together in the privacy of the trunk-room. she wished she had let her know in some way how much she admired her, and longed to be like her, and how she was going to try all the rest of her life to be a real maid of honor, worthy in every way of her love and confidence. but some shy, unusual feeling of constraint crowded the unspoken words back into her throbbing little throat, and the opportunity passed. clasping the pearls around her neck, lloyd picked up the sandalwood box again and shook it. "heah's a lot of loose beads of all kinds, with as many colahs as a kaleidoscope. you do bead-work, don't you, mary? you may have these if you can use them." in response to her eager acceptance, lloyd looked around for something to pour the beads into. "there's an empty cologne bottle on that shelf above yoah head. if you will reach it down, i'll poah them into that." beads of various sizes and colors, from garnet to amber, poured in a rainbow stream from the box to the wide-necked bottle. here and there was the glint of cut steel and the gleam of crystal, and several times mary noticed a little roman pearl like those on the rosary, and thought with a thrill of the necklace she intended to begin making that very day. suddenly lloyd gave an exclamation and reversed the gay-colored stream, pouring it slowly back into the box from the bottle. "i thought i saw that turquoise," she cried. "i remembah now, it was in my hand when i took off my necklace, and i must have dropped them in heah togethah." she parted the beads with a cautious forefinger, pushing them aside one at a time. presently a bit of blue rolled uppermost, and she looked up triumphantly. "there it is!" mary flushed guiltily at sight of the turquoise, wondering what lloyd would think if she knew that she had overheard what phil had said about that bit of something blue. she went back to her chair and her book by the window after lloyd left, but the book lay unopened in her lap. she had many things to think of while she slowly turned the bottle between herself and the light and watched its shifting colors. several times a black bead appeared among the others. "i'd have had to use black beads more than once," she reflected, "if _i_ had been making a rosary, for there's the day i was so rude to girlie dinsmore, and the awful time when i got so interested that i eavesdropped." * * * * * the wedding was all that mrs. sherman had planned, everything falling into place as beautifully and naturally as the unfolding of a flower. the assembled guests seated in the great bower of roses heard a low, soft trembling of harp-strings deepen into chords. then to this accompaniment two violins began the wedding-march, and the great gate of roses swung wide. as stuart and his best man entered from a side door and took their places at the altar in front of the old minister, the rest of the bridal party came down the stairs: betty and miles bradford first, joyce and rob, then the maid of honor walking alone with her armful of roses. after her came the bride with her hand on her father's arm. just at that instant some one outside drew back the shutters in the bay-window, and a flood of late afternoon sunshine streamed across the room, the last golden rays of the perfect june day making a path of light from the gate of roses to the white altar. it shone full across eugenia's face, down on the long-trained shimmering satin, the little gleaming slippers, the filmy veil that enveloped her, the pearls that glimmered white on her white throat. eliot, standing in a corner, nervously watching every movement with twitching lips, relaxed into a smile. "it's a good omen!" she said, half under her breath, then gave a startled glance around to see if any one had heard her speak at such an improper time. the music grew softer now, so faint and low it seemed the mere shadow of sound. above the rare sweetness of that undertone of harp and violins rose the words of the ceremony: "_i, stuart, take thee, eugenia, to be my wedded wife_." mary, standing at her post by the rose gate, felt a queer little chill creep over her. it was so solemn, so very much more solemn than she had imagined it would be. she wondered how she would feel if the time ever came for her to stand in eugenia's place, and plight her faith to some man in that way--"_for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death us do part_." eliot was crying softly in her corner now. yes, getting married was a terribly solemn thing. it didn't end with the ceremony and the pretty clothes and the shower of congratulations. that was only the beginning. "_for better, for worse_,"--that might mean all sorts of trouble and heartache. "_sickness and death_,"--it meant to be bound all one's life to one person, morning, noon, and night. how very, very careful one would have to be in choosing,--and then suppose one made a mistake and thought the man she was marrying was good and honest and true, and he _wasn't_! it would be all the same, for "_for better, for worse_," ran the vow, "_until death us do part_." then and there, holding fast to the gate of roses, mary made up her mind that she could never, never screw her courage up to the point of taking the vows eugenia was taking, as she stood with her hand clasped in stuart's, and the late sunshine of the sweet june day streaming down on her like a benediction. "it's lots safer to be an old maid," thought mary. "i'll take my chances getting the diamond leaf some other way than marrying. anyhow, if i ever should make a choice, i'll ask somebody else's opinion, like i do when i go shopping, so i'll be sure i'm getting a real prince, and not an imitation one." it was all over in another moment. harp and violins burst into the joyful notes of mendelssohn's march, and stuart and eugenia turned from the altar to pass through the rose gate together. lloyd and phil followed, then the other attendants in the order of their entrance. on the wide porch, screened and canopied with smilax and roses, a cool green out-of-doors reception-room had been made. here they stood to receive their guests. mary, in all the glory of her pink chiffon dress and satin slippers, stood at the end of the receiving line, feeling that this one experience was well worth the long journey from arizona. so thoroughly did she delight in her part of the affair, and so heartily did she enter into her duties, that more than one guest passed on, smiling at her evident enjoyment. "i wish this wedding could last a week," she confided to lieutenant logan, when he paused beside her. "don't you know, they did in the fairy-tales, some of them. there was 'feasting and merrymaking for seventy days and seventy nights.' this one is going by so fast that it will soon be train-time. i don't suppose _they_ care," she added, with a nod toward the bride, "for they're going to spend their honeymoon in a gold of ophir rose-garden, where there are goldfish in the fountains, and real orange-blossoms. it's out in california, at mister stuart's grandfather's. elsie, his sister, couldn't come, so they're going out to see her, and take her a piece of every kind of cake we have to-night, and a sample of every kind of bonbon. don't you wonder who'll get the charms in the bride's cake? that's the only reason i am glad the clock is going so fast. it will soon be time to cut the cake, and i'm wild to see who gets the things in it." the last glow of the sunset was still tinting the sky with a tender pink when they were summoned to the dining-room, but indoors it had grown so dim that a hundred rose-colored candles had been lighted. again the music of harp and violins floated through the rose-scented rooms. as mary glanced around at the festive scene, the tables gleaming with silver and cut glass, the beautiful costumes, the smiling faces, a line from her old school reader kept running through her mind: "_and all went merry as a marriage-bell! and all went merry as a marriage-bell!_" it repeated itself over and over, through all the gay murmur of voices as the supper went on, through the flowery speech of the old colonel when he stood to propose a toast, through the happy tinkle of laughter when stuart responded, through the thrilling moment when at last the bride rose to cut the mammoth cake. in her nervous excitement, mary actually began to chant the line aloud, as the first slice was lifted from the great silver salver: "all went merry--" then she clapped her hand over her mouth, but nobody had noticed, for allison had drawn the wedding-ring, and a chorus of laughing congratulations was drowning out every other sound. as the cake passed on from guest to guest, betty cried out that she had found the thimble. then lloyd held up the crystal charm, the one the bride had said was doubly lucky, because it held imbedded in its centre a four-leaved clover. nearly every slice had been crumbled as soon as it was taken, in search of a hidden token, but mary, who had not dared to hope that she might draw one, began leisurely eating her share. suddenly her teeth met on something hard and flat, and glancing down, she saw the edge of a coin protruding from the scrap of cake she held. "oh, it's the shilling!" she exclaimed, in such open-mouthed astonishment that every one laughed, and for the next few moments she was the centre of the congratulations. eugenia took a narrow white ribbon from one of the dream-cake boxes, and passed it through the hole in the shilling, so that she could hang it around her neck. "destined to great wealth!" said rob, with mock solemnity. "i always did think i'd like to marry an heiress. i'll wait for you, mary." "no," interrupted phil, laughing, "fate has decreed that i should be the lucky man. don't you see that it is philip's head with mary's on that shilling?" "whew!" teased kitty. "two proposals in one evening, mary. see what the charm has done for you already!" mary knew that they were joking, but she turned the color of her dress, and sat twiddling the coin between her thumb and finger, too embarrassed to look up. they sat so long at the table that it was almost train-time when eugenia went up-stairs to put on her travelling-dress. she made a pretty picture, pausing midway up the stairs in her bridal array, the veil thrown back, and her happy face looking down on the girls gathered below. leaning far over the banister with the bridal bouquet in her hands, she called: "now look, ye pretty maidens, standing all a-row, the one who catches this, the next bouquet shall throw." there was a laughing scramble and a dozen hands were outstretched to receive it. "oh, joyce caught it! joyce caught it!" cried mary, dancing up and down on the tips of her toes, and clapping her hands over her mouth to stifle the squeal of delight that had almost escaped. "now, some day i can be maid of honor." "so that's why you are so happy over your sister's good fortune, is it?" asked phil, bent on teasing her every time opportunity offered. "no," was the indignant answer. "that is some of the reason, but i'm gladdest because she didn't get left out of everything. she didn't get one of the cake charms, so i hoped she would catch the bouquet." when the carriage drove away at last, a row of shiny black faces was lined up each side of the avenue. all the gibbs children were there, and aunt cindy's other grandchildren, with their hands full of rice. "speed 'em well, chillun!" called old cindy, waving her apron. the rice fell in showers on the top of the departing carriage, and two little white slippers were sent flying along after it, with such force that they nearly struck eliot, sitting beside the coachman. tired as she was, she turned to smile approval, for the slippers were a good omen, too, in her opinion, and she was happy to think that everything about her miss eugenia's wedding had been carried out properly, down to this last propitious detail. as the slippers struck the ground, quick as a cat, m'haley darted forward to grab them. "them slippahs is mates!" she announced, gleefully, "and i'm goin' to tote 'em home for we-all's wedding. i kain't squeeze into 'em myself, but ca'line allison suah kin." once more, and for the last time, eugenia leaned out of the carriage to look back at the dear faces she was leaving. but there was no sadness in the farewell. her prince was beside her, and the gold of ophir rose-garden lay ahead. chapter xiii. dreams and warnings "it's all ovah now!" exclaimed lloyd, stifling a yawn and looking around the deserted drawing-room, where the candles burned low in their sconces, and the faded roses were dropping their petals on the floor. mr. forbes and doctor tremont had just driven away to catch the midnight express for new york, and the last guest but rob had departed. "it's all over with that gown of yours, too, isn't it?" asked phil, glancing at the airy pink skirt, down whose entire front breadth ran a wide, zigzag rent. "it's too bad, for it's the most becoming one i've seen you wear yet. i'm sorry it must be retired from public life so early in its career." lloyd drew the edges of the largest holes together. "yes, it's ruined beyond all hope, for i stepped cleah through it when i tripped on the stairs, and it pulled apart in at least a dozen places, just as a thin veil would. but you'll see it again, and on anothah maid of honah. m'haley nevah waited to see if i was hurt, but pounced on it and began to beg for it befoah i got my breath again. she said she could fix it good enough for her to weah to her mammy's wedding. she would 'turn it hine side befo'' and tie her big blue sash ovah it. imagine! she'll be heah at the break of day to get it." "do you know it is almost that time now?" asked betty, coming in from the dining-room with seven little heart-shaped boxes. "here's our cake, and godmother says we'd better take it and go to dreaming on it soon, or the sun will be up before we get started." "now remembah," warned lloyd, as rob slipped his box into his pocket and began looking around for his hat, "we have all promised to tell our dreams to each othah in the mawning. we'll wait for you, so come ovah early. come to breakfast." "thanks. i'll be on hand all right. i'll probably have to wake the rest of you." "don't you do it!" exclaimed phil. "i'll warn you now, if you're waking, _don't_ call me early, mother, dear. if you do, to-morrow won't be the happiest day of all _your_ glad new year. i'll promise you that. how about you, bradford?" "oh, i'm thinking of sitting up all night," he answered, laughing, "to escape having any dreams. miss mary assures me they will come true, and one might have a nightmare after such a spread as that wedding-supper. i can hardly afford to take such risks." a moment after, rob's whistle sounded cheerfully down the avenue and alec was going around the house, putting out the down-stairs lights. late as it was, when they reached their room, joyce stopped to smooth every wrinkle out of her bridesmaid dress, and spread it out carefully in the tray of her trunk. "it is so beautiful," she said, as she plumped the sleeves into shape with tissue-paper. "as long as an accident had to happen to one of us it was lucky that it was lloyd's dress that was torn. she has so many she wouldn't wear it often anyhow, and this will be my best evening gown all summer. i expect to get lots of good out of it at the seashore." "i'm glad it wasn't mine that was torn," responded mary, following joyce's example and folding hers away also, with many loving pats. "probably there'll be a good many times i can wear it here this summer, but there'll never be a chance on the desert, and i shall have outgrown it by next summer, so when i go home i'm going to lay it away in rose-leaves with these darling little satin slippers, because i've had the best time of my life in them. in the morning betty and i are going to pick all the faded roses to pieces and save the petals. eugenia wants to fill a rose-jar with part of them. betty knows how to make that potpourri that lloyd's grandmother amanthis always kept in the rose-jars in the drawing-room. she's copied the receipt for me. "i'm not a bit sleepy," she continued. "i've had such a beautiful time i could lie awake all the rest of the night thinking about it. maybe it's because i drank coffee when i'm not used to it that i'm so wide awake, and i ate--_oh_, how i ate!" one by one the up-stairs lights went out, and a deep silence fell on the old mansion. the ticking of the great clock on the stairs was the only sound. the serene peace of the starlit night settled over the locusts like brooding wings. the clock struck one, then two, and the long hand was half-way around its face again before any other sound but the musical chime broke the stillness. then a succession of strangled moans began to penetrate the consciousness of even the soundest sleeper. whoever it was that was trying to call for help was evidently terrified, and the terror of the cries sent a cold chill through every one who heard them. "it's burglars," shrieked lloyd, sitting up in bed. "papa jack! they're in joyce's room! they're trying to strangle her! papa jack!" lights glimmered in every room, and doors flew open along the hall. a dishevelled little group in bath-robes and pajamas rushed out, mr. sherman with a revolver, miles bradford with a heavy indian club, and phil with his walking-stick with the electric battery in its head. he flashed it like a search-light up and down the hall. at the first moan, joyce had wakened, and realizing that it came from mary's corner of the room, began to grope on the table beside her bed for matches. her fingers trembled so she could scarcely muster strength to scratch the match when she found it. then she glanced across the room and began to laugh hysterically. "it's all right!" she called. "nobody's killed! mary's just having a nightmare!" by this time mr. sherman had opened the door, and the blinding glare of phil's electric light flashed full in mary's eyes. at the same instant lloyd opened the door on the other side, between the two rooms, and betty and mrs. sherman followed her in. so when mary struggled back to wakefulness far enough to sit up and look around in a dazed way, the room seemed full of people and lights and voices, and she tried to ask what had happened. she was still sobbing and trembling. "what's the matter, mary?" called phil from the hall. "were the indians after you again?" "oh, it was awfuller than indians," wailed mary, in a shrill, excited voice. "it was the worst nightmare i ever had! i can't shake it off. i'm scared yet." "tell us about it," said mrs. sherman, soothingly. "that's the best remedy, for the terror always evaporates in the telling, and makes one wonder how anything foolish could have seemed frightful." "i--was being married," wailed mary, "to a man i couldn't see. and just as soon as it was over he turned from the altar and said, '_now_ we'll begin to lead a cat and dog life.' and, oh, it was so awful," she continued, sobbingly, the terror of the dream still holding her, "he--he _barked_ at me! and he showed his teeth, and i had to spit and mew and hump my back whether _i_ wanted to or not." her voice grew higher and more excited with every sentence. "and i could feel my claws growing longer and longer, and i knew i'd never have fingers again, only just paws with fur on 'em! ugh! it made me sick to feel the fur growing over me that way. i cried and cried. now as i tell about it, it begins to sound silly, but it was awful then,--so dark, and me hanging by my claws to the edge of the wood-shed roof, ready to drop off. i thought phil was in the house, and i tried to call him, but i couldn't remember his name. i got mixed up with the philip on the shilling, and i kept yelling, shill! philling! shilling! and i couldn't make him understand. he wouldn't come!" as she picked up the corner of the sheet to wipe her eyes mrs. sherman and the girls burst out laughing, and there was an echoing peal of amusement in the hall. the affair would not have seemed half so ridiculous in the daylight, but to be called out of bed at that hour to listen to such a dream, told only as mary ware could tell it, impressed the entire family as one of the funniest things that had ever happened. they laughed till the tears came. "i don't see what ever put such a silly thing into my head," said mary, finally, beginning to feel mortified as she realized what an excitement she had created for nothing. "it was rob's talking about people who live a regular cat and dog life," said betty. "don't you remember how long we talked about it to-day down in the clover-patch?" "you mean yesterday," prompted phil from the hall, "for it's nearly morning now. and, mary, i'll tell you why you had it. it's a warning! a solemn warning! it means that you must never, never marry." "that's what i thought, too," quavered mary, so seriously that they all laughed again. "i hope everybody will excuse me for waking them up," called mary, as they began to disperse to their rooms. "oh, dear!" she added to joyce, as she lay back once more on her pillow. "why is it that i am always doing such mortifying things! i am _so_ ashamed of myself." the lights went out again, and after a few final giggles from lloyd and betty, silence settled once more over the house. but the terror of the nightmare had taken such hold upon mary that she could not close her eyes. "joyce," she whispered, "do you mind if i come over into your bed? i'm nearly paralyzed, i'm so scared again." slipping across the floor as soon as joyce had given a sleepy consent, mary crept in beside her sister in the narrow bed, and lay so still she scarcely breathed, for fear of disturbing her. presently she reached out and gently clasped the end of joyce's long plait of hair. it was comforting to be so near her. but even that failed to convince her entirely that the dream was a thing of imagination. it seemed so real, that several times before she fell asleep she laid her hands against her face to make sure that her fingers had not developed claws, and that no fur had started to grow on them. the dreams told around the breakfast-table next morning seemed tame in comparison to mary's recital the night before. rob had had none at all, which was interpreted to mean that he would live and die an old bachelor. miles bradford had a dim recollection of being in an automobile with a girl who seemed to be a sort of a human kaleidoscope, for her face changed as the dream progressed, until she had looked like every woman he ever knew. they could think of no interpretation for that dream. lloyd's was fully as indefinite. "i thought i was making a cake," she said, "and there was a big bowl of eggs on the table. but every time i started to break one mom beck would say, 'don't do that, honey. don't you see it is somebody's haid?' and suah enough, every egg i took up had somebody's face on it, like those painted eastah eggs; rob's, and phil's, and malcolm's, and doctah bradford's, and evah so many i'd nevah seen befoah." "a very appropriate dream for a queen of hearts," said phil, "and anybody can see it's only a repetition of mammy easter's fortune, the 'row of lovahs in the teacup.' tell us which one you are going to choose." "it's joyce's turn," was the only answer lloyd would make. "and my dream was positively brilliant," replied joyce. "i thought we were all at the beeches, and allison, and kitty, and all of us were making limericks. kitty began: "'there was a lieutenant named logan, who found one day a small brogan.' then she stuck, and couldn't get any farther, and allison had to be smart and pun on my name. she made up a line: "'so what will joyce ware if she meets a great bear?' nobody could get the last rhyme for awhile, but after floundering around a few minutes i had a sudden inspiration and sprang up and struck an attitude as if i were on the stage, and solemnly thundered out: "'and how can he shoot him with _no_ gun?' "in my dream it seemed the most thrilling thing--i was the heroine of the hour, and lieutenant logan took me aside and told me that the question which i had embodied in that last line was the question of the ages. it had staggered the philosophers and scientists of all times. nobody could answer that question--'how can he shoot him with no gun,' and he was a better and a happier man, to think that i had rhymed that ringing query with the proud name of logan. it's the silliest dream i ever had, but you can't imagine how real it seemed at the time. i was so stuck up over his compliments that i began flouncing around with my head held high, like the picture of 'oh, fie! you haughty jane.'" "oh, joyce, what a dream to dream on wedding-cake!" exclaimed mary, with a long indrawn breath. there was no mistaking her interpretation of it. everybody laughed, and joyce hastened to explain, "it isn't worth anything, mary. it'll never come true, for just before i came down-stairs to breakfast i discovered my little box of cake lying on the table under a pile of ribbons. it had been there all night. i had forgotten to put it under my pillow. and," she added, cutting short mary's exclamation of disappointment, "_your_ box lay beside it. we both were so busy putting away our dresses, and talking over the wedding that we forgot the most important thing of all." "well, i'm certainly glad that mine wasn't under my head when i had that dreadful nightmare!" exclaimed mary, in such a relieved tone that every one laughed again. "i couldn't help taking it as a warning." "joyce and i must have changed places in our sleep," said betty, when her turn came. "she was making verses, and i was trying to draw. but i did my drawing with a thimble. i thought some one said, 'betty always likes to put her finger in everybody's pie, and now she has a fate thimble to wear on it, she'll mix up things worse than ever.' and i said, 'no, i'll be very conservative, and only make a diagram of the way the animals should go into the ark, and then let them do as they please about following my diagram.' so i began to draw with the thimble on my finger, but instead of animals going into the ark they were people going over tanglewood stile into the churchyard, and then into the church--a great procession of people in the funniest combinations. there was old doctor shelby and the minister's great-aunt, allison and lieutenant stanley, kitty and doctor bradford, lloyd and rob, and dozens and dozens besides." "lloyd and rob," echoed the little colonel, her face dimpling. "think of that, bobby! you nevah in yoah wildest dreams thought of that combination, now did you?" "no, i never did," confessed rob, with an amused smile. "betty has just put it into my head. she is like the old woman who told her children not to put beans in their ears while she was gone. they never would have dreamed of doing such a thing if she hadn't suggested it, but, of course, they wanted to see how it would feel, and immediately proceeded to fill their ears with beans as soon as her back was turned." "you can profit by their example," laughed lloyd. "they found that it hurt. it would have been bettah if they had paid no attention to her suggestion." "moral," added rob, "don't do it. betty, don't you dare put any more dangerous notions in my head." phil's turn came next. "my dream is soon told," he said. "i had been sleeping like the dead--a perfectly dreamless sleep--till mary woke us up with her cat-fight. that aroused me so thoroughly that i didn't go to sleep again for more than an hour. then when i did drop off at nearly morning, i dreamed that there was a spider on my head, and i gave it a tremendous whack to kill it. it was no dream whack, i can tell you, but a real live double-fisted one, that made me see stars. it actually made a dent in my cranium and got me so wide awake that i couldn't drop off again. i got up and sat by the window till there were faint streaks of light in the sky. i did the rest of my dreaming with my eyes open, so i don't have to tell what it was about." "i can guess," thought mary, intercepting the swift glance he stole across the table at something blue. this time it was the ribbon that tied lloyd's hair, a big bow of turquoise taffeta, knotted becomingly at the back of her neck. lloyd, unconscious of the glance, had turned to speak to miles bradford, to answer his question about sylvia gibbs's wedding. "yes, it really is to take place to-night in the colohed church. m'haley was heah befoah we were awake, to get the dress and to repeat the invitation for the whole family to attend. there are evah so many white folks invited, m'haley says. all the waltons and macintyres, of co'se, because miss allison is their patron saint, and they swear by her, and all the families for whom sylvia has washed." "it is extremely fortunate for those of us who are going away so soon that she set the date as early as to-night," said doctor bradford. "twenty-four hours later would have cut us out." phil interrupted him. "don't bring up such disagreeable topics at the table, bradford. it takes my appetite to think that we have only one more day in the valley--that it has come down to a matter of a few hours before we must begin our farewells." "speaking of farewells," said rob, "who-all's coming down to the station with me to wave good-by to miss bonham? she goes back to lexington this morning." "we'll all go," answered lloyd, promptly. "mothah will be glad to get us out of the way while the servants give the place a grand 'aftah the ball' cleaning, and joyce wants to see the girls once moah befoah she begins packing, to arrange several things about their journey." "how does it happen that logan and stanley are not going with miss bonham?" asked rob. "isn't their time up, too, or can't they tear themselves away?" "i thought you knew," answered joyce. "miss allison arranged it all last night. you know she goes up to prout's neck, in maine, for awhile every summer, and this year allison and kitty are going with her. she has offered to take me under her wing all the way, and has arranged her route to go right past the place where the summer art school is, on cape cod coast. lieutenant logan and lieutenant stanley are staying over a day longer than they had intended, in order to go part of the way with us, and phil and doctor bradford are leaving a day earlier to take advantage of such good company all the way home. won't it be jolly,--eight of us! kitty calls it a regular house-party on wheels." "i certainly envy you," answered rob. "miss allison is the best chaperone that can be imagined, just like a girl herself; and allison and kitty are as good as a circus any day. i'll wager it didn't take much persuading to make stanley stay over. he hasn't eyes for anything or anybody but allison." "he had eyes for bernice howe the night of katie mallard's musicale," said betty. "he scarcely left her." "do you know why?" asked rob in an aside. they were rising from the table now, strolling out to the chairs and hammocks on the shady porch. he spoke in a low tone as he walked along beside her. "it is very ungallant for me to say such a thing, but between you and me and the gate-post, betty, he was roped into being so attentive. bernice howe beats any girl i ever saw for making dates with fellows, and handling her cards so as to make it seem she is immensely popular. it is an old trick of hers, and that night it was very apparent what she was trying to do. alex shelby was there, you remember, and when she saw him talking to lloyd every chance he got, she didn't want it to appear that she was being neglected by the man who had brought her, and with a little skilful manoeuvring she managed to bag the lieutenant's attention. i've been wanting to ask you for some time, why is it that she seems so down on the little colonel?" "she isn't!" declared betty, much surprised. "you must be letting your imagination run away with you, rob. there isn't a girl in the valley friendlier and sweeter to lloyd than bernice howe. you watch them next time they are together, and see. they've been good friends for years." "then all i can say is that some girls have a queer idea of friendship. it's downright _catty_ the way they purr and rub around to your face, and then show their spiteful little claws when your back is turned. that's what i've noticed bernice doing lately. she calls her all the sugary names in the dictionary when she's with her, but when her back is turned--well, it's just a shrug of the shoulders or a lift of the eyebrows or a little twist of the mouth maybe, but they insinuate volumes. what makes girls do that way, betty? boys don't. if they have any grievance they fight it out and then let each other alone." "i'm sure i don't know why," answered betty. "i'll be honest with you and confess that you are right. half the girls at school were that way. they might be fair and high-minded about everything else, but when it came to that one thing they were--well, as you say, regular cats. they didn't have the faintest conception of what a david and jonathan friendship could be like. even the ordinary kind didn't seem to bind them in any way, or impose any obligation on them when their own interests were concerned." "deliver me from such friends!" ejaculated rob. "i'd rather have a sworn enemy. he wouldn't do me half the harm." then after a pause, "i suppose, if you haven't noticed it, then lloyd hasn't either, that bernice is bitterly jealous of her." "no, i am sure she has not." "then i wish you'd drop her a hint. i couldn't mention the subject to her, because it is an old fight of ours. you know how we've squabbled for hours over it--the difference between the codes of honor in a girl's friendships and boys'. no matter how carefully i made the distinction that i meant the average girl, and not all of them, she always flared into a temper, and in order to be loyal to her entire sex, took up arms against me in a regular pitched battle. she's ordered me off the place more than once, and yet in her soul i believe she agrees with me." "but, rob, if that is a pet theory of yours that you go around applying in a wholesale way, isn't it barely possible that you've made a mistake this time and imagined that bernice is two-faced in her friendship?" rob shook his head. "she'll be at the station this morning. you can see for yourself, if you keep your eyes open." "now, to be explicit, just what is it i shall see?" retorted betty. but phil interrupted their tête-à-tête at that point, and when they started to the station an hour later, her question was still unanswered. bernice howe was there, as rob had predicted, and katie mallard and several other of the valley girls who had enjoyed the hospitality of the beeches during miss bonham's visit. "it looks quite like a garden-party," said miles bradford to miss allison, watching the pretty girls, in their light summer costumes, flutter around the waiting-room. "i don't know whether to compare them to a flock of butterflies or a bouquet of sweet peas. i am glad we are going to take some of them with us to-morrow, and wish--" betty, who had turned to listen, because his smiling glance seemed to include her in the conversation, failed to hear what it was he wished. bernice howe, who was standing with her back to her, took occasion just then to draw miss bonham aside, and her voice, although pitched in a low key, was unusually penetrating. at the same moment the entire party shifted positions to make room for some new arrivals in the waiting-room, and betty was jostled so that she was obliged to dodge a corpulent woman with a carpet-bag and a lunch-basket. when she recovered her balance she found herself out of range of doctor bradford's voice, but almost touching elbows with bernice. she was saying: "we're going to miss you dreadfully, miss bonham. i always do miss allison's guests and kitty's nearly as much as my own. they're so dear about sharing them with me. now some girls are so stingy, they fairly keep their visitors under lock and key--that is, if they are men. they wouldn't dream of taking them to call on another girl. afraid to, i suppose. afraid of losing their own laurels. there's one of the kind." betty saw her nod with a meaning smile toward lloyd, and caught another sentence or two in which the words, "queen of hearts, tied to her apron-string," gave her the drift of the remarks. "she's plainly trying to give miss bonham an unpleasant impression of lloyd to carry away with her," thought betty. "she's hurt because she wasn't invited to the coon hunt, and the other little affairs we had for the bridal party. she never took it into consideration that what would have been perfectly convenient at another time was out of the question when the house was so full of guests and all torn up with preparations for the wedding. lloyd had all she could do then to think of the guests in the house, without considering those outside. it certainly is a flimsy sort of a friendship that can't overlook a seeming neglect like that or make due allowances. besides, if she feels slighted, why doesn't she keep it to herself, and not try to get even by giving miss bonham a false impression of her? rob is right. boys don't stoop to such mean little things. in the first place they don't magnify trifles into big grievances, and go around feeling slighted and hurt over nothing." "here comes the train!" called ranald, seizing miss bonham's suit-case and leading the way to the door. there was a moment of hurried good-byes, a fluttering of handkerchiefs, a waving of hats. then the train passed on, leaving the group gazing after it. "what are we going to do now?" asked rob. "will you all come over to the store and have some peanuts?" "no, you're all coming up home with me," said lloyd, "miss allison and everybody. i saw alec carrying some watahmelons into the ice-house, and they'll be good and cold by this time. we'll cut them out on the lawn." ranald excused himself, saying he had promised to take his aunt allison to the dressmaker's in the pony-cart, but allison and kitty promptly accepted the invitation for themselves and the two lieutenants. katie mallard walked on with one and joyce the other, rob and betty bringing up the rear. lloyd still waited. "come on, bernice," she urged. "the watahmelons are mighty fine, and we'd love to have you come." "no, dearie," was the reply. "i've a lot of things to do to-day, but i'll see you to-night at the darky wedding." "i'm mighty sorry you can't come," called lloyd, then hurried on to catch up with the others. as she joined rob and betty she felt intuitively they had changed their subject of conversation at her approach. she had caught the question, "then are you going to warn her?" and betty's reply, "what's the use? it would only make her feel bad." "what's that about warnings?" asked lloyd, catching betty's hand and swinging it as she walked along beside her. "something that betty doesn't believe in," began rob, "just as i don't believe in dreams. why wouldn't bernice come with you?" "she said she had so much to do. mistah shelby is coming out latah. he is going to take her to sylvia's wedding to-night." "speaking of warnings," burst out rob, impulsively, "i'm going to give you one, lloyd, whether you like it or not. don't be too smiling and gracious when you meet alex shelby, or bernice will be assaulting you for poaching on her preserves. you must keep out of her bailiwick if you want to keep her friendship. it's the kind that won't stand much of a strain." "what do you mean, rob moore?" demanded lloyd, hesitating between a laugh and the old feeling of anger that always flashed up when he referred to girls' friendships in that superior tone. "i am devoted to bernice and she is to me. if you are trying to pick a quarrel you may as well go along home, for i'm positively not going to fuss with you about anything whatsoevah until aftah all the company is gone." "no'm! i don't want to quarrel," responded rob, with exaggerated meekness. "i was merely giving you a warning--sort of playing banshee for your benefit, but you don't seem to appreciate my efforts. let's talk about watermelons." chapter xiv. a second maid of honor it was a new experience to miles bradford, this trudging through the dense beech woods on a summer night behind a row of flickering lanterns. the path they followed was a wide one, and well worn by the feet of churchgoing negroes, for it was the shortest cut between the valley and stumptown, a little group of cabins clustered around the colored church. ranald led the way with a brakeman's lantern, and rob occasionally illuminated the scene by electric flashes from the head of the walking-stick he was flourishing. a varied string of fiery dragons, winged fish, and heathen hobgoblins danced along beside them, for kitty was putting candles in a row of japanese lanterns when they arrived at the beeches, and nearly everybody in the party accepted her invitation to take one. mary chose a sea-serpent with a grinning face, and elise a pretty oval one with birds and cherry blossoms on each side. lloyd did not take any. her hands were already filled with a huge bouquet of red roses. "sylvia asked me to carry these," she explained to miles bradford, "and to weah a white dress and this hat with the red roses on it. because i was maid of honah at eugenia's wedding she seems to think i can reflect some sawt of glory on hers. she said she wanted all her young ladies to weah white." "who are her young ladies, and why?" he asked. "allison, kitty, betty, and i. you see, sylvia's grandfathah was the macintyre's coachman befoah the wah, and her mothah is our old aunt cindy. she considahs that she belongs to us and we belong to her." farther down the line they could hear katie mallard's cheerful giggle as she tripped over a beech root, then bernice howe's laugh as they all went slipping and sliding down a steep place in the path which led to the hollow crossed by the dry creek bed. "sing!" called miss allison, who was chaperoning the party, and picking her way behind the others with mary and elise each clinging to an arm. "there's such a pretty echo down in this hollow. listen!" the tune that she started was one of the popular songs of the summer. it was caught up by every one in the procession except miles bradford, and he kept silent in order to enjoy this novel pilgrimage to the fullest. the dark woods rang with the sweet chorus, and the long line of fantastic lanterns sent weird shadows bobbing up in their wake. the bare, unpainted little church had just been lighted when they arrived, and a strong smell of coal-oil and smoking wicks greeted them. "it's too bad we are so early," said miss allison. "sylvia would have preferred us to come in with grand effect at the last moment, but i'm too tired to wait for the bridal party. let's put our lanterns in the vestibule and go in and find seats." a pompous mulatto man in white cotton gloves and with a cluster of tuberoses in his buttonhole ushered the party down the aisle to the seats of honor reserved for the white folks. there were seventeen in the party, too many to sit comfortably on the two benches, so a chair was brought for miss allison. after the grown people were seated, each of the little girls managed to squeeze in at the end of the seats nearest the aisle. lloyd found herself seated between mary ware and alex shelby. leaning forward to look along the bench, she found that bernice came next in order to alex, then lieutenant stanley and allison, doctor bradford and betty. she had merely said good evening to alex shelby when they met at the beeches, and, although positions in the procession through the woods had shifted constantly, it had happened she had not been near enough to talk with him. now, with only mary ware to claim her attention, they naturally fell into conversation. it was only in whispers, for the audience was assembling rapidly, and the usher had opened the organ in token that the service was about to begin. there had been an attempt to decorate for the occasion. friends of the bride had resurrected both the christmas and easter mottoes, so that the wall behind the pulpit bore in tall, white cotton letters, on a background of cedar, the words, "peace on earth, good will to men." fresh cedar had been substituted for the yellowed branches left over from the previous christmas, and fresh diamond dust sprinkled over the grimy cotton to give it its pristine sparkle of yule-tide frost. "an appropriate motto for a wedding," whispered alex shelby to lloyd. only his eyes laughed. his face was as solemn as the usher's own as he turned to gaze at the word "welcome" over the door, and the fringe of paper easter lilies draping the top of each uncurtained window. bernice claimed his attention several moments, then he turned to lloyd again. "do tell me, miss lloyd," he begged, "what is that wonderfully and fearfully made thing in the front of the pulpit? is it a doorway or a giant picture-frame? and what part is it to play in the ceremony?" lloyd's face dimpled, and an amused smile flashed up at him from the corner of her eye. then she lowered her long lashes demurely, and seemed to be engrossed with her bunch of roses as she answered him. "the coquettish thing!" thought bernice, seeing the glance but not hearing the whisper which followed it. "sh! don't make me laugh! everybody is watching to see if the white folks are making fun of things, and i'm actually afraid to look up again for feah i'll giggle. maybe it's a copy of eugenia's gate of roses. it looks like the frame of a doahway. just the casing, you know. maybe it's a doah of mawning-glories they're going to pass through. i recognize those flowahs twined all around it. we made them a long time ago for the lamp-shades when the king's daughtahs had an oystah suppah at the manse. i made all those purple mawning-glories and betty made the yellow ones." glancing over his shoulder, he happened to spy a familiar face behind him, the kindly old black face of his uncle's cook. "howdy, aunt jane!" he exclaimed, with a friendly smile. then, in a stage whisper, he asked, "aunt jane, can you tell me? are those morning-glories artificial?" the old woman wrinkled her face into a knot as she peered in the direction of the pulpit, toward which he nodded. one of the words in his question puzzled her. it was a stranger to her. but, after an instant, the wrinkles cleared and her face broadened into a smile. "no'm, mistah alex. them ain't artificial flowahs, honey. they's made of papah." again an amused smile stole out of the corner of lloyd's eye to answer the gleam of mischief in alex's. not for anything would she have aunt jane think that she was laughing, so her eyes were bent demurely on her roses again. again bernice, leaning forward, intercepted the glance and misinterpreted it. when alex turned to her to repeat aunt jane's explanation, she barely smiled, then relapsed into sulky silence. finding several other attempts at conversation received with only monosyllables, he concluded that she was not in a mood to talk, and naturally turned again to lloyd. he had not been out in the valley for years, he told her. the last visit he had made to his uncle, old doctor shelby, had been the summer that the shermans had come back to lloydsboro from new york. he remembered passing her one day on the road. she had squeezed through a hole in the fence between two broken palings, and was trying to pull a little dog through after her; a shaggy scotch and skye terrier. "that was my deah old fritz," she answered, "and i was probably running away. i did it every chance i had." "the next time i saw you," he continued, "i was driving along with uncle. i was standing between his knees, i remember, proud as a peacock because he was letting me hold the reins. i was just out of kilts, so it was a great honor to be trusted with the lines. when we passed your grandfather on his horse, he had you up in front of his saddle, and uncle called out, 'good morning, little colonel.'" these reminiscences pleased lloyd. it flattered her to think he remembered these early meetings so many years ago. his relationship to the old doctor whom she loved as her own uncle put him on a very friendly footing. the church filled rapidly, and by the time the seats were crowded and people were jostling each other to find standing-room around the door, a young colored girl in a ruffled yellow dress seated herself at the organ. first she pulled out all the stops, then adjusting a pair of eyeglasses, opened a book of organ exercises. then she felt her sash in the back, settled her side-combs, and raising herself from the organ bench, smoothed her skirts into proper folds under her. after these preliminaries she leaned back, raised both hands with a grand flourish, and swooped down on the keys. "bang on the low notes and twiddle on the high!" laughed lloyd, under her breath. "listen, mistah shelby. she's playing the same chord in the bass straight through." "is that what makes the fearsome discord?" he asked. "it makes me think of an epitaph i once saw carved on a pretentious headstone in a little village cemetery: "'here lies one who never let her left hand know what her right hand done.'" "neithah of laura's hands will evah find out what the othah one is trying to do," whispered lloyd. "she is supposed to be playing the wedding-march. hark! there is a familiah note: '_heah comes the bride_.' they must be at the doah. well, i wish you'd look!" every head was turned, for the bridal party was advancing. slowly down the aisle came m'haley, in the pink chiffon gown from paris. mom beck's quick needle had altered it considerably, for in some unaccountable way the slim bodice fashioned to fit lloyd's slender figure, now fastened around m'haley's waist without undue strain. the skirt, though turned "hine side befo'," fell as skirts should fall, for the fulness had been shifted to the proper places, and the broad sky-blue sash covered the mended holes in the breadth lloyd had torn on the stairs. with her head high, and her armful of flowers held in precisely the same position in which lloyd had carried hers, she swept down the aisle in such exact imitation of the other maid of honor, that every one who had seen the first wedding was convulsed, and kitty's whisper about "lloyd's understudy" was passed with stifled giggles from one to another down both benches. ca'line allison came next, in a white dress and the white slippers that had been thrown after eugenia's carriage with the rice. she was flower girl, and carried an elaborate fancy basket filled with field daisies. a wreath of the same snowy blossoms crowned her woolly pate, and an expression of anxiety drew her little black face into a distressed pucker. she had been told that at every third step she must throw a handful of daisies in the path of the on-coming bride, and her effort to keep count and at the same time keep her balance on the high french heels was almost too much for her. during her many rehearsals m'haley had counted her steps for her: "one, two, three--_throw_! one, two, three--_throw_!" she had gone through her part every time without mistake, for her feet were untrammelled then, and her flat yellow soles struck the ground in safety and with rhythmic precision. she could give her entire mind to the graceful scattering of her posies. but now she walked as if she were mounted on stilts, and her way led over thin ice. the knowledge that she must keep her own count was disconcerting, for she could not "count in her haid," as m'haley had ordered her to do. she was obliged to whisper the numbers loud enough for herself to hear. so with her forehead drawn into an anxious pucker, and her lips moving, she started down the aisle whispering, "one, two, three--_throw_! one, two, three--_throw_!" each time, as she reached the word "throw" and grasped a handful of daisies to suit the action to the word, she tilted forward on the high french heels and almost came to a full stop in her effort to regain her balance. but ca'line allison was a plucky little body, accustomed to walking the tops of fences and cooning out on the limbs of high trees, so she reached the altar without mishap. then with a loud sigh of relief she settled her crown of daisies and rolled her big eyes around to watch the majestic approach of her mother. no matron of the four hundred could have swept down the aisle with a grander air than sylvia. the handsome lavender satin skirt she wore had once trailed its way through one of the most elegant receptions ever given in new york, and afterward had graced several louisville functions. its owner had given sylvia the bodice also, but no amount of stretching could make it meet around sylvia's ample figure, so the proceeds of the fish-fry and ice-cream festival had been invested in a ready-made silk waist. it was not the same shade of lavender as the skirt, but a gorgeous silver tissue belt blinded one to such differences. the long kid gloves, almost dazzling in their whiteness, were new, the fan borrowed, and the touch of something blue was furnished by a broad back-comb of blue enamel surmounted by rhinestones. one white glove rested airily on "mistah robinson's" coat-sleeve, the other carried a half-furled fan edged with white feathers. m'haley and ca'line allison waited at the altar, but the bridal couple, turning to the right, circled around it and mounted the steps leading up into the pulpit. the mystery of the wooden frame was explained now. it was not a symbolical doorway through which they were to pass, but a huge flower-draped picture-frame in which they took their places, facing the congregation like two life-sized portraits in charcoal. [illustration: "'one, two, three--_throw_!'"] the minister, standing meekly below them between m'haley and ca'line allison, with his back to the congregation, prefaced the ceremony by a long and flowery discourse on matrimony, so that there was ample time for the spectators to feast their eyes on every detail of the picture before them. except for a slight stir now and then as some neck was craned in a different position for a better view, the silence was profound, until the benediction was pronounced. at the signal of a blast from the wheezy organ the couple, slowly turning, descended the steps. ca'line allison, in her haste to reach the aisle ahead of them to begin her posy-throwing again, nearly tilted forward on her nose. but with a little crow-hop she righted herself and began her spasmodic whispering, "one, two, three--_throw_!" after the couple came m'haley and the pompous young minister. then lloyd, who had caught the bride's smile of gratification as her eyes rested on the white dress and red roses of this guest of honor, and who read the appealing glance that seemed to beckon her, rose and stepped into line. the rest of sylvia's young ladies immediately followed, and the congregation waited until all the rest of the white folks passed out, before crowding to the carriage to congratulate "brothah and sistah robinson." lloyd went on to the carriage to speak to sylvia and give her the armful of roses to decorate the wedding-feast, before joining the others, who were lighting the lanterns for their homeward walk. "you'd better come in the light of ours, miss lloyd," said alex shelby, coming up to her with bernice beside him. "we might as well take the lead. ranald seems to be having trouble with his wick." lloyd hesitated, remembering rob's warning, but glancing behind her, she saw phil hurrying toward her, and abruptly decided to accept his invitation. she knew that phil was trying to arrange to walk home with her. this would be his last opportunity to walk with her, and while she knew that he would respect her promise to her father enough not to infringe on it by talking openly of his regard for her, his constant hints and allusions would keep her uncomfortable. he seemed to take it for granted that she was bound to come around to this point of view some day, and regard him as the one the stars had destined for her. so it was merely to escape a tête-à-tête with phil which made her walk along beside alex, and put out a hand to draw mary ware to the other side. she linked arms with her as they pushed through the crowd, and started down the road four abreast. but the fences were lined with buggies and wagons, and the scraping wheels and backing horses kept them constantly separating and dodging back and forth across the road, more often singly than in pairs. by the time they reached the gap in the fence where the path through the woods began, the others had caught up with them, and they all scrambled through in a bunch. lloyd looked around, and, with a sensation of relief, saw that kitty had phil safely in tow. she would be free as far as the beeches, at any rate. at a call from elise, mary ran back to join her. positions were being constantly shifted on the homeward way, just as they had been before, and, looking around, lloyd decided that she would slip back presently with some of the others, who would not think that two is company and three a crowd, as bernice might be doing. the backward glance nearly caused her a fall, for a big root in the path made her ankle turn, and alex shelby's quick grasp of her elbow was all that saved her. "it was my fault, miss lloyd," he insisted. "i should have held the lantern differently. there, i'll go slightly ahead and light the path better. can you see all right, bernice?" "yes," she answered, shortly, out of humor that he should be as careful of lloyd's comfort as her own. she trudged along, taking no part in the conversation. it was a general one, extending all along the line, for rob at the tail and ranald at the head shouted jokes and questions back and forth like end-men at a minstrel show. laughing allusions to the maid of honor and ca'line allison were bandied back and forth, and when the line grew unusually straggling, kitty would bring them into step with her, "one, two, three--_throw_!" neither lloyd nor alex noticed the determined silence in which bernice stalked along, and when she presently slipped back with the excuse that she wanted to speak to katie, they scarcely missed her. there was nothing unusual in the action, as all the others were changing company at intervals. at the entrance-gate to the beeches she joined them again, for her nearest road home led through the walton place, and they were to part company here with lloyd and her guests. for a few minutes there was a babel of good-nights and parting sallies, in the midst of which alex shelby managed to say to lloyd in a low tone, "miss lloyd, i am coming out to the valley again a week from to-day. if you haven't any engagement for the afternoon will you go horseback-riding with me?" the consciousness that bernice had heard the invitation and was displeased, confused her so that for a moment she lost her usual ease of manner. she wanted to go, and there was no reason why she should not accept, but all she could manage to stammer was an embarrassed, "why, yes--i suppose so." but the next instant recovering herself, she added, graciously, "yes, mistah shelby, i'll be glad to go." "come on, lloyd," urged betty, swinging her hand to pull her into the group now drawn up on the side of the road ready to start. they had made their adieux. "all right," she answered, locking arms with betty. "good night, mistah shelby. good night, bernice." he acknowledged her nod with a courteous lifting of his hat, and repeated her salutation. but bernice, standing stiff and angry in the starlight, turned on her heel without a response. "what on earth do you suppose is the mattah with bernice?" exclaimed lloyd, in amazement, as they turned into the white road leading toward home. chapter xv. the end of the house-party with the desire to make this last walk together as pleasant as possible, lloyd immediately put bernice out of her mind as far as she was able. but she could not rid herself entirely of the recollection that something disagreeable had happened. the impression bore down on her like a heavy cloud, and was a damper on her high spirits. outwardly she was as gay as ever, and when the walk was over, led the party on a foraging expedition to the pantry. rob and phil were almost uproarious in their merriment now, and, as they devoured cold baked ham, pickles, cheese, beaten biscuit, and cake, they had a fencing-match with carving-knives, and gave a ridiculous parody of the balcony scene in "romeo and juliet." mary, looking on with a sandwich in each hand, almost choked with laughter, although she, too, was borne down by the same feeling that depressed lloyd, of something very disagreeable having happened. she had been so ruffled in spirit all the way home that she had lagged behind the others, and it was only when rob and phil began their irresistible foolishness that she had forgotten her grievance long enough to laugh. no sooner had they all gone up-stairs, and she was alone with joyce, than her indignation waxed red-hot again, and she sputtered out the whole story to her sister. "and," she said, in conclusion, "that hateful bernice howe said the meanest things to katie. elise and i were walking just behind, and we couldn't help hearing. she said that lloyd had deliberately set to work to flirt with mr. shelby, and get him to pay her attention, and that, if katie would watch, she'd soon see how it would be. he'd be going to see lloyd all the time instead of her." "sh!" warned joyce. "they'll hear you all over the house. your voice is getting higher and higher." her warning came too late. already several sentences had penetrated into the next room, and a quick knock at the door was followed by the entrance of lloyd, looking as red and excited as mary. "tell me what it was, mary," she demanded. "what made bernice act so? i was sure you knew from the way you looked when you joined us." mary was almost in tears as she repeated what she had told joyce, for she could see that the little colonel's temper was rising to white heat. "and bernice said it wasn't the first time you had treated her so. she said that malcolm macintyre was so attentive to her last summer while you were away at the springs; that he sent her flowers and candy and took her driving, and was like her very shadow until you came home. then he dropped her like a hot potato, and you monopolized him so that you succeeded in keeping him away from her altogether." "malcolm!" gasped lloyd. "malcolm was my especial friend long befoah i evah heard of bernice howe! why, at the very first valentine pahty i evah went to, he gave me the little silvah arrow he won in the archery contest, for me to remembah him by. i've got it on this very minute." she put her hand up to the little silver pin that fastened the lace of her surplice collar. "malcolm _always has_ called himself my devoted knight, and he--" she paused. there were some things she could not repeat; that scene on the churchyard stile the winter day they went for christmas greens, when he had begged her for a talisman, and his low-spoken reply, "i'll be whatever you want me to be, lloyd." there were other times, too, of which she could not speak. the night of the tableaux was the last one, when she had strolled down the moonlighted paths with him at the beeches, and he had insisted that it was the "glad morrow" by his calendar, and time for her sir feal to tell her many things, especially as he was going away for the rest of the summer on a long yachting trip, and somebody else might tell her the same things in his absence. so many years she had taken his devotion as a matter of course, that it provoked her beyond measure to have bernice insinuate that she had angled for it. lloyd knew girls who did such things; who delighted in proving that they had a superior power of attraction, and who would not scruple to use all sorts of mean little underhand ways to lessen a man's admiration for some other girl, and appropriate it for themselves. she had even heard some of the girls at school boast of such things. "for pity's sake, lloyd!" one of them had said, "don't look at me that way. 'all's fair in love and war,' and a girl's title to popularity is based on the number of scalp-locks she takes." lloyd had despised her for that speech, and now to have bernice openly say that she was capable of such an action was more than she could endure calmly. she set her teeth together hard, and gripped the little fan she still happened to be carrying, as if it were some live thing she was trying to strangle. "and she said," mary added, slowly, reluctant to add fuel to the flame, yet unable to withstand the impelling force of lloyd's eyes, which demanded the whole truth, "she said that she had been sure for some time that mr. shelby was just on the verge of proposing to her, and that, if you succeeded in playing the same game with him that you did with malcolm, she'd get even with you if it took her till her dying day. then, right on top of that, you know, she heard him ask if you'd go horseback riding with him. so that's why she was so angry she wouldn't bid you good night." lloyd's clenched hand tightened its grasp on the fan till the delicate sticks crunched against each other. she was breathing so hard that the little arrow on her dress rose and fell rapidly. the silence was so intense that mary was frightened. she did not know what kind of an outburst to expect. all of a sudden, taking the fan in both hands, lloyd snapped it in two, and then breaking the pieces into a hundred splinters, threw them across the room into the open fireplace. she stood with her back to the girls a moment, then, to mary's unspeakable astonishment, forced herself to speak as calmly as if nothing had happened, asking joyce some commonplace question about her packing. there was a book she wanted her to slip into her trunk to read at the seashore. she was afraid it would be forgotten if left till next day, so she went to her room to get it. as the door closed behind her, mary turned to joyce in amazement. "i don't see how it was possible for her to get over her temper so quickly," she exclaimed. "the change almost took my breath." "she isn't over it," answered joyce. "she simply got it under control, and it will smoulder a long time before it's finally burnt out. she's dreadfully hurt, for she and bernice have been friends so long that she is really fond of her. nothing hurts like being misunderstood and misconstrued in that way. it is the last thing in the world that _lloyd_ would do--suspect a friend of mean motives. from what i've seen of bernice, she is an uncomfortable sort of a friend to have; one of the sensitive, suspicious kind that's always going around with her feelings stuck out for somebody to tread on. she's always looking for slights, and when she doesn't get real ones, she imagines them, which is just as bad." if lloyd's anger burned next morning, there was no trace of it either in face or manner, and she made that last day one long to be remembered by her departing guests. "how lonesome it's going to be aftah you all leave," she said to joyce. "the rest of the summah will be a stupid anticlimax. the house-pahty and the wedding should have come at the last end of vacation instead of the first, then we would have had something to look forward to all summah, and could have plunged into school directly aftah it." "this july and august will be the quietest we have ever known at the locusts," chimed in betty. "allison and kitty leave to-night with you all, malcolm and keith are already gone, and rob will be here only a few days longer. that's the last straw, to have rob go." "what's that about yours truly?" asked rob, coming out of the house and beginning to fan himself with his hat as he dropped down on the porch step. "i was just saying that we shall miss you so much this summer. that you're always our stand-by. it's rob who gets up the rides and picnics, and comes over and stirs us out of our laziness by making us go fishing and walking and tennis-playing. i'm afraid we'll simply go into our shells and stay there after you go." "ah, ha! you do me proud," he answered, with a mocking sweep of his hat. "'tis sweet to be valued at one's true worth. don't think for a moment that i would leave you to pine on the stem if i could have my own way. but i'm my mother's angel baby-boy. she and daddy think that grandfather's health demands a change of air, and they are loath to leave me behind. so, unwilling to deprive them of the apple of their several eyes, i have generously consented to accompany them. but you needn't pine for company," he added, with a mischievous glance at lloyd. "alex shelby expects to spend most of the summer with the old doctor, and he'll be a brother to you all, if you'll allow it." lloyd made no answer, so he proceeded to make several more teasing remarks about alex, not knowing what had taken place before. he even ventured to repeat the warning about her keeping within her own bailiwick, as bernice's friendship was not the kind that could stand much strain. to his surprise lloyd made no answer, but, setting her lips together angrily, rose and went into the house, her head high and her cheeks flushed. "whew!" he exclaimed, with a soft whistle. "what hornet's nest have i stirred up now?" joyce and betty exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to make the explanation. then joyce asked: "didn't you see the way bernice snubbed her last night at the gate, when we left the beeches?" "nary a snub did i see. it must have happened when i was groping around in the path for something that i had flipped out of my pocket with my handkerchief. it rang on the ground like a piece of money, and i feared me i had lost one of me ducats. what did she do?" "i can't tell you now," said joyce, hurriedly, lowering her voice. "here come phil and doctor bradford." "no matter," he answered, airily. "i have no curiosity whatsoever. it's a trait of character entirely lacking in my make-up." then he motioned toward mary, who was sitting in a hammock, cutting the pages of a new magazine. "does _she_ know?" joyce nodded, and feeling that they meant her, mary looked up inquiringly. rob beckoned to her ingratiatingly. "come into the garden, maud," he said in a low tone. "i would have speech with thee." laughing at his foolishness, but in a flutter of pleasure, mary sprang up to follow him to the rustic seat midway down the avenue. as joyce's parting glance had not forbidden it, she was soon answering his questions to the best of her ability. "you see," he explained, "it's not out of curiosity that i ask all this. it's simply as a means of precaution. i can't keep myself out of hot water unless i know how the land lies." that last day of the house-party seemed the shortest of all. betty and miles bradford strolled over to tanglewood and sat for more than an hour on the shady stile leading into the churchyard. lloyd and phil went for a last horseback ride, and mary, watching them canter off together down the avenue, wondered curiously if he would have anything more to say about the bit of turquoise and all it stood for. as she followed joyce up-stairs to help her pack her trunk, a little wave of homesickness swept over her. not that she wanted to go back to the wigwam, but to have joyce go away without her was like parting with the last anchor which held her to her family. it gave her a lonely set-adrift feeling to be left behind. she took her sister's parting injunctions and advice with a meekness that verged so nearly on tears that joyce hastened to change the subject. "think of all the things i'll have to tell you about when i get back from the seashore. only two short months,--just eight little weeks,--but i'm going to crowd them so full of glorious hard work that i'll accomplish wonders. there'll be no end of good times, too: clambakes and fishing and bathing to fill up the chinks in the days, and the story-telling in the evenings around the driftwood fires. it will be over before we know it, and i'll be back here ready to take you home before you have time to really miss me." cheered by joyce's view of the subject, mary turned her back a moment till she had winked away the tears that had begun to gather, then straightway started out to make the most of the eight little weeks left to her at the locusts. when she went with the others to the station "to give the house-party on wheels a grand send-off," as kitty expressed it, her bright little face was so happy that it brought a smiling response from every departing guest. "good-by, miss mary," miles bradford said, cordially, coming up to her in the waiting-room. "the pilgrim father has much to thank you for. you have helped him to store up some very pleasant memories of this happy valley." "good-by, little vicar," said phil next, seizing both her hands. "think of the best man whenever you look at the philip on your shilling, and think of his parting words. _do_ profit by that dreadful dream, and don't take any rash steps that would lead to another cat-fight. we'll take care of your sister," he added, as mary turned to joyce and threw her arms around her neck for one last kiss. "lieutenant logan will watch out for her as far as he goes, and i'll keep my eagle eye on her the rest of the way." "who'll keep an eagle eye on you?" retorted mary, following them out to the platform. he made a laughing grimace over his shoulder, as he turned to help joyce up the steps. "what a good time they are going to have together," thought mary, watching the group as they stood on the rear platform of the last car, waving good-by. "and what a different parting this is from that other one on the desert when he went away with such a sorry look in his eyes." he was facing the future eagerly this time, strong in hope and purpose, and she answered the last wave of his hat with a flap of her handkerchief, which seemed to carry with it all the loyal good wishes that shone in her beaming little face. miles bradford had made a hurried trip to the city that morning, to attend to a matter of business, going in on the ten o'clock trolley and coming back in time for lunch. on his return, he laid a package in mary's lap, and handed one to each of the other girls. joyce's was a pile of new july magazines to read on the train. lloyd's was a copy of "abdallah, or the four-leaved shamrock," which had led to so much discussion the morning of the wedding, when they hunted clovers for the dream-cake boxes. mary's eyes grew round with surprise and delight when she opened her package and found inside the white paper and gilt cord a big box of huyler's candies. "with the compliments of the pilgrim father," was pencilled on the engraved card stuck under the string. there was layer after layer of chocolate creams and caramels, marshmallows and candied violets, burnt almonds and nougat, besides a score of other things--specimens of the confectioner's art for which she knew no name. she had seen the outside of such boxes in the show-cases in phoenix, but never before had such a tempting display met her eyes as these delicious sweets in their trimmings of lace paper and tinfoil and ribbons, crowned by a pair of little gilt tongs, with which one might make dainty choice. betty's gift was not so sightly. it looked like an old dried sponge, for it was only a ball of matted roots. but she held it up with an exclamation of pleasure. "oh, it is one of those fern-balls we were talking about this morning! i've been wanting one all year. you see," she explained to mary, when she had finished thanking doctor bradford, "you hang it up in a window and keep it wet, and it turns into a perfect little hanging garden, so fine and green and feathery it's fit for fairy-land. it will grow as long as you remember to water it. gay melville had one last year in her window at school, and i envied her every time i saw it." "now what does that make me think of?" said mary, screwing up her forehead into a network of wrinkles and squinting her eyes half-shut in her effort to remember. "oh, i know! it's something i read in a paper a few days ago. it's in china or japan, i don't know which, but in one of those heathen countries. when a young man wants to find out if a girl really likes him, he goes to her house early in the dawn, and leaves a growing plant on the balcony for her. if she spurns him, she tears it up by the roots and throws it out in the street to wither, and i believe breaks the pot; but if she likes him, she takes it in and keeps it green, to show that he lives in her memory." a shout of laughter from rob and phil had made her turn to stare at them uneasily. "what are you laughing at?" she asked, innocently. "i _did_ read it. i can show you the paper it is in, and i thought it was a right bright way for a person to find out what he wanted to know without asking." it was very evident that she hadn't the remotest idea she had said anything personal, and her ignorance of the cause of their mirth made her speech all the funnier. doctor bradford laughed, too, as he said with a formal bow: "i hope you will take the suggestion to heart, miss betty, and let my memory and the fern-ball grow green together." then, mary, realizing what she had said when it was too late to unsay it, clapped her hands over her mouth and groaned. apologies could only make the matter worse, so she tried to hide her confusion by passing around the box of candy. it passed around so many times during the course of the afternoon that the box was almost empty by train-time. mary returned to it with unabated interest after the guests were gone. it was the first box of candy she had ever owned, and she wondered if she would ever have another. "i believe i'll save it for a keepsake box," she thought, gathering it up in her arms to follow betty up-stairs. rob had come back with them from the station, and, taking the story of "abdallah," he and lloyd had gone to the library to read it together. betty was going to her room to put the fern-ball to soak, according to directions. feeling just a trifle lonely since her parting from joyce, mary wandered off to the room that seemed to miss her, too, now that all her personal belongings had disappeared from wardrobe and dressing-table. but she was soon absorbed in arranging her keepsake box. emptying the few remaining scraps of candy into a paper bag, she smoothed out the lace paper, the ribbons, and the tinfoil to save to show to hazel lee. these she put in her trunk, but the gilt tongs seemed worthy of a place in the box. the pilgrim father's card was dropped in beside it, then the heart-shaped dream-cake box, holding one of the white icing roses that had ornamented the bride's cake. last and most precious was the silver shilling, which she polished carefully with her chamois-skin pen-wiper before putting away. "i don't need to look at _you_ to make me think of the best man," she said to the philip on the coin. "there's more things than you that remind me of him. i certainly would like to know what sort of a fate you are going to bring me. there's about as much chance of my being an heiress as there is of that nightmare coming true." chapter xvi. the golden leaf of honor it was a compliment that changed the entire course of mary's summer; a compliment which betty gleefully repeated to her, imitating the old colonel's very tone, as he gesticulated emphatically to mr. sherman: "i tell you, jack, she's the most remarkable child of her age i ever met. it is wonderful the information she has managed to pick up in that god-forsaken desert country. i say to you, sir, she can tell you as much now about scientific bee-culture as any naturalist you ever knew. actually quoted huber to me the other day, and maeterlinck's 'life of the bee!' think of a fourteen-year-old girl quoting maeterlinck! with the proper direction in her reading, she need never see the inside of a college, for her gift of observation amounts to a talent, and she has it in her to make herself not only an honor to her sex, but one of the most interesting women of her generation." mary looked up in blank amazement when betty danced into the library, hat in hand, and repeated what the old colonel had just said in her hearing. compliments were rare in mary's experience, and this one, coming from the scholarly old gentleman of whom she stood in awe, agitated her so much that three successive times she ran her needle into her finger, instead of through the bead she was trying to impale on its point. the last time it pricked so sharply that she gave a nervous jerk and upset the entire box of beads on the floor. "see how stuck-up that made me," she said, with an embarrassed laugh, shaking a tiny drop of blood from her finger before dropping on her knees to grope for the beads, which were rolling all over the polished floor. "it's so seldom i hear a compliment that i haven't learned to take them gracefully." "godmother is waiting in the carriage for me," said betty, pinning on her hat as she spoke, "or i'd help you pick them up. i just hurried in to tell you while it was fresh in my mind, and i could remember the exact words. i had no idea it would upset you so," she added, mischievously. left to herself, mary soon gathered the beads back into the box and resumed her task. she was making a pair of moccasins for girlie dinsmore's doll. her conscience still troubled her for playing stork, and she had resolved to spend some of her abundant leisure in making amends in this way. but only her fingers took up the same work that had occupied her before betty's interruption. her thoughts started off in an entirely different direction. a most romantic little day-dream had been keeping pace with her bead-stringing. a day-dream through which walked a prince with eyes like rob's and a voice like phil's, and the wealth of a croesus in his pockets. and he wrote sonnets to her and called her his ladye fair, and gave her not only one turquoise, but a bracelet-ful. now every vestige of sentiment was gone, and she was sitting up straight and eager, repeating the old colonel's words. they were making her unspeakably happy. "she has it in her to make herself not only an honor to her sex, but one of the most interesting women of her generation." "to make herself an honor,"--why, that would be winning the third leaf of the magic shamrock--the _golden_ one! betty had said that she believed that every one who earned those first three leaves was sure to find the fourth one waiting somewhere in the world. it wouldn't make any difference then whether she was an old maid or not. she need not be dependent on any prince to bring her the diamond leaf, and that was a good thing, for down in her heart she had her doubts about one ever coming to her. she loved to make up foolish little day-dreams about them, but it would be too late for him to come when she was a grandmother, and she wouldn't be beautiful till then, so she really had no reason to expect one. it would be much safer for her to depend on herself, and earn the first three in plain, practical ways. "to make herself an honor." the words repeated themselves again and again, as she rapidly outlined an arrow-head on the tiny moccasin in amber and blue. suddenly she threw down the needle and the bit of kid and sprang to her feet. "_i'll do it!_" she said aloud. as she took a step forward, all a-tingle with a new ambition and a firm resolve, she came face to face with her reflection in one of the polished glass doors of the bookcase. the intent eagerness of its gaze seemed to challenge her. she lifted her head as if the victory were already won, and confronted the reflection squarely. "i'll do it!" she said, solemnly to the resolute eyes in the glass door. "you see if i don't!" only that morning she had given a complacent glance to the long shelves of fiction, with which she expected to while away the rest of the summer. there would be other pleasant things, she knew, drives with mrs. sherman, long tramps with the girls, and many good times with elise walton; but there would still be left hours and hours for her to spend in the library, going from one to another of the famous novelists, like a bee in a flower garden. "with the proper direction in her reading," the old colonel had said, and mary knew without telling that she would not find the proper beginning among the books of fiction. instinctively she felt she must turn to the volumes telling of real people and real achievements. biographies, journals, lives, and letters of women who had been, as the colonel said, an honor to their sex and the most interesting of their generation. she wished that she dared ask him to choose the first book for her, but she hadn't the courage to venture that far. so she chose at random. "lives of famous women" was the volume that happened to attract her first, a collection of short sketches. she took it from the shelf and glanced through it, scanning a page here and there, for she was a rapid reader. then, finding that it bade fair to be entertaining, down she dropped on the rug, and began at the preface. lunch stopped her for awhile, but, thoroughly interested, she carried the book up to her room and immediately began to read again. when she went down to the porch before dinner that evening, she did not say to herself in so many words that maybe the colonel would notice what she was reading, but it was with the hope that he would that she carried the book with her. he did notice, and commended her for it, but threw her into a flutter of confusion by asking her what similarity she had noticed in the lives of those women she was reading about. it mortified her to be obliged to confess that she had not discovered any, and she thought, as she nervously fingered the pages and looked down at her toes, "that's what i got for trying to appear smarter than i really am." "this is what i meant," he began, in his didactic way. "each of them made a specialty of some one thing, and devoted all her energies to accomplishing that purpose, whether it was the establishing of a salon, the discovery of a star, or the founding of a college. they hit the bull's-eye, because they aimed at no other spot on the target. i have no patience with this modern way of a girl's taking up a dozen fads at a time. it makes her a jack-at-all-trades and a master of none." the colonel was growing eloquent on one of his favorite topics now, and presently mary found him giving her the very guidance she had longed for. he was helping her to a choice. by the time dinner was announced, he had awakened two ambitions within her, although he was not conscious of the fact himself. one was to study the strange insect life of the desert, in which she was already deeply interested, to unlock its treasures, unearth its secrets, and add to the knowledge the world had already amassed, until she should become a recognized authority on the subject. the other was to prove by her own achievements the truth of something which the colonel quoted from emerson. it flattered her that he should quote emerson to her, a mere child, as if she were one of his peers, and she wished that joyce could have been there to hear it. this was the sentence: "_if a man can write a better book, preach a better sermon, or make a better mouse-trap than his neighbor, though he build his house in the woods, the world will make a beaten track to his door_." mary did not yet know whether the desert would yield her the material for a book or a mouse-trap, but she determined that no matter what she undertook, she would force the world to "make a beaten track to her door." the first step was to find out how much had already been discovered by the great naturalists who had gone before her, in order that she might take a step beyond them. with that in view, she plunged into the course of study that the colonel outlined for her with the same energy and dogged determination which made her a successful killer of snakes. lloyd came upon her the third morning after the breaking up of the house-party, sitting in the middle of the library floor, surrounded by encyclopædias and natural histories. she was verifying in the books all that she had learned by herself in the desert of the habits of trap-door spiders, and she was so absorbed in her task that she did not look up. lloyd slipped out of the room without disturbing her, wishing she could plunge into some study as absorbing,--something that would take her mind from the thoughts which had nagged her like a persistent mosquito for the last few days. she knew that she had done nothing to give bernice just cause for taking offence, and it hurt her to be misunderstood. "if it were anything else," she mused, as she strolled up and down under the locusts, "i could go to her and explain. but explanation is impossible in a case of this kind. it would sound too conceited for anything for me to tell her what i know to be the truth about malcolm's attentions to her, and as for the othah--" she shrugged her shoulders. "it would be hopeless to try that. oh, if i could only talk it ovah with mothah or papa jack!" she sighed. but they had gone away immediately after the house-party, for a week's outing in the tennessee mountains. she could have gone to her grandfather for advice on most questions, but this was too intangible for her to explain to him. betty, too, was as much puzzled as herself. "i declare," she said, when appealed to, "i don't know what to tell you, lloyd. it's going to be such a dull summer with everybody gone, and alex shelby is so nice in every way, it does seem unfair for you to have to put such a desirable companionship from you just on account of another girl's jealousy. on the other hand, bernice is an old playmate, and you can't very well ignore the claims of such a long-time friendship. she has misjudged and misrepresented you, and the opportunity is yours, if you will take it, to show her how mistaken she is in your character." now, as lloyd reached the end of the avenue and stopped in front of the gate, her face brightened. katie mallard was hurrying down the railroad track, waving her parasol to attract her attention. "i can't come in," she called, as she came within speaking distance. "i'm out delivering the most informal of invitations to the most informal of garden-parties to-morrow afternoon. i want you and betty to help receive." "who else is going to help?" asked lloyd, when she had cordially accepted the invitation for herself and betty. "nobody. i had intended to have bernice howe, and went up there awhile ago to ask her. she said maybe she'd come, but she certainly wouldn't help receive if you were going to. she's dreadfully down on you, lloyd." "yes, i know it. i've heard some of the catty things she said about my breaking up the friendship between her and malcolm. it's simply absurd, and it makes me so boiling mad every time i think about it that i feel like a smouldering volcano. there aren't any words strong enough to relieve my mind. i'd like to thundah and lighten at her." "yes, it is absurd," agreed katie. "i told her so too. i told her that malcolm always had thought more of you than any girl in the valley, and always would. and she said, well, you had no 'auld lang syne' claim on alex, and that if he once got started to going to locust you'd soon have him under your thumb as you do every one else, and that would be the end of the affair for her." "as if i were an old spidah, weaving webs for everybody that comes along!" cried lloyd, indignantly. "she's no right to talk that way." "i think it's because she really cares so much, and not that she does it to be spiteful," said katie. "she hasn't a bit of pride about hiding her feeling for him. she openly cried about it while she was talking to me." "what do you think i ought to do?" asked lloyd, with a troubled face. "i like mistah shelby evah so much, and i'd like to be nice to him for the old doctah's sake if for no othah reason, for i'm devoted to _him_. and i really would enjoy seeing him often, especially now when everybody else is gone or going for the rest of the summah. besides, he'd think it mighty queah for me to write to him not to come next thursday. but i'd hate to really interfere with bernice's happiness, if it has grown to be such a serious affair with her that she can cry about it. i'd hate to have her going through the rest of her life thinking that i had deliberately wronged her, and if she's breaking her heart ovah it"--she stopped abruptly. "oh, i don't see that you have any call to do the grand renouncing act!" exclaimed katie. "why should you cut yourself off from a good time and a good friend by snubbing him? it will put you in a very unpleasant light, for you couldn't explain without making bernice appear a perfect ninny. and if you don't explain, what will he think of you? let me tell you, it is more than she would do for you if you were in her place. somehow, with us girls, life seems like a game of 'hold fast all i give you.' what falls into your hands is yours by right of the game, and you've no call to hand it over to the next girl because she whimpers that she wants to be 'it.' don't you worry. go on and have a good time." with that parting advice katie hurried away, and lloyd was left to pace up and down the avenue more undecided than before. it was late in the afternoon of the next day when she finally found the answer to her question. she had been wandering around the drawing-room, glancing into a book here, rearranging a vase of flowers there, turning over the pile of music on the piano, striking aimless chords on the harp-strings. presently she paused in front of the mantel to lift the lid from the rose-jar and let its prisoned sweetness escape into the room. as she did so she glanced up into the eyes of the portrait above her. with a whimsical smile she thought of the times before when she had come to it for counsel, and the question half-formed itself on her lips: "what would _you_ do, you beautiful grandmother amanthis?" instantly there came into her mind the memory of a winter day when she had stood there in the firelight before it, stirred to the depths by the music this one of "the choir invisible" had made of her life, by her purpose to "ease the burden of the world"--"to live in scorn of miserable aims that end with self." now like an audible reply to her question the eyes of the portrait seemed to repeat that last sentence to her: "_to live in scorn of miserable aims that end with self!_" for a moment she stood irresolute, then dropping the lid on the rose-jar again, she crossed over into the next room and sat down beside the library table. it was no easy task to write the note she had decided to send. five different times she got half-way through, tore the page in two and tossed it into the waste-basket. each attempt seemed so stiff and formal that she was disgusted with it. nearly an hour passed in the effort. she could not write the real reason for breaking her engagement for the ride, and she could not express too much regret, or he would make other occasions she would have to refuse, if she followed out the course she had decided upon, to give bernice no further occasion for jealousy. it was the most difficult piece of composition she had ever attempted, and she was far from pleased with the stiff little note which she finally slipped into its envelope. "it will have to do," she sighed, wearily, "but i know he will think i am snippy and rude, and i can't beah for him to have that opinion of me." in the very act of sealing the envelope she hesitated again with katie's words repeating themselves in her ears: "it's more than she would do for you, if you were in her place." while she hesitated there came a familiar whistle from somewhere in the back of the house. she gave the old call in answer, and the next moment rob came through the dining-room into the hall, and paused in the library door. "i've made my farewells to the rest of the family," he announced, abruptly. "i met betty and mary down in the orchard as i cut across lots from home. now i've got about five minutes to devote to the last sad rites with you." "yes, we're going on the next train," he answered, when her amazed question stopped him. "the family sprung the surprise on me just a little while ago. it seems the doctor thought grandfather ought to go at once, so they've hurried up arrangements, and we'll be off in a few hours, two days ahead of the date they first set." startled by the abruptness of his announcement, lloyd almost dropped the hot sealing-wax on her fingers instead of the envelope. his haste seemed to communicate itself to her, for, springing up, she stood with one hand pressing her little signet ring into the wax, while the other reached for the stamp-box. "i'll be through in half a second," she said. "this lettah should have gone off yestahday. if you will post it on the train for me it will save time and get there soonah." "all right," he answered. "come on and walk down to the gate with me, and we'll stop at the measuring-tree. we can't let the old custom go by when we've kept it up so many years, and i won't be back again this vacation." swinging the letter back and forth to make sure that the ink was dry, she walked along beside him. "oh, i wish you weren't going away!" she exclaimed, forlornly. "it's going to be dreadfully stupid the rest of the summah." they reached the measuring-tree, and taking out his knife and pocket-rule, rob passed his fingers over the notches which stood for the many years they had measured their heights against the old locust. then he held out the rule and waited for her to take her place under it, with her back against the tree. "what a long way you've stretched up between six and seventeen," he said. "this'll be about the last time we'll need to go through this ceremony, for i've reached my top notch, and probably you have too." "wait!" she exclaimed, stooping to pick something out of the grass at her feet. "heah's anothah foah-leaved clovah. i find one neahly every time i come down this side of the avenue. i'm making a collection of them. when i get enough, maybe i'll make a photograph-frame of them." "then you ought to put your own picture in it, for you're certainly the luckiest person for finding them i ever heard of. i'm going to carve one on the tree, here by this last notch under the date. it will be quite neat and symbolical, don't you think? a sort of 'when this you see remember me' hieroglyphic. it will remind you of the long discussions we've had on the subject since we read 'abdallah' together." he dug away in silence for a moment, then said, "it's queer how you happened to find that just now, for last night i came across a verse about one, that made me think of you, and i learned it on purpose to say to you--sort of a farewell wish, you know." "spouting poetry is a new accomplishment for you, bobby," said lloyd, teasingly. "i certainly want to hear it. go on." she looked down to thrust the stem of the clover through the silver arrow that fastened her belt, and waited with an expectant smile to hear what limerick or nonsense jingle he had found that made him think of her. it was neither. with eyes fixed on the little symbol he was outlining on the bark of the tree, he recited as if he were reading the words from it: "love, be true to her; life, be dear to her; health, stay close to her; joy, draw near to her; fortune, find what your gifts can do for her. search your treasure-house through and through for her. follow her steps the wide world over; you must! for here is the four-leaved clover." "why, rob, that is _lovely_!" she exclaimed, looking up at him, surprised and pleased. "i'm glad you put that clovah on the tree, for every time i look at it, it will remind me of yoah wish, and--" the letter she had been carrying fluttered to the ground. he stooped to pick it up and return it to her. "that's the lettah you are to mail for me," she said, giving it back to him. "don't forget it, for it's impawtant." the address was uppermost, in her clear, plain hand, and she held it toward him, so that he saw she intended him to read it. "hm! writing to alex shelby, are you?" he said, with his usual brotherly frankness, and a sniff that plainly showed his disapproval. "it's just a note to tell him that i can't ride with him thursday," she answered, turning away. "did you tell him the reason?" he demanded, continuing to dig into the tree. "of co'se not! how could i without making bernice appeah ridiculous?" "but what will he think of you, if you don't?" "oh, i don't know! i've worried ovah it until i'm neahly gray." then she looked up, wondering at his silence and the grave intentness with which he was regarding her. "oh, rob, don't tell me, aftah all, that you think it was silly of me! i thought you'd like it! it was only the friendly thing to do, wasn't it?" he gave a final dig with his knife, then turned to look down into her wistful eyes. "lloyd sherman," he said, slowly, "you're one girl whose friendship means something. you don't measure up very high on this old locust, but when it comes to doing the square thing--when it's a question of _honor_, you measure up like a man!" somehow the unwonted tenderness of his tone, the grave approval of his smile, touched her in a way she had not believed possible. the tears sprang to her eyes. there was a little tremor in her voice that she tried to hide with a laugh. "oh, rob! i'm so glad! nothing could make me happier than to have you think that!" they started on down to the gate together. the only sound in all the late afternoon sunshine was the soft rustling of the leaves overhead. how many times the old locusts had watched their yearly partings! as they reached the gate, rob balanced the letter on his palm an instant. evidently he had been thinking of it all the way. "yes," he said, as if to himself, "that proves a right to the third leaf." then he dropped the letter in his pocket. lloyd looked up, almost shyly. "rob, i want to tell you something. even after that letter was written i was tempted not to send it. i was sitting with it in my hand, hesitating, when i heard yoah whistle in the hall, and then it came ovah me like a flash, all you'd said, both in jest and earnest, about friendship and what it should count for. well, it was the old test, like jumping off the roof and climbing the chimney. i used to say 'bobby expects it of me, so i'll do it or die.' it was that way this time. so if i have found the third leaf, rob, it was _you_ who showed me where to look for it." then it was that the old locusts, watching and nodding overhead, sent a long whispering sigh from one to another. they knew now that the two children who had romped and raced in their shadows, who had laughed and sung around their feet through so many summers, were outgrowing that childhood at last. for the boy, instead of answering "oh, pshaw!" in bluff, boyish fashion, as he would have done in other summers gone, impulsively thrust out his hands to clasp both of hers. that was their good-by. then the little colonel, tall and slender like elaine, the lily maid, turned and walked back toward the house. she was so happy in the thought that she had found the golden leaf, that she did not think to look behind her, so she did not see what the locusts saw--rob standing there watching her, till she passed out of sight between the white pillars. but the grim old family sentinels, who were always watching, nodded knowingly and went on whispering together. the end. books for young people * * * * * the little colonel books (trade mark) _by annie fellows johnston_ _each vol., large mo, cloth, illustrated, per vol._, $ . the little colonel stories (trade mark) being three "little colonel" stories in the cosy corner series, "the little colonel," "two little knights of kentucky," and "the giant scissors," put into a single volume. =the little colonel's house party= (trade mark) =the little colonel's holidays= (trade mark) =the little colonel's hero= (trade mark) =the little colonel at boarding school= (trade mark) =the little colonel in arizona= (trade mark) =the little colonel's christmas vacation= (trade mark) =the little colonel, maid of honour= (trade mark) =the little colonel's knight comes riding= (trade mark) =mary ware: the little colonel's chum= (trade mark) _these ten volumes, boxed as a ten-volume set_, $ . =the little colonel= (trade mark) =two little knights of kentucky= =the giant scissors= =big brother= special holiday editions each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $ . new plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches. =in the desert of waiting=: the legend of camelback mountain. =the three weavers=: a fairy tale for fathers and mothers as well as for their daughters. =keeping tryst= =the legend of the bleeding heart= =the rescue of princess winsome=: a fairy play for old and young. =the jester's sword= each one volume, tall mo, cloth decorative, $ . paper boards, . there has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these six stories, which were originally included in six of the "little colonel" books. =joel: a boy of galilee=: by annie fellows johnston. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. new illustrated edition, uniform with the little colonel books, vol., large mo, cloth decorative, $ . a story of the time of christ, which is one of the author's best-known books. =the little colonel good times book= uniform in size with the little colonel series, $ . bound in white kid (morocco) and gold, . cover design and decorations by amy carol rand. the publishers have had many inquiries from readers of the little colonel books as to where they could obtain a "good times book" such as betty kept. mrs. johnston, who has for years kept such a book herself, has gone enthusiastically into the matter of the material and format for a similar book for her young readers. every girl will want to possess a "good times book." =asa holmes=: or, at the cross-roads. a sketch of country life and country humor. by annie fellows johnston. with a frontispiece by ernest fosbery. large mo, cloth, gilt top, $ . 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"singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at west point. the presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable."--_new york sun._ =from chevrons to shoulder straps= by florence kimball russel. mo, cloth, illustrated, decorative, $ . west point again forms the background of a new volume in this popular series, and relates the experience of jack stirling during his junior and senior years. =the sandman: his farm stories= by william j. hopkins. with fifty illustrations by ada clendenin williamson. large mo, decorative cover, $ . "an amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. it should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_buffalo express._ =the sandman: more farm stories= by william j. hopkins. large mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated, $ . mr. hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. =the sandman: his ship stories= by william j. hopkins, author of "the sandman: his farm stories," etc. large mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated, $ . "children call for these stories over and over again."--_chicago evening post._ =the sandman, his sea stories= by william j. hopkins. large mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated, $ . each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times. =the doctor's little girl= by marion ames taggart, author of "pussy-cat town," etc. one vol., library mo, illustrated, $ . a thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child's point of view. =sweet nancy= the further adventures of the doctor's little girl. by marion ames taggart. one vol., library, mo, illustrated, $ . in the new book, the author tells how nancy becomes in fact "the doctor's assistant," and continues to shed happiness around her. =the christmas-makers' club= by edith a. sawyer. mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . a delightful story for girls, full of the real spirit of christmas. it abounds in merrymaking and the right kind of fun. =carlota= a story of the san gabriel mission. by frances margaret fox. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by ethelind ridgway, $ . "it is a pleasure to recommend this little story as an entertaining contribution to juvenile literature."--_the new york sun._ =the seven christmas candles= by frances margaret fox. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by ethelind ridgway, $ . miss fox's new book deals with the fortunes of the delightful mulvaney children. =pussy-cat town= by marion ames taggart. small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors, $ . "anything more interesting than the doings of the cats in this story, their humor, their wisdom, their patriotism, would be hard to imagine."--_chicago post._ =the roses of saint elizabeth= by jane scott woodruff. small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by adelaide everhart, $ . this is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the wartburg, where saint elizabeth once had her home. =gabriel and the hour book= by evaleen stein. small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by adelaide everhart, $ . gabriel was a loving, patient, little french lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. =the enchanted automobile= translated from the french by mary j. safford small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by edna m. sawyer, $ . "an up-to-date french fairy-tale which fairly radiates the spirit of the hour,--unceasing diligence."--_chicago record-herald._ =o-heart-san= the story of a japanese girl. by helen eggleston haskell. small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by frank p. fairbanks, $ . "the story comes straight from the heart of japan. the shadow of fujiyama lies across it and from every page breathes the fragrance of tea leaves, cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums."--_the chicago inter-ocean._ =the young section-hand=: or, the adventures of allan west. by burton e. stevenson. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . mr. stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. =the young train dispatcher.= by burton e. stevenson. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "a better book for boys has never left an american press."--_springfield union._ =the young train master.= by burton e. stevenson. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys in which the actualities of life are set forth in a practical way could be devised or written."--_boston herald._ =captain jack lorimer.= by winn standish. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . jack is a fine example of the all-around american high-school boy. =jack lorimer's champions=: or, sports on land and lake. by winn standish. square mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "it is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics, for it shows him what it means to always 'play fair.'"--_chicago tribune._ =jack lorimer's holidays=: or, millvale high in camp. by winn standish. illustrated, $ . full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation. =jack lorimer's substitute=: or, the acting captain of the team. by winn standish. illustrated, $ . on the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, tobogganing, but it is more of a school story perhaps than any of its predecessors. =captain jinks=: the autobiography of a shetland pony. by frances hodges white. cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . the story of captain jinks and his faithful dog friend billy, their quaint conversations and their exciting adventures, will be eagerly read by thousands of boys and girls. the story is beautifully written and will take its place alongside of "black beauty" and "beautiful joe." =the red feathers.= by theodore roberts. cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "the red feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an indian boy who lived in the stone age, many years ago, when the world was young. =flying plover.= by theodore roberts. cloth decorative. illustrated by charles livingston bull, $ . squat-by-the-fire is a very old and wise indian who lives alone with her grandson, "flying plover," to whom she tells the stories each evening. =the wreck of the ocean queen.= by james otis, author of "larry hudson's ambition," etc. cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "a stirring story of wreck and mutiny, which boys will find especially absorbing. the many young admirers of james otis will not let this book escape them, for it fully equals its many predecessors in excitement and sustained interest."--_chicago evening post._ =little white indians.= by fannie e. ostrander. cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "a bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the 'make-believe' instinct in children, and will give them a healthy, active interest in 'the simple life.'" =marching with morgan.= how donald lovell became a soldier of the revolution. by john l. veasy. cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . this is a splendid boy's story of the expedition of montgomery and arnold against quebec. cosy corner series it is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. the numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. each vol., mo, cloth, $ . _by annie fellows johnston_ =the little colonel (trade mark.)= the scene of this story is laid in kentucky. its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the little colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =the giant scissors= this is the story of joyce and of her adventures in france. joyce is a great friend of the little colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "house party" and the "holidays." =two little knights of kentucky= who were the little colonel's neighbors. in this volume the little colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. she is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =mildred's inheritance= a delightful little story of a lonely english girl who comes to america and is befriended by a sympathetic american family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. by means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =cicely and other stories for girls= the readers of mrs. johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =aunt 'liza's hero and other stories= a collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =big brother= a story of two boys. the devotion and care of stephen, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =ole mammy's torment= "ole mammy's torment" has been fitly called "a classic of southern life." it relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =the story of dago= in this story mrs. johnston relates the story of dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =the quilt that jack built= a pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =flip's islands of providence= a story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _by edith robinson_ =a little puritan's first christmas= a story of colonial times in boston, telling how christmas was invented by betty sewall, a typical child of the puritans, aided by her brother sam. =a little daughter of liberty= the author introduces this story as follows: "one ride is memorable in the early history of the american revolution, the well-known ride of paul revere. equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of anthony severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =a loyal little maid= a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington. =a little puritan rebel= this is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a little puritan pioneer= the scene of this story is laid in the puritan settlement at charlestown. =a little puritan bound girl= a story of boston in puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =a little puritan cavalier= the story of a "little puritan cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead crusaders. =a puritan knight errant= the story tells of a young lad in colonial times who endeavored to carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days. _by ouida_ (_louise de la ramee_) =a dog of flanders= a christmas story too well and favorably known to require description. =the nurnberg stove= this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _by frances margaret fox_ =the little giant's neighbours= a charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbors were the creatures of the field and garden. =farmer brown and the birds= a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =betty of old mackinaw= a charming story of child life. =brother billy= the story of betty's brother, and some further adventures of betty herself. =mother nature's little ones= curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =how christmas came to the mulvaneys= a bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. =the country christmas= miss fox has vividly described the happy surprises that made the occasion so memorable to the mulvaneys, and the funny things the children did in their new environment. _by miss mulock_ =the little lame prince= a delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =adventures of a brownie= the story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =his little mother= miss mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "his little mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =little sunshine's holiday= an attractive story of a summer outing. "little sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which miss mulock is so justly famous. _by marshall saunders_ =for his country= a sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country; written with that charm which has endeared miss saunders to hosts of readers. =nita, the story of an irish setter = in this touching little book, miss saunders shows how dear to her heart are all of god's dumb creatures. =alpatok, the story of an eskimo dog= alpatok, an eskimo dog from the far north, was stolen from his master and left to starve in a strange city, but was befriended and cared for, until he was able to return to his owner. _by will allen dromgoole_ =the farrier's dog and his fellow= this story, written by the gifted young southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. =the fortunes of the fellow= those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of "the farrier's dog and his fellow" will welcome the further account of the adventures of baydaw and the fellow at the home of the kindly smith. =the best of friends= this continues the experiences of the farrier's dog and his fellow, written in mr. dromgoole's well-known charming style. =down in dixie= a fascinating story for boys and girls, of a family of alabama children who move to florida and grow up in the south. _by marian w. wildman_ =loyalty island= an account of the adventures of four children and their pet dog on an island, and how they cleared their brother from the suspicion of dishonesty. =theodore and theodora= this is a story of the exploits and mishaps of two mischievous twins, and continues the adventures of the interesting group of children in "loyalty island." * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , unclear wording "int n" changed to "interest in" (such friendly interest in) page , "woudn't" changed to "wouldn't" (vowed she wouldn't) page , "conversaton" changed to "conversation" (fell into conversation) page , "unroarious" changed to "uproarious" (were almost uproarious) [the original book had illustrations on almost all pages. their location has not been individually marked. the inconsistent hyphenization of "cuttle-fish" is in the original.] japanese fairy tale series no. the mouse's wedding. griffith farran & co., london & sydney, n.s.w. kobunsha : tokyo the mouse's wedding. a long time ago there was a white mouse called kanemochi, servant of daikoku, the god of wealth. his wife's name was onaga. both kanemochi and his wife were very discreet. never in the day time nor even at night did they venture into the parlor or kitchen, and so they lived in tranquility free from danger of meeting the cat. their only son fukutaro also was of a gentle disposition. when he was old enough to take a wife, his parents concluded to get him one, transfer their property to him, and seek retirement. fortunately, one of their relatives named chudayu had a lovely daughter called hatsuka. accordingly a go-between was employed to enter into negotiations with chudayu respecting the marriage. when the young folks were allowed to see each other, neither party objected, and so presents were exchanged. the bridegroom sent the bride the usual articles: an obi or belt, silk cotton, dried bonito, dried cuttle fish, white flax, sea-weed, and _sake_ or rice wine. the bride sent the bridegroom in like manner: a linen _kami-shimo_, dried bonito, dried cuttle-fish, white flax, sea-weed, fish, and _sake_; thus confirming the marriage promise. a lucky day was then chosen, and every thing prepared for the bride's removal to her new home, her clothes were cut out and made, and needed articles purchased. so chudayu was kept busy preparing for the wedding. the parents made their daughter hatsuka blacken her teeth as a sign that she would not marry a second husband; they also carefully taught her that she must obey her husband, be dutiful to her father-in-law, and love her mother-in-law. kanemochi on his part cleaned up his house inside and out, made preparation for the marriage ceremony and feast, assembled his relatives and friends, and sent out many of his servants to meet the bride on her way, and to give notice of her approach, that all might be prepared for her reception. soon the bride came in her palanquin with her boxes carried before her, and a long train of attendants following her. kanemochi went out as far as the gate to meet her, and ushered her into the parlor. at a signal from the go-between the bride and bridegroom, to confirm the marriage bond, exchanged between themselves three cups of _sake_, drinking three times from each cup in turns. when this ceremony, the "three times three" was ended, the guests exchanged cups with the bride in token of good will, and thus the union was consummated. shortly afterwards the bride, her husband, and his parents visited her home. in the evening the bride returned home with her husband and his parents with whom she lived in harmony, contented, prosperous and happy, and much to be congratulated. printed by the kobunsha in tokyo, japan the kobunsha's japanese fairy tale series. . momotaro or little peachling. . the tongue cut sparrow. . the battle of the monkey and the crab. . the old man who made the dead trees blossom. . kachi-kachi mountain. . the mouse's wedding. . the old man and the devils. . urashima, the fisher-boy. . the eight-headed serpent. . the matsuyama mirror. . the hare of inaba. . the cub's triumph. . the silly jelly-fish. . the princes, fire-flash and fire-fade. . my lord bag-o'-rice. . the wooden bowl. _copyright reserved_ note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) prudence says so by ethel hueston author of prudence of the parsonage with illustrations by arthur william brown [illustration: come on. let's beat it] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company _to_ my little daughter elizabeth my comrade and my inspiration contents chapter page i the chaperon ii science and health iii a gift from heaven iv how carol spoiled the wedding v the serenade vi substitution vii making matches viii lark's literary venture ix a clear call x jerry junior xi the end of fairy xii sowing seeds xiii the connie problem xiv boosting connie xv a millionaire's son xvi the twins have a proposal xvii the girl who wouldn't propose prudence says so chapter i the chaperon "girls,--come down! quick!--i want to see how you look!" prudence stood at the foot of the stairs, deftly drawing on her black silk gloves,--gloves still good in prudence's eyes, though fairy had long since discarded them as unfit for service. there was open anxiety in prudence's expression, and puckers of worry perpendicularly creased her white forehead. "girls!" she called again. "come down! father, you'd better hurry,--it's nearly train time. girls, are you deaf!" her insistence finally brought response. a door opened in the hallway above, and connie started down the stairs, fully dressed, except that she limped along in one stocking-foot, her shoe in her hand. "it's so silly of you to get all dressed before you put on your shoes, connie," prudence reproved her as she came down. "it wrinkles you up so. but you do look nice. wasn't it dear of the ladies' aid to give you that dress for your birthday? it's so dainty and sweet,--and goodness knows you needed one. they probably noticed that. let me fix your bow a little. do be careful, dear, and don't get mussed before we come back. aunt grace will be so much gladder to live with us if we all look sweet and clean. and you'll be good, won't you, connie, and--twins, will you come!" "they are sewing up the holes in each other's stockings," connie vouchsafed. "they're all dressed." the twins, evidently realizing that prudence's patience was near the breaking point, started down-stairs for approval, a curious procession. all dressed as connie had said, and most charming, but they walked close together, carol stepping gingerly on one foot and lark stooping low, carrying a needle with great solicitude,--the thread reaching from the needle to a small hole on carol's instep. "what on earth are you doing?" "i'm sewing up the holes in carol's stocking," lark explained. "if you had waited a minute i would have finished--hold still, carol,--don't walk so jerky or you'll break the thread. there were five holes in her left stocking, prudence, and i'm--" prudence frowned disapprovingly. "it's a very bad habit to sew up holes in your stockings when you are wearing them. if you had darned them all yesterday as i told you, you'd have had plenty of--mercy, lark, you have too much powder on!" "i know it,--carol did it. she said she wanted me to be of an intellectual pallor." lark mopped her face with one hand. "you'd better not mention to papa that we powdered to-day," carol suggested. "he's upset. it's very hard for a man to be reasonable when he's upset, you know." "you look nice, twins." prudence advanced a step, her eyes on carol's hair, sniffing suspiciously. "carol, did you curl your hair?" carol blushed. "well, just a little," she confessed. "i thought aunt grace would appreciate me more with a crown of frizzy ringlets." "you'll spoil your hair if you don't leave it alone, and it will serve you right, too. it's very pretty as it is naturally,--plenty curly enough and--oh, fairy, i know aunt grace will love you," she cried ecstatically. "you look like a dream, you--" "yes,--a nightmare," said carol snippily. "if i saw fairy coming at me on a dark night i'd--" "papa, we'll miss the train!" then as he came slowly down the stairs, she said to her sisters again, anxiously: "oh, girls, do keep nice and clean, won't you? and be very sweet to aunt grace! it's so--awfully good of her--to come--and take care of us,--" prudence's voice broke a little. the admission of another to the parsonage mothering hurt her. mr. starr stopped on the bottom step, and with one foot as a pivot, slowly revolved for his daughters' inspection. "how do i look?" he demanded. "do you think this suit will convince grace that i am worth taking care of? do i look twenty-five dollars better than i did yesterday?" the girls gazed at him with most adoring and exclamatory approval. "father! you look perfectly grand!--isn't it beautiful?--of course, you looked nicer than anybody else even in the old suit, but--it--well, it was--" "perfectly disgracefully shabby," put in fairy quickly. "entirely unworthy a minister of your--er--lovely family!" "i hope none of you have let it out among the members how long i wore that old suit. i don't believe i could face my congregation on sundays if i thought they were mentally calculating the wearing value of my various garments.--we'll have to go, prudence.--you all look very fine--a credit to the parsonage--and i am sure aunt grace will think us well worth living with." "and don't muss the house up," begged prudence, as her father opened the door and pushed her gently out on the step. the four sisters left behind looked at one another solemnly. it was a serious business,--most serious. connie gravely put on her shoe, and buttoned it. lark sewed up the last hole in carol's stocking,--carol balancing herself on one foot with nice precision for the purpose. then, all ready, they looked at one another again,--even more solemnly. "well," said fairy, "let's go in--and wait." silently the others followed her in, and they all sat about, irreproachably, on the well-dusted chairs, their hands folded methodistically in their smooth and spotless laps. the silence, and the solemnity, were very oppressive. "we look all right," said carol belligerently. no one answered. "i'm sure aunt grace is as sweet as anybody could be," she added presently. dreary silence! "don't we love her better than anybody on earth,--except ourselves?" then, when the silence continued, her courage waned. "oh, girls," she whimpered, "isn't it awful? it's the beginning of the end of everything. outsiders have to come in now to take care of us, and prudence'll get married, and then fairy will, and maybe us twins,--i mean, we twins. and then there'll only be father and connie left, and miss greet, or some one, will get ahead of father after all,--and connie'll have to live with a step-mother, and--it'll never seem like home any more, and--" connie burst into loud and mournful wails. "you're very silly, carol," fairy said sternly. "very silly, indeed. i don't see much chance of any of us getting married very soon. and prudence will be here nearly a year yet. and--aunt grace is as sweet and dear a woman as ever lived--mother's own sister--and she loves us dearly and--" "yes," agreed lark, "but it's not like having prudence at the head of things." "prudence will be at the head of things for nearly a year, and--i think we're mighty lucky to get aunt grace. it's not many women would be willing to leave a fine stylish home, with a hundred dollars to spend on just herself, and with a maid to wait on her, and come to an ugly old house like this to take care of a preacher and a riotous family like ours. it's very generous of aunt grace--very." "yes, it is," admitted lark. "and as long as she was our aunt with her fine home, and her hundred dollars a month, and her maid, i loved her dearly. but--i don't want anybody coming in to manage us. we can manage ourselves. we--" "we need a chaperon," put in fairy deftly. "she isn't going to do the housework, or the managing, or anything. she's just our chaperon. it isn't proper for us to live without one, you know. we're too young. it isn't--conventional." "and for goodness' sake, connie," said carol, "remember and call her our chaperon, and don't talk about a housekeeper. there's some style to a chaperon." "yes, indeed," said fairy cheerfully. "and she wears such pretty clothes, and has such pretty manners that she will be a distinct acquisition to the parsonage. we can put on lots more style, of course. and then it was awfully nice of her to send so much of her good furniture,--the piano, for instance, to take the place of that old tin pan of ours." carol smiled a little. "if she had written, 'dear john: i can't by any means live in a house with furniture like that of yours, so you'll have to let me bring some of my own,'--wouldn't we have been furious? that was what she meant all right, but she put it very neatly." "yes. 'i love some of my things so dearly,'" lark quoted promptly, "'and have lived with them so long that i am too selfish to part with them. may i bring a few pieces along?' yes, it was pretty cute of her." "and do remember, girls, that you mustn't ask her to darn your stockings, and wash your handkerchiefs, and do your tasks about the house. it would be disgraceful. and be careful not to hint for things you want, for, of course, aunt grace will trot off and buy them for you and papa will not like it. you twins'll have to be very careful to quit dreaming about silk stockings, for instance." there was a tinge of sarcasm in fairy's voice as she said this. "fairy, we did dream about silk stockings--you don't need to believe it if you don't want to. but we did dream about them just the same!" carol sighed. "i think i could be more reconciled to aunt grace if i thought she'd give me a pair of silk stockings. you know, fairy, sometimes lately i almost--don't like aunt grace--any more." "that's very foolish and very wicked," declared fairy. "i love her dearly. i'm so glad she's come to live with us." "are you?" asked connie innocently. "then why did you go up in the attic and cry all morning when prudence was fixing the room for her?" fairy blushed, and caught her under lip between her teeth for a minute. and then, in a changed voice she said, "i--i do love her, and--i am glad--but i keep thinking ahead to when prudence gets married, and--and--oh, girls, prudence was all settled in the parsonage when i was born, and she's been here ever since, and--when she is gone it--it won't be any home to me at all!" her voice rose on the last words in a way most pitifully suggestive of tears. for a moment there was a stricken silence. "oh, pooh!" carol said at last, bravely. "you wouldn't want prue to stick around and be an old maid, would you? i think she's mighty lucky to get a fellow as nice as jerry harmer myself. i'll bet you don't make out half as well, fairy. i think she'd be awfully silly not to gobble him right up while she has a chance. for my own part, i don't believe in old maids. i think it is a religious duty for folks to get married, and--and--you know what i mean,--race suicide, you know." she nodded her head sagely, winking one eye in a most intelligent fashion. "and aunt grace is so quiet she'll not be any bother at all," added lark. "don't you remember how she always sits around and smiles at us, and never says anything. she won't scold a bit.--maybe carol and i will get a chance to spend some of our spending money when she takes charge. prudence confiscates it all for punishment. i think it's going to be lots of fun having aunt grace with us." "i'm going to take my dime and buy her something," connie announced suddenly. the twins whirled on her sharply. "your dime!" echoed carol. "i didn't know you had a dime," said lark. connie flushed a little. "yes,--oh, yes,--" she said, "i've got a dime. i--i hid it. i've got a dime all right." "it's nearly time," said fairy restlessly. "number nine has been on time for two mornings now,--so she'll probably be here in time for dinner. it's only ten o'clock now." "you mean luncheon," suggested carol. "yes, luncheon, to be sure, fair sister." "where'd you get that dime, connie?" "oh, i've had it some time," connie admitted reluctantly. "when i asked you to lend me a dime you said--" "you asked me if i had a dime i could lend you and i said, no, and i didn't, for i didn't have this dime to lend." "but where have you had it?" inquired lark. "i thought you acted suspicious some way, so i went around and looked for myself." "where did you look?" the twins laughed gleefully. "oh, on top of the windows and doors," said carol. "how did you know--" began connie. "you aren't slick enough for us, connie. we knew you had some funny place to hide your money, so i gave you that penny and then i went up-stairs very noisily so you could hear me, and lark sneaked around and watched, and saw where you put it. we've been able to keep pretty good track of your finances lately." the twins laughed again. "but i looked on the top ledge of all the windows and doors just yesterday," admitted lark, "and there was nothing there. did you put that dime in the bank?" "oh, never mind," said connie. "i don't need to tell you. you twins are too slick for me, you know." the twins looked slightly fussed, especially when fairy laughed with a merry, "good for you, connie." carol rose and looked at herself in the glass. "i'm going up-stairs," she said. "what for?" inquired lark, rising also. "i need a little more powder. my nose is shiny." so the twins went up-stairs, and fairy, after calling out to them to be very careful and not get disheveled, went out into the yard and wandered dolefully about by herself. connie meantime decided to get her well-hidden dime and figure out what ten cents could buy for her fastidious and wealthy aunt. connie was in many ways unique. her system of money-hiding was born of nothing less than genius, prompted by necessity, for the twins were clever as well as grasping. she did not know they had discovered her plan of banking on the top ledge of the windows and doors, but having dealt with them long and bitterly, she knew that in money matters she must give them the benefit of all her ingenuity. for the last and precious dime, she had discovered a brand-new hiding-place. the cook stove sat in the darkest and most remote corner of the kitchen, and where the chimney fitted into the wall, it was protected by a small zinc plate. this zinc plate protruded barely an inch, but that inch was quite sufficient for coins the size of connie's, and there, high and secure in the shadowy corner, lay connie's dime. now that she had decided to spend it, she wanted it before her eyes,--for ten cents in sight buys much more than ten cents in memory. she went into the kitchen cautiously, careful of her white canvas shoes, and put a chair beside the stove. she had discovered that the dishpan turned upside down on the chair, gave her sufficient height to reach her novel banking place. the preparation was soon accomplished, and neatly, for connie was an orderly child, and loved cleanliness even on occasions less demanding than this. but alas for connie's calculations!--carol was born for higher things than dish washing, and she had splashed soap-suds on the table. the pan had been set among them--and then, neatly wiped on the inside, it had been hung up behind the table,--with the suds on the bottom. and it was upon this same dishpan that connie climbed so carefully in search of her darling dime. the result was certain. as she slowly and breathlessly raised herself on tiptoe, steadying herself with the tips of her fingers lightly touching the stove-pipe, her foot moved treacherously into the soapy area, and slipped. connie screamed, caught desperately at the pipe, and fell to the floor in a sickening jumble of stove-pipe, dishpan and soot beyond her wildest fancies! her cries brought her sisters flying, and the sight of the blackened kitchen, and the unfortunate child in the midst of disaster, banished from their minds all memory of the coming chaperon, of prudence's warning words:--connie was in trouble. with sisterly affection they rescued her, and did not hear the ringing of the bell. they brushed her, they shook her, they kissed her, they all but wept over her. and when prudence and her father, with aunt grace in tow, despaired of gaining entrance at the hands of the girls, came in unannounced, it was a sorry scene that greeted them. fairy and the twins were only less sooty than connie and the kitchen. the stove-pipe lay about them with that insufferable insolence known only to fallen stove-pipe. and connie wept loudly, her tears making hideous trails upon her blackened face. "i might have known it," prudence thought, with sorrow. but her motherly pride vanished before her motherly solicitude, and connie was soon quieted by her tender ministrations. [illustration: we love you, but we can't kiss you] "we love you, aunt grace," cried carol earnestly, "but we can't kiss you." mr. starr anxiously scanned the surface of the kitchen table with an eye to future spots on the new suit, and then sat down on the edge of it and laughed as only a man of young heart and old experience can laugh! "disgraced again," he said. "prudence said we made a mistake in not taking you all to the station where we could watch you every minute. grace, think well before you take the plunge. do you dare cast in your fortunes with a parsonage bunch that revels in misfortune? can you take the responsibility of rearing a family that knows trouble only? this is your last chance. weigh well your words." the twins squirmed uncomfortably. true, she was their aunt, and knew many things about them. but they did think it was almost bad form for their father to emphasize their failings in the presence of any one outside the family. fairy pursed up her lips, puffing vainly at the soot that had settled upon her face. then she laughed. "very true, aunt grace," she said. "we admit that we're a luckless family. but we're expecting, with you to help us, to do much better. you see, we've never had half a chance so far, with only father behind us." the twins revived at this, and joined in the laughter their father led against himself. later in the day prudence drew her aunt to one side and asked softly, "was it much of a shock to you, aunt grace? the family drowned in soot to welcome you? i'm sure you expected to find everything trim and fresh and orderly. was it a bitter disappointment?" aunt grace smiled brightly. "why, no, prudence," she said in her slow even voice. "i really expected something to be wrong! i'd have been disappointed if everything had gone just right!" chapter ii science and health after all, the advent of a chaperon made surprisingly little difference in the life of the parsonage family, but what change there was, was all to the good. their aunt assumed no active directorate over household matters. she just slipped in, happily, unobtrusively, helpfully. she was a gentle woman, smiling much, saying little. indeed, her untalkativeness soon became a matter of great merriment among the lively girls. "a splendid deaf and dumb person was lost to the world in you, aunt grace," carol assured her warmly. "i never saw a woman who could say so much in smiles, and be so expressive without words." fairy said, "she carries on a prolonged discussion, and argues and orates, without saying a word." the members of the ladies' aid, who hastened to call, said, "she is perfectly charming--such a fine conversationalist!" she was always attractively dressed, always self-possessed, always friendly, always good-natured, and the girls found her presence only pleasing. she relieved prudence, admired fairy, laughed at the twins, adored connie. between her and mr. starr there was a frank camaraderie, charming, but seldom found between brothers- and sisters-in-law. "of course, aunt grace," prudence told her sweetly, "we aren't going to be selfish with you. we don't expect you to bury yourself in the parsonage. whenever you want to trip away for a while, you must feel free to go. we don't intend to monopolize you, however much we want to do so. whenever you want to go, you must go." "i shan't want to go," said aunt grace quickly. "not right away, of course," prudence agreed. "but you'll find our liveliness tiring. whenever you do want to go--" "i don't think i shall want to go at all," she answered. "i like it here. i--i like liveliness." then prudence kissed her gratefully. for several weeks after her initiation in the parsonage, life rolled along sweetly and serenely. there were only the minor, unavoidable mishaps and disciplinary measures common to the life of any family. of course, there were frequent, stirring verbal skirmishes between fairy and the twins, and between the twins and connie. but these did not disturb their aunt. she leaned back in her chair, or among the cushions, listening gravely, but with eyes that always smiled. then came a curious lull. for ten entire and successive days the twins had lived blameless lives. their voices rang out gladly and sweetly. they treated connie with a sisterly tenderness and gentleness quite out of accord with their usual drastic discipline. they obeyed the word of prudence with a cheerful readiness that was startlingly cherubimic. the most distasteful of orders called forth nothing stronger than a bright, "yes, prudence." they no longer developed dangerous symptoms of physical disablement at times of unpleasant duties. their devotion to the cause of health was beautiful. not an ache disturbed them. not a pain suggested a substitute. prudence watched them with painful solicitude. her years of mothering had given her an almost supernatural intuition as to causes, and effects. on wednesday morning, mr. starr bade his family good-by and set out on a tour of epworth league conventions. he was to be away from home until the end of the following week. a prospective presbyterian theologian had been selected from the college to fill his pulpit on the sabbath, and the girls, with their aunt, faced an unusually long period of running the parsonage to suit themselves. at ten o'clock the train carried their father off in the direction of burlington, and at eleven o'clock the twins returned to the parsonage. they had given him a daughterly send-off at the station, and then gone to the library for books. prudence, fairy and aunt grace sat sewing on the side porch as they cut across the parsonage lawn, their feet crinkling pleasantly through the drift of autumn leaves the wind had piled beneath the trees. "we're out of potatoes, twins," said prudence, as they drew near. "you'll have to dig some before dinner." for one instant their complacent features clouded. prudence looked up expectantly, sure of a break in their serene placidity. one doubtful second, then-- "certainly, prudence," said carol brightly. and lark added genially, "we'd better fill the box, i guess--so we'll have enough for the rest of the week." and singing a light but unharmonic snatch of song, the twins went in search of basket and hoe. the twins were not musical. they only sang from principle, to emphasize their light-heartedness when it needed special impressing. prudence's brows knitted in anxious frowns, and she sighed a few times. "what is the matter, prue? you look like a rainy christmas," said fairy. "it's the twins," was the mournful answer. "the twins!" ejaculated fairy. "why, they've acted like angels lately." even aunt grace lifted mildly inquiring eyebrows. "that's it!--that's just it. when the twins act like angels i get uneasy right away. the better they act, the more suspicious i feel." "what have they been doing?" "nothing! not a thing! that's why i'm worried. it must be something terrible!" fairy laughed and returned to her embroidery. aunt grace smiled and began plying her needles once more. but prudence still looked troubled, and sighed often. there was no apparent ground for her alarm. the twins came back with the potatoes, peeled some for luncheon, and set the table, their faces still bright and smiling. prudence's eyes, often fastened upon their angelic countenances, grew more and more troubled. in the afternoon, they joined the little circle on the porch, but not to sew. they took a book, and lay down on a rug with the book before them, reading together. evidently they were all absorbed. an hour passed, two hours, three. at times carol pointed to a line, and said in a low voice, "that's good, isn't it?" and lark would answer, "dandy!--have you read this?" prudence, in spite of her devotion to the embroidering of large s's on assorted pieces of linen, never forgot the twins for a moment. "what are you reading?" she asked at last aimlessly, her only desire to be reassured by the sound of their voices. there was an almost imperceptible pause. then carol answered,--her chin was in her palms which may have accounted for the mumbling of the words. "_scianceanelth._" "what?" another pause, a little more perceptible this time. "_science and health_," carol said at last, quite distinctly. "_science and health_," prudence repeated, in a puzzled tone. "is it a doctor book?" "why--something of the sort,--yes," said carol dubiously. "_science and health_? _science and health_," mused fairy. "you don't mean that christian science book, do you? you know what i mean, prudence--mary baker eddy's book--_science and health_,--that's the name of it. that's not what you twins are devouring so ravenously, is it?" carol answered with manifest reluctance, glancing nervously at prudence, "y-yes,--that's what it is." ominous silence greeted this admission. a slow red flush mantled the twins' cheeks. aunt grace's eyes twinkled a little, although her face was grave. fairy looked surprised. prudence looked dumfounded. when she spoke, her words gave no sign of the cataclysmic struggle through which she had passed. "what are you reading that for?" "why--it's very interesting," explained lark, coming to carol's rescue. carol was very good at meeting investigation, but when it came to prolonged explanation, lark stood preeminent. "of course, we don't believe it--yet. but there are some good things in it. part of it is very beautiful. we don't just understand it,--it's very deep. but some of the ideas are very fine, and--er--uplifting, you know." prudence looked most miserable. "but--twins, do you think--minister's daughters ought to read--things like that?" "why, prudence, i think minister's daughters ought to be well-informed on every subject," declared lark conscientiously. "how can we be an influence if we don't know anything about things?--and i tell you what it is, prue, i don't think it's right for all of us church people to stand back and knock christian science when we don't know anything about it. it's narrow-minded, that's what it is. it's downright un-christian. when you get into the book you will find it just full of fine inspiring thoughts--something like the bible,--only--er--and very good, you know." prudence looked at fairy and her aunt in helpless dismay. this was something entirely new in her experience of rearing a family. "i--i don't think you ought to read it," she said slowly. "but at the same time--" "of course, if you command us not to read it, we won't," said carol generously. "yes. we've already learned quite a lot about it," amended lark, with something of warning in her tone. "what do you think about it, aunt grace?" "why,--i don't know, prudence. you know more about rearing twins than i do." prudence at that moment felt that she knew very little about it, indeed. she turned to fairy. there was a strange intentness in fairy's fine eyes as she studied the twins on the floor at her feet. "you aren't thinking of turning christian scientists, yourselves, are you?" asked prudence rather humbly. "oh, of course, we aren't scientists, prudence," was the quick denial. "we don't know anything about it yet, really. but there are lots of very helpful things in it, and--people talk about it so much, and--they have made such wonderful cures, you know, and--we'd thought we'd just study up a little." "you take the book and read it yourself, prue," urged carol hospitably. "you'll see what we mean." prudence drew back quickly as though the book would sear her fingers. she looked very forlorn. she realized that it would be bad policy to forbid the twins to read it. on the other hand, she realized equally strongly that it was certainly unwise to allow its doctrines to take root in the minds of parsonage daughters. if only her father were at home,--ten days between herself and the lifting of responsibility! "when father comes home--" she began. and then suddenly fairy spoke. "i think the twins are right," she said emphatically, and the twins looked at her with a surprised anxiety that mated prudence's own. "it would be very narrow-minded of us to refuse to look into a subject as important as this. let them go on and study it; we can decide things later." prudence looked very doubtful, but a warning movement of fairy's left eyelash--the side removed from the twins--comforted her. "well--" she said. "of course, prudence, we know it would nearly break father's heart for us to go back on our own church,--but don't you think if folks become truly convinced that christian science is the true and good religion, they ought to stand by it and suffer,--just like the martyrs of old?" suggested lark,--and the suggestion brought the doubt-clouds thick about prudence's head once more. "we may not be convinced, of course," added carol, "but there is something rather--assuring--about it." "oh, twins," prudence cried earnestly, but stopped as she caught again the slight suggestive movement of fairy's left eyelash. "well, let it go for this afternoon," she said, her eyes intent on fairy's face. "i must think it over." the twins, with apparent relish, returned to their perusal of the book. fairy rose almost immediately and went into the house, coming back a moment later with her hat and gloves. "i'm going for a stroll, prue," she said. "i'll be back in time for supper." prudence gazed yearningly after her departing back. she felt a great need of help in this crisis, and fairy's nonchalance was sometimes very soothing. aunt grace was a darling, of course, but she had long ago disclaimed all responsibility for the rearing of the twins. it was two hours later when fairy came back. prudence was alone on the porch. "where are the twins?" asked fairy softly. "up-stairs," was the whispered reply. "well?" then fairy spoke more loudly, confident that the twins, in their up-stairs room, could hear every word she said. "come up-stairs, prue. i want to talk this over with you alone." and then she whispered, "now, you just take your cue from me, and do as i say. the little sinners! we'll teach them to be so funny!" in their own room she carefully closed the door and smiled, as she noted a creaking of the closet door on the twins' side of the wall. eavesdropping was not included among the cardinal sins in the twins' private decalogue, when the conversation concerned themselves. "now, prudence," fairy began, speaking with an appearance of softness, though she took great pains to turn her face toward the twins' room, and enunciated very clearly indeed. "i know this will hurt you, as it does me, but we've got to face it fairly. if the twins are convinced that christian science is the right kind of religion, we can't stand in their way. it might turn them from all religion and make them infidels or atheists, or something worse. any religion is better than none. i've been reading up a little myself this afternoon, and there are some good points in christian science. of course, for our sakes and father's, the twins will be generous and deny that they are scientists. but at heart, they are. i saw it this afternoon. and you and i, prudence, must stand together and back them up. they'll have to leave the methodist church. it may break our hearts, and father's, too, but we can't wrong our little sisters just for our personal pride and pleasure in them. i think we'll have them go before the official board next sunday while father is gone--then he will be spared the pain of it. i'll speak to mr. lauren about it to-morrow. we must make it as easy for them as we can. they'll probably dismiss them--i don't suppose they'll give them letters. but it must be all over before papa comes back." then she hissed in prudence's ear, "now cry." prudence obediently began sniffing and gulping, and fairy rushed to her and threw her arms about her, sobbing in heart-broken accents, "there, there, prue, i know--i felt just the same about it. but we can't stand between the twins and what they think is right. we daren't have that on our consciences." the two wept together, encouraged by the death-like stillness in the closet on the other side of the wall. then fairy said, more calmly, though still sobbing occasionally, "for our sakes, they'll try to deny it. but we can't let the little darlings sacrifice themselves. they've got to have a chance to try their new belief. we'll just be firm and insist that they stand on their rights. we won't mention it to them for a day or two--we'll fix it up with the official board first. and we must surely get it over by sunday. poor old father--and how he loves--" fairy indulged in a clever and especially artistic bit of weeping. then she regained control of her feelings by an audible effort. "but it has its good points, prue. haven't you noticed how sweet and sunny and dear the twins have been lately? it was science and health working in them. oh, prudence dear, don't cry so." prudence caught her cue again and began weeping afresh. they soothed and caressed and comforted each other for a while, and then went down-stairs to finish getting supper. in the meantime, the shocked and horrified twins in the closet of their own room, were clutching each other with passionate intensity. little nervous chills set them aquiver, their hands were cold, their faces throbbing hot. when their sisters had gone down-stairs, they stared at each other in agony. "they--they wo-won't p-p-put us out of the ch-ch-church," gasped carol. "they will," stammered lark. "you know what prudence is! she'd put the whole church out if she thought it would do us any good." "pa-p-pa'll--papa'll--" began carol, her teeth chattering. "they'll do it before he gets back." then with sudden reproach she cried, "oh, carol, i told you it was wicked to joke about religion." this unexpected reproach on the part of her twin brought carol back to earth. "christian science isn't religion," she declared. "it's not even good sense, as far's i can make out. i didn't read a word of it, did you?--i--i just thought it would be such a good joke on prudence--with father out of town." the good joke was anything but funny now. "they can't make us be scientists if we don't want to," protested lark. "they can't. why, i wouldn't be anything but a methodist for anything on earth. i'd die first." "you can't die if you're a scientist--anyhow, you oughtn't to. millie mains told me--" "it's a punishment on us for even looking at the book--good methodists like we are. i'll burn it. that's what i'll do." "you'll have to pay for it at the library if you do," cautioned frugal carol. "well, we'll just go and tell prudence it was a joke,--prudence is always reasonable. she won't--" "she'll punish us, and--it'll be such a joke on us, larkie. even connie'll laugh." they squirmed together, wretchedly, at that. "we'll tell them we have decided it is false." "they said we'd probably do that for their sakes." "it--it was a good joke while it lasted," said carol, with a very faint shadow of a smile. "don't you remember how prudence gasped? she kept her mouth open for five minutes!" "it's still a joke," added lark gloomily, "but it's on us." "they can't put us out of the church!" "i don't know. you know we methodists are pretty set! like as not they'll say we'd be a bad influence among the members." "twins!" the call outside their door sounded like the trump of doom to the conscience-smitten twins, and they clutched each other, startled, crying out. then, sheepishly, they stepped out of the closet to find fairy regarding them quizzically from the doorway. she repressed a smile with difficulty, as she said quietly: "i was just talking to mrs. mains over the phone. she's going to a christian science lecture to-night, and she said she wished i wasn't a minister's daughter and she'd ask me to go along. i told her i didn't care to, but said you twins would enjoy it. she'll be here in the car for you at seven forty-five." "i won't go," cried carol. "i won't go near their old church." "you won't go." fairy was astonished. "why--i told her you would be glad to go." "i won't," repeated carol, with nervous passion. "i will not. you can't make me." lark shook her head in corroborative denial. "well, that's queer." fairy frowned, then she smiled. suddenly, to the tempest-tossed and troubled twins, the tall splendid fairy seemed a haven of refuge. her eyes were very kind. her smile was sweet. and with a cry of relief, and shame, and fear, the twins plunged upon her and told their little tale. "you punish us this time, fairy," begged carol. "we--we don't want the rest of the family to know. we'll take any kind of punishment, but keep it dark, won't you? prudence will soon forget, she's so awfully full of jerry these days." "i'll talk it over with prudence," said fairy. "but--i think we'll have to tell the family." lark moved her feet restlessly. "well, you needn't tell connie," she said. "having the laugh come back on us is the very meanest kind of a punishment." fairy looked at them a moment, wondering if, indeed, their punishment had been sufficient. "well, little twins," she said, "i guess i will take charge of this myself. here is your punishment." she stood up again, and looked down at them with sparkling eyes as they gazed at her expectantly. "we caught on that it was a joke. we knew you were listening in the closet. and prudence and i acted our little parts to give you one good scare. who's the laugh on now? are we square? supper's ready." and fairy ran down-stairs, laughing, followed by two entirely abashed and humbled twins. chapter iii a gift from heaven the first of april in the mount mark parsonage was a time of trial and tribulation, frequently to the extent of weeping and gnashing of teeth. the twins were no respecters of persons, and feeling that the first of april rendered all things justifiable to all men, they made life as burdensome to their father as to connie, and fairy and prudence lived in a state of perpetual anguish until the twins fell asleep at night well satisfied but worn out with the day's activities. the twins were bordering closely to the first stage of grown-up womanhood, but on the first of april they swore they would always be young! the tricks were more dignified, more carefully planned and scientifically executed than in the days of their rollicking girlhood,--but they were all the more heart-breaking on that account. the week before the first was spent by connie in a vain effort to ferret out their plans in order that fore-knowledge might suggest a sufficient safe-guard. the twins, however, were too clever to permit this, and their bloody schemes were wrapped in mystery and buried in secrecy. on the thirty-first of march, connie labored like a plumber would if working by the job. she painstakingly hid from sight all her cherished possessions. the twins were in the barn, presumably deep in plots. aunt grace was at the ladies' aid. so when fairy came in, about four in the afternoon, there was only prudence to note the vengeful glitter in her fine clear eyes. and prudence was so intent upon feather-stitching the hems of pink-checked dish towels, that she did not observe it. "where's papa?" fairy asked. "up-stairs." "where are the twins?" "in the barn, getting ready for the day." fairy smiled delightfully and skipped eagerly up the stairs. she was closeted with her father for some time, and came out of his room at last with a small coin carefully concealed in the corner of her handkerchief. she did not remove her hat, but set briskly out toward town again. prudence, startled out of her feather-stitching, followed her to the door. "why, fairy," she called. "are you going out again?" fairy threw out her hands. "so it seems. an errand for papa." she lifted her brows and pursed up her lips, and the wicked joy in her face pierced the mantle of prudence's absorption again. "what's up?" she questioned curiously, following her sister down the steps. fairy looked about hurriedly, and then whispered a few words of explanation. prudence's look changed to one of unnaturally spiteful glee. "good! fine! serves 'em right! you'd better hurry." "tell aunt grace, will you? but don't let connie in until morning. she'd give it away." at supper-time fairy returned, and the twins, their eyes bright with the unholy light of mischief, never looked at her. they sometimes looked heavenward with a sublime contentment that drove connie nearly frantic. occasionally they uttered cryptic words about the morrow,--and the older members of the family smiled pleasantly, but connie shuddered. she remembered so many april fool's days. the family usually clung together on occasions of this kind, feeling there was safety and sympathy in numbers--as so many cowards have felt for lo, these many years. and thus it happened that they were all in the dining-room when their father appeared at the door. he had his hands behind him suggestively. "twins," he said, without preamble, "what do you want more than anything else?" "silk stockings," was the prompt and unanimous answer. he laughed. "good guess, wasn't it?" and tossed into their eager hands two slender boxes, nicely wrapped. the others gathered about them with smiling eyes as the twins tremulously tore off the wrappings. "a. phoole's pure silk thread hose,--guaranteed!" this they read from the box--neat golden lettering. it was enough for the twins. with cries of perfect bliss they flung themselves upon their father, kissing him rapturously wherever their lips might touch. "oh, papa!" "oh, you darling!" and then, when they had some sort of control of their joy, lark said solemnly, "papa, it is a gift from heaven!" "of course, we give you the credit, papa," carol amended quickly, "but the thought was heaven-prompted." fairy choked suddenly, and her fit of coughing interfered with the twins' gratitude to an all-suggesting providence! carol twisted her box nervously. "you know, papa, it may seem very childish, and--silly to you, but--actually--we have--well, prayed for silk stockings. we didn't honestly expect to get them, though--not until we saved up money enough to get them ourselves. heaven is kinder to us than we--" "you can't understand such things, papa," said lark. "maybe you don't know exactly how--how they feel. when we go to betty hill's we wear her silk stockings and lie on the bed--and--she won't let us walk in them, for fear we may wear holes. every girl in our class has at least one pair,--betty has three, but one pair's holey, and--we felt so awfully poor!" the smiles on the family faces were rather stereotyped by this time, but the exulting twins did not notice. lark looked at carol fondly. carol sighed at lark blissfully. then, with one accord, they lifted the covers from the boxes and drew out the shimmering hose. yes,--shimmering--but--they shook them out for inspection! their faces paled a little. "they--they are very--" began carol courageously. then she stopped. the hose were a fine tissue-paper imitation of silk stockings! the "april fool, little twins," on the toes was not necessary for their enlightenment. they looked at their father with sad but unresentful reproach in their swiftly shadowed eyes. "it--it's a good joke," stammered carol, moistening her dry lips with her tongue. "it's--one on us," blurted lark promptly. "ha, ha, ha," laughed carol, slowly, dryly, very dully. "yes--ha, ha, ha," echoed lark, placing the bitter fruit carefully back in its box. her fingers actually trembled. "it's a--swell joke, all right," carol said, "we see that well enough,--we're not stupid, you know. but we did want some silk stockings so--awfully bad. but it's funny, ha, ha, ha!" "a gift from heaven!" muttered lark, with clenched teeth. "well, you got us that time." "come on, lark, we must put them sacredly away--silk stockings, you know, are mighty scarce in a parsonage,--" "yes, ha, ha, ha," and the crushed and broken twins left the room, with dignity in spite of the blow. the family did not enjoy the joke on the twins. mr. starr looked at the others with all a man's confused incomprehension of a woman's notions! he spread out his hands--an orthodox, ministerial gesture! "now, will some one kindly tell me what there is in silk stockings, to--" he shook his head helplessly. "silk stockings! a gift from heaven!" he smiled, unmerrily. "the poor little kids!" then he left the room. aunt grace openly wiped her eyes, smiling at herself as she did so. fairy opened and closed her lips several times. then she spoke. "say, prue, knock me down and sit on me, will you? whatever made me think of such a stupid trick as that?" "why, bless their little hearts," whispered prudence, sniffing. "didn't they look sorry? but they were so determined to be game." "prudence, give me my eight cents," demanded connie. "i want it right away." "what do you want it for?" "i'm going down to morrow's and get some candy. i never saw a meaner trick in my life! i'm surprised at papa. the twins only play jokes for fun." and connie stalked grimly out of the parsonage and off toward town. a more abashed and downcast pair of twins probably never lived. they sat thoughtfully in their room, "a. phoole's silk thread hose" carefully hidden from their hurt eyes. "it was a good joke," lark said, now and then. "yes, very," assented carol. "but silk stockings, larkie!" and lark squirmed wretchedly. "a gift from heaven," she mourned. "how they must be laughing!" but they did not laugh. connie came back and shared her candy. they thanked her courteously and invited her to sit down. then they all ate candy and grieved together silently. they did not speak of the morning's disaster, but the twins understood and appreciated the tender sympathy of her attitude, and although they said nothing, they looked at her very kindly and connie was well content. the morning passed drearily. the twins had lost all relish for their well-planned tricks, and the others, down-stairs, found the usually wild and hilarious day almost unbearably poky. prudence's voice was gentle as she called them down to dinner, and the twins, determined not to show the white feather, went down at once and took their places. they bore their trouble bravely, but their eyes had the surprised and stricken look, and their faces were nearly old. mr. starr cut the blessing short, and the dinner was eaten in silence. the twins tried to start the conversation. they talked of the weather with passionate devotion. they discussed their studies with an almost unbelievable enthusiasm. they even referred, with stiff smiles, to "papa's good joke," and then laughed their dreary "ha, ha, ha," until their father wanted to fall upon his knees and beg forgiveness. connie, still solicitous, helped them wash the dishes. the others disappeared. fairy got her hat and went out without a word. their father followed scarcely a block behind her. aunt grace sought all over the house for prudence, and finally found her in the attic, comforting herself with a view of the lovely linens which filled her hope box. "i'm going for a walk," announced aunt grace briefly. "all right," assented prudence. "if i'm not here when you get back, don't worry. i'm going for a walk myself." their work done irreproachably, the twins and connie went to the haymow and lay on the hay, still silent. the twins, buoyant though they were, could not so quickly recover from a shock like this. so intent were they upon the shadows among the cobwebs that they heard no sound from below until their father's head appeared at the top of the ladder. "come up," they invited hospitably but seriously. he did so at once, and stood before them, his face rather flushed, his manner a little constrained, but looking rather satisfied with himself on the whole. "twins," he said, "i didn't know you were so crazy about silk stockings. we just thought it would be a good joke--but it was a little too good. it was a boomerang. i don't know when i've felt so contemptible. so i went down and got you some real silk stockings--a dollar and a half a pair,--and i'm glad to clear my conscience so easily." the twins blushed. "it--it was a good joke, papa," carol assured him shyly. "it was a dandy. but--all the girls at school have silk stockings for best, and--we've been wanting them--forever. and--honestly, father, i don't know when i've had such a--such a spell of indigestion as when i saw those stockings were april fool." "indigestion," scoffed connie, restored to normal by her father's handsome amends. "yes, indigestion," declared lark. "you know, papa, that funny, hollow, hungry feeling--when you get a shock. that's nervous indigestion,--we read it in a medicine ad. they've got pills for it. but it was a good joke. we saw that right at the start." "and we didn't expect anything like this. it--is very generous of you, papa. very!" but he noticed that they made no move to unwrap the box. it still lay between them on the hay, where he had tossed it. evidently their confidence in him had been severely shattered. he sat down and unwrapped it himself. "they are guaranteed," he explained, passing out the little pink slips gravely, "so when they wear holes you get another pair for nothing." the twins' faces had brightened wonderfully. "i will never play that kind of a trick again, twins, so you needn't be suspicious of me. and say! whenever you want anything so badly it makes you feel like that, come and talk it over. we'll manage some way. of course, we're always a little hard up, but we can generally scrape up something extra from somewhere. and we will. you mustn't--feel like that--about things. just tell me about it. girls are so--kind of funny, you know." the twins and connie rushed to the house to try the "feel" of the first, adored silk stockings. they donned them, admired them, petted connie, idolized their father, and then removing them, tied them carefully in clean white tissue-paper and deposited them in the safest corner of the bottom drawer of their dresser. then they lay back on the bed, thinking happily of the next class party! silk stockings! ah! "can't you just imagine how we'll look in our new white dresses, lark, and our patent leather pumps,--with silk stockings! i really feel there is nothing sets off a good complexion as well as real silk stockings!" they were interrupted in this delightful occupation by the entrance of fairy. the twins had quickly realized that the suggestion for their humiliating had come from her, and their hearts were sore, but being good losers--at least, as good losers as real live folks can be--they wouldn't have admitted it for the world. "come on in, fairy," said lark cordially. "aren't we lazy to-day?" "twins," said fairy, self-conscious for the first time in the twins' knowledge of her, "i suppose you know it was i who suggested that idiotic little stocking stunt. it was awfully hateful of me, and so i bought you some real silk stockings with my own spending money, and here they are, and you needn't thank me for i never could be fond of myself again until i squared things with you." the twins had to admit that it was really splendid of fairy, and they thanked her with unfeigned zeal. "but papa already got us a pair, and so you can take these back and get your money again. it was just as sweet of you, fairy, and we thank you, and it was perfectly dear and darling, but we have papa's now, and--" "good for papa!" fairy cried, and burst out laughing at the joke that proved so expensive for the perpetrators. "but you shall have my burnt offering, too. it serves us both right, but especially me, for it was my idea." and fairy walked away feeling very gratified and generous. only girls who have wanted silk stockings for a "whole lifetime" can realize the blissful state of the parsonage twins. they lay on the bed planning the most impossible but magnificent things they would do to show their gratitude, and when aunt grace stopped at their door they leaped up to overwhelm her with caresses just because of their gladness. she waved them away with a laugh. "april fool, twins," she said, with a voice so soft that it took all the sting from the words. "i brought you some real silk stockings for a change." and she tossed them a package and started out of the room to escape their thanks. but she stopped in surprise when the girls burst into merry laughter. "oh, you silk stockings!" carol cried. "three pairs! you darling sweet old auntie! you would come up here to tease us, would you? but papa gave us a pair, and fairy gave us a pair, and--" "they did! why, the silly things!" and the gentle woman looked as seriously vexed as she ever did look--she had so wanted to give them the first silk-stocking experience herself. "oh, here you are," cried prudence, stepping quickly in, and speaking very brightly to counterbalance the gloom she had expected to encounter. she started back in some dismay when she saw the twins rolling and rocking with laughter, and aunt grace leaning against the dresser for support, with connie on the floor, quite speechless. "good for you, twins,--that's the way to take hard knocks," she said. "it wasn't a very nice trick, though of course papa didn't understand how you felt about silk stockings. it wasn't his fault. but fairy and i ought to be ashamed, and we are. i went out and got you some real genuine silk ones myself, so you needn't pray for them any more." prudence was shocked, a little hurt, at the outburst that followed her words. "well, such a family!" aunt grace exclaimed. and then carol pulled her bodily down beside her on the bed and for a time they were all incapable of explanations. "what is the joke?" prudence asked, again and again, smiling,--but still feeling a little pique. she had counted on gladdening their sorry little hearts! "stockings, stockings--oh, such a family!" shrieked carol. "there's no playing jokes on the twins," said aunt grace weakly. "it takes the whole family to square up. it's too expensive." then lark explained, and prudence sat down and joined the merriment, which waxed so noisy that mr. starr from the library and fairy from the kitchen, ran in to investigate. "april fool, april fool," cried carol, "we never played a trick like this, larkie--this is our masterpiece." "you're the nicest old things that ever lived," said lark, still laughing, but with great warmth and tenderness in her eyes and her voice. "but you can take the stockings back and save your money if you like--we love you just as much." but this the happy donors stoutly refused to do. the twins had earned this wealth of hose, and finally, wiping their eyes, the twins began to smooth their hair and adjust their ribbons and belts. "what's the matter?" "where are you going?" "will you buy the rest of us some silk stockings?" queried the family, comic-opera effect. "where are we going?" carol repeated, surprised, seeming to feel that any one should know where they were going, though they had not spoken. "we're going to call on our friends, of course," explained lark. "of course," said carol, jabbing her hair pins in with startling energy. "and we've got to hurry. we must go to mattie's, and jean's, and betty's, and fan's, and birdie's, and alice's, and--say, lark, maybe we'd better divide up and each take half. it's kind of late,--and we mustn't miss any." "well, what on earth!" gasped prudence, while the others stared in speechless amazement. "for goodness' sake, carol, hurry. we have to get clear out to minnie's to-night, if we miss our supper." "but what's the idea? what for? what are you talking about?" "why, you silly thing," said carol patiently, "we have to go and tell our friends that we've got four pairs of silk stockings, of course. i wouldn't miss this afternoon for the world. and we'll go the rounds together, lark. i want to see how they take it," she smiled at them benignly. "i can imagine their excitement. and we owe it to the world to give it all the excitement we can. prudence says so." prudence looked startled. "did i say that?" "certainly. you said pleasure--but excitement's very pleasing, most of the time. come on, larkie, we'll have to walk fast." and with a fond good-by to the generous family, the twins set out to spread the joyful tidings, lark pausing at the door just long enough to explain gravely, "of course, we won't tell them--er--just how it happened, you know. lots of things in a parsonage need to be kept dark. prudence says so herself." chapter iv how carol spoiled the wedding a day in june,--the kind of day that poets have rhymed and lovers have craved since time began. on the side porch of the parsonage, in a wide hammock, lay aunt grace, looking languidly through half-closed lids at the girls beneath her on the step. prudence, although her face was all a-dream, bent conscientiously over the bit of linen in her hands. and fairy, her piquantly bright features clouded with an unwonted frown, crumpled a letter in her hand. "i do think men are the most aggravating things that ever lived," she declared, with annoyance in her voice. the woman in the hammock smiled slightly, and did not speak. prudence carefully counted ten threads, and solemnly drew one before she voiced her question. "what is he saying now?" "why, he's still objecting to my having dates with the other boys." fairy's voice was vibrant with grief. "he does make me wild! aunt grace, you can't imagine. last fall i mentioned casually that i was sure he wouldn't object to my having lecture course dates--i was too hard up to buy a ticket for myself; they cost four dollars, and aren't worth it, either. and what did he do but send me eight dollars to buy two sets of tickets! then this spring, when the baseball season opened, he sent me season tickets to all the games suggesting that my financial stringency could not be pleaded as an excuse. ever since he went to chicago last fall we've been fighting because the boys bring me home from parties. i suppose he had to go and learn to be a pharmacist, but--it's hard on me. he wants me to patter along by myself like a--like--like a hen!" fairy said "hen" very crossly! "it's a shame," said prudence sympathetically. "that's just what it is. you wouldn't say a word to his taking girls home from things, would you?" "hum,--that's a different matter," said fairy more thoughtfully. "he hasn't wanted to yet. you see, he's a man and can go by himself without having it look as though nobody wanted to be seen with him. and he's a stranger over there, and doesn't need to get chummy with the girls. the boys here all know me, and ask me to go, and--a man, you see, can just be passive and nothing happens. but a girl's got to be downright negative, and it's no joke. one misses so many good times. you see the cases are different, prue." "yes, that's so," prudence assented absent-mindedly, counting off ten more threads. "then you would object if he had dates?" queried aunt grace smilingly. "oh, no, not at all,--if there was any occasion for it--but there isn't. and i think i would be justified in objecting if he deliberately made occasions for himself, don't you?" "yes, that would be different," prudence chimed in, such "miles away" in her voice, that fairy turned on her indignantly. "prudence starr, you make me wild," she said. "can't you drop that everlasting hemstitching, embroidering, tatting, crocheting, for ten minutes to talk to me? what in the world are you going to do with it all, anyhow? are you intending to carpet your floors with it?" "this is a napkin," prudence explained good-naturedly. "the set cost me fifteen dollars." she sighed. "did the veil come?" the clouds vanished magically from fairy's face, and she leaned forward with that joy of wedding anticipation that rules in woman-world. "yes, it's beautiful. come and see it. wait until i pull four more threads. it's gorgeous." "i still think you're making a great mistake," declared fairy earnestly. "i don't believe in big showy church weddings. you'd better change it yet. a little home affair with just the family,--that's the way to do it. all this satin-gown, orange-blossom elaboration with curious eyes staring up and down--ugh! it's all wrong." prudence dropped the precious fifteen-dollar-a-set napkin in her lap and gazed at fairy anxiously. "i know you think so, fairy," she said. "you've told me so several times." fairy's eyes twinkled, but prudence had no intention of sarcasm. "but i can't help it, can i? we had quite settled on the home wedding, but when the twins discovered that the members felt hurt at being left out, father thought we'd better change over." "well, i can't see that the members have any right to run our wedding. besides, it wouldn't surprise me if the twins made it up because they wanted a big fuss." "but some of the members spoke to father." "oh, just common members that don't count for much--and it was mighty poor manners of 'em, too, if you'll excuse me for saying so." "and you must admit, fairy, that it is lovely of the ladies' aid to give that dinner at the hotel for us." "well, they'll get their money's worth of talk out of it afterward. it's a big mistake.--what on earth are the twins doing out there? is that jim forrest with them? listen how they are screaming with laughter! would you ever believe those twins are past fifteen, and nearly through their junior year? they haven't as much sense put together as connie has all alone." "come and see the veil," said prudence, rising. but she dropped back on the step again as carol came rushing toward them at full speed, with lark and a tall young fellow trailing slowly, laughing, behind her. "the mean things!" she gasped. "they cheated!" she dropped a handful of pennies in her aunt's lap as she lay in the hammock. "we'll take 'em to sunday-school and give 'em to the heathen, that's what we'll do. they cheated!" "yes, infant, who cheated, and how, and why? and whence the startling array of pennies? and why this unwonted affection for the heathen?" mocked fairy. "trying to be a blank verse, fairy? keep it up, you haven't far to go!--there they are! look at them, aunt grace. they cheated. they tried to get all my hard-earned pennies by nefarious methods, and--" "and so carol stole them all, and ran! sit down, jim. my, it's hot. give me back my pennies, carol." "the heathen! the heathen!" insisted carol. "not a penny do you get. you see, aunt grace, we were matching pennies,--you'd better not mention it to father. we've turned over a new leaf now, and quit for good. but we were matching--and they made a bargain that whenever it was my turn, one of them would throw heads and one tails, and that way i never could win anything. and i didn't catch on until i saw jim wink, and so of course i thought it was only right to give the pennies to the heathen." "mercy, prudence," interrupted lark. "are you doing another napkin? this is the sixteenth dozen, isn't it? you'd better donate some of them to the parsonage, i think. i was so ashamed when miss marsden came to dinner. she opened her napkin out wide, and her finger went right through a hole. i was mortified to death--and carol laughed. it seems to me with three grown women in the house we could have holeless napkins, one for company, anyhow." "how is your mother, jim?" "just fine, miss prudence, thank you. she said to tell you she would send a basket of red junes to-morrow, if you want them. the twins can eat them, i know. carol ate twenty-two when they were out saturday." "yes, i did, and i'm glad of it," said carol stoutly. "such apples you never saw, prudence. they're about as big as a thimble, and two-thirds core. they're good, they're fine, i'll say that,--but there's nothing to them. i could have eaten as many again if jim hadn't been counting out loud, and i got kind of ashamed because every one was laughing. if i had a ranch as big as yours, jim, i'll bet you a dollar i'd have apples bigger than a dime!" "'bet you a dollar,'" quoted fairy. "well, i'll wager my soul, if that sounds more like shakespeare. don't go, jim, we're not fighting. this is just the way fairy and i make love to each other. you're perfectly welcome to stay, but be careful of your grammar, for now that fairy's a senior--will be next year, if she lives--she even tries to teach father the approved method of doing a ministerial sneeze in the pulpit." "think i'd better go," decided the tall good-looking youth, laughing as he looked with frank boyish admiration into carol's sparkling face. "with fairy after my grammar, and you to criticize my manner and my morals, i see right now that a parsonage is no safe place for a farmer's son." and laughing again, he thrust his cap into his pocket, and walked quickly out the new cement parsonage walk. but at the gate he paused to call back, "don't make a mistake, carol, and use the heathen's pennies for candy." the girls on the porch laughed, and five pairs of eyes gazed after the tall figure rapidly disappearing. "he's nice," said prudence. "yes," assented carol. "i've got a notion to marry him after a little. that farm of his is worth about ten thousand." "are you going to wait until he asks you?" "certainly not! anybody can marry a man after he asks her. the thing to do, if you want to be really original and interesting, is to marry him before he asks you and surprise him." "yes," agreed lark, "if you wait until he asks you he's likely to think it over once too often and not ask you at all." "doesn't that sound exactly like a book, now?" demanded carol proudly. "fairy couldn't have said that!" "no," said fairy, "i couldn't. thank goodness!--i have what is commonly known as brains. look it up in the dictionary, twins. it's something you ought to know about." "oh, prudence," cried lark dramatically, "i forgot to tell you. you can't get married after all." for ten seconds prudence, as well as fairy and their aunt, stared in speechless amazement. then prudence smiled. "oh, can't i? what's the joke now?" "joke! it's no joke. carol's sick, that's what's the joke. you can't be married without carol, can you?" a burst of gay laughter greeted this announcement. "carol sick! she acts sick!" "she looks sick!" "where is she sick?" carol leaned limply back against the pillar, trying to compose her bright face into a semblance of illness. "in my tummy," she announced weakly. this called forth more laughter. "it's her conscience," said fairy. "it's matching pennies. maybe she swallowed one." "it's probably those two pieces of pie she ate for dinner, and the one that vanished from the pantry shortly after," suggested aunt grace. carol sat up quickly. "welcome home, aunt grace!" she cried. "did you have a pleasant visit?" "carol," reproved prudence. "i didn't mean it for impudence, auntie," said carol, getting up and bending affectionately over the hammock, gently caressing the brown hair just beginning to silver about her forehead. "but it does amuse me so to hear a lady of your age and dignity indulge in such lavish conversational exercises." lark swallowed with a forced effort. "did it hurt, carol? how did you get it all out in one breath?" "lark, i do wish you wouldn't gulp that way when folks use big words," said fairy. "it looks--awful." "well, i won't when i get to be as old and crabbed as--father," said lark. "sit down, carol, and remember you're sick." carol obediently sat down, and looked sicker than ever. "you can laugh if you like," she said, "i am sick, at least, i was this afternoon. i've been feeling very queer for three or four days. i don't think i'm quite over it yet." "pie! you were right, aunt grace! that's the way pie works." "it's not pie at all," declared carol heatedly. "and i didn't take that piece out of the pantry, at least, not exactly. i caught connie sneaking it, and i gave her a good calling down, and she hung her head and slunk away in disgrace. but she had taken such big bites that it looked sort of unsanitary, so i thought i'd better finish it before it gathered any germs. but it's not pie. now that i think of it, it was my head where i was sick. don't you remember, lark, i said my head ached?" "yes, and her eyes got red and bleary when she was reading. and--and there was something else, too, carol, what--" "your eyes are bloodshot, carol. they do look bad." prudence examined them closely. "now, carol starr, don't you touch another book or magazine until after the wedding. if you think i want a bloodshot bridesmaid, you're mistaken." they all turned to look across the yard at connie, just turning in. connie always walked, as carol said, "as if she mostly wasn't there." but she usually "arrived" by the time she got within speaking distance of her sister. "goodness, prue, aren't you going to do anything but eat after you move to des moines? carol and i were counting the napkins last night,--was it a hundred and seventy-six, carol, or--some awful number i know. carol piled them up in two piles and we kneeled on them to say our prayers, and--i can't say for sure, but i think carol pushed me. anyhow, i lost my balance, and usually i'm pretty well balanced. i toppled over right after 'god save,' and carol screamed 'the napkins'--prue's wedding napkins! it was an awful funny effect; i couldn't finish my prayers." "carol starr! fifteen years old and--" "that's a very much exaggerated story, prue. connie blamed it on me as usual. she piled them up herself to see if there were two feet of them,--she put her stockings on the floor first so the dust wouldn't rub off. it was lark's turn to sweep and you know how lark sweeps, and connie was very careful, indeed, and--" "come on, fairy, and see the veil!" "the veil! did it come?" with a joyous undignified whoop the parsonage girls scrambled to their feet and rushed indoors in a fine kilkenny jumble. aunt grace looked after them, thoughtfully, smiling for a second, and then with a girlish shrug of her slender shoulders she slipped out and followed them inside. the last thing that night, before she said her prayers, prudence carried a big bottle of witch hazel into the twins' room. both were sleeping, but she roused carol, and lark turned over to listen. "you must bathe your eyes with this, carol. i forgot to tell you. what would jerry say if he had a bleary-eyed bridesmaid!" and although the twins grumbled and mumbled about the idiotic nonsense of getting-married folks, carol obediently bathed the bloodshot eyes. for in their heart of hearts, every one of the parsonage girls held this wedding to be the affair of prime importance, national and international, as well as just plain methodist. the twins were undeniably lazy, and slept as late of mornings as the parsonage law allowed. so it was that when lark skipped into the dining-room, three minutes late for breakfast, she found the whole family, with the exception of carol, well in the midst of their meal. "she was sick," she began quickly, then interrupting herself,--"oh, good morning! beg pardon for forgetting my manners. but carol was sick, prudence, and i hope you and fairy are ashamed of yourselves--and auntie, too--for making fun of her. she couldn't sleep all night, and rolled and tossed, and her head hurt and she talked in her sleep, and--" "i thought she didn't sleep." "well, she didn't sleep much, but when she did she mumbled and said things and--" then the dining-room door opened again, and carol--her hair about her shoulders, her feet bare, enveloped in a soft and clinging kimono of faded blue--stalked majestically into the room. there was woe in her eyes, and her voice was tragic. "it is gone," she said. "it is gone!" her appearance was uncanny to say the least, and the family gazed at her with some concern, despite the fact that carol's vagaries were so common as usually to elicit small respect. "gone!" she cried, striking her palms together. "gone!" "if you do anything to spoil that wedding, papa'll whip you, if you are fifteen years old," said fairy. lark sprang to her sister's side. "what's gone, carrie?" she pleaded with sympathy, almost with tears. "what's gone? are you out of your head?" "no! out of my complexion," was the dramatic answer. even lark fell back, for the moment, stunned. "y-your complexion," she faltered. "look! look at me, lark. don't you see? my complexion is gone--my beautiful complexion that i loved. look at me! oh, i would gladly have sacrificed a leg, or an arm, a--rib or an eye, but not my dear complexion!" sure enough, now that they looked carefully, they could indeed perceive that the usual soft creaminess of carol's skin was prickled and sparred with ugly red splotches. her eyes were watery, shot with blood. for a time they gazed in silence, then they burst into laughter. "pie!" cried fairy. "it's raspberry pie, coming out, carol!" the corners of carol's lips twitched slightly, and it was with difficulty that she maintained her wounded regal bearing. but lark, always quick to resent an indignity to this twin of her heart, turned upon them angrily. "fairy starr! you are a wicked unfeeling thing! you sit there and laugh and talk about pie when carol is sick and suffering--her lovely complexion all ruined, and it was the joy of my life, that complexion was. papa,--why don't you do something?" but he only laughed harder than ever. "if there's anything more preposterous than carol's vanity because of her beauty, it's lark's vanity for her," he said. aunt grace drew carol to her side, and examined the ruined complexion closely. then she smiled, but there was regret in her eyes. "well, carol, you've spoiled your part of the wedding sure enough. you've got the measles." then came the silence of utter horror. "not the measles," begged carol, wounded afresh. "give me diphtheria, or smallpox, or--or even leprosy, and i'll bear it bravely and with a smile, but it shall not be said that carol's measles spoiled the wedding." "oh, carol," wailed prudence, "don't have the measles,--please don't. i've waited all my life for this wedding,--don't spoil it." "well, it's your own fault, prue," interrupted lark. "if you hadn't kept us all cooped up when we were little we'd have had measles long ago. now, like as not the whole family'll have 'em, and serve you right. no self-respecting family has any business to grow up without having the measles." "what shall we do now?" queried constance practically. "well, i always said it was a mistake," said fairy. "a big wedding--" "oh, fairy, please don't tell me that again. i know it so well. papa, whatever shall we do? maybe jerry hasn't had them either." "why, it's easily arranged," said lark. "we'll just postpone the wedding until carol's quite well again." "bad luck," said connie. "too much work," said fairy. "well, she can't get married without carol, can she?" ejaculated lark. "are you sure it's measles, aunt grace?" "yes, it's measles." "then," said fairy, "we'll get alice bird or katie free to bridesmaid with lark. they are the same size and either will do all right. she can wear carol's dress. you won't mind that, will you, carol?" "no," said carol moodily, "of course i won't. the only real embroidery dress i ever had in my life--and haven't got that yet! but go ahead and get anybody you like. i'm hoodooed, that's what it is. it's a punishment because you and jim cheated yesterday, lark." "what did you do?" asked connie. "you seem to be getting the punishment!" "shall we have alice or katie? which do you prefer, lark?" "you'll have to get them both," was the stoic answer. "i won't bridesmaid without carol." "don't be silly, lark. you'll have to." "then wait for carol." "papa, you must make her." "no," said prudence slowly, with a white face. "we'll postpone it. i won't get married without the whole family." "i said right from the start--" "oh, yes, fairy, we know what you said," interjected carol. "we know how you'll get married. first man that gets moonshine enough into his head to propose to you, you'll trot him post haste to the justice before he thinks twice." in the end, the wedding was postponed a couple of months,--for both connie and fairy took the measles. but when at last, the wedding party, marshalled by connie with a huge white basket of flowers, trailed down the time-honored aisle of the methodist church, it was without one dissenting voice pronounced the crowning achievement of mr. starr's whole pastorate. "i was proud of us, lark," carol told her twin, after it was over, and prudence had gone, and the girls had wept themselves weak on each other's shoulders. "we get so in the habit of doing things wrong that i half expected myself to pipe up ahead of father with the ceremony. it seems--awful--without prudence,--but it's a satisfaction to know that she was the best married bride mount mark has ever seen." "jerry looked awfully handsome, didn't he? did you notice how he glowed at prudence? i wish you were artistic, carol, so you could illustrate my books. jerry'd make a fine illustration." "we looked nice, too. we're not a bad-looking bunch when you come right down to facts. of course, it is fine to be as smart as you are, larkie, but i'm not jealous. we're mighty lucky to have both beauty and brains in our twin-ship,--and since one can't have both, i may say i'd just as lief be pretty. it's so much easier." "carol!" "what?" "we're nearly grown up now. we'll have to begin to settle down. prudence says so." for a few seconds carol wavered, tremulous. then she said pluckily, "all right. just wait till i powder my nose, will you? it gets so shiny when i cry." "carol!" "what?" "isn't the house still?" "yes--ghastly." "i never thought prudence was much of a chatter-box, but--listen! there isn't a sound." carol held out a hand, and lark clutched it desperately. "let's--let's go find the folks. this is--awful! little old prudence is gone!" chapter v the serenade a subject that never failed to arouse the sarcasm and the ire of fairy was that of the slaughter-house quartette. this was composed of four young men--men quite outside the pale as far as the parsonage was concerned--the disreputable characters of the community, familiar in the local jail for frequent bursts of intoxication. they slouched, they smoked, they lounged, they leered. the churches knew them not. they were the slum element, the bowery of mount mark, iowa. prudence, in her day, had passed them by with a shy slight nod and a glance of tender pity. fairy and lark, and even connie, sailed by with high heads and scornful eyes,--haughty, proud, icily removed. but carol, by some weird and inexplicable fancy, treated them with sweet and gracious solicitude, quite friendly. her smile as she passed was as sweet as for her dearest friend. her "good morning,--isn't this glorious weather?" was as affably cordial as her, "breakfast is ready, papa!" this was the one subject of dispute between the twins. "oh, please don't, carol, it does make me so ashamed," lark entreated. "you mustn't be narrow-minded, larkie," carol argued. "we're minister's girls, and we've got to be a good influence,--an encouragement to the--er, weak and erring, you know. maybe my smiles will be an inspiration to them." and on this point carol stood firm even against the tears of her precious twin. one evening at the dinner table fairy said, with a mocking smile, "how are your slaughter-house friends to-day, carol? when i was at the dentist's i saw you coming along, beaming at them in your own inimitable way." "oh, they seemed all right," carol answered, with a deprecating glance toward her father and her aunt. "i see by last night's paper that guy fleisher is just out after his last thirty days up," fairy continued solicitously. "did he find his incarceration trying?" "i didn't discuss it with him," carol said indignantly. "i never talk to them. i just say 'good morning' in christian charity." aunt grace's eyes were smiling as always, but for the first time carol felt that the smiles were at, instead of with, her. "you would laugh to see her, aunt grace," fairy explained. "they are generally half intoxicated, sometimes wholly. and carol trips by, clean, white and shining. they are always lounging against the store windows or posts for support, bleary-eyed, dissipated, swaggery, staggery. carol nods and smiles as only carol can, 'good morning, boys! isn't it a lovely day? are you feeling well?' and they grin at her and sway ingratiatingly against one another, and say, 'mornin', carol.' carol is the only really decent person in town that has anything to do with them." "carol means all right," declared lark angrily. "yes, indeed," assented fairy, "they call them the slaughter-house quartette, auntie, because whenever they are sober enough to walk without police assistance, they wander through the streets slaughtering the peace and serenity of the quiet town with their rendition of all the late, disgraceful sentimental ditties. they are in many ways striking characters. i do not wholly misunderstand their attraction for romantic carol. they are something like the troubadours of old--only more so." carol's face was crimson. "i don't like them," she cried, "but i'm sorry for them. i think maybe i can make them see the difference between us, me so nice and respectable you know, and them so--animalish! it may arouse their better natures--i suppose they have better natures. i want to show them that the decent element, we christians, are sorry for them and want to make them better." "carol wants to be an influence," fairy continued. "of course, it is a little embarrassing for the rest of us to have her on such friendly terms with the most unmentionable characters in all mount mark. but carol is like so many reformers,--in the presence of one great truth she has eyes for it only, ignoring a thousand other, greater truths." "i am sorry for them," carol repeated, more weakly, abashed by the presence of the united family. fairy's dissertations on this subject had usually occurred in private. mr. starr mentally resolved that he would talk this over with carol when the others were not present, for he knew from her face and her voice that she was really sensitive on the subject. and he knew, too, that it is difficult to explain to the very young that the finest of ideas are not applicable to all cases by all people. but it happened that he was spared the necessity of dealing with carol privately, for matters adjusted themselves without his assistance. the second night following was an eventful one in the parsonage. one of the bishops of the church was in mount mark for a business conference with the religious leaders, and was to spend the night at the parsonage. the meeting was called for eight-thirty for the convenience of the business men concerned, and was to be held in the church offices. the men left early, followed shortly by fairy who designed to spend the evening at the averys' home, testing their supply of winter apples. the twins and connie, with the newest and most thrilling book mr. carnegie afforded the town, went up-stairs to lie on the bed and take turns reading aloud. and for a few hours the parsonage was as calm and peaceful as though it were not designed for the housing of merry minister's daughters. aunt grace sat down-stairs darning stockings. the girls' intentions had been the best in the world, but in less than a year the family darning had fallen entirely into the capable and willing hands of the gentle chaperon. it was half past ten. the girls had just seen their heroine rescued from a watery grave and married to her bold preserver by a minister who happened to be writing a sermon on the beach--no mention of how the license was secured extemporaneously--and with sighs of gratified sentiment they lay happily on the bed thinking it all over. and then, from beneath the peach trees clustered on the south side of the parsonage, a burst of melody arose. "good morning, carrie, how are you this morning?" the girls sat up abruptly, staring at one another, as the curious ugly song wafted in upon them. conviction dawned slowly, sadly, but unquestionably. the slaughter-house quartette was serenading carol in return for her winsome smiles! carol herself was literally struck dumb. her face grew crimson, then white. in her heart, she repeated psalms of thanksgiving that fairy was away, and that her father and the bishop would not be in until this colossal disaster was over. connie was mortified. it seemed like a wholesale parsonage insult. lark, after the first awful realization, lay back on the bed and rolled convulsively. "you're an influence all right, carol," she gurgled. "will you listen to that?" for _rufus rastus johnson brown_ was the second choice of her cavaliers below in the darkness. "rufus rastus," lark cried, and then was choked with laughter. "of course, it would be--proper if they sang hymns but--oh, listen!" the rollicking strains of _budweiser_ were swung gaily out upon the night. carol writhed in anguish. the serenade was bad enough, but this unmerciful mocking derision of her adored twin was unendurable. then the quartette waxed sentimental. they sang, and not badly, a few old southern melodies, and started slowly around the corner of the house, still singing. it has been said that aunt grace was always kind, always gentle, unsuspicious and without guile. she had heard the serenade, and promptly concluded that it was the work of some of the high-school boys who were unanimously devoted to carol. she had a big box of chocolates up-stairs, for connie's birthday celebration. she could get them, and make lemonade, and-- she opened the door softly and stepped out, directly in the path of the startled youths. full of her hospitable intent, she was not discerning as parsonage people need to be. "come in, boys," she said cordially, "the girls will be down in a minute." the appearance of a guardian angel summoning them to paradise could not have confounded them more utterly. they stumbled all over one another in trying to back away from her. she laughed softly. "don't be bashful. we enjoyed it very much. yes, come right in." undoubtedly they would have declined if only they could have thought of the proper method of doing so. as it was, they only succeeded in shambling through the parsonage door, instinctively concealing their half-smoked cigarettes beneath their fingers. aunt grace ushered them into the pleasant living-room, and ran up to summon her nieces. left alone, the boys looked at one another with amazement and with grief, and the leader, the touching tenor, said with true musical fervor, "well, this is a go!" in the meantime, the girls, with horror, had heard their aunt's invitation. what in the world did she mean? was it a trick between her and fairy? had they hired the awful slaughterers to bring this disgrace upon the parsonage? sternly they faced her when she opened their door. "come down, girls--i invited them in. i'm going to make lemonade and serve my nice chocolates. hurry down." "you invited them in!" echoed connie. "the slaughter-house quartette," hissed lark. then aunt grace whirled about and stared at them. "mercy!" she whispered, remembering for the first time fairy's words. "mercy! is it--that? i thought it was high-school boys and--mercy!" "mercy is good," said carol grimly. "you'll have to put them out," suggested connie. "i can't! how can i?--how did i know?--what on earth,--oh, carol whatever made you smile at them?" she wailed helplessly. "you know how men are when they are smiled at! the bishop--" "you'll have to get them out before the bishop comes back," said carol. "you must. and if any of you ever give this away to father or fairy i'll--" "you'd better go down a minute, girls," urged their aunt. "that will be the easiest way. i'll just pass the candy and invite them to come again and then they'll go. hurry now, and we'll get rid of them before the others come. be as decent as you can, and it'll soon be over." thus adjured, with the dignity of the bishop and the laughter of fairy ever in their thoughts, the girls arose and went down, proudly, calmly, loftily. their inborn senses of humor came to their assistance when they entered the living-room. the slaughter boys looked far more slaughtered than slaughtering. they sat limply in their chairs, nervously twitching their yellowed slimy fingers, their dull eyes intent upon the worn spots in the carpet. it was funny! even carol smiled, not the serene sweet smile that melted hearts, but the grim hard smile of the joker when the tables are turned! she flattered herself that this wretched travesty on parsonage courtesy would be ended before there were any further witnesses to her downfall from her proud fine heights, but she was doomed to disappointment. fairy, on the averys' porch, had heard the serenade. after the first shock, and after the helpless laughter that followed, she bade her friends good night. "oh, i've just got to go," she said. "it's a joke on carol. i wouldn't miss it for twenty-five bushels of apples,--even as good as these are." her eyes twinkling with delight, she ran home and waited behind the rose bushes until the moment for her appearance seemed at hand. then she stepped into the room where her outraged sisters were stoically passing precious and luscious chocolates to tobacco-saturated youths. "good evening," she said. "the averys and i enjoyed the concert, too. i do love to hear music outdoors on still nights like these. carol, maybe your friends would like a drink. are there any lemons, auntie? we might have a little lemonade." carol writhed helplessly. "i'll make it," she said, and rushed to the kitchen to vent her fury by shaking the very life out of the lemons. but she did not waste time. her father's twinkles were nearly as bad as fairy's own--and the bishop! "i'd wish it would choke 'em if it wouldn't take so long," she muttered passionately, as she hurried in with the pitcher and glasses, ready to serve the "slums" with her own chaste hands. she was just serving the melting tenor when she heard her father's voice in the hall. "too late," she said aloud, and with such despair in her voice that fairy relented and mentally promised to "see her through." mr. starr's eyes twinkled freely when he saw the guests in his home, and the gentle bishop's puzzled interest nearly sent them all off into laughter. fairy had no idea of the young men's names, but she said, quickly, to spare carol: "we have been serenaded to-night, doctor--you just missed it. these are the mount mark troubadours. you are lucky to get here in time for the lemonade." but when she saw the bishop glance concernedly from the yellow fingers to the dull eyes and the brown-streaked mouth, her gravity nearly forsook her. the slaughterers, already dashed to the ground by embarrassment, were entirely routed by the presence of the bishop. with incoherent apologies, they rose to their unsteady feet and in a cloud of breezy odors, made their escape. mr. starr laughed a little, aunt grace put her arm protectingly about carol's rigid shoulders, and the bishop said, "well, well, well," with gentle inquiry. "we call them the slaughter-house quartette," fairy began cheerfully. "they are the lower strata of mount mark, and they make the nights hideous with their choice selection of popular airs. the parsonage is divided about them. some of us think we should treat them with proud and cold disdain. some think we should regard them with a tender, gentle, er--smiling pity. and evidently they appreciated the smiles for they gave us a serenade in return for them. aunt grace did not know their history, so she invited them in, thinking they were just ordinary schoolboys. it is home mission work run aground." the bishop nodded sympathetically. "one has to be so careful," he said. "so extremely careful with characters like those. no doubt they meant well by their serenade, but--girls especially have to be very careful. i think as a rule it is safer to let men show the tender pity and women the fine disdain. i don't imagine they would come serenading your father and me! you carried it off beautifully, girls. i am sure your father was proud of you. i was myself. i'm glad you are methodists. not many girls so young could handle a difficult matter as neatly as you did." "yes," said mr. starr, but his eyes twinkled toward carol once more; "yes, indeed, i think we are well cleared of a disagreeable business." but carol looked at fairy with such humble, passionate gratitude that tears came to fairy's eyes and she turned quickly away. "carol is a sweet girl," she thought. "i wonder if things will work out for her just right--to make her as happy as she ought to be. she's so--lovely." chapter vi substitution the twins came in at dinner-time wrapped in unwonted silence. lark's face was darkened by an anxious shadow, while carol wore an expression of heroic determination. they sat down to the table without a word, and helped themselves to fish balls with a surprising lack of interest. "what's up?" connie asked, when the rest of the family dismissed the matter with amused glances. lark sighed and looked at carol, seeming to seek courage from that spartan countenance. carol squared her shoulders. "well, go on," connie urged. "don't be silly. you know you're crazy to tell us about it, you only want to be coaxed." lark sighed again, and gazed appealingly at her stout-hearted twin. carol never could resist the appeal of those pleading eyes. "larkie promised to speak a piece at the sunday-school concert two weeks from to-morrow," she vouchsafed, as unconcernedly as possible. "mercy!" ejaculated connie, with an astonishment that was not altogether complimentary. "careful, larkie," cautioned fairy. "you'll disgrace the parsonage if you don't watch out." "nonsense," declared their father, "lark can speak as well as anybody if she just keeps a good grip on herself and doesn't get stage fright." aunt grace smiled gently. connie frowned. "it's a risky business," she said. "lark can't speak any more than a rabbit, and--" "i know it," was the humble admission. "don't be a goose, con," interrupted carol. "of course lark can speak a piece. she must learn it, learn it, learn it, so she can rattle it off backwards with her eyes shut. then even if she gets scared, she can go right on and folks won't know the difference. it gets to be a habit if you know it well enough. that's the whole secret. of course she can speak." "how did it happen?" inquired fairy. "i don't know," lark said sorrowfully. "nothing was ever farther from my thoughts, i assure you. the first thing i knew, mrs. curtiss was thanking me for my promise, and carol was marching me off like grim death." carol smiled, relieved now that the family commentary was over. "it was very natural. mrs. curtiss begged her to do it, and lark refused. that always happens, every time the sunday-school gives an entertainment. but mrs. curtiss went on to say how badly the sunday-school needs the money, and how big a drawing card it would be for both of us twins to be on the program, one right after the other, and how well it would look for the parsonage, and it never occurred to me to warn lark, for i never dreamed of her doing it. and all of a sudden she said, 'all right, then, i'll do it,' and mrs. curtiss gave her a piece and we came home. but i'm not worried about it. lark can do anything if she only tries." "i thought it wouldn't hurt me to try it once," lark volunteered in her own defense. aunt grace nodded, with a smile of interested approval. "i'm proud of you, lark, quite proud of you," her father said warmly. "it's a big thing for you to make such a plunge,--just fine." "i'm proud of you now, too," connie said darkly. "the question is, will we be proud of you after the concert?" lark sighed dolorously. "oh, pooh!" encouraged carol. "anybody can speak a silly little old piece like that. and it will look so nice to have our names right together on the program. it'll bring out all the high-school folks, sure." "yes, they'll come to hear lark all right," fairy smiled. "but she'll make it go, of course. and it will give carol a chance to show her cleverness by telling her how to do it." so as soon as supper was over, carol said decidedly, "now, connie, you'll have to help me with the dishes the next two weeks, for lark's got to practise on that piece. lark, you must read it over, very thoughtfully first to get the meaning. then just read it and read it and read it, a dozen times, a hundred times, over and over and over. and pretty soon you'll know it." "i'll bet i don't," was the discouraging retort, as lark, with pronounced distaste, took the slip of paper and sat down in the corner to read the "blooming thing," as she muttered crossly to herself. connie and carol did up the dishes in dreadful silence, and then carol returned to the charge. "how many times did you read it?" "fourteen and a half," was the patient answer. "it's a silly thing, carol. there's no sense to it. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea.'" "oh, that's not so bad," carol said helpfully. "i've had pieces with worse lines than that. 'the imprint of a dainty foot,' for instance. when you say, 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,' you must kind of let your voice glide along, very rhythmically, very--" "windily," suggested connie, who remained to witness the exhibition. "you keep still, constance starr, or you can get out of here! it's no laughing matter i can tell you, and you have to keep out or i won't help and then--" "i'll keep still. but it ought to be windily you know, since it's the wind. i meant it for a joke," she informed them. the twins had a very disheartening way of failing to recognize connie's jokes--it took the life out of them. "now read it aloud, lark, so i can see if you get the proper expression," carol continued, when connie was utterly subdued. lark obediently but unhappily read the quaint poem aloud and carol said it was very good. "you must read it aloud often, very often. that'll give you a better idea of the accent. now put it away, and don't look at it again to-night. if you keep it up too long you'll get so dead sick of it you can't speak it at all." for two entire weeks, the twins were changed creatures. lark read the "blooming piece" avidly, repeatedly and with bitter hate. carol stood grimly by, listening intently, offering curt apt criticisms. finally, lark "knew it," and the rest of the time was spent in practising before the mirror,--to see if she kept her face pleasant. "for the face has a whole lot to do with it, my dear," said carol sagely, "though the critics would never admit it." by the evening of the sunday-school concert--they were concerting for the sake of a hundred-dollar subscription to church repairs--lark had mastered her recitation so perfectly that the minds of the parsonage were nearly at peace. she still felt a deep resentment toward the situation, but this was partially counterbalanced by the satisfaction of seeing her name in print, directly beneath carol's on the program. "recitation_______________miss carol starr. recitation_______________miss lark starr." it looked very well indeed, and the whole family took a proper interest in it. no one gave carol's recitation a second thought. she always recited, and did it easily and well. it was quite a commonplace occurrence for her. on the night of the concert she superintended lark's dressing with maternal care. "you look all right," she said, "just fine. now don't get scared, lark. it's so silly. remember that you know all those people by heart, you can talk a blue streak to any of them. there's no use--" "but i can't talk a blue streak to the whole houseful at once," lark protested. "it makes me have such a--hollow feeling--to see so many white faces gazing up, and it's hot, and--" "stop that," came the stern command. "you don't want to get cold feet before you start. if you do accidentally forget once or twice, don't worry. i know the piece as well as you do, and i can prompt you from behind without any one noticing it. at first it made me awfully cross when they wanted us reciters to sit on the platform for every one to stare at. but now i'm glad of it. i'll be right beside you, and can prompt you without any trouble at all. but you won't forget." she kissed her. "you'll do fine, larkie, just as fine as you look, and it couldn't be better than that." just then connie ran in. "fairy wants to know if you are getting stage fright, lark? my, you do look nice! now, for goodness' sake, lark, remember the parsonage, and don't make a fizzle of it." "who says fizzle?" demanded their father from the doorway. "never say die, my girl. why, lark, i never saw you look so sweet. you have your hair fixed a new way, haven't you?" "carol did it," was the shy reply. "it does look nice, doesn't it? i'm not scared, father, not a bit--yet! but there's a hollow feeling--" "get her an apple, connie," said carol. "it's because she didn't eat any supper. she's not scared." "i don't want an apple. come on, let's go down. have the boys come?" "no, but they'll be here in a minute. jim's never late. i do get sore at jim--i'd forty times rather go with him than hartley--but he always puts off asking us until the last minute and then i have a date and you get him. i believe he does it on purpose. come on down." aunt grace looked at the pale sweet face with gratified delight, and kissed her warmly. her father walked around her, nodding approval. "you look like a dream," he said. "the wind a-drifting o'er the lea ne'er blew upon a fairer sight! you shall walk with me." "oh, father, you can't remember that you're obsolete," laughed fairy. "the twins have attained to the dignity of boys, and aren't satisfied with the fond but sober arm of father any more. our little twins have dates to-night, as usual nowadays." "aunt grace," he said solemnly, "it's a wretched business, having a parsonage full of daughters. just as soon as they reach the age of beauty, grace and charm, they turn their backs on their fathers and smile on fairer lads." "you've got me, father," said connie consolingly. "and me,--when babbie's in chicago," added fairy. "yes, that's some help. connie, be an old maid. do! i implore you." "oh, connie's got a beau already," said carol. "it's the fat allen boy. they don't have dates yet, but they've got an awful case on. he's going to make their living by traveling with a show. you'll have to put up with auntie--she's beyond the beauing stage!" "suits me," he said contentedly, "i am getting more than my deserts. come on, grace, we'll start." "so will we, connie," said fairy. but the boys came, both together, and the family group set out together. carol and hartley--one of her high-school admirers--led off by running a race down the parsonage walk. and lark, old, worn and grave, brought up the rear with jim forrest. jim was a favorite attendant of the twins. he had been graduated from high school the year previous, and was finishing off at the agricultural college in ames. but ames was not far from home, and he was still frequently on hand to squire the twins when squires were in demand. he was curiously generous and impartial in his attentions,--it was this which so endeared him to the twins. he made his dates by telephone, invariably. and the conversations might almost have been decreed by law. "may i speak to one of the twins?" the nearest twin was summoned, and then he asked: "have you twins got dates for the ball game?"--or the party, or the concert. and the twin at the telephone would say, "yes, we both have--hard luck, jim." or, "i have, but carol hasn't." sometimes it was, "no, we haven't, but we're just crazy to go." and in reply to the first jim always answered, "that's a shame,--why didn't you remember me and hold off?" and to the second, "well, ask her if i can come around for her." and to the third, "good, let's all go together and have a celebration." for this broad-minded devotion the twins gave him a deep-seated gratitude and affection and he always stood high in their favor. on this occasion carol had answered the telephone, and in reply to his query she answered crossly, "oh, jim, you stupid thing, why didn't you phone yesterday? i would so much rather go with you than--but never mind. i have a date, but lark hasn't. and you just called in time, too, for harvey lane told hartley he was going to ask for a date." and jim had called back excitedly, "bring her to the phone, quick; don't waste a minute." and lark was called, and the date was duly scheduled. "are you scared, lark?" he asked her as they walked slowly down the street toward the church. "i'm not scared, jim," she answered solemnly, "but i'm perfectly cavernous, if you know what that means." "i sure do know," he said fervently, "didn't i have to do a speech at the commencement exercises? there never was a completer cavern than i was that night. but i can't figure out why folks agree to do such things when they don't have to. i had to. it was compulsory." lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "i can't figure out, either. i don't know why i did. it was a mistake, some way." at the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"--commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, bibles and lesson sheets. there they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform--an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but sunday-schools and graduating classes. printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. not because it was necessary, but because superintendents have to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making. the program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. when the superintendent read, "recitation--miss carol starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. with sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. nobody ever worried when carol spoke a piece. things always went all right. and back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done. she sat down by lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that lark would come off as well. lark was trembling. "carol," she whispered, "i--i'm scared." instantly the triumph left carol's heart. "you're not," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right." lark trembled more violently. her head swayed a little. bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "i--can't," she muttered thickly. "i'm sick." carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. lark grew more pale. "recitation--miss lark starr." again the applause rang out. lark did not move. "i can't," she whispered again. "i can't." "lark, lark," begged carol desperately. "you must go, you must. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,'--it's easy enough. go on, lark. you must." lark shook her head. "mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly. "remember the parsonage," begged carol. "think of prudence. think of papa. look, there he is, right down there. he's expecting you, lark. you must!" lark tried to rise. she could not. she could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light. "you can," whispered carol. "you can do anything if you try. prudence says so." people were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. the other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. the superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger. "i can't," lark whispered, "i'm sick." "lark,--lark," called the superintendent. carol sighed bitterly. evidently it was up to her. with a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. the superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. the people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. he nodded quickly, and his eyes approved. "good!" his lips formed the word, and carol did not falter again. the applause was nearly drowned with laughter as carol advanced for her second recitation. "the wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,--her voice drifting properly on the words,--and so on to the end of the piece. most of the audience, knowing lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. the applause was deafening as she went back. it grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at lark. then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart. "lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow." "mercy!" gasped lark. "i didn't do anything." "it was supposed to be you--go on, lark! hurry! you've got to! think what a joke it will be." lark hesitated, but carol's dominance was compelling. "do as i tell you," came the peremptory order, and lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow. this time the applause ran riot, for people of less experience than those of mount mark could tell that the twins were playing a game. as it continued, carol caught larkin's hand in hers, and together they stepped out once more, laughing and bowing right and left. lark was the last one in that night, for she and jim celebrated her defeat with two ice-cream sodas a piece at the corner drug store. "i disgraced the parsonage," she said meekly, as she stepped into the family circle, waiting to receive her. "indeed you didn't," said fairy. "it was too bad, but carol passed it off nicely, and then, turning it into a joke that way took all the embarrassment out of it. it was perfectly all right, and we weren't a bit ashamed." "and you did look awfully sweet when you made your bow," connie said warmly,--for when a member of the family was down, no one ventured a laugh, laugh-loving though they were. curious to say, the odd little freak of substitution only endeared the twins to the people of mount mark the more. "by ginger, you can't beat them bloomin' twins," said harvey reel, chuckling admiringly. and no one disagreed. chapter vii making matches aunt grace sat in a low rocker with a bit of embroidery in her hands. and fairy sat at the table, a formidable array of books before her. aunt grace was gazing idly at her sewing basket, a soft smile on her lips. and fairy was staring thoughtfully into the twilight, a soft glow in her eyes. aunt grace was thinking of the jolly parsonage family, and how pleasant it was to live with them. and fairy was thinking--ah, fairy was twenty, and twenty-year-olds always stare into the twilight, with dreamy far-seeing eyes. in upon this peaceful scene burst the twins, flushed, tempestuous, in spite of their seventeen years. their hurry to speak had rendered them incapable of speech, so they stood in the doorway panting breathlessly for a moment, while fairy and her aunt, withdrawn thus rudely from dreamland, looked at them interrogatively. "yes, i think so, too," began fairy, and the twins endeavored to crush her with their lofty scorn. but it is not easy to express lofty scorn when one is red in the face, perspirey and short of breath. so the twins decided of necessity to overlook the offense just this once. finally, recovering their vocal powers simultaneously, they cried in unison: "duckie!" "duck! in the yard! do you mean a live one? where did it come from?" ejaculated their aunt. "they mean professor duck of their freshman year," explained fairy complacently. "it's nothing. the twins always make a fuss over him. they feel grateful to him for showing them through freshman science--that's all." "that's all," gasped carol. "why, fairy starr, do you know he's employed by the--society of--a--a scientific research organization--or something--in new york city, and gets four thousand dollars a year and has prospects--all kinds of prospects!" "yes, i know it. you haven't seen him, auntie. he's tall, and has wrinkles around his eyes, and a dictatorial nose, and steel gray eyes. he calls the twins song-birds, and they're so flattered they adore him. he sends them candy for christmas. you know that duckie they rave so much about. it's the very man. is he here?" the twins stared at each other in blank exasperation for a full minute. they knew that fairy didn't deserve to hear their news, but at the same time they did not deserve such bitter punishment as having to refrain from talking about it,--so they swallowed again, sadly, and ignored her. "he's in town," said lark. "going to stay a week," added carol. "and he said he wanted to have lots of good times with us, and so--we--why, of course it was very sudden, and we didn't have time to ask--" "but parsonage doors are always open--" "and i don't know how he ever wormed it out of us, but--one of us--" "i can't remember which one!" "invited him to come for dinner to-night, and he's coming." "goodness," said aunt grace. "we were going to have potato soup and toast." "it'll keep," said carol. "of course we're sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour, but larkie and i will tell connie what to do, so you won't have much bother. let's see, now, we must think up a pretty fair meal. four thousand a year--and prospects!" aunt grace turned questioning eyes toward the older sister. "all right," said fairy, smiling. "it's evidently settled. think up your menu, twins, and put connie to work." "is he nice?" aunt grace queried. "yes, i think he is. he used to go with our college bunch some. i know him pretty well. he brought me home from things a time or two." carol leaned forward and looked at her handsome sister with sudden intentness. "he asked about you," she said, keen eyes on fairy's. "he asked particularly about you." "did he? thanks. yes, he's not bad. he's pretty good in a crowd." by the force of her magnetic gaze, carol drew lark out of the room, and the door closed behind them. a few minutes later they returned. there was about them an air of subdued excitement, suggestive of intrigue, that fairy found disturbing. "you needn't plan any nonsense, twins," she cautioned. "he's no beau of mine." "of course not," they assured her pleasantly. "we're too old for mischief. seventeen, and sensible for our years! say, fairy, you'll be nice to duckie, won't you? we're too young really to entertain him, and he's so nice we want him to have a good time. can't you try to make it pleasant for him this week? he'll only be here a few days. will you do that much for us?" "why, i would, twins, of course, to oblige you, but you know gene's in town this week, and i've got to--" "oh, you leave babbie--gene, i mean--to us," said carol airily. fairy being a junior in college, and eugene babler a student of pharmacy in chicago, she felt obliged to restore him to his christian name, shortened to gene. but the twins refused to accede to this propriety, except when they particularly wished to placate fairy. "you leave gene to us," repeated carol. "we'll amuse him. is he coming to-night?" "yes, at seven-thirty." "let's call him up and invite him for dinner, too," suggested lark. "and you'll do us a favor and be nice to duckie, won't you? we'll keep babb--er, gene--out of the road. you phone to gene, carol, and--" "i'll do my own phoning, thanks," said fairy, rising quickly. "yes, we'll have them both. and just as a favor to you, twins, i will help amuse your professor. you'll be good, and help, won't you?" the twins glowed at fairy with a warmth that seemed almost triumphant. she stopped and looked at them doubtfully. when she returned after telephoning, they were gone, and she said to her aunt: "i'm not superstitious, but when the twins act like that, there's usually a cloud in the parsonage sky-light. prudence says so." but the twins comported themselves most decorously. all during the week they worked like kitchen slaveys, doing chores, running errands. and they treated fairy with a gentle consideration which almost drew tears to her eyes, though she still remembered prudence's cloud in the parsonage sky-light! they certainly interfered with her own plans. they engineered her off on to their beloved professor at every conceivable turn. and gene, who nearly haunted the house, had a savage gleam in his eyes quite out of accord with his usual chatty good humor. fairy knew she was being adroitly managed, but she had promised to help the twins with "duckie." at first she tried artistically and unobtrusively to free herself from the complication in which her sisters had involved her. but the twins were both persistent and clever, and fairy found herself no match for them when it came right down to business. she had no idea of their purpose,--she only knew that she and gene were always on opposite sides of the room, the young man grinning savagely at the twins' merry prattle, and she and the professor trying to keep quiet enough to hear every word from the other corner. and if they walked, gene was dragged off by the firm slender fingers of the friendly twins, and fairy and the professor walked drearily along in the rear, talking inanely about the weather,--and wondering what the twins were talking about. and the week passed. gene finally fell off in his attendance, and the twins took a much needed rest. on friday afternoon they flattered themselves that all was well. gene was not coming, fairy was in the hammock waiting for the professor. so the twins hugged each other gleefully and went to the haymow to discuss the strain and struggle of the week. and then-- "why, the big mutt!" cried carol, in her annoyance ignoring the methodist grammatical boundaries, "here comes that bubbling babler this minute. and he said he was going to new london for the day. now we'll have to chase down there and shoo him off before duckie comes." the twins, growling and grumbling, gathered themselves up and started. but they started too reluctantly, too leisurely. they were not in time. fairy sat up in the hammock with a cry of surprise, but not vexation, when gene's angry countenance appeared before her. "look here, fairy," he began, "what's the joke? are your fingers itching to get hold of that four thousand a year the twins are eternally bragging about? are you trying to throw yourself into the old school-teacher's pocketbook, or what?" "don't be silly, gene," she said, "come and sit down and--" "sit down, your grandmother!" he snapped still angrily. "old double d. d. will be bobbing up in a minute, and the twins'll drag me off to hear about a sick rooster, or something. he is coming, isn't he?" "i--guess he is," she said confusedly. "let's cut and run, will you?" he suggested hopefully. "we can be out of sight before--come on, fairy, be good to me. i haven't had a glimpse or a touch of you the whole week. what do you reckon i came down here for? come on. let's beat it." he looked around with a worried air. "hurry, or the twins'll get us." fairy hesitated, and was lost. gene grabbed her hand, and the next instant, laughing, they were crawling under the fence at the south corner of the parsonage lawn just as the twins appeared at the barn door. they stopped. they gasped. they stared at each other in dismay. "it was a put-up job," declared carol. "now what'll we do? but babbie's got more sense than i thought he had, i must confess. do you suppose he was kidnaping her?" carol snorted derisively. "kidnaping nothing! she was ahead when i saw 'em. what'll we tell the professor?" two humbled gentle twins greeted the professor some fifteen minutes later. "we're so sorry," carol explained faintly. "babbie came and he and fairy--i guess they had an errand somewhere. we think they'll be back very soon. fairy will be so sorry." the professor smiled and looked quite bright. "are they gone?" "yes, but we're sure they'll be back,--that is, we're almost sure." carol, remembering the mode of their departure, felt far less assurance on that point than she could have wished. "well, that's too bad," he said cheerfully. "but my loss is babler's gain. i suppose we ought in christian decency to give him the afternoon. let's go out to the creek for a stroll ourselves, shall we? that'll leave him a clear field when they return. you think they'll be back soon, do you?" he looked down the road hopefully, but whether hopeful they would return, or wouldn't, the twins could not have told. at any rate, he seemed quite impatient until they were ready to start, and then, very gaily, the three wended their way out the pretty country road toward the creek and blackbird lane. they had a good time, the twins always did insist that no one on earth was quite so entertaining as dear old duckie, but in her heart carol registered a solemn vow to have it out with fairy when she got back. she had no opportunity that night. fairy and gene telephoned that they would not be home for dinner, and the professor had gone, and the twins were sleeping soundly, when fairy crept softly up the stairs. but carol did not forget her vow. early the next morning she stalked grimly into fairy's room, where fairy was conscientiously bringing order out of the chaos in her bureau drawers, a thing fairy always did after a perfectly happy day. carol knew that, and it was with genuine reproach in her voice that she spoke at last, after standing for some two minutes watching fairy as she deftly twirled long ribbons about her fingers and then laid them in methodical piles in separate corners of the drawers. "fairy," she said sadly, "you don't seem very appreciative some way. here larkie and i have tried so hard to give you a genuine opportunity--we've worked and schemed and kept ourselves in the background, and that's the way you serve us! it's disappointing. it's downright disheartening." fairy folded a blue veil and laid it on top of a white one. then she turned. "yes. what?" she inquired coolly. "there are so few real chances for a woman in mount mark, and we felt that this was once in a lifetime. and you know how hard we worked. and then, when we relaxed our--our vigilance--just for a moment, you spoiled it all by--" "yes,--talk english, carrie. what was it you tried to do for me?" "well, if you want plain english you can have it," said carol heatedly. "you know what professor is, a swell position like his, and such prospects, and new york city, and four thousand a year with a raise for next year, and we tried to give you a good fair chance to land him squarely, and--" "to land him--" "to get him, then! he hasn't any girl. you could have been engaged to him this minute--professor david arnold duke--if you had wanted to." "oh, is that it?" "yes, that's it." fairy smiled. "thank you, dear, it was sweet of you, but you're too late. i am engaged." carol's lips parted, closed, parted again. "you--you?" "exactly so." hope flashed into carol's eyes. fairy saw it, and answered swiftly. "certainly not. i'm not crazy about your little prof. i am engaged to eugene babler." she said it with pride, not unmixed with defiance, knowing as she did that the twins considered gene too undignified for a parsonage son-in-law. the twins were strong for parsonage dignity! "you--are?" "i am." a long instant carol stared at her. then she turned toward the door. "where are you going?" "i'm going to tell papa." fairy laughed. "papa knows it." carol came slowly back and stood by the dresser again. after a short silence she moved away once more. "where now?" "i'll tell aunt grace, then." "aunt grace knows it, too." "does prudence know it?" "yes." carol swallowed this bitter pill in silence. "how long?" she inquired at last. "about a year. look here, carol, i'll show you something. really i'm glad you know about it. we're pretty young, and papa thought we ought to keep it dark a while to make sure. that's why we didn't tell you. look at this." from her cedar chest--a christmas gift from gene--she drew out a small velvet jeweler's box, and displayed before the admiring eyes of carol a plain gold ring with a modest diamond. carol kissed it. then she kissed fairy twice. "i know you'll be awfully happy, fairy," she said soberly. "and i'm glad of it. but--i can't honestly believe there's any man good enough for our girls. babbie's nice, and dear, and all that, and he's so crazy about you, and--do you love him?" her eyes were wide, rather wondering, as she put this question softly. fairy put her arm about her sister's shoulders, and her fine steady eyes met carol's clearly. "yes," she said frankly, "i love him--with all my heart." "is that what makes you so--so shiny, and smiley, and starry all the time?" "i guess it is. it is the most wonderful thing in the world, carol. you can't even imagine it--beforehand. it is magical, it is heavenly." "yes, i suppose it is. prudence says so, too. i can't imagine it, i kind of wish i could. can't i go and tell connie and lark? i want to tell somebody!" "yes, tell them. we decided not to let you know just yet, but since--yes, tell them, and bring them up to see it." carol kissed her again, and went out, gently closing the door behind her. in the hallway she stopped and stared at the wall for an unseeing moment. then she clenched and shook a stern white fist at the door. "i don't care," she muttered, "they're not good enough for prudence and fairy! they're not! i just believe i despise men, all of 'em, unless it's daddy and duck!" she smiled a little and then looked grim once more. "eugene babler, and a little queen like fairy! i think that must be heaven's notion of a joke." she sighed again. "oh, well, it's something to have something to tell! i'm glad i found it out ahead of lark!" chapter viii lark's literary venture as commencement drew near, and fairy began planning momentous things for her graduation, a little soberness came into the parsonage life. the girls were certainly growing up. prudence had been married a long, long time. fairy was being graduated from college, her school-days were over, and life was just across the threshold--its big black door just slightly ajar waiting for her to press it back and catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, yes, there was a rosy tinge showing faintly through like the light of the early sun shining through the night-fog, but the door was only a little ajar! and fairy was nearly ready to step through. it disturbed the parsonage family a great deal. even the twins were getting along. they were finishing high school, and beginning to prate of college and such things, but the twins were still, well, they were growing up, perhaps, but they kept jubilantly young along in the process, and their enthusiasm for diplomas and ice-cream sodas was so nearly identical that one couldn't feel seriously that the twins were tugging at their leashes. and connie was a freshman herself,--rather tall, a little awkward, with a sober earnest face, and with an incongruously humorous droop to the corners of her lips, and in the sparkle of her eyes. mr. starr looked at them and sighed. "i tell you, grace, it's a thankless job, rearing a family. connie told me to-day that my collars should have straight edges now instead of turned-back corners. and lark reminded me that i got my points mixed up in last sunday's lesson. i'm getting sick of this family business, i'm about ready to--" and just then, as a clear "father" came floating down the stairway, he turned his head alertly. "what do you want?" "everybody's out," came carol's plaintive voice. "will you come and button me up? i can't ask auntie to run clear up here, and i can't come down because i'm in my stocking feet. my new slippers pinch so i don't put them on until i have to. oh, thanks, father, you're a dear." after the excitement of the commencement, the commotion, the glamour, the gaiety, ordinary parsonage life seemed smooth and pleasant, and for ten days there was not a ruffle on the surface of their domestic waters. it was on the tenth day that the twins, strolling down main street, conversing earnestly together as was their custom, were accosted by a nicely-rounded, pompous man with a cordial, "hello, twins." in an instant they were bright with smiles, for this was mr. raider, editor and owner of the _daily news_, the biggest and most popular of mount mark's three daily papers. looking forward, as they did, to a literary career for lark, they never failed to show a touching and unnatural deference to any one connected, even ever so remotely, with that profession. indeed, carol, with the charm of her smile, had bewitched the small carriers to the last lad, and in reply to her sister's teasing, only answered stoutly, "that's all right,--you don't know what they may turn into one of these days. we've got to look ahead to lark's literary career." so when humble carriers, and some of them black at that, received such sweet attention, one can well imagine what the nicely rounded, pompous editor himself called forth. they did not resent his nicely-rounded and therefore pointless jokes. they smiled at them. they did not call the _daily news_ the "raider family organ," as they yearned to do. they did not admit that they urged their father to put mr. raider on all church committees to insure publicity. they swallowed hard, and told themselves that, after all, mr. raider was an editor, and perhaps he couldn't help editing his own family to the exclusion of the rest of mount mark. when, on this occasion, he looked lark up and down with his usual rotund complacency, carol only gritted her teeth and reminded her heaving soul that he was an editor. "what are you going to do this summer, lark?" he asked, without preamble. "why,--just nothing, i suppose. as usual." "well," he said, frowning plumply, "we're running short of men. i've heard you're interested in our line, and i thought maybe you could help us out during vacation. how about it? the work'll be easy and it'll be fine experience for you. we'll pay you five dollars a week. this is a little town, and we're called a little publication, but our work and our aim and methods are identical with those of the big city papers." he swelled visibly, almost alarmingly. "how about it? you're the one with the literary longings, aren't you?" lark was utterly speechless. if the national bank had opened its coffers to the always hard-pressed twins, she could not have been more completely confounded. carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach headlong. "yes,--yes," she gasped. "she's literary. oh, she's very literary." mr. raider smiled. "well, would you like to try your hand out with me?" again carol sprang to her sister's relief. "yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "yes, indeed." and then, determined to impress upon him that the _daily news_ was the one to profit chiefly from the innovation, she added, "and it's a lucky day for the _daily news_, too, i tell you. there aren't many larks in mount mark, in a literary way, i mean, and--the _daily news_ needs some--that is, i think--new blood,--anyhow, lark will be just fine." "all right. come in, monday morning at eight, lark, and i'll set you to work. it won't be anything very important. you can write up the church news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. it'll be good training. you can study our papers between now and then, to catch our style." carol lifted her head a little higher. if mr. raider thought her talented twin would be confined to the ordinary style of the _daily news_, which carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all, he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain! it is a significant fact that after mr. raider went back into the sanctum of the _daily news_, the twins walked along for one full block without speaking. such a thing had never happened before in all the years of their twinship. at the end of the block, carol turned her head restlessly. they were eight blocks from home. but the twins couldn't run on the street, it was so undignified. she looked longingly about for a buggy bound their way. even a grocery cart would have been a welcome though humbling conveyance. lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was glowing. carol looked behind her, looked ahead. then she thought again of the eight blocks. "lark," she said, "i'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. and auntie told us to hurry back. maybe we'd better run." running is a good expression for emotion, and lark promptly struck out at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. down the street they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness fairly overflowing. and many people turned to look, wondering what in the world possessed the leisurely, dignified parsonage twins. the last block was traversed at a really alarming rate. the passion for "telling things" had seized them both, and they whirled around the corner and across the lawn at a rate that brought connie out into the yard to meet them, with a childish, "what's the matter? what happened? did something bite you?" aunt grace sat up in her hammock to look, fairy ran out to the porch, and mr. starr laid down his book. had the long and dearly desired war been declared at last? but when the twins reached the porch, they paused sheepishly, shyly. "what's the matter?" chorused the family. "are--are we late for dinner?" carol demanded earnestly, as though their lives depended on the answer. the family stared in concerted amazement. when before this had the twins shown anxiety about their lateness for meals--unless a favorite dessert or salad was all consumed in their absence. and it was only half past four! carol gently shoved connie off the cushion upon which she had dropped, and arranged it tenderly in a chair. "sit down and rest, larkie," she said in a soft and loving voice. "are you nearly tired to death?" lark sank, panting, into the chair, and gazed about the circle with brilliant eyes. "get her a drink, can't you, connie?" said carol indignantly. "can't you see the poor thing is just tired to death? she ran the whole way home!" still the family stared. the twins' devotion to each other was never failing, but this attentiveness on the part of carol was extremely odd. now she sat down on the step beside her sister, and gazed up into the flushed face with adoring, but somewhat patronizing, pride. after all, she had had a whole lot to do with training larkie! "what in the world?" began their father curiously. "had a sunstroke?" queried fairy, smiling. "you're both crazy," declared connie, coming back with the water. "you're trying to fool us. i won't ask any questions. you don't catch me this time." "why don't you lie down and let lark use you for a footstool, carol?" suggested their father, with twinkling eyes. "i would if she wanted a footstool," said carol positively. "i'd love to do it. i'd be proud to do it. i'd consider it an honor." lark blushed and lowered her eyes modestly. "what happened?" urged their father, still more curiously. "did she get you out of a scrape?" mocked fairy. "oh, just let 'em alone," said connie. "they think it's smart to be mysterious. nothing happened at all. that's what they call being funny." "tell it, lark." carol's voice was so intense that it impressed even skeptical connie and derisive fairy. lark raised the glowing eyes once more, leaned forward and said thrillingly: "it's the literary career." the silence that followed this bold announcement was sufficiently dramatic to satisfy even carol, and she patted lark's knee approvingly. "well, go on," urged connie, at last, when the twins continued silent. "that's all." "she's going to run the _daily news_." "oh, i'll only be a cub reporter, i guess that's what you call them." "reporter nothing," contradicted carol. "there's nothing literary about that. you must take the whole paper in hand, and color it up a bit. and for goodness' sake, polish up mr. raider's editorials. i could write editorials like his myself." "and you might tone down the family notes for him," suggested fairy. "we don't really care to know when mrs. kelly borrows eggs of the editor's wife and how many dolls betty got for christmas and jack's grades in high school. we can get along without those personal touches." "maybe you can give us a little church write-up now and then, without necessitating mr. raider as chairman of every committee," interposed their father, and then retracted quickly. "i was only joking, of course, i didn't mean--" "no, of course, you didn't, father," said carol kindly. "we'll consider that you didn't say it. but just bear it in mind, larkie." fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on lark's shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "now, lark starr, you begin at the beginning and tell us. do you think we're all wooden indians? we can't wait until you make a newspaper out of the _daily news_! we want to know. talk." thus adjured, lark did talk, and the little story with many striking embellishments from carol was given into the hearing of the family. "five dollars a week," echoed connie faintly. "of course, i'll divide that with carol," was the generous offer. "no, i won't have it. i haven't any literary brains, and i can't take any of your salary. thanks just the same." then she added happily: "but i know you'll be very generous when i need to borrow, and i do borrow pretty often, larkie." for the rest of the week lark's literary career was the one topic of conversation in the starr family. the _daily news_ became a sort of literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically around it. lark's clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her admiring sisters. every evening the younger girls watched impatiently for the carrier of the _daily news_, and then rushed to meet him. the paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. they all admitted that lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force, indeed, one sorely needed. they begged her to give mount mark the news while it was news, without waiting to find what the other republican papers of the state thought about it. why, the instructions and sisterly advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient lark would have made an archangel giddy with confusion! during those days, carol followed lark about with a hungry devotion that would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. but now she was so full of the darling career that she overlooked the once most-darling carol. on monday morning, carol did not remain up-stairs with lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation into the world of literature. instead, she sulked grouchily in the dining-room, and when lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for the family's approval, she almost glowered upon her. "am i all right? do i look literary? oh, oh," gurgled lark, with music in her voice. carol sniffed. "oh, isn't it a glorious morning?" sang lark again. "isn't everything wonderful, father?" "lark starr," cried carol passionately, "i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself. it's bad enough to turn your back on your--your life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so wildly happy about it is--perfectly wicked." lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly dying out of her eyes. "why, carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music. "oh, that's all right. you needn't try to talk me over. a body'd think there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. i don't like 'em, anyhow. i think they're downright nosey! and we'll never be the same any more, larkie, and you're the only twin i've got, and--" carol's defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears. lark threw her gloves on the table. "i won't go at all," she said. "i won't go a step. if--if you think for a minute, carol, that any silly old career is going to be any dearer to me than you are, and if we aren't going to be just as we've always been, i won't go a step." carol wiped her eyes. "well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel like that, it's all right. i just wanted you to say you liked me better than anything else. of course you must go, lark. i really take all the credit for you and your talent to myself, and it's as much an honor for me as it is for you, and i want you to go. but don't you ever go to liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me." then she picked up lark's gloves, and the two went out with an arm around each other's waist. it was a dreary morning for carol, but none of her sisters knew that most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "it's just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness in them, and then they go, and we are left alone." lark's morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on that account. mr. raider received her cordially, and with a great deal of unctuous fatherly advice. he took her into his office, which was one corner of the press room glassed in by itself, and talked over her duties, which, as far as lark could gather from his discourse, appeared to consist in doing as she was told. "now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is business. pure business. we've got to give folks what they want to hear, and they want to hear everything that happens. of course, it will hurt some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public papers, but that's the newspaper job. folks want to hear about the private affairs of other folks. they pay us to find out, and tell them, and it's our duty to do it. so don't ever be squeamish about coming right out blunt with the plain facts; that's what we are paid for." this did not seriously impress lark. theoretically, she realized that he was right. and he talked so impressively of the press, and its mission in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that lark, looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure, immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come. it was her first view of the world's press. but on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, mr. raider met her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before. as a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men. "lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the dalys? on elm street?" "yes, they are members of our church. i know them." he leaned forward. "big piece of news down that way. this morning at breakfast, daly shot his daughter maisie and the little boy. they are both dead. daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. the family is shut off alone, and won't see any one." lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes. "oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "oh, how awful!" mr. raider did not observe the white horror in lark's face. "yes, isn't it?" he said. "i want you to go right down there." "yes, indeed," said lark, though she shivered at the thought. "of course, i will." lark was a minister's daughter. if people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "isn't it--awful? i never knew of--such a thing--before. maisie was in my class at school. i never liked her very well. i'm so sorry i didn't,--oh, i'm so sorry. yes, i'll go right away. you'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too." "i will, but you run along. being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. they'll tell you all about it, of course. don't talk to any one on the way back. come right to the office. don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and--er--comfort them as much as you can." "yes,--yes." lark's face was frightened, but firm. "i--i've never gone to the houses much when--there was trouble. prudence and fairy have always done that. but of course it's right, and i'm going. oh, i do wish i had been fonder of maisie. i'll go right away." and she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. mr. raider met her at the door. "did you see them?" "yes," she said in a low voice. "they--they took me up-stairs, and--" she paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story. "did they tell you all about it?" "yes, they told me. they told me." "come on into my office," he said. "you must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. you'll do it better while the feeling is on you." lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending. "write it up?" she repeated confusedly. "yes, for the paper. how they looked, what they said, how it happened,--everything. we want to scoop on it." "but i don't think they--would want it told," lark gasped. "oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. don't you remember what i told you? the press is a powerful task master. he asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. we've got to give the people what they want. there's a reporter down from burlington already, but he couldn't get anything out of them. we've got a clear scoop on it." lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. a huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. the press! she shuddered again. "i can't write it up," she faltered. "mrs. daly--she--oh, i held her in my arms, mr. raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and i can't write it up. i--i am the minister's daughter, you know. i can't." "nonsense, now, lark," he said, "be sensible. you needn't give all the sob part. i'll touch it up for you. just write out what you saw, and what they said, and i'll do the rest. run along now. be sensible." lark glanced over her shoulder again. the press seemed tremendously big, leering at her, threatening her. lark gasped, sobbingly. then she sat down at mr. raider's desk, and drew a pad of paper toward her. for five minutes she sat immovable, body tense, face stern, breathless, rigid. mr. raider after one curious, satisfied glance, slipped out and closed the door softly after him. he felt he could trust to the newspaper instinct to get that story out of her. finally lark, despairingly, clutched a pencil and wrote "terrible tragedy of the early morning. daly family crushed with sorrow." her mind passed rapidly back over the story she had heard, the father's occasional wild bursts of temper, the pitiful efforts of the family to keep his weakness hidden, the insignificant altercation at the breakfast table, the cry of the startled baby, and then the sudden ungovernable fury that lashed him, the two children--! lark shuddered! she glanced over her shoulder again. the fearful dark shadow was very close, very terrible, ready to envelope her in its smothering depths. she sprang to her feet and rushed out of the office. mr. raider was in the doorway. she flung herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand. "i can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke, "i can't. i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i don't want any literary career. i am a minister's daughter, mr. raider, i can't talk about people's troubles. i want to go home." mr. raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the frightened eyes. "there now," he said soothingly, "never mind the daly story. i'll cover it myself. i guess it was too hard an assignment to begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. let it go. you stay at home this afternoon. come back to-morrow and i'll start you again. maybe i was too hard on you to-day." "i don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed somehow to have receded a little. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i think i'll be the other kind of writer,--not newspapers, you know, just plain writing. i'm sure i shall like it better. i wasn't cut out for this line, i know. i want to go now." "run along," he said. "i'll see you later on. you go to bed. you're nearly sick." dignity? lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. she just started for home, for her father, aunt grace and the girls! the shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, very sunny, very safe. the dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near. a startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. she flung one arm around carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her aunt's side. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a high excited voice. "i don't like it. i am awfully afraid of--the press--" she looked over her shoulder. the shadow was fading away in the distance. "i couldn't do it. i--" and then, crouching, with carol, close against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she told the story. "i couldn't, fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong kind face of her sister. "i--couldn't. mrs. daly--sobbed so, and her hands were so brown and hard, fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and saying, 'oh, lark, oh, lark, my little children.' i couldn't. i don't like newspapers, fairy. really, i don't." fairy looked greatly troubled. "i wish father were at home," she said very quietly. "mr. raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong to send a young girl like you. father is there now. it's very terrible. you did just exactly right, larkie. father will say so. i guess maybe it's not the job for a minister's girl. of course, the story will come out, but we're not the ones to tell it." "but--the career," suggested carol. "why," said lark, "i'll wait a little and then have a real literary career, you know, stories, and books, and poems, the kind that don't harrow people's feelings. i really don't think it is right. don't you remember prudence says the parsonage is a place to hide sorrows, not to hang them on the clothesline for every one to see." she looked for a last time over her shoulder. dimly she saw a small dark cloud,--all that was left of the shadow which had seemed so eager to devour her. her arms clasped carol with renewed intensity. "oh," she breathed, "oh, isn't the parsonage lovely, carol? i wish father would come. you all look so sweet, and kind, and--oh, i love to be at home." chapter ix a clear call the tinkle of the telephone disturbed the family as they were at dinner, and connie, who sat nearest, rose to answer the summons, while carol, at her corner of the table struck a tragic attitude. "if joe graves has broken anything, he's broken our friendship for good and all. these fellows that break themselves--" "break themselves?" asked her father gravely. "yes,--any of his members, you know, his leg, or his arm, or,--if he has, i must say frankly that i hope it is his neck. these boys that break themselves at the last minute, thereby breaking dates, are--" "well," connie said calmly, "if you're through, i'll begin." "oh, goodness, connie, deafen one ear and listen with the other. you've got to learn to hear in a hubbub. go on then, i'm through. but i haven't forgotten that i missed the thanksgiving banquet last year because phil broke his ankle that very afternoon on the ice. what business had he on the ice when he had a date--" "ready?" asked connie, as the phone rang again, insistently. "go on, then. don't wait until i get started. answer it." connie removed the receiver and called the customary "hello." then, "yes, just a minute. it's for you, carol." carol rose darkly. "it's joe," she said in a dungeon-dark voice. "he's broken, i foresee it. if there's anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates. i think it ought to be included among the condemnations in the decalogue. men have no business being broken, except their hearts, when girls are mixed up in it.--hello?--oh; oh-h-h! yes,--it's professor! how are you?--yes, indeed,--oh, yes, i'm going to be home. yes, indeed. come about eight. of course i'll be here,--nothing important,--it didn't amount to anything at all,--just a little old every-day affair.--yes, i can arrange it nicely.--we're so anxious to see you.--all right,--good-by." she turned back to the table, her face flushed, eyes shining. "it's professor! he's in town just overnight, and he's coming out. i'll have to phone joe--" "anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates," chanted connie; "ought to be condemned in the decalogue." "oh, that's different," explained carol. "this is professor! besides, this will sort of even up for the thanksgiving banquet last year." "but that was phil and this is joe!" "oh, that's all right. it's just the principle, you know, nothing personal about it. seven-six-two, please. yes. seven-six-two? is joe there? oh, hello, joe. oh, joe, i'm so sorry to go back on you the last minute like this, but one of my old school-teachers is in town just for to-night and is coming here, and of course i can't leave. i'm so sorry. i've been looking forward to it for so long, but--oh, that is nice of you. you'll forgive me this once, won't you? oh, thanks, joe, you're so kind." "hurry up and phone roy, larkie. you'll have to break yours, too." lark immediately did so, while carol stood thoughtfully beside the table, her brows puckered unbecomingly. "i think," she said at last slowly, with wary eyes on her father's quiet face, "i think i'll let the tuck out of my old rose dress. it's too short." "too short! why, carol--" interrupted her aunt. "too short for the occasion, i mean. i'll put it back to-morrow." once more her eyes turned cautiously father-ward. "you see, professor still has the 'little twinnie' idea in his brain, and i'm going to get it out. it isn't consistent with our five feet seven. we're grown up. professor has got to see it. you skoot up-stairs, connie, won't you, there's a dear, and bring it down, both of them, lark's too. lark,--where did you put that ripping knife? aunt grace, will you put the iron on for me? it's perfectly right that professor should see we're growing up. we'll have to emphasize it something extra, or he might overlook it. it makes him feel methuselish because he's so awfully smart. but i'll soon change his mind for him." lark stoutly refused to be "grown up for the occasion," as carol put it. she said it was too much bother to let out the tuck, and then put it right back in, just for nonsense. at first this disappointed carol, but finally she accepted it gracefully. "all right," she said, "i guess i can grow up enough for both of us. professor is not stupid; if he sees i'm a young lady, he'll naturally know that you are, too, since we are twins. you can help me rip then if you like,--you begin around on that side." in less than two minutes the whole family was engaged in growing carol up for the occasion. they didn't see any sense in it, but carol seemed so unalterably convinced that it was necessary that they hated to question her motives. and, as was both habitual and comfortable, they proceeded to do as she directed. if her idea had been utterly to dumfound the unsuspecting professor, she succeeded admirably. carefully she planned her appearance, giving him just the proper interval of patient waiting in the presence of her aunt and sisters. then, a slow parting of the curtains and carol stood out, brightly, gladly, her slender hands held out in welcome, carol, with long skirts swishing around her white-slippered feet, her slender throat rising cream-white above the soft fold of old rose lace, her graceful head with its royal crown of bronze-gold hair, tilted most charmingly. the professor sprang to his feet and stared at her. "why, carol," he exclaimed soberly, almost sadly, as he crossed the room and took her hand. "why, carol! whatever have you been doing to yourself overnight?" of course, it was far more "overnight" than the professor knew, but carol saw to it that there was nothing to arouse his suspicion on that score. he lifted her hand high, and looked frankly down the long lines of her skirt, with the white toes of her slippers showing beneath. he shook his head. and though he smiled again, his voice was sober. "i'm beginning to feel my age," he said. this was not what carol wanted, and she resumed her old childish manner with a gleeful laugh. "what on earth are you doing in mount mark again, p'fessor!" when carol wished to be particularly coy, she said "p'fessor." it didn't sound exactly cultured, but spoken in carol's voice was really irresistible. "why, i came to see you before your hair turned gray, and wrinkles marred you--" "wrinkles won't mar mine," cried carol emphatically. "not ever! i use up a whole jar of cold cream every three weeks! i won't have 'em. wrinkles! p'fessor, you don't know what a time i have keeping myself young." she joined in the peal of laughter that rang out as this age-wise statement fell from her lips. "you'll be surprised," he said, "what does bring me to mount mark. i have given up my position in new york, and am going to school again in chicago this winter. i shall be here only to-night. to-morrow i begin to study again." "going to school again!" ejaculated carol, and all the others looked at him astonished. "going to school again. why, you know enough, now!" "think so? thanks. but i don't know what i'm going to need from this on. i am changing my line of work. the fact is, i'm going to enter the ministry myself, and will have a couple of years in a theological seminary first." utter stupefaction greeted this explanation. not one word was spoken. "i've been going into these things rather deeply the last two years. i've attended a good many special meetings, and taken some studies along with my regular work. for a year i've felt it would finally come to this, but i preferred my own job, and i thought i would stick it out, as carol says. but i've decided to quit balking, and answer the call." aunt grace nodded, with a warmly approving smile. "i think it's perfectly grand, professor," said fairy earnestly. "perfectly splendid. you will do it wonderfully well, i know, and be a big help--in our business." "but, professor," said carol faintly and falteringly, "didn't you tell me you were to get five thousand dollars a year with the institute from this on?" "yes. i was." carol gazed at her family despairingly. "it would take an awfully loud call to drown the chink of five thousand gold dollars in my ears, i am afraid." "it was a loud call," he said. and he looked at her curiously, for of all the family she alone seemed distrait and unenthusiastic. "professor," she continued anxiously, "i heard one of the bishops say that sometimes young men thought they were called to the ministry when it was too much mince pie for dinner." "i did not have mince pie for dinner," he answered, smiling, but conscious of keen disappointment in his friend. "but, professor," she argued, "can't people do good without preaching? think of all the lovely things you could do with five thousand dollars! think of the influence a prominent educator has! think of--" "i have thought of it, all of it. but haven't i got to answer the call?" "it takes nerve to do it, too," said connie approvingly. "i know just how it is from my own experience. of course, i haven't been called to enter the ministry, but--it works out the same in other things." "indeed, professor," said lark, "we always said you were too nice for any ordinary job. and the ministry is about the only extraordinary job there is!" "tell us all about it," said fairy cordially. "we are so interested in it. of course, we think it is the finest work in the world." she looked reproachfully at carol, but carol made no response. he told them, then, something of his plan, which was very simple. he had arranged for a special course at the seminary in chicago, and then would enter the ministry like any other young man starting upon his life-work. "i'm a presbyterian, you know," he said. "i'll have to go around and preach until i find a church willing to put up with me. i won't have a presiding elder to make a niche for me." he talked frankly, even with enthusiasm, but always he felt the curious disappointment that carol sat there silent, her eyes upon the hands in her lap. once or twice she lifted them swiftly to his face, and lowered them instantly again. only he noticed when they were raised, that they were unusually deep, and that something lay within shining brightly, like the reflection of a star in a clear dark pool of water. "i must go now," he said, "i must have a little visit with my uncle, i just wanted to see you, and tell you about it. i knew you would like it." carol's hand was the first placed in his, and she murmured an inaudible word of farewell, her eyes downcast, and turned quickly away. "don't let them wait for me," she whispered to lark, and then she disappeared. the professor turned away from the hospitable door very much depressed. he shook his head impatiently and thrust his hands deep into his pockets like a troubled boy. half-way down the board walk he stopped, and smiled. carol was standing among the rose bushes, tall and slim in the cloudy moonlight, waiting for him. she held out her hand with a friendly smile. "i came to take you a piece if you want me," she said. "it's so hard to talk when there's a roomful, isn't it? i thought maybe you wouldn't mind." "mind? it was dear of you to think of it," he said gratefully, drawing her hand into the curve of his arm. "i was wishing i could talk with you alone. you won't be cold?" "oh, no, i like to be out in the night air. oh," she protested, when he turned north from the parsonage instead of south, as he should have gone, "i only came for a piece, you know. and you want to visit with your uncle." the long lashes hid the twinkle the professor knew was there, though he could not see it. "yes, all right. but we'll walk a little way first. i'll visit him later on. or i can write him a letter if necessary." he felt at peace with all the world. his resentment toward carol had vanished at the first glimpse of her friendly smile. "i want to talk to you about being a preacher, you know. i think it is the most wonderful thing in the world, i certainly do." her eyes were upon his face now seriously. "i didn't say much, i was surprised, and i was ashamed, too, professor, for i never could do it in the world. never! it always makes me feel cheap and exasperated when i see how much nicer other folks are than i. but i do think it is wonderful. really sometimes, i have thought you ought to be a preacher, because you're so nice. so many preachers aren't, and that's the kind we need." the professor put his other hand over carol's, which was restlessly fingering the crease in his sleeve. he did not speak. her girlish, impulsive words touched him very deeply. "i wouldn't want the girls to know it, they'd think it was so funny, but--" she paused uncertainly, and looked questioningly into his face. "maybe you won't understand what i mean, but sometimes i'd like to be good myself. awfully good, i mean." she smiled whimsically. "wouldn't connie scream if she could hear that? now you won't give me away, will you? but i mean it. i don't think of it very often, but sometimes, why, professor, honestly, i wouldn't care if i were as good as prudence!" she paused dramatically, and the professor pressed the slender hand more closely in his. "oh, i don't worry about it. i suppose one hasn't any business to expect a good complexion and just natural goodness, both at once, but--" she smiled again. "five thousand dollars," she added dreamily. "five thousand dollars! what shall i call you now? p'fesser is not appropriate any more, is it?" "call me david, won't you, carol? or dave." carol gasped. "oh, mercy! what would prudence say?" she giggled merrily. "oh, mercy!" she was silent a moment then. "i'll have to be contented with plain mr. duke, i suppose, until you get a d.d. duckie, d.d.," she added laughingly. but in an instant she was sober again. "i do love our job. if i were a man i'd be a minister myself. reverend carol starr," she said loftily, then laughed. carol's laughter always followed fast upon her earnest words. "reverend carol starr. wouldn't i be a peach?" he laughed, too, recovering his equanimity as her customary buoyant brightness returned to her. "you are," he said, and carol answered: "thanks," very dryly. "we must go back now," she added presently. and they turned at once, walking slowly back toward the parsonage. "can't you write to me a little oftener, carol? i hate to be a bother, but my uncle never writes letters, and i like to know how my friends here are getting along, marriages, and deaths, and just plain gossip. i'll like it very much if you can. i do enjoy a good correspondence with--" "do you?" she asked sweetly. "how you have changed! when i was a freshman i remember you told me you received nothing but business letters, because you didn't want to take time to write letters, and--" "did i?" for a second he seemed a little confused. "well, i'm not crazy about writing letters, as such. but i'll be so glad to get yours that i know i'll even enjoy answering them." inside the parsonage gate they stood a moment among the rose bushes. once again she offered her hand, and he took it gravely, looking with sober intentness into her face, a little pale in the moonlight. he noted again the royal little head with its grown-up crown of hair, and the slender figure with its grown-up length of skirt. then he put his arms around her, and kissed her warmly upon the childish unexpecting lips. a swift red flooded her face, and receding as swiftly, left her pale. her lips quivered a little, and she caught her hands together. then sturdily, and only slightly tremulous, she looked into his eyes and laughed. the professor was in nowise deceived by her attempt at light-heartedness, remembering as he did the quick quivering of the lips beneath his, and the unconscious yielding of the supple body in his arms. he condemned himself mentally in no uncertain terms for having yielded to the temptation of her young loveliness. carol still laughed, determined by her merriment to set the seal of insignificance upon the act. "come and walk a little farther, carol," he said in a low voice. "i want to say something else." then after a few minutes of silence, he began rather awkwardly, and david arnold duke was not usually awkward: "carol, you'll think i'm a cad to say what i'm going to, after doing what i have just done, but i'll have to risk that. you shouldn't let men kiss you. it isn't right. you're too pretty and sweet and fine for it. i know you don't allow it commonly, but don't at all. i hate to think of any one even touching a girl like you." carol leaned forward, tilting back her head, and looking up at him roguishly, her face a-sparkle. he blushed more deeply. "oh, i know it," he said. "i'm ashamed of myself. but i can't help what you think of me. i do think you shouldn't let them, and i hope you won't. they're sure to want to." "yes," she said quietly, very grown-up indeed just then, "yes, they do. aren't men funny? they always want to. sometimes we hear old women say, 'men are all alike.' i never believe it. i hate old women who say it. but--are they all alike, professor?" "no," he said grimly, "they are not. but i suppose any man would like to kiss a girl as sweet as you are. but men are not all alike. don't you believe it. you won't then, will you?" "won't believe it? no." "i mean," he said, almost stammering in his confusion, "i mean you won't let them touch you." carol smiled teasingly, but in a moment she spoke, and very quietly. "p'fessor, i'll tell you a blood-red secret if you swear up and down you'll never tell anybody. i've never told even lark--well, one night, when i was a sophomore,--do you remember bud garvin?" "yes, tall fellow with black hair and eyes, wasn't he? in the freshman zoology class." "yes. well, he took me home from a party. hartley took lark, and they got in first. and bud, well--he put his arm around me, and--maybe you don't know it, professor, but there's a big difference in girls, too. now some girls are naturally good. prudence is, and so's lark. but fairy and i--well, we've got a lot of the original adam in us. most girls, especially in books--nice girls, i mean, and you know i'm nice--they can't bear to have boys touch them.--p'fessor, i like it, honestly i do, if i like the boy. bud's rather nice, and i let him--oh, just a little, but it made me nervous and excited. but i liked it. prudence was away, and i hated to talk to lark that night so i sneaked in fairy's room and asked if i might sleep with her. she said i could, and told me to turn on the light, it wouldn't disturb her. but i was so hot i didn't want any light, so i undressed as fast as i could and crept in. somehow, from the way i snuggled up to fairy, she caught on. i was out of breath, really i was ashamed of myself, but i wasn't just sure then whether i'd ever let him put his arm around me again or not. but fairy turned over, and began to talk. professor," she said solemnly, "fairy and i always pretend to be snippy and sarcastic and sneer at each other, but in my heart, i think fairy is very nearly as good as prudence, yes, sir, i do. why, fairy's fine, she's just awfully fine." "yes, i'm sure she is." "she said that once, when she was fifteen, one of the boys at exminster kissed her good night. and she didn't mind it a bit. but father was putting the horses in the barn, and he came out just in time to see it; it was a moonlight night. after the boys had gone, father hurried in and took fairy outdoors for a little talk, just the two of them alone. he said that in all the years he and my mother were married, every time he kissed her he remembered that no man but he had ever touched her lips, and it made him happy. he said he was always sort of thanking god inside, whenever he held her in his arms. he said nothing else in the world made a man so proud, and glad and grateful, as to know his wife was all his own, and that even her lips had been reserved for him like a sacred treasure that no one else could share. he said it would take the meanest man on earth, and father thinks there aren't many as mean as that, to go back on a woman like that. fairy said she burst out crying because her husband wouldn't ever be able to feel that way when he kissed her. but father said since she was so young, and innocent, and it being the first time, it wouldn't really count. fairy swore off that minute,--never again! of course, when i knew how father felt about mother, i wanted my husband to have as much pleasure in me as father did in her, and fairy and i made a solemn resolve that we would never, even 'hold hands,' and that's very simple, until we got crazy enough about a man to think we'd like to marry him if we got a chance. and i never have since then, not once." "carol," he said in a low voice, "i wish i had known it. i wouldn't have kissed you for anything. god knows i wouldn't. i--i think i am man enough not to have done it anyhow if i had only thought a minute, but god knows i wouldn't have done it if i had known about this. you don't know how--contemptible--i feel." "oh, that's all right," she said comfortingly, her eyes glowing. "that's all right. we just meant beaux, you know. we didn't include uncles, and fathers, and old school-teachers, and things like that. you don't count. that isn't breaking my pledge." the professor smiled, but he remembered the quivering lips, and the relaxing of the lithe body, and the forced laughter, and was not deceived. "you're such a strange girl, carol. you're so honest, usually, so kind-hearted, so generous. but you always seem trying to make yourself look bad, not physically, that isn't what i mean." carol smiled, and her loving fingers caressed her soft cheek. "but you try to make folks think you are vain and selfish, when you are not. why do you do it? every one knows what you really are. all over mount mark they say you are the best little kid in town." "they do!" she said indignantly. "well, they'd better not. here i've spent years building up my reputation to suit myself, and then they go and shatter me like that. they'd better leave me alone." "but what's the object?" "why, you know, p'fessor," she said, carefully choosing her words, "you know, it's a pretty hard job living up to a good reputation. look at prudence, and fairy, and lark. every one just naturally expects them to be angelically and dishearteningly good. and if they aren't, folks talk. but take me now. no one expects anything of me, and if once in a while, i do happen to turn out all right by accident, it's a sort of joyful surprise to the whole community. it's lots more fun surprising folks by being better than they expect, than shocking them by turning out worse than they think you will." "but it doesn't do you any good," he assured her. "you can't fool them. mount mark knows its carol." "you're not going?" she said, as he released her hand and straightened the collar of his coat. "yes, your father will chase me off if i don't go now. how about the letters, carol? think you can manage a little oftener?" "i'd love to. it's so inspiring to get a letter from a five-thousand-dollars-a-year scientist, i mean, a was-once. do my letters sound all right? i don't want to get too chummy, you know." "get as chummy as you can," he urged her. "i enjoy it." "i'll have to be more dignified if you're going to mccormick. presbyterian! the presbyterians are very dignified. i'll have to be formal from this on. dear sir: respectfully yours. is that proper?" he took her hands in his. "good-by, little pal. thank you for coming out, and for telling me the things you have. you have done me good. you are a breath of fresh sweet air." "it's my powder," she said complacently. "it does smell good, doesn't it? it cost a dollar a box. i borrowed the dollar from aunt grace. don't let on before father. he thinks we use mennen's baby--twenty-five cents a box. we didn't tell him so, but he just naturally thinks it. it was the breath of that dollar powder you were talking about." she moved her fingers slightly in his hand, and he looked down at them. then he lifted them and looked again, admiring the slender fingers and the pink nails. "don't look," she entreated. "they're teaching me things. i can't help it. this spot on my thumb is fried egg, here are three doughnuts on my arm,--see them? and here's a regular pancake." she pointed out the pancake in her palm, sorrowfully. "teaching you things, are they?" "yes. i have to darn. look at the tips of my fingers, that's where the needle rusted off on me. here's where i cut a slice of bread out of my thumb! isn't life serious?" "yes, very serious." he looked thoughtfully down at her hands again as they lay curled up in his own. "very, very serious." "good-by." "good-by." he held her hand a moment longer, and then turned suddenly away. she watched until he was out of sight, and then slipped up-stairs, undressed in the dark and crept in between the covers. lark apparently was sound asleep. carol giggled softly to herself a few times, and lark opened one eye, asking, "what's amatter?" "oh, such a good joke on p'fessor," whispered carol, squeezing her twin with rapture. "he doesn't know it yet, but he'll be so disgusted with himself when he finds it out." "what in the world is it?" lark was more coherent now. "i can't tell, lark, but it's a dandy. my, he'll feel cheap when he finds out." "maybe he won't find it out." "oh, yes, he will," was the confident answer, "i'll see that he does." she began laughing again. "what is it?" "i can't tell you, but you'll certainly scream if you ever do know it." "you can't tell me?" lark was wide awake, and quite aghast. "no, i can't, i truly can't." lark drew away from the encircling arm with as much dignity as could be expressed in the dark and in bed, and sent out a series of deep breaths, as if to indicate that snores were close at hand. carol laughed to herself for a while, until lark really slept, then she buried her head in the pillow and her throat swelled with sobs that were heavy but soundless. the next morning was lark's turn for making the bed. and when she shook up carol's pillow she found it was very damp. "why, the little goose," she said to herself, smiling, "she laughed until she cried, all by herself. and then she turned the pillow over thinking i wouldn't see it. the little goose! and what on earth was she laughing at?" chapter x jerry junior for some time the twins ignored the atmosphere of solemn mystery which pervaded their once so cheerful home. but when it finally reached the limit of their endurance they marched in upon their aunt and fairy with an admirable admixture of dignity and indignation in their attitude. "who's haunted?" inquired carol abruptly. "where's the criminal?" demanded lark. "yes, little twins, talk english and maybe you'll learn something." and for the moment the anxious light in fairy's eyes gave way to a twinkle. sad indeed was the day when fairy could not laugh at the twins. "then, in common vernacular, though it is really beneath us, what's up?" fairy turned innocently inquiring eyes toward the ceiling. "what indeed?" "oh, don't try to be dramatic, fairy," counseled lark. "you're too fat for a star-starr." the twins beamed at each other approvingly at this, and fairy smiled. but carol returned promptly to the charge. "are jerry and prudence having domestic difficulties? there's something going on, and we want to know. father looks like a fallen samson, and--" "a fallen samson, carol! mercy! where did you get it?" "yes, kind of sheepish, and ashamed, and yet hopeful of returning strength. that's art, a simile like that is.--prudence writes every day, and you hide the letters. and aunt grace sneaks around like a convict with her hand under her apron. and you look as heavy-laden as if you were carrying connie's conscience around with you." aunt grace looked at fairy, fairy looked at aunt grace. aunt grace raised her eyebrows. fairy hesitated, nodded, smiled. slowly then aunt grace drew one hand from beneath her apron and showed to the eagerly watching twins, a tiny, hand embroidered dress. they stared at it, fascinated, half frightened, and then looked into the serious faces of their aunt and sister. "i--i don't believe it," whispered carol. "she's not old enough." aunt grace smiled. "she's older than mother was," said fairy. lark took the little dress and examined it critically. "the neck's too small," she announced decidedly. "nothing could wear that." "we're using this for a pattern," said fairy, lifting a yellowed, much worn garment from the sewing basket. "i wore this, and so did you and so did connie,--my lovely child." carol rubbed her hand about her throat in a puzzled way. "i can't seem to realize that we ever grew out of that," she said slowly. "is prudence all right?" "yes, just fine." the twins looked at each other bashfully. then, "i'll bet there'll be no living with jerry after this," said lark. "oh, papa," lisped carol, in a high-pitched voice supposed to represent the tone of a little child. they both giggled, and blinked hard to crowd back the tears that wouldn't stay choked down. prudence! and that! "and see here, twins, prudence has a crazy notion that she wants to come home for it. she says she'll be scared in a hospital, and jerry's willing to come here with her. what do you think about it?" the twins looked doubtful. "they say it ought to be done in a hospital," announced carol gravely. "jerry can afford it." "yes, he wanted to. but prudence has set her heart on coming home. she says she'll never feel that jerry junior got the proper start if it happens any place else. they'll have a trained nurse." "jerry--what?" gasped the twins, after a short silence due to amazement. "jerry junior,--that's what they call it." "but how on earth do they know?" "they don't know. but they have to call it something, haven't they? and they want a jerry junior. so of course they'll get it. for prudence is good enough to get whatever she wants." "hum, that's no sign," sniffed carol. "i don't get everything i want, do i?" the girls laughed, from habit not from genuine interest, at carol's subtle insinuation. "well, shall we have her come?" "yes," said carol, "but you tell prue she needn't expect me to hold it until it gets too big to wiggle. i call them nasty, treacherous little things. mrs. miller made me hold hers, and it squirmed right off my knee. i wanted to spank it." "and tell prudence to uphold the parsonage and have a white one," added lark. "these little indian effects don't make a hit with me." "are you going to tell connie?" "i don't think so--yet. connie's only fourteen." "you tell her." carol's voice was emphatic. "there's nothing mysterious about it. everybody does it. and connie may have a few suggestions of her own to offer. you tell prue i'm thinking out a lot of good advice for her, and--" "you must write her yourselves. she wanted us to tell you long before." fairy picked up the little embroidered dress and kissed it, but her fond eyes were anxious. so a few weeks later, weeks crowded full of tumult and anxiety, yes, and laughter, too, prudence and jerry came to mount mark and settled down to quiet life in the parsonage. the girls kissed prudence very often, leaped quickly to do her errands, and touched her with nervous fingers. but mostly they sat across the room and regarded her curiously, shyly, quite maternally. "carol and lark starr," prudence cried crossly one day, when she intercepted one of these surreptitious glances, "you march right up-stairs and shut yourselves up for thirty minutes. and if you ever sit around and stare at me like a stranger again, i'll spank you both. i'm no outsider. i belong here just as much as ever i did. and i'm still the head of things around here, too!" the twins obediently marched, and after that prudence was more like prudence, and the twins were much more twinnish, so that life was very nearly normal in the old parsonage. prudence said she couldn't feel quite satisfied because the twins were too old to be punished, but she often scolded them in her gentle teasing way, and the twins enjoyed it more than anything else that happened during those days of quiet. then came a night when the four sisters huddled breathlessly in the kitchen, and aunt grace and the trained nurse stayed with prudence behind the closed door of the front room up-stairs. and the doctor went in, too, after he had inflicted a few light-hearted remarks upon the two men in the little library. after that--silence, an immense hushing silence,--settled down over the parsonage. jerry and mr. starr, alone in the library, where a faint odor of drugs, anesthetics, something that smelled like hospitals lingered, stared away from each other with persistent determination. now and then jerry walked across the room, but mr. starr stood motionless by the window looking down at the cherry tree beneath him, wondering vaguely how it dared to be so full of snowy blooms! "where are the girls?" jerry asked, picking up a roll of cotton which had been left on the library table, and flinging it from him as though it scorched his fingers. "i--think i'll go and see," said mr. starr, turning heavily. jerry hesitated a minute. "i--think i'll go along," he said. for an instant their eyes met, sympathetically, and did not smile though their lips curved. down in the kitchen, meanwhile, fairy sat somberly beside the table with a pile of darning which she jabbed at viciously with the needle. lark was perched on the ice chest, but carol, true to her childish instincts, hunched on the floor with her feet curled beneath her. connie leaned against the table within reach of fairy's hand. "they're awfully slow," she complained once. nobody answered. the deadly silence clutched them. "oh, talk," carol blurted out desperately. "you make me sick! it isn't anything to be so awfully scared about. everybody does it." a little mumble greeted this, and then, silence again. whenever it grew too painful, carol said reproachfully, "everybody does it." and no one ever answered. they looked up expectantly when the men entered. it seemed cozier somehow when they were all together in the little kitchen. "is she all right?" "sure, she's all right," came the bright response from their father. and then silence. "oh, you make me sick," cried carol. "everybody does it." "carol starr, if you say 'everybody does it' again i'll send you to bed," snapped fairy. "don't we know everybody does it? but prudence isn't everybody." "maybe we'd better have a lunch," suggested their father hopefully, knowing the thought of food often aroused his family when all other means had failed. but his suggestion met with dark reproach. "father, if you're hungry, take a piece of bread out into the woodshed," begged connie. "if anybody eats anything before me i shall jump up and down and scream." their father smiled faintly and gave it up. after that the silence was unbroken save once when carol began encouragingly: "every--" "sure they do," interrupted fairy uncompromisingly. and then--the hush. long, long after that, when the girls' eyes were heavy, not with want of sleep, but just with unspeakable weariness of spirit,--they heard a step on the stair. "come on up, harmer," the doctor called. and then, "sure, she's all right. she's fine and dandy,--both of them are." jerry was gone in an instant, and mr. starr looked after him with inscrutable eyes. "fathers are--only fathers," he said enigmatically. "yes," agreed carol. "yes. in a crisis, the other man goes first." his daughters turned to him then, tenderly, sympathetically. "you had your turn, father," connie consoled him. and felt repaid for the effort when he smiled at her. "they are both fine, you know," said carol. "the doctor said so." "we heard him," fairy assured her. "yes, i said all the time you were all awfully silly about it. i knew it was all right. everybody does it." "jerry junior," lark mused. "he's here.--'aunt lark, may i have a cooky?'" a few minutes later the door was carefully shoved open by means of a cautious foot, and jerry stood before them, holding in his arms a big bundle of delicately tinted flannel. "ladies and gentlemen," he began, beaming at them, his face flushed, his eyes bright, embarrassed, but thoroughly satisfied. of course, prudence was the dearest girl in the world, and he adored her, and--but this was different, this was fatherhood! [illustration: let me introduce to you my little daughter] "ladies and gentlemen," he said again in the tender, half-laughing voice that prudence loved, "let me introduce to you my little daughter, fairy harmer." "not--not fairy!" cried fairy, senior, tearfully. "oh, jerry, i don't believe it. not fairy! you are joking." "of course it is fairy," he said. "look out, connie, do you want to break part of my daughter off the first thing? oh, i see. it was just the flannel, was it? well, you must be careful of the flannel, for when ladies are the size of this one, you can't tell which is flannel and which is foot. fairy harmer! here, grandpa, what do you think of this? and prudence said to send you right up-stairs, and hurry. and the girls must go to bed immediately or they'll be sick to-morrow. prudence says so." "oh, that's enough. that's prudence all over! you needn't tell us any more. here, fairy harmer, let us look at you. hold her down, jerry. mercy! mercy!" "isn't she a beauty?" boasted the young father proudly. "a beauty? a beauty! that!" carol rubbed her slender fingers over her own velvety cheek. "they talk about the matchless skin of a new-born infant. thanks. i'd just as lief have my own." "oh, she isn't acclimated yet, that's all. do you think she looks like me?" "no, jerry, i don't," said lark candidly. "i never considered you a dream of loveliness by any means, but in due honesty i must admit that you don't look like that." "why, it hasn't any hair!" connie protested. "well, give it time," urged the baby's father. "be reasonable, connie. what can you expect in fifteen minutes." "but they always have a little hair," she insisted. "no, indeed they don't, miss connie," he said flatly. "for if they always did, ours would have. now, don't try to let on there's anything the matter with her, for there isn't.--look at her nose, if you don't like her hair.--what do you think of a nose like that now? just look at it." "yes, we're looking at it," was the grim reply. "and--and chin,--look at her chin. see here, do you mean to say you are making fun of fairy harmer? come on, tootsie, we'll go back up-stairs. they're crazy about us up there." "oh, see the cunning little footies," crowed connie. "here, cover 'em up," said jerry anxiously. "you mustn't let their feet stick out. prudence says so. it's considered very--er, bad form, i believe." "fairy! honestly, jerry, is it fairy? when did you decide?" "oh, a long time ago," he said, "years ago, i guess. you see, we always wanted a girl. prue didn't think she had enough experience with the stronger sex yet, and of course i'm strong for the ladies. but it seems that what you want is what you don't get. so we decided to call her fairy when she came, and then we wanted a boy, and talked boy, and got the girl! i guess it always works just that way, if you manage it cleverly. come now, fairy, you needn't wrinkle up that smudge of a nose at me.--let go, connie, it is my daughter's bedtime. there now, there now, baby, was she her daddy's little girl?" flushed and laughing, jerry broke away from the admiring, giggling, nearly tearful girls, and hurried up-stairs with jerry junior. but fairy stood motionless by the door. "prudence's baby," she whispered. "little fairy harmer!--mmmmmmm!" chapter xi the end of fairy now that the twins had attained to the dignity of eighteen years, and were respectable students at the thoroughly respectable presbyterian college, they had dates very frequently. and it was along about this time that mr. starr developed a sudden interest in the evening callers at his home. he bobbed up unannounced in most unexpected places and at most unexpected hours. he walked about the house with a sharp sly look in his eyes, in a way that could only be described as carol said, by "downright nosiness." the girls discussed this new phase of his character when they were alone, but decided not to mention it to him, for fear of hurting his feelings. "maybe he's got a new kind of a sermon up his brain," said carol. "maybe he's beginning to realize that his clothes are wearing out again," suggested lark. "he's too young for second childhood," connie thought. so they watched him curiously. aunt grace, too, observed this queer devotion on the part of the minister, and finally her curiosity overcame her habit of keeping silent. "william," she said gently, "what's the matter with you lately? is there anything on your mind?" mr. starr started nervously. "my mind? of course not. why?" "you seem to be looking for something. you watch the girls so closely, you're always hanging around, and--" he smiled broadly. "thanks for that. 'hanging around,' in my own parsonage. that is the gratitude of a loving family!" aunt grace smiled. "well, i see there's nothing much the matter with you. i was seriously worried. i thought there was something wrong, and--" "sort of mentally unbalanced, is that it? oh, no, i'm just watching my family." she looked up quickly. "watching the family! you mean--" "carol," he said briefly. "carol! you're watching--" "oh, only in the most honorable way, of course. you see," he gave his explanation with an air of relief, "prudence always says i must keep an eye on carol. she's so pretty, and the boys get stuck on her, and--that's what prudence says. i forgot all about it for a while. but lately i have begun to notice that the boys are older, and--we don't want carol falling in love with the wrong man. i got uneasy. i decided to watch out. i'm the head of this family, you know." "such an idea!" scoffed aunt grace, who was not at all of a scoffing nature. "carol was born for lovers, prudence says so. and these men's girls have to be watched, or the wrong fellow will get ahead, and--" "carol doesn't need watching--not any more at least." "i'm not really watching her, you know. i'm just keeping my eyes open." "but carol's all right. that's one time prudence was away off." she smiled as she recognized a bit of carol's slang upon her lips. "don't worry about her. you needn't keep an eye on her any more. she's coming, all right." "you don't think there's any danger of her falling in love with the wrong man?" "no." "there aren't many worth-having fellows in mount mark, you know." "carol won't fall in love with a mount mark fellow." "you seem very positive." "yes, i'm positive." he looked thoughtful for a while. "well, prudence always told me to watch carol, so i could help her if she needed it." "girls always need their fathers," came the quick reply. "but carol does not need you particularly. there's only one of them who will require especial attention." "that's what prudence says." "yes, just one--not carol." "not carol!" he looked at her in astonishment. "why, fairy and lark are--different. they're all right. they don't need attention." "no. it's the other one." "the other one! that's all." "there's connie." "connie?" "yes." "connie?" "yes." "you don't mean connie." aunt grace smiled. "why, grace, you're--you're off. excuse me for saying it, but--you're crazy. connie--why, connie has never been any trouble in her life. connie!" "you've never had any friction with connie, she's always been right so far. one of these days she's pretty likely to be wrong, and connie doesn't yield very easily." "but connie's so sober and straight, and--" "that's the kind." "she's so conscientious." "yes, conscientious." "she's--look here, grace, there's nothing the matter with connie." "of course not, william. that isn't what i mean. but you ought to be getting very, very close to connie right now, for one of these days she's going to need a lot of that extra companionship prudence told you about. connie wants to know everything. she wants to see everything. none of the other girls ever yearned for city life. connie does. she says when she is through school she's going to the city." "what city?" "any city." "what for?" "for experience." mr. starr looked about him helplessly. "there's experience right here," he protested feebly. "lots of it. entirely too much of it." "well, that's connie. she wants to know, to see, to feel. she wants to live. get close to her, get chummy. she may not need it, and then again she may. she's very young yet." "all right, i will. it is well i have some one to steer me along the proper road." he looked regretfully out of the window. "i ought to be able to see these things for myself, but the girls seem perfectly all right to me. they always have. i suppose it's because they're mine." aunt grace looked at him affectionately. "it's because they're the finest girls on earth," she declared. "that's why. but we want to be ready to help them if they need it, just because they are so fine. they will every one be splendid, if we give them the right kind of a chance." he sat silent a moment. "i've always wanted one of them to marry a preacher," he said, laughing apologetically. "it is very narrow-minded, of course, but a man does make a hobby of his own profession. i always hoped prudence would. i thought she was born for it. then i looked to fairy, and she turned me down. i guess i'll have to give up the notion now." she looked at him queerly. "maybe not." "connie might, i suppose." "connie," she contradicted promptly, "will probably marry a genius, or a rascal, or a millionaire." he looked dazed at that. she leaned forward a little. "carol might." "carol--" "she might." she watched him narrowly, a smile in her eyes. "carol's too worldly." "you don't believe that." "no, not really. carol--she--why, you know when i think of it, carol wouldn't be half bad for a minister's wife. she has a sense of humor, that is very important. she's generous, she's patient, she's unselfish, a good mixer,--some of the ladies might think her complexion wasn't real, but--grace, carol wouldn't be half bad!" "oh, william," she sighed, "can't you remember that you are a methodist minister, and a grandfather, and--grow up a little?" after that mr. starr returned to normal again, only many times he and connie had little outings together, and talked a great deal. and aunt grace, seeing it, smiled with satisfaction. but the twins and fairy settled it in their own minds by saying, "father was just a little jealous of all the beaux. he was looking for a pal, and he's found connie." but in spite of his new devotion to connie, mr. starr also spent a great deal of time with fairy. "we must get fast chums, fairy," he often said to her. "this is our last chance. we have to get cemented for a lifetime, you know." and fairy, when he said so, caught his hand and laughed a little tremulously. indeed, he was right when he said it was his last chance with fairy in the parsonage. two weeks before her commencement she had slipped into the library and closed the door cautiously behind her. "father," she said, "would you be very sorry if i didn't teach school after all?" "not a bit," came the ready answer. "i mean if i--you see, father, since you sent me to college i feel as if i ought to work and--help out." "that's nonsense," he said, drawing the tall girl down to his knees. "i can take care of my own family, thanks. are you trying to run me out of my job? if you want to work, all right, do it, but for yourself, and not for us. or if you want to do anything else," he did not meet her eyes, "if you want to stay at home a year or so before you get married, it would please us better than anything else. and when you want to marry gene, we're expecting it, you know." "yes, i know," she fingered the lapel of his coat uneasily. "do you care how soon i get married?" "are you still sure it is gene?" "yes, i'm sure." "then i think you should choose your own time. i am in no hurry. but any time,--it's for you, and gene, to decide." "then you haven't set your heart on my teaching?" "i set my heart on giving you the best chance possible. and i have done it. for the rest, it depends on you. you may work, or you may stay at home a while. i only want you to be happy, fairy." "but doesn't it seem foolish to go clear through college, and spend the money, and then--marry without using the education?" "i do not think so. they've been fine years, and you are finer because of them. there's just as much opportunity to use your fineness in a home of your own as in a public school. that's the way i look at it." "you don't think i'm too young?" "you're pretty young," he said slowly. "i can hardly say, fairy. you've always been capable and self-possessed. when you and gene get so crazy about each other you can't bear to be apart any longer, it's all right here." she put her arm around his neck and rubbed her fingers over his cheek lovingly. "you understand, don't you, father, that i'm just going to be plain married when the time comes? not a wedding like prudence's. gene, and the girls, and prue and jerry, and you, father, that is all." "yes, all right. it's your day, you know." "and we won't talk much about it beforehand. we all know how we feel about things. it would be silly for me to try to tell you what a grand sweet father you've been to us. i can't tell you,--if i tried i'd only cry. you know what i think." his face was against hers, and his eyes were away from her, so fairy did not see the moisture in his eyes when he said in a low voice: "yes, i know fairy. and i don't need to say what fine girls you are, and how proud i am of you. you know it already. but sometimes," he added slowly, "i wonder that i haven't been a bigger man, and haven't done finer work, with a houseful of girls like mine." her arm pressed more closely about his neck. "father," she whispered, "don't say that. we think you are wonderfully splendid, just as you are. it isn't what you've said, not what you've done for us, it's just because you have always made us so sure of you. we never had to wonder about father, or ask ourselves--we were sure. we've always had you." she leaned over and kissed him again. "there never was such a father, they all say so, prudence and connie, and the twins, too! there couldn't be another like you! now we understand each other, don't we?" "i guess so. anyhow, i understand that there'll only be three daughters in the parsonage pretty soon. all right, fairy. i know you will be happy." he paused a moment. "so will i." but the months passed, and fairy seemed content to stay quietly at home, embroidering as prudence had done, laughing at the twins as they tripped gaily, riotously through college. and then in the early spring, she sent an urgent note to prudence. "you must come home for a few days, prue, you and jerry. it's just because i want you and i need you, and i know you won't go back on me. i want you to get here on the early afternoon train tuesday, and stay till the last of the week. just wire that you are coming--the three of you. i know you'll be here, since it is i who ask it." it followed naturally that prudence's answer was satisfactory. "of course we'll come." fairy's plans were very simple. "we'll have a nice family dinner tuesday evening,--we'll get mrs. green to come and cook and have her niece to serve it,--that'll leave us free to visit every minute. i'll plan the dinner. then we'll all be together, nice and quiet, just our own little bunch. don't have dates, twins,--of course gene will be here, but he's part of the family, and we don't want outsiders this time. his parents will be in town, and i've asked them to come up. i want a real family reunion just for once, and it's my party, for i started it. so you must let me have it my own way." fairy was generally willing to leave the initiative to the eager twins, but when she made a plan it was generally worth adopting, and the other members of the family agreed to her arrangements without demur. after the first confusion of welcoming prudence home, and making fun of "daddy jerry," and testing the weight and length of little fairy, they all settled down to a parsonage home-gathering. just a few minutes before the dinner hour, fairy took her father's hand. "come into the lime-light," she said softly, "i want you." he passed little fairy over to the outstretched arms of the nearest auntie, and allowed himself to be led into the center of the room. "gene," said fairy, and he came to her quickly, holding out a slender roll of paper. "it's our license," said fairy. "we think we'd like to be married now, father, if you will." he looked at her questioningly, but understandingly. the girls clustered about them with eager outcries, half protest, half encouragement. "it's my day, you know," cried fairy, "and this is my way." she held out her hand, and gene took it very tenderly in his. mr. starr looked at them gravely for a moment, and then in the gentle voice that the parsonage girls insisted was his most valuable ministerial asset, he gave his second girl in marriage. it surely was fairy's way, plain and sweet, without formality. and the dinner that followed was just a happy family dinner. fairy's face was so glowing with content, and gene's attitude was so tender, and so ludicrously proud, that the twins at last were convinced that this was right, and all was well. but that evening, when gene's parents had gone away, and after fairy and gene themselves had taken the carriage to the station for their little vacation together, and jerry and prudence were putting little fairy to bed, the three girls left in the home sat drearily in their bedroom and talked it over. "we're thinning out," said connie. "who next?" "we'll stick around as long as we like, miss connie, you needn't try to shuffle us off," said lark indignantly. "prudence, and fairy,--it was pretty cute of fairy, wasn't it?" "let's go to bed," said carol, rising. "i suppose we'll feel better in the morning. a good sleep is almost as filling as a big meal after a blow like this. well, that's the end of fairy. we have to make the best of us. come on, larkie. you've still got us to boss you, con, so you needn't feel too forlorn. my, but the house is still! in some ways i think this family is positively sickening. good night, connie. and, after this, when you want to eat candy in bed, please use your own. i got chocolate all over my foot last night. good night, connie. well, it's the end of fairy. the family is going to pieces, sure enough." chapter xii sowing seeds "have you seen mrs. harbert lately, carol?" "yes, she's better, father. i was there a few minutes yesterday." "yesterday? you were there tuesday, weren't you?" carol looked uncomfortable. "why, yes, i was, just for a second." "she tells me you've been running in nearly every day since she took sick." carol bent sharply inquiring eyes upon her father. "what else did she tell you?" "she said you were an angel." "y-yes,--she seems somehow to think i do it for kindness." "and don't you?" "why, no, father, of course i don't. it's only two blocks out of my way and it's such fun to pop in on sick folks and show them how disgustingly strong and well i am." "where did you get the money for that basket of fruit?" "i borrowed it from aunt grace." carol's face was crimson with mortification. "but it'll be a sweet time before mrs. harbert gets anything else from me. she promised she wouldn't tell." "did any of the others know about the fruit?" "why--not--exactly." "but she thinks it was from the whole family. she thanked me for it." "i--i made her think that," carol explained. "i want her to think we're the nicest parsonage bunch they've ever had in mount mark. besides, it really was from the family. aunt grace loaned me the money and i'll have to borrow it from you to pay her. and lark did my dusting so i could go on the errand, though she did not know what it was. and i--er--accidentally took one of connie's ribbons to tie it with. isn't that a family gift?" "mr. scott tells me you are the prime mover in the junior league now," he continued. "well, goodness knows our junior league needs a mover of some sort." "and mrs. davies says you are a whole mercy and help department all by yourself." "what i can't understand," said carol mournfully, "is why folks don't keep their mouths shut. i know that sounds very inelegant, but it expresses my idea perfectly. can't i have a good time in my own way without the whole church pedaling me from door to door?" the twinkle in her father's eyes deepened. "what do you call it, carol, 'sowing seeds of kindness'?" "i should say not," came the emphatic retort. "i call it sowing seeds of fun. it's a circus to go around and gloat over folks when they are sick or sorry, or--" "but they tell me you don't gloat. mrs. marling says you cried with jeanie half a day when her dog died." "oh, that's my way of gloating," said carol, nothing daunted, but plainly glad to get away without further interrogation. it was a strange thing that of all the parsonage girls, carol, light-hearted, whimsical, mischievous carol, was the one most dear to the hearts of her father's people. not the gentle prudence, nor charming fairy, not clever lark nor conscientious connie, could rival the "naughty twin" in mount mark's affections. and in spite of her odd curt speeches, and her openly-vaunted vanity, mount mark insisted she was "good." certainly she was willing! "get carol starr,--she'll do it," was the commonest phrase in mount mark's vocabulary. whatever was wanted, whatever the sacrifice involved, carol stood ready to fill the bill. not for kindness,--oh, dear no,--carol staunchly disclaimed any such niceness as that. she did it for fun, pure and simple. she said she liked to show off. she insisted that she liked to feel that she was the pivot on which little old mount mark turned. but this was only when she was found out. as far as she could she kept her little "seeds of fun" carefully up her sleeve, and it was only when the indiscreet adoration of her friends brought the budding plants to light, that she laughingly declared "it was a circus to go and gloat over folks." once in the early dusk of a summer evening, she discovered old ben peters, half intoxicated, slumbering noisily on a pile of sacks in a corner of the parsonage barn. carol was sorry, but not at all frightened. the poor, kindly, weak, old man was as familiar to her as any figure in mount mark. he was always in a more or less helpless state of intoxication, but also he was always harmless, kind-hearted and generous. she prodded him vigorously with the handle of the pitch-fork until he was aroused to consciousness, and then guided him into the woodshed with the buggy whip. when he was seated on a chunk of wood she faced him sternly. "well, you are a dandy," she said. "going into a parsonage barn, of all places in the world, to sleep off an odor like yours! why didn't you go down to fred greer's harness shop, that's where you got it. we're such an awfully temperance town, you know! but the parsonage! why, if the trustees had happened into the barn and caught a whiff of that smell, father'd have lost his job. now you just take warning from me, and keep away from this parsonage until you can develop a good methodist odor. oh, don't cry about it! your very tears smell rummy. just you hang on to that chunk of wood, and i'll bring you some coffee." like a thief in the night she sneaked into the house, and presently returned with a huge tin of coffee, steaming hot. he drank it eagerly, but kept a wary eye on the haughty twin, who stood above him with the whip in her hand. "that's better. now, sit down and listen to me. if you would come to the parsonage, you have to take your medicine. silver and gold have we none, but such as we have we give to you. and religion's all we've got. you're here, and i'm here. we haven't any choir or any bible, but parsonage folks have to be adaptable. now then, ben peters, you've got to get converted." the poor doddering old fellow, sobered by this awful announcement, looked helplessly at the window. it was too small. and slender active carol, with the buggy whip, stood between him and the door. "no, you can't escape. you're done for this time,--it's the straight and narrow from this on. now listen,--it's really very simple. and you need it pretty badly, ben. of course you don't realize it when you're drunk, you can't see how terribly disgusting you are, but honestly, ben, a pig is a ray of sunshine compared to a drunk man. you're a blot on the landscape. you're a--you're a--" she fished vainly for words, longing for lark's literary flow of language. "i'm not drunk," he stammered. "no, you're not, thanks to the buggy whip and that strong coffee, but you're no beauty even yet. well now, to come down to religion again. you can't stop drinking--" "i could," he blustered feebly, "i could if i wanted to." "oh, no, you couldn't. you haven't backbone enough. you couldn't stop to save your life. but," carol's voice lowered a little, and she grew shy, but very earnest, "but god can stop you, because he has enough backbone for a hundred thousand--er, jellyfishes. and--you see, it's like this. god made the world, and put the people in it. now listen carefully, ben, and i'll make it just as simple as possible so it can sink through the smell and get at you. god made the world, and put the people in it. and the people sinned, worshiped idols and went back on god, and--did a lot of other mean things. so god was in honor bound to punish them, for that's the law, and god's the judge that can't be bought. he had to inflict punishment. but god and jesus talked it over, and they felt awfully bad about it, for they kind of liked the people anyhow." she stared at the disreputable figure slouching on the chunk of wood. "it's very hard to understand, very. i should think they would despise us,--some of us," she added significantly. "i'm sure i should. but anyhow they didn't. are you getting me?" the bleary eyes were really fastened intently on the girl's bright face, and he hung upon her words. "well, they decided that jesus should come down here and live, and be perfectly good, so he would not deserve any punishment, and then god would allow him to receive the punishment anyhow, and the rest of us could go free. that would cover the law. see? punishing him when he deserved no punishment. then they could forgive us heathens that didn't deserve it. do you get that?" she looked at him anxiously. "it all hinges on that, you know. i'm not a preacher myself, but that's the idea. so jesus was crucified, and then god said, 'there he is! look on him, believe in him, worship him, and in his name you stand o. k.' see? that means, if we give him the chance, god'll let jesus take our share of the punishment. so we've just got to let go, and say, 'all right, here i am. i believe it, i give up, i know i don't amount to a hill of beans--and you can say it very honestly--but if you want me, and will call it square, god knows i'm willing.' and there you are." "won't i drink any more?" "no, not if you let go hard enough. i mean," she caught herself up quickly, "i mean if you let clear go and turn the job over to god. but you're not to think you can keep decent by yourself, for you can't--it's not born in you, and something else is--just let go, and stay let go. after that, it's god's job, and unless you stick in and try to manage yourself, he'll see you through." "all right, i'll do it." carol gasped. she opened her lips a few times, and swallowed hard. she didn't know what to do next. wildly she racked her brain for the next step in this vital performance. "i--think we ought to pray," she said feebly. "all right, we'll pray." he rolled curiously off the stick of wood, and fell, as if by instinct, into the attitude of prayer. carol gazed about her helplessly. but true to her training, she knelt beside him. then came silence. "i--well, i'll pray," she said with grim determination. "dear father in heaven," she began weakly, and then she forgot her timidity and her fear, and realized only that this was a crisis in the life of the drunken man. "oh, god, he'll do it. he'll let go, and turn it over to you. he isn't worth anything, god, none of us are, but you can handle him, for you've had worse jobs than this, though it doesn't seem possible. you'll help him, god, and love him, and show him how, for he hasn't the faintest idea what to do next, and neither have i. but you brought him into our barn to-night, and you'll see him through. oh, god, for jesus' sake, help ben peters. amen. "now, what shall i do?" she wondered. "what's your father for?" she looked quickly at ben peters. he had not spoken, but something certainly had asked, "what's your father for?" "you stay here, ben, and pray for yourself, and i'll send father out. i'm not just sure what to say next, and father'll finish you up. you pray for all you're worth." she was gone in a flash, through the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs two at a time, and her arm thrown closely about her father's shoulder. "oh, father, i got stuck," she wailed. "i'm so ashamed of myself. but you can finish him off, can't you? i honestly believe he's started." he took her firmly by the arms and squared her around on his lap. "one, two, three, ready, go. now, what?" "ben peters. he was drunk in the barn and i took him into the woodshed and gave him some hot coffee,--and some religion, but not enough to hurt him. i told him he had to get converted, and he said he would. so i told him about it, but you'd better tell him again, for i'm afraid i made quite a mess of it. and then we prayed, and i was stuck for fair, father, for i couldn't think what to do next. but i do believe it was god who said, 'what's your father for?' and so i left him praying for himself, and--you'd better hurry, or he may get cold feet and run away. be easy with him, father, but don't let him off. this is the first chance we've ever had at ben peters, and god'll never forgive us if we let him slip through our fingers." carol was dumped off on to the floor and her father was half-way down the stairs before she caught her breath. then she smiled. then she blushed. "that was one bad job," she said to herself sadly. "i'm a disgrace to the methodist church. thank goodness the trustees'll never hear of it. i'll bribe ben peters to eternal silence if i have to do it with kisses." then her face grew very soft. "poor old man! oh, the poor old man!" a quick rush of tears blinded her eyes, and her throat throbbed. "oh, why do they,--what makes men like that? can't they see, can't they know, how awful they are, how--" she shuddered. "i can't see for the life of me what makes god treat us decently at all." her face brightened again. "i was a bad job, all right, but i feel kind of pleased about it. i hope father won't mention it to the girls." and ben peters truly had a start, incredible as it seemed. yes, as carol had warned him, he forgot sometimes and tried to steer for himself, and always crashed into the rocks. then carol, with angry eyes and scornful voice, berated him for trying to get hold of god's job, and cautioned him anew about "sticking in when it was not his affair any more." it took time, a long time, and hard work, and many, many prayers went up from carol's bedside, and from the library at the head of the stairs, but there came a time when ben peters let go for good and all, and turned to carol, standing beside the bed with sorry frightened eyes, and said quietly: "it's all right, carol. i've let go. you're a mighty nice little girl. i've let go for good this time. i'm just slipping along where he sends me,--it's all right," he finished drowsily. and fell asleep. chapter xiii the connie problem mr. starr was getting ready to go to conference, and the girls hovered about him with anxious eyes. this was their fifth conference since coming to mount mark,--the time limit for methodist ministers was five years. the starrs, therefore, would be transferred, and where? small wonder that the girls followed him around the house and spoke in soft voices and looked with tender eyes at the old parsonage and the wide lawn. they would be leaving it next week. already the curtains were down, and laundered, and packed. the trunks were filled, the books were boxed. yes, they were leaving, but whither were they bound? "get your ecclesiastical dander up, father," carol urged, "don't let them give us a church fight, or a twenty-thousand-dollar debt on a thousand-dollar congregation." "we don't care for a big salary or a stylish congregation," lark added, "but we don't want to go back to washpans and kerosene lamps again." "if you have to choose between a bath tub, with a church quarrel, and a wash basin with peace and harmony, we'll take the tub and settle the scrap!" the conference was held in fairfield, and he informed the girls casually that he would be home on the first train after the assignments were made. he said it casually, for he did not wish them to know how perturbed he was over the coming change. during the conference he tried in many and devious ways to learn the will of the authorities regarding his future, but he found no clue. and at home the girls were discussing the matter very little, but thinking of nothing else. they were determined to be pleased about it. "it really doesn't make any difference," lark said. "we've had one year in college, we can get along without any more. or maybe father would let us borrow the money and stay at the dorm. and connie's so far along now that she's all right. any good high school will do for her. it doesn't make any difference at all." "no, we're so nearly grown up that one place will do just as well as another," agreed carol unconcernedly. "i'm rather anxious to move, myself," said connie. "i'm afraid some of the ladies might carry out their designs on father. they've had five years of practise now, you know." "don't be silly, con. isn't aunt grace here on purpose to chaperon him and keep the ladies off? i'd hate to go to new london, or mediapolis, or--but after all it doesn't make a bit of difference." just the same, on wednesday evening, the girls sat silent, with intensely flushed faces and painfully shining eyes, watching the clock, listening for the footstep. they had deliberately remained away from the station. they thought they could face it better within the friendly walls of the parsonage. it was all settled now, father knew where they were going. oh, why hadn't he wired? it must be terribly bad then, he evidently wanted to break it to them gently. maybe it was a circuit! there was the whistle now! only a few minutes now. suppose his salary were cut down,--good-by to silk stockings and kid gloves,--cheap, but kid, just the same! suppose the parsonage would be old-fashioned! suppose there wasn't any parsonage at all, and they would have to pay rent! sup--then the door slammed. carol and lark picked up their darning, and connie bent earnestly over her magazine. aunt grace covered a yawn with her slender fingers and looked out of the window. "hello!" "why, hello, papa! back already?" they dropped darning and magazine and flew to welcome him home. "come and sit down!" "my, it seemed a long time!" "we had lots of fun, father." "was it a nice conference?" "mr. james sent us two bushels of potatoes!" "we're going to have chicken to-morrow--the ladies' aiders sent it with their farewell love." "wasn't it a dandy day?" "well, it's all settled." "yes, we supposed it would be. was the conference good? we read accounts of it every day, and acted stuck-up when it said nice things about you." "we are to--" "ju-just a minute, father," interrupted connie anxiously. "we don't care a snap where it is, honestly we don't. we're just crazy about it, wherever it is. we've got it all settled. you needn't be afraid to tell us." "afraid to tell us!" mocked the twins indignantly. "what kind of slave-drivers do you think we are?" "of course we don't care where we go," explained lark. "haven't we been a parsonage bunch long enough to be tickled to death to be sent any place?" "father knows we're all right. go on, daddy, who's to be our next flock?" "we haven't any, we--" the girls' faces paled. "haven't any? you mean--" "i mean we're to stay in mount mark." "stay in--what?" "mount mark. they--" "they extended the limit," cried connie, springing up. "no," he denied, laughing. "they made me a presiding elder, and we're--" "a presiding elder! father! honestly? they--" "they ought to have made you a bishop," cried carol loyally. "i've been expecting it all my life. that's where the next jump'll land you. presiding elder! now we can snub the ladies' aid if we want to." "do you want to?" "no, of course not, but it's lots of fun to know we could if we did want to." "i pity the next parsonage bunch," said connie sympathetically. "why? there's nothing the matter with our church!" "oh, no, that isn't what i mean. but the next minister's family can't possibly come up to us, and so--" the others broke her sentence with their laughter. "talk about me and my complexion!" gasped carol, wiping her eyes. "i'm nothing to connie and her family pride. where will we live now, father?" "we'll rent a house--any house we like--and live like white folks." "rent! mercy, father, doesn't the conference furnish the elders with houses? we can never afford to pay rent! never!" "oh, we have a salary of twenty-five hundred a year now," he said, with apparent complacence, but careful to watch closely for the effect of this statement. it gratified him, too, much as he had expected. the girls stood stock-still and gazed at him, and then, with a violent struggle for self-composure carol asked: "did you get any of it in advance? i need some new slippers." so the packing was finished, a suitable house was found--modern, with reasonable rent--on maple avenue where the oaks were most magnificent, and the parsonage family became just ordinary "folks," a parsonage household no longer. "you must be very patient with us if we still try to run things," carol said apologetically to the president of the ladies' aid. "we've been a parsonage bunch all our lives, you know, and it's got to be a habit. but we'll be as easy on you as we can. we know what it would mean to leave two ministers' families down on you at once." mr. starr's new position necessitated long and frequent absences from home, and that was a drawback to the family comradeship. but the girls' pride in his advancement was so colossal, and their determination to live up to the dignity of the eldership was so deep-seated, that affairs ran on quite serenely in the new home. "aren't we getting sensible?" carol frequently asked her sisters, and they agreed enthusiastically that they certainly were. "i don't think we ever were so bad as we thought we were," lark said. "even prudence says now that we were always pretty good. prudence ought to think so. she got most of our spending money for a good many years, didn't she?" "prudence didn't get it. she gave it to the heathen." "well, she got credit for it on the lord's accounts, i suppose. but she deserved it. it was no joke collecting allowances from us." one day this beautiful serenity was broken in upon in a most unpleasant way. carol looked up from _de senectute_ and flung out her arms in an all-relieving yawn. then she looked at her aunt, asleep on the couch. she looked at lark, who was aimlessly drawing feathers on the skeletons of birds in her biology text. she looked at connie, sitting upright in her chair, a small book close to her face, alert, absorbed, oblivious to the world. connie was wide awake, and carol resented it. "what are you reading, con?" she asked reproachfully. connie looked up, startled, and colored a little. "oh,--poetry," she stammered. carol was surprised. "poetry," she echoed. "poetry? what kind of poetry? there are many poetries in this world of ours. 'life is real, life is earnest.' 'there was a young lady from bangor.' 'a man and a maiden decided to wed.' 'sunset and, evening star,'--oh, there are lots of poetries. what's yours?" her senseless dissertation had put her in good humor again. connie answered evasively. "it is by an old oriental writer. i don't suppose you've ever read it. khayyam is his name." "some name," said carol suspiciously. "what's the poem?" her eyes had narrowed and darkened. by this time carol had firmly convinced herself that she was bringing connie up,--a belief which afforded lively amusement to self-conducting connie. "why, it's _the rubaiyat_. it's--" "_the rubaiyat!_" carol frowned. lark looked up from the skeletons with sudden interest. "_the rubaiyat?_ by khayyam? isn't that the old fellow who didn't believe in god, and heaven, and such things--you know what i mean,--the man who didn't believe anything, and wrote about it? let me see it. i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it." carol turned the pages with critical disapproving eyes. "hum, yes, i know about this." she faced connie sternly. "i suppose you think, connie, that since we're out of a parsonage we can do anything we like. haven't we any standards? haven't we any ideals? are we--are we--well, anyhow, what business has a minister's daughter reading trash like this?" "i don't believe it, you know," connie said coolly. "i'm only reading it. how can i know whether it's trash or not, unless i read it? i--" "ministers' daughters are supposed to keep their fingers clear of the burning ends of matches," said carol neatly. "we can't handle them without getting scorched, or blackened, at least. we have to steer clear of things folks aren't sure about. prudence says so." "prudence," said connie gravely, "is a dear sweet thing, but she's awfully old-fashioned, carol; you know that." carol and lark were speechless. they would as soon have dreamed of questioning the catechism as prudence's perfection. "she's narrow. she's a darling, of course, but she isn't up-to-date. i want to know what folks are talking about. i don't believe this poem. i'm a christian. but i want to know what other folks think about me and what i believe. that's all. prudence is fine, but i know a good deal more about some things than prudence will know when she's a thousand years old." the twins still sat silent. "of course, some folks wouldn't approve of parsonage girls reading things like this. but i approve of it. i want to know why i disagree with this poetry, and i can't until i know where we disagree. it's beautiful, carol, really. it's kind of sad. it makes me want to cry. it's--" "i've a big notion to tell papa on you," said carol soberly and sadly. connie rose at once. "what's the matter?" "i'm going to tell papa myself." carol moved uneasily in her chair. "oh, let it go this time. i--i just mentioned it to relieve my feelings. i won't tell him yet. i'll talk it over with you again. i'll have to think it over first." "i think i'd rather tell him," insisted connie. carol looked worried, but she knew connie would do as she said. so she got up nervously and went with her. she would have to see it through now, of course. connie walked silently up the stairs, with carol following meekly behind, and rapped at her father's door. then she entered, and carol, in a hushed sort of way, closed the door behind them. "i'm reading this, father. any objections?" connie faced him calmly, and handed him the little book. he examined it gravely, his brows contracting, a sudden wrinkling at the corners of his lips that might have meant laughter, or disapproval, or anything. "i thought a parsonage girl should not read it," carol said bravely. "i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it, and parsonage girls ought to read parsonage things. prudence says so. but--" "but i want to know what other folks think about what i believe," said connie. "so i'm reading it." "what do you think of, it?" he asked quietly, and he looked very strangely at his baby daughter. it was suddenly borne in on him that this was one crisis in her growth to womanhood, and he felt a great yearning tenderness for her, in her innocence, in her dauntless courage, in her reaching ahead, always ahead! it was a crisis, and he must be very careful. "i think it is beautiful," connie said softly, and her lips drooped a little, and a wistful pathos crept into her voice. "it seems so sad. i keep wishing i could cry about it. there's nothing really sad in it, i think it is supposed to be rather jovial, but--it seems terrible to me, even when it is the most beautiful. part of it i don't understand very well." he held out a hand to connie, and she put her own in it confidently. carol, too, came and stood close beside him. "yes," he said, "it is beautiful, connie, and it is very terrible. we can't understand it fully because we can't feel what he felt. it is a groping poem, a struggling for light when one is stumbling in darkness." he looked thoughtfully at the girls. "he was a marvelous man, that khayyam,--years ahead of his people, and his time. he was big enough to see the idiocy of the heathen ideas of god, he was beyond them, he spurned them. but he was not quite big enough to reach out, alone, and get hold of our kind of a god. he was reaching out, he was struggling, but he couldn't quite catch hold. it is a wonderful poem. it shows the weakness, the helplessness of a gifted man who has nothing to cling to. i think it will do you good to read it, connie. read it again and again, and thank god, my child, that though you are only a girl, you have the very thing this man, this genius, was craving. we admire his talent, but we pity his weakness. you will feel sorry for him. you read it, too, carol. you'll like it. we can't understand it, as i say, because we are so sure of our god, that we can't feel what he felt, having nothing. but we can feel the heart-break, the fear, the shrinking back from the providence that he called fate,--of course it makes you want to cry, connie. it is the saddest poem in the world." connie's eyes were very bright. she winked hard a few times, choking back the rush of tears. then with an impulsiveness she did not often show, she lifted her father's hand and kissed it passionately. "oh, father," she whispered, "i was so afraid--you wouldn't quite see." she kissed his hand again. carol looked at her sister respectfully. "connie," she said, "i certainly beg your pardon. i just wanted to be clever, and didn't know what i was talking about. when you have finished it, give it to me, will you? i want to read it, too; i think it must be wonderful." she held out a slender shapely hand and connie took it quickly, chummily, and the two girls turned toward the door. "the danger in reading things," said mr. starr, and they paused to listen, "the danger is that we may find arguments we can not answer; we may feel that we have been in the wrong, that what we read is right. there's the danger. whenever you find anything like that, connie, will you bring it to me? i think i can find the answer for you. if i don't know it, i will look until i come upon it. for we have been given an answer to every argument. you'll come to me, won't you?" "yes, father, i will--i know you'll find the answers." after the door had closed behind them, mr. starr sat for a long time staring straight before him into space. "the connie problem," he said at last. and then, "i'll have to be better pals with her. connie's going to be pretty fine, i believe." chapter xiv boosting connie connie was past fifteen when she announced gravely one day, "i've changed my mind. i'm going to be an author." "an author," scoffed carol. "you! i thought you were going to get married and have eleven children." even with the dignity of nineteen years, the nimble wits of carol and lark still struggled with the irreproachable gravity of connie. "i was," was the cool retort. "i thought you were going to be a red cross nurse and go to war." carol blushed a little. "i was," she assented, "but there isn't any war." "well," even in triumph, connie was imperturbable, "there isn't any father for my eleven children either." the twins had to admit that this was an obstacle, and they yielded gracefully. "but an author, connie," said lark. "it's very hard. i gave it up long ago." "i know you did. but i don't give up very easily." "you gave up your eleven children." "oh, i've plenty of time for them yet, when i find a father for them. yes, i'm going to be an author." "can you write?" "of course i can write." "well, you have conceit enough to be anything," said carol frankly. "maybe you'll make it go, after all. i should like to have an author in the family and since lark's lost interest, i suppose it will have to be you. i couldn't think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. but if you get stuck, i'll be glad to help you out a little. i really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn't think it." "what makes you think you can write, con?" inquired lark, with genuine interest. "i have already done it." "was it any good?" "it was fine." carol and lark smiled at each other. "yes," said carol, "she has the long-haired instinct. i see it now. they always say it is fine. was it a masterpiece, connie?" and when connie hesitated, she urged, "come on, confess it. then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. they are always masterpieces. was yours?" "well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was," connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. carol's wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate. "bring it out. let's see it. i've never met a masterpiece yet,--except a dead one," said lark. "no--no," connie backed up quickly. "you can't see it, and--don't ask any more about it. has father gone out?" the twins stared at her again. "what's the matter with you?" "nothing, but it's my story and you can't see it. that settles it. was there any mail to-day?" afterward the twins talked it over together. "what made her back down like that?" carol wondered. "just when we had her going." "why, didn't you catch on to that? she has sent it off to a magazine, of course, and she doesn't want us to know about it. i saw through it right away." carol looked at her twin with new interest. "did you ever send 'em off?" lark flushed a little. "yes, i did, and always got 'em back, too--worse luck. that's why i gave it up." "what did you do with them when they came back?" "burned them. they always burn them. connie'll get hers back, and she'll burn it, too," was the laconic answer. "an author," mused carol. "do you think she'll ever make it?" "well, honestly, i shouldn't be surprised if she did. connie's smart, and she never gives up. then she has a way of saying things that--well, it takes. i really believe she'll make it, if she doesn't get off on suffrage or some other queer thing before she gets to it." "i'll have to keep an eye on her," said carol. "you wait until she can't eat a meal, and then you'll know she's got it back. many's the time prudence made me take medicine, just because i got a story back. prudence thought it was tummy-ache. the symptoms are a good bit the same." so carol watched, and sure enough, there came a day when the bright light of hope in connie's eyes gave way to the sober sadness of certainty. her light had failed. and she couldn't eat her dinner. lark kicked carol's foot under the table, and the two exchanged amused glances. "connie's not well," said lark with a worried air. "she isn't eating a thing. you'd better give her a dose of that tonic, aunt grace. prudence says the first sign of decay is the time for a tonic. give her a dose." lark solemnly rose and fetched the bottle. aunt grace looked at connie inquiringly. connie's face was certainly pale, and her eyes were weary. and she was not eating her dinner. "i'm not sick," the crushed young author protested. "i'm just not hungry. you trot that bottle back to the cupboard, lark, and don't get gay." "you can see for yourself," insisted lark. "look at her. isn't she sick? many's the long illness prudence staved off for me by a dose of this magic tonic. you'd better make her take it, father. you can see she's sick." the lust of a sweeping family revenge showed in lark's clear eyes. "you'd better take a little, connie," her father decided. "you don't look very well to-day." "but, father," pleaded connie. "a dose in time saves a doctor bill," quoted carol sententiously. "prudence says so." and the aspiring young genius was obliged to swallow the bitter dose. then, with the air of one who has rendered a boon to mankind, lark returned to her chair. after the meal was over, carol shadowed connie closely. sure enough, she headed straight for her own room, and carol, close outside, heard a crumpling of paper. she opened the door quickly and went in. connie turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. carol sat down sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring connie's feeble attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. she engaged her sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it up to the subject of literature. but connie would not be inveigled into a confession. then carol took a wide leap. "did you get the story back?" connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. then, in relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her eyes, but being connie, she winked them stubbornly back. "i sure did," she said. "hard luck," said carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. "let's see it." connie hesitated, but finally passed it over. "i'll take it to my own room and read it if you don't mind. what are you going to do with it now?" "burn it." "let me have it, won't you? i'll hide it and keep it for a souvenir." "will you keep it hidden? you won't pass it around for the family to laugh at, will you?" carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity and moved away with the story in her hand. connie followed her to the door and said humbly: "excuse me, carol, i know you wouldn't do such a thing. but a person does feel so ashamed of a story--when it comes back." "that's all right," was the kind answer. "i know just how it is. i have the same feeling when i get a pimple on my face. i'll keep it dark." more eagerly than she would have liked connie to know, she curled herself upon the bed to read connie's masterpiece. it was a simple story, but connie did have a way of saying things, and--carol laid it down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. then she called lark. "look here," she said abruptly. "read this. it's the masterpiece." she maintained a perfect silence while lark perused the crumpled manuscript. "how is it?" "why, it's not bad," declared lark in a surprised voice. "it's not half bad. it's connie all right, isn't it? well, what do you know about that?" "is it any good?" pursued carol. "why, yes, i think it is. it's just like folks you know. they talk as we do, and--i'm surprised they didn't keep it. i've read 'em a whole lot worse!" "connie's disappointed," carol said. "i think she needs a little boost. i believe she'll really get there if we kind of crowd her along for a while. she told me to keep this dark, and so i will. we'll just copy it over, and send it out again." "and if it comes back?" "we'll send it again. we'll get the name of every magazine in the library, and give 'em all a chance to start the newest author on the rosy way." "it'll take a lot of stamps." "that's so. do you have to enclose enough to bring them back? i don't like that. seems to me it's just tempting providence. if they want to send them back, they ought to pay for doing it. i say we just enclose a note taking it for granted they'll keep it, and tell them where to send the money. and never put a stamp in sight for them to think of using up." "we can't do that. it's bad manners." "well, i have half a dollar," admitted carol reluctantly. after that the weeks passed by. the twins saw finally the shadow of disappointment leaving connie's face, and another expression of absorption take its place. "she's started another one," lark said, wise in her personal experience. and when there came the starry rapt gaze once more, they knew that this one, too, had gone to meet its fate. but before the second blow fell, the twins gained their victory. they embraced each other feverishly, and kissed the precious check a hundred times, and insisted that connie was the cleverest little darling that ever lived on earth. then, when connie, with their father and aunt, was sitting in unsuspecting quiet, they tripped in upon her. [illustration: we enclose our check for forty-five dollars] "we have something to read to you," said carol beaming paternally at connie. "listen attentively. put down your paper, father. it's important. go on, larkie." "my dear miss starr," read lark. "we are very much pleased with your story,"--connie sprang suddenly from her chair--"your story, 'when the rule worked backwards.' we are placing it in one of our early numbers, and shall be glad at any time to have the pleasure of examining more of your work. we enclose our check for forty-five dollars. thanking you, and assuring you of the satisfaction with which we have read your story, i am, "very cordially yours,"-- "tra, lalalalala!" sang the twins, dancing around the room, waving, one the letter, the other the check. connie's face was pale, and she caught her head with both hands, laughingly nervously. "i'm going round," she gasped. "stop me." carol promptly pushed her down in a chair and sat upon her lap. "pretty good,--eh, what?" "oh, carol, don't say that, it sounds awful," cautioned lark. "what do you think about it, connie? pretty fair boost for a struggling young author, don't you think? family, arise! the chautauqua salute! we have arrived. connie is an author. forty-five dollars!" "but however did you do it?" wondered connie breathlessly. "why, we sent it out, and--" "just once?" "alas, no,--we sent it seven times." "oh, girls, how could you! think of the stamps! i'm surprised you had the money." "remember that last quarter we borrowed of you? well!" connie laughed excitedly. "oh, oh!--forty-five dollars! think of it. oh, father!" "where's the story," he asked, a little jealously. "why didn't you let me look it over, connie?" "oh, father, i--couldn't. i--i--i felt shy about it. you don't know how it is father, but--we want to keep them hidden. we don't get proud of them until they've been accepted." "forty-five dollars." aunt grace kissed her warmly. "and the letter is worth a hundred times more to us than that. and when we see the story--" "we'll go thirds on the money, twins," said connie. the twins looked eager, but conscientious. "no," they said, "it's just a boost, you know. we can't take the money." "oh, you've got to go thirds. you ought to have it all. i would have burned it." "no, connie," said carol, "we know you aren't worth devotion like ours, but we donate it just the same--it's gratis." "all right," smiled connie. "i know what you want, anyhow. come on, auntie, let's go down town. i'm afraid that silver silk mull will be sold before we get there." the twins fell upon her ecstatically. "oh, connie, you mustn't. we can't allow it. oh, of course if you insist, dearest, only--" and then they rushed to find hats and gloves for their generous sister and devoted aunt. the second story came back in due time, but with the boost still strong in her memory, and with the fifteen dollars in the bank, connie bore it bravely and started it traveling once more. most of the stories never did find a permanent lodging place, and connie carried an old box to the attic for a repository for her mental fruits that couldn't make friends away from home. but she never despaired again. and the twins, after their own manner, calmly took to themselves full credit for the career which they believed lay not far before her. they even boasted of the way they had raised her and told fatuous and exaggerated stories of their pride in her, and their gentle sisterly solicitude for her from the time of her early babyhood. and connie gave assent to every word. in her heart she admitted that the twins' discipline of her, though exceedingly drastic at times, had been splendid literary experience. chapter xv a millionaire's son "if jim doesn't ask for a date for the concert next week, lark, let's snub him good." "but we both have dates," protested lark. "what difference does that make? we mustn't let him get independent. he always has asked one of us, and he needn't think we shall let him off now." "oh, don't worry," interrupted connie. "he always asks. you have that same discussion every time there's anything going on. it's just a waste of time." mr. starr looked up from his mail. "soup of boys, and salad of boys,--they're beginning to pall on my palate." "very classy expression father," approved carol. "maybe you can work it into a sermon." "complexion and boys with carol, books and boys with lark, connie, if you begin that nonsense you'll get spanked. one member of my family shall rise above it if i have to do it with force." connie blushed. the twins broke into open derision. "connie! oh, yes, connie's above that nonsense." "connie's the worst in the family, father, only she's one of these reserved, supercilious souls who doesn't tell everything she knows." "'nonsense.' i wish father could have heard lee hanson last night. it would have been a revelation to him. 'aw, go on, connie, give us a kiss.'" connie caught her lips between her teeth. her face was scarlet. "twins!" "it's a fact, father. he kept us awake. 'aw, go on, connie, be good to a fellow.'" "that's what makes us so pale to-day,--he kept us awake hours!" "carol!" "well, quite a while anyhow." "i--i--" began connie defensively. "well, we know it. don't interrupt when we're telling things. you always spoil a good story by cutting in. 'aw, go on, connie, go on now!' and connie said--" the twins rocked off in a paroxysm of laughter, and connie flashed a murderous look at them. "prudence says listening is--" "sure she does, and she's right about it, too. but what can a body do when folks plant themselves right beneath your window to pull off their little romeo concerto. we can't smother on nights like these. 'aw, go on, connie.'" "i wanted to drop a pillow on his head, but carol was afraid he'd run off with the pillow, so we just sacrificed ourselves and let it proceed." "well, i--" "give us time, connie. we're coming to that. and connie said, 'i'm going in now, i'm sleepy.'" "i didn't--father, i didn't!" "well, you might have said a worse thing than that," he told her sadly. "i mean--i--" "she did say it," cried the twins. "'i'm sleepy.' just like that." "oh, connie's the girl for sentiment," exclaimed lark. "sleepy is not a romantic word and it's not a sentimental feeling, but it can be drawled out so it sounds a little mushy at least. 'i sleep, my love, to dream of thee,'--for instance. but connie didn't do it that way. nix. just plain sleep, and it sounded like 'get out, and have a little sense.'" "well, it would make you sick," declared connie, wrinkling up her nose to express her disgust. "are boys always like that father?" "don't ask me," he hedged promptly. "how should i know?" "oh, connie, how can you! there's father--now, he never cared to kiss the girls even in his bad and balmy days, did you, daddy? oh, no, father was all for the strictly orthodox even in his youth!" mr. starr returned precipitately to his mail, and the twins calmly resumed the discussion where it had been interrupted. a little later a quick exclamation from their father made them turn to him inquiringly. "it's a shame," he said, and again: "what a shame!" the girls waited expectantly. when he only continued frowning at the letter in his hand, carol spoke up brightly, "yes, isn't it?" even then he did not look up, and real concern settled over their expressive faces. "father! can't you see we're listening?" he looked up, vaguely at first, then smiling. "ah, roused your curiosity, did i? well, it's just another phase of this eternal boy question." carol leaned forward ingratiatingly. "now indeed, we are all absorption." "why, it's a letter from andrew hedges,--an old college chum of mine. his son is going west and andy is sending him around this way to see me and meet my family. he'll be here this afternoon. isn't it a shame?" "isn't it lovely?" exclaimed carol. "we can use him to make jim forrest jealous if he doesn't ask for that date?" and she rose up and kissed her father. "will you kindly get back to your seat, young lady, and not interfere with my thoughts?" he reproved her sternly but with twinkling eyes. "the trouble is i have to go to fort madison on the noon train for that epworth league convention. i'd like to see that boy. andy's done well, i guess. i've always heard so. he's a millionaire, they say." for a long second his daughters gazed at him speechlessly. then, "a millionaire's son," lark faltered feebly. "yes." "why on earth didn't you say so in the first place?" demanded carol. "what difference does that make?" "it makes all the difference in the world! ah! a millionaire's son." she looked at lark with keen speculative eyes. "good-looking, i suppose, young, of course, and impressionable. a millionaire's son." "but i have to go to fort madison. i am on the program to-night. there's the puzzle." "oh, father, you can leave him to us," volunteered lark. "i'm afraid you mightn't carry it off well. you're so likely to run by fits and jumps, you know. i should hate it if things went badly." "oh, father, things couldn't go badly," protested carol. "we'll be lovely, just lovely. a millionaire's son! oh, yes, daddy, you can trust him to us all right." at last he caught the drift of their enthusiasm. "ah! i see! that fatal charm. you're sure you'll treat him nicely?" "oh, yes, father, so sure. a millionaire's son. we've never even seen one yet." "now look here, girls, fix the house up and carry it off the best you can. i have a lot of old friends in cleveland, and i want them to think i've got the dandiest little family on earth." "'dandiest'! father, you will forget yourself in the pulpit some day,--you surely will. and when we take such pains with you, too, i can't understand where you get it! the people you associate with, i suppose." "do your best, girls. i'm hoping for a good report. i'll be gone until the end of the week, since i'm on for the last night, too. will you do your best?" after his departure, carol gathered the family forces about her without a moment's delay. "a millionaire's son," she prefaced her remarks, and as she had expected, was rewarded with immediate attention. "now, for darling father's sake, we've got to manage this thing the very best we can. we have to make this andy hedges, millionaire's son, think we're just about all right, for father's sake. we must have a gorgeous dinner, to start with. we'll plan that a little later. now i think, aunt grace, lovely, it would be nice for you to wear your lavender lace gown, and look delicate, don't you? a chaperoning auntie in poor health is so aristocratic. you must wear the lavender satin slippers and have a bottle of cologne to lift frequently to your sensitive nostrils." "why, carol, william wouldn't like it!" "wouldn't like it!" ejaculated the schemer in surprise. "wouldn't like it! why wouldn't he like it? didn't he tell us to create a good impression? well, this is it. you'll make a lovely semi-invalid auntie. you must have a faintly perfumed handkerchief to press to your eyes now and then. it isn't hot enough for you slowly to wield a graceful fan, but we can get along without it." "but, carol--" "think how pleased dear father will be if his old college chum's son is properly impressed," interrupted carol hurriedly, and proceeded at once with her plans. "connie must be a precocious younger sister, all in white,--she must come in late with a tennis racquet, as though she had just returned from a game. that will be stagey, won't it? lark must be the sweet young daughter of the home. she must wear her silver mull, her gray slippers, and--" "i can't," said lark. "i spilt grape juice on it. and i kicked the toe out of one of my slippers." "you'll have to wear mine then. fortunately that silver mull was always too tight for me and i never comported myself in it with freedom and destructive ease. as a consequence, it is fresh and charming. you must arrange your hair in the most _ladies' home journal_ style, and--" "what are you going to wear?" "who, me? oh, i have other plans for myself." carol looked rather uneasily at her aunt. "i'll come to me a little later." "yes, indeed," said connie. "carol has something extra up her sleeve. she's had the millionaire's son in her mind's eye ever since father introduced his pocketbook into the conversation." carol was unabashed. "my interest is solely from a family view-point. i have no ulterior motive." her eyes sparkled eagerly. "you know, auntie darling--" "now, carol, don't you suggest anything--" "oh, no indeed, dearest, how could you think of such a thing?" disclaimed carol instantly. "it's such a very tiny thing, but it will mean a whole lot on the general impression of a millionaire's son. we've simply got to have a maid! to open the door, and curtesy, and take his hat, and serve the dinner, and--he's used to it, you know, and if we haven't one, he'll go back to cleveland and say, 'ah, bah jove, i had to hang up my own hat, don't you know?'" "that's supposed to be english, but i don't believe it. anyhow, it isn't cleveland," said connie flatly. "well, he'd think we were awfully cheap and hard up, and andy hedges, senior, would pity father, and maybe send him ten dollars, and--no, we've got to have a maid!" "we might get mamie sickey," suggested lark. "she's so ugly." "or fay greer," interposed aunt grace. "she'd spill the soup." "then there's nobody but ada lone," decided connie. "she hasn't anything fit to wear," objected carol. "of whom were you thinking, carol?" asked her aunt, moving uneasily in her chair. carol flung herself at her aunt's knees. "me!" she cried. "as usual?" connie ejaculated dryly. "oh, carol," wailed lark, "we can't think of things to talk about when you aren't there to keep us stirred up." "i'm beginning to see daylight," said connie. she looked speculatively at lark. "well, it's not half bad, carol, and i apologize." "don't you think it is a glorious idea, connie?" cried carol rapturously. "yes, i think it is." carol caught her sister's hand. here was an ally worth having. "you know how sensible connie is, auntie. she sees how utterly preposterous it would be to think of entertaining a millionaire's son without a maid." "you're too pretty," protested lark. "he'd try to kiss you." "'oh, no, sir, oh, please, sir,'" simpered carol, with an adorable curtesy, "'you'd better wait for the ladies, sir.'" "oh, carol, i think you're awful," said their aunt unhappily. "i know your father won't like it." "like it? he'll love it. won't he, connie?" "well, i'm not sure he'll be crazy about it, but it'll be all over when he gets home," said connie. "and you're very much in favor of it, aren't you, connie precious?" "yes, i am." connie looked at lark critically again. "we must get lark some bright flowers to wear with the silver dress--sweet peas would be good. but i won't pay for them, and you can put that down right now." "but what's the idea?" mourned lark. "what's the sense in it? father said to be good to him, and you know i can't think of things to say to a millionaire's son. oh, carol, don't be so mean." "you must practise up. you must be girlish, and light-hearted, and ingenuous, you know. that'll be very effective." "you do it, carol. let me be the maid. you're lots more effective than i am." but carol stood firm, and the others yielded to her persuasions. they didn't approve, they didn't sanction, but they did get enthusiastic, and a merrier houseful of masqueraders was never found than that. even aunt grace allowed her qualms to be quieted and entered into her part as semi-invalid auntie with genuine zest. at three they were all arrayed, ready for the presentation. they assembled socially in the parlor, the dainty maid ready to fly to her post at a second's warning. at four o'clock, they were a little fagged and near the point of exasperation, but they still held their characters admirably. at half past four a telegraph message was phoned out from the station. "delayed in coming. will write you later. very sorry. andy hedges, jr." only the absolute ludicrousness of it saved carol from a rage. she looked from the girlish tennis girl to the semi-invalid auntie, and then to the sweet young daughter of the home, and burst out laughing. the others, though tired, nervous and disappointed, joined her merrily, and the vexation was swept away. the next morning, aunt grace went as usual to the all-day meeting of the ladies' aid in the church parlors. carol and lark, with a light lunch, went out for a few hours of spring-time happiness beside the creek two miles from town. "we'll come back right after luncheon," carol promised, "so if andy the second should come, we'll be on hand." "oh, he won't come to-day." "well, he just better get here before father comes home. i know father will like our plan after it's over, but i also know he'll veto it if he gets home in time. wish you could go with us, connie." "thanks. but i've got to sew on forty buttons. and--if i pick the cherries on the little tree, will you make a pie for dinner?" "yes. if i'm too tired larkie will. do pick them, con, the birds have had more than their share now." after her sisters had disappeared, connie considered the day's program. "i'll pick the cherries while it's cool. then i'll sew on the buttons. then i'll call on the piersons, and they'll probably invite me to stay for luncheon." and she went up-stairs to don a garment suitable for cherry-tree service. for cherry trees, though lovely to behold when laden with bright red clusters showing among the bright green leaves, are not at all lovely to climb into. connie knew that by experience. belonging to a family that wore its clothes as long as they possessed any wearing virtue, she found nothing in her immediate wardrobe fitted for the venture. but from a rag-bag in the closet at the head of the stairs, she resurrected some remains of last summer's apparel. first she put on a blue calico, but the skirt was so badly torn in places that it proved insufficiently protecting. further search brought to light another skirt, pink, in a still worse state of delapidation. however, since the holes did not occur simultaneously in the two garments, by wearing both she was amply covered. for a waist she wore a red crape dressing sacque, and about her hair she tied a broad, ragged ribbon of red to protect the soft waves from the ruthless twigs. she looked at herself in the mirror. nothing daunted by the sight of her own unsightliness, she took a bucket and went into the back yard. gingerly she climbed into the tree, gingerly because connie was not fond of scratches on her anatomy, and then began her task. it was a glorious morning. the birds, frightened away by the living scare-crow in the tree, perched in other, cherry-less trees around her and burst into derisive song. and connie, light-hearted, free from care, in love with the whole wide world, sang, too, pausing only now and then to thrust a ripe cherry between her teeth. she did not hear the prolonged ringing of the front-door bell. she did not observe the young man in the most immaculate of white spring suits who came inquiringly around the house. but when the chattering of a saucy robin became annoying, she flung a cherry at him crossly. "oh, chase yourself!" she cried. and nearly fell from her perch in dismay when a low voice from beneath said pleasantly: "i beg your pardon! miss starr?" connie swallowed hard, to get the last cherry and the mortification out of her throat. "yes," she said, noting the immaculate white spring suit, and the handsome shoes, and the costly panama held so lightly in his hand. she knew the panama was costly because they had wanted to buy one for her father's birthday, but decided not to. "i am andrew hedges," he explained, smiling sociably. connie wilted completely at that. "good night," she muttered with a vanishing mental picture of their lovely preparations the day previous. "i--mean good morning. i'm so glad to meet you. you--you're late, aren't you? i mean, aren't you ahead of yourself? at least, you didn't write, did you?" "no, i was not detained so long as i had anticipated, so i came right on. but i'm afraid i'm inconveniencing you." "oh, not a bit, i'm quite comfortable," she assured him. "auntie is gone just now, and the twins are away, too, but they'll all be back presently." she looked longingly at the house. "i'll have to come down, i suppose." "let me help you," he offered eagerly. connie in the incongruous clothes, with the little curls straying beneath the ragged ribbon, and with stains of cherry on her lips, looked more presentable than connie knew. "oh, i--" she hesitated, flushing. "mr. hedges," she cried imploringly, "will you just go around the corner until i get down. i look fearful." "not a bit of it," he said. "let me take the cherries." connie helplessly passed them down to him, and saw him carefully depositing them on the ground. "just give me your hand." and what could connie do? she couldn't sternly order a millionaire's son to mosy around the house and mind his own business until she got some decent clothes on, though that was what she yearned to do. instead she held out a slender hand, grimy and red, with a few ugly scratches here and there, and allowed herself to be helped ignominiously out from the sheltering branches into the garish light of day. she looked at him reproachfully. he never so much as smiled. "laugh if you like," she said bitterly. "i looked in the mirror. i know all about it." "run along," he said, "but don't be gone long, will you? can you trust me with the cherries?" connie walked into the house with great decorum, afraid the ragged skirts might swing revealingly, but the young man bent over the cherries while she made her escape. it was another connie who appeared a little later, a typical tennis girl, all in white from the velvet band in her hair to the canvas shoes on her dainty feet. she held out the slender hand, no longer grimy and stained, but its whiteness still marred with sorry scratches. "i am glad to see you," she said gracefully, "though i can only pray you won't carry a mental picture of me very long." "i'm afraid i will though," he said teasingly. "then please don't paint me verbally for my sisters' ears; they are always so clever where i am concerned. it is too bad they are out. you'll stay for luncheon with me, won't you? i'm all alone,--we'll have it in the yard." "it sounds very tempting, but--perhaps i had better come again later in the afternoon." "you may do that, too," said connie. "but since you are here, i'm afraid i must insist that you help amuse me." and she added ruefully, "since i have done so well amusing you this morning." "why, he's just like anybody else," she was thinking with relief. "it's no trouble to talk to him, at all. he's nice in spite of the millions. prudence says millionaires aren't half so dollar-marked as they are cartooned, anyhow." he stayed for luncheon, he even helped carry the folding table out beneath the cherry tree, and trotted docilely back and forth with plates and glasses, as connie decreed. "oh, father," she chuckled to herself, as she stood at the kitchen window, twinkling at the sight of the millionaire's son spreading sandwiches according to her instructions. "oh, father, the boy question is complicated, sure enough." it was not until they were at luncheon that the grand idea visited connie. carol would have offered it harborage long before. carol's mind worked best along that very line. it came to connie slowly, but she gave it royal welcome. back to her remembrance flashed the thousand witty sallies of carol and lark, the hundreds of times she had suffered at their hands. and for the first time in her life, she saw a clear way of getting even. and a millionaire's son! never was such a revenge fairly crying to be perpetrated. "will you do something for me, mr. hedges?" she asked. connie was only sixteen, but something that is born in woman told her to lower her eyes shyly, and then look up at him quickly beneath her lashes. she was no flirt, but she believed in utilizing her resources. and she saw in a flash that the ruse worked. then she told him softly, very prettily. "but won't she dislike me if i do?" he asked. "no, she won't," said connie. "we're a family of good laughers. we enjoy a joke nearly as much when it's on us, as when we are on top." so it was arranged, and shortly after luncheon the young man in the immaculate spring suit took his departure. then connie summoned her aunt by phone, and told her she must hasten home to help "get ready for the millionaire's son." it was after two when the twins arrived, and connie and their aunt hurried them so violently that they hadn't time to ask how connie got her information. "but i hope i'm slick enough to get out of it without lying if they do ask," she told herself. "prudence says it's not really wicked to get out of telling things if we can manage it." he had arrived! a millionaire's son! instantly their enthusiasm returned to them. the cushions on the couch were carefully arranged for the reclining of the semi-invalid aunt, who, with the sweet young daughter of the home, was up-stairs waiting to be summoned. connie, with the tennis racquet, was in the shed, waiting to arrive theatrically. carol, in her trim black gown with a white cap and apron, was a dream. and when he came she ushered him in, curtesying in a way known only on the stage, and took his hat and stick, and said softly: "yes, sir,--please come in, sir,--i'll call the ladies." she knew she was bewitching, of course, since she had done it on purpose, and she lifted her eyes just far enough beneath the lashes to give the properly coquettish effect. he caught her hand, and drew her slowly toward him, admiration in his eyes, but trepidation in his heart, as he followed connie's coaching. but carol was panic-seized, she broke away from him roughly and ran up-stairs, forgetting her carefully rehearsed. "oh, no, sir,--oh, please, sir,--you'd better wait for the ladies." but once out of reach she regained her composure. the semi-invalid aunt trailed down the stairs, closely followed by the attentive maid to arrange her chair and adjust the silken shawl. mr. hedges introduced himself, feeling horribly foolish in the presence of the lovely serving girl, and wishing she would take herself off. but she lingered effectively, whispering softly: "shall i lower the window, madame? is it too cool? your bottle, madame!" and the guest rubbed his hand swiftly across his face to hide the slight twitching of his lips. then the model maid disappeared, and presently the sweet daughter of the house, charming in the gray silk mull and satin slippers, appeared, smiling, talking, full of vivacity and life. and after a while the dashing tennis girl strolled in, smiling inscrutably into the eyes that turned so quizzically toward her. for a time all went well. the chaperoning aunt occasionally lifted a dainty cologne bottle to her sensitive nostrils, and the daughter of the house carried out her girlish vivacity to the point of utter weariness. connie said little, but her soul expanded with the foretaste of triumph. "dinner is served, madame," said the soft voice at the door, and they all walked out sedately. carol adjusted the invalid auntie's shawl once more, and was ready to go to the kitchen when a quiet: "won't miss carol sit down with us?" made her stop dead in her tracks. he had pulled a chair from the corner up to the table for her, and she dropped into it. she put her elbows on the table, and leaning her dainty chin in her hands, gazed thoughtfully at connie, whose eyes were bright with the fires of victory. "ah, connie, i have hopes of you yet,--you are improving," she said gently. "will you run out to the kitchen and bring me a bowl of soup, my child?" and then came laughter, full and free,--and in the midst of it carol looked up, wiping her eyes, and said: "i'm sorry now i didn't let you kiss me, just to shock father!" but the visit was a great success. even mr. starr realized that. the millionaire's son remained in mount mark four days, the cynosure of all eyes, for as carol said, "what's the use of bothering with a millionaire's son if you can't brag about him." and his devotion to his father's college chum was such that he wrote to him regularly for a long time after, and came westward now and again to renew the friendship so auspiciously begun. "but you can't call him a problem, father," said carol keenly. "they aren't problematic until they discriminate. and he doesn't. he's as fond of connie's conscience as he is of my complexion, as far as i can see." she rubbed her velvet skin regretfully. she had two pimples yesterday and he never even noticed them. then she leaned forward and smiled. "father, you keep an eye on connie. there's something in there that we aren't on to yet." and with this cryptic remark, carol turned her attention to a small jar of cold cream the druggist had given her to sample. chapter xvi the twins have a proposal it was half past three on a delightful summer afternoon. the twins stood at the gate with two hatless youths, performing what seemed to be the serious operation of separating their various tennis racquets and shoes from the conglomerate jumble. finally, laughing and calling back over their shoulders, they sauntered lazily up the walk toward the house, and the young men set off in the direction from which they had come. they were hardly out of hearing distance when the front door opened, and aunt grace beckoned hurriedly to the twins. "come on, quick," she said. "where in the world have you been all day? did you have any luncheon? mrs. forrest and jim were here, and they invited you to go home with them for a week in the country. i said i knew you'd want to go, and they promised to come for you at four, but i couldn't find you any place. i suppose it is too late now. it's--" "a week!" "at forrests'?" "come on, lark, sure we have time enough. we'll be ready in fifteen minutes." "come on up, auntie, we'll tell you where we've been." the twins flew up the stairs, their aunt as close behind as she deemed safe. inside their own room they promptly, and ungracefully, kicked off their loose pumps, tossed their tennis shoes and racquets on the bed, and began tugging at the cords of their middy blouses. "you go and wash, carol," said lark, "while i comb. then i can have the bathroom to myself. and hurry up! you haven't any time to primp." "pack the suit-case and the bag, will you, auntie, and--" "i already have," she answered, laughing at their frantic energy. "and i put out these white dresses for you to wear, and--" "gracious, auntie! they button in the back and have sixty buttons apiece. we'll never have time to fasten them," expostulated carol, without diminishing her speed. "i'll button while you powder, that'll be time enough." "i won't have time to powder," called back carol from the bathroom, where she was splashing the water at a reckless rate. "i'll wear a veil and powder when i get there. did you pack any clean handkerchiefs, auntie? i'm clear out. if you didn't put any in, you'd better go and borrow connie's. lucky thing she's not here." shining with zeal and soap, carol dashed out, and lark dashed in. "are there any holes in these stockings?" carol turned around, lifting her skirts for inspection. "well, i'm sorry, i won't have time to change them.--did they come in the auto? good!" she was brushing her hair as she talked. "yes, we had a luncheon, all pie, though. we played tennis this morning; we were intending to come home right along, or we'd have phoned you. we were playing with george castle and fritzie zale.--is it sticking out any place?" she lowered her head backward for her aunt to see. "stick a pin in it, will you? thanks. they dared us to go to the pie counter and see which couple could eat the most pieces of lemon pie, the couple which lost paying for all the pie. it's not like betting, you know, it's a kind of reward of merit, like a sunday-school prize. no, i won't put on my slippers till the last thing, my heel's sore, my tennis shoe rubbed the skin off. my feet seem to be getting tender. think it's old age?" lark now emerged from the bathroom, and both twins performed a flying exchange of dresses. "who won?" "lark and george ate eleven pieces, and fritzie and i only nine. so fritzie paid. then we went on the campus and played mumble-te-peg, or whatever you call it. it is french, auntie." "did they ask us to stay a whole week, auntie?" inquired lark. "yes. jim was wearing his new gray suit and looked very nice. i've never been out to their home. is it very nice?" "um, swell!" this was from carol, lark being less slangily inclined. "they have about sixteen rooms, and two maids--they call them 'girls'--and electric lights, and a private water supply, and--and--horses, and cows--oh, it's great! we've always been awfully fond of jim. the nicest thing about him is that he always takes a girl home when he goes to class things and socials. i can't endure a fellow who walks home by himself. jim always asks larkie and me first, and if we are taken he gets some one else. most boys, if they can't get first choice, pike off alone." "here, carol, you have my petticoat. this is yours. you broke the drawstring, and forgot--" "oh, mercy, so i did. here, auntie, pin it over for me, will you? i'll take the string along and put it in to-night." "now, carol," said aunt grace, smiling. "be easy on him. he's so nice it would be a shame to--" carol threw up her eyes in horror. "i am shocked," she cried. then she dimpled. "but i wouldn't hurt jim for anything. i'm very fond of him. do you really think there are any--er--indications--" "oh, i don't know anything about it. i'm just judging by the rest of the community." lark was performing the really difficult feat of putting on and buttoning her slippers standing on one foot for the purpose and stooping low. her face was flushed from the exertion. "do you think he's crazy about you, carol?" she inquired, rather seriously, and without looking up from the shoe she was so laboriously buttoning. "oh, i don't know. there are a few circumstances which seem to point that way. take that new gray suit for instance. now you know yourself, lark, he didn't need a new gray suit, and when a man gets a brand-new suit for no apparent reason, you can generally put it down that he's waxing romantic. then there's his mother--she's begun telling me all his good points, and how cute he was when he was born, and she showed me one of his curls and a lot of his baby pictures--it made jim wild when he came in and caught her at it, and she tells me how good he is and how much money he's got. that's pointed, very. but i must confess," she concluded candidly, "that jim himself doesn't act very loverly." "he thinks lots of you, i know," said lark, still seriously. "whenever he's alone with me he praises you every minute of the time." "that's nothing. when he's alone with me he praises you all the time, too. where's my hat, lark? i'll bet connie wore it, the little sinner! now what shall i do?" "you left it in the barn yesterday,--don't you remember you hung it on the harness hook when we went out for eggs, and--" "oh, so i did. there comes connie now." carol thrust her head out of the window. "connie, run out to the barn and bring my hat, will you? it's on the harness hook. and hurry! don't stop to ask questions, just trot along and do as you're told." carol returned again to her toilet. "well, i guess i have time to powder after all. i don't suppose we'll need to take any money, auntie, do you? we won't be able to spend it in the country." "i think you'd better take a little. they might drive to town, or go to a social, or something." "can't do it. haven't a cent." "well, i guess i can lend you a little," was the smiling reply. it was a standing joke in the family that carol had been financially hard pressed ever since she began using powder several years previous. "are you fond of jim, carol?" lark jumped away backward in the conversation, asking the question gravely, her eyes upon her sister's face. "hum! yes, i am," was the light retort. "didn't prudence teach us to love everybody?" "don't be silly. i mean if he proposes to you, are you going to turn him down, or not?" "what would you advise, lark?" carol's brows were painfully knitted. "he's got five hundred acres of land, worth at least a hundred an acre, and a lot of money in the bank,--his mother didn't say how much, but i imagine several thousand anyhow. and he has that nice big house, and an auto, and--oh, everything nice! think of the fruit trees, larkie! and he's good-looking, too. and his mother says he is always good natured even before breakfast, and that's very exceptional, you know! very! i don't know that i could do much better, do you, auntie? i'm sure i'd look cute in a sun-bonnet and apron, milking the cows! so, boss, so, there, now! so, boss!" "why, carol!" "but there are objections, too. they have pigs. i can't bear pigs! pooooey, pooooey! the filthy little things! i don't know,--jim and the gray suit and the auto and the cows are very nice, but when i think of jim and overalls and pigs and onions and freckles i have goose flesh. here they come! where's that other slipper? oh, it's clear under the bed!" she wriggled after it, coming out again breathless. "did i rub the powder all off?" she asked anxiously. the low honk of the car sounded outside, and the twins dumped a miscellaneous assortment of toilet articles into the battered suit-case and the tattered hand-bag. carol grabbed her hat from connie, leisurely strolling through the hall with it, and sent her flying after her gloves. "if you can't find mine, bring your own," she called after her. aunt grace and connie escorted them triumphantly down the walk to the waiting car where the young man in the new sentimental gray suit stood beside the open door. his face was boyishly eager, and his eyes were full of a satisfaction that had a sort of excitement in it, too. aunt grace looked at him and sighed. "poor boy," she thought. "he is nice! carol is a mean little thing!" he smiled at the twins impartially. "shall we flip a coin to see who i get in front?" he asked them, laughing. his mother leaned out from the back seat, and smiled at the girls very cordially. "hurry, twinnies," she said, "we must start, or we'll be late for supper. come in with me, won't you, larkie?" "what a greasy schemer she is," thought carol, climbing into her place without delay. jim placed the battered suit-case and the tattered bag beneath the seat, and drew the rug over his mother's knees. then he went to lark's side, and tucked it carefully about her feet. "it's awfully dusty," he said. "you shouldn't have dolled up so. shall i put your purse in my pocket? don't forget you promised to feed the chickens--i'm counting on you to do it for me." then he stepped in beside carol, laughing into her bright face, and the good-bys rang back and forth as the car rolled away beneath the heavy arch of oak leaves that roofed in maple avenue. the twins fairly reveled in the glories of the country through the golden days that followed, and enjoyed every minute of every day, and begrudged the hours they spent in sleep. the time slipped by "like banana skins," declared carol crossly, and refused to explain her comparison. and the last day of their visit came. supper was over at seven o'clock, and lark said, with something of wistfulness in her voice, "i'm going out to the orchard for a farewell weep all by myself. and don't any of you disturb me,--i'm so ugly when i cry." so she set out alone, and jim, a little awkwardly, suggested that carol take a turn or so up and down the lane with him. mrs. forrest stood at the window and watched them, tearful-eyed, but with tenderness. "my little boy," she said to herself, "my little boy. but she's a dear, sweet, pretty girl." in the meantime, jim was acquitting himself badly. his face was pale. he was nervous, ill at ease. he stammered when he spoke. self-consciousness was not habitual to this young man of the iowa farm. he was not the awkward, ignorant, gangling farm-hand we meet in books and see on stages. he had attended the high school in mount mark, and had been graduated from the state agricultural college with high honors. he was a farmer, as his father had been before him, but he was a farmer of the new era, one of those men who takes plain farming and makes it a profession, almost a fine art. usually he was self-possessed, assertive, confident, but, in the presence of this sparkling twin, for once he was abashed. carol was in an ecstasy of delight. she was not a man-eater, perhaps, but she was nearly romance-mad. she thought only of the wild excitement of having a sure-enough lover, the hurt of it was yet a little beyond her grasp. "oh, carol, don't be so sweet," lark had begged her once. "how can the boys help being crazy about you, and it hurts them." "it doesn't hurt anything but their pride when they get snubbed," had been the laughing answer. "do you want to break men's hearts?" "well,--it's not at all bad for a man to have a broken heart," the irrepressible carol had insisted. "they never amount to anything until they have a real good disappointment. then they brace up and amount to something. see? i really think it's a kindness to give them a heart-break, and get them started." the callow youths of mount mark, of the epworth league, and the college, were almost unanimous in laying their adoration at carol's feet. but carol saw the elasticity, the buoyancy, of loves like these, and she couldn't really count them. she felt that she was ripe for a bit of solid experience now, and there was nothing callow about jim--he was solid enough. and now, although she could see that his feelings stirred, she felt nothing but excitement and curiosity. a proposal, a real one! it was imminent, she felt it. "carol," he began abruptly, "i am in love." "a-are you?" carol had not expected him to begin in just that way. "yes,--i have been for a long time, with the sweetest and dearest girl in the world. i know i am not half good enough for her, but--i love her so much that--i believe i could make her happy." "d-do you?" carol was frightened. she reflected that it wasn't so much fun as she had expected. there was something wonderful in his eyes, and in his voice. maybe lark was right,--maybe it did hurt! oh, she really shouldn't have been quite so nice to him! "she is young--so am i--but i know what i want, and if i can only have her, i'll do anything i--" his voice broke a little. he looked very handsome, very grown-up, very manly. carol quivered. she wanted to run away and cry. she wanted to put her arms around him and tell him she was very, very sorry and she would never do it again as long as she lived and breathed. "of course," he went on, "i am not a fool. i know there isn't a girl like her in ten thousand, but--she's the one i want, and--carol, do you reckon there is any chance for me? you ought to know. lark doesn't have secrets from you, does she? do you think she'll have me?" certainly this was the surprise of carol's life. if it was romance she wanted, here it was in plenty. she stopped short in the daisy-bright lane and stared at him. "jim forrest," she demanded, "is it lark you want to marry, or me?" "lark, of course!" carol opened her lips and closed them. she did it again. finally she spoke. "well, of all the idiots! if you want to marry lark, what in the world are you out here proposing to me for?" "i'm not proposing to you," he objected. "i'm just telling you about it." "but what for? what's the object? why don't you go and rave to her?" he smiled a little. "well, i guess i thought telling you first was one way of breaking it to her gently." "i'm perfectly disgusted with you," carol went on, "perfectly. here i've been expecting you to propose to me all week, and--" "propose to you! my stars!" "don't interrupt me," carol snapped. "last night i lay awake for hours,--look at the rings beneath my eyes--" "i don't see 'em," he interrupted again, smiling more broadly. "just thinking out a good flowery rejection for you, and then you trot me out here and propose to lark! well, if that isn't nerve!" jim laughed loudly at this. he was used to carol, and enjoyed her little outbursts. "i can't think what on earth made you imagine i'd want to propose to you," he said, shaking his head as though appalled at the idea. carol's eyes twinkled at that, but she did not permit him to see it. "why shouldn't i think so? didn't you get a new gray suit? and haven't i the best complexion in mount mark? don't all the men want to propose to a complexion like mine?" "shows their bum taste," he muttered. carol twinkled again. "of course," she agreed, "all men have bum taste, if it comes to that." he laughed again, then he sobered. "do you think lark will--" "i think lark will turn you down," said carol promptly, "and i hope she does. you aren't good enough for her. no one in the world is good enough for lark except myself. if she should accept you--i don't think she will, but if she has a mental aberration and does--i'll give you my blessing, and come and live with you six months in the year, and lark shall come and live with me the other six months, and you can run the farm and send us an allowance. but i don't think she'll have you; i'll be disappointed in her if she does." carol was silent a moment then. she was remembering many things,--lark's grave face that day in the parsonage when they had discussed the love of jim, her unwonted gentleness and her quiet manners during this visit, and one night when carol, suddenly awakening, had found her weeping bitterly into her pillow. lark had said it was a headache, and was better now, and carol had gone to sleep again, but she remembered now that lark never had headaches! and she remembered how very often lately lark had put her arms around her shoulders and looked searchingly into her face, and lark was always wistful, too, of late! she sighed. yes, she caught on at last, "had been pushed on to it," she thought angrily. she had been a wicked, blind, hateful little simpleton or she would have seen it long ago. but she said nothing of this to jim. "you'd better run along then, and switch your proposal over to her, or i'm likely to accept you on my own account, just for a joke. and be sure and tell her i'm good and sore that i didn't get a chance to use my flowery rejection. but i'm almost sure she'll turn you down." then carol stood in the path, and watched jim as he leaped lightly over fences and ran through the sweet meadow. she saw lark spring to her feet and step out from the shade of an apple tree, and then jim took her in his arms. after that, carol rushed into the house and up the stairs. she flung herself on her knees beside her bed and buried her face in the white spread. "lark," she whispered, "lark!" she clenched her hands, and her shoulders shook. "my little twin," she cried again, "my nice old lark." then she got up and walked back and forth across the floor. sometimes she shook her fist. sometimes a little crooked smile softened her lips. once she stamped her foot, and then laughed at herself. for an hour she paced up and down. then she turned on the light, and went to the mirror, where she smoothed her hair and powdered her face as carefully as ever. "it's a good joke on me," she said, smiling, "but it's just as good a one on mrs. forrest. i think i'll go and have a laugh at her. and i'll pretend i knew it all along." she found the woman lying in a hammock on the broad piazza where a broad shaft of light from the open door fell upon her. carol stood beside her, smiling brightly. "mrs. forrest," she said, "i know a perfectly delicious secret. shall i tell you?" the woman sat up, holding out her arms. carol dropped on her knees beside her, smiling mischievously at the expression on her face. "cupid has been at work," she said softly, "and your own son has fallen a victim." mrs. forrest sniffed slightly, but she looked lovingly at the fair sweet face. "i am sure i can not wonder," she answered in a gentle voice. "is it all settled?" "i suppose so. at any rate, he is proposing to her in the orchard, and i am pretty sure she's going to accept him." mrs. forrest's arms fell away from carol's shoulders. "lark!" she ejaculated. "yes,--didn't you know it?" carol's voice was mildly and innocently surprised. "lark!" mrs. forrest was plainly dumfounded. "i--i thought it was you!" "me!" carol was intensely astonished. "me? oh, dear mrs. forrest, whatever in the world made you think that?" "why--i don't know," she faltered weakly, "i just naturally supposed it was you. i asked him once where he left his heart, and he said, 'at the parsonage,' and so of course i thought it was you." carol laughed gaily. "what a joke," she cried. "but you are more fortunate than you expected, for it is my precious old larkie. but don't be too glad about it, or you may hurt my feelings." "well, i am surprised, i confess, but i believe i like lark as well as i do you, and of course jim's the one to decide. people say lark is more sensible than you are, but it takes a good bit of a man to get beyond a face as pretty as yours. i'm kind o' proud of jim!" chapter xvii the girl who wouldn't propose it took a long time for carol to recover from the effect of lark's disloyalty, as she persisted in calling it. for several weeks she didn't twinkle at all. but when at last the smiles came easy again, she wrote to mr. duke, her p'fessor no longer, but now a full-fledged young minister. she apologized sweetly for her long delay. "but you will forgive me when you have read this," she wrote. "cupid is working havoc in our family. of course, no one outside the home circle knows yet, but i insisted on telling you because you have been such a grand good friend to us for so long. we may seem young to you, because you can't forget when we were freshmen, but we are really very grown up. we act quite mature now, and never think of playing jokes. but i didn't finish my news, did i? "it is jim forrest--he was in high school when we were. remember him? larkie and i were out to spend a week, and--but i needn't go into particulars. i knew you would be interested. the whole family is very happy about it, he is a great favorite with every one. but how our family is going to pieces! still, since it is jim--! he _is_ nice, isn't he? but you wouldn't dare say no." carol's eyes glittered wickedly as she sealed this letter, which she had penned with greatest care. and a few days later, when the answer came, she danced gleefully up the stairs,--not at all "mature" in manner, and locked the door behind her while she read: "dear carol: "indeed i am very interested, and i wish you all the joy in the world. tell jim for me how very much i think he is to be congratulated. he seems a fine fellow, and i know you will be happy. it was a surprise, i admit--i knew he was doing the very devoted--but you have seemed so young to me, always. i can't imagine you too grown up for jokes, though you do sound more 'mature' in this letter than you have before. lark will be lonely, i am afraid. "i am very busy with my work, so you will understand if my letters come less frequently, won't you? and you will be too busy with your own happiness to bother with an old professor any more anyhow. i have enjoyed our friendship very much,--more than you will ever know,--and i want once more to hope you may be the happiest woman in the world. you deserve to be. "very sincerely your friend, "david a. duke." carol lay down on the bed and crushed the letter ecstatically between her hands. then she burst out laughing. then she cried a little, nervously, and laughed again. then she smoothed the letter affectionately, and curled up on the bed with a pad of paper and her father's fountain-pen to answer the letter. "my dear mr. duke: however in the world could you make such a mistake. i've been laughing ever since i got your letter, but i'm vexed too. he's nice, all right; he's just fine, but i don't want him! and think how annoyed lark would be if she could see it. i am not engaged to jim forrest,--nor to any one. it's lark. i certainly didn't say it was i, did i? we're all so fond of jim that it really is a pleasure to the whole family to count him one of us, and lark grows more deliriously joyful all the time. but i! i know you're awfully busy, of course, and i hate to intrude, but you must write one little postal card to apologize for your error, and i'll understand how hard you are working when you do not write again. "hastily, but always sincerely, "carol." carol jumped up and caught up her hat and rushed all the way down-town to the post-office to get that letter started for danville, illinois, where the reverend mr. duke was located. her face was so radiant, and her eyes were so heavenly blue, and so sparkling bright, that people on the street turned to look after her admiringly. she was feverishly impatient until the answer arrived, and was not at all surprised that it came under special delivery stamp, though lark lifted her eyebrows quizzically, and aunt grace smiled suggestively, and her father looked up with sudden questioning in his face. carol made no comment, only ran up to her room and locked the door once more. "carol, you awful little scamp, you did that on purpose, and you know it. you never mentioned lark's name. well, if you wanted to give me the scare of my life, you certainly succeeded. i didn't want to lose my little chum, and i knew very well that no man in his proper senses would allow his sweetheart to be as good a comrade to another man as i want you to be to me. of course i was disappointed. of course i expected to be busy for a while. of course i failed to see the sterling worth of jim forrest. i see it now, though. i think he's a prince, and as near worth being in your family as anybody could be. i'm sure we'll be great friends, and tell lark for me that i am waxing enthusiastic over his good qualities even to the point of being inarticulate. tell her how happy i am over it, a good deal happier than i've been for the past several days, and i am wishing them both a world of joy. i'm having one myself, and i find it well worth having. i could shake you, carol, for playing such a trick on me. i can just see you crouch down and giggle when you read this. you wait, my lady. my turn is coming. i think i'll run down to mount mark next week to see my uncle--he's not very well. don't have any dates. "sincerely, d. d." and carol laughed again, and wiped her eyes. the reverend mr. duke's devotion to his elderly uncle in mount mark was a most beautiful thing to see. every few weeks he "ran down for a few days," and if he spent most of his time recounting his uncle's symptoms before the sympathetic starrs, no one could be surprised at that. he and mr. starr naturally had much in common, both ministers, and both--at any rate, he was very devoted to his uncle, and carol grew up very, very fast, and smiled a great deal, but laughed much less frequently than in other days. there was a shy sweetness about her that made her father watch her anxiously. "is carol sick, grace?" he asked one day, turning suddenly to his sister-in-law. she smiled curiously. "n-no, i think not. why?" "she seems very--sweet." "yes. she feels very--sweet," was the enigmatical response. and mr. starr muttered something about women and geometry and went away, shaking his head. and aunt grace smiled again. but the months passed away. lark, not too absorbed in her own happiness to find room for her twin's affairs, at last grew troubled. she and aunt grace often held little conferences together when carol was safely out of the way. "whatever do you suppose is the matter?" lark would wonder anxiously. to which her aunt always answered patiently, "oh, just wait. he isn't sure she's grown-up enough yet." then there came a quiet night when carol and mr. duke sat in the living-room, idly discussing the weather, and looking at connie who was deeply immersed in a book on the other side of the big reading lamp. conversation between them lagged so noticeably that they sighed with relief when she finally laid down her book, and twisted around in her chair until she had them both in full view. "books are funny," she began brightly. "i don't believe half the written stuff ever did happen--i don't believe it could. do girls ever propose, mr. duke?" "no one ever proposed to me," he answered, laughing. "no?" she queried politely. "maybe no one wanted you badly enough. but i wonder if they ever do? writers say so. i can't believe it somehow. it seems so--well--unnecessary, someway. carol and i were talking about it this afternoon." carol looked up startled. "what does carol think about it?" he queried. "well, she said she thought in ordinary cases girls were clever enough to get what they wanted without asking for it." carol moved restlessly in her chair, her face drooping a little, and mr. duke laughed. "of course, i know none of our girls would do such a thing," said connie, serene in her family pride. "but carol says she must admit she'd like to find some way to make a man say what anybody could see with half an eye he wanted to say anyhow, only--" connie stopped abruptly. mr. duke had turned to carol, his keen eyes searching her face, but carol sank in the big chair and turned her face away from him against the leather cushion. "connie," she said, "of course no girl would propose, no girl would want to--i was only joking--" mr. duke laughed openly then. "let's go and take a walk, shan't we, carol? it's a grand night." "you needn't go to get rid of me," said connie, rising. "i was just going anyhow." "oh, don't go," said mr. duke politely. "don't go," echoed carol pleadingly. connie stepped to the doorway, then paused and looked back at them. sudden illumination came to her as she scanned their faces, the man's clear-cut, determined, eager--carol's shy, and scared, and--hopeful. she turned quickly back toward her sister, pain darkening her eyes. carol was the last of all the girls,--it would leave her alone,--and he was too old for her. her lips quivered a little, and her face shadowed more darkly. but they did not see it. the man's eyes were intent on carol's lovely features, and carol was studying her slender fingers. connie drew a long breath, and looked down upon her sister with a great protecting tenderness in her heart. she wanted to catch her up in her strong young arms and carry her wildly out of the room--away from the man who sat there--waiting for her. carol lifted her face at that moment, and turned slowly toward mr. duke. connie saw her eyes. they were luminous. connie's tense figure relaxed then, and she turned at once toward the door. "i am going," she said in a low voice. but she looked back again before she closed the door after her. "carol," she said in a whisper, "you--you're a darling. i--i've always thought so." carol did not hear her,--she did not hear the door closing behind her--she had forgotten connie was there. mr. duke stood up and walked quickly across the room and carol rose to meet him. he put his arms about her, strongly, without hesitating. "carol," he said, "my little song-bird,"--and he laughed, but very tenderly, "would you like to know how to make me say what you know i want to say?" "i--i--" she began tremulously, clasping her hands against his breast, and looking intently, as if fascinated, at his square firm chin so very near her eyes. she had never observed it so near at hand before. she thought it was a lovely chin,--in another man she would have called it distinctly "bossy." "you _would_ try to make me, when you know i've been gritting my teeth for years, waiting for you to get grown up. you've been awfully slow about it, carol, and i've been in such a hurry for you." she rested limply in his arms now, breathing in little broken sighs, not trying to speak. "you have known it a long time, haven't you? and i thought i was hiding it so cleverly." he drew her closer in his arms. "you are too young for me, carol," he said regretfully. "i am very old." "i--i like 'em old," she whispered shyly. with one hand he drew her head to his shoulder, where he could feel the warm fragrant breath against the "lovely chin." "you like 'them' old," he repeated, smiling. "you are very generous. one old one is all i want you to like." but when he leaned toward her lips, carol drew away swiftly. "don't be afraid of me, carol. you didn't mind once when i kissed you." he laid his hand softly on her round cheek. "i am too old, dearest, but i've been loving you for years i guess. i've been waiting for you since you were a little freshman, only i didn't know it for a while. say something, carol--i don't want you to feel timid with me. you love me, don't you? tell me, if you do." "i--i." she looked up at him desperately. "i--well, i made you say it, didn't i?" "did you want me to say it, dearest? have you been waiting, too? how long have you--" "oh, a long time; since that night among the rose bushes at the parsonage." "since then?" "yes; that was why it didn't break my pledge when you kissed me. because i--was waiting then." "do you love me?" "oh, p'fessor, don't make me say it right out in plain english--not to-night. i'm pretty nearly going to cry now, and--" she twinkled a little then, like herself, "you know what crying does to my complexion." but he did not smile. "don't cry," he said. "we want to be happy to-night. you will tell me to-morrow. to-night--" "to-night," she said sweetly, turning in his arms so that her face was toward him again, "to-night--" she lifted her arms, and put them softly about his neck, the laces falling back and showing her pink dimpled elbows. "to-night, my dearest,--" she lifted her lips to him, smiling. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors correcteded. page , "make" changed to "made". (made a mistake) page , "fairly" changed to "fairy". (declared fairy earnestly) page , "envoleped" changed to "enveloped". (enveloped in a) page , word "a" added to text. (playing a game) page , "ordinariy" changed to "ordinary". (ordinary style of) page , "though" changed to "thought". (thought about it) page , "daly" changed to "raider". (office. mr. raider) page , "ny" changed to "any". (any business to) page , "noisiness" changed to "nosiness". (downright nosiness) page , "stanchly" changed to "staunchly". (carol staunchly disclaimed) page , "of" changed to "or". (or mediapolis) page , "dissappointment" changed to "disappointment". (shadow of disappointment) page , "mustn't" changed to "mustn't". (you mustn't. we) page , "brough" changed to "brought". (search brought to) page , "whisperingly" changed to "whispering". (whispering softly) page , "a" changed to "at". (at any rate) one instance each of "twinship" and "twin-ship" was retained. none none five little peppers midway by margaret sidney to my little margaret who is phronsie pepper to all who know her this book is lovingly inscribed contents phronsie's pie cousin eunice chatterton the rehearsal welcome home! after the play the little brown house old times again some badgertown calls a sudden blow the party separates poor polly! new work for polly a piece of news mamsie's wedding mrs. chatterton has a new plan where is phronsie? phronsie is found the girls have polly again phronsie is well again the secret the whitneys' little plan joel of many things away i phronsie's pie "jefferson," said phronsie, with a grave uplifting of her eyebrows, "i think i will go down into the kitchen and bake a pie; a very little pie, jefferson." "bless you, miss," replied the cook, showing his white teeth in glee, "it is the making of the kitchen when you come it." "yes, jefferson," said phronsie slowly, "i think i will go down make one. it must be very, very full of plums, you know," looking up at him anxiously, "for polly dearly loves plums." "it shall be that plummy," said jefferson convincingly, "that you'd think you never saw such a one for richness. oh, my! what a pie that shall be!" exclaimed the cook, shutting up one eye to look through the other in a spasm of delight at an imaginary pie; "so it's for miss mary, is it?" "yes," said phronsie, "it is. oh, jefferson, i'm so glad you like to have me make one," she clasped her hands in silent rapture, and sat down on the lowest stair to think it over a bit, jefferson looking at her, forgetful that the under cook was fuming in the deserted domains over his delay to return. at last he said, bowing respectfully, "if you please, miss, it's about time to begin. such a pie ain't done without a deal of care, and we'd best have it a-baking as soon as may be." "yes," said phronsie, getting off from her stair, and surrendering her hand to his big black palm, "we ought to go right this very minute. but i must get my apron on;" she stopped and looked down at her red dress. "oh! you can take one of my aprons," said the cook, "they're as fine, and big, and white, and i'll just put you in one of 'em and tie you up as snug; you'll come out as clean and sweet when we're through, as you are now, miss." "tie me up?" laughed phronsie in glee. "oh! how nice, jefferson. do you know i love you very much, jefferson, you're so very good to me?" the big fellow drew a long breath. "no, miss, i'm big and black, and just fit to stay downstairs," he managed to say. "but i love you better because you are black, jefferson," insisted phronsie, "a great deal better. you are not like everybody else, but you are just yourself," clinging to his hand. "well, miss, i ain't just fit for a lily to touch and that's the truth," looking down at his palm that the small white hand grasped closely. "it's clean, miss," he added with pardonable pride, "but it's awful black." "i like it better black, jefferson," said phronsie again, "really and truly i do, because then it's your very, very own," in a tone that thrilled him much as if a queen had knighted him on the spot. this important declaration over, the two set forth on their way toward the kitchen, phronsie clinging to his hand, and chatting merrily over the particular pie in prospect, with varied remarks on pies in general, that by and by would be ventured upon if this present one were a success--and very soon tied up in one of the cook's whitest aprons she was seated with due solemnity at the end of the baking table, the proper utensils and materials in delightful confusion before her, and the lower order of kitchen satellites revolving around her, and jefferson the lesser sphere. "now all go back to your work," said that functionary when he considered the staring and muttered admiration had been indulged in long enough, "and leave us." "i want you," said his assistant, touching his elbow. "clear out," said jefferson angrily, his face turned quite from phronsie. but she caught the tone and immediately laid down the bit of dough she was moulding. "do go," she begged, "and come back quickly," smiling up into his face. "see, i'm going to pat and pat and pat, oh! ever so much before you come back." so jefferson followed the under cook, the scullery boy went back to cleaning the knives, susan, the parlor maid who was going through the kitchen with her dustpan and broom, hurried off with a backward glance or two, and phronsie was left quite alone to hum her way along in her blissful culinary attempt. "bless me!" exclaimed a voice close to her small ear, as she was attempting for the fifth time to roll out the paste quite as thin as she had seen jefferson do, "what is this? bless my soul! it's phronsie!" phronsie set down the heavy rolling-pin and turned in her chair with a gleeful laugh. "dear, dear grandpapa!" she cried, clasping her floury hands, "oh! i'm so glad you've come to see me make a pie all by myself. it's for polly, and it's to be full of plums; jefferson let me make it." "jefferson? and where is he, pray?" cried mr. king irately. "pretty fellow, to bring you down to these apartments, and then go off and forget you. jefferson!" he called sharply, "here, where are you?" "oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed phronsie in dire distress, "i sent him; jefferson didn't want to go, grandpapa dear, really and truly, he went because i asked him." "if you please, sir," began jefferson, hurrying up, "i only stepped off a bit to the cellar. bassett sent down a lot of turnips, they ain't first-rate, and"-- "all right," said mr. king, cutting him short with a wave of his hand, "if miss phronsie sent you off, it's all right; i don't want to hear any more elaborate explanations." "little miss hasn't been alone but a few minutes," said jefferson in a worried way. "and see," said phronsie, turning back to her efforts, while one hand grasped the old gentleman's palm, "i've almost got it to look like jefferson's. almost, haven't i?" she asked, regarding it anxiously. "it will be the most beautiful pie," cried mr. king, a hearty enthusiasm succeeding his irritability, "that ever was baked. i wish you'd make me one sometime, phronsie." "do you?" she cried in a tremor of delight, "and will you really have it on the table, and cut it with aunt whitney's big silver knife?" "that i will," declared mr. king solemnly. "then some day i'll come down here again, jefferson," cried phronsie in a transport, "and bake one for my dear grandpapa. that is, if this one is good. oh! you do suppose it will be good, don't you?" appealingly at him. "it shall," said jefferson stoutly, and seizing the rolling-pin with extreme determination. "you want a bit more butter worked in, here," a dab with skillful fingers, and a little manipulation with the flour, a roll now and then most deftly, and the paste was laid out before phronsie. "now, miss, you can put it in the dish." "but is isn't my pie," said phronsie, and, big girl as she felt herself to be, she sat back in her chair, her lower lip quivering. "not your pie?" repeated the cook, bringing himself up straight to gaze at her. "no," said phronsie, shaking her yellow head gravely, "it isn't my pie now, jefferson. you put in the things, and rolled it." "leave your fingers off from it, can't you?" cried mr. king sharply. "goodness! this pie isn't to have a professional touch about it. get some more flour and stuff, whatever it is you make a pie of, and let her begin again. there, i'll sit down and watch you; then there'll be some chance of having things straight." so he drew up a chair to the side of the table, first calling off pete, the scullery boy, from his knives to come and wipe it off for him, and mrs. tucker who was in kitchen dialect "tucker," to see that the boy did his work well. "lor' bless you, sir," said tucker, bestowing a final polish with her apron, "'twas like satin before, sir--not a wisp of dust." "i don't want any observations from you," said the old gentleman, depositing himself in the chair. "there, you can go back to your work, mrs. tucker, and you too, pete. now i'll see that this pie is to your liking, phronsie." but phronsie still sat back in her chair, thoughtfully surveying jefferson. "grandpapa," she said at last slowly, "i think i'd rather have the first pie, i really would, grandpapa, may i?" she brought her yellow head forward by a sudden movement, and looked deep into his keen eyes. "bless my soul! rather have the first pie?" repeated the old gentleman in astonishment, "why, i thought you wanted to make one all yourself." "i think i'd rather do part of it," said phronsie with great deliberateness, "then polly'll like it, and eat it, and i'll do yours, grandpapa dear, just as jefferson fixed mine, all alone. please let me." she held him fast with her eyes, and waited for his answer. "so you shall!" cried mr. king in great satisfaction, "make mine all alone. this one would better go as it is. put away the flour and things, jefferson; miss phronsie doesn't want them." phronsie gave a relieved little sigh. "and, jefferson, if you hadn't showed me how, i couldn't ever in all this world make grandpapa's. now give me the little plate, do." "here 'tis, miss," said the cook, all his tremor over the blunder he had made, disappearing, since, after all, things were quite satisfactory. and the little plate forthcoming, phronsie tucked away the paste lovingly in its depths, and began the important work of concocting the mixture with which the pie was to be filled, mr. king sitting by with the gravity of a statue, even to the deliberate placing of each plum. "where's phronsie?" called a voice above in one of the upper halls. "oh! she's coming, polly is!" cried phronsie, deserting a plum thrust in endwise in the middle of the pie, to throw her little sticky fingers around jefferson's neck; "oh! do take off my apron; and let me go. she'll see my pie!" "stop!" cried mr. king, getting up somewhat stiffly to his feet, "i'll take off the apron myself. there, phronsie, there you are. whew! how hot you keep your kitchen, jefferson," and he wiped his face. "now we'll run," said phronsie softly, "and not make a bit of noise, grandpapa dear, and, jefferson, please put on my top to the pie, and don't let it burn, and i'll come down very, very soon again, and bake one all alone by myself for grandpapa." the old gentleman kept up very well with the soft patter of her feet till they reached the foot of the staircase. "there, there, child," he said, "there's not the least need of hurry now." "but she will come down," said phronsie, in gentle haste pulling at his hand, "then if she should see it, grandpapa!" "to be sure; that would indeed be dreadful," said mr. king, getting over the stairs very creditably. "there, here we are now. whew! it's terribly warm in this house!" but there was no danger from polly; she was at this very instant, not being able to find phronsie, hurrying off toward the library in search of mrs. whitney. "we want to do the very loveliest thing!" she cried, rushing in, her cheeks aflame. "oh! pray excuse me." she stopped short, blushing scarlet. "don't feel badly, polly dear," said mrs. whitney, over in the dim light, where the divan was drawn up in the east window, and she held out her hand and smiled; the other lady whose tete-a-tete was thus summarily disturbed was elderly and very tall and angular. she put up her eyeglass at the intrusion and murmured "ah?" "this is polly pepper," said mrs. whitney, as polly, feeling unusually awkward and shy, stumbled across the library to get within the kind arms awaiting her. "one of the children that your kindness received in this house?" said the tall lady, making good use of the eyeglass. the color mounted steadily on polly's already rosy cheek, at the scrutiny now going on with the greatest freedom. "one of the dear children who make this house a sunny place for us all," said mrs. whitney distinctly. "ah? i see. you are extremely good to put it in that way." a low, well-bred laugh followed this speech. its sound irritated the young girl's ear unspeakably, and the brown eyes flashed, and though there was really no occasion to feel what was not addressed to her, polly was quite sure she utterly disliked the lady before her. "my dear mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney in the gentlest of accents, "you do not comprehend; it is not possible for you to understand how very happy we all are here. the house is quite another place, i assure you, from the abode you saw last before you went abroad." mrs. chatterton gave another low, unpleasant laugh, and this time shrugged her shoulders. "polly dear," said mrs. whitney with a smile, "say good-morning to mrs. chatterton, and then run away. i will hear your wonderful plan by and by. i shall be glad to, child," she was guilty of whispering in the small ear. "good-morning, mrs. chatterton," said polly slowly, the brown eyes looking steadily into the traveled and somewhat seamed countenance before her. "good-morning," and polly found herself once more across the floor, and safely out in the hall, the door closed between them. "who is she?" she cried in an indignant spasm to jasper, who ran up, and she lifted her eyes brimming over with something quite new to him. he stopped aghast. "who?" he cried. "oh, polly! what has happened?" "mrs. chatterton. and she looked at me--oh! i can't tell you how she looked; as if i were a bug, or a hateful worm beneath her," cried polly, quite as much aghast at herself. "it makes me feel horridly, jasper--you can't think. oh! that old"--he stopped, pulling himself up with quite an effort. "has she come back--what brought her, pray tell, so soon?" "i don't know, i am sure," said polly, laughing at his face. "i was only in the room a moment, i think, but it seemed an age with that eyeglass, and that hateful little laugh." "oh! she always sticks up that thing in her eye," said jasper coolly, "and she's everlastingly ventilating that laugh on everybody. she thinks it high-bred and elegant, but it makes people want to kill her for it." he looked and spoke annoyed. "to think you fell into her clutches!" he added. "well, who is she?" cried polly, smoothing down her ruffled feathers, when she saw the effect of her news on him. "i should dearly love to know." "cousin algernon's wife," said jasper briefly. "and who is he?" cried polly, again experiencing a shock that this dreadful person was a relative to whom due respect must be shown. "oh! a cousin of father's," said jasper. "he was nice, but he's dead." "oh!" said polly. "she's been abroad for a good half-dozen years, and why she doesn't stay there when everybody supposed she was going to, astonishes me," said jasper, after a moment. "well, it will not be for long, i presume, that we shall have the honor; she'll be easily tired of america, and take herself off again." "she doesn't stay in this house, does she, jasper?" cried polly in a tone of horror. "no; that is, unless she chooses to, then we can't turn her off. she's a relative, you know." "hasn't she any home?" asked polly, "or any children?" "home? yes, an estate down in bedford county?-dunraven lodge; but it's all shut up, and in the hands of agents who have been trying for the half-dozen years she was abroad, to sell it for her. she may have come back to settle down there again, there's no telling what she will do. in the meantime, i fancy she'll make her headquarters here," he said gloomily. "oh, jasper!" exclaimed polly, seizing his arm, feeling that here was need of comfort indeed, "how very dreadful! don't you suppose something will happen to take her away?" "i don't see what can," said jasper, prolonging the gloom to feel the comfort it brought. "you see she has nobody who wants her, to step in and relieve us. she has two nephews, but oh! you ought to see them fight!" "fight?" repeated polly aghast. "yes; you can't dignify their skirmishes by any other name," said jasper, in disgust. "so you see our chances for keeping her as long as she condescends to stay are really very good." polly clung to his arm in speechless dismay. meanwhile conversation fast and brisk was going on between the two shut up in the library. "it is greatly to your discredit, marian," said mrs. chatterton in a high, cold voice, "that you didn't stop all this nonsense on your father's part, before the thing got to such a pass as to install them in this house." "on the contrary," said mrs. whitney with a little laugh, "i did everything i could to further the plan that father wisely made." "wisely!" cried mrs. chatterton in scorn. "oh, you silly child! don't you see what it will all tend to?" "i see that it has made us all very happy for five years," said mrs. whitney, preserving her composure, "so i presume the future doesn't hold much to dread on that score." "the future is all you have to dread," declared mrs. chatterton harshly. "the present may be well enough; though i should think existence with that low, underbred family here, would be a"? "you may pause just where you are, mrs. chatterton," said marian, still with the gentlest of accents, but with a determination that made the other look down at her in astonishment, "not another word shall you utter in that strain, nor will i listen to it." and with fine temper undisturbed in her blue eyes, she regarded her relative. "dear me, marian! i begin to notice your age more now. you shouldn't fly into such rages; they wear on one fearfully; and especially for a stranger too, and against your own people--how can you?" mrs. chatterton drew out a vinaigrette, then a fan from a silken bag, with clasps that she was always glad to reflect were heirlooms. "it's trying, i must confess," she declared, alternately applying the invigorating salts and waving the combination of gauze and sandalwood, "to come home to such a reception. but," and a heavy sigh, "i must bear it." "you ought to see father," cried mrs. whitney, rising. "i must go at once and tell him of your arrival." "oh! i don't know that i care about seeing cousin horatio yet," said mrs. chatterton carelessly. "he will probably fall into one of his rages, and my nerves have been upset quite enough by you. i think i'll go directly to my apartments." she rose also. "father must at once be informed of your arrival," repeated marian quietly. "i'll send him in to see you." "and i shall go to my apartments," declared mrs. chatterton determinedly. "hoity-toity!" exclaimed mr. king's voice, and in he came, with phronsie, fresh from the kitchen, clinging to his hand. ii cousin eunice chatterton phronsie dropped one small hand by her side, and stood quite still regarding the visitor. "oh, my goodness me," ejaculated mrs. chatterton, startled out of her elegance, and not pausing to adjust the glass, but using her two good eyes to the best advantage. "hoity-toity! so you are back again!" exclaimed mr. king by way of welcome. "well, and if i may ask, what brought you now, eunice?" mrs. chatterton gathered herself up and smiled in a superior way. "never mind my reasons, cousin horatio. what a fine child you have there;" now the glass came into play; "pray tell me all about her." "you have well said," observed mr. king, seating himself with the utmost deliberateness, and drawing phronsie to her accustomed place on his knee, where she nestled, regardless of his immaculate linen and fine waistcoat, "phronsie pepper is indeed a fine child; a very fine child, madam." "oh, my, and oh, my!" cried mrs. chatterton, holding up her hands, "to think that you can so demean yourself; why, she's actually mussing your shirt-front with her dirty little hands!" "phronsie pepper's hands are never dirty, madam," said the old gentleman gravely. "sit still, child," as phronsie in a state of alarm struggled to slip down from his lap, thrusting the two members thus referred to, well out before her. mrs. chatterton burst into a loud laugh. "to think i have come to see horatio king in such a state! jasper horatio king!" she repeated scornfully. "i heard about it through the bascombs' letters, but i wouldn't believe it till i used my eyes. it's positively dreadful!" mr. king put back his head and laughed also; so heartily, that phronsie ceased to struggle, and turned to regard him in silent astonishment; and mrs. whitney, charmed that the rage usually produced by conversation with cousin algernon's wife was not forthcoming, began to laugh, too, so that the amusement of the tall lady was quenched in the general hilarity. "what you can find in my words to cause such an unseemly outburst, i cannot see," she cried in a passion. "i'm under the impression that you led off the amusement yourself," said mr. king, wiping his eyes. "phronsie, it's all very funny, isn't it?" looking down into the little wondering face. "is it really funny?" asked phronsie. "does the lady like it?" "not particularly, i suspect," said mr. king carelessly. "and that you can talk with that chit, ignoring me, your cousin's wife, is insufferable." mrs. chatterton now arose speedily from the divan, and shook out a flounce or two with great venom. "i had intended to make you a visit. now it is quite impossible." "as you like," said the old gentleman, also rising, and placing phronsie on her feet, observing ostentatious care to keep her hand. "my house is open to you, eunice," with a wave of his disengaged hand in old-time hospitality, "but of course you must suit yourself." "it's rather hard upon a person of sensibility, to come home after a six years' absence," said cousin eunice with a pathetic sniff, and once more seeking her vinaigrette in the depths of the silken bag, "to meet only coldness and derision. in fact, it is very hard." "no doubt, no doubt," said the old gentleman hastily, "i can imagine such a case, but it has nothing to do with you. now, if you are going to stay, eunice, say so at once, and proceed to your room. if not, why you must go, and understand it is no one's fault but your own." he drew himself up and looked long and hard into the thin pale face before him. phronsie pulled at his hand. "i want to ask the lady to stay, grandpapa dear." "she doesn't need urging," said old mr. king quite distinctly, and not moving a muscle. "but, grandpapa dear, she isn't glad about something." "no more am i." "grandpapa," cried phronsie, moving off a bit, though not deserting his hand, and standing on her tiptoes, "i want her to stay, to see me. perhaps she hasn't any little girls." "to see you?" cried mr. king irately. "say no more, child, say no more. she's been abusing you right and left, like a pick-pocket." "what is a pick-pocket?" asked phronsie, getting down from her tiptoes. "oh! a scoundrel who puts his hands into pockets; picks out what doesn't belong to him, in fact." phronsie stood quite still, and shook her head gravely at the tall figure. "that was not nice," she said soberly. "now do you want her to stay?" cried the old gentleman. "insufferable!" repeated mrs. chatterton between her teeth, "to mix me up with that chit!" "yes, i do," said phronsie decidedly, "i do, grandpapa. now i know she hasn't any little girls--if she had little girls, she wouldn't say such very unnice things; i want the poor lady to stay with me." mrs. chatterton turned and went abruptly off to the door, hesitated, and looked back. "i see your household is in a very chaotic state, cousin horatio. still i will remain a few days," with extreme condescension, "on condition that these peppers are not thrust upon my attention." "i make no conditions," said the old gentleman coolly. "if you stay, you must accept my household as you find it." "come, marian," said mrs. chatterton, holding out her hand to mrs. whitney. "you may help me to my apartments if you like. i am quite unstrung by all this," and she swept out without a backward glance. "has she gone?" cried jasper, hurrying in with polly running after. "it's 'stay,' isn't it, father?" as he saw the old gentleman's face. "yes," said mr. king grimly, "it is 'stay' indeed, jasper." "well, now then, you've a piece of work on your hands about the biggest you ever did yet, polly pepper!" cried jasper, "to make things comfortable in this house. i shall be just as cross as can be imagined, to begin with." "you cross!" cried polly. "cross as a bear; marian will fight against the prevailing ill wind, but it will finally blow her down to a state of depression where her best friend wouldn't recognize her, and"-- "you don't mention me, my boy," said mr. king dryly. jasper looked into his father's eyes, and they both laughed. "and if you, polly pepper, don't keep things bright, why, we shall all go to the dogs," said the old gentleman, sobering down. "so mind you do, and we'll try to bear cousin algernon's relict." "i will," said polly stoutly, though "relict" sounded very dreadful to begin with. "give us your hand, then," said jasper's father, putting out his palm. "there!" releasing it, "now i'm much more comfortable about matters." "and give me your hand, polly," cried jasper, his own brown hand flying to meet hers. "there! and now i'm comfortable too! so it's a compact, and a sure one!" "and i want to give my hand," cried phronsie, very much aggrieved. "here, jasper." "bless my soul, so you must!" cried old mr. king; "to think we didn't ask you first. there--and there!" "and, phronsie darling," cried polly in a rapture, "you must promise with me, after you have with the others. i couldn't ever get along in all this world without that." so the ceremony of sealing the compact having been observed with great gravity, phronsie drew a long breath, and now felt that the "poor lady" might come down at any time to find all things prepared for her. "now tell our plan," cried jasper to polly, "and put this disagreeable business out of our heads. it's a fine one," he added to his father. "of course it is," cried the old gentleman. "well, you know joel and davie and van and percy are coming home from school next week for the christmas holidays," began polly, trying to still the wild beating of her heart. "bless me! so they are," said mr. king. "how time flies, to be sure! well, go on, polly." "and we ought to do something to celebrate," said polly, "at least don't you think so?" she asked anxiously, looking up in his face. "to be sure i do," cried the old gentleman heartily. "well, what would you do, polly child, to show the youngsters we're proud of them, and glad to get them back--hey?" "we want to get up a little play," said polly, "jasper and i, and act it." "and have music," cried jasper. "polly shall play on the piano. the boys will be so delighted to see how she has improved." "and jasper will play too," cried polly eagerly. "oh, jasper! will you play that concerto, the one you played when mary gibbs was here at tea last week? do, jasper, do." "that nearly floored me," said jasper. "no; you said it was mary's watching you like a lynx--you know you did," said polly, laughing merrily. "never mind," said the old gentleman. "what next, polly? the play is all right." "i should think it was," cried jasper. "it's the three dragons, and the princess clotilde." "oh, my goodness," exclaimed mr. king, "what a play for christmas eve!" "well, you'll say it's a splendid hit!" cried jasper, "when you see it from the private box we are going to give you." "so you are intending to honor me, are you?" cried his father, vastly pleased to find himself as ever, the central figure in their plans. "well, well, i dare say it will all be as fine as can be to welcome these young scapegraces home. what next, polly?" "it must be kept a perfect surprise," cried polly, clasping her hands while the color flew over her face. "no one must even whisper it to each other, the day before christmas when the boys get here, for joel is so very dreadful whenever there is a secret." "his capacity certainly is good," said mr. king dryly. "we will all be very careful." "and phronsie is to be princess clotilde," cried jasper, seizing her suddenly, to prance around the room, just like old times. "oh, jasper! i'm eight years old," she cried, struggling to free herself. "nonsense! what of it--you are the baby of this household." but he set her on her feet nevertheless, one hand still patting the soft yellow waves over her brow. "go on, polly, do, and lay the whole magnificence before father. he will be quite overcome." "that would be disastrous," said mr. king; "better save your effects till the grand affair comes off." "jasper is to be one of the dragons," announced polly, quite in her element, "that is, the head dragon; ben is to be another, and we haven't quite decided whether to ask archy hurd or clare to take the third one." "clare has the most 'go' in him," said jasper critically. "then i think we'll decide now to ask him," said polly, "don't you, jasper?" "a dragon without 'go' in him would be most undesirable, i should fancy. well, what next do you propose to do, polly?" asked mr. king. "now that we know that you will allow us to have it," cried polly in a rapture, "why, we can think up splendid things. we've only the play written so far, sir." "polly wrote the most," said jasper. "oh, no, jasper! i only put in the bits," said polly. "he planned it?--every single bit, jasper did." "well, she thought up the dragons, and the cave, and"?-- "oh! that was easy enough," said polly, guilty of interrupting, "because you see something has to carry off the princess clotilde." "oh, now! you are not going to frighten my little girl," cried mr. king. "i protest against the whole thing if you do," and he put out his hand. "come, phronsie," when, as of old, she hurried to his side obediently. "oh! we are going to show her the boys, and how we dress them up just like dragons," cried polly, "and while they are prancing around and slashing their tails at rehearsal, i'm going to keep saying, 'that's nothing but jasper and ben and clare, you know, phronsie,' till i get her accustomed to them. you won't be frightened, will you, pet, at those dear, sweet old dragons?" she ended, and getting on her knees, she looked imploringly into phronsie's brown eyes. "n--no," said phronsie, slowly, "not if they are really jasper and ben and clare." "they really will be," cried polly, enchanted at her success, "jasper and ben and clare; and they will give you a ride, and show you a cave, oh! and perfect quantities of things; you can't think how many!" phronsie clapped her hands and laughed aloud in glee. "oh! i don't care if they are true dragons, polly, i don't," she cried, dreadfully excited. "make 'em real big live ones, do; do make them big, and let me ride on their backs." "these will be just as real," said polly comfortingly, "that is, they'll act real, only there will be boys inside of them. oh! we'll have them nice, dear, don't you fear." "but i'd really rather have true ones," sighed phronsie. iii the rehearsal "now, phronsie," said polly, on her knees before the princess, who was slowly evolving into "a thing of beauty," "do hold still just a minute, dear. there," as she thrust in another pin, then turned her head critically to view her work, "i do hope that is right." phronsie sighed. "may i just stretch a wee little bit, polly," she asked timidly, "before you pin it up? just a very little bit?" "to be sure you may," said polly, looking into the flushed little face; "i'll tell you, you may walk over to the window and back, once; that'll rest you and give me a chance to see what is the matter with that back drapery." so phronsie, well pleased, gathered up the embyro robe of the princess and moved off, a bewildering tangle of silver spangles and floating lace, drawn over the skirt of one of mrs. whitney's white satin gowns. "there ought to be a dash of royal purple somewhere," said polly, sitting on the floor to see her go, and resting her tired hands on her knees. "now where shall i get it, and where shall i put it when i do have it?" she wrinkled up her eyebrows a moment, lost in thought over the momentous problem. "oh! i know," and she sprang up exultingly. "phronsie, won't this be perfectly lovely? we can take that piece of tissue paper auntie gave you, and i can cut out little knots and sashes. it is so soft, that in the gaslight they will look like silk. how fine!" "can't i be a princess unless you sew up that purple paper?" asked phronsie, pausing suddenly to look over her shoulder in dismay at polly. "why, yes, you can be, of course," said polly, "but you can't be as good a one as if you had a dash of royal purple about you. what's a bit of tissue paper to the glory of being a princess?" she cried, with sparkling eyes. "dear me, i wish i could be one." "well, you may have it, polly," said phronsie with a sigh, "and then afterwards i'll rip it all off and smooth it out, and it will be almost as good as new." "i think there won't be much left of it when the play is over," cried polly with a laugh; "why, the dragons are going to carry you off to their cave, you know, and you are to be rescued by the knight, just think, phronsie! you can't expect to have such perfectly delightful times, and come out with a quantity of tissue paper all safe. something has to be scarified to royalty, child." phronsie sighed again. but as polly approved of royalty so highly, she immediately lent herself to the anticipations of the pleasure before her, smothering all lesser considerations. "when you get your little silver cap on with one of auntie's diamond rings sewed in it, why, you'll be too magnificent for anything," said polly, now pulling and patting with fresh enthusiasm, since the "purple dash" was forthcoming. "princesses don't wear silver caps with diamond rings sewed in them," observed phronsie wisely. "of course not; they have diamonds by the bushel, and don't need to sew rings in their caps to make them sparkle," said polly, plaiting and pinning rapidly, "but in dressing up for a play, we have to take a poetic license. there, turn just one bit to the right, phronsie dear." "what's poetic license?" demanded phronsie, wrenching her imagination off from the bushel of diamonds to seize practical information. "oh! when a man writes verses and says things that aren't so," said polly, her mind on the many details before her. "but he ought not to," cried phronsie, with wide eyes, "say things that are not so. i thought poets were always very good, polly." "oh! well, people let him," said polly, carelessly, "because he puts it into poetry. it would never do in prose; that would be quite shocking." "oh!" said phronsie, finding the conversation some alleviation to the fitting-on process. "now this left side," said polly, twisting her head to obtain a good view of the point in question, "is just right; i couldn't do it any better if i were to try a thousand times. why won't this other one behave, and fall into a pretty curve, i wonder?" phronsie yawned softly as the brown eyes were safely behind her. "i shall gather it up anyway, so," and polly crushed the refractory folds recklessly in one hand; "that's the way mary gibbs's hat trimmings look, and i'm sure they're a complete success. oh! that's lovely," cried polly, at the effect. "now, that's the treatment the whole drapery needs," she added in the tone of an art connoisseur. "oh!" a rushing noise announced the approach of two or three boys, together with the barking of prince, as they all ran down the wide hall. "o dear, dear!" exclaimed polly, hurriedly pulling and pinning, "there come the boys to rehearse. it can't be four o'clock," as the door opened and three members of the cast entered. "it's quarter-past four," said jasper, laughing and pulling out his watch; "we gave you an extra fifteen minutes, as you had such a lot to do. dear me! but you are fine, phronsie. i make my obeisance to princess clotilde!" and he bowed low to the little silver and white figure, as did the other two boys, and then drew off to witness the final touches. "it's a most dreadful thing," cried polly, pushing back the brown waves from her brow, as she also fell off to their point of view, "to get up a princess. i had no idea it was such a piece of work." "you have scored an immense success," said jasper enthusiastically. "oh, phronsie! you will make the hit of the season." "you'll think it is even much nicer when it is done," said polly, vastly relieved that jasper had given such a kind verdict. "it's to have a dash of royal purple on that right side, and in one of the shoulder knots, and to catch up her train." "that will be very pretty, i don't doubt," said jasper, trying to resolve himself into the cold critic, "but it seems to me it is almost perfect now, polly." "oh! thank you so much," she cried, with blooming cheeks. "how do you like it, clare and bensie?" "i can't tell," said ben, slowly regarding the princess on all sides; "it's so transforming." "it's tiptop!" cried clare. "it out-princesses any princess i've ever imagined." "well, it's a perfect relief," said polly, "to have you boys come in. i've been working so over it that i was ready to say it was horrid. it's too bad, isn't it, that dick can't be here to-day to rehearse his part?" "to be sure," exclaimed jasper, looking around, "where is the princess's page?" "he's gone to the dentist's," said polly, making a wry face. "auntie had to make the appointment for this afternoon, and we couldn't put off the rehearsal; clare can't come any other time, you know." phronsie turned an anxious face to the window. "i hope he's not being hurt very much," she said slowly. "i don't believe he is," polly made haste to answer most cheerfully, "it was only one tooth, you know, phronsie, to be filled. auntie says dr. porter told her the rest are all right." but a cloud rested on the princess's face. "one tooth is something," she said. "just think how nice it will be when it is all over, and dick comes scampering in," cried jasper, with great hilarity. "do climb up on the sofa, phronsie," urged polly, looking into the pale little face, "you must sit down and rest a bit, you're so tired." "i will read the prologue while she rests," said jasper. "so you can," said polly. "take care, child," in alarm, "you mustn't curl up in the corner like that; princesses don't ever do so." "don't they?" said phronsie, flying off from the lovely corner, to straighten out again into the dignity required; "not when they are little girls, polly?" "no, indeed," said polly, with a rescuing hand among the silver spangles and lace; "they must never forget that they are princesses, phronsie. there now, you're all right." "oh!" said phronsie, sitting quite stiffly, glad if she could not be comfortable, she could be a princess. "'gentle ladies and brave sirs,'" began jasper in a loud, impressive tone, from the temporary stage, the large rug in front of the crackling hearth fire. clare burst into a laugh. "see here now," cried jasper, brandishing his text at him, "if you embarrass me like that, you may leave, you old dragon!" "you ought to see your face," cried clare. "jap, you are anything but a hit." "you'll be yet," declared jasper with a pretended growl, and another flourish of the manuscript. "go on, do," implored polly, "i think it is lovely. clare, you really ought to be ashamed," and she shook her brown head severely at him. "if i don't quench such melodrama in the outset," said clare, "he'll ruin us all. fair ladies and brave sirs," mimicking to perfection jasper's tones. "thank you for a hint," cried jasper, pulling out his pencil. "i didn't say 'fair'; that's better than 'gentle.' i wish critics would always be so useful as to give one good idea. heigho! here goes again: "'fair ladies and brave sirs, the player's art is to amuse, instruct, or to confuse by too much good advice, but poorly given: that no one follows, because, forsooth, 'tis thrown at him, neck and heels. the drama, pure and simple, is forgot in tugging in the moral'"? "i thought you were going to alter 'tugging in' to something more elegant," said polly. "lugging in," suggested clare, with another laugh. "morals are always tugged in by the head and shoulders," said jasper. "why not say so?" "we should have pretty much the whole anatomy of the human form divine, if you had your way," cried clare. "listen! "'because, forsooth, 'tis thrown at him, neck and heels' and 'tugging in the moral, head and shoulders.' now just add 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' etc., and you have them all." jasper joined as well as polly and ben in the laugh at the prologue's expense, but phronsie sat erect winking hard, her royal hands folded quite still in her lap. "you're bound for a newspaper office, my boy," said jasper at length. "how you will cut into the coming poet, and maul the fledgling of the prose writer! well, i stand corrected. "'the drama pure and simple, is forgot, in straining at the moral.'" "is that any better?" (to the audience.) "yes, i think it is," said polly, "but i do believe it's time to talk more elegantly, jasper. it is due to the people in the private boxes, you know." "oh! the boxes are to have things all right before the play is over; never you fear, polly," said jasper. "'a poor presentment, you will say we give; but cry you mercy, sirs, and'"? "i don't like 'cry you mercy,'" announced ben slowly, "because it doesn't seem to mean anything." "oh! don't cut that out," exclaimed polly, clasping her hands and rushing up to ben. "that's my pet phrase; you mustn't touch that, bensie." "but it doesn't mean anything," reiterated ben in a puzzled way. "who cares?" cried jasper defiantly. "a great many expressions that haven't the least significance are put in a thing of this sort. padding, you know, my dear sir." "oh!" said ben literally, "i didn't know as you needed padding. all right, if it is necessary." "it's antique, and perfectly lovely, and just like shakespeare," cried polly, viewing ben in alarm. "oh! let the bard of avon have one say in this production," cried clare. "go on, do, with your 'cry you mercy.' what's next, jap?" "are you willing, ben?" asked jasper, with a glance at polly. "ye--es," said ben, also gazing at the rosy face and anxious eyes, "it can go as padding, i suppose." "oh! i am so glad," exclaimed polly in glee, and dancing around the room. "and you won't be sorry, i know, bensie; the audience will applaud that very thing i'm almost sure," which made jasper sternly resolve something on the spot. "well, i shall never be through at this rate," he said, whirling over the manuscript to find his place. "oh! here i am: "'but cry you mercy, sirs and ladies fair, we aim but to be dragons, not mortals posing for effect. we have a princess, to be sure'"? "i should think we have," interrupted clare with a glance over at the sofa. "goodness me, she's fast asleep!" "poor little thing, she is tired to death," cried polly remorsefully, while they all rushed over to the heap of lace and spangles, blissfully oblivious of "prologues." "do let her sleep through this piece of stupidity," said jasper, bundling up another satin skirt that mrs. whitney had loaned for polly to make a choice from. "there," putting it under the yellow head, "we'll call her when the dragons come on." "take care," cried polly, with intercepting hand, "that's auntie's lovely satin gown." "beg pardon," said jasper, relinquishing it speedily. "here's the sofa pillow, after all," dragging it from its temporary retirement under the theatrical debris. "now let's get back to work; time is going fast." in a lowered voice: "'we have a princess, to be sure, a sweet and gracious clotilde, and a knight who does her homage, but the rest of us are fishy, scaly, horny and altogether horrid, and of very low degree who scarce know why we are upon the boards, except for your amusement, so prithee'"? "hold!" cried clare, "what stuff." "give me an inch of time," cried jasper, hurrying on, "and i'll end the misery: "'so prithee, be amused; we're undone, if you are not, and all our labor lost. pray laugh, and shake your sides, and say "'tis good; i' faith, 'tis very good." and we shall say "your intellects do you credit." and so we bid you a fond adieu, and haste away to unshackle the dragons, who even now do roar without.'" clare threw himself into the part of the dragons, and forgetful of phronsie, gave a loud roar. polly clapped her hands and tossed an imaginary bouquet as jasper bowed himself off. "hush!" said ben, "you'll wake up phronsie," but it was too late; there she sat rubbing her eyes in astonishment. "oh! you darling," cried polly, running over to her, to clasp her in her arms, "i'm so sorry i tired you all out, phronsie dear, do forgive me." "i'm not tired," said phronsie, with dewy eyes. "has jasper got through reading? what was it all about, polly?" "indeed and i have finished," he cried with a yawn and throwing the manuscript on the table, "and i don't know in the least what it is all about, phronsie." "just a lot of dreadful words," said clare over in the corner, pulling at a heap of costumes on the floor. "never mind; the horrible spell is broken; come on, you fellows, and tumble into your dragon skins!" with that the chief dragon deserted phronsie, and presently there resounded the rattle of the scales, the clanking of chains, and the dragging about of the rest of their paraphernalia. "now, phronsie," said jasper, coming back, half-within his dragon skin and gesticulating, "you see that it's only i in this thing. look, dear! here goes in my head," and he pulled on the scaly covering, observing great care to smile reassuringly the last thing before his countenance was obscured. phronsie screamed with delight and clapped her hands. "oh, jasper! let me have one on, do, jasper! i'd much rather be a dragon than a princess. really and truly i would, jasper." "i don't agree with you," said jasper, in a muffled voice. "phew! this is no end stuffy, fellows. i can't stand it long." "i'm all coming to pieces," said ben, turning around to regard his back where the scales yawned fearfully. "i'll run and ask mamsie to come and sew you up," cried polly, flying off. "she said she would help, if we wanted her." iv welcome home! "marian," said old mr. king, putting his head in at the door of her little writing-room, "can't you get her comfortably out of the way this morning? i want your services without interruption." "she's going down to pinaud's," said mrs. whitney, looking up from the note she was writing. "capital! when she once gets there, she'll stay the morning," declared mr. king, greatly pleased. "now, then, after she's cleverly off, you may come to me." "i will, father," said marian, going back with a smile to her correspondence. half an hour later thomas, with the aid of the horses and the shopping coupe having carried off mrs. chatterton, mrs. whitney pushed aside her notes, and ran down to her father's study. she found him in his velvet morning-gown seated before his table, busy with a good-sized list of names that was rapidly growing longer under his pen. "oh! i forgot," he said, looking up; "i intended to tell you to bring some of your cards and envelopes. i want some invitations written." "are you going to give a dinner?" asked marian, looking over his shoulder. "oh, no! i see by the length of your list it's an evening affair, or a musicale." "you run along, daughter," said the old gentleman, "and get what i tell you. this is my affair; it's a musicale and something else combined. i don't just know myself." and he laughed at the sight of her face. "if father is only pleased, i don't care what it is," said mrs. whitney to herself, hurrying over the stairs and back again, never once thinking of polly's and jasper's surprise for the boys. "you see, marian," said mr. king as she sat down by the table, and laid the cards and envelopes in front of him, "that i'm going to help out that affair that jasper and polly are getting up." "oh, father! how good of you!" exclaimed mrs. whitney in a delighted tone, which immensely pleased the old gentleman, to begin with. "they've been working very hard, those two, at their studies this autumn. i've seen them," cried mr. king with a shrewd air, "and i'm going now to give them a little pleasure." marian said nothing, but let him have the comfort of doing all the talking, which he now enjoyed to his heart's content. "whether the other chaps have done well, i don't know. davie may have kept at it, but i suspect the rest of the boys haven't killed themselves with hard study. but they shall have a good home-coming, at any rate." mrs. whitney smiled, and he proceeded: "now i'm going to send out these invitations"--he pushed the list toward her--"i shall have the drawing-room and music-room floors covered, and all extra seats arranged, give turner carte blanche as to flowers, if he can't furnish enough out of our own conservatories--and the evening will end with a handsome 'spread,' as jasper calls it. in short, i shall recognize their attempt to make it pleasant for the boys' holiday, by helping them out on the affair all i can." the old gentleman now leaned back in his big chair and studied his daughter's face. "and you'll never regret it, father," she cried, with an enthusiasm that satisfied him, "for these young people will all repay you a thousand-fold, i do believe, in the time to come." "don't i know it?" cried mr. king, getting out of his chair hastily to pace the floor. "goodness me! they repay me already. they're fine young things, every one of them--whitneys, peppers and my boy--as fine as they are made. and whoever says they're not, doesn't know a good piece of work when it's before his eyes. bless me!" pulling out his handkerchief to mop his face violently, "i don't want to see any finer." "i hope i shall have a sight of jasper's and polly's faces when you tell them what you intend to do," said mrs. whitney; "where are your cards, father?" "tell them? i shan't tell them at all," cried the old gentleman; "i'm going to have a surprise, too. no one must know it but you and mrs. pepper." "oh!" said mrs. whitney. "it was very stupid in me not to understand that. it will be all right, father; mrs. pepper and i will keep our secret, you needn't fear." "if you can only keep her out of the way," exclaimed mr. king, pointing irascibly in the direction of mrs. chatterton's apartments, "all will be well. but i doubt if you can; her meddlesome ears and tongue will be at work as usual," he added in extreme vexation. "here comes jasper," exclaimed mrs. whitney, which had the satisfactory result of bringing her father out of his irritation, into a flutter over the concealment of the party preparations. "jasper," cried polly that evening, as they ran into the music-room to play a duet, "we're all right about everything now, as your father says we may invite the girls and your friends." "and he said when i asked him if we ought not to have cake and coffee, 'i'll attend to that,'" said jasper, "so everything is all straight as far as i can see, polly." "the private boxes trouble me, i must confess," said polly, drumming absently on the keys, while jasper spread the sheet of music on the rack. "you know there must be two; one for dear mr. king and one for the boys as guests of honor. now how shall we manage them?" she took her hand off suddenly from the keys and folded it over its fellow on her knee, to study his face anxiously. "it's pretty hard to get them up, that's a fact," said jasper truthfully, "but then, you know, polly, we've always found that when a thing had to be done, it was done. you know the little brown house taught us that." "so it did," said polly, brightening up. "dear little old brown house, how could i ever forget it! well, i suppose," with a sigh, "it will come to us as an inspiration when it's time to fix them." "i suppose so too," said mrs. pepper, passing the door, as usual with her mending basket, "and when two people start to play a duet, i think they much better put their minds on that, and not waste precious time on all sorts of questions that will take care of themselves when the time comes." "you are right, mrs. pepper," cried jasper with a laugh, and seating himself before the piano. "come, polly!" "mamsie is always right, isn't she, jasper?" cried polly with pride, putting her hands down for the first chords. "indeed she is," responded the boy heartily. "here now, polly, remember, you slipped up a bit on that first bar. now!" the twenty-first of december came all too soon for polly and jasper, whose school duties had engrossed them till two days before, but after hard work getting up the stage properties, and the many rehearsals, everything was at last pronounced ready, the drawing-room and music-room locked, the keys given to mrs. whitney who promised faithfully to see that no one peeped in who should not, and polly hurried into her hat and jacket, to go to the station with jasper to meet the boys. thomas drove furiously, as they were a bit late, and they arrived only a minute before the train puffed in. "here they are!" cried polly, and "here they are!" cried jasper, together, in great excitement, on the platform. "halloo, polly!" cried joel, prancing out of the car first, and "how d'ye do, polly?" as they all hurried after. "halloo, jasper!" "oh, polly! it's good to see you!" this from davie, not ashamed to set a kiss on her red lips. van and percy looked as if they wanted to, but contented themselves with wringing her hand nearly off, while joel declared he would look after the luggage. "no, i will," cried van, dropping polly's hand. "you forget," said percy quietly, "i hold the checks, i'll attend to it myself." he unclosed his brown traveling glove, and van, at sight of them, turned back. "go along, do, then," he cried; "i don't want to, i'm sure; i'd much rather stay with polly. how d'ye do, thomas?" he called carelessly to the coachman on his box, who was continually touching his hat and indulging in broad smiles of content. polly was tiptoeing in very delight, holding davie's hand closely while her eyes roved from one to the other of the boys, and her tongue ran fast indeed. a group of girls, who had also come down to the station to meet friends, stopped a bit as they came laughing and chatting by. "how d'ye, boys?" they said carelessly to the three home-comers. "oh, polly! won't it be entrancing to-night?" cried one of them, seizing her arm as she spoke. "hush!" said polly, as she tried to stop her. "may i bring elsie fay? she's come on the train to stay over christmas with her aunt. may i, polly?" begged another girl eagerly. "yes, yes," said polly in a paroxysm of fear lest joel, who was crowding up between them, should catch a word; "do be still," she whispered. "bring anybody; only stop, alexia." "he won't hear," said alexia carelessly; "that boy doesn't mind our talking; his head's full of skating and coasting." "you're going to have something to-night that you don't want me to know about," declared joel, his chubby face set defiantly, and crowding closer; "so there; now i'm going to find out what it is." "if we don't want you to know, you ought not to try to find out, joel pepper," cried alexia. "and you shan't, either." "there, now you see," cried polly, unable to keep still, while her face grew red too. "o dear! what shall we do?" "you are--you are," cried joel, capering up and down the platform, his black eyes shining with delight. "now i know for certain, and it's at our house, too, for you asked polly if you might bring some other girl, elsie somebody or other, so! oh! i'll soon know." "joel," exclaimed jasper suddenly, clapping him on the shoulder, "i'm going round to the gymnasium; want to go with me?" joel stopped his capering at once, this new idea thrusting out the old one. "don't i, though!" he cried, with a nod at polly and her friends. "but i'll find out when i do get home," the nod declared plainly. but jasper also nodded. he said, "he won't get home till late; depend on me." and then "come on, joe," he cried; "i'm going to walk," and they were off. alexia pinched polly's gray woolen jacket sleeve convulsively. "what an escape," she breathed. "here comes percy," cried polly nervously, and she broke away from her and the other girls, and ran to meet him, and the two boys following. "where's jasper?" asked percy, rendered quite important in air and step, from his encounter with the baggage officials. "oh! he isn't going home with us," said polly. "come, do let us get in," and she scampered off to the carriage and climbed within. "that's funny," said percy, jumping in after. van opened his lips to tell where jasper had gone, but remembering percy's delight in such an expedition, he closed them quickly, and added himself to the company in the carriage. davie followed, and closed the door quickly. "stop! where's joel?" asked percy. "thomas, we've forgotten joe," rapping on the glass to the coachman. "no, we haven't; he isn't going to drive," said polly. "oh!" and percy, thinking that joel had stolen a march on them on his good strong legs, now cried lustily, "go on, thomas; get ahead as fast as you can," and presently he was lost in the babel of laughter and chatter going on in the coach. "i've a piece of news," presently cried van in a lull. "davie's bringing home a prize; first in classics, you know." "oh, davie!" screamed polly, and she leaned over to throw her arms around him; "mamsie will be so glad. davie, you can't think how glad she'll be!" davie's brown cheek glowed. "it isn't much," he said simply, "there were so many prizes given out." "well, you've taken one," cried polly, saying the blissful over and over. "how perfectly elegant!" van drummed on the carriage window discontentedly. "i could have taken one if i'd had the mind to." "hoh-oh!" shouted percy over in his corner. "well, you didn't have the mind; that's what was wanting." "you keep still," cried van, flaming up, and whirling away from his window. "you didn't take any, either. polly, his head was under water all the time, unless some of the boys tugged him along every day. we hardly got him home at all." "no such thing," contradicted percy flatly, his face growing red. "polly, he tells perfectly awful yarns. you mustn't believe him, polly, you won't, will you?" he leaned over appealingly toward her. "oh! don't, don't," cried polly, quite dismayed, "talk so to each other." "well, he's so hateful," cried van, "and the airs he gives himself! i can't stand them, polly, you know"-- "and he's just as mean," cried percy vindictively. "oh! you can't think, polly. here we are," as thomas gave a grand flourish through the stone gateway, and up to the steps. "i'll help you out," and he sprang out first. "no, i will," declared van, opening the door on the other side, jumping out and running around the carriage. "here, polly, take my hand, do." "no, i got here first," said percy eagerly, his brown glove extended quite beyond van's hand. "i don't want any one to help me, who speaks so to his brother," said polly in a low voice, and with her most superb air stepping down alone, she ran up the steps to leave them staring in each other's faces. here everybody came hurrying out to the porch, and they were soon drawn into the warm loving welcome awaiting them. "oh, felicie! i don't want that dress," said polly as she ran into her room after dinner, to mrs. whitney's french maid, "i'm going to wear my brown cashmere." "oh, mademoiselle!" remonstrated felicie, adjusting the ruffle in the neck of the white nun's veiling over her arm. "oh, no, polly! i wouldn't," began mrs. pepper, coming in, "the white one is better for to-night." "mamsie!" cried polly, breaking away from the mirror where she was pulling into place the bright brown waves over her forehead, "how lovely! you've put on your black silk; and your hair is just beautiful!" "madame has ze fine hair," said felicie, "only i wish zee would gif it to me to prepaire." "yes, i have good hair," said mrs. pepper, "and i'm thankful for it. no one looks dressed up, in my opinion, with a ragged head. the finer the gown, the worse it makes careless hair look. no, polly, i wouldn't wear the brown dress to-night." "why, mamsie!" exclaimed polly in surprise, "i thought you'd say it was just the thing when only the girls and jappy's friends are coming to the play. besides, i don't want to look too dressed up; the princess ought to be the only one in a white gown." "you won't be too conspicuous," said her mother; adding slowly, "you might wear the nun's veiling well enough as you haven't any part in the play, polly," and she scanned the rosy face keenly. "i don't want any part," cried polly; "they all play better than i do. somebody must see that everything goes off well behind the scenes; that's my place, mamsie. besides, you forget i am to play my sonata." "i don't forget," said her mother; "all the more reason you should wear the white gown, then." "all right," cried polly, merrily dashing across the room to felicie, "put it over my head, do. well, i'm glad you think it is right to wear it, mamsie," as the soft folds fell around her. "i just love this dress. oh, auntie! how perfectly exquisite!" mrs. whitney came in smilingly and put a kiss on the tall girl's cheek. "do i look nicely?" she asked naively, turning around under the chandelier. "nicely?" exclaimed polly, lifting her hands, "why you are fresh from fairyland. you are so good to put on that lovely blue moire and your diamond cross, just for the boys and girls." "i am glad you like it," said mrs. whitney hastily. "now, polly, don't you worry about anything; i'll see that the last things are done." "well, i am worrying," confessed polly, quite in a tremble; "i must see to one corner of the private box for the boys. you know the last india shawl you lent me wasn't pinned up straight and i couldn't fix it, for van wanted me just then, and i couldn't get away without his suspecting something. oh, auntie! if you would see to that." "i will," said mrs. whitney, not daring to look at mrs. pepper, "and to all the other things; don't give a thought to them, polly." "how good you are," cried polly with a sigh of relief. "oh, auntie! we couldn't do anything without you." "and you don't need to go into the drawing-room at all," said mrs. whitney, going to the door. "just keep behind the scenes, and get your actors and phronsie ready, and your mother and i will receive your friends. come, mrs. pepper." "that is splendid," cried polly, left behind with the maid, "now i can get ready without flying into a flurry, felicie; and then for phronsie and the rest!" "there is a dreadful commotion in there among the audience," said jasper, out in the green room; "i imagine every one who had an 'invite,' has come. but i don't see how they can make such a noise." "oh! a few girls and boys make just about as much confusion as a good many," observed polly. "jasper, wouldn't you like to see joel's eyes when aunt whitney leads him into the private box?" she allowed herself time to exclaim. "yes," laughed jasper, pulling out his watch from beneath his dragon-skin; "well, we have only five minutes more, polly. we must have the curtain up sharp." "o dear, dear!" cried polly, flying here and there to bestow last touches on the different members of her cast. "now, clare, you must remember not to give such a shriek when you go on, mustn't he, jappy? just a dull, sullen roar, your part is." "well, i'm nearly dead under here," cried clare, glaring beneath his dragon face. "i'll shriek, or roar, just as i like, so!" "very well," said polly, "i don't know but it's as well, after all, that you are cross; you'll be more effective," she added coolly. "let me see--oh! the door of the cave wants a bit more of gray moss; it looks thin where it hangs over. you get it, will you, hannah?" to one of the maids who was helping. "and just one thing more," scanning hastily the stage setting, "another chinese lantern is needed right here," going toward the front of the stage, "and that green bush is tumbling over; do set it straight, somebody; there now, i believe everything is all ready. now let us peep out of the curtain, and get one good look at the audience. come, phronsie, here's a fine place; come, boys!" the different members of the cast now applied their eyes to as many cracks in the curtain as could be hastily managed. there was a breathing space. "what, what?" cried polly, gazing into the sea of faces, and the dragons nearly knocked the princess over as mr. king gave the signal for the band stationed in the wide hall, to send out their merriest strains. v after the play it was all over. phronsie had been swept off, a vision of loveliness, to the cave; the dragons had roared their loudest, and the gallant knight had covered himself with glory in the brilliant rescue of the princess; the little page had won the hearts of all the ladies; mr. king had applauded himself hoarse, especially during the delivery of the prologue, when "i cry you mercy, sirs, and ladies fair," rang out; the musical efforts of polly and jasper in the "wait" between the two acts were over, and the crowded house, in every way possible, had expressed itself delighted with all things from beginning to end. "phronsie, phronsie, they're calling you," whispered polly excitedly, out in the green room. "come, princess." the head dragon held out his hand. "hurry dear! see the flowers!" "they can't be for me," said phronsie, standing quite still; "polly has done all the work; they're hers." "nonsense, child!" cried polly, giving her a gentle push forward. "go on, and take them." "polly, you come too," begged phronsie, refusing to stir, and holding her by the gown. "i can't, phronsie," cried polly in distress; "don't you see they haven't called me. go on, child, if you love me," she implored. phronsie, not being able to resist this, dropped polly's gown and floated before the footlights. "thank you," she said, bowing gravely to the sea of faces, as her hands were filled with roses, "but i shall give these to polly, because we couldn't any of us have done it without her." and so she brought them back to put into dismayed polly's lap. "the authors--the authors of the play!" cried a strong voice, privately urged on by mr. king. "there, now's your turn," cried clare to polly. "and go ahead, old dragon," to jasper, "make your prettiest bow." so the chief dragon led up blushing polly to the front of the stage, to hear a neat little speech from mr. alstyne, thanking them for the pleasure of the evening and congratulating them on its success; and the band played again, the camp chairs were folded up and removed, the green-room and stage were deserted, and actors and audience mingled in a gay, confusing throng. phronsie, in her little silver and white gown and gleaming cap, began to wander among the guests, unconscious that she had not on the red cashmere dress she had worn all day. groups stopped their conversation to take her into their midst, passing her on at last as one might hand over a precious parcel to the next waiting hands. polly, seeing that she was well cared for, gave herself up to the enjoyment of the evening. "well, sir, how did you like it?" asked jasper, with a small pat on joel's back. "well enough," said joel, "but why didn't you make more of it? you could have crawled up on top of the cave, and slashed around there; and you old dragons were just three muffs in the last act. i'd rather have had polly in the play; she's twice the go in her. "so would we all have preferred polly," cried jasper, bursting into a laugh, "but she wouldn't act--she directed everything; she was all the play, in fact." polly meanwhile was saying to pickering dodge, "no, not to-night; you must dance with one of the other girls." "but i don't choose to dance with anybody but you," said pickering, holding out his hand. "come, polly, you can't refuse; they're forming the lancers. hurry!" polly's feet twitched nervously under her white gown, and she longed more than ever after the excitement she had passed through, to lose herself in the witching music, and the mazy dance. she hesitated a bit, but just then glancing across the room, "come," she said, "i want you to dance with ray simmons. you can't refuse," using his own words; and before he was conscious how it was done, he was by ray's side, and asking for the pleasure of the dance. polly stood quite still and saw them go away and take the last places in the set, and a sorry little droop fell upon the curves of the laughing mouth. she was very tired, and the elation that had possessed her over the success of the evening was fast dropping out, now that everybody was enjoying themselves in their own way, leaving her alone. she felt left out in the cold; and though she fought against it, a faint feeling of regret stole over her for what she had done. she almost wished she was standing there by the side of pickering dodge, one of the bright group on whom the eyes of the older people were all turned, as they waited for the first figure to begin. "well, polly"--it was mr. alstyne who spoke, and he acted as if he had come to stay by her side--"you've covered yourself with glory this evening." "have i, sir?" asked polly absently, wishing there had been less of the glory, and a little more fun. "yes, indeed," said mr. alstyne, his keen eyes searching her face. "well, now, polly, your dragons, although not exactly like any living ones extant, made me think of some i saw at the zoo, in london. do you want me to tell you how?" "oh! if you please," cried polly, her color coming back, and beginning to forget the dance and the dancers. "let us sit down here, then," said mr. alstyne, drawing her off to two chairs in a corner, "and you shall have the tale. no pun, polly, you know." and he plunged into it at once. "yes, alstyne has her all right," mr. king was saying at the further end of the drawing-room to mrs. pepper; he spied the whole thing; "he'll take care of her, you may depend." and two more people had seen; one was jasper. nevertheless his partner, alexia rhys, thought it necessary to enlighten him. "just think, polly's given up her chance with the best dancer in the room, and sent pickering dodge off with that horrid ray simmons." jasper pretended not to hear. "this is our figure," he said hastily, and they whirled off, finished it, and were back again. "isn't she a goose?" as he fanned her, and tried to introduce another subject. "i suppose she best pleases herself," said the boy indifferently. "why should any one else interfere in the matter?" "but some one else ought to interfere," cried alexia, with a little pout, provoked at his indifference; "that's just the way she does in school all the time. oh! i'm vexed at her, i can tell you. she's so silly--dear me, it's our turn again." by the next interim she had forgotten all about polly and whether she was having a nice time or the stupidest one imaginable, for joel, who held dancing in great contempt, sauntered up. "aren't you glad now that you didn't find out about the secret?" cried alexia radiantly. "oh! you are such a nuisance, joey," she added frankly. "phooh!" exclaimed joel, "it wasn't worth finding out, that old secret. but it's as good as girls ever get up," he finished with a supercilious air. "it was a perfectly splendid play!" cried alexia, "and much too good for a lot of boys. goodness, joey, i wouldn't celebrate if you four were coming home from school to our house. i'd have the jollification the night before you went back." "i wouldn't go home if 'twas to your house," declared joel with equal candor. "i'd run off to sea, first." "come, come, you two, stop sparring," cried jasper, holding out his hand; "its our turn again, alexia. joel, take yourself off." alexia flashing joel a bright, making-up smile, dashed off into the figure. "good-by," said joel with a smile as cheery, for he really liked her the best of all polly's girl friends. after the dance, supper was announced, and everybody marched out to the supper room; the dancers with their partners following. "will you allow me?" mr. alstyne seeing the movement, got out of his chair and offered his arm to polly with a courtly bow. "oh! don't think of me, sir," she began, blushing very hard. "joel will look out for me." "i much prefer waiting upon miss polly pepper to any other lady in the room," said mr. alstyne, with another bow, courtlier than the first, "since mrs. alstyne is provided for. see, polly, mr. king is taking her out. and your mother has her cavalier, in mr. cabot; and mrs. whitney has already gone out with mr. fairfax. so if you don't accept my services, i shall be entirely left out in the cold." he stood offering his arm, and polly, laughing merrily, put her hand within it. "it's very good of you, sir," she said simply, as they fell into step and joined the procession. "i'm afraid if you had trusted to joel's tender mercies, you would have fared hardly," said mr. alstyne, laughing. "look, polly, over yonder in the corner." they were just passing into the supper room, and now caught sight of joel chatting away to a very pretty little creature, in blue and white, as busily and unconcernedly as if he had done that sort of thing for years. "why!" cried polly quite aghast, "that can't be joel. he just hates girls, you know, mr. alstyne, and never goes to parties." "he seems to be able to endure it all very well to-night," said her companion dryly. "shall i get you an ice, miss polly?" "yes, thank you," said polly absently, not being able to take her eyes from joel and his friend. at last, by the force of attraction, he turned and looked at her. but instead of showing self-consciousness, his round eyes surveyed her coolly, while he went on talking and laughing with the little blue-and-white thing. "polly, polly," exclaimed alexia rhys, hurrying up, while jasper was storming the supper table for her, "do look at joel pepper! he actually brought in a girl to supper!" "i see," said polly, gazing at the two in a fascinated way. "on the other hand," said alexia, sending swift, bird-like glances around the supper room, "there are van and percy moping off by themselves as if they hadn't a friend in the world. what a pity; they used to be so lively at parties." polly wrenched her gaze away from the astonishing sight on which it had been fixed, and following alexia's glance, took a keen look over at the young whitneys. "oh! oh! i must go to them," she cried remorsefully. "tell mr. alstyne, please, when he comes back, where i am," and without another word she dashed back of some gaily dressed ladies just entering the supper room, and was out of the door. "if i ever did!" cried alexia irritably to herself, "see anything so queer! now she thinks she must race after those boys. i wish i'd kept still. jasper, she's just as funny as ever," as he came up with a plate of salad, and some oysters. "who?" said the boy; "is this right, alexia?" offering the plate. "why, polly," said alexia; "yes, that's lovely," with a comforted glance at the plate and its contents. "oh! she's gone off, mr. alstyne," to that gentleman, approaching with polly's ice. "you can't expect her to stay for the goodies," beginning to nibble at her own. "where is she?" cried mr. alstyne, laughing, and sweeping the room with his brown eyes. "oh! i see," his glance lighting on the whitney boys' corner. "yes, she told me to tell you," said alexia, between her mouthfuls of salad and oyster, "where she is," as he started. "oh, percy and van!" polly was whispering hurriedly, "i'm sorry i hurt your feelings, only it was so very dreadful, you know, to hear you go on so to each other." "we didn't mean anything," said percy, pushing one foot back and forth in an embarrassed way, and looking as if he did not know what to do with his hands, which confused him more than anything else, as he had been quite sure of them on all previous occasions. van thrust his into his pockets, and seemed on the point of whistling, but remembering where he was, took his lips speedily out of their curves, and looked the other way. just then mr. alstyne came up. "oh!" cried polly suddenly, the color rushing over her face. "could you, mr. alstyne, give that to some one else? percy and van are going to wait upon me." "yes, indeed," said mr. alstyne in a flash, "nothing easier;" and he disappeared as suddenly as he came. "now, boys," said polly, turning back to them and whispering busily, "i know you won't ever say such perfectly dreadful things to each other again. and so i'm going to ask you both to get me something to eat, will you?" "how do you know we won't?" cried percy slowly. he was sorry enough for the episode in the coach, yet couldn't resist the temptation to show he was not to be driven. "because i shall then have nothing whatever to eat," said polly merrily, "for of course i can't take a bit from anybody else after refusing mr. alstyne's kindness. don't you see? oh, percy! you wouldn't quite do that?" van laughed. "she's got us, percy," he said, "quite fast. you know you won't fight, and i won't again; we both said so a little while back; so what's the good of holding out now?" percy drew himself up very slowly and decidedly. "i won't trouble you so again, polly," holding out his hand. "now would you like oysters?" all in the same breath. "and here's mine," cried van, extending his brown one. "can't i bring you some salad?" "yes, yes," cried polly gaily, and she released their hands after a cordial grasp. "you may bring me everything straight through, boys," as they rushed off, heads erect, to the crowded supper-table. "you've had a good time?" asked mrs. pepper slowly, with a keen glance into the flushed face and sparkling eyes, as they turned up the gas in polly's bedroom. "dear me! it is half-past eleven." "splendid," said polly, shaking herself free from the white gown and beginning to braid her hair for the night. "percy and van were perfectly lovely, and mr. alstyne was so good to me. and oh! mamsie, isn't dear mr. king just the dearest dear, to give all this to the boys? we haven't thanked him half enough." "he is indeed," said mrs. pepper heartily. "why, where is phronsie?" looking around the room. "she was right back of you," said polly. "she wanted to take off her things herself. did you ever see such a sweet"--she began, but mrs. pepper did not stop to hear, hurrying out to the adjoining room, shared by the mother and her baby. "she isn't here," polly heard her say in bewildered tones. so polly, her long hair blown about her face, ran in, brush in hand. "why, where"--she began laughingly. "she wouldn't go downstairs, i don't think," said mrs. pepper, peering in all the corners, and even meditating a look under the bed. "no, no," cried polly, "the lights are all turned out," investigating all possible and impossible nooks that a mouse could creep into. "where can she be? phronsie--phronsie!" "well, of course she is downstairs," declared mrs. pepper at last, hurrying out of the room. "take a candle, mamsie, you'll fall," cried polly, and throwing on her bath wrapper, she seized the light from the mantel and hurried after her. half-way down she could hear phronsie's gay little laugh, and catch the words "good-night, my dear grandpapa," and then she came slowly out from mr. king's sitting-room, and softly closed the door. "phronsie!" exclaimed polly, sitting down on the middle of the stairs, the candle shaking ominously, "how could"-- "hush!" said mrs. pepper, who had fumbled her way along the hall. "don't say anything. oh, phronsie dear, so you went down to bid grandpapa good-night, did you?" phronsie turned a glance of gentle surprise on her mother, and then looked up at polly. "no, not exactly to bid him good-night," she said slowly. "i was afraid he was sick; i heard him coughing, so i went down." "he is quite well, isn't he?" asked mrs. pepper. "here, give me your hand, child; we must get up to bed." "oh, yes! he is quite really and truly all well," declared phronsie, breaking into another glad little laugh. "he said he never had such a beautiful time in his life, and he is just as well as he can be. oh, polly!" as she picked up her princess gown and prepared to ascend the stairs, "how funny you look sitting there!" "funny?" said polly grimly. "i dare say, and i feel funny too, phronsie." vi the little brown house they were all sitting around the library fire; polly under the pretext of holding phronsie's head in her lap, was sitting on the rug beside her, the boys on either hand; old mr. king was marching up and down the long room, and looking at them. the merriest of stories had been told, polly urging on all the school records of jolly times, and those not so enjoyable; songs had been sung, and all sorts of nonsense aired. at last joel sprang up and ran over to pace by the old gentleman's side. "christmas was good enough," said the boy, by way of beginning conversation. "hey?" responded the old gentleman, looking down at him, "i should think it was. well, and how about the wonderful play on the twenty-first? and that was good enough, too, i dare say." "that was well enough," said joel indifferently, "i don't care for such stuff, though." "tut--tut!" cried mr. king in pretended anger, "now i won't have anything said against that wonderful production. not a thing, sir, do you hear?" joel laughed, his chubby face twinkling all over in secret amusement. "well, i know something better, if you'll only let us do it, sir, than a hundred old plays." "and pray what is it?" demanded mr. king, "let's have it at once. but the idea of surpassing the play! oh, no, no, it can't be done, sir!" "it's to go and see the little brown house," said joel, standing up on his tiptoes to a level with the old gentleman's ear, and one eye looking backward to see that nobody heard. mr. king started, pulled his handsome moustache thoughtfully, looked at joel sharply, and then over at the group in the firelight. "they don't know anything about it," cried the boy in a whisper, "don't tell them. it's my secret, and yours," he added generously. "oh! if we might only go and look at it." "it's winter," observed the old gentleman, and stepping to the window he put aside the draperies, to peer out into the black evening. "yes, it really is winter," he added with a shiver, to the boy who was close behind, and as if no longer in doubt about it, he added most emphatically, "it really is winter, joel." "well, but you never saw anything like it, how magnificent winter is in badgertown," cried joel in an excited whisper. "such hills to coast down; the snow is always crisp there, sir, not like this dirty town mud. and the air is as dry as punk," he added artfully. "oh! 'twould be such a lark;" he actually clasped his hands. "badgertown isn't so very far off," said mr. king thoughtfully, "i'll think about it and see if we can manage it." "ugh-ow!" squealed joel, utterly forgetful of his caution of secrecy, "we can, we can; we can open the little brown house, and build great fires there, and"--but he got no further. into the midst of van's liveliest sally, came the words "little brown house," bringing all the young people to their feet, phronsie running to the old gentleman's side, with, "what is it, grandpapa? he said the little brown house." "get away!" cried joel crossly to the besiegers, each and all wildly clamoring. "what is it? what are you talking about? it's my secret," he cried, "and his," pointing with a dismayed finger to mr. king. "well, it isn't a secret any longer," cried polly, flushing with excitement. "you said 'little brown house,' we heard you just as plainly; and you re getting up something, i know you are." "people don't usually select a roomful of listeners, and then shout out their secrets," said jasper. "you are in for it now, joe, and no mistake. go ahead, old fellow, and give us the rest of it." joel whirled away from them all in desperation. "you might as well," laughed the old gentleman, "the mischief is done now, and no mistake." so joel, thus set upon, allowed the whole beautiful plan to be wrung from him, by slow and torturing installments; how they all were to go to badgertown, open the little brown house, and stay there--here he glanced at mr. king--"perhaps a week," he brought out suddenly, filling the time with all sorts of frolics, and playing they were there again, and really and truly living in the old home. at last it was all out, to be received in different ways by the listeners. "oh, joe!" cried davie with shining eyes. "we never could come away again if we once get there, never!" polly stood quite still, a mist gathering before her glad eyes, out of which she dimly saw the little brown house arise and beckon to her. phronsie jumped up and down and clapped her hands in glee. "oh, grandpapa, grandpapa!" she screamed, "please take us to the little brown house, please!" that settled it. "i do not think we need to consider it longer," said mr. king, glancing at ben, whose face told what he thought, "children, we will go--that is, if mrs. pepper says yes. "i will ask her," cried joel with a howl, springing off. "come on," cried jasper, "let's all 'be in at the death.'" and the library was deserted in a twinkling. but mother was nowhere to be found. "upstairs, downstairs, and in the lady's chamber," they sought her wildly. "oh! i forgot," exclaimed polly, when at last they gathered in the wide hall, disposing themselves on the chairs and along the stairs, all tired out. "she has gone to evening meeting with auntie. how stupid of me not to remember that." "well, i declare!" cried a voice above them, and looking up they met the cold blue eyes of mrs. chatterton regarding them over the railing. "cousin horatio, do you keep a menagerie, or a well-ordered house, i beg to inquire?" "a menagerie," said mr. king coolly, leaning on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs, and looking up at her. "all sorts of strange animals wander in here, cousin." "hum; i understand. i'm not so dull as you think. well, you've changed, let me tell you, vastly, and not for the better either, in the last six years. who would ever suppose i see before me fastidious horatio king!" she exclaimed, lifting her long thin hands to show him their horror-stricken palms. "i dare say, i dare say, cousin eunice," assented mr. king carelessly, "but i consider all you say as a compliment." "compliment?" she repeated disdainfully, and added with a rising note of anger, forgetting herself, "there's no fool like an old fool." "so i think," said mr. king in the same tone as before. "children, come into my room now, and close the door." and cousin eunice was left to air further opinions to her own ear. but when mother pepper and mrs. whitney did come home from the meeting, oh! what a time there was. they all fell upon her, as soon as the door opened, and the whole air was filled with "little brown house." "may we--may we?" "a whole week." "two days, mamsie, do say yes," and phronsie's glad little chirp "grandpapa wants to go, he does!" ending every other exclamation. "what a babel," cried mrs. pepper, her black eyes roving over the excited group. "now what is it all about? baby, you tell mother first." phronsie was not too big to jump into the comfortable lap, and while her fingers played with the bonnet strings, she laid the whole delightful plan open, the others hanging over them in ill-suppressed excitement. "well, you see, mamsie," she began deliberately. "oh! you are so slow, phronsie," exclaimed polly, "do hurry." "let her take her own time," said mr. king, "go on, child." "dear grandpapa," proceeded phronsie, turning her yellow head to look at him, her hand yet among the bonnet strings, "is going to take us all, every single one, to see the little brown house, and just touch it once, and be sure it's there, and peek in the doors and windows and"-- "no, no," roared joel, "we're going to stay, and a week too," hopping confidently up and down. "oh, joe! not a week," corrected polly with glowing cheeks, "perhaps two days; we don't know yet." "three--three," begged van, pushing his head further into the center of the group. "mrs. pepper, do say you want to stay three days," he begged. "i haven't said i wanted to go yet," she answered with a smile. "now, every one of you keep quiet," commanded mr. king, raising his hand, "or you'll spoil the whole thing. phronsie shall tell her story as she likes." thereupon the rest, with the shadow of his warning that the whole might be spoiled, fell back to a vigorous restraint once more. "perhaps," cried phronsie with shining eyes, and grasping the strings tighter she leaned forward and pressed her red lips on the mother's mouth, "we'll go in and stay. oh, mamsie!" that "oh, mamsie!" carried the day, and every one hanging on the conversation knew as soon as they heard it that a victory had been won. "it's no use to contend against the fates," said mrs. whitney, laughing, "mrs. pepper, you and i know that." "that's so," cried old mr. king, "and whoever finds it out early in life, is the lucky one. now, children, off with you and talk it over," he cried, dismissing them as if they were all below their teens. "i want to talk with mrs. pepper now." and in two days they were ready to go. mrs. chatterton with nose high in the air, and plentiful expressions of disgust at such a mid-winter expedition, taking herself off to make a visit of corresponding length to some distant relatives. "i hope and pray this may not get into a society paper," she cried at the last, as she was seated in the carriage, "but of course it will; outre things always do. and we shall be disgraced for life. one comfort remains to me, i am not in it." mr. king, holding the carriage door, laughed long and loudly. "no, cousin eunice," he said, "you are not in it. take comfort in that thought. good-by," and the carriage rolled off. mother pepper and the five little peppers were going back to the little brown house. "really and truly we are," as phronsie kept saying over and over again with every revolution of the car-wheels, in a crooning fashion, and making it impossible for mr. king to shiver in apprehension at the step he was taking. were not two cases of blankets and household comforts safely packed away in the luggage car? "it's not such a dreadful risk," said the old gentleman gruffly to himself, "it's quite a common occurrence nowadays to take a winter outing in the country. we're all right," and he re-enforced himself further by frequent glances at mrs. pepper's black bonnet, two seats off. it was to be a three-days' frolic, after all. not that the whole party were to stay in the little brown house. o dear, no! how could they? it was only big enough for the peppers. so mrs. whitney and her three boys, with mr. king, and jasper, who concealed many disappointed feelings, planned to settle down in the old hotel at hingham. and before anybody imagined they could reach there so soon, there they were at badgertown center, to find mr. tisbett waiting there on his stage-box as if he had not stirred from it for five years. "sho, now!" he called out from his elevated position to mrs. pepper, as she stepped down from the car, "it's good to see you, though. land! how many of ye be there? and is that phronsie? sho, now!" "did you get my letter?" exclaimed mother pepper to mrs. henderson, who was pressing up to grasp her hand, and preparing to fall on the young folks separately. the parson stood just back, biding his time with a smile. "is it possible?" he exclaimed; "are these tall boys and girls the five little peppers? it can't be, mrs. pepper," as at last he had her hand. "you are imposing on us." and then the village people who had held back until their pastor and his wife paid their respects, rushed up and claimed their rights, and it was high holiday indeed for badgertown. "my goodness!" exclaimed mr. king at a little remove and viewing the scene with great disfavor, "this is worse than the danger of taking cold. have they no sense, to carry on like this?" "they're so glad to see the peppers again, father," said mrs. whitney with bright eyes. "you took them away from all these good people, you know; it's but fair to give them up for one day." the old gentleman fumed and fretted, however, in a subdued fashion; at last wisely turning his back, he began to stalk down the platform, under pretense of examining the landscape. "your friends will stay with us," mrs. henderson was saying in a gently decisive manner, "the old parsonage is big enough," she added with a laugh. "oh! you are so good and thoughtful, dear mrs. henderson," cried mrs. pepper with delight at the thought of the homelike warmth of the parsonage life awaiting the old gentleman, for whom she was dreading the dreary hotel. "i'm good to ourselves," declared the parson's wife gaily. jasper gave a shout when the new arrangement was declared, as it presently was by percy and van, who flung themselves after him as he was seeing to the luggage with ben, and his face glowed with the greatest satisfaction. "that is jolly," he exclaimed, "and that's a fact! now, ben, we're but a stone's throw apart. rather different, isn't it, old fellow, from the time when i used to race over from hingham with prince at my heels?" dr. fisher's little thin, wiry figure was now seen advancing upon the central group, and everybody fell away to let him have his chance to welcome the peppers. "i couldn't get here before," he cried, his eyes glowing behind his spectacles. "i've left a very sick patient. this is good," he took them all in with a loving glance, but his hand held to polly. "now i'm going to drive you down in my gig," he said to her at last. "will you come?" "yes, indeed," cried polly in delight, as her mother smiled approval, and she ran off to let him help her in. "it's only yesterday since you took me to drive, dr. fisher, and you gave me my stove--is it?" and so she rambled on, the little doctor quite charmed to hear it all. but mr. tisbett had a truly dreadful time placing his party in the old stage, as the townsfolk, fearful that so good a chance for seeing the peppers would not happen during the three days' stay, insisted on crowding up close to the ancient vehicle, and getting in everybody's way, thereby calling forth some exclamations from mr. king that could not be regarded as exactly complimentary. and quite sure that he was a frightful tyrant, they fell back with many a pitying glance at the pepper family whom he was endeavoring to assist into their places. at last it was all accomplished in some way, and mr. tisbett cracked his whip, mrs. pepper and phronsie leaned out of the window to bow right and left into smiling faces, ben and davie did the same over their heads. "good-by," sang out joel, whom the stage driver had taken up beside him. "here we are, off for the little brown house. g'lang!" vii old times again "don't let me look--oh! don't let me look," cried polly in the old gig, and twisting around, she hid her face against the faded green cloth side. "i ought not to see the little brown house before mamsie and the others do." "i'll turn down the lane," said the little doctor, "so"; and suiting the action to the word, polly could feel that they were winding down the narrow little road over toward grandma bascom's. she could almost smell the violets and anemones under the carpet of snow, and could scarcely restrain herself from jumping out for a riotous run. "don't go too far away," she cried in sudden alarm. "we must be there by the time the stage does." and she applied her eye to the little circular glass in the back of the gig. "will it never come--oh! here it is, here it is, dear dr. fisher." and with a quick flourish around of the old horse, they were soon before the little brown house, and helping out the inmates of the stage, who with more speed than grace were hurrying over the steps. joel was down before mr. tisbett had fairly drawn up in front of the gate. "hold on," roared the stage driver, "i don't want you to break your neck with me." "it's really here!" cried phronsie with wide eyes, standing quite still on a hummock of frozen snow, with her eyes riveted on the house. "it really is!" polly had raced up the winding path, and over the flat stone to drop a kiss on the little old door. "oh! oh! mamsie, do come!" she cried to mrs. pepper on the path. "hum! i think, jasper, you and i will let them alone for a few moments," said mr. king, who was still within the stage. "here, my good fellow," to mr. tisbett, "you say it's all comfortable in there for them?" "yes, yes, sir," said mr. tisbett heartily. "good land! mis' henderson had her boys come down airly this mornin' and make the fires; and there's a mighty sight of things to eat." the stage-driver put one foot on the hind wheel to facilitate conversation, and smacked his lips. "all very well. now you may drive us down the road a bit," said mr. king, withdrawing his head to the depths of the lumbering old vehicle again. "ain't goin' in?" cried mr. tisbett, opening his round eyes at him in astonishment. "get up and drive us on, i say," commanded the old gentleman, "and cease your talking," which had the effect to send honest mr. tisbett clambering expeditiously up to the box, where he presently revenged himself by driving furiously over all the hard frozen ruts he could quickly select, determined not to stop till he was obliged to. "goodness!" exclaimed mr. king within, holding to the strap at the side, as well as to the leather band of the swinging seat in front. "what an abominable road!" "the road is well enough," said jasper, who couldn't bear to have a word uttered against badgertown, "it's the fellow's driving that makes it rough. here, can't you be a little more careful to keep the road?" he called, thrusting his head out of the window. but he only narrowly escaped losing his brown traveling cap for his pains, as the stage gave a worse lurch than before, to introduce a series of creakings and joltings hitherto unparalleled. "i cannot endure this much longer," said old mr. king, growing white around the mouth, and wishing he had strength for one-half the exclamations he felt inwardly capable of. outside, honest mr. tisbett was taking solid comfort in the reflection that he was teaching a rich city man that he could not approach with anything less than respect a citizen of badgertown. "ain't i as good as he?" cried mr. tisbett to himself, with an extra cut to the off horse, as he spied a sharp ragged edge of ice along the cart track in front of him. "now that's good; that'll shake him," he added cheerfully. "land! but i hain't been spoke to so since i was sassed at school by jim bently, and then i licked him enough to pay twice over. g'lang there--easy!" the first thing he knew, one of the glass windows was shivered to fragments; the bits flying off along the quiet road, to fall a gleaming shower upon the snow. "whoa!" called mr. tisbett, to his smoking horses, and leaning over, he cried, "what's the matter in there?" "the matter is," said jasper, putting his face out, "that as i could not possibly make you hear my calls, i chose to break the window. have the goodness to let my father and me at once out of this vehicle." mr. tisbett got down slowly over the wheel. "beg your pardon," he said awkwardly, pulling open the door, "ain't you goin' to ride back?" "heavens!" cried mr. king. he was glad to find he could ejaculate so much as he tremblingly worked his way out to terra firma. "nothing on earth would tempt me to step foot inside there again." "here is the money for your window," said jasper, putting a bill into the fur mitten, covering mr. tisbett's brawny right hand. "kindly bring our traps to the little brown house; here, father, take my arm," and he ran after the tall figure, picking its way along the frozen road. "hey--what's this?" exclaimed mr. tisbett, looking into the center of his fur mitten, "five dollars! gee--thumps! i ain't a-goin' to take it, after shaking that old party almost to pieces." he stood staring at the bill in stupid perplexity till the uneasy movements of his horses warned him that his position was not exactly the proper one for a stage-driver who was on his box from morning till night, so he clambered over the wheel, full of vexed thoughts, and carefully tucked the bill under the old cushion before he took his seat. "ill give it back to him, that's cert'in," he said, picking up the reins, "and p'raps they've had enough walkin' so they'll let me pick 'em up," which raised him out of his depression not a little. but the stern faces of the old gentleman and the tall boy smote him with a chill, long before he passed them, and he drove by silently, well knowing it would not do to broach the subject by so much as a look. not daring to go near the little brown house without the occupants of the stage who had driven down the road with him, mr. tisbett drew up miserably to a convenient angle, and waited till the two came up. then without trusting himself to think, he sprang to the ground, and with shame written all over his honest face, called out, "see here, you young chap, i want to speak to you, when you've got him in the house." "i will see you then," said jasper, as the two hurried on to meet the peppers rushing out from the little brown house, and down the small path. "i've made an awful mess for 'em all, and they just come home," groaned mr. tisbett; drawing his fur mitten across his eyes, and leading his horses, he followed at a funeral pace, careful not to stop at the gate until the door was closed, when he began furiously to unload. a footstep crunching the snow, broke into the noise he was making. "hoh! well," he exclaimed, pausing with a trunk half-off the rack, "it's a mighty awkward thing for a man to say he's sorry, but you bet i be, as cert'in as my name's john tisbett." his face became so very red that jasper hastened to put his young shoulder under the trunk, a movement that only added to the stage-driver's distress. "it don't pay to get mad, now i tell you," declared mr. tisbett, dumping the trunk down on the snow, and then drawing himself to his full height; "fust place, your pa sassed me, and"-- "he didn't intend to," cried jasper eagerly, "and i'll apologize for him, if that's what you want." he laid his strong right hand in the old fur mitten. "good land! tain't what i want," cried honest john, but he gripped the hand nevertheless, a fact that the boy never forgot; "i say i'm sorry i shook up your pa." "his age ought to have protected him," said the boy simply. "sho! that's a fact," cried mr. tisbett, sinking in deeper distress, "but how is anybody to remember he's so old, when he steps so almighty high, as if he owned all badgertown--say!" "i think we shall be good friends, mr. tisbett," said jasper cordially, as he turned to wave his hand toward the little brown house; simultaneously the door opened, and all the young peppers and whitneys rushed out to help in the delightful unloading. it was well along in the afternoon. the dusk of the december twilight shut down speedily, around the little brown house and its happy occupants, but no one wanted the candles lighted till the last moment. "oh, polly!" cried joel, who was prancing as of old over the kitchen floor, "don't you remember that night when you said you wished you had two hundred candles, and you'd light them all at once?" "i said a good many silly things in those days," said polly meditatively, and smoothing phronsie's yellow hair that was lying across her lap. "some silly ones, and a good many wise ones," observed mother pepper, over in her little old rocker in the west window, where she used to sit sewing up coats and sacks for the village storekeeper. "you kept us together many a time, polly, when nothing else could." "oh! no, i didn't, mamsie," protested polly, guilty of contradicting, "you and bessie did. i just washed dishes, and swept up, and"-- "baked and brewed, and fussed and stewed," finished joel, afraid of being too sentimental. "polly was just lovely in those days," said davie, coming across the room to lay a cool cheek against her rosy one. "i liked the rainy days best when we all could stay in the house, and hear her sing and tell stories while she was working." "she was cross sometimes," cried joel, determined not to let reminiscences become too comfortable; "she used to scold me just awfully, i know." polly broke into a merry laugh; yet she exclaimed, "you poor joey, i suppose i was dreadful!" "you didn't catch one half as bad scoldings as belonged to you," put in ben, thrusting another stick in the stove. "you were a bad lot, joe, in those days." "and not over good in these," cried old mr. king, ensconced in the snuggest corner in the seat of honor, the high-backed rocker that comforted phronsie after her little toe was hurt. "there, now, my boy, how's that?" with a grim smile. "do you remember when the old stove used to plague you, polly?" cried joel, suddenly changing the conversation. "and how ben's putty was everlastingly tumbling out? hoh--hoh!" "and you two boys were always stuffing up the holes for me, when ben was away," cried polly, with affectionate glances at davie and joel. "i didn't so much," said joel honestly, "dave was always giving boot-tops and such things." "boot-tops!" repeated mr. king in astonishment. "bless me, i didn't know that they had anything in common with stoves." "oh! that was before we knew you," said joel, ready in advance of any one else with the explanation; "it wasn't this stove. dr. fisher gave polly this one after she had the measles; but it was a lumbering old affair that was full of holes that had to be stopped up with anything we could get. and leather was the best; and davie saved all the old boot-heels and tops he could find, you know." "oh!" said the old gentleman, wondering if other revelations would come to light about the early days of the peppers. "isn't dr. fisher lovely?" cried polly, with sparkling eyes, "just the same as ever. mamsie, i ought to do something for him. "he is as good as gold," assented mrs. pepper heartily. "you've done something, i'm sure, polly. the medical books you bought out of your pocket money, and sent him, pleased him more than anything you could give him." "but i want to do something now," said polly. "oh! just think how good he was to us." "may we never forget it!" exclaimed mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes. "but he's very unwise," said mr. king a trifle testily, "not to take up with my offer to establish him in the town. a man like him could easily hold a good practice, because the fellow's got ability." "oh! dr. fisher wouldn't leave badgertown," cried all the peppers in a bunch. "and what would the poor people here do without him?" finished polly. "well, well, never mind, he won't come to town, and that's enough," said the old gentleman quickly. "aside from that, he's a sensible chap, and one quite to my liking." "oh, polly!" cried phronsie suddenly, and lifting her head, she fastened her brown eyes on the face above her, "wasn't mamsie's birthday cake good?" "the flowers were pretty, but the cake was heavy, don't you remember?" said polly, who hadn't recovered from that grief even yet. "i thought it was just beautiful," cried mrs. pepper hastily. "no one could have baked it better in the old stove you had. i'm sure we ate it all up, every crumb." "we kept it in the old cupboard," cried joel, rushing over to the corner to swing the door open. "and we never once peeked, mamsie, so afraid you'd suspect." "you kept staring at the cupboard door all the evening, joe, you know you did," cried ben; "you were just within a hair's breadth of letting the whole thing out ever so many times. polly and i had to drag you away. we were glad enough when you went to bed, i can tell you." "you were always sending me off to bed in those days," said joel, taking his head out of the cupboard to throw vindictive glances over to the group around the stove. "i wish we could do so now," said ben. "and those two," joel went on, pointing to polly and ben, "used to go whispering around a lot of old secrets, that they wouldn't tell us. oh! it was perfectly awful, wasn't it, dave?" bestowing a small pinch on that individual's shoulder. "i liked the secrets best not to know them till polly and ben got ready to tell us," said david slowly; "then they were just magnificent." phronsie had laid her head back in the waiting lap, and was crooning softly to herself. "i want to go and see dear good mr. beebe," she said presently, "and nice mrs. beebe, can i, mamsie?" looking over at her. "to be sure," cried mrs. pepper, "you shall indeed, child." "beebe-beebe, and who is he, pray?" demanded mr. king. "oh! he keeps the shoe shop over in the center," explained three or four voices, "and phronsie's new shoes were bought there, you know." "and he gave me pink and white candy-sticks," said phronsie, "and he was very nice; and i like him very much." "and mrs. beebe gave us doughnuts all around," communicated joel; "i don't know but that i liked those best. there was more to them." "so you always bought your new shoes of the beebes?" asked the old gentleman, a question that brought all the five peppers around his chair at once. "we didn't ever have new shoes that i can remember," said joel quickly, "except phronsie's, and once ben had a new pair. he had to, because he was the oldest, you know." "oh!" said mr. king. "you see," said phronsie, shaking her head gravely, while she laid one hand on his knee, "we were very poor, grandpapa dear. don't you understand?" "yes, yes, child," said old mr. king; "there, get up here," and he took her within his arms. "no, no, you're not going to talk yet," seeing percy and van beginning violent efforts to join in the conversation. "let the peppers have a chance to talk over old times first. see how good jasper is to wait." "i would much prefer to hear the peppers talk forever," said jasper, smiling down on the two whitneys, "than to have the gates opened for a general flood. go on, do, polly and ben, and the rest of you." "oh! there is so much," said polly despairingly, clasping her hands, "we shouldn't get through if we talked ten years, should we, ben? mamsie," and she rushed over to her, "can we have a baking time to-morrow, just as we used to in the old days? oh! do say yes." "yes, do say yes," echoed jasper, also rushing to the side of the little rocking-chair. "you will, won't you, mrs. pepper?" "hoh! hoh!" cried the two whitneys derisively, "i thought you could 'hear the peppers talk forever.' that's great, jasper." "well, when it comes to hearing a proposal for a baking frolic, my principles are thrown to the wind," said jasper recklessly. "why, boys, that's the first thing i remember about the little brown house. do say yes, mrs. pepper!" viii some badgertown calls "well, i declare!" exclaimed grandma bascom, opening the door and looking in, "i never!" "come in," cried mr. king sociably. his night over at the parsonage had been a most fortunate experiment. "i haven't slept so finely in ten years," he confided to mrs. whitney as they met at breakfast at the minister's table. so now, his face wreathed with smiles, he repeated his invitation. "come in, do, mrs. bascom; we're glad to see you." "i never!" said grandma bascom once more, for want of something better to say, and coming close to the center of operations. jasper, attired in one of mrs. pepper's long aprons, which was fastened in the style of the old days, by the strings around his neck, was busily engaged in rolling out under polly's direction, a thin paste, expected presently under the genial warmth of the waiting stove, to evolve into most toothsome cakes. ben was similarly attired, and similarly employed; while joel and david were in a sticky state, preparing their dough after their own receipt, over at the corner table, their movements closely followed by the three whitneys. phronsie, before a board laid across two chairs, was enlightening old mr. king who sat by her, into the mysteries of baking day. "do bake a gingerbread boy," he begged. "i never had anything half so good as the one you sent over to hingham." "you were my poor sick man then," observed phronsie, with slow, even pats on her bit of dough. "please, the rolling-pin now, grandpapa dear." "to be sure," cried the old gentleman; "here, jappy, my boy, be so good as to hand us over that article." "and you see," continued phronsie, receiving the rolling-pin, and making the deftest of passes with it over the soft mass, "i couldn't send you anything better, though i wanted to, grandpapa dear." "better?" cried mr. king. "i should think not; you couldn't have made me anything that pleased me more, had you tried a thousand times." phronsie never tired of hearing this, and now humming a soft note of thanks, proceeded with her task, declaring that she would make the best gingerbread boy that could possibly be achieved. grandma bascom was still reiterating "i never," and going slowly from one group to another to inspect operations. when she came to phronsie, she stopped short, raising her hands in surprise. "seems as ef 'twas only yesterday when the peppers went away, though land knows i've missed 'em all most dretfully, 'an there sets that blessed child baking, as big as any of 'em. i never!" "have you any more raisins to give us, grandma?" shouted joel across the kitchen. "they were terribly hard," he added in his natural voice; "almost broke our teeth." "hey?" called grandma back again. "raisins, grandma, or peppermints," cried joel. "oh, joe, for shame!" called ben. "i'm going to have the fun of going after them," declared joel, throwing down his dough-pat, and wiping his sticky fingers on his apron; "just like old times--so there!" "i'll go over and get 'em," said grandma; "you come along with me," looking admiringly up at the tall boy; so the two, joel laughing and hopping by her side as if he were five years younger, disappeared, well-pleased with each other. "now i shall take his dough," declared dick, rushing around the end of the table to joel's deserted place. "no such thing," declared van, flying out of his chair. "leave your hands off, youngster! that's to be mine." polly looked up from the little cookies she was cutting with the top of a tin baking powder box and their eyes met. "i didn't promise not to have it out with dicky," said van stoutly. "he's a perfect plague, and always under foot. i never thought of such a thing as not making him stand around, polly." but the brown eyes did not return to their task, as polly mechanically stamped another cooky. "i only promised not to have a bout with percy," van proceeded uncomfortably. and in the same breath, "go ahead, if you want it, dicky, i don't care." "i do want it," declared dick, clambering into van's chair, while van returned to his own, "and i'm going to have it too. i guess you think you'd better give it up now, sir; i'm getting so big." "softly there, dicky," said mrs. whitney, over in the window-seat with her fancy work; "if van gives up, you should thank him; i think he is very good to do it." and the bigger boy's heart warmed with the radiant smile she sent him. dick gave several vicious thrusts to his dough, and looked up at last to say very much against his will, "thank you," and adding brightly, "but you know i'm getting big, sir, and you'd better give up." "all right," said van, with that smile in his heart feeling equal to anything. "now," cried jasper, with a flourish of his baking apron, "mine are ready. here goes!" and he opened the oven door and pushed in a pan of biscuit. "jappy's always ahead in everything," grumbled percy, laboring away at his dough. "how in the world do you make the thing roll out straight? mine humps up in the middle." "put some more flour on the board," said polly, running over to him. "there, now see, percy, if that doesn't roll smooth." "it does with you," said percy, taking the rolling-pin again, to send it violently over the long-suffering dough, "and--i declare, it's going to do with me," he cried, in delight at the large flat cake staring up at him from the board. "now, says i, i'll beat you, jappy!" and presently the whole kitchen resounded with a merry din, as the several cakes and biscuits were declared almost ready for their respective pans. "but, i can tell you, this gingerbread boy is going in next," declared mr. king from phronsie's baking-board. "it's almost done, isn't it, child?" "not quite, grandpapa," said phronsie; "this eye won't stay in just like the other. it doesn't look the same way, don't you see?" pointing to the currant that certainly showed no inclination to do its duty, as any well-bred eye should. "wait just a moment, please; i'll pull it out and stick it in again." "take another," advised the old gentleman, fumbling over the little heap of currants on the saucer. "there, here's a good round one, and very expressive, too, phronsie." "that's lovely," hummed phronsie, accepting the new eye with very sticky fingers. "now, he's all ready," as she set it in its place, and took the boy up tenderly. "give me a pan, do, polly." "did you cut that out?" cried dick, turning around in his chair, and regarding her enviously, "all alone by yourself? didn't grandpapa help you just one teeny bit to make the legs and the hands?" "no; she made it all herself," said the old gentleman, with justifiable pride. "there, phronsie, here's your pan," as polly set it down before her with a "you precious dear, that's perfectly elegant!" phronsie placed the boy within the pan, and gave it many a loving pat. "grandpapa sat here, and looked at it, and smiled," she said, turning her eyes gravely on dick, "and that helped ever so much. i couldn't ever have made it so nice alone. good-by; now bake like a good boy. let me put it in the oven all by myself, do, polly," she begged. so phronsie, the old gentleman escorting her in mortal dread that she would be burned, safely tucked her long pan into the warmest corner, shut the door, and gravely consulted the clock. "if i look at it in twenty-one minutes, i think it will be done," she said, "quite brown." in twenty-one minutes the whole kitchen was as far removed from being the scene of a baking exploit as was possible. everything was cleared away, and set up primly in its place, leaving only a row of fine little biscuits and cookies, with phronsie's gingerbread boy in the midst, to tell the tale of what had been going on. outside there was a great commotion. deacon brown's old wagon stood at the gate, for the peppers and their friends; and, oh! joy, not the old horse between the shafts, but a newer and much livelier beast. and on the straw laid in the bottom of the wagon, the seats being removed, disported all the merry group, mr. king alone having the dignity of a chair. deacon brown, delighted with his scheme of bringing the wagon over as a surprise for the peppers to take a drive in, was on the side of the narrow foot-path, chuckling and rubbing his hands together. "you won't have to drive so easy as you used to, ben," he called out, "this fellow's chirk; give him his head. sho! what you goin' that way for?" as ben turned off down the lane. "to grandma bascom's," shouted two or three voices. "joel's over there," sang out polly. "we couldn't go without him, you know," chirped phronsie, poking a distressed little face up from the straw heap. "'twould serve him just right if we did," said van. "he's a great chap to stay over there like this." "no--no," cried dick in terror, "don't go without joel; i'd rather have him than any of you," he added, not over politely. phronsie began to cry piteously at the mere thought of joel's being left behind. "he wanted to see mr. beebe," she managed to say, "and dear mrs. beebe. oh! don't go without him." so mr. king made them hand her up to him, and at the risk of their both rolling out, he held her in his lap until the wagon, stopping at the door of grandma bascom's cottage, brought joel bounding out with a whoop. "jolly! where'd you get that, and where are you going?" all in one breath, as he swung himself up behind. "deacon brown brought it over just now," cried polly. "as a surprise," furnished percy. "isn't he a fine old chap? here's for the very jolliest go!" "we're going to see dear mr. beebe, and dear mrs. beebe," announced phronsie, smiling through her tears, and leaning out of the old gentleman's lap to nod at him. "hurrah!" screamed joel. "good-by, grandma," to the old lady, whose cap-frills were framed in the small window. "i've had a fine time in there," he condescended to say, but nothing further as to the details could they extract from him; and so at last they gave it up, and lent their attention to the various things to be seen as the wagon spun along. and so over and through the town, and to the very door of the little shoe-shop, and there, to be sure, was mr. beebe the same as ever, to welcome them; and joel found to his immense satisfaction that the stone pot was as full of sugary doughnuts as in the old days; and phronsie had her pink and white sticks, and mrs. beebe "oh-ed" and "ah-ed" over them all, and couldn't bear to let them go when at last it was time to say "good-by." and at last they all climbed into the old wagon, and were off again on their round of visits. it was not till the gray dusk of the winter afternoon settled down unmistakably, so that no one could beg to stay out longer, that they turned deacon brown's horse toward the little brown house. "it's going to snow to-morrow, i think," observed jasper, squinting up at the leaden sky, "isn't it, father?" "whoop!" exclaimed joel, "then we will have sport, i tell you!" "it certainly looks like it," said old mr. king, wrapping his fur-lined coat closer. "phronsie, are you sure you are warm enough?" "yes, grandpapa dear," she answered, curling up deeper in the straw at his feet. "do you remember how you would carry the red-topped shoes home with you, phronsie?" cried polly, and then away they rushed again into "oh, don't you remember this, and you haven't forgotten that?" jasper as wildly reminiscent now as the others, for hadn't he almost as good as lived at the little brown house, pray tell? so the whitneys looked curiously on, without a chance to be heard in all the merry chatter; and then they drew up at the gate of the parsonage, where they were all to have supper. when phronsie woke up in the big bed by the side of her mother the next morning, polly was standing over her, and looking down into her face. "oh, phronsie!" she exclaimed in great glee, "the ground is all covered with snow!" "o--oh!" screamed phronsie, her brown eyes flying wide open, "do give me my shoes and stockings, polly, do! i'll be dressed in just one--minute," and thereupon ensued a merry scramble as she tumbled out of the big bed, and commenced operations, polly running out to help mamsie get the breakfast. "mush seems good now we don't have to eat it," cried joel, as they all at last sat around the board. "'twas good then," said mrs. pepper, her black eyes roving over the faces before her. "how funny," cried percy whitney, who had run over from the parsonage to breakfast, "this yellow stuff is." and he took up a spoonful of it gingerly. "you don't like it, percy; don't try to eat it. i'll make you a slice of toast," cried polly, springing out of her chair, "in just one moment." "no, you mustn't," cried dick, bounding in in time to catch the last words. "mamma said no one was to have anything different, if we came to breakfast, from what the peppers are going to eat. i like the yellow stuff; give me some, do," and he slid into a chair and passed his plate to mrs. pepper. "so you shall, dicky," she said hastily. "and you will never taste sweeter food than this," giving him a generous spoonful. "grandpapa is eating ham and fried eggs over at the minister's house," contributed dick, after satisfying his hunger a bit. "ham and fried eggs!" exclaimed mother pepper, aghast. "why, he never touches them. you must be mistaken, my boy." "no, i'm not," said dick, obstinately. "the minister's wife said it was, and she asked me if i wouldn't have some, and i said i was going over to the peppers to breakfast; i'd rather have some of theirs. and grandpapa said it was good--the ham and fried eggs was--and he took it twice; he did, mrs. pepper." "took it twice?" she repeated, faintly, with troubled visions of the future. "well, well, the mischief is done now, so there is no use in talking about it; but i'm worried, all the same." "hurry up, percy," called joel across the table, "and don't dawdle so. we're going to make a double ripper, four yards long, to go down that hill there." he laid down his spoon to point out the window at a distant snow-covered slope. percy shivered, but recalling himself in time, said "splendid," and addressed himself with difficulty to his mush. "well, you'll never be through at that speed," declared joel. "see i've eaten three saucerfuls," and he handed his plate up, "and now for the fourth, mamsie." "oh! baked potatoes," cried ben, rolling one around in his hand before he took off its crackling skin. "weren't they good, though, with a little salt. i tell you, they helped us to chop wood in the old times!" "i really think i shall have to try one," said percy, who deeply to his regret was obliged to confess that indian meal mush had few charms for his palate. "there's real milk in my mug now," cried phronsie, with long, deep draughts. "polly, did i ever have anything but make-believe in the little brown house; ever, polly?" polly was saved from answering by a stamping of snowy boots on the flat doorstone. "hurrah, there!" cried van, rushing in, followed by jasper. "hoh, you slow people in the little brown house, come on for the double ripper!" ix a sudden blow "mamsie," cried polly, suddenly, and resting her hands on her knees as she sat on the floor before the stove, "do you suppose there is any one poor enough in badgertown to need the little brown house when we lock it up to-morrow?" "not a soul," replied mrs. pepper, quickly; "no more than there was when we first locked it up five years ago, polly. i've been all over that with the parson last evening; and he says there isn't a new family in the place, and all the old ones have their homes, the same as ever. so we can turn the key and leave it with a clear conscience." polly drew a long breath of delight, and gazed long at the face of the stove that seemed to crackle out an answering note of joy as the wood snapped merrily; then she slowly looked around the kitchen. "it's so perfectly lovely, mamsie," she broke out at length, "to see the dear old things, and to know that they are waiting here for us to come back whenever we want to. and to think it isn't wicked not to have them used, because everybody has all they need; oh! it's so delicious to think they can be left to themselves." she folded her hands now across her knees, and drew another long breath of content. phronsie stole out of the bedroom, and came slowly up to her mother's side, pausing a bit on the way to look into polly's absorbed face. "i don't think, mamsie," she said quietly, "that people ought to be so very good who've never had a little brown house; never in all their lives." "oh, yes, they had, child," said mrs. pepper briskly; "places don't make any difference. it's people's duty to be good wherever they are." but phronsie's face expressed great incredulity. "i'm always going to live here when i am a big, grown-up woman," she declared, slowly gazing around the kitchen, "and i shall never, never go out of badgertown." "oh, phronsie!" exclaimed polly, turning around in dismay, "why, you couldn't do that. just think, child, whatever in the world would grandpapa do, or any of us, pray tell?" "grandpapa would come here," declared phronsie decidedly, and shaking her yellow head to enforce her statement. "of course grandpapa would come here, polly. we couldn't live without him." "that's it," said polly, with a corresponding shake of her brown head, "of course we couldn't live without grandpapa; and just as 'of course' he couldn't leave his own dear home. he never would be happy, phronsie, to do that." phronsie took a step or two into the sunshine lying on the middle of the old kitchen floor. "then i'd rather not come, polly," she said. but she sighed and polly was just about saying, "we'll run down now and then perhaps, phronsie, as we have done now," when the door was thrown open suddenly, and joel burst in, his face as white as a sheet, and working fearfully. "oh, polly! you must tell mrs. whitney--i can't." polly sprang to her feet; mrs. pepper, who had just stepped into the pantry, was saying, "i think, polly, i'll make some apple dumplings, the boys like them so much." "what is it, joe?" cried polly hoarsely, and standing quite still. phronsie, with wide eyes, went up and took the boy's cold hand, and gazed into his face as he leaned against the door. "dick!" groaned joel; "oh! oh! i can't bear it," and covering his face with one hand, he would have pulled the other from phronsie's warm little palm, but she held it fast. "tell me at once, joe," commanded polly. "hush!--mother"--but mrs. pepper was already out of the pantry. "joel," said mrs. pepper, "whatever it is, tell us immediately." the look in her black eyes forced him to gasp in one breath, "dick fell off the double ripper, and both of his legs are broken--may be not," he added in a loud scream. phronsie still held the boy's hand. he was conscious of it, and that she uttered no word, and then he knew no more. "leave him to me, polly," said mrs. pepper, through drawn lips, "and then do you run as you have never run before, to the parsonage. oh! if they should bring him there before the mother hears." phronsie dropped the hand she held, and running on unsteady little feet into the bedroom, came back with polly's hood and coat. "let me go," cried polly wildly, rushing away from the detaining hand to the door, "i don't want those things on. let me go, phronsie!" "you'll be cold," said phronsie. with all her care, her little white lips were quivering as she held out the things. "please, polly," she said piteously. "the child is right; put them on," commanded mrs. pepper, for one instant taking her thought from her boy; and polly obeyed, and was gone. in the parsonage "best room" sat mrs. whitney. her rocking-chair was none of the easiest, being a hair-cloth affair, its cushion very much elevated in the world just where it should have been depressed, so that one was in constant danger of slipping off its surface; moreover, the arms and back of the chair were covered with indescribable arrangements made and presented by loving parishioners and demanding unceasing attention from the occupant. but the chair was drawn up in the sunshine pouring into the window, and mrs. whitney's thoughts were sunny, too; for she smiled now and then as she drew her needle busily in and out through the bright wools. "how restful it all is here, and so quaint and simple." she glanced up now to the high-backed mantel with its wealth of daguerreotypes, and surprising collection of dried leaves in tall china vases; and over the walls, adorned with pine-cone framed pictures, to the center table loaded with "annuals," and one or two volumes of english poetry, and then her gaze took in the little paths the winter sunshine was making for itself along the red and green ingrain carpet. "i am so glad father thought to bring us all. dear father, it is making a new man of him, this winter frolic. why"-- she was looking out of the window now, and her hands fell to her lap as polly pepper came running breathlessly down the village street, her hood untied, and the coat grasped with one hand and held together across her breast. but it was the face that terrified mrs. whitney, and hurrying out of her chair, she ran out to the veranda as the girl rushed through the gateway. "polly, child," cried mrs. whitney, seizing her with loving arms and drawing her on the steps--"oh! what is it, dear?" polly's lips moved, but no words came. "oh!" at last, "don't hate us for--bringing you to the--little--brown house. why did we come!" and convulsively she threw her young arms around the kind neck. "oh, auntie! dicky is hurt--but we don't know how much--his legs, joel says, but it may not be as bad as we think; dear auntie." mrs. whitney trembled so that she could scarcely stand. around them streamed the same winter sunshine that had been so bright a moment since. how long ago it seemed. and out of gathering clouds in her heart she was saying, "polly dear, god is good. we will trust him." she did not know her own voice, nor realize when polly led her mercifully within, as a farmer's wagon came slowly down the street, to stop at the parsonage gate; nor even when dick was brought in, white and still, could she think of him as her boy. it was some other little figure, and she must go and help them care for him. her boy would come bounding in presently, happy and ruddy, with a kiss for mamma, and a world of happy nonsense, just as usual. it was only when mrs. henderson came in, and took her hand to lead her into the next room, that it all came to her. "oh, dick!" and she sprang to the side of the sofa where he lay. "my child--my child!" and then came dr. fisher, and the truth was known. one of dick's legs was broken below the knee; the other badly bruised. only jasper and the mother remained in the room while the little doctor set the limb; and after what seemed an age to the watchers, the boy came out. "he bore it like a trojan," declared jasper, wiping his forehead. "i tell you, dick's our hero, after this." "now i should like to know how all this happened," demanded mr. king. the old gentleman had remained at the parsonage to get a good morning nap while the snow frolic was in progress. and he had been awakened by the unusual bustle below stairs in time to hear the welcome news that dicky was all right since dr. fisher was taking care of him. he now presented himself in his dressing-gown, with his sleeping cap awry, over a face in which anger, distress and impatience strove for the mastery. "speak up, my boy," to jasper, "and tell us what you know about it." "well, the first thing i knew of any danger ahead," said jasper, "was hearing dick sing out 'hold up!' i supposed the double ripper all right; didn't you, ben?" "yes," said ben sturdily, "and it was all right; just exactly as we used to make them, we boys; there wasn't a weak spot anywhere in her, sir." "who was steering?" demanded old mr. king almost fiercely. "i was," said van, beginning boldly enough, to let his voice die out in a tremulous effort. "humph--humph," responded mr. king grimly. "a bad business," shaking his head. "van would"--began percy, but his eye meeting polly's he added, "we'd none of us done any better, i don't believe, sir, than van." van was now choking so badly that the greatest kindness seemed to be not to look at him. accordingly the little company turned their eyes away, and regarded each other instead. "well, so dick rolled off?" proceeded the old gentleman. "oh! no, he didn't," said all three boys together; "he stuck fast to the double ripper; we ran into a tree, and dick was pitched off head-first." "but honestly and truly, father," said jasper, "i do not think that it was the fault of the steerer." "indeed it was not," declared ben stoutly; "there was an ugly little gully that we hadn't seen under the snow. we'd been down four or five times all right, but only missed it by a hair-breadth; this time the ripper struck into it; i suppose dick felt it bump, as it was on his side, and sang out, and as quick as lightning we were against that tree. it was as much my fault as any one's, and more, because i ought to have known that old hill thoroughly." "i share the blame, ben," broke in jasper, "old fellow, if you pitch into yourself, you'll have to knock me over too." "come here, vanny," said old mr. king, holding out his hand. "why, you needn't be afraid, my boy," aghast at the tears that no power on earth could keep back. "now all leave the room, please." "where's polly?" asked ben, on the other side of the door. "she's run home," said david, "i guess. she isn't here." "and that's where i must be too," cried ben, bounding off. when van was next seen he was with old mr. king, and wearing all signs of having received his full share of comfort. phronsie, just tying on her little hood, to go down to the parsonage to ask after dicky, looked out of the window to exclaim in pleased surprise, "why, here comes dear grandpapa," and then she rushed out to meet him. "here's my little girl," cried the old gentleman, opening his arms, when she immediately ran into them. "now we're all right." "is dicky all right?" asked phronsie anxiously, as she fell into step by his side. "yes, indeed; as well as a youngster can be, who's broken his leg." phronsie shivered. "but then, that's nothing," mr. king hastened to add; "i broke my own when i was a small shaver no bigger than dick, and i was none the worse for it. boys always have some such trifling mishaps, phronsie." "ben never broke his leg, nor joel, nor davie," said phronsie. "must they yet, grandpapa?" "o dear, no," declared mr. king hastily; "that isn't necessary. i only meant they must have something. now you see, ben had the measles, you know." "yes, he did," said phronsie, quite relieved to think that this trial could take the place of the usual leg-breaking episode in a boy's career. "and so did joel, and davie--all of them, grandpapa dear." "exactly; well, and then ben had to work hard, and joel and davie too, for that matter. so, you see, it wasn't as essential that they should break their legs, child." "but jasper and percy and van don't have to work hard; oh! i don't want them to break their legs," said phronsie, in a worried tone. "you don't think they will, grandpapa dear, do you? please say they won't." "i don't think there is the least danger of it," said mr. king, "especially as i shall put an end to this double-ripper business, though not because this upset was anybody's fault; remember that, phronsie." van's head which had dropped a bit at the last words, came up proudly. "van, here, has acted nobly"--he put his hand on the boy's shoulder--"and would have saved dicky if he could. it was a pure accident that nobody could help except by keeping off from the abominable thing. well, here we are at the little brown house; and there's your mother, phronsie, waiting for us in the doorway." "halloo!" cried van, rushing over the flat stone, and past mrs. pepper, "where's joel? oh--here, you old chap!" "well, mrs. pepper," said the old gentleman, coming up to the step, phronsie hanging to his hand, "this looks like starting for town to-morrow, doesn't it?" "oh! what shall we do, sir?" cried mrs. pepper, in distress. "to think you have come down here in the goodness of your heart, to be met with such an accident as this. what shall we do?" she repeated. "goodness of my heart," repeated mr. king, nevertheless well pleased at the tribute. "i've had as much pleasure out of it all as you or the young people. i want you to realize that." "so does any one who does a kind act," replied mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes; "well, sir, now how shall we manage about going back?" "that remains to be seen," said mr. king slowly, and he took a long look at the winter sky, and the distant landscape before he ventured more. "it very much looks as if we all should remain for a few days, to see how dick is to get on, all but the four boys; they must pack off to school to-morrow, and then probably mrs. whitney will stay over with the boy till he can be moved. dr. fisher will do the right thing by him. oh! everything is all right, mrs. pepper." mrs. pepper sighed and led the way into the house. she knew in spite of the reassuring words that the extreme limit of the "outing" ought to be passed on the morrow. x the party separates "good-by to the little brown house!" joel and david, percy and van sang out in doleful chorus, from the old stage coach; two of the boys on the seat shared by john tisbett, the other two within as companions to mrs. pepper and jasper, who were going home to start the quartette off to school. "ben and i will take good care of everything, mamsie," said polly for the fiftieth time, and climbing up on the steps to tuck the traveling shawl closer. thereupon phronsie climbed up too, to do the same thing. "don't you worry; we'll take care of things," she echoed. "i shan't worry," said mrs. pepper in a bright assured way. "mother knows you'll both do just right. and phronsie'll be a good girl too," with a long look into the bright eyes peering over the window casing of the old coach. "i'll try," said phronsie. "good-by, mamsie," and she tried to stand on tiptoe to reach her mouth up. "goodness me!" cried polly, "you nearly tumbled off the steps. throw her a kiss, phronsie; mamsie'll catch it." "if that child wants to kiss her ma agen, she shall do it," declared mr. tisbett; and throwing down the reins, he sprang to the ground, seized phronsie, and swung her lightly over the window edge. "there you be--went through just like a bird." and there she was, sure enough, in mrs. pepper's lap. "i should like to go with you," phronsie was whispering under mrs. pepper's bonnet strings, "mamsie, i should." "oh, no, phronsie!" mrs. pepper made haste to whisper back. "you must stay with polly. why, what would she ever do without you? be mother's good girl, phronsie; you're all coming home, except auntie and dick, in a few days." phronsie cast one look at polly. "good-by," she said slowly. "take me out now," holding her arms towards mr. tisbett. "here you be!" exclaimed mr. tisbett merrily, reversing the process, and setting her carefully on the ground. "now, says i; up i goes," his foot on the wheel to spring to the box. "stay!" a peremptory hand was laid on his shaggy coat sleeve, and he turned to face old mr. king. "when i meet a man who can do such a kind thing, it is worth my while to say that i trust no words of mine gave offense. bless you, man!" added the old gentleman, abruptly changing the tone of his address as well as its form, "it's my way; that's all." john tisbett had no words to offer, but remained, his foot on the wheel, stupidly staring up at the handsome old face. "we shall be late for the train," called jasper within the coach, "if you don't start." "get up, do!" cried joel, who had seized the reins, "or i'll drive off without you, mr. tisbett," which had the effect to carry honest john briskly up to his place. when there, he took off his fur cap without a word, and bowed to mr. king, cracked his whip and they were off, leaving the four on the little foot-path gazing after them, till the coach was only a speck in the distance. "mamma dear," said dick, one afternoon three weeks later (the little brown house had been closed a fortnight, and all the rest of the party back in town), "when are we going home?" "next week," said mrs. whitney brightly; "the doctor thinks if all goes well, you can be moved from here." dick leaned back in the big chintz-covered chair. "mamma," he said, "your cheeks aren't so pink, and not quite so round, but i think you are a great deal nicer mamma than you were." "do you, dick?" she said, laughing. "well, we have had a happy time together, haven't we? the fortnight hasn't been so long for you as i feared when the others all went away." "it hasn't been long at all," said dick promptly, and burrowing deeper into the chair-back; "it's just flown, mamma. i like polly and phronsie; but i'd rather have you than any girl i know; i had really, mamma." "i'm very glad to hear it, dick," said mrs. whitney, with another laugh. "and when i grow up, i'm just going to live with you forever and ever. do you suppose papa will be always going to europe then?" "i trust not," said mrs. whitney fervently. "dicky, would you like to have a secret?" she asked suddenly. the boy's eyes sparkled. "wouldn't i mamma?" he cried, springing forward in the chair; "ugh!" "take care, darling," warned his mother. "you must remember the poor leg." dick made a grimace, but otherwise took the pain pluckily. "tell me, do, mamma," he begged, "the secret." "yes, i thought it would be a pleasant thing for you to have it to think of, darling, while you are getting well. dicky, papa is coming home soon." "right away?" shouted dick so lustily that mrs. henderson popped her head in the door. "oh! beg your pardon," she said; "i thought you wanted something." "isn't it lovely," cried mrs. whitney, "to have a boy who is beginning to find his lungs?" "indeed it is," cried the parson's wife, laughing; "i always picked up heart when my children were able to scream. it's good to hear you, dicky," as she closed the door. "is he--is he--is he?" cried dick in a spasm of excitement, "coming right straight away, mamma?" "next week," said mamma, with happy eyes, "he sails in the servia. next week, dicky, my boy, we will see papa. and here is the best part of the secret. listen; it has all been arranged that mr. duyckink shall live in liverpool, so that papa will not have to go across any more, but he can stay at home with us. oh, dicky!" that "oh, dicky!" told volumes to the boy's heart. "mamma," he said at last, "isn't it good that god didn't give boys and girls to mr. duyckink? because you see if he had, why, then mr. duyckink wouldn't like to live over there." "mr. duyckink might not have felt as your father does, dicky dear, about having his children educated at home; and mrs. duyckink wants to go to england; she hasn't any father, as i have, dicky dear, who clings to the old home." "only i wish god had made mr. duyckink and mrs. duyckink a little sooner," said dick reflectively. "i mean, made them want to go to england sooner, don't you, mamma?" "i suppose we ought not to wish that," said his mother with a smile, "for perhaps we needed to be taught to be patient. only now, dicky, just think, we can actually have papa live at home with us!" "your cheeks are pink now," observed dick; "just the very pink they used to be, mamma." mrs. whitney ran to the old-fashioned looking-glass hanging in its pine-stained frame, between the low windows, and peered in. "do i look just as i did when papa went away six months ago, dicky?" she asked, anxiously. "yes," said dick, "just like that, only a great deal nicer," he added enthusiastically. his mother laughed and pulled at a bright wave on her forehead, dodging a bit to avoid a long crack running across the looking-glass front. "here's dr. fisher!" shouted dick suddenly. "now, you old fellow, you," and shaking his small fist at his lame leg, "you've got to get well, i tell you. i won't wait much longer, sir!" and as the doctor came in, "i've a secret." "well, then, you would better keep it," said dr. fisher. "good morning," to mrs. whitney. "our young man here is getting ahead pretty fast, i should think. how's the leg, dicky?" sitting down by him. "the leg is all right," cried dick; "i'm going to step on it," trying to get out of the chair. "dicky!" cried his mother in alarm. "softly--softly now, young man," said dr. fisher. "i suppose you want me to cure that leg of yours, and make it as good as the other one, don't you?" "why, of course," replied dick; "that's what you are a doctor for." "well, i won't agree to do anything of the sort," said the little doctor coolly, "if you don't do your part. do you know what patience means?" "i've been patient," exclaimed dick, in a dudgeon, "forever and ever so many weeks, and now papa is coming home, and i"-- and then he realized what he had done, and he turned quite pale, and looked at his mother. her face gave no sign, but he sank back in his chair, feeling disgraced for life, and ready to keep quiet forever. and he was so good while dr. fisher was attending to his leg that when he was through, the little doctor turned to him approvingly: "well, sir, i think that i can promise that you can go home saturday. you've improved beyond my expectation." but dick didn't "hurrah," nor even smile. "dicky," said mrs. whitney, smiling into his downcast face, "how glad we are to hear that; just think, good dr. fisher says we may go next saturday." "i'm glad," mumbled dick, in a forlorn little voice, and till after the door closed on the retreating form of the doctor, it was all that could be gotten out of him. then he turned and put out both arms to his mother. "i didn't mean--i didn't mean--i truly didn't mean--to tell--mamma," he sobbed, as she clasped him closely. "i know you didn't, dear," she soothed him. "it has really done no harm; papa didn't want the home people to know, as he wants to surprise them." "but it was a secret," said dick, between his tears, feeling as if he had lost a precious treasure entrusted to him. "oh, mamma! i really didn't mean to let it go." "mamma feels quite sure of that," said mrs. whitney gently. "you are right, dicky, in feeling sorry and ashamed, because anything given to you to keep is not your own but belongs to another; but, my boy, the next duty is to keep back those tears--all this is hurting your leg." dick struggled manfully, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks. at last he said, raising his head, "you would much better let me have my cry out, mamma; it's half-way, and it hurts to send it back." "well, i don't think so," said mrs. whitney, with a laugh. "i've often wanted to have a cry out, as you call it. but that's weak, dicky, and should be stopped, for the more one cries, the more one wants to." "you've often wanted to have a cry out?" repeated dick, in such amazement that every tear just getting ready to show itself immediately rushed back again. "why, you haven't anything to cry for, mamma." "indeed i have," she declared; "often and often, i do many things that i ought not to do"-- "oh! never, never," cried dick, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper. "my sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right." "indeed, dick," said mrs. whitney earnestly, "the longer i live, i find that every day i have something to be sorry for in myself. but god, you know, is good," she whispered softly. dick was silent. "and then when papa goes," continued mrs. whitney, "why, then, my boy, it is very hard not to cry." here was something that the boy could grasp; and he seized it with avidity. "and you stop crying for us," he cried; "i know now why you always put on your prettiest gown, and play games with us the evening after papa goes. i know now." "here are three letters," cried the parson, hurrying in, and tossing them over to the boy. "and polly pepper has written to me, too." dick screamed with delight. "two for me; one from ben, and one from grandpapa!" "and mine is from phronsie," said mrs. whitney, seizing an epistle carefully printed in blue crayon. but although there were three letters from home, none of them carried the news of what was going on there. none of them breathed a syllable that cousin eunice chatterton was ill with a low fever, aggravated by nervous prostration; and that mrs. pepper and polly were having a pretty hard time of it. on the contrary, every bit of news was of the cheeriest nature; jasper tucked on a postscript to his father's letter, in which he gave the latest bulletin of his school life. and polly did the same thing to ben's letter. even phronsie went into a long detail concerning the new developments of a wonderful kitten she had left at home, to take her visit to badgertown, so the two recipients never missed the lack of information in regard to the household life, from which they were shut out. only once mrs. whitney said thoughtfully, as she folded her letter and slipped it back into its envelope, "they don't speak of mrs. chatterton. i presume she has changed her plans, and is going to remain longer at her nephew's." "i hope she'll live there always," declared dick, looking up savagely from ben's letter. "what an old guy she is, mamma!" "dick, dick," said his mother reprovingly, "she is our guest, you know." "not if she is at her nephew's," said dick triumphantly, turning back to his letter. polly at this identical minute was slowly ascending the stairs, a tray in one hand, the contents of which she was anxiously regarding on the way. "i do hope it is right now," she said, and presently knocked at mrs. chatterton's door. "come in," said that lady's voice fretfully. and "do close the door," before polly and her tray were well within. polly shut the door gently, and approached the bedside. "i am so faint i do not know that i can take any," said mrs. chatterton. whether it was her white cashmere dressing-robe, and her delicate lace cap that made her face against the pillows seem wan and white, polly did not know. but it struck her that she looked more ill than usual, and she said earnestly, "i am so sorry i wasn't quicker." "there is no call for an apology from you," said mrs. chatterton coldly. "set the tray down on the table, and get a basin of water; i need to be bathed." polly stood quite still, even forgetting to deposit the tray. "set the tray down, i told you," repeated mrs. chatterton sharply, "and then get the basin of water." "i will call hortense," said polly quietly, placing the tray as desired. "hortense has gone to the apothecary's," said mrs. chatterton, "and i will not have one of the other maids; they are too insufferable." and indeed polly knew that it would be small use to summon one of them, as martha, the most obliging, had airily tossed her head when asked to do some little service for the sick woman that very morning, declaring, "i will never lift another finger for that madame chatterton." "my neck aches, and my side, and my head," said mrs. chatterton irritably; "why do you not do as i bid you?" for one long instant, polly hesitated; then she turned to rush from the room, a flood of angry, bitter feelings surging through her heart, more at the insufferable tone and manner, than at what she was bidden to do. only turned; and she was back by the side of the bed, and looking down into the fretful, dictatorial old face. "i will bathe you, mrs. chatterton," she said gently; "i'll bring the water in a minute." xi poor polly! "you are very awkward, child," observed mrs. chatterton to polly on her knees, "and abrupt. move the sponge more slowly; there, that is better." polly shifted her position from one aching knee to another, set her lips closer together, and bent all her young energies to gentler effects. but mrs. chatterton cried out irritably: "have you never taken care of a sick person, pray tell, or is it all your back-country training that makes you so heavy-handed?" "i helped mother take care of phronsie when she had the measles, and ben and joel," said polly, "five years ago; we haven't been sick lately." "humph!" ejaculated mrs. chatterton, not very elegantly. but what was the use of a fine manner when there was nobody but a little back-country maiden to see it? "i shall have to endure it till hortense returns," she said with a sigh; "besides, it is my duty to give you something useful to do in this house. you should be thankful that i allow you to bathe me." polly's eyes flashed, and the hand holding the sponge trembled. nothing but the fear of troubling mamsie, and dear old mr. king whose forbearance was worn to the finest of threads, kept her at her post. "now get the violet water," said mrs. chatterton, with an air she would never have dared employ towards hortense; "it is the bottle in the lower left-hand corner of the case." polly got up from her knees, and stiffly stumbled across the room to the case of silver-mounted toilet articles: in her tumult bringing away the upper right-hand corner vial. "stupide!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton among her pillows. "go back, and do as i bid you, girl; the lower left-hand corner bottle!" without a word polly returned, and bringing the right vial set about its use as directed, in a rapidly growing dismay at the evil feelings surging through her, warning her it would not be safe to stay in the room much longer. "do you understand," presently began mrs. chatterton, fastening her cold blue eyes upon her, "what your position is in this house? everybody else appears to be blind and idiotic to the last degree; you seem to have a little quickness to catch an idea." as polly did not answer, the question was repeated very sharply: "do you understand what your position is in this house?" "yes," said polly, in a low voice, and dashing out the violet water with a reckless hand, "i do." "take care," impatiently cried mrs. chatterton. then she pushed her pillow into a better position, and returned to the charge. "what is it, pray, since you understand it so well?" "i understand that i am here in this house," said polly, quite cold and white, "because dear mr. king wants me to be here." "dear mr. king!" echoed mrs. chatterton, in shrill disdain. "stuff and nonsense," and she put her head back for an unpleasant cackle; it could hardly be called a laugh. "what an idiot the man is to have the wool pulled over his eyes in this fashion. i'll tell you, polly"--and she raised herself up on her elbow, the soft lace falling away from the white, and yet shapely arm. this member had been one of her strongest claims to beauty, and even in her rage, mrs. chatterton paused a second to glance complacently at it in its new position--"you are, when all is said about your dear mr. king, and your absurd assumption of equality with refined people who frequent this house, exactly the same underbred country girl as you were in your old brown house, goodness knows wherever that is." "i'm glad i am," declared polly. and she actually laughed merrily, while she squared her sturdy shoulders. nothing could be sweeter than to hear it said she was worthy of the dear little old brown house, and didn't disgrace mamsie's bringing up. the laugh was the last feather that overthrew mrs. chatterton's restraint. she was actually furious now that she, widow of algernon chatterton, who was own cousin to jasper horatio king, should be faced by such presumption, and her words put aside with girlish amusement. "and i'll tell you more," she went on, sitting quite erect now on the bed, "your mother thinks she is doing a fine thing to get all her family wormed in here in this style, but she'll"-- polly pepper, the girlish gladness gone from heart and face, waited for no more. "our mother!" she cried stormily, unable to utter another word--"oh--oh!" her breath came in quick, short gasps, the hot indignant blood mounting to the brown waves of hair on her brow, while she clasped her hands so tightly together, the pain at any other time would have made her scream. mrs. chatterton, aghast at the effect of her words, leaned back once more against her pillows. "don't try to work up a scene," she endeavored to say carelessly. but she might as well have remonstrated with the north wind. the little country maiden had a temper as well as her own, and all the more for its long restraint, now on breaking bounds, it rushed at the one who had provoked it, utterly regardless that it was the great mrs. algernon chatterton. for two minutes, so breathlessly did polly hurl the stinging sentences at the figure on the bed, cousin eunice was obliged to let her have her own way. then as suddenly, the torrent ceased. polly grew quite white. "what have i done--oh! what have i done?" she cried, and rushed out of the room. "polly--polly!" called jasper's voice below. she knew he wanted her to try a new duet he had gone down town to purchase; but how could she play with such a storm in her heart? and, worse than all else, was the consciousness that she had spoken to one whose gray hairs should have made her forget the provocation received, words that now plunged her into a hot shame to recall. she flew over the stairs--up, away from every one's sight, to a long, dark lumber room, partially filled with trunks, and a few articles of furniture, prized as heirlooms, but no longer admissible in the family apartments. polly closed the door behind her, and sank down in the shadow of a packing box half filled with old pictures, in a distress that would not even let her think. she covered her face with her hands, too angry with herself to cry; too aghast at the mischief she had done, to even remember the dreadful words mrs. chatterton had said to her. "for of course, now she will complain to mamsie, and i'm really afraid mr. king will find it out; and it only needs a little thing to make him send her off. he said yesterday dr. valentine told him there was nothing really the matter with her--and--dear! i don't know what will happen." to poor polly, crouching there on the floor in the dim and dusty corner, it seemed as if her wretchedness held no hope. turn whichever way she might, the dreadful words she had uttered rang through her heart. they could not be unsaid; they were never to be forgotten but must always stay and rankle there. "oh--oh!" she moaned, clasping her knees with distressed little palms, and swaying back and forth, "why didn't i remember what mamsie has always told us--that no insult can do us harm if only we do not say or do anything in return. why--why couldn't i have remembered it?" how long she stayed there she never knew. but at last, realizing that every moment there was only making matters worse, she dragged herself up from the little heap on the floor, and trying to put a bit of cheerfulness into a face she knew must frighten mamsie, she went slowly out, and down the stairs. but no one looked long enough at her face to notice its change of expression. polly, the moment she turned towards the household life again, could feel that the air was charged with some intense excitement. hortense met her on the lower stairs; the maid was startled out of her usual nonchalance, and was actually in a hurry. "what is the matter?" cried polly. "oh! the madame is eel," said the maid; "the doctaire says it is not a lie dees time," and she swept past polly. polly clung to the stair-railing, her face whitening, and her gaze fastened upon mrs. chatterton's door, where hortense was now disappearing. inside, was a sound of voices, and that subdued stir that gives token of a sick room. "i have killed her!" cried polly's heart. for one wild moment she was impelled to flight; anywhere, she did not care where, to shake off by motion in the free air this paralysis of fear. but the next she started and, rushing down the stairs and into mr. king's room, cried out, "oh! dear grandpapa, will mrs. chatterton die?" "no, no, i think not," replied the old gentleman, surprised at her feeling. "cousin eunice never did show much self-control; but then, i don't believe this piece of bad news will kill her." "bad news?" gasped polly, hanging to the table where mr. king was writing letters. "oh, grandpapa! what do you mean?" "bless me! where have you been, polly pepper," said mr. king, settling his eyeglass to regard her closely, "not to hear the uproar in this house? yes, mrs. chatterton received a telegram a half-hour since that her nephew, the only one that she was very fond of among her relatives, was drowned at sea, and she has been perfectly prostrated by it, till she really is quite ill." polly waited to hear no more, but on the wings of the wind, flew out and up the stairs once more. "where have you been, polly?" cried jasper, coming out of a side passage in time to catch a dissolving view of her flying figure. "polly--polly!" and he took three steps to her one, and gained her side. "oh! don't stop me," begged polly, flying on, "don't, jasper." he took a good look at her face. "anything i can help you about?" he asked quickly. she suddenly stopped, her foot on the stair above. "oh, jasper!" she cried, with clasped hands, "you don't know--she may die, and i said horribly cruel things to her." "who--mrs. chatterton?" said the boy, opening his dark eyes; "why, you couldn't have said cruel things to her, polly. don't be foolish, child." he spoke as he would to phronsie's terror, and smiled into her face. but it did not reassure polly. "jasper, you don't know; you can't guess what dreadful things i said," cried poor overwhelmed polly, clasping her hands tightly together at the mere thought of the words she had uttered. "then she must have said dreadful things to you," said the boy. "she--but, oh, jasper! that doesn't make it any better for me," said polly. "don't stop me; i am going to see if they won't let me do something for her." "there are ever so many people up there now," said jasper. "your mother, and hortense, and two or three maids. what in the world could you do, polly? come down into the library, and tell us all about it." but polly broke away from him with an "oh! i must do something for her," speeding on until she softly worked her way into the sick room. mrs. pepper was busy with the doctor in the further part of the room, and polly stood quite still for a moment, wishing she were one of the maids, to whom a bit of active service was given. she could not longer endure her thoughts in silence, and gently going up to her mother's side, with a timorous glance at the bed, as she passed it, she begged, "mamsie, can't i do something for her?" mrs. pepper glanced up quickly. "no--yes, you can; take this prescription down to oakley's to be prepared." polly seized the bit of paper from dr. valentine's hand, and hurried out. again she glanced fearfully at the bed, but the curtain on that side was drawn so that only the outline of the figure could be seen. she was soon out on the street, the movement through the fresh air bringing back a little color to her cheek and courage to her heart. things did not seem quite so bad if she only might do something for the poor sick woman that could atone for the wretched work she had done; at least it would be some comfort if the invalid could be helped by her service. thus revolving everything in her mind, polly did not hear her name called, nor rapid footsteps hurrying after. "wait!" at last cried a voice; "o, dear me! what is the matter, polly?" alexia rhys drew herself up flushed and panting at polly's side. "i'm on the way to the apothecary's," said polly, without looking around. "so i should suppose," said alexia; "o, dear! i'm so hot and tired. do go a bit slower, polly." "i can't," said polly. "she's very sick, and i must get this just as soon as i can." she waved the prescription at her, and redoubled her speed. "who?" gasped alexia, stumbling after as best she could. "mrs. chatterton," said polly, a lump in her throat as she uttered the name. "o, dear me! that old thing," cried alexia, her enthusiasm over the errand gone. "hush!" said polly hoarsely; "she may die. she has had bad news." "what?" asked alexia; the uncomfortable walk might be enlivened by a bit of stray gossip; "what is it, polly? what news?" "a telegram," said polly. "her favorite nephew was drowned at sea." "oh! i didn't know she had any favorite nephew. doesn't she fight with everybody?" "do be quiet," begged polly. "no; that is, perhaps, other people are not kind to her." "oh!" said alexia, in a surprised voice. "well, i think she's perfectly and all-through-and-through horrid, so! don't race like this through the streets, polly. you'll get there soon enough." but polly turned a deaf ear, and at last the prescription was handed over the counter at oakley's, and after what seemed an endless time to polly, the medicine was given to her. "now as soon as you carry that thing home," observed alexia, glancing at the white parcel in polly's hand, "i hope you'll come with us girls. that's what i ran after you for." "what girls?" asked polly. "why, philena and the cornwalls; we are going to have a sleighing party to-night, and a supper at lilly drexell's. mrs. cornwall chaperones the thing." polly was surprised to feel her heart bound. it hadn't seemed as if it could ever be moved by any news of girlish frolics, but that its dull ache must go on forever. "oh! i can't," she cried the next moment. "i must stay at home, and help take care of mrs. chatterton." "nonsense!" exclaimed alexia in a provoked tone; "you are not wanted there, polly pepper; the idea, with that great house full of servants." "well, i shall not go," declared polly sharply; "you needn't ask me, alexia. i shall stay home till she gets well." "you little idiot!" cried alexia, thoroughly out of temper. but as this produced no effect on polly, she began to wheedle and coax. "now, polly, do be reasonable. you know we can't go without you; you wouldn't spoil the whole thing; you know you wouldn't. i shall just tell the cornwalls that you are coming," and she turned off to the corner of the avenue. "indeed you will not," called polly after her. "don't you dare do that, alexia rhys," she said, with flashing eyes. "you are the most uncomfortable girl i ever saw," cried alexia, stopping, to come slowly back. "you spoil every bit of fun with your absurd notions. i'm quite, quite put out with you, polly." "i'm sorry," said poor polly, fairly longing for the snow-revel, and dismayed at disappointing the girls. "no, you're not," pouted alexia, "and i shall tell them all so," and she broke away and ran off in the opposite direction. polly was met at the door by mrs. pepper, who grasped the packet of medicine quickly. "isn't there anything else i can do, mamsie?" begged polly. "no; sit down and rest; you're hot and tired, you've run so." "i'm not tired," said polly, not daring to ask "is she better?" "well, you must be," said mrs. pepper, hurrying off, "going all the way down to oakley's." so polly had nothing to do but to sit out in the hall, and listen and watch all the movements in the sick room, every one of which but increased her terror. at least she could bear it no longer, and as dr. valentine came out, putting on his gloves, she rushed after him. "oh! will she die?" she begged; "please do tell me, sir?" "die? no indeed, i hope not," said dr. valentine. "she has had a severe shock to her nerves and her age is against her, but she is coming around all right, i trust. why, polly, i thought better things of you, my girl." he glanced down into the distressed face with professional disfavor. "i'm so glad she won't die," breathed polly, wholly lost to his opinion of her; and her face gleamed with something of her old brightness. "i didn't know you were so fond of her," observed dr. valentine grimly; "indeed, to speak truthfully, i have yet to learn that anybody is fond of her, polly." "now if you really want to help her," he continued thoughtfully, pulling his beard, as polly did not answer, "i can give you one or two hints that might be of use." "oh! i do, i do," cried polly with eagerness. "it will be tiresome work," said dr. valentine, "but it will be a piece of real charity, and perhaps, polly, it's as well for you to begin now as to wait till you can belong to forty charity clubs, and spend your time going to committee meetings." and he laughed not altogether pleasantly. how was polly to know that mrs. valentine was immersed up to her ears in a philanthropic sea with the smallest possible thought for the doctor's home? "now that maid," said the physician, dropping his tone to a confidential one, "is as well as the average, but she's not the one who is to amuse the old lady. it's that she needs more than medicine, polly. she actually requires diversion." poor polly stood as if turned to stone. diversion! and she had thrown away all chance of that. "she is suffering for the companionship of some bright young nature," dr. valentine proceeded, attributing the dismay written all over the girl's face to natural unwillingness to do the service. "after she gets over this attack she needs to be read to for one thing; to be told the news; to be made to forget herself. but of course, polly," he said hastily, buttoning his top coat, and opening the outer door, "it's too much to ask of you; so think no more about it, child." xii new work for polly it was saturday morning, and polly ran upstairs with a bright face, the morning journal in her hand. "i'm going to stay with mrs. chatterton, hortense," she announced to that functionary in the dressing-room. "and a comfairte may it gif to you," said hortense, with a vicious shake of the silk wrapper in her hand, before hanging it in its place. "madame has the tres diablerie, cross as de two steeks, what you call it, dis morning." polly went softly into the room, closing the door gently after her. in the shadow of one corner of the large apartment, sat mrs. chatterton under many wrappings in the depths of an invalid's chair. polly went up to her side. "would you like to have me read the news, mrs. chatterton?" she asked gently. mrs. chatterton turned her head and looked at her. "no," she was about to say shortly, just as she had repulsed many little offers of polly's for the past few days; but somehow this morning the crackling of the fresh sheet in the girl's hand, suggestive of crisp bits of gossip, was too much for her to hear indifferently, especially as she was in a worse state of mind than usual over hortense and her bad temper. "you may sit down and read a little, if you like," she said ungraciously. so polly, happy as a queen at the permission, slipped into a convenient chair, and began at once. she happened fortunately on just the right things for the hungry ears; a description of a large church wedding, the day before; two or three bits about society people that mrs. chatterton had lost sight of, and a few other items just as acceptable. polly read on and on, from one thing to another, not daring to look up to see the effect, until at last everything in the way of gossip was exhausted. "is that all?" asked mrs. chatterton hungrily. polly, hunting the columns for anything, even a murder account if it was but in high life, turned the paper again disconsolately, obliged to confess it was. "well, do put it by, then," said mrs. chatterton sharply, "and not whirl it before my face; it gives me a frightful headache." "i might get the town talk" suggested polly, as a bright thought struck her. "it came yesterday. i saw it on the library table." "so it is saturday." mrs. chatterton looked up quickly. "yes, you may, polly," her mouth watering for the revel she would have in its contents. so polly ran over the stairs with delighted feet, and into the library, beginning to rummage over the papers and magazines on the reading table. "where is it?" she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers. "o dear! it was right here last evening." "what is it?" asked phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and looking up from her book. then she saw as soon as she had asked the question that polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid out of the chair. "what is it, polly? let me help you, do." "why, the town talk--that hateful old society thing," said polly, throwing the papers to right and left. "you know, phronsie; it has a picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading. o dear! do help me, child, for she will get nervous if i am gone long." "oh! i know where that is," said phronsie deliberately, laying a cool little hand on polly's hot one. "where?" demanded polly feverishly. "oh, phronsie! where?" "jack rutherford has it." polly threw down the papers, and started for the door. "he has gone," said phronsie; "he went home almost an hour ago." polly turned sharply at her. "what did he want town talk for?" "he said it was big, and he asked grandpapa if he might have it, and grandpapa said, yes. i don't know what he wanted it for," said phronsie. "and he took other newspapers, too, polly; oh! ever so many." "well, i don't care how many he took, nor what they were," cried polly, "only that very identical one. o dear me! well, i'll ask jasper." and rushing from the library, phronsie following in a small panic over polly's distress, she knocked at the door of jasper's den, a little room in the wing, looking out on the east lawn. "oh! i am so glad you are here," she exclaimed as "come in!" greeted her, and both phronsie and she precipitated themselves with no show of ceremony, in front of his study table. "o jasper! could you get me a copy of "town talk?" jack rutherford has gone off with ours." "town talk!" repeated jasper, raising his head from his hands to stare at her. "yes; jack has taken ours off; grandpapa gave it to him. can you, jasper? will it break up your study much?" she poured out anxiously. "no--that is--never mind," said jasper, pushing the book away and springing from his chair. "but whatever in the world do you want that trash for?" he turned, and looked at her curiously. "mrs. chatterton will let me read it to her; she said so," cried polly, clasping her hands nervously, "but if i don't get the paper soon, why, i'm afraid she'll change her mind." jasper gave a low whistle as he flung himself into his coat. "inestimable privilege!" he exclaimed at last, tossing on his cap. "oh, jasper! you are so good," cried polly in a small rapture. "i'm so sorry to have to ask you." "i'll go for you, jasper," declared phronsie; "mamsie will let me; i almost know she will." "no, no, phronsie," said jasper, as she was flying off; "it isn't any place for you to go to. i shall get one at the hotel--the allibone. i'll be back in a trice, polly." polly went out, and sat down in one of the big oaken chairs in the hall to seize it as it came, and phronsie deposited herself in an opposite chair, and watched polly. and presently in came jasper, waving the desired journal. polly, with a beaming face, grasped it and rushed off upstairs. "polly," called the boy, looking after her, "it isn't too late now for you to go with them. lucy bennett met me at the corner and she said they will take the twelve o'clock train, instead of the eleven, and she wanted me to beg you to come." "no, no," tossed back polly, rushing on, "i am quite determined to stay at home." then she went into mrs. chatterton's room, and closed the door. but she couldn't so easily shut out the longings that would rise in her heart for the saturday outing that the other girls were to have. how lovely it would be! the run out to silvia horne's charming house some ten miles distant; the elegant luncheon they would have, followed by games, and a dance in the ball-room upstairs, that silvia's older sisters used for their beautiful parties. then the merry return before dusk, of the twelve girls, all capital friends at school! oh--oh! "you've been an unconscionable time," exclaimed mrs. chatterton in a sharp, high key, "just to get a paper. well, do sit down; i am quite tired waiting for you." polly sat down, and resolutely plunged into the column where the news items promised the most plentiful yield but in between the lines ran the doings of the girls: how they were all assembling by this time at lucy bennett's; how they were hurrying off to the train, and all the other delightful movements of the "outing" flashed before her eyes, as she finished item after item of her dreary task. but how mrs. chatterton gloated over it! at last polly, feeling as if she could not endure another five minutes of it, glanced up to see the old lady's eyes actually sparkling; her mouth had fallen into contented curves, and the jeweled hand resting on the chair-arm was playing with the fringe, while she leaned forward that she might not lose a word. "read that again, polly," she said, "the list of presents exhibited at arabella granger's wedding. i didn't hear any mention of the archibalds. it can't be that they have fallen out; and read more slowly." so polly began once more the long lists of gifts that ushered in the matrimonial happiness of mrs. john westover nee miss arabella granger; this time, however, stimulated by the pleasure she was giving, to find it an endurable task. it seemed to polly as if mrs. john westover had everything on earth given to her that could possibly be presented at a wedding; nevertheless the list was gone through again bravely, polly retracing her steps two or three times to read the items over for her listener's slow digestion. "the archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a gift, nor the harlands, nor the smythes, so i am very glad i didn't remember her," said mrs. chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved sigh. "those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn't as well as she might have done if she had made a different match. now something else, polly," and she dismissed mrs. westover with a careless wave of her hand. polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost in the whirl of coming toilets. no one noticed when the door opened, so of course no one saw mrs. whitney standing smiling behind the old lady's big chair. "well, polly," said a pleasant voice suddenly. down went town talk to the floor as polly sprang up with a glad cry, and mrs. chatterton turned around nervously. "oh, auntie--auntie!" cried polly, convulsively clinging to her, "are you really here, and is dicky home?" "dear child," said mrs. whitney, as much a girl for the moment as polly herself. and pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her close--"yes, dick is at home. there, go and find him; he is in mrs. pepper's room." "i am glad to see you so much better, mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney, leaning over the invalid's chair to lay the tenderest of palms on the hand resting on the chair-arm. "oh, yes, marian; i am better," said mrs. chatterton, looking around for polly, then down at the delicious town talk carelessly thrown on the floor. "will you send her back as soon as possible?" she asked with her old imperativeness. "who--polly?" said mrs. whitney, following the glance. "why, she has gone to see dick, you know. now, why cannot i read a bit?" and she picked up the paper. "you don't know what has been read," said mrs. chatterton as mrs. whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced way over the front page. "dear me, it makes me quite nervous, marian, to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way." "oh! i shall find something interesting quite soon, i fancy," said mrs. whitney cheerfully, her heart on her boy and the jolly home-coming he was having. "here is the washington news; i mean all about the receptions and teas." "she has read that," said mrs. chatterton. "now for the fashion department." mrs. whitney whirled the paper over dexterously. "do you know, mrs. chatterton, gray stuffs are to be worn more than ever this spring?" "i don't care about that," said mrs. chatterton quickly, "and besides, quite likely there'll be a complete revolution before spring really sets in, and gray stuffs will go out. find some description of tea gowns, can't you? i must have one or two more." "and here are some wonderfully pretty caps, if they are all like the descriptions," said mrs. whitney, unluckily dropping on another paragraph. "caps! who wants to hear about them?" cried mrs. chatterton in a dudgeon. "i hope i'm not at the cap period yet." "oh! those lovely little lace arrangements," said mrs. whitney hastily; "don't you know how exquisite they are at pinaud's?" she cried. "i'm sure i never noticed," said mrs. chatterton indifferently. "hortense always arranges my hair better without lace. if you can't find what i ask you, marian," raising her voice to a higher key, "you needn't trouble to read at all." fortunately the description of the gown worn by lady hartly cavendish at a london high tea, stood out in bold relief, as mrs. whitney's eyes nervously ran over the columns again, and she seized upon it. but in just two moments she was interrupted. "send that girl back again, marian," cried mrs. chatterton. "i had just got her trained so that she suits me. it tires me to death to hear you." "i do not know whether polly can come now," said mrs. whitney gently; "she"-- "do not know whether polly can come!" repeated mrs. chatterton sharply, and leaning forward in her chair. "didn't i say i wanted her?" "you did." marian's tone did not lose a note of its ordinary gentleness. "but i shall ask her if she is willing to do it as a favor, mrs. chatterton; you quite understand that, of course?" she, too, leaned forward in her chair, and gazed into the cold, hard face. "just like your father," cried mrs. chatterton, settling herself irascibly back in the chair-depths again. "there is no hope that affairs in this house will mend. i wash my hands of you." "i am so glad that you consider me like my father," said mrs. whitney gleefully as a child. "we surely are united on this question." "may i read some more?" cried polly, coming in softly, and trying to calm the impetuous rush of delight as her eyes met mrs. whitney's. "yes; i am waiting for you," said mrs. chatterton. "begin where you left off." mrs. whitney bit her pretty lips and slipped out of her chair, just pausing a moment to lay her hand on the young shoulder as she passed, and a world of comfort fell upon polly, shut in once more to her dreary task. "how perfectly splendid that i didn't go to silvia home's luncheon party now!" cried polly's heart over and over between the lines. "if i had, i should have missed dear auntie's home-coming, and dicky's." she glanced up with luminous eyes as she whirled the sheet. mrs. chatterton, astonishing as it may seem, was actually smiling. "it's some comfort to hear you read," she observed with a sigh of enjoyment, "because you enjoy it yourself. i wouldn't give a fig for anybody to try to do it." polly felt like a guilty little thing to take this quietly, and she eased her conscience by being more glad that she was in that very room doing that very task. and so the moments sped on. outside, dick was holding high revel as every one revolved around him, the hero of the coasting accident, till the boy ran considerable danger from all the attention he was receiving. but one glance and a smile from mrs. whitney brought him back to himself. "don't talk any more about it," he cried a trifle impatiently. "i was a muff to stick on, when i knew we were going over. mamma, won't you stop them?" and she did. "do you know, dicky and i have a secret to tell all of you good people." the color flew into her soft cheek, and her eyes beamed. "really, marian," said her father, whose hand had scarcely ceased patting dick's brown head since the boy's home-coming, "you've grown young in badgertown. i never saw you look so well as you do to-day." mrs. whitney laughed and tossed him a gay little smile, that carried him back to the days when marian king stood before him looking just so. "now listen, father, and all you good people, to my secret--dicky's and mine; we are allowed to tell it now. papa whitney sailed in the servia, and he ought to be in to-day!" a shout of joy greeted her announcement. polly, off in her prison, could hear the merry sounds, and her happy heart echoed them. the misery of the past week, when she had been bearing an unatoned fault, seemed to drop away from her as she listened, and to say, "life holds sunshine yet." then a hush dropped upon the gay uproar. she did not know that dicky was proclaiming "yes, and he is never, never going back again. that is, unless he takes mamma and me, you know." mrs. chatterton turned suddenly upon the young figure. "do go!" she tossed an imperative command with her jeweled fingers. "you have ceased to be amusing since your interest is all in the other room with that boy." polly dashed the newspaper to the floor, and rushing impulsively across the room, threw herself, with no thought for the consequences, on her knees at mrs. chatterton's chair. "oh--oh!" she cried, the color flying up to the brown waves on her temples, "don't send me off; then i shall know you never will forgive me." "get up, do!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton, in disgust; "you are crushing my gown, and besides i hate scenes." but polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown eyes from the cold face. "i must say, polly pepper," cried mrs. chatterton with rising anger, "you are the most disagreeable girl that i ever had the misfortune to meet. i, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of temper. go out of this room!" polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal. "humph!" she said slowly at last, "well, what do you want to say? speak out, and then go." "nothing," said polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, "only i shall not trouble you again, mrs. chatterton." and as the last words were spoken, she was out of the room. "pretty doings these!" mr. king, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall. "a fortunate thing it was that i left dick, to see what had become of polly. now, cousin eunice, you move from my house!" and descending the stairs, he called determinedly, "polly, polly, child!" polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in her life, wished she need not answer. "polly--polly!" the determined call rang down the passage, causing her to run fast with a "yes, grandpapa, i'm coming." "now, i should just like to inquire," began mr. king, taking her by her two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, "what she has been saying to you." "oh, grandpapa!" down went polly's brown head, "don't make me tell. please don't, grandpapa." "i shall!" declared mr. king; "every blessed word. now begin!" "she--she wanted me to go out of the room," said polly, in a reluctant gasp. "indeed!" snorted mr. king. "well, she will soon go out of that room. indeed, i might say, out of the house." "oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed polly, in great distress, and raising the brown eyes--he was dismayed to find them filling with tears--"don't, don't send her away! it is all my fault; indeed it is, grandpapa!" "your fault," cried mr. king irately; "you must not say such things, child; that's silly; you don't know the woman." "grandpapa," cried polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the words out, "i never told you--i couldn't--but i said perfectly dreadful words to her a week ago. oh, grandpapa! i did, truly." "that's right," said the old gentleman in a pleased tone. "what were they, pray tell? let us know." "oh, grandpapa, don't!" begged polly, with a shiver; "i want to forget them." "if you would only follow them up with more," said mr. king meditatively; "when it comes to tears, she must march, you know." "i won't cry," said polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "if you will only let her stay." she turned to him such a distressed and white face that mr. king stood perplexedly looking down at her, having nothing to say. "i'm tired of her," at last he said; "we are all tired of her; she has about worn us out." "grandpapa," cried polly, seeing her advantage in his hesitation, "if you will only let her stay, i will never beg you for anything again." "well, then she goes," cried mr. king shortly. "goodness me, polly, if you are going to stop asking favors, cousin eunice marches instanter!" "oh! i'll beg and tease for ever so many things," cried polly radiantly, her color coming back. "will you let her stay, grandpapa--will you?" she clasped his arm tightly and would not let him go. "well," said mr. king slowly, "i'll think about it, polly." "will you?" cried polly. "dear grandpapa, please say yes." mr. king drew a long breath. "yes," he said at last. xiii a piece of news "collect the whole bunch of peppers and send them into my writing-room, marian." old mr. king mounting the stairs, turned to see that his command was heard. "you want mother pepper too, i presume?" said mrs. whitney, pausing at the foot. "mother pepper? no, indeed; the last person in the world i wish to see," cried her father irritably. "the bunch of pepper children, i want, and at once; see that they all report to me directly." with that he redoubled his efforts and was soon at the top of the long oaken steps. polly and ben closely followed by joel, david and phronsie soon rushed over the same ascending thoroughfare, and presented themselves, flushed and panting, at the writing-room door. "come in," called mr. king from within. "here we are, sir," said ben, spokesman by virtue of being the eldest. "yes, yes," said mr. king nervously, and turning away from some papers he was fumbling to occupy the waiting moments. "well, do sit down, all of you. i sent for you to have a talk about something that you--that you--well, do sit down." so all the peppers deposited themselves in various resting-places; all but joel. he immediately marched up to the old gentleman's chair. "if it's good news," he said abruptly, "please let us have it right this minute. but if it's bad, why," a gathering alarm stole over his chubby countenance, as he scanned the face before him, "i'm going out-doors." "it's good or bad news according as you take it," said the old gentleman. "it ought to be good. but there," pushing back his chair to look at the row of anxious figures the other side of the table, "do sit down with the rest, joe, and stop staring me out of countenance." polly at that, pushed a chair over toward joel, who persuading himself into it, sat uncomfortably perched on its edge, where he stared harder than ever. "hum! well, children, now you are all remarkably sensible boys and girls. remarkably sensible. i've always said so, and i see no reason to change my opinion of you now. and so, although at first my news may not be quite to your liking, why, you'll quickly make it so, and be very happy about it in the end. hem! well, did you ever think that--that your mother might possibly marry again?" the last words were brought out so abruptly, that to the five pairs of ears strained to catch their import, it seemed as if the news had shot by harmlessly. but after a breathing space the dreadful "marry," and "your mother," came back to them, bringing the several owners of the ears out of their chairs at one bound. "our mother!" ben hoarsely exclaimed. "oh! how can you?" cried polly passionately, a little white line showing around her mouth, "say such perfectly dreadful things, sir!" phronsie clasped her hands in silent terror, and raised big eyes to his face. david began to walk helplessly down the apartment. "see here!" said joel, turning to the others, "wait a minute, and hold on. perhaps it's you, sir," whirling back to question, with piercing eyes, the old gentleman, "who's going to marry our mother. then it's all right!" "me!" roared the old gentleman. "oh! bless my soul, what should i want to marry for at my time of life? oh! my goodness me." his distress was now so frightful to see, that it brought the peppers in a measure out of theirs; and they began at once to endeavor to soothe him. "don't--oh! don't," they cried, and a common trouble overwhelming them, they rushed around the table, seized his hands, and patted his shoulders and hair. "oh! this is very dreadful," gasped polly, "but don't you feel badly, dear, dear grandpapa." "i should think it was," said mr. king. "phronsie, here, child, get into my lap. i'll come to myself then. there, now, that's something like," as phronsie, with a low cry, hopped into her usual nest. "now perhaps i can communicate the rest of my news, when i get my breath." the peppers held theirs, and he began once more. "now, children, it isn't in the course of nature for such a fine bright woman as your mother to remain single the rest of her life; somebody would be sure to come and carry her off. i'm glad it's to be in my lifetime, for now i can be easy in my mind, and feel that you have a protector when i am gone. there, there, we won't talk about that," as the young faces turned dark with sudden pain, while joel rushed convulsively to the window, "you can see how i feel about it." "are you glad?" cried ben hoarsely. polly for her life could not speak. the whole world seemed turning round, and sinking beneath her feet. "yes, i am," said the old gentleman, "and it won't alter the existing state of things, for he will live here with us, and things will be just the same, if only you children will take it rightly. but i've no doubt you will in the end; no doubt at all," he added, brightening up, "for you are very sensible young people. i've always said so." "who is he?" the dreadful question trembled on all the lips; but no one asked it. seeing this, mr. king broke out, "well, now of course you want to know who is going to marry your mother, that is, if you are willing. for she won't have him unless you are to be happy about it. would you like dr. fisher for a father?" joel broke away from the window with a howl, while polly tumultuously threw herself within the kind arms encircling phronsie. "next to you," cried the boy, "why, he's a brick, dr. fisher is!" "why didn't you tell us before that it was he?" sobbed polly, with joyful tears running over her face. davie, coming out of his gloomy walk, turned a happy face towards the old man's chair, while ben said something to himself that sounded like "thank god!" phronsie alone remained unmoved. "what is dr. fisher going to do?" she asked presently, amid the chatter that now broke forth. "he's going to live here," said old mr. king, looking down at her, and smoothing her yellow hair. "won't that be nice, phronsie?" "yes," said phronsie, "it will. and he'll bring his funny old gig, won't he, and ill drive sometimes, i suppose?" she added with great satisfaction. "yes; you will," said the old gentleman, winking furiously to keep back the excited flow of information that now threatened the child. "well, phronsie, you love dr. fisher, don't you?" "yes, i do," said the child, folding her hands in her lap, "love him very much indeed." "well, he's going to be your father," communicated mr. king, cautiously watching her face at each syllable. "oh, no!" cried phronsie, "he couldn't be; he's dr. fisher." she laughed softly at the idea. "why, grandpapa, he couldn't be my father." "listen, phronsie," and mr. king took both her hands in his, "and i'll tell you about it so that you will understand. dr. fisher loves your mother; he has loved her for many years--all those years when she was struggling on in the little brown house. but he couldn't tell her so, because he had others depending on him for support. they don't need him now, and as soon as he is free, he comes and tells your mother and me, like a noble good man as he is, all about it. he's a gentleman, children," he declared, turning to the others, "and you will be glad to call him father." "i don't know what you mean," said phronsie, with puzzled eyes. "dear grandpapa, please tell me." "why, he is going to marry your mother, child, and we are all to live here together just the same, and everything is going to be just as happy as possible." phronsie gave a sharp and sudden cry of distress. "but mamsie, my mamsie will be gone!" and then she hid her face in the old gentleman's breast. "o dear, dear! get a glass of water, polly," cried mr. king. "one of you run and open the window. phronsie, phronsie--there, child, look up and let me tell you." but phronsie burrowed yet deeper in the protecting nest, regardless of his spotless linen. "polly, speak to her," he cried in despair; "where is she? gone for the water? o dear! here, ben, you try. dear, dear, what a blunderer i am." "phronsie," said ben, leaning over the shaking figure, "you are making grandpapa sick." up came phronsie's yellow head. "oh, grandpapa!" she wailed, putting out an unsteady little hand, "i didn't mean to, dear grandpapa, only--only mamsie will be gone now." "bless your heart, you'll have mamsie more than ever," cried mr. king heartily. "here, you children, tell her. polly, we don't want the water now, she's come to," as polly came rushing in with a glassful. "make her understand; i can't." so polly, setting down her glass, the others crowding around, took up the task of making the piece of news as delightful as possible, and presently phronsie came out of her despair, to ask questions. "are you really and truly very glad, polly?" she asked. "really and truly i am so glad i don't know what to do," said polly, kneeling down by the chair-side. "don't you see we are so much the richer, phronsie? we have lost nothing, and we gain dr. fisher. dear splendid dr. fisher!" "you've always wanted to repay dr. fisher for his kindness," said mr. king, "and now's your chance, polly." "i guess he'll get his pay back for his stove," cried joel in a burst; "polly will wait on him, and kill herself doing things for him." "and for your new eyes," sang phronsie in a pleased way. "oh, polly!" she jumped out of the old gentleman's lap, and began to dance around the room, softly clapping her hands and exclaiming, "oh, polly!" "well, now, children," said mr. king, as the excitement ran low, "you just run and tell your mother, every one of you, how happy she will make you by bringing dr. fisher here as your father. scamper, now!" no need to urge them. on the wings of the wind ran the five peppers up into mamsie's own room. mrs. pepper for once turning aside from the claim of her pressing duties, was standing by the work table. here stood the mending basket before her, piled to the brim with the weekly installment of stockings big and little, clamoring for attention. but the usually busy needle lay idle, and the busier hands were folded, as the mother-heart went over the words she knew were being rehearsed downstairs by the kind friend who had made a home for them. he was pleading her cause with her children. "they shall be happy, anyway," she said softly to herself, "bless their hearts!" as they burst in. "mother," said ben--how the boy's cheek glowed! and what a world of joy rang in the usually quiet tones!--"we want to thank you for giving us dr. fisher for a father." "mamsie," polly hid her happy face on the dear neck, "i've always loved him, you know; oh! i'm so glad." joel whooped out something incoherent, but his face told the words, while davie clasped one of the firm, closely folded hands. "if you'll take me in your lap as much as ever," said phronsie deliberately, and patting the other hand, "why i shall be really and truly glad, mamsie." "bless your dear heart!" cried mother pepper, clasping her tightly, "and you children, all of you," and she drew them all within her arms. "now i want you to understand, once for all, that it isn't to be unless you all wish it. you are sure mr. king hasn't persuaded you to like it?" "look at us," cried ben, throwing back his head to see her eyes. "do we act as if we had been talked over?" at that, polly burst into a merry laugh; and the others joining, mother pepper laughing as heartily as the rest, the big room became the jolliest place imaginable. "no, i don't really think you do," said mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes. "dear me!" cried jasper, putting his head in the doorway, "what good fun is going on? i'm not going to be left out." "come in, jasper," they all called. "and we've a piece of news that will make your hair stand on end," said joel gaily. "joe, don't announce it so," cried polly in dismay, who dearly enjoyed being elegant. "ben must tell it; he is the oldest." "no, no; let polly," protested ben. "polly shall," said jasper, hurrying in to stand the picture of patience before the group. "hurry, do, for i must say my curiosity is hard to keep within bounds." so polly was gently pushed into the center of the circle. "go on," said joel, "and hurry up, or i shall tell myself." "jasper," said polly, her breath coming fast, "oh! you can't think; we are so glad"--but she got no further, for phronsie, rushing out of mother pepper's arms, piped out suddenly: "dr. fisher is coming here to live always and forever, and i'm going to ride in his gig, and mamsie likes him, and i'm going to call him father; now, jasper, i told you!" "i should think you did," exclaimed ben. "whew!" cried jasper, "that is a piece of news all in one breath. well, mrs. pepper, i'm glad of it, too. i congratulate you." with that, he marched up to her, phronsie hanging to his arm, and shook her hand heartily. and in two days everybody in the king set knew that the mother of the five little peppers was going to be married. "i should think you'd want to be condoled with, ben," said pickering dodge, clapping him on the shoulder as he rushed down the aisle of the store occupied by cabot & van meter. "halloo!" said ben, "can't stop," rushing past. "i suppose not," said pickering carelessly, and striding after, "so i'll whisper my gentle congratulations in your ear 'on the wing.' but i'm awfully sorry for you, ben," he added, as he came up to him. "you needn't be," said ben brightly, "we are all as glad as can be." "sweet innocent, you don't know a stepfather," said pickering lugubriously. "i know dr. fisher," said ben, "that's enough." "well, when you want comfort, come to me," said pickering, "or your uncle!" "don't you fill ben's ears with your foolishness," said the senior partner, coming out of the counting-room. "take yourself off, pickering; you're hindering ben." pickering laughed. "i'm caught in the very act. now, ben, remember i'm your friend when you get into trouble with your dear pa. good-by, uncle," with a bright nod, and a lazy shake of his long figure. "trade always demoralizes me. i'll get back to my books," and he vanished as quickly as he came. "back to your books," said his uncle grimly, "hum, i wish you would. see here, ben," he put a controlling hand on the boy's shoulder, "one word with you," marching him into the private office of the firm. "don't you follow pickering too closely, my boy," he said abruptly; "he's a good lad in the main, but if he is my nephew, i must give you warning. he's losing ground." ben lifted his head in sudden alarm. "oh! i hope not, sir," he said. "it's a fact. master nelson says he could be first scholar in the grammar, but for the last six months he's failed steadily. there's no particular reason, only ambition's gone. and when you say that, you mean there's a general collapse of all my hopes concerning him." "oh! no, sir," ben kept on protesting, his ruddy cheek losing its color. "he'll take hold by and by and give a pull at his books again." "it isn't a pull now and then that gets a man up hill," observed mr. cabot, leaning back in his revolving chair to look into the blue eyes, "that you know as well as i. now, ben, i'm not going to see you throw away your prospects, too. don't let him influence you in the wrong way. he's bright and attractive, but don't pay attention to his ridicule of good things." "i've a mother," said ben proudly, "and i don't believe any boy could say much to me, that i'd think of twice, if she didn't like it." "you always tell her everything, do you, ben?" asked mr. cabot with a curious glance. "i should think so, sir," said ben, with a short laugh. "you'll do, then," said mr. cabot, bringing his palm down on a pile of unread letters awaiting him. "go ahead. i don't promise anything, but i will say this. if you work on as you have done these two years since you came in here as errand boy, ben, i'll make you a power in the house. understand i don't expect you to do brilliant things; that isn't in your line. you will be a success only as a steady, faithful worker. but keep at it, and hang on to cabot & van meter, and we'll hang on to you." xiv mamsie's wedding "polly," said dr. fisher, coming suddenly out of a corner of the library as she ran around the portiere folds, "you are sure you are willing--are willing it should go on?" the little man peered at her anxiously through his big glasses, and he looked so exactly as he did on that morning so long ago when polly's eyes were at their worst, that she could do nothing but gaze speechlessly into his face. "i see you don't consider it quite best, child," said the little doctor brokenly, "but you are trying with your good heart, to make it so. don't be afraid; it is not too late to end it all." "i was thinking," cried polly with a gasp, "how good you were to me, when you saved my eyes, and how you kept joel from dying of the measles. oh! i couldn't speak--but i love you so." she threw her young arms around him. "papa fisher--for you are almost my father now--i am the very, very happiest girl because you are going to live here, and now i can show you just how much i really and truly love you." the little man beamed at her. then he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and clapped them into place again. "you see, polly," he said deliberately, "it was impossible to see your mother and not love her. she has had--well, there, child, i cannot bear to talk about it," and he walked to the window, blew his nose violently on an immense pocket-handkerchief, leaving the words poised in mid-air. "it was the greatest trial of my life that i couldn't show her then when she was struggling so bravely to keep the wolf from the door, how i felt. but my hands were tied, child," he added, coming back, his usual self again. "now i can make her, she says, happy, that is, if you children like it. just think, polly, she said happy! it's stupendous, but she said so, polly, she really did!" he folded his hands and looked at her in astonishment, behind which shone an intense gratification, that lighted up his plain little face till he seemed to grow younger every instant. "indeed she did!" repeated polly like a bird, and laughing merrily. "oh, papa fisher! you ought to hear mamsie sing. she doesn't know i'm hearing her, but she sings at her work now." "does she?" cried the doctor radiantly. "well, polly, we must see that she sings every day, after this." "yes, let us," cried polly, clasping his hand; "we will." "and," proceeded the doctor, "after the wedding is over--i it really dread the wedding, polly--but after that is over, i do believe we shall all be comfortable together!" polly gave a little cry of delight. then she said, "you needn't dread the wedding one bit, papa fisher. there will be only the people that we love, and who love us--grandpapa promised that." "but that will make it very big," said dr. fisher, with round eyes and a small shiver he could not suppress. "oh, no!" said polly cheerily, "sixty-five friends; that's all we are going to ask; mamsie and i made out the list last night." "sixty-five people!" exclaimed dr. fisher in dismay. "oh! isn't is possible to be married without sixty-five friends to stare at you?" "oh! that's not many," said polly; "sixty-five is the very smallest number that we could manage. we've been over the list ever so many times, and struck out quantities of names. you see, everybody loves mamsie, and they'll want to see her married." "i know--i know," assented the doctor, "but that makes one hundred and thirty eyes. did you ever think of that, polly?" polly burst into such a laugh that jasper popped in, and after him, phronsie, and a general hilarity now reigning, the dreaded wedding preparations soon sank away from the doctor's perturbed vision. but they went on merrily nevertheless. all over the old stone mansion there were hints of the on-coming festivities; and though all signs of it were tucked away from the little doctor on his occasional visits, the smothered excitement flamed afresh immediately his departure became an assured thing. everybody had the wildest plans for the occasion; it appearing impossible to do enough for the one who had stood at the helm for five long years, and who was to be reigning housekeeper for as much longer as her services were needed. and dr. fisher never knew how perilously near he had been to the verge of brilliant evening festivities, in the midst of which he was to be ushered into matrimony. for polly had suddenly waked one morning, to find herself, not "famous," but alive with the sense of being--as her mother had so often expressed it--"mamsie's little right-hand woman." "it will be much better to have everything plain," said polly, communing with herself, as she turned on her pillow. "mamsie has always been without show, of any kind, and so," but here polly's heart stood still. dearly she loved the bright, conspicuous accompaniments to the wedding whereby mr. king was determined to show his respect for the family under his care. and her soul secretly longed for the five hundred guests named on a list of the old gentleman's drawing up. and the feast and the lights, and the pretty dresses, and the dancing party for the young people to follow. for mr. king had announced himself as about to usher in the brightest of days for the young peppers to remember. "besides it brings our new physician into notice," he would answer when any faint protest was made. "and we shall all have reason to be immensely proud of him, i tell you!" "oh, dear!" cried polly, burrowing deeper within the pillow folds, "why aren't pleasant things best to do? why, i wonder!" cherry, twittering in the window, chirped something vague and unsatisfactory. polly brought up her brown head suddenly and laughed. "nonsense! our happiness doesn't depend upon a lot of people coming together to help it along. mamsie's face, whenever grandpapa plans all this magnificence, is enough to make me feel wretched at the thought of it. dear mamsie! she's afraid of ingratitude if she doesn't try to like it. she shall have the little morning wedding with a few people around, and the gray silk gown instead of the lavender one grandpapa wants her to wear, for mamsie always knows just what is right." with that, polly sprang out of bed, and rushed at her toilet, and after breakfast she quietly captured mr. king on the edge of some other extravagant plan, and led him into the library. "everything is going on finely, polly," he cried in elation. "ring for thomas, child; stay, i'll do it myself. i shall go in an hour to give my orders for the wedding supper." "grandpapa," cried polly, turning quite pale, and laying a quick, detaining hand on his arm, "oh! do wait, dear grandpapa, i have something to say." "well, child," but he still retained his hand on the cord. "oh, grandpapa!" how could she say it! but she must. "mamsie will be ever so much happier if the wedding might be a quiet one. she really would, grandpapa." "no doubt mrs. pepper finds it a little hard to adjust her ideas to the large affair," said the old gentleman, considerably disturbed, and by no means relinquishing the bell-cord, "but it is due to you children to have a bright time, and i must see that you all have it. that is my affair," and this time the cord was pulled, and the bell rang a loud, insistent message. polly stood still in despair. "grandpapa," she said distinctly, finding it hard to proceed, with his face before her, "we children do not want the large party; that is i do not." it was all out at last. "stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed mr. king sharply, for his surprise was too great to allow of composure, "who has been putting this idea into your head? your mother couldn't have done it, for she promised it should all be as you young people wanted." "mamsie never said a word," cried polly, recovering herself as she saw a chance to make things right for mother pepper; "it all came to me, grandpapa, all alone by myself. oh! i hate the big display!" she declared with sudden vehemence, astonishing herself with the repulsion that now seized her. "hoity toity!" exclaimed mr. king, "it's not quite the thing, polly, my child, to express yourself so decidedly, considering your years." "grandpapa," cried polly, with a sudden rush of tears, "forgive me, do; i did not mean to be so naughty. i did not, dear grandpapa." she looked like phronsie now, and the old gentleman's heart melted. "but i am quite sure that none of us children would be a bit happy not to have it as mamsie would like." "well, but i am not sure that the others wouldn't like it," said mr. king persistently. "ben wouldn't," said polly triumphantly, "i know, for he all along shrank from the big party." "oh! well, ben, i suppose, would object somewhat," conceded the old gentleman slowly. "and davie," cried polly eagerly; "oh, grandpapa! david would much prefer the morning wedding and the plain things." "but how about joel and phronsie?" interrupted mr. king, utterly ignoring davie's claims to be heard. "ah! polly, my dear, until you tell me that they will prefer to give up the fine party, you mustn't expect me to pay any attention to what you say. it's due to phronsie that your mother's wedding is a thing worthy to remember as a fine affair." "perhaps joel and phronsie will think as we do," said polly. but her heart said no. "all right if they do," said mr. king easily, "but unless you come and tell me it is their own choice, why, i shall just go on with my plans as mapped out," he added obstinately. "thomas," as that functionary appeared in the doorway, "take the letters to the post at once; you will find them on my writing table." "all right, sir." "i'll give you till to-morrow to find out," said mr. king. "now come and kiss me, polly dear. you'll see it's all right after it's over, and be glad i had the sense to keep my mind about it." polly put up her lips obediently. but it was a sad little kiss that was set upon his mouth, and it left him feeling like a criminal. and running out, she met her difficult task without a moment of preparation. "halloo, polly!" whooped joel, rushing around an angle in the hall, "grandpapa promised me that i might go out with him, to give the supper orders, and all that kind of nonsense." polly's heart stood still. "joel," she began, seizing his jacket with trembling fingers, "come up into my room a minute." "what's up?" cried joel with curiosity; "some more mysteries? there's nothing but whisperings, and secrets, and no end of jolly understandings, ever since mamsie commenced to marry dr. fisher. go ahead, i'll come." "and phronsie, too," said polly, seeing the yellow head emerge from the breakfast-room doorway. "come on, phron," sang out joel, "up in polly's room--she wants you," and the three hurried off. "now, joel," said polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, "you are mamsie's own boy." "i should think so," said joel, "i'm not anybody's else. is that all you brought me up here to say?" thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her. "and you can make her happy, or just as miserable as i can't say what," went on polly incoherently. "what in the world are you firing at?" demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him. "don't shoot over my head, polly, but keep somewhere near your mark," he advised irritably. phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner. "mamsie does not want a big wedding," declared polly, going to the heart of the matter, "but dear kind grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one." "and so it will," cried joel, "please us children. whoop la! give us your hand, phronsie, this is the way we'll dance afterwards at the party." "i don't want to dance," said phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room. the morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes. "polly wants something, first; what is it, joel?" "i'm sure i don't know," said joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul. "i don't believe she knows herself. polly is often queer, you know, phronsie," he added cheerfully. "tell me, polly, do," whispered phronsie, going over to her. "phronsie," said polly very slowly, "mamsie doesn't want a big party in the evening to see her married, but to have a cunning little company of friends come in the morning, and"-- "ugh!" cried joel in disgust, coming down suddenly to both feet. "it will please mamsie best," went on polly, with a cold shoulder to joel. "and i never should be happy in all this world to remember that i helped to make my mamsie unhappy on her wedding day." phronsie shivered, and her voice held a miserable little thrill as she begged, "oh! make her be married just as she wants to be, polly, do." "now that's what i call mean," cried joel in a loud, vindictive tone back of polly, "to work on phronsie's feelings. you can't make me say i don't want mamsie to have a wedding splurge, so there, polly pepper!" polly preserved a dignified silence, and presented her shoulder again to his view. "you can't make me say it, polly pepper!" shouted joel shrilly. "oh, phronsie!" exclaimed polly in a rapture, throwing her arms around the child, "mamsie will be so pleased--you can't think. let us go and tell her; come!" "see here!" called joel, edging up, "why don't you talk to me?" "i haven't anything to say," polly condescended to give him, without turning her head. "come, phronsie," holding out her hand. "wait a minute." "well, what is it?" polly's hand now held phronsie's, but she paused on the way to the door. "i guess i can give up things as well as she can, if i know mamsie wants me to," said joel, with a deeply injured manner. "mamsie doesn't want any of us to give up anything unless we do it as if we were glad to," said polly. for her life, she couldn't conceal a little scornful note in her voice, and joel winced miserably. "i--i wish she wouldn't have the big party," he whined. "i thought you wanted it," said polly, turning to him. "i--i don't. i'd rather mamsie would be happy. o, dear! don't look at me so." "i'm not looking at you so," said polly. "you acted just as if you had your heart set on the party." "well, it isn't. i'll--i'll--if you say party to me again!" and he faced her vindictively. "joel pepper!" cried polly, holding him with her brown eyes, "do you really mean that you are glad to give up that big evening party, and have the little teeny one in the morning?" "yes," said joel, "as true as i live and breathe, i do!" "oh! oh! oh!" cried polly, and seizing his arm, she led off in a dance, so much surpassing his efforts, that phronsie screamed with delight to see them go. when they could dance no more, polly, flushed and panting, ran out of the room, leaving the two to find out as best they might, the cause of the strange demeanor. "grandpapa," polly rushing over the stairs, met him coming up to mrs. whitney's room, "joel says it's the little morning wedding--please; and phronsie too!" the old gentleman gave no sign of his defeat, beyond a "humph! and so i'm beaten, after all!" and dr. fisher never knew all this. mamsie's wedding-day! at last it came! was any other ever so bright and beautiful? phronsie thought not, and thereupon she impeded the preparations by running up to kiss her mother every few moments, until such time as felicie carried her off to induct her into a white muslin gown. polly, here, there, and everywhere, was in such a rapture that she seemed to float on wings, while the boys of the household, with the exception of jasper, lost their heads early in the day, and helplessly succumbed to all demands upon them. every flower had to be put in place by the young people. old turner for once stood one side. and polly must put the white satin boxes filled with wedding cake on the little table where one of the waiters would hand them to departing guests. and phronsie must fasten mamsie's pearl broach--the gift of the five little peppers--in her lace collar the very last thing. and jasper collected the rice and set the basket holding it safely away from joel's eager fingers till such time as they could shower the bride's carriage. and all the boys were ushers, even little dick coming up grandly to offer his arm to the tallest guest as it happened. and old mr. king gave the bride away! and dr. fisher at the last forgot all the one hundred and thirty eyes, and his "i will," rang out like a man's who has secured what he has long wanted. and ever so many of the guests said "what a good father he will make the children," and several attempted to tell the peppers so. "as if we didn't know it before," said joel indignantly. and alexia and all the other girls of polly's set were there, and joel's little blue and white creature came, to his great satisfaction, with her aunt, who was quite intimate in the family; and pickering dodge was there of course, and the alstynes, and hosts of others. and mother pepper in her silver-gray gown and bonnet, by the side of her husband, with phronsie clinging to one hand, heard nothing but heart-felt wishes for her happiness and that of the five little peppers. and there was not so much as the shadow of a skeleton at the wedding breakfast. and cousin mason whitney took charge of the toasts--and everybody felt that just the right things had been said. and then there was a flutter of departure of the bridal party, and in the rattle of the wheels phronsie piped out bravely as she threw the slipper after the departing coach: "mamsie has been taking care of us all these years; now we're going to be good and let her be happy." xv mrs. chatterton has a new plan "polly is learning to play beautifully," mused phronsie, nursing one foot contemplatively, as she curled up on the floor. "and ben is to be a capital business man, so papa fisher says, and joel is going to buy up this whole town sometime, and davie knows ever so many books from beginning to end, but what can i do?" down went the little foot to the floor, and the yellow head drooped over the white apron. "nothing," mourned phronsie, "just nothing at all; not even the wee-est teeniest bit of anything do i know how to do. o, dear!" outside, jasper was calling to prince. phronsie could hear the big dog rushing over the lawn in response, barking furiously as he went. but she did not move. "and mamsie will never be glad for me, unless i learn how to do things too. if i don't hurry, i shall never be grown up." "tweet--tweet--ch-r-r-r"--cherry in his cage over her head, chirped vigorously by way of consolation, but phronsie did not lift her head. cherry seeing all his efforts in vain, stopped his song and rolled one black eye down at her in astonishment, and soon became quite still. presently the rustle of a stiff black satin gown became the chief intruder upon the silence. it was so asserting that phronsie lifted her head to look into the face of mrs. chatterton, standing before her, playing with the rings on her long white hands, and regarding her as if she would soon require an explanation of such strange conduct. "what are you doing, phronsie?" at last demanded the lady. "thinking," said phronsie; and she laid her chin in her hand, and slowly turned her gaze upon the thin, disagreeable face before her, but not as if in the slightest degree given up to a study of its lines and expression. "so i perceive," said mrs. chatterton harshly. "well, and what are you thinking of, pray tell?" still phronsie looked beyond her, and it was not until the question had been repeated, that an answer came. "of many things," said phronsie, "but i do not think i ought to tell you." "and why not, pray?" cried the lady, with a short and most unpleasant laugh. "because i do not think you would understand them," said phronsie. and now she looked at the face she had before overlooked, with a deliberate scrutiny as if she would not need to repeat the attention. "indeed!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton angrily, "and pray how long since your thoughts have been so valuable?" "my thoughts are nice ones," said phronsie slowly, "because they are about nice people." "ah!" "and they won't tell themselves. and i ought not to make them. they would fly away then, and i should never find them again, when i wanted to think them." "your mother brought you up well, i must say," observed mrs. chatterton, deliberately drawing up a chair and putting her long figure within it, "to talk in this style to a lady as old as i am." phronsie allowed one foot to gently trace the pattern on the carpet before she answered. "i know you are very old," she said at last, "but i cannot tell my thoughts to you." "very old!" cried mrs. chatterton, her chin in the air. "indeed! well, i am not, i would have you know, miss phronsie," and she played with the silk cord of her satin wrapper. "i hate a child that is made a prig!" she added explosively under her breath. phronsie made no reply, being already deep in her own calculations once more. "now, phronsie," said mrs. chatterton, suddenly drawing herself out of her angry fit, and clearing her brow, "i want you to give your attention to me a moment, for i have something i must say to you. that's why i came in here, to find you alone. come, look at me, child. it isn't polite to be staring at the carpet all the time." phronsie, thus admonished, took her gaze from the floor, to bestow it on the face above her. "it's something that nobody is to know but just you and me," began mrs. chatterton, with a cautious glance at the door. then she got out of her chair, and going across the room, closed it carefully. "there, that's better; polly is always around. now we are quite alone," coming back to her seat. "you see, phronsie," she proceeded, not caring that the brown eyes were slowly adding to their astonishment an expression that augured ill for any plans she might be hoping to carry out toward propitiation. "it is necessary to be careful not to be overheard, for what i am going to say to you must be kept quite secret." "i must tell mamsie," said phronsie distinctly. "indeed you will not," declared mrs. chatterton. "she is the very one of all others who ought not to know. you can help her, phronsie, if you only keep quiet." phronsie's eyes now became so very large that mrs. chatterton hastened to add: "you know polly is learning to be a music teacher when she grows up." phronsie made no reply. "and a very creditable one she will be, from all acounts i can gather," contributed mrs. chatterton carelessly. "well, ben is doing well in cabot & van meter's, so he's no trouble to your mother. as for the two boys, i know nothing about them, one way or the other. but you, as you are a girl, and the only one not provided for, why, i shall show a little kindness in your direction. it's wholly disinterested and quixotic, i know," added mrs. chatterton, with a sweeping gaze at the walls and ceilings, "for me to give myself a thought about you or your future. and i shall never receive so much as a thank you for it. but i've passed all my life in thinking of others, phronsie," here she brought down her attention to the absorbed little countenance, "and i cannot change now," she finished pensively. a silence fell upon them, so great that mrs. chatterton broke it nervously. "goodness me, phronsie, you are not like a child; you are too uncanny for anything. why don't you ask questions about my secret?" "because i ought not to know it," said phronsie, finding her tongue. "haven't i told you that you will help your mother only by not telling her?" said mrs. chatterton. "how would you like to learn how to take care of yourself when you are a big girl?" a light slowly gathered in the brown eyes, becoming at last so joyous and assured, that mrs. chatterton's face dropped its hard lines, to lose itself in a gratified smile. "now you make me see some real hope that my scheme won't be wholly a wild piece of philanthropy," she exclaimed. "only look like that, phronsie, and i'll do anything for you." "if i can do anything for mamsie," cried phronsie, clasping her hands in rapture. "oh! do tell me, dear mrs. chatterton," she pleaded. "oh! now i am dear mrs. chatterton," cried that lady, with a hard, ill-favored smile. but she lowered her tone to a gentler one, and extending one jeweled hand, took the little folded ones in her clasp. "i will be a good friend to you, and show you how you can learn to do something so that when you grow up, you can take care of yourself, just as polly will. just think, phronsie, just as polly will," cried mrs. chatterton artfully. "how--how?" demanded phronsie, scarcely breathing. "listen, phronsie. now you know i haven't any little girl." phronsie drew a long breath. "well, i have been looking for one for a long time. i want one who will be a daughter to me; who will grow up under my direction, and who will appreciate what i sacrifice in taking her. she must be nice-looking, for i couldn't stand an ill-favored child. i have found several who were much better looking than you, phronsie; in fact, they were beauties; but i don't like the attitude of their families. the poor things actually thought they were doing me a favor by accepting my proposition for the children." as this statement required no remark on the part of the hearer, phronsie was silent, not removing her eyes from mrs. chatterton's face. "now, although you haven't as much to recommend you as many other children that i have fancied, i hope to make you serve my purpose. i am going to try you, at least. every day, phronsie, you can come to my room. it's lucky that you don't go to school, but do pretty much as you like in this house, so no questions will be asked." "i go to grandpapa's room every day," said phronsie, in a distressed tone, "to my lessons." "of course. i know that; a very silly thing it is too. there's no use in trying to break it up now, i suppose, or i'd put my hand to the attempt. but you can come to me after you've got through toadying mr. king." "what is toding?" asked phronsie. "never mind; that hasn't anything to do with the business in hand," replied mrs. chatterton impatiently. "now if you come to me every day, and give me as much time as you can, why, i'll show you what i want of you, and teach you many things. then after a while, phronsie, when you learn to appreciate it, i shall tell you what i am going to do. the adoption will be an easy matter, i fancy, when the child is interested," she added, taking the precaution to mutter it. "you must do everything as i tell you," mrs. chatterton leaned forward, and said with great deliberateness, "else you will lose this chance to help your mother. and you will never have another like it, but will grow up to be a good-for-nothing little thing when polly and all the rest are earning money for your mamsie, as you call her." "i shall earn money too," declared phronsie on a high note, and nodding her yellow head with great decision. "never!" mrs. chatterton brought her foot, incased in its black satin slipper, down with force on the carpet. "you will never earn a cent of money in all this world, unless you do exactly as i say; for you are a child who hasn't it in her to learn anything. but you can help me, and i shall teach you many things, and do well by you." "when i grow a big girl, will anybody want me to do those things that you are going to teach me?" asked phronsie, drawing near to lay her hand on the stiff black gown, and speaking earnestly. "then if they will, i'll try to do them just exactly as you tell me." "of course they will," declared mrs. chatterton carefully, edging off from the little fingers; "ever so many people will want you, phronsie. and i shall give you a great deal of money." "i shall give it all to mamsie," interrupted phronsie, her brown eyes dilating quickly, "every single twenty-five cents you give me. then i guess she will be glad, don't you?" she cried, clasping her hands in sudden rapture, while she began to dance up and down. "i shall give you so many twenty-five cents," cried mrs. chatterton, beginning to feel her old heart beat with more enthusiasm than she had known for many a day, "that you will be very rich, phronsie." "oh-oh!" cried phronsie, coming to an abrupt pause in the middle of the floor, her cheek paling in excitement. and then she could say no more. "but you must do exactly as i tell you." mrs. chatterton leaned forward suddenly, and seized the little hands, now so still in their delight. "remember, it is only when you follow my commands in every single thing that you will have any chance of earning all this money for your mother, and helping her just at polly is going to do. remember now, phronsie!" "i will remember," said phronsie slowly, as her hands were released. "very good. we will begin now then." mrs. chatterton threw herself back in her chair, and drew a long breath. "lucky i found the child alone, and so tractable. it's singularly good fortune," she muttered. "well," aloud, with a light laugh, "now, phronsie, if you are going to be your mother's helper, why, this is your first duty. let us see how well you perform it. run upstairs to the closet out of the lumber-room, and open the little black box on the shelf in front of the door--the box isn't locked--and bring me the roll of black velvet ribbon you will find there." phronsie was about to ask, "why does not hortense go up for it?" but mrs. chatterton forestalled the question by saying with a frown, "hortense has gone down to the dressmaker's. no child who calls me to account for anything i ask of her can be helped by me. do as you like, phronsie. no one will compel you to learn how to do things so that you can be a comfort to your mother. only remember, if you don't obey me, you will lose your only chance." after this speech, mrs. chatterton sat back and played with her rings, looking with oblique glances of cold consideration at the child. "i'll go," said phronsie with a long sigh, "and do every thing you say." "i do really believe i can bend one of those dreadful pepper children to my will," thought mrs. chatterton exultingly. "she is my only hope. polly does better than she did, but she is too old to be tractable, and she has a shrewd head on her practical body, and the others are just horrible!" she gave a shiver. "but phronsie will grow up to fit my purpose, i think. three purposes, i may say--to get the peppers gradually out from under horatio king's influence, and to train up a girl to wait on me so that i can get away from these french villains of maids, and to spite alexander's daughter by finally adopting this phronsie if she suits me. but i must move carefully. the first thing is to get the child fastened to me by her own will." phronsie, ascending the stairs to the lumber-room, with careful deliberateness, found no hint of joy at the prospect before her, reaching into the dim distance to that enchanted time when she should be grown up. but there was a strangely new sense of responsibility, born in an hour; and an acceptance of life's burdens, that made her feel very old and wise. "i shall be a comfort to my mother," she said confidently, and mounted on. xvi where is phronsie? phronsie shut the door of the lumber-room, and with a great sigh realized that she had with her own hand cut herself off from the gay life below stairs. "but they are not so very far off," she said, "and i shall soon be down again," as she made her way across the room and opened the closet door. a little mouse scurried along the shelf and dropped to the floor. phronsie peered into the darkness within, her small heart beating fearfully as she held the knob in her hand. "there may be more," she said irresolutely. "i suppose he wouldn't live up here all alone. please go away, mousie, and let me get the box." for answer there was a scratching and nibbling down in the corner that held more terrors for the anxious ears than an invading army. "i must go in," said phronsie, "and bring out the box. please, good mouse, go away for one moment; then you may come back and stay all day." but the shadowy corner only gave back the renewed efforts of the sharp little teeth; so at last, phronsie, plucking up courage, stepped in. the door swung to after her, giving out a little click, unnoticed in her trepidation as she picked her way carefully along, holding her red gown away from any chance nibbles. it was a low narrow closet, unlighted save by a narrow latticed window, in the ceiling, for the most part filled with two lines of shelves running along the side and one end. phronsie caught her breath as she went in, the air was so confined; and stumbling over in the dim light, put her hand on the box desired, a small black affair, easily found, as it was the only one there. "i will take it out into the lumber-room; then i can get the velvet roll," and gathering it up within her arms, she speedily made her way back to the door. "why"--another pull at the knob; but with the same result, and phronsie, setting the box on the floor, still with thoughts only of the mouse, put both hands to the task of opening the door. "it sticks, i suppose, because no one comes up here only once in a great while," she said in a puzzled way. "i ought to be able to pull it open, i'm sure, for i am so big and strong." she exerted all her strength till her face was like a rose. the door was fast. phronsie turned a despairing look upon the shadowy corner. "please don't bite me," she said, the large tears gathering in her brown eyes. "i am locked in here in your house; but i didn't want to come, and i won't do anything to hurt you if you'll let me sit down and wait till somebody comes to let me out." meanwhile mrs. chatterton shook out her black satin gown complacently, and with a satisfied backward glance at the mirror, sailed off to her own apartments. "madame," exclaimed hortense breathlessly, meeting her within the door, "de modiste will not send de gown; you must"-- "will not send it?" repeated her mistress in a passion. "a pretty message to deliver. go back and get it at once." "she say de drapery--de tournure all wrong, and she must try it on again," said the maid, glad to be defiant, since the dressmaker supported her. "what utter nonsense! yet i suppose i must go, or the silly creature will have it ruined. take off this gown, hortense, and bring my walking suit, then ring and say i'd like to have thomas take me down there at once," and throwing off her bracelets, and the various buckles and pins that confined her laces, she rapidly disrobed and was expeditiously inducted by hortense into her walking apparel, and, a parlor maid announcing that thomas with the coupe was at the door, she hurried downstairs, with no thought for anything beyond a hasty last charge to her maid. "where's phronsie?" cried polly, rushing into mother fisher's room; "o dear me, my hair won't stay straight," pushing the rebellious waves out of her eyes. "it looks as if a brush wouldn't do it any harm," observed mother fisher critically. "o dear, dear! well, i've brushed and brushed, but it does no good," said polly, running over to the mirror; "some days, mamsie, no matter what i do, it flies all ways." "good work tells generally," said her mother, pausing on her way to the closet for a closer inspection of her and her head; "you haven't taken as much pains, polly, lately with your hair; that is the trouble." "well, i'm always in such a hurry," mourned polly, brushing furiously on the refractory locks. "there, will you stay down?" to a particularly rebellious wave. "one at a time is the best way to take things," said mrs. fisher dryly. "when you dress yourself, polly, i'd put my mind on that, if i were you." with that, she disappeared within the closet. "o dear, i suppose so," sighed polly, left to her own reflections and brushing away. "well, that's the best i can make it look now, for i can't do the braid over. where is phronsie, i wonder! mamsie," she threw down the brush and ran over to put her head in the closet, "where did she go?" "i told her she might run over to helen fargo's, right after breakfast," said mrs. fisher, her head over a trunk, from which she was taking summer dresses. "polly, i think you'll get one more season's wear out of this pink cambric." "oh! i am so glad," cried polly, "for i had such splendidly good times in it," with a fond glance at the pink folds and ruffles. "well, if phronsie is over at helen's, there's no use in asking her to go down town with us." "where are you going?" asked mrs. fisher, extricating one of phronsie's white gowns from its winter imprisonment. "down to candace's," said polly. "jasper wants some more pins for his cabinet. no, i don't suppose phronsie would tear herself away from helen for all the down-towns in the world." "you would better let her stay where she is," advised mother fisher; "she hasn't been over to helen's for quite a while, so it's a pity to call her away," and she turned to her unpacking again, while polly ran off on the wings of the wind, in a tremor at having kept jasper waiting so long. "candace" was the widow of an old colored servant of mr. king's; she called herself a "relict;" that, and the pride in her little shop, made her hold her turbaned head high in the air, while a perennial smile enwreathed her round face. the shop was on temple place, a narrow extension thrown out from one of the city's thoroughfares. she was known for a few specialties; such as big sugary doughnuts that appealed alike to old and young. they were always fresh and sweet, with just the proper amount of spice to make them toothsome; and she made holders of various descriptions, with the most elaborate patterns wrought always in yellow worsted; with several other things that the ladies protested could never be found elsewhere. jasper had been accustomed to run down to candace's little shop, since pinafore days, when he had been taken there by his nurse, and set upon a high stool before the small counter, and plied with dainties by the delighted candace. "the first thing i can remember," he had often told polly, "is candace taking out huge red and white peppermint drops, from the big glass jar in the window, and telling me to hold out both hands." and after the "pinafore days" were over, candace was the boy's helper in all his sports where a woman's needle could stitch him out of any difficulty. she it was who made the sails to his boats, and marvelous skate bags. she embroidered the most intricate of straps for his school-books, and once she horrified him completely by working in red cotton, large "j's" on two handkerchiefs. he stifled the horror when he saw her delight in presenting the gift, and afterwards was careful to remember to carry a handkerchief occasionally when on an errand to the shop. latterly candace was occupied in preparing pins for jasper's cabinet, out of old needles that had lost their eyes. she cleverly put on red and black sealing wax heads, turning them out as round as the skillful manipulation of deft fingers could make them. in this new employment, the boy kept her well occupied, many half-dollars thereby finding their way into her little till. "i wish phronsie had come," said polly, as she and jasper sorted the pins in the little wooden tray candace kept for the purpose. "how many red ones you will have, jasper--see--fifteen; well, they're prettier than the others." "ef little miss had come wid you," said candace, emerging from the folds of a chintz curtain that divided the shop from the bedroom, "she'd 'a' seen my doll i made for her. land! but it's a beauty." "oh, candace!" exclaimed polly, dropping the big pin she held, and allowing it to roll off the counter to the floor. "what a pity we didn't bring her! do let us see the doll." "she's a perfec' beauty!" repeated candace in satisfaction, "an' i done made her all myself fer de little miss," and she dodged behind the curtain again, this time bringing out a large rag doll with surprising black bead eyes, a generous crop of wool on its head, and a red worsted mouth. "dat's my own hair," said candace, pointing to the doll's head with pride, "so i know it's good; an' ain't dat mouf pretty?" "oh, candace!" exclaimed polly, seizing the doll, and skillfully evading the question, "what a lovely dress--and the apron is a dear"-- "ain't it?" said candace, her black face aglow with delight. "ole miss gimme dat yeller satin long ago, w'en i belonged to her befo' de war. an' dat yere apun was a piece of ole miss's night-cap. she used to have sights of 'em, and dey was all ruffled like to kill, an' made o' tambour work." polly had already heard many times the story of madame carroll's night-caps, so she returned to the subject of the doll's beauty as a desirable change. "do you want us to take this to phronsie?" she asked. "jasper, won't she be delighted?" "land, no!" cried candace, recovering the doll in alarm; "i'd never sleep a week o' nights ef i didn't put dat yere doll into dat bressed child's arms." "then i'll tell phronsie to come over to-morrow," said polly. "shall i, candace?" "yes," said candace, "you tell her i got somefin' fer her; don't you tell her what, an' send her along." "all right," said jasper. "just imagine phronsie's eyes when she sees that production. candace, you've surpassed yourself." "you go 'long!" exclaimed candace, in delight, and bestowing a gentle pat of deprecation on his shoulder, "'tain't like what i could do; but la! well, you send de bressed chile along, and mabbe she'll like it." "jasper, we'll stop at helen's now," said polly as the two hurried by the tall iron fence, that, lined with its thick hedge, shut out the fargo estate from vulgar eyes, "and get phronsie; she'll be ready to come home now; it's nearly luncheon time." "all right," said jasper; so the two ran over the carriage drive to a side door by which the king family always had entree. "is phronsie ready to come home?" asked polly of the maid. "tell her to hurry and get her things on; we'll wait here. oh, jasper!" turning to him, "why couldn't we have the club next week, wednesday night?" "miss mary," said the maid, interrupting, "what do you mean? i haven't seen miss phronsie to-day." polly whirled around on the step and looked at her. "oh! she's upstairs in the nursery, playing with helen, i suppose. please ask her to hurry, hannah." "no, she isn't, miss mary," said hannah. "i've been sweeping the nursery this morning; just got through." she pointed to her broom and dustpan that she had set in a convenient corner, as proof of her statement. "well, she's with helen somewhere," said polly, a little impatiently. "yes; find helen, and you have the two," broke in jasper. "just have the goodness, hannah, to produce helen." "miss helen isn't home," said hannah. "she went to greenpoint yesterday with mrs. fargo to spend sunday." "why," exclaimed polly in bewilderment, "mamsie said she told phronsie right after breakfast that she could come over here." "she hasn't been here," said the maid positively. "i know for certain sure, miss mary. has she, jane?" appealing to another maid coming down the hall. "no," said jane. "she hasn't been here for ever so many days." "phronsie played around outside probably," said jasper quickly; "anyway, she's home now. come on, polly. she'll run out to meet us." "oh, jasper! do you suppose she will?" cried polly, unable to stifle an undefinable dread. she was running now on frightened feet, jasper having hard work to keep up with her, and the two dashed through the little gate in the hedge where phronsie was accustomed to let herself through on the only walk she was ever allowed to take alone, and into the house where polly cried to the first person she met, "where's phronsie?" to be met with what she dreaded, "gone over to helen fargo's." and now there was indeed alarm through the big house. not knowing where to look, each fell in the other's way, quite as much concerned for mr. king's well-being; for the old gentleman was reduced to such a state by the fright that the entire household had all they could do to keep him in bounds. "madame is not to come home to luncheon," announced hortense to mrs. whitney in the midst of the excitement. "she told me to tell you that de mees taylor met her at de modiste, and took her home with her." mrs. whitney made no reply, but raised her eyes swollen with much crying, to the maid's face. "hortense, run as quickly as possible down to dr. fisher's office, and tell him to come home." "thomas should be sent," said hortense, with a toss of her head. "it's not de work for me. beside i am madame's maid." "do you go at once," commanded mrs. whitney, with a light in her blue eyes that the maid never remembered seeing. she was even guilty of stamping her pretty foot in the exigency, and hortense slowly gathered herself up. "i will go, madame," with the air of conferring a great favor, "only i do not such t'ings again." xvii phronsie is found "i am glad that you agree with me." mrs. chatterton bestowed a complacent smile upon the company. "but we don't in the least agree with you," said madame dyce, her stiff brocade rustling impatiently in the effort to put her declaration before the others, "not in the least." "ah? well, you must allow that i have good opportunities to judge. the pepper entanglement can be explained only by saying that my cousin's mental faculties are impaired." "the rest of the family are afflicted in the same way, aren't they?" remarked hamilton dyce nonchalantly. "humph! yes." mrs. chatterton's still shapely shoulders allowed themselves a shrug intended to reveal volumes. "what jasper horatio king believes, the rest of the household accept as law and gospel. but it's no less infatuation." "i'll not hear one word involving those dear peppers," cried madame dyce. "if i could, i'd have them in my house. and it's a most unrighteous piece of work, in my opinion, to endeavor to arouse prejudice against them. it goes quite to my heart to remember their struggles all those years." mrs. chatterton turned on her with venom. was all the world arrayed against her, to take up with those hateful interlopers in her cousin's home? she made another effort. "i should have credited you with more penetration into motives than to allow yourself to be deceived by such a woman as mrs. pepper." "do give her the name that belongs to her. i believe she's mrs. dr. fisher, isn't she?" drawled livingston bayley, a budding youth, with a moustache that occasioned him much thought, and a solitary eyeglass. "stuff and nonsense! yes, what an absurd thing that wedding was. did anybody ever hear or see the like!" mrs. chatterton lifted her long jeweled hands in derision, but as no one joined in the laugh, she dropped them slowly into her lap. "i don't see any food for scorn in that episode," said the youth with the moustache. "possibly there will be another marriage there before many years. i'm sweet on polly." mrs. chatterton's face held nothing but blank dismay. the rest shouted. "you needn't laugh, you people," said the youth, setting his eyeglass straight, "that girl is going to make a sensation, i tell you, when she comes out. i'm going to secure her early." "not a word, mind you, about miss polly's preferences," laughed hamilton dyce aside to miss mary. "'tisn't possible that she could be anything but fascinated, of course," mary laughed back. "of course not. the callow youth knows his power. anybody else in favor of the peppers?" aloud, and looking at the company. "don't ask us if we like the peppers," cried two young ladies simultaneously. "they are our especial and particular pets, every one of them." "the peppers win," said hamilton dyce, looking full into mrs. chatterton's contemptuous face. "i'm glad to record my humble self as their admirer. now"-- "well, pa!" mary could not refrain from interrupting as her father suddenly appeared in the doorway. "i can't sit down," he said, as the company made way for him to join them. "i came home for some important papers. i suppose you have heard the trouble at the kings? i happened to drop in there. well, dyce," laying his hand on that gentleman's chair, "i scarcely expected to see you here to-day. why aren't you at the club spread?" "cousin horatio! i suppose he's had a paralytic attack," interrupted mrs. chatterton, with her most sagacious air. "what's the trouble up there?" queried mr. dyce, ignoring the question thrust at him. "it's the little beauty--phronsie," said mr. taylor. "nothing's happened to that child i hope!" cried madame dyce, paling. "now, mr. taylor, you are not going to harrow our feelings by telling us anything has harmed that lovely creature," exclaimed the two young ladies excitedly. "phronsie can't be found," said mr. taylor. "can't be found!" echoed all the voices, except mrs. chatterton's. she ejaculated "ridiculous!" hamilton dyce sprang to his feet and threw down his napkin. "excuse me, miss taylor. come, bayley, now is the time to show our devotion to the family. let us go and help them out of this." young bayley jumped lightly up and stroked his moustache like a man of affairs. "all right, dyce. bon jour, ladies." "how easily a scene is gotten up," said mrs. chatterton, "over a naughty little runaway. i wish some of the poor people in this town could have a tithe of the attention that is wasted on these peppers," she added virtuously. madame dyce turned uneasily in her seat, and played with the almonds on her plate. "i think we do best to reserve our judgments," she said coolly. "i don't believe phronsie has run away." "of course she has," asserted mrs. chatterton, in that positive way that made everybody hate her to begin with. "she was all right this morning when i left home. where else is she, if she hasn't run away, pray tell?" not being able to answer this, no one attempted it, and the meal ended in an uncomfortable silence. driving home a half-hour later, in a cab summoned for that purpose, mrs. chatterton threw off her things, angry not to find hortense at her post in the dressing-room, where she had been told to finish a piece of sewing, and not caring to encounter any of the family in their present excitement, she determined to take herself off upstairs, where "i can kill two birds with one stone; get rid of everybody, and find my box myself, because of course that child ran away before she got it." so she mounted the stairs laboriously, counting herself lucky indeed in finding the upper part of the house quite deserted, and shutting the lumber-room door when she was well within it, she proceeded to open the door of the closet. "hortense didn't tell me there was a spring lock on this door," she exclaimed, with an impatient pull. "oh! good heavens." she had nearly stumbled over phronsie pepper's little body, lying just where it fell when hope was lost. "i have had nothing to do with it," repeated mrs. chatterton to herself, following mr. king and jasper as they bore phronsie downstairs, her yellow hair floating from the pallid little face. "goodness! i haven't had such a shock in years. my heart is going quite wildly. the child probably went up there for something else; i am not supposed to know anything about it." "is she dead?" cried dick, summoned with the rest of the household by mrs. chatterton's loud screams, and quite beside himself, he clambered up the stairs to get in every one's way. mrs. chatterton, with an aimless thrust of her long jeweled hands, pushed him one side. and dick boiled over at that. "what are you here for?" he cried savagely. "you don't love her. you would better get out of the way." and no one thought to reprove him. polly was clinging to the post at the foot of the stairs. "i shall die if phronsie is dead," she said. then she looked at mother fisher, waiting for her baby. "give her to me!" said phronsie's mother, holding out imperative arms. "you would better let us carry her; well put her in your bed. only get the doctor." mr. king was almost harsh as he endeavored to pass her. but before the words were over his lips, the mother held her baby. "mamsie," cried polly, creeping over to her like a hurt little thing, "i don't believe but that she'll be all right. god won't let anything happen to our phronsie. he couldn't, mamsie." dr. fisher met them at the door. polly never forgot the long, slow terror that clutched at her heart as she scanned his face while he took the child out of the arms that now yielded up their burden. and everything turned dark before her eyes--was phronsie dead? but there was mamsie. and polly caught her breath, beat back the faintness, and helped to lay phronsie on the big bed. "clearly i have had nothing to do with it," said mrs. chatterton to herself, stumbling into a room at the other end of the hall. but her face was gray, and she found herself picking nervously at the folds of lace at her throat. "the child went up there, as all children will, to explore. i shall say nothing about it--nothing whatever. oh! how is she?" grasping blindly at jasper as he rushed by the door. "still unconscious"-- "stuff and--oh! well," muttering on. "she'll probably come to. children can bear a little confinement; an hour or two doesn't matter with them--hortense!" aloud, "bring me my sal volatile. dear me! this is telling on my nerves." she caught sight of her face in the long mirror opposite, and shivered to see how ghastly it was. "where is the girl? hortense, i say, come here this instant!" a maid, summoned by her cries, put her head in the door. "hadn't you better go into your own room, mrs. chatterton?" she said, in pity at the shaking figure and blanched face. "no--no," she sharply repulsed her. "bring hortense--where is that girl?" she demanded passionately. "she's crying," said the maid, her own eyes filling with tears. "i'll help you to your room." "crying?" madame chatterton shrieked. "she's paid to take care of me; what right has she to think of anything else?" "she says she was cross to phronsie once--though i don't see how she could be, and--and--now that she's going to die, she"--and the maid burst into tears and threw her apron over her face. "die--she shan't! what utter nonsense everybody does talk in this house!" madame chatterton seized her arm, the slender fingers tightening around the young muscles, and shook her fiercely. the maid roused by her pain out of her tears looked in affright into the gray face above her. "let me go," she cried. "oh! madame, you hurt me." "give me air," said madame chatterton, her fingers relaxing, and making a great effort not to fall. "help me over to the window, and open it, girl"--and leaning heavily on the slight figure, she managed to get across the room. "there--now," drawing a heavy breath as she sank into a chair and thrust her ashen face out over the sill, "do you go and find out how the child is. and come back and tell me at once." "madame, i'm afraid to leave you alone," said the girl, looking at her. "afraid? i'm not so old but that i can take care of myself," said mrs. chatterton with a short laugh. "go and do as i tell you," stamping her foot. "still unconscious"-- would no one ever come near her but this detestable maid, with her still more detestable news? mrs. chatterton clutched the window casing in her extremity, not feeling the soft springy air as she gasped for breath. the maid, too frightened to leave her, crept into a corner where she watched and cried softly. there was a stir in the household that they might have heard, betokening the arrival of two other doctors, but no word came. and darkness settled upon the room. still the figure in the window niche held to its support, and still the maid cried at her post. as the gray of the twilight settled over the old stone mansion, phronsie moved on her pillow. "dear mouse,"--the circle of watchers around the bed moved closer,--"i'll go away when some one comes to open the door." "hush!" dr. fisher put his hand over the mother's lips. "don't please bite me very hard. i won't come up again to your house. oh! where's grandpapa?" old mr. king put his head on his hands, and sobbed aloud. the little white face moved uneasily. "grandpapa always comes when i want him," in piteous tones. "father," said jasper, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, "you would better come out. we'll call you when she comes to herself." but mr. king gave no sign of hearing. a half-hour ticked slowly away, and phronsie spoke again. "it's growing dark, and i suppose they will never come. dear mouse"--the words died away and she seemed to sleep. "i shall not tell," mrs. chatterton was saying to herself in the other room; "what good could it do? oh! this vile air is stifling. will no one come to say she is better?" and so the night wore on. as morning broke, phronsie opened her eyes, and gave a weak little cry. polly sprang from her knees at the foot of the bed, and staggered toward the child. "don't!" cried jasper, with a hand on her arm. "let her alone," said dr. fisher quickly. "oh, polly!" phronsie raised herself convulsively on the bed. "you did come--you did!" winding her little arms around polly's neck. "has the mouse gone?" "yes, yes," said polly as convulsively; "he's all gone, phronsie, and i have you fast; just see. and i'll never let you go again." "never?" cried phronsie, straining to get up further into polly's arms. "no dear; i'll hold you close just as long as you need me." "and he won't come again?" "he can't phronsie; because, you see, i have you now." "and the door will open, and i'll have mamsie and dear grandpapa?" "yes, yes, my precious one," began mr. king, getting out of the large arm-chair into which they had persuaded him. "don't do it. stay where you are," said dr. fisher, stopping him half-way across the room. "but phronsie wants me; she said so," exclaimed old mr. king hoarsely, and trying to push his way past the doctor. "why, man, don't stop me." dr. fisher planted his small body firmly in front of the old gentleman. "you must obey me." obey? when had mr. king heard that word addressed to himself. he drew a long breath, looked full into the spectacled eyes, then said, "all right, fisher; i suppose you know best," and went back to his arm-chair. "i'm so tired, polly," phronsie was saying, and the arms, polly could feel, were dropping slowly from her neck. "are you, pet? well, now, i'll tell you what we'll do. let us both go to sleep. there, phronsie, now you put your arms down, so"--polly gave them a swift little tuck under the bed-clothes--"and i'll get up beside you, so"--and she crept on to the bed--"and we'll both go right to 'nid-nid-nodland,' don't you know?" "you're sure you won't let me go?" whispered phronsie, cuddling close, and feeling for polly's neck again. "oh! just as sure as i can be," declared polly cheerfully, while the tears rained down her cheek in the darkness. "i feel something wet," said phronsie, drawing back one hand. "what is it, polly?" "oh! that," said polly with a start. "oh--well, it's--well, i'm crying, phronsie; but i'm so glad--oh! you don't know how glad i am, sweet," and she leaned over and kissed her. "if you're glad," said phronsie weakly, "i don't care. but please don't cry if you are not glad, polly." "well, now we're fixed," said polly as gaily as she could. "give me your hand, pet. there, now, good-night." "good-night," said phronsie. polly could feel her tucking the other hand under her cheek on the pillow, and then, blessed sound--the long quiet breathing that told of rest. "oh! better, is she?" mrs. chatterton looked up quickly to see mrs. whitney's pale face. "well, i supposed she would be. i thought i'd sit here and wait to know, since you were all so frightened. but i knew it wouldn't amount to much. now, girl," nodding over to the maid still in the corner, "you may get me to bed." and she stretched her stiff limbs, and held out her hand imperatively. "it was very fortunate that i did not tell," she said, when the slow passage to her own apartments had been achieved. "now if the child will only keep still, all will be well." xviii the girls have polly again "phronsie shall have a baked apple this morning," said mother fisher, coming into the sunny room where phronsie lay propped up against the pillows. "did papa-doctor say so?" asked phronsie, a smile of supreme content spreading over her wan little face. "yes, he did," said her mother; "as nice an apple, red and shiny as we could find, is downstairs baking for you, phronsie. when it's done, sarah is to bring it up." "that will be very nice," breathed phronsie slowly. "and i want my little tea-set--just the two cups and saucers--and my own little pot and sugar-bowl. do let me, mamsie, and you shall have a cup of milk with me," she cried, a little pink color stealing into either cheek. "yes, yes, child," said mother fisher. "there, you mustn't try to lean forward. i'll bring the little table grandpapa bought, so;" she hurried over across the room and wheeled it into place. "now isn't that fine, phronsie?" as the long wing swung over the bed. "did you ever see such a tea-party as you and i'll have?" "breakfast party, mamsie!" hummed phronsie; "isn't that just lovely?" wriggling her toes under the bed-clothes. "do you think sarah'll ever bring that apple?" "yes, indeed--why, here she is now!" announced mrs. fisher cheerily. "come in, sarah," as a rap sounded on the door. "our little girl is all ready for that good apple. my! what a fine one." "bless honey's heart!" ejaculated sarah, her black face shining with delight. "ain't he a beauty, though?" setting down on the table-wing a pink plate in the midst of which reposed an apple whose crackling skin disclosed a toothsome interior. "i bring a pink sasser so's to match his insides. but ain't he rich, though!" "sarah," said phronsie, with hungry eyes on the apple, "i think he is very nice indeed, and i do thank you for bringing him." "bless her precious heart!" cried sarah, her hands on her ample hips, and her mouth extended in the broadest of smiles. "do get me a spoon, mamsie," begged phronsie, unable to take her gaze from the apple. "i'm so glad he has a stem on, sarah," carefully picking at it. "well, there," said sarah, "i had the greatest work to save that stem. but, la! i wouldn't 'a' brung one without a stem. i know'd you'd want it to hold it up by, when you'd eat the most off." "yes, i do," said phronsie, in great satisfaction fondling the stem. "and here's your spoon," said her mother, bringing it. "now, child, enjoy it to your heart's content." phronsie set the spoon within the cracked skin, and drew it out half-full. "oh, mamsie!" she cried, as her teeth closed over it, "do just taste; it's so good!" "hee-hee!" laughed sarah, "i guess 'tis. such works as i had to bake dat apple just right. but he's a beauty, ain't he, though?" phronsie did not reply, being just at that moment engaged in conveying a morsel as much like her own as possible, to her mother's mouth. "seems to me i never tasted such an apple," said mother fisher, slowly swallowing the bit. "did you, now?" cried sarah. downstairs polly was dancing around the music-room with three or four girls who had dropped in on their way from school. "give me a waltz now, polly," begged philena. "dear me, i haven't had a sight of you hardly, for so long, i am positively starved for you. i don't care for you other girls now," she cried, as the two went whirling down the long room together. "thank you, miss philena," cried the others, seizing their partners and whirling off too. "i feel as if i could dance forever," cried polly, when amy garrett turned away from the piano and declared she would play no more--and she still pirouetted on one foot, to come up red as a rose to the group. "look at polly's cheeks!" cried amy. "you've been a white little minx so long," said alexia, putting a fond arm around polly; "i went home and cried every day, after i would steal around the back way to see how phronsie was"-- "won't phronsie be downstairs soon?" asked amy. "i don't know," said polly. "papa-doctor is going to be dreadfully careful of her, that she doesn't get up too soon." "say, polly," cried another girl, "don't you have to take a lot of pills and stuff, now that dr. fisher is your father?" polly threw back her head and laughed merrily. it sounded so strangely to her to hear the sound echoing through the room so long silent, that she stopped suddenly. "oh, girls! i can't hardly believe even yet that phronsie is almost well," she cried. "well, you'd better," advised alexia philosophically, "because she is, you know. do laugh again, polly; it's good to hear you." "i can't help it," said polly, "cathie asked such a funny question." "cathie's generally a goose," said alexia coolly. "thank you," said cathie, a tall girl, with such light hair and sallow face that she looked ten years older than her fourteen summers. "i sometimes know quite as much as a few other people of my acquaintance," she said pointedly. "i didn't say but that you did," said alexia composedly. "i said you were generally a goose. and so you are. why, everybody knows that, cath." "come, come, girls, don't fight," said polly. "how can you when phronsie is getting better? alexia didn't mean anything, cathie." "yes, she did," declared cathie with a pout; "she's always meaning something. she's the hatefullest thing i ever saw!" "nonsense!" said polly, with a gay little laugh. "she says perfectly dreadful things to me, and so i do to her, but we don't either of us mind them." "well, those are in fun," said cathie; "that's a very different matter"-- "so you must make these in fun," said polly. "i would if i were you." but she drew away from alexia's arm. "polly, don't be an idiot and fight with me," whispered alexia in her ear. "go away," said polly, shaking her off. "polly, polly, i'll say anything if you won't look like that. see here, cathie, let's make up," and she ran over, seized the tall girl by the waist and spun her around till she begged to stop. "is that your way of making up?" cried cathie, when she had the breath to speak. "yes; it is as good as any other way. it spins the nonsense out of you. there!" with a last pat on the thin shoulder, she left her, and ran back to polly. "it's all done," she cried. "i'm at peace with the whole world. now don't look like an ogre any longer." "phronsie's actually hungry now all the time," confided polly in a glow, "and we can't get enough to satisfy her." "good--good!" cried the girls. "i'm going to send her some of my orange jelly," declared alexia. "i'll make it just as soon as i go home. do you think she will like it, polly?" she asked anxiously. "yes, i do believe she will," said polly, "because she loves oranges so." "well, i shan't make any old orange jelly," cried cathie, her nose in the air. "faugh! it's insipid enough!" "but 'tisn't when it's made the way alexia makes it," said polly, viewing in alarm the widening of the breach between the two. "i've eaten some of hers, and it's too splendid for anything." "i don't know anything about hers, but all orange jelly i have tasted is just horrid. i hate it! i'm going to make almond macaroons. they're lovely, polly." "oh! don't, cathie," begged polly in distress. "why not, pray tell," whirling on one set of toes. "you needn't be afraid they won't be good. i've made them thousands of times." "but she couldn't eat them," said polly. "just think, almond macaroons! why, papa-doctor would"-- "now i know the doctor makes you take perfectly terrible things, and won't let you eat anything. and macaroons are the only things i can make. it's a shame!" and down sat cathie in despair on an ottoman. "what's the matter?" dr. fisher put his head in at the doorway, his spectacled eyes sending a swift glance of inquiry around. "o dear me!" exclaimed cathie in a fright, jumping up and clutching the arm of the girl next to her. "don't let polly tell him what i said--don't." "polly won't tell," said the girl, with a superb air; "don't you know any better, cathie harrison, you goose, you!" to be called a goose by two persons in the course of an hour was too much for cathie's endurance, and flinging off the girl's arm, she cried out passionately, "i won't stay; i'm going home!" and rushed out the door. dr. fisher turned from a deliberate look at the girl's white cheeks, as she ran past, to the flushed ones before him. "i'm very sorry that anything unpleasant has happened. i dropped in to tell you of a little surprise, but i see it's no time now." "oh, papa-doctor!" cried polly, flying up to him from the center of the group, "it was nothing--only"-- "a girl's quarrel is not a slight thing, polly," said little dr. fisher gravely, "and one of your friends has gone away very unhappy." "oh! i know it," said polly, "and i'm so sorry." "we can't any of us help it," said alexia quickly. "cathie harrison has the temper of a gorilla--so there, dr. fisher." dr. fisher set his spectacles straight, and looked at alexia, but he did not even smile, as she hoped he would do. "i can't help it," she said, tracing the pattern of the carpet with the toe of her boot, "she makes us all so uncomfortable, oh! you can't think. and i wish she'd stay home forever." still no answer from the doctor. he didn't act as if he heard, but bowing gravely, he withdrew his head and shut the door. "o dear, dear!" cried alexia, when they had all looked at each other a breathing space. "why didn't he speak? i'd much rather he'd scold like everything than to look like that. polly, why don't you say something?" "because there isn't anything to say." polly got no further, and turned away, suspiciously near to tears. was this the first meeting with the girls to which she had looked forward so long? "to think of that cathie harrison making such a breeze," cried alexia angrily; "a girl who's just come among us, as it were, and we only let her in our set because miss salisbury asked us to make things pleasant for her. if it had been any one else who raised such a fuss!" meantime dr. fisher strode out to the west porch, intending to walk down to his office, and buttoning up his coat as he went along. as he turned the angle in the drive, he came suddenly upon a girl who had thrown herself down on a rustic seat under a tree, and whose shoulders were shaking so violently that he knew she was sobbing, though he heard no sound. "don't cry," said the little doctor, "and what's the matter?" all in the same breath, and sitting down beside her. cathie looked up with a gasp, and then crushed her handkerchief over her eyes. "those girls in there are perfectly horrid." "softly, softly," said dr. fisher. "i can't--help it. no matter what i say, they call me names, and i'm tired of it. o dear, dear!" "now see here," said the doctor, getting up on his feet and drawing a long breath. "i'm on my way to my office; suppose you walk along with me a bit and tell me all about it." cathie opened her mouth, intending to say, "oh! i can't"--instead, she found herself silent, and not knowing how, she was presently pacing down the drive by the doctor's side. "polly pepper!" exclaimed alexia, as a turn in the drive brought the two figures in view of the music-room windows, "did you ever see such a sight in your life? cathie is walking off with dr. fisher! there isn't anything her tongue won't say!" "did you tell polly?" cried jasper, a half-hour later, putting his head into dr. fisher's office. "oh! beg pardon; i didn't know you were busy, sir." "come in," said the doctor, folding up some powders methodically. "no, i didn't tell polly." "oh!" said jasper, in a disappointed tone. "i hadn't a fair chance"-- "but she ought to know it just as soon as it's talked of," said jasper, fidgeting at a case of little vials on the table. "oh! beg pardon again. i'm afraid i've smashed that chap," as one rolled off to the floor. "i'm no end sorry," picking up the bits ruefully. "i have several like it," said the doctor kindly, and settling another powder in its little paper. "there were a lot of girls with polly when i looked in upon her on my way out. but we'll catch a chance to tell her soon, my boy." "oh! i suppose so. a lot of giggling creatures. how polly can stand their chatter, i don't see," cried jasper impatiently. "they've been shut off from polly for some time, you know," said dr. fisher quietly. "we must remember that." "polly doesn't like some of them a bit better than i do," said jasper explosively, "only she puts up with their nonsense." "it's rather a difficult matter to pick and choose girls who are in the same classes," said the doctor, "and polly sees that." "don't i know it?" exclaimed jasper, in an astonished tone. "dear me, dr. fisher, i've watched polly for years now. and she's always done so." he stopped whirling the articles on the office table, and bestowed a half-offended look on the little physician. "softly, softly, jasper," said dr. fisher composedly. "of course you've used your eyes. now don't spoil things by saying anything, but let polly 'go her own gait,' i beg of you." then he turned to his powders once more. "she will, anyway," declared jasper. "whatever she makes up her mind to do, polly does that very thing." "not a bad characteristic," laughed the doctor. "i should say not." "now when i come up home for dinner, you and i will find polly, and tell her the good news. if she's with a lot of those silly girls, i'll--i'll tear her off this time." dr. fisher glared so fiercely as he declared this determination that jasper laughed outright. "i thought no one was to disturb polly's good intentions in that line," he cried. "well, there's an end to all things, and patience ceases to be a virtue sometimes." "so i've thought a good many times, but i've borne it like a man." jasper drew himself up, and laughed again at the doctor's face. "oh! you go along," cried dr. fisher, his eyes twinkling. "i'll meet you just before dinner." "all right," as jasper rushed off. dr. fisher jumped to his feet, pushing aside the litter of powder papers, and bottles, and ran his fingers through the shock of gray hair standing straight on his head. "yes, yes," he muttered, walking to the window, "it will be a good thing for polly, now i tell you, adoniram." he always preferred to address himself by his first name; then he was sure of a listener. "a vastly good thing. it's quite time that some of the intimacies with these silly creatures are broken up a bit, while the child gains immensely in other ways." he rubbed his palms gleefully. "oh! good-morning, good-morning!" a patient walking in, looked up at the jolly little doctor. "i wish i could laugh like that," he ejaculated, his long face working in the unusual effort to achieve a smile. "you would if you had a gay crowd of children such as i have," cried the little doctor proudly. "why, man, that's better than all my doses." "but i haven't the children," said the patient sourly, and sitting down with a sigh. "i pity you, then," said dr. fisher, with the air of having been a family man for years. "well, besides owning the peppers, i'm going off with them to"--there he stopped, for before he knew it, the secret was well-nigh out. xix phronsie is well again but polly was not to be told yet. when papa fisher walked in to dinner, the merry party around the oak table were waiting over the ices and coffee for his appearance. "oh, papa fisher!" cried polly in dismay, turning from one of alexia's sallies, and dropping her spoon. "now you're all tired out--too bad!" mother fisher flushed up, and set her lips closely together. ben looked disapproval across the board, and polly knew that the wrong thing had been said. "oh! i didn't mean--of course you must take care of the sick people," she said impulsively. "yes, i must," said dr. fisher wearily, and pushing up the shock of gray hair to a stiffer brush over his brow. "that's what i set out to do, i believe." "but that's no reason why you should tire yourself to death, and break down the first year," said mr. king, eyeing him sharply. "zounds, man, that isn't what i brought you up from the country for." dr. fisher looked into his wife's eyes and smiled. "i believe you brought me," the smile said. but he kept his tongue still. "and you must get accustomed to seeing suffering that you can't help. why, man alive, the town's full of it; you can't expect to stop it alone." "i'll do what i can to help," said the little doctor between his teeth, and taking a long draught of the coffee his wife put by his plate. "i suppose there's no objection to that. now, that's good," smacking his lips in a pleased way. "of course not, if you help in the right way," said old mr. king stoutly, "but i'll wager anything that you're picking up all sorts of odd jobs among the poor, that belong to the young doctors. your place is considerably higher, where you can pick and choose your patients." dr. fisher laughed--an odd little laugh, that along with its pleasant note, carried the ring of a strong will. "oh! well, you know, i'm too old to learn new ways," he said. "better let me wag on at the old ones." mr. king gave an exclamation of disapproval. "it's lucky your time is short," he said grimly, and the secret was nearly out! "phronsie is coming downstairs to-morrow, isn't she?" asked jasper quickly, over to the doctor. "oh! no, indeed, i think not," answered mr. king before dr. fisher had time to reply. "she would better wait a day or two longer. isn't that so, doctor?" at last appealing to him. "i don't agree with you," the little doctor drew off his attention from his plate. "you see she has regained her strength remarkably. now the quicker she is in the family life again, the better for her." "oh, good! good!" cried polly, delighted at the safe withdrawal from the precipice of dangerous argument. "alexia, now you must help us think up something to celebrate her coming downstairs." "not so fast, polly." the little doctor beamed at her in a way surprising to see after the morning's affair. "phronsie won't be ready for any celebration before next week. then i think you may venture." alexia pouted and played with her spoon. "o dear!" cried dick dolefully, "what's the reason we must wait a whole week, pray tell?" "because father fisher says so," replied ben across the table; "that's the principal reason--and it doesn't need any more to support it"-- "well, i tell you," broke in polly in her brightest way, "let us think up perfectly splendid things. it's best as it is, for it will take us a week to get ready." "i shall get her a new doll," declared mr. king. the rest shouted. "her others must be quite worn out." "what could you get her," cried mr. whitney, "in the way of a doll? do tell us, for i really do not see." "why, one of those phonograph dolls, to be sure," cried mr. king promptly. "are they on sale yet?" asked jasper. "i thought they had not perfected them enough for the market." "i think i know where one can be bought," said his father. "they must be perfected--it's all nonsense that i can't find one if phronsie wants it! yes, she shall have a phonograph doll." "that will be perfectly elegant," exclaimed polly, with sparkling eyes. "won't phronsie be delighted when she hears it talk?" "she ought to have a punch and judy show," said mrs. whitney, "she's always so pleased with them, father." mr. king pushed away his coffee-cup, and pulled out his note-book. "'punch and judy,' down that goes," he said, noting it after "phonograph doll." "what else?" "can't we have some of those boys up from the orphan asylum?" asked polly, after a minute in which everybody had done a bit of hard thinking. "phronsie loves to hear them sing when she goes there. oh! they are so cunning." "she'll want to give them her best toys and load them down with all her possessions. you see if she doesn't," warned jasper. "well, she won't give away her new doll, anyway," cried polly. "no, she never gives away one of the dolls you've given her, father," said mrs. whitney slowly, "not a single one. i tried her one day, asking her to give me one to bestow on a poor child, and she quite reproached me by the look in her brown eyes. i haven't asked her since." "what did she say?" asked mr. king abruptly. "'i can't, auntie; dear grandpapa gave them to me himself.' then she ran for her savings bank, and poured out the money in my lap. 'let's go out and buy the poor child a doll,' she begged, and i really had to do it. and there must be at least two hundred dolls in this house." "two hundred dolls!" cried alexia in astonishment, and raising her hands. "why, yes; father has been bringing phronsie dolls for the last five years, with the greatest faithfulness, till her family has increased to a painful extent." "o dear me!" cried alexia, with great emphasis. "i should think they'd be under foot in every room." "well, indeed they're not," said polly; "she keeps them up in her playroom." "and the playroom closet," said mrs. whitney, "that is full. i peeped in there yesterday, and the dolls are ranged according to the times when father gave them to her." "and the baby-house is just crowded," laughed jasper. "i know, because i saw her moving out her chairs and tables to make room." "o dear me!" exclaimed alexia again, for want of something else to say. "i just hate dolls," exploded dick. "faugh! how can girls play with them; they're so silly. and phronsie always has something to do for hers, so she can't come when i want her to. i wish they were burned up," he added vindictively. mr. king rubbed his forehead in a puzzled way. "perhaps she has enough," he said at last. "yet what shall i give her if i don't buy a doll?" "i'd give her the phonograph one, father," said mrs. whitney, "anyway." "yes, of course; but after that, what shall i do?" he looked so troubled that mrs. whitney hastened to say, "oh, well, father! you know when you are abr"--and the secret was nearly out for the second time! but they were saved by the appearance of alexia's father, who often dropped in on the edge of the dinner hour, for a second cup of coffee. the next morning phronsie was waiting for grandpapa king, who insisted that no one else should carry her downstairs, the remainder of the household in various stages of delight and expectation, revolving around her, and curbing their impatience as best they might, in hall and on staircase. "oh, grandpapa! do hurry," begged dick, kicking his heels on the stairs. "hush, dicky boy," said mamma. "grandpapa can't come till his agent is gone. don't you hear them talking in the library?" "well i wish mr. frazer would take himself off; he's a nuisance," declared the boy. "he's been here a whole hour." "here comes grandpapa!" announced polly gleefully, from a station nearer the library. "hush, now, mr. frazer's going!" the library door opening at this announcement, and a few sentences charged with business floating up the staircase, the bustle around phronsie became joyfully intense. "mamsie, don't you think she ought to have a shawl on?" cried polly anxiously, running over the stairs. "she's been shut up so long!" "no," said mother fisher. "doctor told me particularly not to bundle her up. it was the last thing he said before he went to his office." "well," said polly with a sigh, "then there isn't absolutely anything more to do for her. why doesn't grandpapa come?" "you are worse than dicky," said mrs. fisher with a little laugh. "dear me, polly, just think how old you are." phronsie stood quite still in the middle of the floor and folded her hands. "i want to see grandpapa all alone when he comes up," she said. "what for?" cried polly, pausing in astonishment. "do you want us all to go out, phronsie?" asked her mother slowly. "yes," said phronsie, shaking her yellow head with great decision, "please every single one go out, mamsie. i want to see grandpapa quite alone." "all right, child," said mrs. fisher, with a look at polly. so after a little demur and consequent delay on the part of the others, the door was closed and she was left standing all alone. phronsie drew a long breath. "i wish grandpapa would come," she said to herself. "and so you wanted me, did you, dear?" cried mr. king joyfully, as he hurried in and closed the door carefully. "well, now, see if i can guess what you want to tell me." "grandpapa," said phronsie, standing quite still and turning a puzzled face toward him, "i don't want to tell you anything; i want to ask you something." "well, well, dear, what is it?" old mr. king, not stopping for a chair, leaned over her and stroked her yellow head. "now, then, look up, and ask me right off, phronsie." "must a person keep a promise?" asked phronsie, "a really and truly promise, grandpapa?" "yes, yes," said the old gentleman with great abruptness, "to be sure one must, phronsie. to be sure. so now if any one has promised you anything, do you make him stick to it. it's mean enough to break your word, child." phronsie drew a long breath. "that's all, grandpapa," she said, and lifting up her arms; "now take me downstairs, please." she laid a cool little cheek against his, as he raised her to his shoulder. "remember what i say, phronsie," laughed mr. king, his mind more intent on the delightful fact that he was carrying down the longed-for burden to the family life, than on what he was saying, "and if any one has promised you anything, keep him up sharp to pay you. i verily believe it is that scamp dick. here goes!" and reaching the door he threw it wide. "forward, march!" "well, is the important conference over?" asked polly, with a keen look at them both. mrs. fisher's eyes did their duty, but she said nothing. "yes, indeed," declared mr. king, marching on gaily. "now clear the way there, all you good people. here, you dick, drumming your heels, go ahead, sir." "i'm glad enough to," shouted dick, racing down the remainder of the stairs. "halloo, phronsie," waving his hand at her, "three cheers and a tiger! bother! here comes mrs. chatterton." which was quite true. to every one's astonishment the door of that lady's apartment opened slowly, disclosing her in new morning wrapper, preparing to join the cavalcade. "good morning, cousin eunice," cried mr. king gaily. he could be merry with any one this day. "come on, this is a festal occasion, you see; phronsie's going downstairs for the first time. fall into line!" "i'm not able to go down," said mrs. chatterton, coming slowly out into the hall, "but i'll stand here and see the parade." "bully!" exploded dick softly, peering up from the foot of the stairs. phronsie looked over mr. king's shoulder at her as she was borne down the stairs, and, putting out her hand, "i'm all well now," she said. "yes, i see," said mrs. chatterton. then she pulled up her white shawl with a shiver. "it's rather cold here," she said; "after all, i believe i must get back to my room." nobody noticed when she crept back, the hilarity now being so great below stairs. "i certainly am losing ground," she muttered, "every little thing affects me so. i'll step into bartram's office next time i go down town and set that little matter straight, since i've made up my mind to do it. it never would do to let him come to the house. horatio would suspect something to see my lawyer here, and the whole household imagine i was going to die right off. no, no; i must go there, that's clear. then if it's attended to, i'll live all the longer, with nothing on my mind." phronsie, meanwhile, was going around from room to room in a pleased way, and touching different objects gently "everything's new, isn't it, polly," she said at last, "when you stay upstairs? oh! there's my kittens in the basket," pointing to a bisque vase on the table. "yes," said polly; "mamsie brought it in here. and we've some flowers; alexia sent them over. they're out in the back hall; we saved them for you to put in yourself." "oh!" exclaimed phronsie, "that's so good in you, polly." "don't stop now," cried dick in disgust. "faugh! you can fix flowers any time. come out into the dining-room--and you'll see something you'll like." phronsie smothered a sigh, and turned slowly away from the kittens waiting in their basket for alexia's flowers. "come on!" shouted dick, seizing her hand. "you never can guess what it is, in all this world." "is it a new dog?" asked phronsie fearfully, whose memory of dick's latest purchase was not altogether happy. "no," said dick, pulling her on, "better than that." "don't hurry her so," said polly. "what have you got, dick?" "now, do you mind, sir," cried jasper, "else well stop your pretty plan." "i won't hurry her," said dick, slackening his gait. "well, here we are," opening the dining-room door. "why, jane has let it out!" phronsie fell back a step at this and tried to cover her feet with her gown, searching the floor for the "it." "lookout!" cried dick suddenly. "there he goes!" and something whirred over phronsie's head. "oh! what is it?" she cried, tumbling into jasper's arms and clasping his neck. "oh! oh!" "why, it's a swallow," cried dick, in the babel that ensued, "a beautiful one, too. i've just caught him, and i made jane let me bring it in here to surprise you," he added proudly. "well, you've succeeded," cried jasper, holding phronsie close. "there, there, child, it's all right. it's a bird, phronsie, and he's gone upstairs." "he'll frighten my dolls," cried phronsie in new alarm, hanging to jasper's neck. "oh! do let us go upstairs, and tell them he's only a bird." "run along, dick, and catch your old bird," cried jasper, "and clear out with him--quick now!" "he's the best thing there is in this house," cried dick, going over the back stairs two at a time. "girls are so silly." "bring him down," said polly, moving along to the foot, "and i'll show him to phronsie, and tell her about him. then she'll like him, dick." "i'll like him, dick," echoed phronsie, "if he doesn't frighten my dolls." this episode taking the family life to the rear of the house, no one noticed that soft footsteps were passing through the open front door, that jane, who was sweeping the vestibule, had left ajar to run and tell dick that she had not let the bird out of the dining-room. so the uninvited guest to the household let himself up easily to the scene of his hopes--the location of the ladies' jewel-boxes. xx the secret mrs. chatterton, standing by her toilet table, carefully examining her wealth of gray hair to note the changes in its tint, was suddenly surprised in the very act of picking out an obnoxious white hair, by a slight noise in the further corner of the apartment. and dropping her fingers quickly and turning away from the glass, she exclaimed, "how dare you, hortense, come in without knocking?" "if you make a noise i'll kill you," declared a man, standing in the shadow of a portiere and watching her underneath a slouched black hat. there was a slight click that caused the listener's nerves to thrill. but her varied life had brought her nothing if not self-control, and she coolly answered, "if you want my money, say so." "not exactly money, ma'am," said the man, "for i don't suppose you have much here. but i'll thank you to hand over that there box of diamonds." he extended the other hand with its dingy fingers toward a large ebony jewel-case elaborate with its brass hinges, and suggestive of double locks, on a corner of the table. "if you are determined to take it, i suppose i must give it to you," said mrs. chatterton, with evident reluctance handing the box designated, very glad to think she had but a few days before changed the jewels to another repository to escape hortense's prying eyes. in making the movement she gave a sweeping glance out the window. should she dare to scream? michael was busy on the lawn, she knew; she could hear his voice talking to one of the under gardeners. "see here, old lady," warned the man, "you keep your eyes in the room. now then," his greedy glance fastened on the glittering gems on her fingers, "i'll thank you to rip them things off." dick, racing along the further end of the hall after his bird with a "whoop, la--i've almost caught you," startling him, he proceeded to perform the service for himself. "there he goes!" cried dick, "in her room. bother! well, i must catch him." so without the preamble of knocking, the boy dashed into the dressing-room. the bird whizzing ahead of him, flashed between the drawn folds of the portiere. "excuse me," cried dick, rushing in, "but my swallow--oh!" "go back!" cried mrs. chatterton hoarsely, "you'll be killed." the bird flying over his head, and the appearance of the boy, disconcerted the robber for one instant. he held the long white hand in his, tearing off the rings. there was no chance for her to escape, she knew, but she could save dick. "go back!" she screamed again. there was only a moment to think, but dick dashed in, and with a mighty spirit, but small fists, he flung himself against the stalwart arms and shoulders. "o heavens!" screamed mrs. chatterton. "he's but a boy, let him go. you shall have the rings. help--help!" dick, clutching and tearing blindly at whatever in the line of hair or ragged garment he could lay hold of, was waging an unequal warfare. but what he did was accomplished finely. and the bird, rushing blindly into the midst of the contention, with whirrings and flappings indescribable, helped more than an army of servants, to confuse the man. notwithstanding, it was soon over, but not before mrs. chatterton had wrenched her fingers free, and grasped the pistol from its loose hold in his other hand. the box under his arm fell to the floor, and dick was just being tossed to the other side of the room; she could hear him strike the cheval-glass with a dull thud. "i can shoot as well as you," said mrs. chatterton, handling the pistol deftly. "make a noise, and i will." he knew it, by her eyes, and that she had taken good aim. "where are you, dick?" cried polly's voice outside, and rapping at the door. "mrs. chatterton, have you seen him?" "come in," called mrs. chatterton, with firmest of fingers on the trigger and her flashing eyes fastened upon the seamed, dirty face before her. polly threw wide the door. "we have a man here that we don't want," said mrs. chatterton. "i'll take care of him till you get help. hurry!" "oh, dick!" cried polly in a breath, with a fearful glance at the boy lying there. "i think he's all right, polly." she dared say no more, for dick had not stirred. polly clasped her hands, and rushed out almost into jasper's face. "a burglar--a burglar!" and he dashed into mrs. chatterton's room. "don't interfere," said mrs. chatterton. "i'm a splendid markswoman." "you needn't shoot," said the man sullenly. "i won't stir." "no, i don't think you will," said the gray-haired woman, her eyes alight, and hand firm as a rock. "well, here are the men." jasper had seized a table-spread, and as michael and the undergardeners advanced, he went back of the robber, and cleverly threw it over his head. it was easy to secure and bind him then. polly rushed over to dick. "turn the creature over and let us see how he looks," said mr. king, hurrying in as the last knot of the rope was made fast. the old slouched hat had fallen off in the struggle, and the man's features came plainly to view. "he's no beauty, and that's a fact." "i've seen that fellow round here for many a day," said michael, giving the recumbent legs a small kick. "oncet he axed me ef we wanted ony wourk done. i mind yees, yer see," with another attention from his gardening boot. "i want to tie one rope," cried a voice. dick opened his eyes, rubbed them, and felt of his head. "i'm all right, polly. i saw stars, but i've got over it, i guess. let me give him the last knot." he staggered blindly to his feet. "i'll tie for you," said jasper, "trust me, dick's all right, only stunned," he telegraphed to the rapidly increasing group. "tell his mother so, do, somebody," said old mr. king. "well, cousin eunice, you've covered yourself with glory," he turned on her warmly. she had thrown aside the pistol, and now sank into a chair. "never mind," she waved it off carelessly, "i'll imagine the compliments. just now i want a glass of wine. call hortense, will you?" the man on the floor tried to raise his head. but he couldn't, so was obliged to content himself with an ugly grin. "that bird has flown," he said. "i'll peep. she put me up to it; we was goin' shares on the old lady's stuff." with that mrs. chatterton's spirit returned. she sprang from her chair, and rushed around from bureau to closet to see the extent of her maid's dishonesty. but beyond a few minor deficiencies of her wardrobe, there was no robbery to speak of. evidently hortense had considered it unwise to be burdened with much impedimenta. so the robber was hauled off to justice, and phronsie, coming wonderingly up the stairs, came softly in upon them, in time to see dick rush up to mrs. chatterton with a "you're a brick!" before them all. after that, there was no more hope of keeping things quiet in the house for phronsie's sake. meanwhile the bird, who had played no mean part in the engagement, now asserted himself, and blindly rushed into capture. "isn't he lovely!" cried phronsie, tearing her gaze off from the wonderful wings, as the swallow fluttered under the mosquito netting speedily brought in. "yes, his wings are," said polly. "oh, dick! do tell over again how it all happened." so dick rehearsed once more as far as he knew the story, tossing off lightly his part of it. "your poor head, does it ache?" cried polly, feeling of the big bump on the crown. "no, not a bit," declared dick, shaking his brown poll. "i'm glad i didn't crack the glass." "that heavy plate?" cried polly, looking over at the cheval-glass with a shiver. phronsie deserted the fascinating bird, and began to smooth dick's head with both hands. "do let me bathe it," she begged. "i'll get the pond's extract." "no, i won't," said dick. "it smells awfully, and i've had so much of it for my leg. i'm all right, phronsie. see his wings now--he's stretching." but phronsie was not to be diverted from her purpose. "i'll get bay rum," she said. "may i?" dick made a wry face. "worse and worse." "cologne, then." "no, i hate it." "he doesn't want it bathed, phronsie dear," said polly. "boys like to get hurt, you know. 'tisn't manly to be fixed up." phronsie gave a sigh, which so went to dick's heart, that he said, "all right, bring on some water if you want to. but don't get any brown paper; i had enough of that when i was a boy." and at the end of that exciting day, the secret came out, after all, in rather a tame fashion. dr. fisher and jasper met polly in an angle of the hall, as she was running upstairs after dinner for her schoolbooks. "polly," asked the little doctor, putting both hands on her shoulders, and looking into the brown eyes, "should you be willing to go abroad with your mother and phronsie, mr. king and jasper?" "oh!" polly gasped. "but you?" came in a later breath, "we couldn't leave you," she cried loyally. "well, i suppose i should go along too," said the little doctor, enjoying her face. "why, jasper elyot king!" cried polly, slipping out from under the doctor's palms, and seizing the two hands extended, she began to spin around as in the olden days, "did you ever, ever hear of anything so perfectly magnificent! but ben and joel and davie!" and she paused on the edge of another pirouette. dr. fisher made haste to answer, "polly, mrs. whitney will take care of them." and jasper led her off into the dance again. "how can we ever leave the boys! oh! i don't see," cried polly, a bit reproachfully, her hair blown over her rosy cheeks. as they danced lightly down the long hall, dr. fisher leaned against a pillar, and watched them. "have to," said jasper, guiding his partner deftly in the intricacies of the chairs and statuary. "that's a good spin, polly," he said, as they brought up by the little doctor's side. "lovely!" said polly, pushing back her locks from the sparkling eyes. "i'm almost tempted to dance myself," said dr. fisher. "if i wasn't such an old fellow, i'd try; that is, if anybody asked me." "i will," said polly, laughing. "come, papa fisher," holding out her hand, "do give me the honor." "all right," said dr. fisher bravely. so jasper took the deserted post by the pillar, and whistled a strauss waltz. thereupon a most extraordinary hopping up and down the hall was commenced, the two figures bobbing like a pair of corks on a quivering water-surface. the doors opened, and several faces appeared, amongst the number mrs. fisher's. "i couldn't help it," said the little doctor, coming up red and animated, and wiping his forehead. his spectacles had fallen off long since, and he had let them go. "it looked so nice to see jasper and polly, i thought i'd try it. i didn't suppose i'd get on so well; i really believe i can dance." "humph!" laughed mr. king, "it looks like it. just see polly." "oh, papa fisher!" cried polly with a merry peal in which jasper, unpuckering his lips from the strauss effort, had joined, "we must have looked"--here she went off again. "yes," said jasper, "you did. that's just it, polly, you did. lucky you two caperers didn't break anything." "well, if you've got through laughing," observed dr. fisher, "i'll remark that the secret is out." "do you like it, polly?" asked mr. king, holding out his hand. "say, my girl?" and then before she could answer, he went on, "you see, we can't do anything without a doctor on our travels. now providence has given us one, though rather an obstinate specimen," he pointed to father fisher. "and he wants to see the hospitals, and you want to study a bit of music, and your mother wants rest, and jasper and phronsie and i want fun, so we're going, that's all." "when?" demanded polly breathlessly. "in a month." xxi the whitneys' little plan "i think it's a mean shame," cried joel, on a high vindictive key. "you've had burglars here twice, and i haven't been home." "you speak as if we appointed the meeting, joe," said ben with a laugh. "well, it's mean, anyway," cried joel, with a flash of his black eyes. "now there won't any come again in an age." "goodness, i hope not," ejaculated mr. king, lowering his newspaper to peer over its top. "i'd have floored him," declared joel, striking out splendidly from the shoulder, "if i'd only have been here." "all very well," said percy negligently, "but you weren't here," and he laughed softly. "do you mean to say that i couldn't have handled the burglar?" demanded joel belligerently, and advancing on percy, "say? because if you do, why, i'll try a bout with you." "i didn't say anything what you could or couldn't do. i said you weren't here, and you weren't. that's enough," and percy turned his back on him, thrust his hands in the pockets of his morning jacket and stalked to the window. van opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, and gave a low whistle. joel, finding no enthusiasm for tales of his fighting prowess, ran off to interview dick on the old topic of the burglary and to obtain another close account of its details. "to think phronsie saw the other burglar five years ago, and now dick was on hand for this one--those two babies," he fumed, "and none of us men around." "percy," said van, "come out in the hall, will you?" "what do you want?" asked percy lazily. "oh! you come along," cried van, laying hold of his jacket. "see here," dropping his voice cautiously, as he towed him successfully out, "let's give joe a chance to see a burglar; he wants to so terribly." "what do you mean?" asked percy, with astonished eyes, his hands still in his pockets. van burst into a loud laugh, then stopped short. "it'll take two of us," he whispered. "oh, van!" exclaimed percy, and pulling his hands from their resting places, he clapped them smartly together. "but we ought not, i really suppose," he said at last, letting them fall to his sides. "mamma mightn't like it, you know." "she wouldn't mind," said van, yet he looked uneasy. "it would be a great comfort to every one, to take joe down. he does yarn so." "it's an old grudge with you," said percy pleasantly. "you know he beat you when you were a little fellow, and he'd just come." "as if i cared for that," cried van in a dudgeon, "that was nothing. i didn't half try; and he went at me like a country sledge-hammer." "yes, i remember," percy nodded placidly, "and you got all worsted and knocked into a heap. everybody knew it." "do you suppose i'd pound a visitor?" cried van wrathfully, his cheeks aflame. "say, percy whitney?" "no, i don't," said percy, "not when 'twas joe." "that's just it. he was polly's brother." at mention of polly, percy's color rose, and he put out his hand. "beg pardon, van," he said. "here, shake, and make up. i forgot all about our promise," he added penitently. "i forgot it, too," declared van, quieting down, and thrusting out his brown palm to meet his brother's. "well, i don't care what you say if you'll only go halves in this lark," he finished, brightening up. "well, i will," said percy, to make atonement. "come up to our room, then, and think it out," cried van gleefully, flying over the stairs three at a bound. "sh--sh! and hurry up!" just then the door-bell gave a loud peal, and jencks the butler opened it to receive a box about two feet long and one broad. "for miss phronsie pepper," said the footman on the steps, holding it out, "but it's not to be given to her till to-morrow." "all right," said jencks, taking it. "that's the sixth box for miss phronsie that i've took in this morning," he soliloquized, going down the hall and reading the address carefully. "and all the same size." "ding-a-ling," jencks laid the parcel quickly on one of the oaken chairs in the hall, and hurried to the door, to be met by another parcel for "miss phronsie pepper: not to be given to her till to-morrow." "and the i-dentical size," he ejaculated, squinting at it as he went back to pick up the first parcel, "as like as two peas, they are." upstairs polly was at work with happy fingers, alexia across the room, asking every third minute, "polly, how does it go? o dear! i can't do anything unless you look and see if it's right." and polly would turn her back on a certain cloud of white muslin and floating lace, and flying off to alexia to give the necessary criticism, with a pull here and a pat there, would set matters straight, presently running back to her own work again. "you see," she said, "everything must be just right, for next to mamsie's wedding, this is to be the most important occasion, alexia rhys, that we've ever known. we can't have anything too nice for phronsie's getting-well party." "that's so," said alexia, twitching a pink satin bow on the handle of a flower-basket. "o dear me! this bow looks like everything! i've tried six different times to make it hang down quite careless and refined. and just to provoke me, it pokes up like a stiff old thing in my face. do come and tie it, polly." so polly jumped up again, and laying determined fingers on the refractory bow, sent it into a shape that alexia protested was "too lovely for anything." "are you going to have a good-by party?" asked alexia after a minute. "i suppose so," said polly. "grandpapa said i would better, but o dear me, i don't believe i can ever get through with it in all this world," and polly hid her face behind a cloud of muslin that was slowly coming into shape as a dress for one of phronsie's biggest dolls. "it will be dreadful," said alexia, with a pathetic little sniff, and beginning on a second pink bow, "but then, you know, it's your duty to go off nicely, and i'm sure you can't do it, polly, without a farewell party." "yes," said polly slowly, "but then i'd really rather write little notes to all the girls. but i suppose they'll all enjoy the party," she added. "indeed they will," declared alexia quickly. "o dear me, i wish i was going with you. you'll have a perfectly royal time. "i'm going to work hard at my music, you know," declared polly, raising her head suddenly, a glow on her round cheek. "oh! well, you'll only peg away at it when you've a mind," said alexia carelessly, and setting lazy stitches. "most of the time you'll be jaunting around, seeing things, and having fun generally. oh! don't i wish i was going with you." "alexia rhys!" cried polly in astonishment, and casting her needle from her, she deserted the muslin cloud summarily. "only peg away when i have the mind?" she repeated indignantly. "well, i shall have the mind most of the time, i can tell you. why, that's what i am going abroad for, to study music. how can i ever teach it, if i don't go, pray tell?" she demanded, and now her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. "oh! nonsense," cried alexia, not looking at the face before her, and going on recklessly, "as if that meant anything, all that talk about your being a music-teacher, polly," and she gave a little incredulous laugh. polly got out of her chair somehow, and stood very close to the fussing fingers over the pink satin bow. "do you never dare say that to me again," she commanded; "it's the whole of my life to be a music-teacher--the very whole." "oh, polly!" down went the satin bow dragging with it alexia's spool of silk and the dainty scissors. "don't--don't--i didn't mean anything; but you really know that mr. king will never let you be a music-teacher in all this world. never; you know it, polly. oh! don't look like that; please don't." "he will," said polly, in a low but perfectly distinct voice, "for he has promised me." "well, he'll get out of it somehow," said alexia, her evil genius urging her on, "for you know, polly, it would be too queer for any of his family, and--and a girl of our set, to turn out a music-teacher. you know, polly, that it would." and alexia smiled in the most convincing way and jumped up to throw her arms around her friend. "if any of the girls in our set," said polly grandly, and stepping off from alexia, "wish to draw away from me, they can do so now. i am to be a music-teacher; i'm perfectly happy to be one, i want you all to understand. just as happy as i can possibly be in all this world. why, it's what i've been studying and working for, and how else do you suppose i can ever repay dear grandpapa for helping me?" her voice broke, and she stopped a minute, clasping her hands tightly to keep back the rush of words. "oh, polly!" cried alexia in dismay, and beginning to whimper, she tried again to put her arm around her. "don't touch me," said polly, waving her off with an imperative hand. "oh, polly! polly!" "and the rest of our set may feel as you do; then i don't want them to keep on liking me," said polly, with her most superb air, and drawing off further yet. "polly, if you don't stop, you'll--you'll kill me," gasped alexia. "oh, polly! i don't care what you are. you may teach all day if you want to, and i'll help get you scholars. i'll do anything, and so will all the girls; i know they will. polly, do let me be your friend just as i was. o, dear, dear! i wish i hadn't said anything--i wish i had bitten my tongue off; i didn't think you'd mind it so much," and now alexia broke down, and sobbed outright. "you've got to say it's glorious to teach," said polly, unmoved, and with her highest air on, "and that you're glad i'm going to do it." "it's glo--glorious to teach," mumbled poor alexia behind her wet handkerchief. "and i'm glad you're going to do it," dictated polly inflexibly. "i'm glad you're going to do it," echoed alexia in a dismal tone. "then i'll be your friend once more," consented polly with a slow step toward alexia, "that is, if you never in all this world say such a dreadful thing again, alexia rhys." "don't ask me. you know i won't," promised alexia, her spirits rising. so polly went over to her and set a kiss on her wet cheek, comforting her as only polly could, and before long the pink satin bow, with the spool of silk hanging to it, and the scissors were found under the table, and polly attacked the muslin cloud with redoubled vigor, and the girls' voices carried merry laughter and scraps of happy talk, and mrs. chatterton stole out of the little reading-room next to them and shut herself up in her own apartment. "dear me, how fine that doll's gown is to be, polly," exclaimed alexia after a bit. "is the lace going on all around the bottom?" "yes," said polly, biting off her thread, and giving the muslin breadths a little shake; "felicie is tucking the flounce; then i shall have to sew on the lace." "how many dolls are there to refurbish before to-morrow?" asked alexia suddenly. "four--no, five," said polly, rapidly counting; "for the one that grandpapa gave her christmas before last, celestine, you know, does need a new waist. i forgot her. but that doesn't count the new sashes, and the hair ribbons and the lace ruffles around the necks; i guess there are almost fifty of them. dear me, i must hurry," and she began to sew faster yet. "what a nuisance all those dolls are," said alexia, "they take up every bit of your spare time." "that isn't the worst of it," said polly. "alexia, i don't know what we shall do, for phronsie works over them till she's quite tired out. you ought to see her this morning." "she's up in the play-house at it now, i suppose," said alexia, "dressing every one of them for the party to-morrow." "yes," said polly, "she is." "well, i hope no one will give her a doll to-morrow," said alexia, "at least no one but mr. king. of course he will." "oh! no one else will," declared polly cheerfully. "of course not, alexia." and then jencks walked in with his seven boxes exactly alike as to size, and deposited them solemnly in a row on the blue and white lounge. "for miss phronsie pepper, and not to be opened till to-morrow, miss mary." "polly," said alexia in a stage whisper, and jumping up as jencks disappeared, to run over to the row, "do you suppose they are dolls?" "i shall die if they are," declared polly desperately, and sitting quite still. "they surely look like dolls on the very covers," said alexia, fingering the cords. "would it be so very wrong to open one box, and just relieve our suspense? just one, polly?" "no, no, don't," cried polly sharply. "they belong to phronsie. but o dear me!" "and just think," said alexia, like a job's comforter, and looking over at the clock, "it's only half-past eleven. polly pepper, there's time for oceans more to come in yet." "it's perfectly horrid to get such a scrap of an outing," said joel that night, sprawling on the rug before the library fire, "only four days! why couldn't mr. marks be sick longer than that, if he was going to be sick at all, pray?" "these four days will give you strength for your 'exams,' won't they, joe?" asked van. joel turned his black eyes on him and coolly said "yes," then made a wry face, doubled up a bit of paper, and aimed it at van. davie sighed, and looked up anxiously. "i hope mr. marks will come out all right so that we can go back monday." "i only hope he'll stay ill," said joel affectionately. "'tisn't safe anyway for us to go back monday. it may be typhoid fever, you know, mamsie," looking over at her. "they'll let us know soon enough if that's the case," said mother fisher in the lamp-light over by the center-table. "no, i expect your letter to-morrow will say 'come monday.'" "well, it's a downright shame for us to be pulled off so soon," cried joel indignantly, sitting straight. "think how soon the term ends, joe," cried polly, "then you have such a long outing." she sighed as she thought of the separation to come, and the sea between them. "that's nothing; only a dreadful little time--soon will be gone," grunted joel, turning his face to look at the brightly-leaping flames the cool evening had made necessary. ben glanced over at polly. "don't talk of the summer," he was going to say, but stopped in time. phronsie set her doll carefully in the corner of the sofa, and went over to joel. "does your head ache often at school, joel?" she asked, softly laying her cool little palm on his stubby hair. "yes," said joel, "it does, awfully, phronsie; and nobody cares, and says 'stop studying." a shout greeted this. "that's too bad," said phronsie pityingly, "i shall just write and ask mr. marks if he won't let you stop and rest when it aches." "'twouldn't do any good, phronsie," said joel, "nothing would. he's a regular old grinder, marks is." "mr. marks," said phronsie slowly, "i don't know who you mean by marks, joel. and what is a grinder, please?" getting down on her knees to look in his face. "and he works us boys so, phronsie--you can't think," said joel, ignoring the question. "what is a grinder, joel, please tell me," repeated phronsie with gentle persistence. "oh! a grinder is a horrid buffer," began joel impatiently. "joel," said mrs. fisher, reprovingly. the fire in her black eyes was not pleasant to look at, and after one glance, he turned back to the blazing logs once more. "i can't help it," he muttered, picking up the tongs to poke the fire. "don't ever let me hear that excuse from a son of mine," said mother fisher scornfully. "can't help it. i'd be master of myself, that's one thing." joel set the tongs back with an unsteady hand. they slipped and fell to the hearth with a clang. "mamsie, i didn't mean," he began, finding his feet. and before any one could draw a long breath, he rushed out of the room. there was a dreadful pause. polly clasped her hands tightly together, and looked at her mother. mrs. fisher quietly put her sewing into the big basket and got out of her chair. "oh! what is the matter with joey?" cried phronsie, standing quite still by the deserted hearth-rug. "mamsie, do you suppose his head aches?" "i think it must," said mrs. fisher gravely. then she went out very quietly and they could hear her going up the stairs. with a firm step she went into her own room, and turned up the gas. the flash revealed joel, face downward on the broad, comfortable sofa. mrs. fisher went over and closed the door, then came to his side. "i thought, my boy," she said, "that i should find you here. now then, tell mother all about it," and lifting his head, she sat down and took it into her lap. "o dear!" cried joel, burrowing deep in the comfortable lap, "o dear--o dear!" "now, that is silly, joey," said mother fisher, "tell me at once what all this trouble is about," passing her firm hands over his hot forehead, and trying to look in his face. but he struggled to turn it away from her. "in the first place i just hate school!" he exploded. xxii joel "hate school?" cried mother fisher. "oh, joey! think how ben wanted more schooling, only he wouldn't take the chance when mr. king offered it to him because he felt that he must be earning money as soon as possible. oh, joey!" that "oh, joey!" cut deeply. joel winced and burrowed deeper under his mother's fingers. "that's just it," he cried. "ben wanted it, and i don't. i hate it, and i don't want to go back." "don't want to go back?" repeated mrs. fisher in dismay. "no, i don't. the fellows are always twitting me, and every one gets ahead of me, and i'm everlastingly staying in from ballgames to make up lessons, and i'd like to fire the books, i would," cried joel with venom. mrs. fisher said nothing, but the hands still stroked the brown stubby head in her lap. "and nobody cares for me because i won't be smart like the others, but i can't help it, i just hate school!" finished joel in the same strain. "joel," said mrs. fisher slowly, "if that is the case, i shall go down to mr. king and tell him that we, father fisher and i, polly and phronsie, will not go abroad with him." joel bolted upright and, putting down his two hands, brought his black eyes to bear on her. "what?" "i shall go directly downstairs and tell mr. king that father fisher and i, polly and phronsie, will not go abroad with him," repeated his mother slowly and distinctly while she looked him fully in the face. "you can't do that," said joel in amazement. "he's engaged the state-rooms." "that makes no difference," said mrs. fisher, "when a woman has a boy who needs her, nothing should stand in the way. and i must stay at home and take care of you, joel." joel sprang to his feet and began to prance up and down the floor. "i'm big enough to take care of myself, mother," he declared, coming up to her, to prance off again. "so i thought," said mrs. fisher composedly, "or i shouldn't have placed you at mr. marks's school." "the idea, mamsie, of your staying at home to take care of me," said joel excitedly. "why, feel of that." he bared his arm, and coming up, thrust it out for inspection. "isn't that splendid? i do verily believe i could whip any fellow in school, i do," he cried, regarding his muscles affectionately. "if you don't believe it, just pinch them hard. you don't mean it really, mamsie, what you said, of course. the idea of staying at home to take care of me," and he began to prance again. "i don't care how many boys you can whip," observed mother fisher coolly, "as long as you can't whip your own self when you're naughty, you're too weak to go alone, and i must stay at home." joel stopped suddenly and looked at her. "and before i'd give up, a boy of thirteen, and beg to be taken away from school because the lessons were hard, and i didn't like to study, i'd work myself to skin and bone but i'd go through creditably." mrs. fisher sat straight now as an arrow in her corner of the sofa. "i've said my say, joel," she finished after a pause, "and now i shall go down and tell mr. king." "mother," howled joel, dashing across the room to her, "don't go! i'll stay, i will. don't say that again, about my having to be taken care of like a baby. i'll be good, mother, and study." "study doesn't amount to much unless you are glad of the chance," said mrs. fisher sharply. "i wouldn't give a fig for it, being driven to it," and her lips curled scornfully. joel wilted miserably. "i do care for the chance," he cried; "just try me, and see." mrs. fisher took his sunburnt face between her two hands. "do you really wish to go back to school, and put your mind on your books? be honest, now." "yes, i do," said joel, without winking. "well, you never told me a lie, and i know you won't begin now," said mother fisher, slowly releasing him. "you may go back, joe; i'll trust you." "phronsie," said jasper, as the sound of the two voices could be heard in mother fisher's room, "don't you want to come into my den? i've some new bugs in the cabinet--found a regular beauty to-day." phronsie stood quite still just where joel had left her; her hands were clasped and tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks. "no," she said, without looking at him, "jasper, i don't." "do come, phronsie," he begged, going over to her, and holding out his hand. "you can't think how nice the new one is, with yellow stripes and two long horns. come and see it, phronsie." "no, jasper," said the child quietly. then in the next breath, "i think joey must be very sick." "oh! mamsie is taking care of him, and he'll soon be all right," broke in polly cheerily. "do go with jasper, phronsie, do, dear." she took hold of the clasped hands, and smiled up into the drooping face. but phronsie shook her head and said "no." "if grandpapa should come in and find her so 'twould be very dreadful!" exclaimed polly, looking over at the five boys, who in this sudden emergency were knocked speechless. "do let us all play some game. can't some one think of one?" "let us play 'twenty questions,'" proposed jasper brightly. "i'll begin it, i've thought of something." "that's horrid," cried van, finding his tongue, "none of us want to play that, i'm sure." "i do," said david. "i think 'twenty questions' is always nice. is it animal, vegetable or mineral, jasper?" "i'm sick of it. do play something not quite as old as the hills, i beg." "well, you think of something yourself, old man," said jasper, nodding furiously at him. "hurry up." "i'd rather have polly tell a story than any game you could possibly think of," said van, going over to her, where she sat on the rug at phronsie's feet. "polly, will you?" he asked wheedlingly. "don't ask her to-night," interposed jasper. "yes, i shall. it's the only time we shall have," said van, "before we go back to school. do, polly, will you?" he begged again. "i can't think of the first thing," declared polly, pushing back little rings of brown hair from her forehead. "don't try to think; just spin it off," said van. "now begin." "you're a regular nuisance, van!" exclaimed jasper indignantly. "polly, i wouldn't indulge him." "i know phronsie wants a story; don't you, phronsie?" asked van artfully, and running over to peer into her face. but to his astonishment, phronsie stood perfectly still. "no," she said again, "i don't want a story; joey must be sick." "jasper," cried polly in despair, and springing up, "something must be done. grandpapa's coming; i hear him." "phronsie," said jasper, bending to speak into her ear, "do you know you are making polly feel very unhappy? just think; the next thing i don't know but what she'll cry." phronsie unfolded her hands. "give me your handkerchief, polly," she said, winking back the rest of the tears. "now, there's a dear," cried polly, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping the wet, little face. none too soon; the door opened and mr. king came in. "well--well--well!" he exclaimed, looking over his spectacles at them all. "playing games, hey?" "we're going to," said ben and jasper together. "no, polly is going to tell a story," said van loudly, "that is, if you want to hear it, grandpapa. do say you do," he begged, going over to whisper in his ear. "i want immensely to hear it!" declared the old gentleman, pulling up an easy-chair to the fireside. "there now," sitting down, "i'm fixed. now proceed, my dear." van softly clapped his hands. "phronsie," mr. king beckoned to her, and then suggestively touched his knee, "here, dear." phronsie scurried across the room to his side. "yes, grandpapa." "there, up she goes!" sang mr. king, swinging her into position on his lap. "now then, polly, my child, we are all ready for the wonderful tale. stay, where is joel?" "joel went upstairs a little while ago," said jasper quickly. "well, now, polly, do begin." "i'll tell how we went to buy phronsie's shoes," said polly, drawing up an ottoman to mr. king's side. "now, boys, bring your chairs up." "joel ought to know that you are going to tell a story, polly," said mr. king. "one of you boys run out and call him at the foot of the stairs." "he's in mamsie's room," said ben. "i suppose when she gets through with him, he'll come down." "oh! ah!" said the old gentleman. "well, polly, then perhaps you would better proceed." so polly began on the never tiresome recital, how phronsie fell down the stairs leading from the kitchen to the "provision room" in the little brown house, with the bread-knife in her hand; and how, because she cut her thumb so that it bled dreadfully, mother decided that she could at last have a pair of shoes bought especially for her very own self; and how deacon brown's old horse and wagon were procured, and they all set forth, except mother, and how they rode to town, and how the beebes were just as good as gold, and how the red-topped shoes fitted as if they were made for phronsie's feet, and how they all went home, and how phronsie danced around the kitchen till she was all tired out, and then went to bed carrying the new shoes with her, and how she fell asleep with-- "why, i declare," exclaimed polly, reaching this denouement in a delightfully roundabout way, "if she isn't asleep now!" and indeed she was. so she had to be carried up to bed in the same old way; only this time it was jasper instead of polly who held her. "don't you believe we'd better put it off till some other night?" whispered percy to van on the way upstairs to bed, the library party having broken up early. "a fellow doesn't want to see a burglar on top of the time joel has had." "no, no," said van; "it'll be good for him, and knock the other thing out of his head, don't you see, percy? i should want something else to think of if i were joel. you can't back out; you promised, you know." "well, and i'll do it," said percy testily. "it's no use trying to sleep," declared joel, in the middle of the night, and kicking the bed-clothes for the dozenth time into a roll at the foot, "as long as i can see mamsie's eyes. i'll just get up and tackle that latin grammar now. whew! haven't i got to work, though! might as well begin at it," and he jumped out of bed. stepping softly over to the door that led into david's little room, he closed it carefully, and with a sigh, lighted the gas. then he went over to the table where his schoolbooks ought to have been. but instead, the space was piled with a great variety of things--one or two balls, a tennis racket, and a confusion of fishing tackle, while in front, the last thing that had occupied him that day, lay a book of artificial flies. joel set his teeth together hard, and looked at them. "suppose i shan't get much of this sort of thing this summer," he muttered. "here goes!" and without trusting himself to take another look, he swept them all off down to the floor and into a corner. "there," he said, standing up straight, "lie there, will you?" but they loomed up in a suggestive heap, and his fingers trembled to just touch them once. "i must cover up the things, or else i know i'll be at them," he said, and hurrying over to the bed, he dragged off the cover-lid. "now," and he threw it over the fascinating mass, "i've got to study. dear me, where are my books?" for the next five minutes joel had enough to do to collect his working instruments, and when at last he unearthed them from the corner of his closet where he had thrown them under a pile of boots, he was tired enough to sit down. "i don't know which to go at first," he groaned, whirling the leaves of the upper book. "it ought to be latin--but then it ought to be algebra just as much, and as for history--well there--here goes, i'll take them as they come." with a very red face joel plunged into the first one under his hand. it proved to be the latin grammar, and with a grimace, he found the page, and resting his elbows on the table, he seized each side of his stubby head with his hands. "i'll hang on to my hair," he said, and plunged into his task. and now there was no sound in the room but his hard breathing, and the noise he made turning the leaves, for he very soon found he was obliged to go back many lessons to understand how to approach the one before him; and with cheeks growing every instant more scarlet with shame and confusion, the drops of perspiration ran down his forehead and fell on his book. "whew!" he exclaimed, "it's horribly hot," and pushing back his book, he tiptoed over to the other window and softly raised it. the cool air blew into his face, and leaning far out into the dark night, he drew in deep breaths. "i've skinned through and saved my neck a thousand times," he reflected, "and now i've got to dig like sixty to make up. there's dave now, sleeping in there like a cat; he doesn't have anything to do, but to run ahead of the class like lightning--just because he"-- "loves it," something seemed to sting the words into him. joel drew in his head and turned abruptly away from the window. "pshaw! well, here goes," he exclaimed again, throwing himself into his chair. "she said, 'i'd work myself to skin and bone but i'd get through creditably.'" joel bared his brown arm and regarded it critically. "i wonder how 'twould look all skin and bone," and he gave a short laugh. "but this isn't studying." he pulled down his sleeve, and his head went over the book again. outside, a bright blue eye applied to the keyhole, gave place to a bright brown one, till such time as the persons to whom the eyes belonged, were satisfied as to the condition of the interior they were surveying. "what do you suppose he's doing?" whispered the taller figure, putting his face concealed under a black mask, closely to the ear of the other person, whose countenance was similarly adorned. "don't know," whispered the second black mask. "he acts dreadfully queer, but i suppose he's got a novel. so you see it's our duty to break it up," he added virtuously. the taller figure shook his head, but as it was very dark on their side of joel's door, the movement was unobserved. "well, come on," whispered the second black mask. "are you ready?" yes. "come then." "o, dear, dear!" grunted joel, "i'd rather chop wood as i used to, years ago, to help the little brown house out," swinging his arms up over his head. "why"-- and he was left in darkness, his arms falling nervously to his side, while a cautious step across the room made his black eyes stand out in fright. "a burglar--a burglar!" flashed through his mind. he held his breath hard and his knees knocked together. but mamsie's eyes seemed to look with scorn on him again. joel straightened up, clenched his fist, and every minute expecting to be knocked on the head, he crept like a cat to the further corner, even in this extremity, grumbling inwardly because mr. king would not allow firearms. "if i only had them now!" he thought. "well, i must get my club." but there was no time to get it. joel creeping along, feeling his way cautiously, soon knew that there were two burglars instead of one in the room, and his mind was made up. "they'll be after grandpapa's money, sure," he thought. "i have got to get out, and warn him." but how? that was the question. getting down on all-fours, holding his breath, yet with never a thought of danger to himself, he crept along toward the door leading into the hall, then stopped and rested under cover of the heavy window drapery. but as quick as a flash, two dark figures, that now, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the darkness, he could dimly distinguish, reached there before him, and the key clicking in the lock, joel knew that all hope from escape by that quarter was gone. like a cat, he sprang to his feet, swung the drapery out suddenly toward the figures, and in the next second hurled himself over the window-sill, hanging to the edge, grasping the blind, crawling to the next window, and so on and over, and down, down, by any friendly thing he could grasp, to the ground. two black masks hung over the deserted window-edge. "joe--joe! it's only we boys--percy and van. joe--joe!" "he'll be killed!" gasped van, his face as white as joel's robe fluttering below them in his wild descent. "stop him, percy. oh! do stop him." percy clung to the window-sill, and danced in distress. "stop him!" he was beyond uttering anything more. "yes, oh, joe! don't you see it's only percy and van?" cried van persuasively, and hanging out of the window to the imminent danger of adding himself to joel's company. percy shoved him back. "he's 'most down," he said, finding his breath. "now we'll run downstairs and let him in." van flew off from the window. "i'll go; it's my scrape," and he was unlocking the door. "i'm the oldest," said percy, hurrying to get there first. "i ought to have known better." this made van furious, and pushing percy with all his might, he wriggled out first as the door flew open, and not forgetting to tiptoe down the hall, he hurried along, percy behind him, to hear the noise of men's feet coming over the stairs. van tried to rush forward shouting, "thomas, it's we boys--percy and van." instead, he only succeeded in the darkness, in stumbling over a chair, and falling flat with it amid a frightful racket that drowned his voice. old mr. king who had been awakened by the previous noise, and had rung his burglar alarm that connected with thomas's and jencks's rooms in the stable, now cried out from his doorway. "make quick work, thomas," and percy saw the gleam of a pistol held high in thomas's hand. up with a rush came bare feet over the back stairs; a flutter of something white, and joel sprang in between them. "it's percy--it's percy!" he screamed, "don't you see, thomas?" "i'm percy--don't shoot!" the taller burglar kept saying without intermission, while the flaring of candles and frightened voices, told of the aroused household. "make quick work, jencks!" shouted mr. king from his doorway, to add to the general din. thomas, whose blood was up, determined once for all to put an end to the profession of burglary as far as his master's house was concerned, now drew nearer, steadying his pistol and trying to sight the nearest fellow. this proved to be van, now struggling to his feet. joel took one wild step forward. "thomas--don't shoot! it's van!" "make quick work, thomas!" called mr. king. there was but a moment in which to decide. it was either van or he; and in an instant joel had stepped in front of the pistol. xxiii of many things van threw his arms around joel. "make quick work, thomas," called mr. king from his doorway. the pistol fell from thomas's hand. "i've shot one of the boys. och, murther!" he screamed. and everybody rushing up supposed it was van, who was writhing and screaming unintelligibly in the corner. "oh! i've killed him," they finally made out. "who--who? oh, van! who?" "joey," screamed van, bending over a white heap on the floor. "oh! make him get up. oh! i've killed him." the mask was hanging by one end from his white face, and his eyes protruded wildly. up flew another figure adorned with a second black mask. "no, no, it was i," and percy rushed forward with an "oh, joel, joel!" somebody lighted the gas, that flashed suddenly over the terrified group, and somebody else lifted the heap from the corner. and as they did so, joel stirred and opened his eyes. "don't make such a fuss," he said crossly. one hand had gripped the sleeve of his night-dress, trying to hold it up in a little wad on the shoulder, the blood pouring down the arm. at sight of this, van collapsed and slid to the floor. "don't frighten mamsie," said joel, his head drooping, despite his efforts to hold it up. "i'm all right; nothing but a scratch. ugh! let me be, will you?" to mr. whitney and jasper, who were trying to support him. and mother fisher, for the first time since the children had known her, lost her self-control. "oh, joey! and mother was cross to you," she could only sob as she reached him. polly, at a nod from the little doctor's night-cap and a few hurried words, ran as in a dream for the case of instruments in his bedroom. "all right, mamsie!" exclaimed joel in surprise, and trying to stagger to his feet. "good heavens and earth!" cried old mr. king, approaching. "what? oh! it's monstrous--joel!" "och, murther!" thomas sidled along the edge of the group, rolling fearful eyes at them, and repeating over and over, "i've shot that boy--that boy!" all this occupied but an instant, and joel was laid on his bed, and the wound which proved to be only a flesh one, the ball cutting a little furrow as it grazed the shoulder, was dressed, and everybody drew a long breath. "tell van that i'm all right," joel kept saying all the time. polly undertook to do this. "van--van!" she cried, running out into the hall to lay a shaking hand on his arm, where he lay on the floor. "joel sent me to say that he is all right." "polly, i've killed him!" van thrust his head up suddenly and looked at her, with wild eyes. "i have--don't speak to me, or look at me. i've killed joel!" "take off this dreadful thing," said polly with a shiver, and kneeling down, she seized the strings that tied the mask. "o dear! it's all in a knot. wait, i'll get the scissors," and she found her feet, and ran off to her room. "now you are all right;" he gave a little sob as the mask tumbled off. "oh! how could you?" she wanted to say, but van's distress was too dreadful for anything but comfort. "don't you see," said polly, sitting down on the floor and cuddling up his head in her lap, "that joel is really all right now? suppose we hadn't a father fisher who was a doctor, what should we do then?" and she even managed a faint laugh. "o dear! but i've killed joel." van covered his face with the folds of her flannel dress and wailed on. "now, just see here, van whitney," said polly, with the air of authority, "i tell you that joel is all right now. don't you say that again--not once more, vanny." "but i have ki--i mean i saw thomas shoot, and i couldn't stop him," and van writhed fearfully, ending with a scream "i've ki"--but polly, clapping her hand over his mouth, kept the words back. meanwhile percy had rushed out of the house. "oh!" cried polly, when this new alarm sprang up, and everybody was running hither and thither to comfort him by the assurance that joel was not much hurt, "do, uncle mason and jasper, let me go with you." "no, no, you stay here, polly," cried jasper, throwing wide the heavy front door. "brother mason and i will find him. don't worry, polly." "i know i could help," said polly, hanging over the stair-railing. "oh! do let me," she begged. "no, no, child," said mr. whitney, quickly. "stay where you are, and take care of the others. now, then, jasper, is jencks ready with the lantern?" "all right," said jasper. "come on." polly, longing to fly to the window to watch, at least, the lantern's twinkling light across the lawn, hurried off to comfort aunt whitney, who at this new stage in the affairs, was walking her room, biting her lips to keep from screaming the terror that clutched at her heart. "oh, polly!" she cried, "i'm so glad you've come. i should die if left alone here much longer;" her soft hair floated down the white robe, and the blue eyes were filled with tears. "do tell me, don't you think they will find percy?" "yes, indeed!" declared polly, cuddling up to the little woman. "oh, auntie! remember when dicky's leg was broken." "but this is much worse," said mrs. whitney, sobbing, and holding close to polly's warm hand. "but we thought he was dead," and polly gave a little shiver. "don't--don't," begged mrs. whitney, clasping her hands; "oh, polly! don't." "but he wasn't, you see, auntie," polly hurried on, "and so now you know it will come out all right about per--there! oh! they've found him!" as a shout from the lawn rang out. "do you suppose it, polly?" cried mrs. whitney, breathlessly. "oh! do run to the window and see!" so polly ran to the window in the next room that overlooked that part of the lawn where mr. whitney and jasper were searching, and strained her gaze up and down, and in every direction. "have they? oh! have they?" cried mrs. whitney. "oh, polly! do tell me." "i don't see any of them," said polly, listening eagerly for another cry, "but i do believe they've found him." "do come back," implored mrs. whitney; "there, now, don't go again, polly," as polly hurried to her side, "but just hold my hand." "i will," said polly, "just as tight as i can, auntie." "oh--oh! percy is so much worse off than joel," wailed mrs. whitney. "oh! to do such a thing, polly!" she groaned. "they only meant it in fun," said polly, swallowing hard the lump in her throat, "don't let us talk about it, auntie." "and van," cried mrs. whitney, running on. "oh! my poor, poor boys. will your mother ever forgive me, polly?" "oh, auntie! don't talk so," said polly tenderly; "and we both ought to be out helping. there's van, auntie; just think how he feels." "i can't go near him," cried mrs. whitney in distress, "as long as he is in joel's room, for i can see your mother's eyes, polly. it would kill me to have her look at me." the door opened at this, and the trail of a long silken wrapper was heard on the floor. "mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney, raising her head and looking at the new-comer with as much anger as her gentle face could contain, "i really cannot see you in my room to-night. excuse me, but i am unstrung by all that has occurred. will you please not come in"-- "i thought i might sit with you," said mrs. chatterton. in the brief interval since the arousing of the household, she had contrived to make a perfect breakfast toilet, and she folded her hands over her handsome gown. "polly might then be with her mother. but if you don't wish me to remain, i will go." "i do not need you," said mrs. whitney, decidedly, and she turned to polly again. mrs. chatterton moved away, and closed the door after her. "auntie," said polly, "she really wants to help you." "polly, you needn't say anything about it," exclaimed mrs. whitney, like many other gentle creatures, when roused, becoming unreasonably prejudiced; "i cannot bear the sight of that woman. she has been here so long, and is so intensely disagreeable to us all." polly's eyes became very round, and she held her breath in astonishment. "don't look so, child," said mrs. whitney at length, "you don't understand, my dear. but you would if you were in my place"-- "she's sorry for it," said polly, finding her tongue at last. "and father is nearly worn out with her," continued mrs. whitney. "and now to come parading her attentions upon me, it"-- "who--who?" dicky, now that the excitement in joel's room had died down, had lost his relish for it, and he now pranced into mrs. whitney's room. "who, mamma?" "mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney unguardedly. "she has disagreeably intruded herself upon me." "has she been in here?" asked dick in astonishment. "yes; asking if she can sit with me," and polly started at the look in the usually soft blue eyes. "and you wouldn't let her?" asked dick, stopping short and regarding his mother curiously. "of course not, dicky," she made haste to say. "then i think you did very wrong," declared dick flatly. "oh, dick!" exclaimed polly in consternation. "and you don't act like my mother at all," said dick, standing quite stiffly on his sturdy legs, and gazing at her with disapprobation. "didn't mrs. chatterton save my life," he exploded, "when the real burglar was going for me? say, didn't she?" he cried. "i have yet to find out that is the truth," said mrs. whitney, finding her voice. "oh, dicky," she added, hurt that he should defend another, worst of all, mrs. chatterton, "don't talk about her." "but i ought to talk about her," persisted dick. "she saved me as much as she could. because she won't let anybody thank her, i like her more myself. i'm going to stay with her." with that, he held his head high, and marched to the door. "dick, dick!" called his mother, "come back, dear." dick slowly turned and made his way to her side, but he still regarded her with disapproval. "dick, i want you to go to mrs. chatterton's room, and say that i am sorry i refused her offer to help, and that i would like to have her sit with me. remember, say i am sorry i refused her offer to help, dicky." she leaned forward and kissed her boy, her long, soft hair falling like a veil around the two faces. dick threw his arms around her neck. "now, you're a brick!" he declared impulsively. "i'll bring the old lady, and we'll both sit with you." so polly was free to run back to mamsie. on the way there she opened the door of phronsie's little room, just out of father and mother fisher's. "how good it is that she sleeps through it all," said polly, listening to the regular breathing. then she stole across the room and stood beside the small bed. "she looks just as she did the night she took her new shoes to bed," thought polly; "one hand is over her head, exactly as it was then. oh, phronsie! to think that you're to have no party to-morrow," and she turned off with a sigh, went out, and closed the door. "percy's here--all right!" cried jasper, running over the stairs to meet her at the top. his eyes were gleaming with excitement, and his face was torn and bleeding. "are you hurt?" cried polly, feeling as if the whole family were bound to destruction. "oh, jasper! did you fall?" "nothing but a scratch. i was fool enough to forget the ledge, and walked off for my pains"-- "oh, jasper!" cried polly, with paling cheeks, "let me bathe it for you, do;" her strength began to return at the thought of action, and she sprang for a basin of water. "nonsense. no, polly!" cried jasper, with a quick hand detaining her, "it's nothing but a mere scratch, i tell you, but i suppose it looks terribly. i'll go and wash it off. run and tell his mother that percy is found." "is he all right?" asked polly fearfully, holding her breath for the answer. "sound as a nut," declared jasper; "we found him streaking it down the locust path; he said he was going to run off to sea." "run off to sea!" repeated polly. "oh, jasper!" "well, he was so frightened, of course he didn't know what to say," replied jasper. "and ashamed, too. he didn't care to show his head at home. i don't know as i blame him, polly. well, it's too bad about phronsie's party, isn't it?" added jasper, mopping up his face as the two went down the hall. "yes," said polly with a sigh, stopping at mrs. whitney's door, "but, oh! think how happy we are now that percy is safe, jasper." "still, it's too bad for phronsie," repeated jasper, looking back. but joel flatly declared that the first one that even so much as hinted that a single item of the arrangements for phronsie's getting-well party should be changed, he'd make it disagreeable as only he knew how, for that one when he got up from his bed. "yes, sir!" and he scolded, and fretted, and fussed, and laid down the law so generally to all, not excepting the doctor, that at last it was decided to let the party go on. then he lay back against the pillows quite exhausted, but with a beatific face. "i should think you would be tired, joe," exclaimed jasper, "you've bullied us so. dear me! people ought to be angelic when they're sick, at least." "if you'd had him to take care of as i did," observed dr. fisher, "you'd know better; goodness me! the little brown house scarcely held him when he was getting over the measles." "what's the use of being sick," said joel reflectively, turning on his pillow, "if you can't make people stand around, i'd like to know. now that point's settled about phronsie's party, won't you all go out? i'd like to speak to father fisher a moment." "you don't mean me, joey?" said mother fisher at the head of the bed, holding her boy's hand. "yes; you, too, mamsie," said joel, giving her an affectionate glance, "it's something that only the doctor and i are to know." "you're not hurt anywhere else, are you, joey?" asked his mother, a sudden alarm leaping to her black eyes. "not a scratch," said joel promptly. "i want to see father fisher about something. sometime you shall know, mamsie." he gave her hand a sudden pressure, then let it go. "perhaps you would better step out, my dear," said the little doctor, nodding to his wife. so mrs. fisher, smothering a sigh, went out reluctantly. "all out?" asked joel, trying to raise his head to see for himself. "every soul," said dr. fisher. "well, see here, will you," said joel, pointing to the table, the schoolbooks scattered as he had left them, "pack those things all away in the closet on the shelf, you know, and put the rubbish on the floor there, back on the table?" dr. fisher could not for his life, refrain from asking curiously, as he did as requested, "been having a pull at the books, eh, joe?" "um--um--maybe," said joel, twisting uneasily. "well, now, come here, please, father fisher." the little man turned away from the table, with its sprawling array of delightful things, to stand by the bedside. "you must get me well as soon as you can," said joel confidentially. "all right; i understand," dr. fisher nodded professionally. "and whatever you say, don't let it be that i must be careful of my eyes," said joel. "all right; that is, if you get up quickly," agreed the doctor. "that's all," said joel in great satisfaction. "now, call mamsie in and the others." and in the morning, no one told phronsie what had happened the night before. she only knew that joel was not very well, and was going to keep his room; all her pleadings to do something for him being set one side by grandpapa's demands upon her instant attention whenever the idea suggested itself to her. and so the time wore along till the party began. alexia was the first to arrive, her bowl of orange jelly in her hand, and after her, a tall slight figure jumped from the carriage, her flaxen hair streaming out in two pale braids. "i thought i'd pick cathie up," said alexia carelessly; "had to pass her door, you know. o dear me, what perfectly dreadful times you had last night, polly pepper." "i didn't bring macaroons," said cathie, "as i really think that they wouldn't be good for phronsie. besides, i've forgotten how to make them, and our cook was cross and said i shouldn't come into her kitchen. but i bought a doll for phronsie; my mother said it would be a great deal more sensible present," and she hugged the long box under her arm with great satisfaction. "o dear! dear!" groaned alexia, falling back with polly as the three raced along the hall, "she showed it to me in the carriage, and it's a perfect guy, besides counting one more." but afflictions like this were small to polly now, and although for the next hour it rained dolls into phronsie's puzzled hands, polly helped her to thank the givers and to dispose them safely on neighboring chairs and tables and sofas. mrs. chatterton's was the pattern of old mr. king's phonograph doll, at which discovery he turned upon her with venom in his eye. "my gift to my little granddaughter," taking especial care to emphasize the relationship, "has always been a doll, i suppose you knew that, cousin eunice; and to try to procure one exactly like the one i have purchased, is very presuming in you, to say the least." "and why may i not present a doll to phronsie pepper, if i care to, pray tell?" demanded mrs. chatterton in a high, cold tone. "why? because you have always showed a marked dislike for the child," cried old mr. king angrily, "that's why, cousin eunice." "grandpapa--grandpapa," said phronsie, laying her hand on his arm. "and to parade any special affection, such as the presentation of a gift indicates, is a piece of presumption on your part, i say it again, cousin eunice." "grandpapa!" said phronsie again at his elbow. "now, phronsie," turning to her, "you are to take that doll," pointing to a gorgeous affair reposing on the sofa, with mrs. algernon chatterton's card attached to it, "and go over to mrs. chatterton, and say, very distinctly, 'i cannot accept this gift;' mind you say it distinctly, phronsie, that there may be no mistake in the future." "oh, grandpapa!" cried phronsie in dismay. "yes, child; i know what is best for you. take that doll, and do exactly as i bid you." a dreadful pause fell upon the room. polly clasped her hands, while alexia and the other girls huddled into a corner saying softly, "oh! how perfectly dreadful!" "no use to say anything to father when he looks like that," groaned jasper, when polly besought him to try his influence, "his blood is up now; he's borne a good deal, you know, polly." "o dear, dear!" whispered polly, back again, "just look at mrs. chatterton's face, and at poor phronsie's; can't you do something, jasper?" "i'm afraid not," said jasper gloomily. "no; he's making her give it back; see, polly." "you'll know it's for the best," mr. king was repeating as he led the child to mrs. chatterton standing cold and silent at the end of the room, "sometime, child, and then you'll thank me that i saved you from further annoyance of this sort. there, cousin eunice, is your gift," taking the doll from phronsie's hand, and placing it in the long, jeweled one. "my little granddaughter receives presents only from those who love her. all others are unwarranted, and must be returned." phronsie burst out tearfully, "she's sorry, grandpapa, i know she is, and she loves me now. please let me keep the doll." but mrs. chatterton had left the room, the doll in her hand. xxiv away and after that everybody had to be as gay as possible, to keep phronsie's sad little face from being flooded with tears. "dear me!" exclaimed jasper, "here comes candace! now what do you suppose she has for you, phronsie?" candace sailed through the doorway with ample satisfaction with everything and herself in particular. "whar's little miss?" she demanded, her turban nodding in all directions, and her black eyes rolling from side to side. "there, candace," said some one, "over in the corner with jasper." "oh! i see her," said candace, waddling over to them. "well, now, phronsie, seein' you couldn't come to me for somethin' i made 'xpressly fer you, w'y, candace has to come to you. see dat now, chile!" she unrolled the parcel, disclosing the wonderful doll adorned with candace's own hair, and "ole missus' ruffles," then stood erect, her bosom swelling with pride and delight. "o my goodness me!" exclaimed alexia, tumbling back after the first and only glance, and nearly overturning cathie who was looking over her shoulder. "polly pepper, o dear me!" then she sat down on the floor and laughed till she cried. "hush--hush!" cried polly, running over to her, "do stop, alexia, and get up. she'll hear you, and we wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world. do stop, alexia." "o dear me!" cried alexia gustily, and holding her sides while she waved back and forth; "if it had been--a--respectable doll, but that--horror! o dear me!" "stop--stop!" commanded polly, shaking her arm. but alexia was beyond stopping herself. and in between candace's delighted recital how she combed "de ha'r to take de curl out," and how "ole missus' ruffles was made into de clothes," came the peals of laughter that finally made every one in the room stop and look at the girls. "candace, come into my 'den' and get a pattern for some new pins i want you to make for me," cried jasper, desperately dragging her off. "it's no use to lecture me," said alexia, sitting straight as candace's feet shuffled down the hall, and wiping her face exhaustedly. "i know it was dreadful--o dear me! don't anybody speak to me, or i shall disgrace myself again!" "now, phronsie, what do you suppose we are to do next?" phronsie looked up into old mr. king's face. "i don't know, grandpapa," she said wonderingly. "well, now, my dear, you've had punch and judy, and these nice children," waving his hand to indicate the delegation from the orphan asylum, "have sung beautifully for you. now what comes next, phronsie?" "i don't know, grandpapa," repeated phronsie. "when gifts become burdensome they no longer are kindnesses," said mr. king. "now, phronsie, i have found out--never mind how; little birds, you now, sometimes fly around telling people things they ought to know. well, i have discovered in some way that my little girl has too many children to care for." here phronsie's brown eyes became very wide. "and when there are too many children in the nest, phronsie, why, they have to go out into the world to try their fortunes and make other homes. now there are so many poor little girls who haven't any children, phronsie. think of that, dear; and you have so many." phronsie at this drew nearer and stole her hand into his. "now what is to be done about it?" asked the old gentleman, putting his other broad palm over her little one and holding it fast. "hey, my pet?" "can't we buy them some children?" asked phronsie with warm interest. "oh, grandpapa dear, do let us; i have money in my bank." "phronsie," said the old gentleman, going to the heart of the matter at once and lifting her to his lap, "i really think the time has come to give away some of your dolls. i really do, child." phronsie gave a start of incredulity and peered around at him. "i really do. you are going abroad to be gone--well, we'll say a year. and your dolls would be so lonely without anything to do but to sit all day and think of their little mother. and there are so many children who would love them and make them happy." now mr. king's white hair was very near the yellow waves floating over his shoulder, so that none but phronsie's ears caught the next words. "it's right, phronsie dear; i'd do it if i were you," he said in a low voice. "do you want it, grandpapa?" asked phronsie softly. "i do, child; but not unless you are willing"-- "then i do," declared phronsie, sitting quite straight on his knee. and she gave a relieved sigh. "oh, grandpapa, if we only had the poor children now!" she exclaimed, dreadfully excited. "come, then." old mr. king set her on her feet. "clear the way there, good people; we are going to find some poor children who are waiting for dolls," and he threw wide the door into a back passage, and there, presided over by jencks, and crowding for the first entrance, was a score of children with outstretched hands. "oh--oh!" exclaimed phronsie with cheeks aflame. "please, he said we was to have dolls," cried one hungry-eyed girl, holding out both her hands. "i've never had one. please give me one quick." "never had one?" echoed phronsie, taking a step toward her. "only a piece, miss, i found in a rag-barrel. please give me one quick." "she's never had a doll--only a piece," repeated phronsie, turning back to the family, unable to contain this information. "ask the others if they have had any," said mr. king, leaning against a tall cabinet. "try that girl there in a brown plaid dress." "have you ever had a doll?" asked phronsie obediently, looking over at the girl indicated, and holding her breath for the answer. at this, the girl in the brown plaid dress burst into tears, which so distressed phronsie that she nearly cried. "yes, but it died," said the girl after a little. "oh, grandpapa, her doll died!" exclaimed phronsie in horror. "no, it didn't, jane," corrected another girl, "the dog et it; you know he did." "yes, i know," said jane, between small sobs, "it died, and we couldn't have any fun'ral, 'cause the dog had et it." "well, now, phronsie," exclaimed mr. king, getting away from the support of the cabinet, "i think it's time that we should make some of these children happy. don't you want to take them up to the playroom and distribute the dolls?" "no, no," protested phronsie suddenly. "i must go up and tell my children. they will understand it better then, grandpapa. i'll be back in a very few minutes," and going out she went quickly upstairs, and after a while returned with both arms full. "this doll is for you," she said gravely, putting a doll attired in a wonderful pink satin costume into jane's arms. "i've told her about your dog, and she's a little frightened, so please be careful." "what's the fun down there now?" asked joel of van, who with percy could not be persuaded to leave his bedside a moment, "open the door, do, and let's hear it." so van threw wide the door. "go out and listen, percy, will you?" he said. "i don't want to," said percy, who shared van's wish to keep in the background. "you two fellows act like muffs," said joel. "now if you want me to get well, go out, do, and tell me what the fun is going on down there." so persuaded, the two boys stole out into the hall in time to see phronsie go down the stairs with her armful, and carefully using their ears they soon rushed back with "phronsie's giving away her dolls!" "stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed joel, "if you can't bring back anything better than that yarn, you might as well stay here." "but i tell you it's true," declared van, "isn't it, percy?" "yes, it is," said percy. "i heard her distinctly say, 'this doll is for you'--and she had her arms full, so i suppose she's going to give those away too"-- "a likely story," said joel, bursting into a laugh. at the noise up in the boys' room, mother fisher ran quickly over the stairs. "oh, boys! what is it? joel, are you worse?" "no, indeed," said joel, "i was laughing. percy and van have been telling such a big story. mamsie, they actually said that phronsie was giving away her dolls." "is that all?" cried mrs. fisher in relief. "well, so she is, joel." "phronsie giving away her dolls, mamsie?" screamed joel. "why, what does grandpapa say?" "he's the very one that proposed it," said mrs. fisher. "there, joey, don't get excited, for i don't know what the doctor will say," as joel sank back on his pillow, overcome by this last piece of news. when phronsie went to bed that night she clasped mr. king's new gift to her breast. "grandpapa, dear," she said confidingly as they went up the stairs together, "do you know i really think more of this doll, now that the others are gone? really i do, grandpapa, and i can take better care of her, because i shall have more time." "so you will, dear," assented mr. king. "well, phronsie, i think you and i, dear, haven't made a bad day's work." "i think my children will be happy," said phronsie with a small sigh, "because you see it's so nice to make good times for their new mothers. and, grandpapa, i couldn't play with each one more than once a week. i used to try to, but i couldn't, grandpapa." "why didn't you tell me, phronsie," asked the old gentleman a bit reproachfully as they reached the top step, "how it was, dear? you should have given them away long ago." "ah, but," said phronsie, slowly shaking her head, "i didn't want to give them away before; only just now, grandpapa, and i think they will be happy. and now i'm going to take this newest one to bed, just as i used to take things to bed years ago, when i was a little girl." and after all, there was an extension of time for the three boys' vacation, dr. marks not getting up from his sudden attack of fever as quickly as was expected. but there came a day at last, when percy, van and david bade joel "good-by." "it won't be for long," observed that individual cheerfully, "you'll be back in three weeks." "o dear!" groaned percy when safe within the coach, "we've ruined all his chances. he certainly will be plucked now--with those three weeks to make up." van gathered himself up and leaned forward in his corner. "don't look so, dave," he cried desperately. david tried to smooth the troubled lines out of his face, but only succeeded in making it look worse than before. "and it will kill mrs. fisher," percy continued gloomily, "if he does get plucked, as of course he will." "keep still, will you?" cried van, his irritation getting beyond bounds. "what's the use of talking about a thing till it's done," which had the effect to make percy remember his promise to polly and close his mouth. but joel's wound healed quicker than any one supposed it possibly could, and percy and van, who both hated to write letters, gave up much time on the playground to indite daily bulletins, so that he declared that it was almost as good as being there on the spot. and mother fisher and her army of servants cleaned the great stone house from top to bottom, and sorted, and packed away, and made things tidy for the new housekeeper who was to care for them in her absence, till dr. fisher raised his eyebrows and hands in astonishment. "i really must," he said one day, "put in a remonstrance, wife, or you'll kill yourself before we start." "oh! i'm used to working," mrs. fisher would say cheerily, and then off she would fly to something so much worse that the little doctor was speechless. and polly set herself at all her studies, especially french, with redoubled vigor, notwithstanding that she was hampered with the faithful attentions of the schoolgirls who fought among themselves for her company, and showered her with pathetic "o--dear--me--ow--i--shall--miss--you," and with tears when they got over it. and jasper buried himself in his den, only bursting forth at meal times, and mrs. whitney bemoaned all preparations for the travelers' departure, and wished a thousand times that she had not given her promise to keep the house and look after the boys. and everybody who had the slightest claim to a calling acquaintance, now dropped in upon the kings, and polly had her "good-by party," and it was pronounced perfectly elegant by alexia and her set, and the three boys came home for the long vacation--and in two days the party would sail. "who do you think is going abroad with us?" asked mr. king suddenly, as they all sat in the library for a last evening talk; "guess quickly." "who?" cried several voices. "why, i thought you didn't want any outsiders, father," exclaimed jasper in surprise. "well, and i didn't when i said so, but circumstances are changed now--come, guess quickly, some one?" "the cabots," said jasper at a venture. "no, no; guess again." "mr. alstyne?" "no; again." "the bayleys, the dyces, the herrings," shouted mr. whitney and van and joel. "no, i know," broke in percy, "it's mrs. chatterton," with a quick glance to make sure that she was not in the room. "no!" thundered mr. king. "oh! how stupid people can be when they want to. two persons are to meet us in new york to-morrow. i didn't tell you till i was sure; i had no desire that you should be disappointed. now guess again." "auntie, do you know?" asked polly suddenly, leaning back, as she sat on the rug in front of the fire, to lay her head in mrs. whitney's lap. "no, i'm sure i don't," said mrs. whitney, stroking lightly the brown hair, with a pang to think how long it would be before she should caress it again. "how any one can desire to cross the ocean," remarked mr. whitney, folding his hands back of his head and regarding meditatively the glowing fire, "is more than i can see. that i never shall do it again unless whipped over, i'm morally certain." "are the persons men?" asked ben suddenly. "one is," replied mr. king. "and the other is a woman?" "the other is a woman," said mr. king. "well, what are their names? isn't anybody smart enough to guess them? dear me, i've always said that the peppers were remarkably bright, and the rest of you children are not behind other young people. go on, try again. now who are they?" polly took her head out of mrs. whitney's lap, and rested her chin in her hands, davie walked up and down the room, while ben and the two whitney boys hung over mother fisher's chair. "dear me!" fumed joel. "who ever could guess. there's such a lot or people in the world that grandpapa knows. it might be any two of them that he had asked." little dr. fisher's eyes roved from one to the other of the group. "i couldn't begin to guess because i don't know many of your friends," he said quietly. "you know these two people very well," said mr. king, laughing, to see the little man's face. "now i think i know," said jasper slowly, a light coming into his gray eyes, "but i don't suppose it's fair to guess, for i saw the address on a letter father was writing two or three weeks ago." "you did, you young scamp, you!" cried mr. king, turning on him. "well, then, 'tisn't a guess for you, jasper. keep still, my boy, and let them work away at it. will no one guess?" "mamsie," cried polly, bounding up from the ring, nearly upsetting phronsie, who was sitting beside her in a brown study, "can it be--do you suppose it is nice, dear mr. and mrs. henderson?" "well, polly," said mr. king, beaming at her, "you've done what the others couldn't. yes, it is mr. and mrs. henderson, and they are going with us to stay until the autumn." "good, good!" cried every one till the big room seemed full of joy. "oh, father!" exclaimed mrs. whitney, "i'm so glad you've done this. they were so kind to dicky and to me when he was hurt." "they were kind to dicky and to you," said her father; "and besides, marian, mr. henderson is a man who doesn't preach at you only once a week, and mrs. henderson is a fine woman. so it's a pity not to ease up things for them now and then. well, how do you like the plan?" he spoke to dr. fisher, but his gaze took them all in. "immensely," said the little doctor; which being again echoed heartily by all the rest, old mr. king began to feel very much elated at his part in the proceedings, and in a quarter of an hour it seemed as if the expedition had been especially planned for the benefit of the hendersons, so naturally had it all come about. and on the morrow, the whole family, kings, whitneys, fishers and peppers, turned their backs on the gray stone mansion and went down to the city. and alexia rhys persuaded her aunt to do her semi-annual shopping at this time, and to take her too; and mr. alstyne also had business that necessitated his going, and mr. cabot and mary taylor, and her father found they must go along too; and hamilton dyce was there, and pickering dodge, of course, went to be company for ben on the way back. and at the last moment who should jump on the train but livingston bayley. "had a telegram," he explained; "must be there at noon. so glad of the unexpected pleasure of meeting you all." and cousin eunice chatterton went; for, at the last minute, she had suddenly discovered that she had visited at the gray stone mansion as long as she cared to, and notified the family accordingly. and mr. king had so far made up for his part in the late unpleasantness as to ask her to go with the party, on her way to her nephew's in the city. so there she was with the others, bidding them good-by on the steamer. "phronsie," she said slowly, under cover of the babel of tongues, "you are a good child, and i've done well by you. this little bit of paper," putting it into her hands, "contains a message to mr. king, which you are to give him after you have started." "i will go and give it to him now," said phronsie, her fingers closing over the bit. "no, no," said mrs. chatterton sharply, "do as i say. remember, on no account to let any one see it till after you have started. you are a good child, phronsie. now, remember to do as you are bidden. and now, will you kiss me, child?" phronsie lifted her eyes and fixed them on the long, white face, and suddenly raising herself on her tiptoes, she put up her lips. "look at phron," cried joel in the midst of the group, "actually kissing mrs. chatterton!" and everybody turned and stared. cousin eunice dropped her veil with a quick hand, and moved off with a stately step, but not in time to lose young bayley's drawl: "'pon me word--it's the most extraordinary thing. phronsie, come here, and tell us what 'twas like." but phronsie stood quite still as if she had not heard. "yes, i hope you'll have a nice time," pickering dodge was saying for the dozenth time, with eyes for no one but polly, "now don't stay away for a year." polly with her heart full of the boys, who were hanging on either side, answered at random. "oh, ben! i can't go," she was exclaiming, and she hid her head on his shoulder, so pickering turned off. but joel set his teeth together. "you must," he said, for ben was beyond speech with the effort to control himself. "i can't," said poor polly, "leave you, ben, and the boys." and then mrs. whitney came up just as polly was near breaking down. "my dear child," she said, taking polly's hands, "you know it is right for you to go." "yes, i know," said polly, fighting her tears. "then, polly, be brave, dear, and don't begrudge me my three new boys," she added playfully. "just think how happy i'm to be, with six such splendid fellows to call my own." polly smiled through her tears. "and one thing more," said mrs. whitney in a low voice, "when you feel badly," looking steadily at polly and the three boys, "remember what dr. fisher said; that if your mother didn't stop working, and rest, she would break down." "i'll remember," said ben hoarsely. "so will i," said david. "and i will," said joel, looking everywhere but into polly's eyes. "well, i hope, miss polly," said young mr. bayley, sauntering up, "that you'll have an uncommonly nice time, i do indeed. i may run across in september; if i do, we shall probably meet." "miss mary pepper?" suddenly asked a man with a huge basket of flowers, and pausing in front of her. young mr. bayley smiled indulgently as he could not help reading the card thrust into the flowers. "she will receive my flowers at intervals all the way over, if the steward doesn't fail me," he reflected with satisfaction, "while this boy's will fade in an hour." "miss mary pepper?" the florist's messenger repeated, extending the basket to polly. "it's for you, miss polly," said young mr. bayley. "let me relieve you," taking the basket. "oh! are they for me?" cried polly. "i believe you are miss mary pepper," said young bayley. "pretty, aren't they?" fingering the roses, and glad to think that there were orchids among the flowers to which his card was attached, and just placed under the steward's care. "i suppose i am," said polly, with a little laugh, "but it seems as if i couldn't be anything but polly pepper. oh! thank you, pickering, for these lovely roses," catching sight of him. "glad you like them," said pickering radiantly. "say, polly, don't stay away a whole year, will you?" young mr. bayley set the basket in his hand and turned on his heel with a smile. "come, polly, i want you," cried alexia, trying to draw her off. "you know she's my very best friend, pickering, and i haven't had a chance to say one word to her this morning. come, polly." "polly, come here," called mrs. fisher. "o dear!" cried alexia impatiently, "now that's just the way it always is. it's polly here, and polly there," as polly deserted her and ran off with her basket of roses. "you don't do any of the calling, of course," said pickering, with a laugh. "well, i'll have her to myself," declared alexia savagely, "before it's time for us to get off the steamer, see if i don't." "i don't believe it," said pickering. "look at her now in a maelstrom of relatives. you and i, alexia, are left out." and the next thing alexia knew somebody unceremoniously helped her from the steamer with a "beg pardon, miss, but you must get off," and she was standing on the wharf in a crowd of people, looking in a dazed way at polly pepper's fluttering handkerchief, while fast-increasing little ripples of greenish water lay between them. and phronsie was running up to mr. king: "here, grandpapa, mrs. chatterton wanted me to give you this," unclasping her warm little palm where the bit of white paper lay. "the dickens she did," exclaimed the old gentleman; "so she has had a last word with you, has she? well, she won't get another for a long spell; so never mind. now, let's see what cousin eunice says. something interesting, no doubt." he spread the crumpled bit straight and read, phronsie standing quite still by his side: cousin horatio: i have made phronsie pepper my sole heir. you may like it or not, as you please. the thing is done, and may god bless phronsie. eunice chatterton. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: annie pore has bloomed forth into a regular english rose!--_page _] vacation with the tucker twins by nell speed author of "at boarding school with the tucker twins," "the molly brown series," etc. with four half-tone illustrations by arthur o. scott new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by hurst & company contents chapter page i. the beach ii. "sleepy" iii. our first night at the beach iv. bubbles v. blanche vi. a romance vii. oh, you chaperone! viii. letters ix. the start x. the finish xi. cape henry xii. freckles and tan xiii. the turkey-tail fan xiv. a letter and its answer xv. the judge xvi. an axe to grind xvii. mr. arthur ponsonby pore xviii. the machinations of mabel xix. the wedding xx. the after-math xxi. settling up xxii. good-bye to the beach xxiii. until next time xxiv. a bread-and-butter letter xxv. bracken in august xxvi. the picnic illustrations page annie pore has bloomed forth into a regular english rose _frontispiece_ a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face peeping in, we saw the game in full swing "why don't you speak up, girl?" vacation with the tucker twins. chapter i. the beach. my first impression of willoughby beach gave me keen disappointment. it was so sandy, so flat, and so absolutely shadeless. i longed for the green hills far away and in my heart felt i could not stand a month of the lonesome stretches of sand and the pitiless glare of the summer sun. it took great self-control and some histrionic ability for me to conceal my emotions from my enthusiastic hostesses. the tuckers had been coming to willoughby for years and loved every grain of sand on the beach. they could hardly wait for the trolley from norfolk to stop before they jumped out and raced down to the water's edge just to dabble their hands in the ocean. "my gracious me! how i hate to grow up!" exclaimed dum. "one year ago i would have had off my shoes and been in bliss by this time." "well, maybe you are too grown up to wade, but i'm not," declared dee. "however, since zebedee has trusted us to come down and open up the cottage, i fancy we had better go do it and get things ready for our guests." we three girls were the fore-runners of the famous beach house-party that mr. jeffry tucker, father of the "heavenly twins," had promised to give us the winter before as reward of merit if we passed all of our exams at gresham and got through the year without any very serious mishaps. mishaps we had had in abundance, but not very serious ones, as all of us were alive to tell the tale; and mr. tucker, with his eternally youthful outlook on life, seemed to feel that a scrape that turned out all right was not such a terrible matter after all. "just so you can look me in the eye while you are telling me your troubles, it's all right," i have heard him say to his daughters. the cottage proved to be very attractive. the lower floor was chiefly a large living room with french windows that opened upon three deep, shady verandas. a kitchen and bath rooms were in the rear. a staircase came down into the living room from a low-hung balcony that went around the four sides of the room. doors from this balcony opened into dressing rooms and they in turn led to the sleeping porches. this style of architecture was new to me and very pleasing. there was a spaciousness to the living room with its high, raftered ceiling that appealed to me greatly. i have never been able to be happy in little, chopped-up rooms. the wood-work, rafters, roof and all, were stained a dark moss green, as were also the long mission dining table and the chairs and settles. at one end was a great fireplace made of rough, grey boulders, with heavy iron fire-dogs and fender. there was no attempt at ornamentation with the exception of several old blue platters and a tea pot on the high mantelpiece and a long runner of japanese toweling on the table. "oh!" burst from us in chorus as we came through the hospitably open door. "isn't it lovely?" just then there emerged from the kitchen a woman with a pail in one hand and broom in the other. her long, pale face with the sandy hair drawn tightly back into a mrs. wiggs knot had no trace of welcome, but rather one of irritation. "well, land's sakes! you is greedy fer yo' rights. the fust of july don't mean the fust thing in the morning. the last tenants ain't been gone mor'n a hour an' here you come a-turn-in' up before i kin mor'n turn 'round." "well, everything looks lovely," said the tactful dee. "y' aint seen it yet. it's right enough in this here room where i've done put in some licks, but that there kitchen is a mask of grease. these june tenants was jist a passel of boys and i can tell you they pretty near ripped things wide open. they had a triflin', no-'count black man fer cook and if ther' is one thing i hate more'n a nigger woman, it's a nigger man. sometimes i think i will jist natchally refuse to rent my house to anybody that hires niggers." "your house!" escaped from dum before she could stop herself. "yes, miss, my house! did you think i'd be cleaning up after a nigger in anybody's house but my own?" "then you are mrs. rand?" inquired dee. "the same! did you think i might be capt. rand?" "no'm; i--i----" "you jist didn't expect to see a lady who owns a grand house like this workin' like any common person. well, you are right, young lady. but if i didn't work like this, ther' wouldn't be no house to rent. where's your brother?" "brother?" "yes; him what come down last winter to see after rentin' the house. he was a powerful likely young man. me 'n capt. rand took to him from the first minute we clapt eyes on him. i'd a-knowed you two were his sisters anywhere; and this other young lady," indicating me, "i reckon she's his girl, 'cause she sho ain't no kin." the twins spluttered and i blushed but managed to put mrs. rand right as to the tucker family, explaining to her that mr. tucker was the father of my friends and that i was merely a schoolmate who was invited to come to the beach on a visit. "well, you may be putting something over on me, as these wild june tenants used to call it. i can't believe that the young man who came down here is the paw of these strapping twins any more than i could believe that you are their maw. maybe he sent his office boy." that made all of us laugh. "we've been coming here for years, mrs. rand," said dee. "it is strange we do not know each other. i can't remember ever seeing you before and you never saw us." "good reason! i never come here 'til this last fall, when capt. rand and i left virginia beach. he's been a lifesaver ever since he was a-put inter pants, but his jints is too stiff now. the government has pensioned him but it looks like so long as we live near the old life saving station that every time there is any cause for gittin' out the boats, capt. rand sees some good excuse why he's beholden to go 'long. so i jist up 'n' moved him away from temptation over inter these quiet waters. but when is that so-called paw of yourn comin'?" "he will be along this evening with miss cox, our chaperone, and we want to get everything in order before he comes," said dum. "well, that bein' the case, i'd better get a hump on and finish up the kitchen that greasy nigger left in such a state; and then i'll come right on up to the bedrooms. this lapping and slamming of tenants is right hard on me, but it is the only way i can get my fifteen per cent out of my investment." "did you plan the house yourself, mrs. rand?" questioned dum. "it is so pretty." "what, me? do i look crazy? when i builds, i builds a house with a parlor and nice, tight bedrooms. i don't 'low the builder to waste no lumber on porches that's nothin' but snares fer lazy folks. i owns three houses over to virginia beach, as snug little homes as you ever seed; but somehow it looks like i can't git rich tenants fer 'em, in spite of they bein' on the water front. rich folks what is got the money to sleep in nice, close bedrooms is all took to sleepin' out doors like tramps; an' when they is got all the time there is to set in the parlors and rock, they ain't content in the house but must take theyselves out in the wind and sun 'til they look like injuns! "no, sirree! i had a mortgage on this house an' foreclosed. it was built and owned by a architect from norfolk. i had a chattel mortgage, too, so i got all his fixin's. i felt real sorry fer him. it looked like he loved the place as if'n it was his own flesh and blood. it is a strange, misshapen lookin' house to me; but they do say if any of yo' children is afflicted, you loves 'em more'n all the others. i wanted to decoration this barn a little with some real fine pictures a lightnin' artist over to hampton struck off for me while i waited, but the man took on so, jist like he thought i might a-been desecratin' the grave of his child! and he kinder made me promise to leave this room jist as it is with that common old blue chany on the mantel an' this strip of blue and white rag on the table. so that's how it comes to be so bare-like." "we don't think it is bare, mrs. rand, but beautiful," said dum reverently, and dee took off her hat and held it just as i had seen her father do when a funeral was passing. "may we go upstairs and see the sleeping porches, and maybe we can help you some?" "snoop around all you've a mind to; but i wouldn't ask you to help. when i rents a furnished house i sees that it is turned over to tenants in apple-pie order, and if'n you'd 'a' come in the afternoon instid of morning you'd 'a' found it ship-shape." "but we'd simply adore helping," urged dee. "all right, if you must you must! here's a basket of clean sheets an' sich, an' here's clean bags fer the mattresses. i never asks one tenant to sleep on the same tick cover that the one before it used, certainly not when boys is been the fore-runners. these was likely boys if'n they was a leetle harum-scarum, but boys at the best is kinder goatish. jist bundle up the s'iled bedclothes an' trun 'em down the steps, an then when you've buttoned up the mattresses in their clean covers make up the cots to suit your fancy. by that time i'll be up with my broom and rags." and mrs. rand bustled out to the kitchen to clean up after her abomination. we could hardly wait for her to get out of the room to have a good giggle. she was a type that was new to me. dee declared that she was a real out and out "po' white" if she did own three houses at virginia beach and one at willoughby, and got per cent on her investments. her dialect was, in some instances, like the coloured people's, but her voice was high and nasal and every sentence ended in a kind of whine. with our coloured friends the dropping of a "g" or "d" makes their speech soft and mellow, but with this so-called "poor white" it seemed to make it only dry and hard. certainly mrs. rand's exterior was not very attractive, but there was a kind of frankness about her that i rather liked. i had an idea that she was going to prove a good and just landlady, which, after all, is very important when one is renting a furnished house for a month at the sea shore. "thank goodness, we are spared the lightning artist's pictures," sighed dum. "isn't this room wonderful?" it had indeed the repose and calm of a forest. the light was soft and subdued after the glare of sand and water. the high, vaulted, unplastered ceiling with its heavy green beams and rafters made me think of william morris's description of the hall of the nibelungs when the eagles screamed in the roof-tree. we carried the heavy basket of clean bed linen upstairs and made our way through the dressing rooms, which were little more than closets, to the spacious sleeping porches, overlooking the bay. we found the place in very good order, considering boys had been keeping bach there for a month, and it was not at all "goatish," as we had been led to expect to find it. on the first porch we discovered an old checked cap on a hook, and some discarded tennis shoes in a corner, under one pillow a wallet, rather fat with bank bills, and under another a large gold watch. "aren't boys the limit, though?" exclaimed dee as she carefully placed the valuables in a drawer. "that means they'll be coming back for their treasures. maybe we had better save the old hat and shoes, too;" which we did with as much care as we had shown the watch and wallet. we bundled up the bed clothes according to instructions and decided to visit the other porches and get rid of all the soiled linen before we commenced to make up the cots. there were three large porches, with two dressing rooms to each porch, and two small porches in the back, one of them, we fancied, intended for the servant and the other one for some person who preferred solitude to company, as there was room for only one bed on it. this porch was the last one we visited and we found it in terrible disarray. there were clothes and shoes all over the floor and the bed was piled high with a conglomeration of sweaters, baseball suits and what not. "my, what a mess!" i cried, being the first to enter. "and this is the room of all others to get in order, as i fancy miss cox, our chaperone, will occupy it." "yes, this would be best," said dum. "she could have more privacy, and then, too, she would escape the morning sun. here, you girls, catch hold of the corners of the sheet and let's take up all of this trash and 'trun' it down the steps and let mrs. rand sort it out." we laid hold with a good will, but it proved to be very heavy, so heavy, in fact, that just as we got it off the bed, dee let go her end and the contents fell to the floor with a resounding bump. chapter ii. "sleepy." [illustration: a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face.--_page _] the mass of bed clothes and sweaters and shoes went through a great upheaval, and an arm, encased in a striped pajama sleeve, was thrust forth. we did what girls always do, we screamed and then we giggled. "gee, it's hot!" came in muffled tones. "it's hard enough to be waked before daybreak but you fellows might at least wake me like gentlemen and not pull me out of bed, keeping up such an infernal cackling, too, sounding like a lot of fool girls." of course, the thing to do was to get out of the room, or rather off the porch, as fast as we could, but, as dee and i were at the foot of the bed and the floor space was occupied by the squirming mass, we had no chance to make a graceful exit. "jump!" came in a sibilant whisper from dum, and we got ready for a feat not very difficult for two girls as athletic as we were; but a fit of giggles attacked us and we were powerless to do anything but cling to each other in limp helplessness. "i'm afraid we would step on it," i managed to squeak out through my convulsions. "i just dare you to!" spluttered the owner of the arm, and a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face. it was a rather good-looking face in spite of the fact that it was swollen with sleep and crimson with heat and distorted with rage at having been "awakened before dawn." i never expect again in all my life to see anything half so ludicrous as that boy's expression when it dawned on him that the rude awakening was not the work of his erstwhile companions, but of a lot of "fool girls." his eyes, half shut with sleep and blinking with the glare of unexpected daylight, were blinded for a moment, but as dee and i still clung to each other and giggled, the youth's eyes began to widen and the mouth, sullen from heavy slumber, formed itself into a panic-stricken o. his face had seemed as red as a face could get, but, no! it took on several shades more of crimson until it was really painful to behold. he did the wisest thing he could possibly have done under the circumstances: hid his head and burrowed deep under the cover. "now, jump!" cried dum; and jump we did, clearing the hurdle in great shape, and then we raced down to mrs. rand to tell her of our ridiculous predicament. "well, land's sake! don't that beat all? and you was fixin' to gather him up with the s'iled clothes! 'twould 'a' served him right if'n you had a-trunned him down the steps and let him take his chanct with the la'ndry." and the old woman laughed until her mrs. wiggs knot came down and she had to put down her scrubbing brush and twist it up. "i'm about through here and i'll go up and 'ten' to him." "oh, mrs. rand, i am sure he is up by this time, and the poor fellow is embarrassed enough. don't say anything to him," begged dee. "i ain't so sho 'bout that. i spec it's the one they call 'sleepy,' an' if'n it is, he's mo'n apt to be gone back to bed," and she stalked like a grenadier up the steps to rout out poor "sleepy." two boys came up on the piazza as we turned from viewing the now spotless kitchen, and, caps in hand, asked to see mrs. rand. they were what that lady would have called a "likely pair." both were dressed in white flannels and had the unmistakable look of clean-living athletes. mrs. rand's voice was heard from the balcony as she rapped sharply on the dressing-room door: "you, there! git up! this ain't no tramps' hotel." then a growl came from the den as from a wounded, sore-headed bear. "sleepy!" gasped the boys, and they went off into roars of laughter in which we perforce joined them. "not up yet!" mrs. rand, coming down the steps from her valiant attack on the back sleeping porch, espied the laughing boys and renewed the offensive: "now what's bringing you here? this here cottage ain't yourn no longer. if'n youse after that fat sleepy-head up thar you is welcome to him, but what's the reason you didn't take him with you, i can't see." "you see, mrs. rand, it's this way," said the taller of the two boys, approaching mrs. rand with an engaging smile. "we did wake up sleepy and then piled all his clothes on top of him, thinking the weight and heat of them would make it impossible for him to sleep longer. we had to go get our tents pitched and provision our camp and we couldn't stay to see that our scheme worked. we are mighty sorry if it has caused you any trouble or annoyance." "no trouble to me," and mrs. rand gave a snaggled-tooth smile at the polite young man, "but it was some trouble for these young ladies; which no doubt is the reason, these young ladies, i mean, that t'other young fellow is so busy winking at me about, kinder specting me to hand out a interduction. well, as i'm what you might call chaperoon 'til their paw comes, i'll favor you and make you acquainted;" which she did with stiff formality. the tall boy was named james hart, and the other one, the winker, stephen white, but he was never again to be known as stephen, or even steve, for on and after that first day of july he was known as "wink." boys are quick to give a nickname and slow to relinquish a joke on one of their companions. "mrs. rand," said wink, (i'll begin now to call these boys by the names we soon knew them by,) "we simply hate to be a nuisance to you and to these young ladies but we can't provision our camp for the reason that we have lost all our money. i was almost sure i had put the money in my pocket, but now that i can't find it, i am hoping maybe i left it here somewhere." "no, you didn't, young man. th' ain't no money loose 'round here," and mrs. rand got ready for battle. "oh, the wallet!" we cried in chorus, and dee rushed upstairs and came down in a trice bearing the wallet, watch, old cap and shoes. "my, what a relief!" sighed wink. "i am supposed to be the careful member of the crowd, so they intrusted me with all the funds, and this is the way i behaved. your watch, jim! i fancy your great-grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew how careless you were. and old rags left his cap and shoes! i am glad i wasn't the only forgetter." "well, i'm a-thinking, young men, that it's a good thing this here cottage is owned by a respectable woman an' the july tenants is what they is, or you'd be minus some prop'ty. that there sleepy up there come mighty near being bundled up in the s'iled linen an' sent to the la'ndry, an' if'n these young ladies hadn't a-been what they is yo' camp never would 'a' been provisioned. but now i must git to work an' clear out that there upstairs," and mrs. rand betook herself to the regions above. "please tell us about sleepy," begged jim hart. "did he get mixed up with the laundry?" but the tuckers and i felt that poor sleepy had had embarrassment enough and were mum as to our experience with him that morning. "come on, jim, let's go up and see him. maybe he is too shy to come out," and the two boys went up two steps at a time to rout out their embarrassed friend. the bird had flown. there was no trace of the poor fat boy. the clothes which had filled the room were gone; the boy was gone; and only a hole in the sand below gave silent witness to his manner of flight. "well, poor sleepy, if he hasn't jumped off the porch and gone, bag and baggage! he almost dug a well in the process of going. that was some jump, i can tell you," and jim and wink came down in a broad grin. "what is sleepy's real name?" i asked. "george massie, a perfectly good name, and he is the best old fellow in the world, especially when he is asleep, which he is on long stretches. in fact, most of the time, except in football season, and then you bet he is awake and up and doing. he is on the university eleven and is sure to be captain next year," answered jim. i was rather glad to hear of his prowess in football as it meant that the poor, sleepy boy could take care of himself if his companions teased him too much in their anxiety to hear what had occurred. a centre rush on a college eleven does not have to submit to much teasing. "we are certainly obliged to you ladies for your kindness in finding our belongings, and when we get our camp in order we hope you will come to see us. we understand there is to be quite a party of you," said wink, preparing to depart. "yes, besides miss cox, our chaperone, there are to be two more girls with us for the whole month and our father is to bring down week-end parties from richmond. we are to have some boys for part of the time but we can't stand them as steady things," blundered dum. "well, come on, jim, we don't want to get in bad the first thing. to become popular with this young lady we must make ourselves scarce," and they went gaily off, while we returned to assist mrs. rand until our luggage arrived. when it came, we unpacked at once, and then were ready for the lunch which we had brought with us from richmond. we had a busy afternoon visiting the little shops, laying in our housekeeping supplies and interviewing the swarm of hucksters and fish mongers that sprang up like magic the moment the word had gone forth that a new tenant had arrived. our cook was not to come until the next day so we were very cautious in ordering, being well aware of our limitations in the culinary art. dum wanted to have baked, stuffed red snapper the first night because zebedee was so fond of it, but dee and i vetoed it and we got spanish mackerel to broil instead. "we simply live on fish at the beach. i hope you like it, page," said dee, "because you fare pretty badly down here if you don't." "of course i do; and i am going to eat a lot of it so i can become fishy and learn to swim. it is a terrible mortification to me that i can't swim." "why, honey, zebedee can teach you in one lesson, just so you are not timid," and dee put her arm around me. "there is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. you could hardly have learned to swim in your grandfather's hat-tub." chapter iii. our first night at the beach. by the time mr. tucker and miss cox arrived, late that evening, tweedles and i felt as though we had been keeping house for years. mrs. rand had the cottage in apple-pie order and had taken herself off, very much concerned for fear we were not going to have a good supper for "that there so-called 'paw'." but we did have a very good one by careful division of labour. dum set the table and looked after the butter and ice water; dee attended to the coffee, baked potatoes and salad; and to my lot fell the broiling of the fish and toasting of the bread. we had had a long and eventful day and very tired and hungry were the three of us when the trolley from norfolk finally arrived with miss cox and mr. tucker, also tired and hungry and very dirty after a trip on a soft coal train. miss cox had come all the way from the mountains of albemarle on a local train and she seemed to be about all in; but she declared that supper and bed would make her over and we must not worry about her. "it would be a pretty piece of business for me to come down here as a chaperone and then be a baby," she said. "well, a baby is about as good a chaperone as one could want," laughed mr. tucker; "and now, jinny, i am going to insist upon your being a baby for a few days until you get yourself all rested up. we appreciate your coming to us more than we can tell you and one and all mean to wait on you." "we do, indeed, miss cox, and i bid to bring your breakfast up to your room," said dee. "and i bid to unpack for you," put in dum. "and i--i--i don't know what i will do for you, but please let me help some," i begged. "oh, people, people! don't be too good to me or i'll cry," and miss cox gave a wan smile. she had been tutoring all during the month of june, beginning just as soon as her labours were over at gresham; and having had no rest at all she was in a state of exhaustion pitiable to behold. i believe her nerves would have snapped if it had not been for that timely trip to the beach. "well, i call this a pretty good supper for three girls just turning sixteen to get up all by their lonesomes," said mr. tucker, giving a sigh of complete satisfaction as he got out a cigar for an after-dinner smoke. "page did all the real cooking," tweedled the twins. "why, dee, you cooked the potatoes and the coffee, and dum did a million other things that are much more tedious than cooking. i love to cook but i hate the scullery part." then i was sorry i had said that because they utterly refused to let me help wash the dishes and i felt like an awful shirker. miss cox was escorted to her sleeping porch which she pronounced "heaven." it presented a different appearance than it had in the morning when poor sleepy had been concealed in the soiled linen like a modern falstaff (not that we seemed much like the merry wives of windsor). "now stay in bed in the morning so i can bring your breakfast up to you," begged dee. "and don't dare to unpack yourself, but let me do it," demanded dum. "i hope the mantle of sleepy will fall on you, miss cox, and you will slumber as peacefully as he did," said i, lowering the striped awning to keep the early morning light from waking the poor, tired lady. "well, good night to all of you. i only hope i can get undressed before i fall asleep." it was a wondrous night, and since the girls would not let me help with the dishes, i accepted mr. tucker's invitation to stroll on the beach with him while he finished his cigar. how pleasant the night was after the terrible glare of the day! for the first time i began to feel that the beach was going to be what i had dreamed it to be. the sun had set but there was a soft afterglow. "and in the heavens that clear obscure, so softly dark and darkly pure, which follows the decline of day, as twilight melts beneath the moon away," quoted mr. tucker. "i am afraid you are pretty tired, too, page. you do not seem to have your usual spirits. i bet a horse i know what it is! you are disappointed in willoughby beach." "oh, please don't think it, mr. tucker----" "i don't think it, i just know it. you must not feel bad about it. everybody always is disappointed in it at first, and then in a few days wonders how he could have been anything but in love with it. you question now how anyone could be contented without trees or grass, and in a week's time you wonder what is the good of trees and grass, anyhow. i know today you felt like old regulus when his captors cut off his eyelids and exposed him to the sun. you'll get used to the sun, too, and even scorn a hat as tweedles do." i was really embarrassed at mr. tucker's divining my feelings as he did, but it was no new thing, as he often seemed to be able to guess my thoughts. i, too, often found that i had thought out something just as he was in the act of giving voice to it. i _had_ been desperately disappointed in the beach. the great stretches of unbroken sand, the cloudless sky and a certain flatness everywhere had given me a sensation of extreme heaviness and dreariness; but now that the blessed darkness had come and i no longer had to scrooch up my eyes, i began to feel that it was not such a stale, flat, unprofitable place after all. and it was certainly very pleasant out there, pacing up and down on the sand with mr. tucker, who treated me just like one of his daughters in a way but at the same time gave me a feeling that he thought i was quite grown-up enough to be talked to and listened to. he had called me "miss page" at first, but now that he had dropped the "miss" and i was just plain page i seemed more of a companion to him than before. tweedles soon came racing out, having finished the dish washing. "we didn't wipe 'em, but scalded 'em and let 'em dreen. dee broke two cups--i broke a saucer!" exclaimed dum. "it's entirely too lovely a night to waste indoors." "so it is, but it is also a mighty good night for sleeping and i think all of us had better turn in pretty early," said mr. tucker. "oh, not yet, zebedee!" tweedled the girls, "we are not a bit sleepy. you are always wanting people to go to bed before they are ready." and with that they flopped themselves down on the sand, dum with her head on my knee and dee with hers on her father's shoulder and in one minute they were fast asleep. "now what are we going to do with these babies, page?" "i hate to wake them but they will be sure to catch cold," i replied. and so wake them we had to and lead them stumbling to the cottage and up the steps to the east porch, where they were with difficulty persuaded to go through what they considered, in their sleepy state, to be the unnecessary formality of undressing. i had been sleeping pretty well for almost sixteen years but after that first night at willoughby beach on a sleeping-porch, i knew that i had never really realized what sleep meant. no matter how many windows you may have open in your bedroom, it is still a room, and no matter how much you may protect a porch, it is still out-of-doors. we were in bed by nine o'clock and we were asleep almost before we were in bed, and while my sleep was perfectly dreamless i was, in a measure, conscious of a delicious well being, _a sentiment de bien être_. all through the night i was rocked in this feeling and i was then and there reconciled to the beach, flatness, glare and all. a place that had such sleep-giving powers was one to be loved and not scorned, and forthwith i began to love it. chapter iv. bubbles. the sun finds an east porch very early in the morning and five o'clock was late enough to sleep, anyhow, when one has gone to bed at nine. tweedles and i had many duties to perform and we were glad enough to be up and doing. "me for a dip in the briny, before i grapple with the day!" exclaimed dum. that sounded good to dee and me, so we all piled into our bathing suits. i felt rather strange in mine and very youthful, never before having had one on. father and i had had several nice trips together but we had always gone to some city and had never taken in a seaside resort. i had a notion i was going to like the water and almost knew i would not be afraid. i determined to look upon the ocean as just a large-sized hat-tub. "hadn't we better start the kitchen fire before we go out, dum?" i asked. "i'm not dum! i'm dee! dum's gone to peek at zebedee to see if he is awake." for the first time in my acquaintance with the tucker twins i found myself at a loss to tell them apart. of course it was dee. the eyes were grey and there was a dimple in her chin, but the bathing cap concealed her hair and forehead; and, after all, the colour of the twins' hair and the way it grew on their foreheads were the chief points of difference. their eyes were exactly the same shape if they were of different colours, and a difference that you had to stare at to find out was not much of a difference after all. dum came back to announce that zebedee was awake and would join us in a moment, so we raced down to the kitchen, careful not to make any noise and wake up poor miss cox. we started the fire and put on the tea kettle and, as an afterthought, i went back and filled the marion harland percolator, putting in plenty of coffee. the morning was rather chilly and i knew that when we got back from our dip, coffee would not go amiss. "front door wide open! what kind of a locker-up are you, zebedee, anyhow?" chided dum. "well, i could have sworn i shut it last night and locked it. in fact, i can swear it." "well, if we had burglars they didn't burgle any. the pure german silver is all intact and the blue tea-pot is still on the mantelpiece. come on, i'll race you to the water's edge," and dum and zebedee were off like two children, while dee and i followed. "someone's out ahead of us," said zebedee, pointing to a head far out in the bay. "some swimmer, too! just look how fast he's going!" the swimmer was taking long, even strokes and was shooting through the water like a fish. how i did envy that swimmer! i felt very slim and very shy as i walked gingerly to the water's edge and let the waves creep up on my feet and ankles. the tuckers wanted to stay with me but i would not hear of it. i knew that they were longing to get out into deep water and i have always had a wholesome dread of being a nuisance. they plunged in and were off like a school of porpoise, one minute under water and the next leaping high into the air. they seemed to be truly amphibious animals while i felt very much of an earthworm. i walked out in the bay up to my chin and then decided that i would try to swim back, although i had no more idea of how a body went to work to swim than to fly. i lay down on the water and felt my feet rising to the surface and then a panic seized me, and such another struggling and splashing and gurgling as i was guilty of! my head went under and my feet refused to leave the surface. i thought i would surely drown, although i knew perfectly well i was not beyond my depth. foolish poetry flashed into my brain: "you are old, father william," the young man said, "and your hair has become very white, and yet you incessantly stand on your head-- do you think, at your age, it is right?" "in my youth," father william replied to his son, "i feared it might injure the brain; but now that i'm perfectly sure i have none, i do it again and again." from that i went on with clarence's dream: "o lord! methought what pain it was to drown! what dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! what sights of ugly death within mine eyes! methought i saw a thousand fearful wrecks; a thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, all scattered in the bottom of the sea, some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes where eyes did once inhabit there were crept (as 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, that wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, and mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. . . . . but still the envious flood kept in my soul and would not let it forth to seek the empty, vast and wandering air; but smothered it within my panting bulk, which almost burst to belch it in the sea." all this time that my brain was busy in this absurd way, my legs and arms were busy, too, and just when i got to the last line, quoted above, i felt a strong hand on the back of my bathing suit and i was pulled from the briny deep. "why, page, why are you making a little submarine of yourself? you scared me to death, child. i was way out in the bay when i looked back to see what you were up to and not a sign of your precious little head could i see, nothing but bubbles to mark the spot where my dear little friend had gone down. but oh, such big bubbles! i thought you had ventured out beyond your depth, and here it is not much more than four feet of water," and zebedee held me up while i spluttered and gurgled. only the night before zebedee had demanded that i should stop calling him mr. tucker, so now i was to think of him and speak of him as zebedee. i had been thinking of him as zebedee for a long time and it was very easy to stop calling him by the formal name of mr. tucker. "lend me a handkerchief!" i demanded just as soon as i could stop spluttering enough to speak, and then we both burst out laughing, as naturally he did not have one. "i tell you what you do, little girl, you trot on up to the house and get into dry clothes, and i'll collect those water dogs as soon as i can and we will join you. i don't approve of staying in the water too long in the early morning, certainly not on the first day at the beach. the morning swim should be nothing more than a dip." "well, that's all mine was," and i scrambled out. my wet suit felt very heavy but my body felt light and there was a delicious tingle all over me as the morning air, a little cooler than the water, struck me. i raced to the cottage and into the downstairs bathroom--which had an outside entrance--where we had put our bath gowns so we would be able to drop our wet suits there. it took me only a few minutes to rub down and get into some dry clothes (thanks to middy blouses, which were surely invented for girls in a hurry). i was dressed and in the kitchen before zebedee was able to collect his water dogs. the coffee was in a state of perfection, and glad indeed was i for a cup of the beverage which shares with tea the quality of cheering without inebriating. the oven to the little range was piping hot so i made so bold as to stir up a pan of batter bread, mammy susan's kind with lots of eggs, and i then proceeded to set the table for breakfast. "see here, this is a shame for you to be slaving so!" exclaimed zebedee. "i simply won't have it--but gee, what a grand smell of coffee! you don't mean you've got some all made?" and he came through the living room and back into the kitchen in his wet suit, although he was the one who had made the rule the night before that bathers must enter from the rear and leave their wet suits in the bathrooms. i hadn't the heart to remind him; besides, i knew tweedles would take great joy in doing so. i gave him a cup of steaming coffee and then made him hurry off to get into his clothes by letting him have a peep at my batter bread, which was behaving as batter bread should when it is made with plenty of eggs and the oven is piping hot--that is, it was rising like an omelette and a delicate brown was appearing over the surface. "it must be eaten hot, so you had better hurry," i said as i put the sliced bacon in the frying pan and then cracked ice for the cantaloupe. "all right, mammy susan, i'll show you what a lightning change artist i can be. i know i can beat tweedles. they are still in the bathroom. by the way, do you know who the swimmer was we saw out in the bay? none other than our chaperone, miss jinny cox! i just knew i had locked the door. you see, jinny opened it. she has decided not to let anybody wait on her, after all. tweedles are quite disconsolate. they have been planning to be so unselfish and here jinny is refusing to be ill, and here you are, the honored guest, cooking breakfast on this, our first morning at the beach." he started up the steps but came down again, and, taking me impulsively by both hands, he exclaimed: "i am mighty glad you did not succeed in drowning yourself in four feet of water, little friend. you made very beautiful bubbles but i am going to teach you how to swim before the week is out." chapter v. blanche. "who is to go over to norfolk with me to meet the guests, also the cook lady from keysville?" demanded zebedee as he scraped the very last vestige of batter bread sticking to the sides of the pan. annie pore and mary flannagan, our schoolmates, were to arrive on a james river boat and our much needed cook on the train. the cook was a great niece of mammy susan's dead husband, who was being educated at an industrial school for coloured boys and girls. i had never seen her, but mammy susan had been rather impressed by what she had heard of the girl and it was because of her recommendation that the tuckers had determined to employ her. "she's got good afgan blood in her," declared mammy, "but th' aint no tellin' what schoolin' is done did to'ds spilin' of her." we were willing to gamble on the good "afgan" blood and now we were to meet the girl, blanche johnson by name. i had written her telling her exactly what train to take and to be sure to pin a red bow on her left shoulder as a means of identification. "page must go because she did so much work this morning, besides getting most drowned," and dum got up from the devastated breakfast table and began clearing off the dishes. "and miss cox must go----" "why don't you all go?" put in zebedee. "leave these stupid old dishes for the lily fair blanche." "oh, jeffry tucker, never!" exclaimed miss cox. "if she found us with dirty dishes she would think we like 'em dirty and give 'em to us for the rest of the time. no, you girls go on with your irresponsible parent and i will stay and do this little dab of dish washing. i don't want to go to norfolk. in fact, i never do want to go to norfolk." i detected a slight trembling of her lip and a painful flush on her countenance, but as she turned away quickly i thought i was the only person who had noticed it. "but i can't allow you to do so much, jinny," objected zebedee. "well, we've got at least fifteen minutes before the trolley leaves. let's all of us turn in and get it done before the time is up," and i set the example by grabbing the batter bread pan from zebedee, who was trying to find just one more crumb. "come on and help. i'll make you some more this evening for supper." such another bustling and hurrying as then went on! the dishes were already scraped by the voracious swimmers, so there was nothing to do but plunge them into the hot, soapy water where miss cox officiated with a dish mop, and then into the rinse water. dee was ready with a tea towel and dum put them away, while i put butter and milk in the refrigerator and wiped off the table. zebedee stood around in everybody's way doing what he called "head work." "if it takes one lone chaperone one hour to do the dishes, how long will it take her to do them with the assistance of one learned gentleman and three charming young ladies, when two of them are twins and the other one the most famous blower of bubbles in the world? answer, teacher!" "just twelve minutes by the clock, and it would have been only ten if the learned gentleman had not made us walk around him so much," laughed miss cox. "now off with you or you'll have to run for your car. don't worry about me. i may go back to sleep." the boat was in when we reached norfolk but the girls had been instructed to stay aboard until we got there. we could see dear old mary flannagan's red head as we put foot on the pier and as soon as she saw us she began to crow like chanticleer. what fun it was to see these girls again! we were a strangely assorted quintette. the tucker twins, annie pore, mary flannagan and i; but our very difference made us just that much more congenial. the twins were not a bit alike in disposition. dum,--virginia,--was artistic, sometimes a trifle moody, very impulsive and hot-tempered but withal the most generous and noble-minded person i knew, quite like her father in lots of ways. dee,--caroline,--was more practical and even-tempered with a great deal of tact prompted by her kind heart, the tenderest heart in all the world, that took in the whole animal kingdom from elephants to ants. annie pore, our little english friend, had developed so since our first meeting that she seemed hardly the same person who had sat so forlornly in the station in richmond only ten short months before. she had lost the timid, nervous look and was growing more beautiful every day. she had had thirty days of such growing since i had last beheld her and she had made good use of her time. i had a feeling the minute i saw her that perhaps she had come to some more satisfactory understanding with her father. in fact, she must have, since he had permitted her to join the house party at willoughby beach. mary flannagan was the same old mary, red head, freckled face, bunchy waist and all; but there never was a more good-natured, merry face than mary's. her blue eyes had a twinkle in them that was better than mere beauty and her frequent laughs disclosed a set of perfectly clean, white teeth. on the whole, mary was not so very homely and to us, her best friends, she was almost beautiful. as for me, page allison, i was just a girl, neither beautiful nor ugly, brilliant nor stupid; but i was still as determined as i had been on that morning in september when i started out from bracken for boarding school, not to rest until i had made a million friends. i had made a pretty good start and i intended to keep it up. "well, we are glad to see you!" exclaimed zebedee, shaking hands with both girls at once as he met them on the gangway. "i hope your father is well, miss annie, and is favourably considering joining us for a week end at willoughby." "i don't know, mr. tucker, what he will do," answered annie, smiling; "he enjoyed seeing you so much that i shall not be astonished if he takes you at your word and comes to visit you." that was the most wonderful conquest ever made! zebedee had been down to price's landing and deliberately captivated the stiff, unbending englishman, mr. arthur ponsonby pore. i asked him to tell me about it and he answered quite simply in the words of cæsar: "'veni! vidi! vici!' why, page, the man is peculiar but he is more lonesome than anything else. all i did was to treat him like a human being and take for granted he would treat me the same way, and sure enough he did. and here is poor little annie, to show the wisdom of taking it for granted that a man is going to be kind. i asked him to let her come to the house party as though he would of course be delighted to give his daughter this pleasure, and he complied with the greatest cordiality." after seeing to the girls' trunks and transferring them to the baggage trolley for willoughby beach (and this time annie, having a neat, new little trunk which she called a "box," was not embarrassed by the bulging telescope she had taken to gresham), we then went to the station to await the arrival of the precious cook. "s'pose she doesn't come!" wailed dum. "well, if it would mean more of page's batter bread, i shan't mind much," declared zebedee as the train puffed in. "look for a girl with a red bow on her shoulder," said i, peering at every passenger who got out of the coloured coach. there were many as there was an excursion to ocean view and a picnic given by "the sons and daughters of the morning." the dusky crowd swarmed by, laden with boxes and baskets of lunch, all of them laughing and happy and any of them looking as though she might be a good cook, but not one of them was blanche. red there was in abundance but never in the form of a bow on the left shoulder. red hats, red cravats, red parasols passed us by, and even a stair-steps row of six little nigs in rough-dry white dresses with all of their pigtails tightly "wropped" with red string and a big red bow of ten-cent store ribbon on top of each happy, woolly head,--and still no blanche. "ah, i see visions of more and more batter bread of the page brand," murmured zebedee. "i'm going to purchase a big baking dish so you can mix up twice as much." "look, there is a girl coming back! could that be blanche?" and dee pointed to a very fat, good-looking, brown-skinned girl, dressed in the very latest and most extreme style of that summer. she wore a very tight skirt of black and white silk with stripes about an inch and a half broad, slit up over a flounced petticoat of royal purple. her feet, substantial, to say the least, were encased in white canvas shoes with purple ties, and purple cotton stockings were stretched to their utmost over her piano legs (i mean the old square pianos), stretched so tight, in fact, that they took on the gloss of silk. a lavender crêpe de chine blouse very much open, exposing her capacious chest, and a purple straw hat trimmed with black roses, perched on top of a towering, shiny pompadour, completed the colour scheme. pinned on her left shoulder was an artificial orchid with a purple bow. in her hand she carried a huge basket covered with a newspaper. "are you blanche johnson?" i questioned. "i was about to propound the same inquisition to you when i seen you approaching i," she answered with a mincing manner. "i am consigned to the kind ospices of mr. tucker and miss page allison, a young lady who has been since infantry under the jurisprudence of mrs. susan black, my great arnt once removed by intermarriage." "well, blanche, i am miss page allison and this is mr. tucker, and mr. tucker's daughters, miss virginia and miss caroline. we came very near missing you as we were looking for the red bow, pinned on your left shoulder." "well, now, miss page, it was very disappointmenting for me not to be compliable to your requisition, but i belong to an uplifting club at my school and one of our first and most important relegations is that the mimbers must never do nothing nigrified. an' they have decided that the unduly bedizenment of yourself in red garments is the first and foremost nigrification of the race. hence, therefore, i resolutioned to trust that my kind frinds would indemnify me with this orchard." "and so we have, blanche, and now we will go take the electrics for willoughby," and zebedee, his face crimson from suppressed merriment, led the way to the car line, while blanche kept up a steady fire of polite talk. "there was another reason for my abandonment of the red bow, miss page, and that was that i am in kinder sicond mournin' for the disease of my only brother's offspring." "oh, i am sorry, blanche! how old was the child? was it a boy or girl?" "well, it wa'nt to say any age, as the angel was borned daid, and as for the slight differentation in sex, i was so woeful i done forgot to arsk my po' bereaved brother whether it were the fair sex or the inversion." "well, if the little thing had to die, it must have been a relief for your brother to know it had never lived." "no'm, no'm! 'twould a been a gret comfort if'n it had lived a while. you see mandy, jo's wife, is sickly and her offspring is cosequentially sickly and jo always has heretoforth been able to collect a little insuriance on his prodigy by bein' very promptitude in the compilation of the policies. yes! yes! po' jo! i felt that it was the least i could do to show respec' for his great bereavement by puttin' on the traps of woefulness," and she smoothed with pride her striped skirt and looked with evident admiration at her fearfully and wonderfully clad feet. "how old does a child have to be to collect insurance?" i asked. "well, some companies is agreeable to the acceptance of infantry at a very tinder age and will pay at their disease if the contractioning parties can prove there ain't no poultry play." "poultry play?" i gasped. "yes'm, poultry play! that is to say, foul play. you see, miss page, one of our club relegations is to use the word with the most syllabubs as we seem to feel more upliftable. and poultry sounds much mo' elegant than jis' foul." i was bursting for a laugh but had to hold in, while all of those bad girls with the disgraceful zebedee pretended to see something in a shoe shop window that was sufficiently funny to keep them in a gale of mirth. chapter vi. a romance. as we waited for our car, a very pleasant looking man, seemingly much older than zebedee, glanced at our crowd rather curiously (and blanche was enough to make anyone glance at us curiously) and then his face lit up as he recognized zebedee. he hastened to his side and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming: "jeffry tucker! i'm glad to see you! what are you doing in norfolk?" "well, i'm getting out of it as fast as i can on my way down to willoughby. have taken a cottage down there for a month,--let me introduce you to my girls and their friends." the gentleman was mr. robert gordon, a classmate of zebedee's at the university. he was not really more than a year or so older than zebedee, but his hair and moustache were iron grey and his fine eyes were tired and sad looking. he had been for years teaching at a school in south carolina but had recently been given the chair of english at a college in norfolk. "you must come over and stay with us, bob. the girls can tell you what heaps of room we have." "oh, heaps and heaps!" tweedled the twins. "make it this evening, bob, and stay over sunday. you are your own master this time of year surely, while i have to go back to the grind on monday. i'll get my holiday a little later on, however. now come on! i want you to know my girls and my girls to know you." "i have a great mind to take you up," and mr. gordon looked admiringly at the twins. "i can hardly believe they are yours, jeff. yes, i'll come this evening." "good boy! that's the way to talk. we will expect you before supper. by the way," whispering, "this is our new cook we are taking out. i hope she won't scare you off. we've got an old friend of yours out there, too, jinny cox,----" "i really think, jeff, i had better not come this evening," stammered mr. gordon, turning quite pale and showing extreme agitation. "i--i----" "now look here, bob, you have accepted and we are going to expect you." the trolley arrived just then and we hurriedly got aboard while zebedee shouted hospitable imprecations on the head of his old friend if he should fail to keep his word. "that was a strange way for bob gordon to behave," he said, sinking into the seat by me. "first he said he would come and seemed delighted and then when i cracked a joke about our poor, dear blanche, he suddenly decided he had better not come. while poor, dear blanche is certainly some dresser, she is very clean looking and has a good face, and i can't see anything about her to make a man behave as bob did." zebedee always thereafter spoke of blanche as "poor, dear blanche," and there was something so ludicrous in his way of saying it that for the entire month we were at the beach and ever after, in fact, when our vacation of that july was mentioned, he could set all of us in a perfect gale by his "poor, dear blanche." i looked at zebedee in amazement. he really seemed to think that it was blanche who had made mr. gordon turn so pale and stammer so strangely. men are funny animals. here was zebedee, a "so-called paw" of girls as old as i was, a man of the world and a newspaper man with a nose for news that was unsurpassed in the south, so my father thought, and still he had not had the intuition to see that his friend bob had turned pale when he found miss cox was with us. i could have wagered anything that all the girls knew what was the matter, even blanche. i said nothing to zebedee, feeling perhaps that it would be a little unkind to miss cox to give voice to my convictions to a mere man, but i was dying to get with one of the girls and see if the subject would not be immediately broached. zebedee went out on the back platform to smoke and dee made a dive for his seat. "page, i'm dying to find out if you noticed mr. gordon's agitation over miss cox's being with us!" "surely i did!" "oh, isn't it exciting? and didn't she blush, though, when she said she never wanted to go to norfolk?" so dee had noticed that, too. "dum thought it was because she had had some kind of love affair there three years ago and could not bear the place and all around it, but i kind of hoped maybe it was because the man lived there still. i wonder if he will come and if we had better warn her. i am so afraid she will run away if she finds out he is coming, and then the romance cannot be completed." "well, i think we had better keep out of it altogether and let your respected parent put his foot in it, which he is sure to do. he thinks mr. gordon held back because of blanche's appearance." "he doesn't! well, of all the stupids! got his start, too, as what he calls 'a gum-shoe reporter' doing detective work on his paper. if i had no more insight into human nature than that, i'd take to cracking rock as a profession," and dee sniffed scornfully. she agreed with me that we would say nothing to zebedee as it wouldn't be quite fair to our sex to gossip with a man about a love affair. annie and mary had been as quick to see the possible romance as we had been, so we had to tell them of miss cox's agitation when norfolk was mentioned, and one and all we pitied poor zebedee's masculine blindness. we had always liked miss cox, but now we had a tenderness for her that amounted to adoration. our surmises were many as to the reason for her separation from her lover. "maybe there was insanity in the family," suggested mary. "perhaps she had a very stern father who scorned her lover," and annie blushed that her mind should run on stern fathers. "i believe it was just a matter of spondulix," said the practical dee. "oh, no! surely not!" exclaimed dum. "i don't believe miss cox is the kind of woman to give up a man because he is poor. i believe it was because she thought she was so homely." "well, he must have been a pretty poor stick of a lover if he could not persuade her that she was beautiful. i'd hate to think that of mr. gordon. maybe he gave her up because he was poor. school teaching is 'mighty po' pickin's,' as mammy susan says." "well, i hope they won't keep us waiting very long, because i'm simply dying to know," sighed dum. this conversation was held after we got back to the beach and were installing the guests in their quarters. we had decided to sleep, all five of us, on one porch, as it was so much more fun. it made the cots come rather close together but that made giggling and whispering just so much simpler. miss cox had had a pleasant morning, she declared, and had the table all set for luncheon with tempting viands thereon. we had brought a supply of delicacies from schmidt's in richmond and i had a fine ham, cooked by mammy susan's own method, which i produced from my trunk as a surprise for zebedee, so "poor, dear blanche" did not have to officiate at this meal but could spend her time getting her sleeping porch in order and unpacking her huge basket of clothes. we had been rather concerned about how a sleeping porch would be looked on by the cook, but she set our minds at rest with great tact. "yes'm, i is quite customary to air in my sleeping department. at school the satinary relegations is very strengulous and we are taught that germcrobes lurks in spots least inspected. and now i will take off my begalia of travel and soon will be repaired to be renitiated into the hysterics of domestic servitude." and we were going to have to listen to this talk for a whole month and keep straight faces or perhaps lose the services of "poor, dear blanche"! "i simply can't stand it!" exploded dum as soon as she got out of earshot. "it will give me apoplexy." luncheon was a merry meal that day as zebedee was in an especially delightful mood and mary flannagan had many funny new stories to tell. she was an indefatigable reader of jokes and could reel them off by the yard, but all the time our romantic souls were atremble to see how miss cox would take the news of the proposed visit of her one-time lover. we half hoped and half feared that zebedee would mention the fact that he had extended this invitation to mr. gordon, and perhaps she might faint. we did not want her to faint, but if she did faint we hoped we would be there to see it. we kept wondering why zebedee did not tell her and finally quite casually he asked: "where do you think we had better put gordon, jinny?" "gordon? gordon who?" "why, bob gordon! didn't the girls tell you he is coming out to stay over sunday?" "no--we--we--you--we thought----" but no one ever found out what we did think nor did we find out what miss cox thought of the return of her supposed lover, for just at this juncture blanche came into view ready for the "hysterics of domestic servitude." in taking off her "begalia of travel" she had also removed the large, shiny pompadour and disclosed to view a woolly head covered with little tight "wropped" plaits. she had on a blue checked long-sleeved apron made by what is known as the bungalow pattern, her expression was quite meek and she looked very youthful and rather pathetic. i realized that her vast amount of assurance had come entirely from her fine clothes, and now that she had taken them off she was nothing more nor less than a poor, overgrown country darkey who had been sent to school and taught a lot of stuff before she had any foundation to put it on. it turned out later that she could neither read nor write with any ease, and all of her high-sounding, mispronounced words she had gathered from lectures she had attended in the school. she was suffering from this type of schooling as i would have suffered had i gone straight from bracken to college without getting any training at gresham. the effect was so startling, to see this girl whom we had left only a few minutes ago arrayed in all her splendor, now looking for all the world like a picked chicken, that miss cox and her romance were for the moment forgotten and all our energies were taken up in trying to compose our countenances. then mary flannagan swallowed a sardine whole and had to be well thumped, and by that time miss cox was able to control her voice (if she had ever lost control of it), and she asked, in a most matter-of-fact way, questions about the expected guest; and if her colour was a little heightened, it might have been blanche who had caused it. were we not all of us as red as roses? chapter vii. oh, you chaperone! dum and dee were to take turns keeping house but i had a steady job as the advisory board and we hoped to manage without worrying miss cox. the girls had tossed up to find out who should begin, and dee had first go, which meant breaking in blanche. we were glad to see that she seemed to understand dish washing and that she moved rapidly considering her size and shape. "now, blanche," said dee with a certain pardonable importance, "my father is to have a guest this evening and we want to have a very nice supper, so you must tell us what are the dishes you can make best." "well, miss tucker, i is had great successfulness with my choclid cake and blue mawnge." "oh, i did not mean dessert but the substantial part of the supper," gasped dee. blanche was always making us gasp, as she was so unexpected. "well, as for that my co'se is not took up many things as yit, but i is mastered the stuffin' of green peppers and kin make a most appetizement dish. up to the presence, the the'ry of domesticated silence has been mo' intrusting to me than the practization." dee looked forlornly to me for help and indeed i felt it was time for the advisory board to step in. "blanche," i said, rather sternly, "did you ever cook any before you went to school?" "cook? of co'se i did, miss page. i'se been a-cookin' ever sence i could take a ask cake out'n the fire 'thout burnin' myse'f up." "good! now see here, blanche, we want you to cook for us the way you cooked before you ever went to school. just forget all about domestic science and cook." "don't you want no choclid cake an' no blue mawnge?" "not tonight," said dee gently as blanche's countenance was so sad. "we want some fried fish and some batter bread and perhaps some hot biscuit or waffles. there are some beautiful tomatoes in the refrigerator and some lettuce and we can have peaches and cream for dessert." "'thout no cake?" "well, i tell you what you can do," said the tender-hearted dee. "you can make us a chocolate cake for sunday dinner if your supper turns out well this evening." "oh, thank you, miss tucker. i is got so much sentiment fer cake. now which do you choose to have, biscuit or waffles?" we thought biscuit would be best to start blanche on and after cautioning her to call us if she was in doubt about anything, we left her to work her own sweet will. her own sweet will turned out to be a pretty good one and we were wise to leave her to it. i did get out in the kitchen just in time to keep her from putting sugar in the batter bread, something she had picked up in school from her northern teachers. i thought it best to take the batter bread in my own hands after that, and to zebedee's great comfort, made it until i felt sure blanche could do it as well as i could. zebedee and i were on the porch waiting for supper and mr. gordon to arrive, while dee went out to put the finishing touch to her housekeeping. dum and the two other girls had strolled in the direction of the trolley to meet the guest whom we rather expected to come on the next car. miss cox had not yet made her appearance after the second dip we had had that day. "have you known mr. gordon very long?" i queried. "ever since our first year at the university. he's a bully good fellow but awfully queer in a way. used to be very quick-tempered, but i fancy all these years of teaching have rather toned down his temper. jinny cox used to be a perfect pepper pot; but temper and teaching don't go very well together and she is as mild as a may morning now." "did miss cox know mr. gordon very well in those old days?" "why, bless me if i remember. we all of us ran in a crowd. as well as i can recall, it seems to me that bob gordon and jinny cox were always rowing about one thing or another. you see i was so in love with my little virginia that all i can remember of those days is just what touched us," and zebedee wiped his eyes, which had filled with tears as they always did when he spoke of his little wife who had lived such a short time. "i do kind of half remember that one day we spent at montecello on a picnic when it rained cats and dogs, jinny and bob had such a row they could not go back together although he was her escort. that was the time jinny and i made up the tune and danced the lobster quadrille," and zebedee was laughing before he had quite dried his tears, as was the way with all the tuckers. "bob left the university soon after that,--some financial difficulties at home because his father had lost his fortune,--and then i believe old bob got a job in a district school and has been teaching ever since--look here, page, do you know i believe my soul bob and jinny were engaged then! i have a kind of half memory that my little virginia told me they were, on the way home from montecello. well, if i'm not an ass! why, it was not poor, dear blanche, after all, that was scaring off gordon, but jinny cox! well, well!" i couldn't help smiling in rather a superior way and zebedee exclaimed: "i believe you knew it all the time," but just then the girls returned, bringing mr. gordon with them and what i knew or did not know had to keep for another time. mr. gordon was very much spruced up and did not look nearly so old and tired as he had in the morning. his light grey suit and hat were in excellent taste, setting off his iron-grey hair and moustache, and on the whole his appearance was so distinguished that we were more thrilled than ever at the thought of just how miss cox was going to treat him. i fancy there is no human so romantic as a sixteen-year-old girl and here were five girls all in the neighbourhood of sixteen and all simply bubbling over with sentimentality. miss cox came out on the porch and there we stood fully prepared for any outburst. we all of us noted that miss cox looked remarkably well in a blue and white lawn that showed off her really very good figure to perfection. i had long ago found out that miss cox was not so very homely, after all. to be sure her face was rather crooked, and her smile very twisted, but her head was well set, and her hair thick and glossy, and her figure athletic and graceful. "hello, bob!" "hello, jinny!" and that was all! they shook hands in quite a matter-of-fact way. "i believe we were mistaken," whispered dum to me. "wait and see," i cautioned, "they could not fall on each other's necks right before all of us." "maybe not, but they need not greet each other like long lost fish," grumbled dum. but i knew very well if they had been nothing at all to each other but just acquaintances who had not met for about seventeen years, they would have had some conventional remarks to make and not just said "hello!" at this crucial moment poor, dear blanche appeared announcing supper: "your repast is reserved, miss tucker," and in we went to a very good meal. blanche had evidently found it no trouble to forget what she had learned at school in the way of domestic science and she had cooked as good a virginia supper as one could wish. the hampton spots were done to a turn; the biscuit were light and fluffy, and as i had seen to the batter bread, if i do say it who shouldn't, it was about perfect. mr. gordon may have been suffering with lovesickness of seventeen years' standing, but he certainly proved himself a good trencher knight. "all of you have some excuse for appetites as i wager anything you have been in the water twice today, but i have no excuse except that the food is so good and i am so tired of boarding," said our guest as he helped himself to another fluffy biscuit that poor, dear blanche was handing around with an elegant air like a duchess at a tea. "well, we did go in twice today, although it is supposed to be a bad thing to do. somehow i never can resist it myself and naturally i don't expect the girls to resist what i can't myself," said zebedee. "how was the water; pretty warm?" "oh, fine this morning before breakfast but rather brillig this afternoon," answered dum. "brillig?" "yes, brillig! don't you know your alice? "'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.'" and then a strange thing happened. before dum got half through her quotation miss cox's face was suffused with blushes, and mr. gordon first looked pained and then determined and when he answered he spoke to dum but he looked at miss cox. "well, i don't know my alice as well as i might, but i have read it and re-read it and think it a most amusing book. i don't remember that strange verse, however,---- do you know, miss dum, i used to be such a silly ass as to think there was nothing amusing in alice in wonderland, and once a long time ago i fell out with the very best friend i ever had in the world because i said the lobster quadrille was the kind of thing that no one but a child could find anything funny in? and she thought differently, and before we knew it we were at it hammer and tongs, and both of us said things we did not really mean (at least i did not mean them)----" "neither did i, bob," said miss cox, frankly. i certainly liked miss cox for the way she spoke. she was what tweedles calls a "perfect gentleman." "and what is more, jinny, the lobster quadrille is my favourite poem now," and mr. gordon looked very boyish, "or it might be unless you think the charming bit miss dum has just recited is better." "how do you like this?" said dum, rather bent on mischief i fancied: "'in winter when the fields are white, i sing this song for your delight-- in spring, when woods are getting green, i'll try and tell you what i mean. in summer, when the days are long, perhaps you'll understand the song. in autumn, when the leaves are brown, take pen and ink and write it down. i sent a message to the fish: i told them, 'this is what i wish.' the little fishes of the sea, sent an answer back to me. the little fishes' answer was, 'we cannot do it, sir, because----' i sent to them again to say, 'it will be better to obey.' the fishes answered with a grin, 'why, what a temper you are in!' i told them once, i told them twice; they would not listen to advice. i took a kettle, large and new, fit for the deed i had to do. my heart went hop, my heart went thump; i filled the kettle at the pump. then someone came to me and said, 'the little fishes are in bed.' i said to him, i said it plain, 'then you must wake them up again.' i said it very loud and clear; i went and shouted in his ear. but he was very stiff and proud; he said, 'you need not shout so loud!' and he was very proud and stiff, he said, 'i'll go and wake them, if----' i took a corkscrew from the shelf; i went to wake them up myself. and when i found the door was locked, i pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked. and when i found the door was shut, i tried to turn the handle, but----'" dum recited this poem with fervor and great elocutionary effects and simply convulsed the crowd. the whole thing was said directly to mr. gordon and the naughty girl seemed to have some personal meaning when she said, "my heart went hop, my heart went thump," and when she ended up with a hopeless wail, "i tried to turn the handle, but----," mr. gordon actually went to miss cox, as we arose from the supper table, drew her hand within his arm and deliberately led her out on the beach, and in plain hearing of all of us, said: "the door isn't shut for good, is it, jinny?" and we heard her answer: "no, bob, not if you 'pull and push and kick and knock.'" well, bob certainly did "pull and push and kick and knock." i have never imagined a more persistent lover. he seemed to be trying to catch even for all he had lost in those seventeen years. he told zebedee that after the foolish quarrel he and miss cox had had on that wet, wet picnic, he had been called home by the financial disaster of his father, and while he knew he had been hard-headed in the affair, he felt she had been unreasonable, too, in demanding that he should agree with her about the absurd poem in alice in wonderland; and so had left the university without trying to right matters. then when he had realized the tremendous difficulty his family was in, and found that not only would he have to go immediately to work but that his mother and sister would be dependent on his exertions, he felt that it was on the whole best that he and miss cox should separate. the engagement was already broken and he went off to his long and up-hill work saddened and forlorn; and miss cox, rather embittered by the experience, feeling that she had been hasty and exacting but too proud to make a move towards a reconciliation, had spent all the long years in vain regrets. "well, i hope they will be very happy," sighed dum when we were discussing the matter while we lay on our closely packed cots the first night of mr. gordon's visit. "it does seem terribly unromantic for the separation to have been caused by the lobster quadrille." "it might have been a permanent separation if it had been just plain lobster, 'specially in cans," said funny mary flannagan. "didn't miss cox look sweet in that blue dress? i thought she was almost pretty but maybe it was the love-light in her eyes," sentimentalized annie pore. "isn't it a pity they are so old?" deplored dee. "his hair is real grey." "it's trouble that has done it," said mary. "i wondered, dum, you didn't get off that verse on him about the voice of the lobster. maybe that would have been too personal: "'tis the voice of the lobster, i heard him declare, 'you have baked me too brown, i must sugar my hair.' as a duck with his eyelids, so he with his nose, trims his belt and his buttons and turns out his toes.' it would have been rather personal because mr. gordon's hair does look rather sugared and certainly miss cox has baked him pretty brown." "what do you s'pose your cousin park garnett would say, page, if she knew that our chaperone for the house party had gone and got herself as good as engaged the very second evening?" laughed dee. "i fancy with her characteristic elegance she would exclaim: 'oh, you chaperone!'" chapter viii. letters. to dr. james allison from page allison. willoughby beach, july--, --. my dearest father: we are having the grandest time that ever was and all we want now is for you to take a little holiday and come down to see us. it would do you worlds of good and surely your patients can let you go for a little while. sometimes i think you should get an assistant or try to persuade some young doctor to settle in the neighbourhood. you never have any fun. i feel very selfish to have gone off and left you and mammy susan when i have been away all winter, but i promise to come back the first of next month and not to budge from bracken until it is time to go to school the middle of september. i hope cousin sue lee will be with us then, as i should hate to miss her visit, one moment of it. on the other hand i devoutly hope that cousin park garnett will pay her yearly visitation while i am away. i heard a rumor that a mrs. garnett was expected at the hotel here, but i am trusting in my hitherto lucky stars that it is not cousin park. if she comes to willoughby, i am going to bury my head in the sand, like an ostrich, and pretend i'm somebody else. there is a camp of boys near us and they are just as nice as can be and seem to think it is their affair to give all of us girls a good time. they rented this cottage for last month and liked willoughby so much that when their time was up they started a camp. they are james hart, stephen white, george massie and ben raglan. they are called jim, wink, sleepy and rags, and as we have come to know them pretty well and they are not the kind of boys one stands on ceremony with, we call them by their nicknames, too. wink white is studying medicine and so is sleepy, when he is not playing foot-ball or sleeping. wink is very clever and intensely interested in his work. mr. tucker (only i call him zebedee now) is teaching me how to swim. he says i am a very apt pupil because i am not a bit afraid; although he teases me a great deal because one day, the very first time i went in, i politely went to the bottom, and he says i made the biggest bubbles he ever saw. he calls me "sis mud turkle," but i don't mind a bit. there is some kind of joke on all of us, even annie pore, who is so touchy we have to be careful. but zebedee just has to tease and he says he can't leave out annie, as it might make her feel bad. of course mary flannagan has a joke on everybody and everybody has a joke on her. she is a delightful person to be on a house party with, always so full of fun and always starting something. dum and dee are the same old tweedles, the very most charming and agreeable persons in the world. i have saved up the most important to the last:--our chaperone, miss cox, has gone and got herself engaged! it is an old lover she used to have when she was a girl and he has turned up in the most unexpected and romantic way, and all of us girls are so excited over it we can hardly eat and sleep. we are going to miss her terribly at gresham. she can make me understand mathematics, which is going some, and how i am to proceed into quadratic equations without her, i cannot see. we do not know when they are to be married, but rather think it will be soon. zebedee bids to be flower girl. you may be sure that miss cox and mr. gordon come in for their share of teasing. i used to think miss cox was very old but since she got engaged she does not seem to be any older than we are, and while mr. gordon has very grey hair, he is really not old at all, not much older than zebedee, who is the youngest person of my acquaintance. all the old girls at willoughby run after zebedee, much to tweedles' disgust. i believe it would about kill the twins if their father should ever marry again, and indeed i think it would be hard on them and i hope he never will, certainly not any of these society girls who are down here at the beach. i don't believe they would any of them make him happy. tell mammy susan that her great niece is doing very well and everyone likes her. do not tell her that she is a perfect scream, using the longest, most ridiculous words in the world, never by any accident pronounced properly or in the right place. she is certainly proof positive of a little learning being a dangerous thing; but she is a kindly, sweet-tempered creature and as soon as we persuaded her to cook as she did before she went to school, we found her very capable. good-bye, my dearest father, and please come see us. we are one and all longing for you. give my best love to mammy susan and the dogs. your devoted daughter, page. from blanche johnson to mammy susan. willerbay beech. dere ant susen-- i take my pen in han to enform you that this leves me in pore helth and hopes it finds you in the same. the son of the c show is very hard on my complexshun and i think the endsewing yer i will spind my vocation in the montings. the yung ladys my hostages is most kind and considerable to me and mis page tretes me like her own sister. our shapperoon is in the throws of coarting and all of us maidens is very rheumatic in consequince thereof. mis page and the other young female ladys who is engaged in this visitation declares they is got little if no use for the opposition sect but that is one thing i do not give very cerus credentials to as our pieazzer is one mask of yuths who no doubt would be spry to leve if they did not suspicion they was welcum. my kind empoyerer is now taken what he designs as his much kneaded rest but i cannot see that he rests none as he keeps up with all the other boys and dances and frolix just like he was the parient of nothin. i ask mis page if he want her bow and she took on so dignifidedly that i done see i ain't made no mistake, ennybody ken see that mis page is the favoright of the party, the twinses is plum crazzy about her but i dont bleive they suspicion that they pa is so intrusted. they keeps theyselves quite busy shoein off some fine ladys what is most attentave to they pa and never seems to see what is under they feet, uv cose i no mis page is yung yit but evy day she is making out to grow a little older and it looks lak mister tucker is standin still or even gittin some younger. i bleive they will meet in this path of life (as a pote done said) and then proceed together. no more from yose at presence. mis page has done invitided me to stop at bracken to pay you a visitation before i return to the cemetary of learning and if nothin ocurs to prevint me i will take gret plesure in compiling with her request. your gret nease, blanche johnson. from annie pore to her father, mr. arthur ponsonby pore, of price's landing. my dear father: i should have written you immediately on my arrival at willoughby beach, but we had so many delightful pleasures planned for us by our kind host that i found very little time for correspondence. i can never thank you enough for permitting me to join this charming house party. everyone is so very kind to me, i find myself gradually overcoming my habit of extreme shyness and now endeavour to join in the gaieties and to make myself as agreeable as possible, feeling that that is the way i can repay my friends for their hospitality. i am learning to swim but am not so quick at it as page allison. already she is able to keep up for many strokes. mr. tucker himself is teaching us and his patience is wonderful. he first taught us to float, as he says if we are in an accident and can float we will surely be saved, as anyone can tow a floating person to safety. the tucker twins and mary flannagan are fine swimmers and miss cox is the strongest swimmer on the beach. we are all quite excited over the fact that miss cox is to be married. i am very glad of her happiness but very sorry that she will not be at gresham next year as she was so interested in my voice and encouraged me so kindly. page feels badly, too, as miss cox is the only teacher she has ever had who could make her comprehend mathematics. mr. tucker sends you many messages and repeats his invitation for you to come to willoughby for a week-end. i do sincerely hope you will do so. it would be a pleasant change for you and no doubt your assistant could take care of the shop in your absence. harvie price is to be here next week, also another boy who attended hill top, thomas hawkins. the cottage is quite roomy so there is no danger of crowding, and i can assure you it would be splendid if you could come. your devoted daughter, annie de vere pore. miss josephine barr from miss caroline tucker. willoughby beach, july -- ----. my dear old jo: if you only could have come! we are having such times and such heaps of them. in the first place, all five of us girls are sleeping on the same porch with our cots so close together the cover hasn't room to slip. we go in the water twice a day, although every day zebedee says it must be the last day, but every day he is the first one in and the last one out. our before-breakfast swim is nothing more than just in and out, and such appetite as it gives us! i am dying to tell you the great news, and miss cox says i may tell you. she is going to be married!!! a lovely man that used to be stuck on her ages and ages ago! i tell you he is stuck still, all right, all right. he goes by the name of robert gordon and looks like a _vrai_ hero of romance, iron-grey hair and moustache and the most languishing gaze you ever beheld. we are right silly about him because he certainly does know how to make love. as for coxy, she is simply great and rises to the occasion in fine shape. she looks real young here lately and has given up looking as though she were trying not to smile. instead of that, she laughs outright, which is certainly much more becoming. i wish you could see your little room-mate, annie pore. she has bloomed forth into a regular english rose! i never saw anything like the way the boys swarm around her, just like bees! she is not nearly so shy as she used to be, but she is still very quiet and demure and has a kind of sympathetic way of listening that surely fetches the hemales. she is really beautiful and is always so anxious to help and is so considerate of others. i fancy her selfish old father has been good for her disposition in a way. we are rather expecting mr. pore to come see us. i hope if he does come he will not cast a damper over annie's spirits. mary flannagan is simply splendid. page calls her our clown dog, and the name suits her to a t. she is the funniest girl in the world and her good nature is catching. she is a good swimmer and how she does it in the bathing suit she wears, i cannot see. fancy swimming with three yards of heavy serge gathered around your waist! i think mary and annie will room together next year at gresham since you are not to be there. they will be good for one another, but no one could do for annie what you did. i have not told you anything about page, but you know what page always is--just page. she is still busy making her million friends, but she never gives up her old friends for the new ones. guess who is here at willoughby! that mabel binks! she arrived yesterday and is stopping at the hotel. i hope she will keep herself to herself but i 'most know she won't. she is bent on getting in with zebedee and he is so dead polite where girls are concerned that he is sure to submit. she is kin to one of the boys in the camp near us and is pushing the relationship for all it is worth. poor stephen white (wink for short) is the cousin and i have an idea he is not very proud of the connection, but is too much of a gentleman to say so. wink and page are great friends, have been from the first minute they met, and i bet you a hat mabel binks butts in on that friendship and tries to break it up. she has had it in for page ever since the time the caramel cake gave all of us fever blisters and page used the blisters, of which mabel boasted a huge one, as circumstantial evidence that mabel had stolen a hunk of our cake. good bye, dear jo. all the girls send you lots of love and dum says she will write next time. very affectionately, dee tucker. chapter ix. the start. "well, i've a great mind not to go!" exclaimed dum pettishly. "i can't see why that old mabel binks always has to go where we go. we can't even spend a month at willoughby without her traipsing here after us." "yes! and for her to make out to wink that we are her very best friends at gresham just so he will ask her on the sailing party! gee, i can't stand her. i'll stay at home if you do, dum," and dee began to take off the clean middy blouse she was in the act of donning to go on a sailing party that the boys from the camp were getting up for our benefit. "well, that will certainly leave mabel with a clear field for action. didn't we agree last winter that the best thing to do with mabel was to be very polite to her? what excuse could you give the boys?" i asked, hoping to bring tweedles to reason. "tell them the truth!" "the truth! well, i must say it would sound fine to say to wink: 'we just naturally despise your cousin and since she is to be on this party that you have been so kind as to get up for us, we will have to decline. besides, this cousin of yours is so dead set after our father that we can't sit by and watch her manoeuvres, but feel that the best thing for us to do is to leave him to her tender mer----'" i was not allowed to finish, but tweedles immediately saw how impossible it would be to stay off the party. dee put her clean middy back on and in a jiffy we were down on the porch with the rest of the crowd. it was irritating for mabel binks to come as a discordant element in our little circle, but as for her being at willoughby, she certainly had as much right there as we had and it was absurd for the twins to take the stand that she had come there because of them. zebedee seemed to have very little use for the dashing mabel but the sure way to enlist his sympathy for her was to be rude to the girl. she was very polite to all the tuckers but had it in for annie pore and me; and as for mary flannagan: she simply ignored mary's existence, much to that delightful person's amusement. mary could imitate her until you could declare that mabel was there and sometimes she would do it when you least expected it, as on this morning while we were waiting for the boys to come for us. they were to go by for mabel first and then pick us up on the way to the landing where the two boats were in readiness for us, a cat boat and a naphtha launch. neither boat was big enough for the whole crowd so we had decided to divide the party. "i have determined how we are to sit," said mary in the coarse, nasal tone that belonged to mabel, "i prefer the naphtha launch, as cat boats are so dirty. i intend that the tuckers, especially mr. tucker, shall accompany me, also stephen white and mr. hart. page and annie and mary must find room in the cat boat while i will allow sleepy and rags to look after them. oh! miss cox! i forgot her! she can go in the cat boat, too, but we will make room for mr. gordon in the launch." we were convulsed at this remark. mary had not only imitated her tone but had clearly voiced the character of mabel, who by the way had not been told of miss cox's engagement and had amused all of us very much by her endeavours to attract mr. gordon. "what's the joke?" demanded wink, arriving with mabel and the boys while we were still laughing at mary's mimicry. "oh, the kind of joke that would lose in repetition," declared dum. "i bet it was something on me," said poor sleepy, "but if it was, i'm sure to hear of it, though. there is one thing certain, if there is a joke on me it is obliged to come out." "not if you can keep it to yourself," laughed dum. "you know perfectly well the time you got mixed up with the laundry you told on yourself. none of us was going to breathe a word of it." "well, how did i know? i thought girls always told and i was determined that the fellows should understand exactly how it happened and so--and so----" "and so you will never hear the last of it. well, next time trust the girls a little and you will fare better." it had taken sleepy some time to get over his extreme embarrassment occasioned by his natural shyness combined with the unfortunate occurrence of our first meeting with him. he was something of a woman-hater, anyhow, according to his friends, but we decided that he was really more afraid of us than anything else; and when he found out that we were not going to bite him nor yet gobble him up whole, he made up his mind to be friends with us; and when he once made up his mind to like us, he outdid even the courtly jim, and the genial wink, and the sympathetic rags, in his attentions. wherever we went, the young giant could be seen hunching along in our wake with that gait peculiar to football players. "it looks like old sleepy had waked up at last," wink said to me. "to my certain knowledge he never said two words to a girl before and now, look at him! i wish he would fall in love and maybe it would give him some ambition to get ahead in his studies. you see, sleepy's people have got oodlums of chink and sleepy knows that he has got a living without making it. the old fellow has a wonderfully good mind but absolutely no ambition, except of course to make the team and to keep up his football record. he is supposed to be studying medicine, but i'll wager anything he does not yet know the bones in the body." "maybe he is going to be an oculist and won't have to know the bones in the human body," i ventured. "he seems to be vastly interested in annie's eyes lately." indeed there was something of the clinging vine in our little english friend that appealed to george massie's great strength, and he had assumed the attitude of protector and forest oak, one singularly becoming to him. "you had better go in the naphtha launch," i heard him say to annie. "it is ever so much safer, and you can't swim." "well, let me go wherever the rest think best. i don't want to take any one else's place," said annie, anxious as usual to efface herself. she need have had no fear of being allowed to take any one else's place with mabel binks the self-elected chief cook and bottle washer of the occasion. that young woman was looking extremely handsome in a white linen tailored suit with a red parasol, panama hat of the latest cut, red tie, red belt and red silk stockings. the seashore was a very becoming place for mabel, as sunburn brought out her good points, giving an added glow to her rather lurid beauty. she looked really magnificent on that morning of the sailing party and her grown-up, stylish clothes made all of us feel rather childish in our middy blouses and khaki shirts and hats. miss cox was dressed very much as we were except that she tucked in her middy, and mabel's effulgence seemed to take all the colour from our beloved chaperone, who had been seeming to us almost beautiful lately because of the love-light in her eyes. mabel's brilliancy outshone even love-light. i became very conscious of the many new freckles on my nose and dee said afterwards hers seemed so huge to her that they actually hurt her eyes. dee and i always got freckled noses and it was a source of some distress to both of us. as for mary, the freckles had met long ago on her turkey-egg countenance, while dum had long streamers of peelings hanging from her nose. she did not freckle but declared she grew fifteen brand new skins every summer. annie was a great comfort to me as i took a quick inventory of my friends, who on that day compared so unfavourably with the glowing beauty. annie looked as lovely as ever. she had that very fair skin that neither tans nor freckles, and her ripe wheat hair was curling in little tendrils around her white neck and calm forehead. "thank goodness my hair curls, too," i thought, "and the dampness won't make me look too stringy," and then i took myself to task for thinking about such foolish things, as though it made any difference what we, a lot of kids, looked like, anyhow. zebedee was carrying mabel's parasol and they seemed to be having a most intimate conversation, certainly a very spirited one into which she constantly drew mr. gordon; and as miss cox had hooked her arm in mary's and everyone else was coupled off, mr. gordon soon fell into step with the gay pair. "disgusting!" i heard dum mutter, but i hoped she would not let anyone see how furious she was. i noticed she closed her eyes and i saw her lips move and knew she was praying, "don't let me biff mabel binks, don't let me biff her," just as she had at the football match at hill top the fall before. we reached the landing where the boats were anchored and as dum had not biffed mabel, i suppose her prayer was answered. "oh, there are the boats! what a darling little launch! dum and dee and i bid to go in that. mr. gordon, will you please arrange those cushions in the stern for me? be sure and don't lose me, mr. tucker, and i will finish that delicious yarn i was in the midst of. stephen, you will run the launch, i know, as that will give you such a good chance to be near dee, and, mr. hart, here is a nice seat for you right by dum." her words were so exactly what mary had said they would be, that we who had heard mary's prophetic imitation could hardly contain our merriment; and strange to say, the twins, in a measure hypnotised by her determination to carry out her schemes, stepped with unaccustomed docility into the pretty launch; but the polite mr. gordon arranged the cushions and then got out determined not to be separated from his inamorata for the sail. wink and jim naturally complied with the arrangement as far as being near the tuckers was concerned, but wink said: "put me where i look best, but i think sleepy had better run his own launch, especially since i don't know the first thing about it." and sleepy thought so, too, but he quietly determined that annie pore should go along. the girl was too sensitive to be willing to risk the withering scorn of mabel's black-eyed glance and begged to be allowed to take a seat in the cat boat. just as the launch was ready to start, zebedee, who had been stowing the bathing suits away under the seats, made a flying leap for the landing, calling back: "that story will have to keep, miss binks, as i have been promising myself the pleasure of giving page a sailing lesson today," and for once in their lives i feel sure that tweedles were glad to have their beloved father leave them. mabel lay back on her cushions like a sulky cleopatra with the expression that the queen herself might have worn had antony refused to ride in the royal barge, choosing instead to paddle his own mud scow down the nile. chapter x. the finish. we were a merry party in spite of this little _contretemps_. the day was perfect and a fresh breeze gave promise of good sailing. our destination was cape henry, where we planned to have a dip in the surf and then a fish dinner at the pavilion. the launch could make much better time than the cat boat, so sleepy was to run over ahead of us and give the order for dinner. sleepy was not greatly pleased with the arrangement of guests and i heard him mutter something about being the goat, but his good nature was never long under a cloud and dum and dee, being in a state of extreme hilarity over the outcome of mabel's machinations, kept the male passengers on the launch in a roar of laughter. jim told me afterwards that he had never seen the twins more amusing and even the sullen beauty finally decided that the day was too pretty to keep up her ill humour. after all, there were other fish in the sea besides zebedee: namely, mr. george massie, alias sleepy; so she moved her seat from the comfortable stern and exercised her fascinations on the shy engineer by demanding a lesson in running the motor. sailing was a new and exciting experience to annie and me. i never expect to be more thrilled until i am finally allowed to fly. the boat was a very light one. zebedee thought the sail was a little heavy for the hull but we went skimming along like a swallow. tacking was a mysterious performance that must be explained to me and i was even allowed to help a little. zebedee endeavoured to make me learn the parts of the boat but i was singularly stupid about it, having a preconceived notion of what a sheet meant and a hazy idea of which was fore and which aft, which starboard and which port. occasionally the launch circled around us and got within hailing distance and we would exchange pleasantries, but mabel never deigned to notice us. she was sitting by sleepy and seemed to have mastered the art of running a naphtha launch. tweedles told me afterwards that she made a dead set at the young giant but that he seemed to be perfectly unconscious of what she was after, and as soon as she had learned the extremely simple engine, after warning her to keep well away from the cat boat, he curled himself up on a pile of sweaters and went fast asleep. they say it was too funny for anything when mabel realized the desertion of her teacher. she addressed a honeyed remark to him and received no answer but a smothered snort; she turned, and there he was lying prone on the deck, an expression on his rosy countenance like a cherub's, while he emitted an occasional soft, purring snore. "there was a young lady named fitch, who heard a loud snore, at which she raised up her hat and found that her rat had fallen asleep at the switch," sang wink. "hard luck, mabel, but that is the way sleepy always does. you must not take it personally. he even falls asleep when miss page allison is entertaining him. the more amused he is, the quicker he is overcome with sleep. miss annie pore is the only person who can keep him awake for any length of time, and that is because she is so quiet it is up to him to talk; and while he may be talking in his sleep, it doesn't sound like it." "awful pity we didn't insist on her coming in the launch if for no other reason than to keep him awake," said jim. "she is a wonderfully charming girl and so pretty, don't you think so, miss binks?" "pretty and charming! you can't mean orphan annie! why, she is the laughing stock of gresham,--namby, pamby cry-baby!" "mabel binks, you must have forgotten that annie is our guest and one of our very best friends," stormed dum. "and no one ever laughed at her except persons with neither heart nor breeding. i will not say who they were as i respect wink too much to be insulting to his guest," said dee, tears of rage coming into her eyes. "oh, don't mind me!" exclaimed wink uneasily, fearing a free fight was imminent. all this time the two boats were coming nearer and nearer together. we were on the starboard tack and several times before during the morning we had come quite close to the launch and then the faster boat had swerved out of our way and we had gone off on a new tack, after calling out some form of repartee to our friends. i never did believe mabel meant to do it, but tweedles to this day declares it was with malice of forethought that she deliberately held the launch in its course, and it was only by the most lightning of changes that zebedee avoided a collision. the sail swung around without the ceremony of warning us to duck, and as we realized the danger we were in of being struck by the faster boat we instinctively crowded to the other side of our little vessel; and what with the sudden swerving of the heavy sail and the shifting of its human cargo and the added swell of waves made by the launch, we turned over as neatly as mammy susan could toss a flap jack. "down went maginty to the bottom of the sea, dressed in his best suit of clothes." there was no time to think, no time to grab at straws or anything else; nothing to do but just go down as far as your weight and bulk scientifically took you and then as passively come up again. i wasn't nearly as scared as i had been when i went under in four feet of water, as i just knew i could float and determined when i got to the top to lie down on my back and do it, as zebedee had so patiently taught me. my khaki skirt was not quite so easy to manage as a bathing suit had been, but it was not very heavy material and my tennis shoes were not much heavier than bathing shoes. i spread out my limbs like a starfish and without a single struggle found myself lying almost on top of the water looking up into a blue, blue sky and hoping that annie pore would remember just to let herself float and not struggle. everyone else could swim and a turnover was nothing to them. i floated so easily and felt so buoyant, as one does always feel in very deep water, that if i had only known that annie was safe i would have been serenely happy. annie was safe because sleepy, awakened by the screams from the women and shouts from the men, had rolled out of the launch much more quickly than he had ever rolled out of bed (except perhaps on that memorable occasion when we had dumped him out), and with swift, sure strokes had reached the spot where annie had gone down; and when her scared face appeared above water he was there to grab her. wink and jim had dived in, too, both intent on saving me, and zebedee was by me in a moment, praising me for a grand floater. mary flannagan was paddling around like a veritable little water spaniel with her red head all slick with the ducking, and miss cox and mr. gordon were gaily conversing as they tread water side by side. it did not seem at all like an accident, but more like a pleasant tea party that we happened to be having out in the middle of the bay. "look here, dum, we are missing too much fun," declared dee. "come on! let's jump in, too. it will be low to be dry when everybody else is wet. that is, everybody we care anything about." and those crazy girls slid into the water, too, leaving the crestfallen mabel to man the launch. "tweedles! what do you mean?" exclaimed their father. "aren't we wet enough without you?" "yes, but you seem to forget that the cat boat is going to have to be righted and all of you men are paddling around here while the poor goop is slowly filling and sinking." goop was the singularly appropriate name for our top-heavy craft and sure enough she was in imminent danger of going down for good. annie and i were helped into the launch and sleepy took his place with his hand on the little engine. mabel was silently consigned to the stern and the cleopatra cushions, where she very humbly sat to the end of our voyage. it did not take very long to right the goop, and when she was bailed out, half of the wet crowd clambered back into her and the rest into the launch and we headed for cape henry, the hot sun doing its best to dry our soaking wet clothes. "wasn't that grand?" exclaimed mary. "i simply adore to swim in deep water." "splendid," said zebedee. "if i were not so modest, i should suggest a rising vote of thanks to the person who so ably brought about this disaster." "why modest?" inquired dee. "it was certainly not your fault." "oh, yes it was, honey," and zebedee looked meaningly at his daughter; and she understood that it would be certainly pleasanter all around if he took the blame. "i did it on purpose, too. i wanted to see if my pupils would remember what i had told them about floating. i see page did remember,--or perhaps she is a born floater, just as she is a bubble maker. i don't believe you remembered any of my instructions at all, did you, annie?" "oh, yes, sir, i did. i was just going to try to lie down on the water, although i was terribly scared, when george came to my assistance. i--i--was very glad to see him." "thank you, ma'am," and sleepy blushed a deeper crimson than the sun had already painted him. chapter xi. cape henry. we were still rather damp when we disembarked at cape henry and it was decided that the best thing to do was to get into our bathing suits immediately and spread out our clothes to dry. bath houses were engaged and with them a coloured maid who took charge of our wet things. "lawd love us! you is sho' wettish! white folks is pow'ful strange, looks lak dey jes' tries to fall in de water. an' now you is goin' in agin'. you must a got so-so clean out yander in de bay." "don't you ever go in bathing?" asked dum. "who, me? no'm, not me! i hets up some water of a sat'day night efen i ain't too wo'out, an' i takes a good piece er lye soap an' i gibs myse'f a scrubbin' dat i specks to las' me 'til nex' time," and with a rich chuckle the girl added: "an' so fer it has." "but all of us simply adore the water!" exclaimed dum. "don't you like the feel of it?" "no'm, it don't feel no way but jes' wet to me. you all what likes it is welcome to it. i reckon it's a good thing niggers is black so de dirt won't show an' dat white folks is fond er water, 'cause any little siled place on 'em looms up mighty important. yessum, i's goin' ter hab yo' clothes good an' dry when you feel lak you is done got clean 'nuf to come outn de ocean," and the grinning darkey carried off our damp things to hang on a line and we joined the masculine members of our party to take a dip in the surf. the bathing at willoughby is quiet, with rarely any surf, but at cape henry great waves come rolling in, seemingly from the other side of the ocean. there is a long sand bar running parallel with the beach, which at high tide is submerged but at low tide shines out dry and white like the back of an enormous sea monster. this bar forms a lovely little pool, calm and clear, in strong contrast to the dashing waves outside. as soon as the tide begins to recede, which it was doing when we emerged from the bath houses, many little children come to play in this pool, being as safe there as they would be in their bath tubs at home. curious shells are to be found there and wonderful pebbles, dear to the hearts of children. i sometimes wonder what finally becomes of children's treasures, the things they gather so laboriously and guard so carefully. they always disappear in spite of the care the tots give them. i used to think when i was a little thing that the brownies stole my treasures and took them to the baby fairies to play with while their mothers were off painting the flowers or mending the butterflies' wings. i hoped that the baby fairies enjoyed my precious bits of coloured glass and the pieces of shining mica, and wondered if they knew what little girl had owned them, and if, some day, when they would grow up to be full-sized fairies, they would not do something very nice for me because i had let the brownies steal my toys. some of the older children had on bathing suits and were playing in the shallow water, while the younger ones in rompers were seated on the beach, digging for dear life in the warm, dry sand, filling their brightly painted pails, patting down the contents and then turning out the most wonderful and appetizing cakes. meanwhile, their mammies gossiped together, interfering occasionally when some childish vandal knocked over a prize cake or made off with a purloined spade. "'ook, mammy! ain' my ittle take pitty?" said a dumpling of a baby in pink rompers and a pink beach bonnet tied on over a perfect riot of golden curls. "yes, honey chile, it sho' is booful. mammy's doll baby kin make de pootiest cakes on dis here sand pile. ain't you gonter gib yo' mammy a bite? mammy is pow'ful fond er choclid cake." and the old woman looked at her little charge as though she could eat her up, too, pink rompers and all. "i'll dive oo a ittle bit, mammy, but oo mustn't eat much. it might make oo sick an den baby hab to gib oo nas'y med'cine," and the little one scooped up some of the sand cake in a shell and her old nurse pretended to eat it with a great show of enjoyment. "don't oo want some?" and she held out a tempting shell full to dee. dee always attracted all children and animals and was attracted by them. "delighted, i'm sure!" and she dropped down on the sand beside the darling baby. for a time even the joys of surf bathing had to be postponed while she played with her newly made conquest. annie pore decided to keep in the shallow pool, having had enough of deep water for the day, and sleepy stayed with her as though she must be protected from even two feet of water, which was the greatest depth of the pool. i found that i had learned to swim in some mysterious way. i struck boldly out and took the waves as though i had always been surf bathing. "bravo!" exclaimed zebedee, "how well you are coming on!" "it is getting turned over that has done it," i declared. "you see, i have found out that i can keep up and i am no longer afraid. i verily believe i could swim over to africa." "well, please don't leave us yet," begged wink. it was a wonderful sensation to find myself actually swimming without the least fear. swimming was after all nothing more than walking and water was a medium to be used and not feared. confidence was all that was needed and my spill in the bay had given me that. "i am very proud of my pupil," boasted zebedee. "if the worst comes to the worst and i lose my newspaper job, i'll give swimming lessons for a living." "will you always employ the venetian method and throw the babies out in deep water and let them sink or swim?" i teased. "yes, and i'll take miss binks into partnership as an expert wrecker," he whispered. that young woman was looking even finer than before in a very handsome black silk bathing suit, slashed and piped in crimson. she had restored herself to good humour and was having a very pleasant time with some acquaintances she had met on the beach. we hoped her good humour would last until she got safely back to willoughby, as that meant more or less good manners, too, and all we wanted from the belligerent mabel was peace at any price. at least, that was all i wanted and surely all annie pore wanted. tweedles were ready to give battle at any moment and mary flannagan looked full of mischief. "do you s'pose mabel is going to content herself with a sand bath?" whispered mary to me. "maybe her suit is too fine to get wet." "she certainly looks very stunning under that red parasol, posing up there on the beach," said dum, riding a wave and landing almost on top of me. "i can't abide her but i must confess she is very paintable, especially the red parasol. i'll never cease to regret that i did not hook my foot in the handle and drag it overboard with me when i dived off the launch. i thought about it while i was slipping off my shoes and it would have been as easy as dirt to make out it was an accident; but it would have been too mabelesque an act and i could not quite make up my mind to do it." "i should say not, but if it could have happened and been a real accident it would certainly have been fun," i exclaimed. "i can see you leaping into the air with your toe hitched to the parasol like a kind of a parachute. who are her friends?" "search me! but i notice she does not see fit to introduce them. i wonder whether she is ashamed of them or ashamed of us." "'mother dear, may i go swim?' 'yes, my darling daughter, hang your clothes on a hickory limb but don't go near the water,'" sang mary, throwing her voice so it seemed to come from behind mabel. then we dived under the water and our giggles came up in the form of my specialty, bubbles. mabel never did wet her suit, however. when we had had all the swim we wanted, we raced back to the bath houses and found the humorous maid had our clothes all nicely dried. the effect was rather rough-dried, but we were not in a position to be choosy. "well, here you is back agin! i can't sees dat you look no cleaner dan you did befo'. i low all dat soakin' will draw de suption outn yo' bones an' dey ain't nuf strength lef' in you to make a pot er soup." and the truth was, i did feel a little feeble from the two swims and realized that i was only fit for _soupe maigre_ or some very weak broth. food was what i needed; and as soon as we got into our rumpled clothes, dinner was ready. what a dinner it was! clam chowder first, with everything in it that the proprietor could find, and seasoned to a king's taste; then soft shell crabs with tartar sauce; then baked blue-fish with roasted corn and creamed potatoes; then tomato salad; then any kind of pie your fancy dictated. "all i ask of you is not to eat ice cream," begged zebedee; "it is fatal along with crabs." and so we refrained, although it did seem to me with all the layers of food between the crabs and dessert, it would have been safe. dinner over, we determined to explore the cape. it was a tremendously interesting spot. in the first place it was at cape henry that the english first disembarked in . a stone tablet now supplants the old wooden cross raised by the first settlers to mark the spot where the adventurers landed on american soil. it is a bleak place with little vegetation of any sort, nothing but the beach grass and a few stunted oaks that look as though they had bowed their heads to invincible storms from the moment that their little lives had burst from the acorns. "they remind me of poor little factory children trying to grow to manhood," i said to zebedee who was showing us the sights. "when i think of the oaks at bracken and see these, it is difficult to realize that they are all trees and all sprung from acorns. it is like a little factory child by the side of george massie, for instance." zebedee the sympathetic wiped his eyes at the thought of all the little mill hands that we seemed to be powerless to help. the old light-house built in was thrilling and i could hardly tear myself away from it to go view the modern, up-to-date one that was open for inspection. the wireless telegraph station, the first i had ever seen, was not far from the old light-house, and it seemed strange to think of the tremendous strides science had made since those sturdy pioneers had built that picturesque old tower. the sand dunes at cape henry are famous. they over-topped the cottages in places and the little church was almost buried at one end. they say this loose sand drifts like snow and the big wind storms in winter pile it up into great hills so that the cottagers, returning for their summer holidays, often have to dig out their homes before they can get to housekeeping. we had great larks sliding down these dunes and we got so dusty we were ashamed to face the maid who had dried our clothes, knowing she would have some invidious remarks to make about the uselessness of our having washed, as she designated our sea bathing. and now it was time to go home. we bade the grinning maid farewell, much richer from our visit, as she was handsomely tipped by wink, the purse-bearer from the camp, and zebedee, the ever lavish. "when you gits dirty agin they's always plinty er water here," she called out. we changed places going back, as it was deemed not quite safe for annie and me to travel in the cat boat again. "even if you can swim to africa," said jim. annie was glad enough to get into the safer boat, but i enjoyed sailing more than motoring, although that was delightful enough. miss cox and mr. gordon came with us and mary and rags. sleepy ran the boat and although we were very quiet on the trip, everyone feeling a little tired and very peaceful, i noticed that sleepy did not go to sleep; when he was not running the engine, he seemed to be taken up with looking after annie's comfort. once when our craft came close to the cat boat, dum called out: "sing, annie, sing!" and all of the rest, with the exception of mabel, joined in the request. and annie sang: "'sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. "'sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon: rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep.'" "ah, ha, miss page allison!" broke in mabel's strident voice as we disembarked at willoughby, after the very smooth, peaceful journey, "'the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.'" "that's so, but why this remark?" i asked. "what race has there been and what battle?" the men were making all ship-shape in the boats while we girls strolled on ahead. i had not the slightest idea what mabel was talking about. "why, i got your middle-aged beau, all right, all right! i fancy he was glad enough to get away from you bread-and-butter school girls and have some sensible conversation with a grown-up." i could not help smiling at this, having often listened entranced to mabel's methods of entertaining men. if that was what she called sensible conversation, zebedee must have been truly edified. "well, it was a good thing mr. tucker, if that is the middle-aged beau in question, was wise enough to take his bread-and-butter first before he indulged in the rich and heavy mental food that you fed him on. if he had taken it on an empty head, as it were, it might have seriously impaired his mental digestion." i fired this back at mabel, angered in spite of myself. "and so, miss, you say mr. tucker has an empty head! how should you like for me to tell him you said so?" "tell him what you choose," i answered, confident of zebedee's knowing me too well to believe i said anything of the sort. "and how would you like me to tell mr. tucker you called him middle-aged?" and i left the ill-natured girl with her mouth wide open. i wanted peace, but if mabel wanted battle then i was not one to run away. no one had heard her remark and i felt embarrassed at the thought of repeating it. i could hardly tell tweedles that mabel called their father "my middle-aged beau," and certainly i could not repeat such a thing to zebedee himself. mabel was evidently bent on mischief but i felt pretty sure that in a battle of wits i could come out victorious. all i feared was that she would do something underhand. certainly she was not above it. like most deceitful persons, she was fully capable of thinking others were as deceitful as herself. chapter xii. freckles and tan. the next day we were lazy after the excitement of the sail to cape henry. all of us slept late and when we did wake, we seemed to be not able to get dressed. "let's have a kimono day," yawned dee. "zebedee and miss cox have gone to norfolk and there is not a piece of a hemale or grown-up around, so s'pose we just loaf all day." "that will be fine, not to dress at all until time to go to the hop!" we exclaimed in chorus. there was to be a hop that night at the hotel, to which we were looking forward with great enthusiasm. zebedee was to meet harvie price and thomas hawkins (alias shorty) in norfolk and bring them back to willoughby, where they expected to stay for several days. these were the two boys we had liked so much at hill top, the boys' school near gresham, and zebedee had taken a great fancy to both of them. "i do wish my hateful, little, old nose wasn't so freckled," i moaned. "i know i got a dozen new ones yesterday,--freckles, not noses. i'd like to get a new nose, all right." "me, too!" chimed in dee. "what are we going to look like at a ball with these noses and necks?" "thank goodness, my freckles all run together," laughed mary, "and the more freckled i get the more beautiful i am," and she made such a comical face that we burst out laughing. "but look how i am peeling!" said dum, examining her countenance in a hand mirror. "now freckles look healthy but these great peelings streaming from my nose make me look as though i were just recovering from scarlet fever. i do wish i could pull them all off before night." annie was the only one of us neither tanned nor freckled. miss cox had taken on a healthy brown, which was rather becoming to her. "if you young ladies is begrievin' over the condition of yo' cutlecles, i is in a persition to reform you of a simple remedy that will instore yo' complictions to they prinstine frishness," said blanche who, coming upstairs with the mail, had overheard our jeremiads on the subject of our appearances. "what is it! what is it!" "you must first bedizen yo' count'nances in buttermilk, which will be most soothing to the imbrasions, an' then you must have some nice dough, made of the best flour an' lard, with yeast and seas'ning same as for light rolls; an' this must be rolled out thin like, with holes cut fer the nostrums fer the purpose of exiling. then you must lie down fer several hours and whin you remove this masquerade, you will find the yeast is done drawed the freckles an' sun burn, an' all of you will be as beautiful as the dawning." "oh, blanche, please mix us up some dough right off! and is there any buttermilk here?" asked dum. "yes, miss dum, we've been gittin' it reg'lar fer waffles an' sich. i'll bring up a little bucket of it fer yo' absolutions an' then i'll mix up the dough." "be sure and make plenty, blanche! i want to put it on my neck, too," said dee. "well, we is mos' out er flour but i'll stretch it bes' i kin. the impersonal 'pearance of female ladies is of more importation than economics, an' i'm sure yo' paw will not be the one to infuse to buy another bag of flour for the beautyfaction of his twinses an' they lady guests." well, we washed and washed in buttermilk until we smelled like old churns. then we lay down while blanche placed tenderly on each burning countenance a dough mask. annie did not need it, but she must have one, too, even though it was in a measure "gilding the lily." "let me have a mouth hole instead of one for my nostrils," i demanded. "i can breathe through my mouth for a while and i don't want to do anything to keep the dough from doing its perfect work on my poor nose." we must have presented a ridiculous appearance, lying stretched out on our cots, each girl with her countenance supporting what looked like a great hoe cake. "well, i tell you, one has to suffer to be beautiful!" exclaimed mary. "i don't mind it as much on my face as my neck," declared dee. "it feels like a great boa constrictor throttling me, but it would never do to have my face as fair as a lily and my neck as red as a rose." the air was fresh and soothing and we were tired anyhow; our masks were not conducive to conversation, so one by one we dropped off to sleep while the dough was getting in its perfect work. we slept for hours i think, and while the dough was busy, the yeast was not idle but responded readily to the warmth occasioned by our poor faces. the air-holes, seemingly too large in the beginning, gradually began to close in as the little leaven leavened the whole lump. lying on your back is sure to make you snore at any rate, and lying on your back with almost all air cut off from you will cause stertorious breathing fearful to hear. i do not know how long we had been lying there, but i know i was having a terrible dream. i dreamed i was under water, and the water was hot. i was trying to get to the top, knowing i could float if i could only get to the top, but every time i would come to the surface mabel binks would sit on my face and down i would sink again. i was struggling and clutching wildly at the air and trying to call zebedee, and then zebedee pulled mabel off me and i floated into the pure air. incidentally i opened my eyes to find the real zebedee bending over me simply convulsed with laughter, while miss cox pulled the mask off of mary, who was making a noise like a little tug trying to get a great steamer out of harbour. dum and dee were sitting up rubbing their eyes and annie was blinking at the light and wondering where she was and what it was all about. "well, it is a good thing we came home when we did or our whole house party would have broken up in asphyxiation. when we opened the door down stairs there was no sign of blanche, but such noise as was issuing from this sleeping porch! sawing gourds was sweet music compared to it what on earth do you mean by this peculiar performance?" and zebedee burst out into renewed peals of laughter and miss cox sank helpless on the foot of my cot. "if you could have seen yourselves!" she gasped. "five girls in kimonos, lying prone, and each one, in the place of a head, sporting a great dumpling." we looked woefully at our prized masks and to be sure each one had risen to three times its original bulk. little wonder breathing had been difficult. dee still had the remedy around her neck, puffed out like an enormous goitre, her chin resting comfortably on it. all of us felt as foolish as we looked and that was saying a good deal. "you certainly smell like a dairy lunch up here," sniffed zebedee. "please tell me if you were assisting poor, dear blanche and raising her dough for her. is this the method you housekeepers have employed all summer to have such good bread? i wondered how you did it. but don't i smell buttermilk, too?" we knew we were in for a good teasing and we got it, although miss cox did her best to make zebedee call a halt. "is all of this beautifying for the benefit of harvie and shorty, who by the way are coming out in about an hour? i feel sad that you did not think i was worth making yourselves pretty for, but maybe you knew that i like freckles. if you did, i feel sadder than ever that you should have taken away what i consider so charming." i don't believe one single freckle was removed by our torture; but our skin felt soft and satiny, and dum's peelings all came off with her mask. then the long sleep had rested all of us so, after all, there was no harm done except that all the flour was used up. that night we had no bread but batter bread for supper, but since blanche had mastered the mixing of that dish, dear to the heart of all virginians, we none of us minded, just so she made enough of it, which she did. chapter xiii. the turkey-tail fan. harvie and shorty arrived in due time and very glad we were to see them. mary and shorty rushed together like long lost brother and sister. they made a pony team it was hard to beat. "gee, i'm glad to see you!" exclaimed the boy. "you and i don't have to be grown up, do we, mary?" "not on your life! no one will expect the impossible of us. the boys we know here are real grown-ups, lots older than harvie price, real college men. they are very nice but i feel like an awful kid with them. of course mr. tucker is as young as any of us." "of course!" echoed shorty. "isn't he just great?" "you bet." when we were all dressed for the hop, zebedee declared we looked pretty well in spite of our tan and freckles. he kept us on needles and pins all the time, threatening to tell the boys of our dough masks. at supper he repeatedly asked blanche for hot rolls, insisting that she must have them. "i certainly smelled hot rolls when i got back from norfolk and it seems to me i saw batch after batch rising. couldn't you spare me just one, blanche?" and when the girl rushed from the room to explode in the kitchen, he said in a tone of the greatest concern: "why, what is the matter with poor, dear blanche? do you think perhaps she has eaten them all herself?" "mr. tucker come mighty near infectin' my irresistibles," blanche said to us after supper was over. "i tell you a kersplosion was eminent! 'twas all i could do to keep from bringing disgracement on us all, in fact, to speak in vulgar langige, i was nigh to bus'in'. i certainly do think you young ladies looks sweet an' whin you puts a little talcim on yo' prebosseses the sunburn won't be to say notificationable. i'll be bound that ev'y las' one of you will be the belledom of the ball." all we hoped for was not to be wall flowers. a hop was quite an event to most of us. annie and i had never been to one in our lives, not a real hop. the dance at the country club when i visited the tuckers in richmond was the nearest i had ever come to a hop, and if this was to come up to that, i was expecting a pretty good time. annie was very nervous as her dancing had all been done at gresham and with girls, but we assured her that she was sure to do finely. the tucker twins had been going to hops ever since they could hop, almost ever since they could crawl, so they were not very excited, but mary was jumping around like a hen on a hot griddle, trying new steps all the time i was tying her sash. you may know that mary would wear a great bulging sash, instead of a neat girdle or belt. chunky persons with thick waists always seem to have a leaning towards sashes with huge bows. mary looked very nice, although her dress did have about twice as much material in it as was necessary and she had put on an extra petticoat for luck and style. since it was the summer of very narrow skirts, the effect was rather voluminous. she looked like the hollyhock babies i used to make for my fairy lands, only their heads were green while mary's was red; but mary's looks were the least thing about her. it was her good cheerful disposition and her ready, kindly wit and humour that counted with her friends. annie was lovely in the beautiful white crêpe de chine, the dress that had been her mother's and that she had worn at the musicale at gresham where she had charmed the audience with her old ballads. it was a pity for her to wear this dress to dance in on a hot night as it was really very handsome though so simple, but poor annie had very few clothes and her father seemed to think that a girl her age needed none at all. the tuckers were appropriately dressed in white muslin, dum with a pink girdle, dee with a blue. "not that i should wear pink," grumbled dum, "nor that dee should wear blue, as i look better in blue and dee looks better in pink; but zebedee cuts up so when we go anywhere with him and don't dress in the colours we were born in, that to keep the peace we have to do as he wants us to. they tied pink ribbons on me and blue ribbons on dee to tell us apart, and zebedee declares he still has to have something tied on us to tell, which is perfectly absurd, as we do not look the least alike." "you never have looked much alike to me, but i took such a good look at you the first time i saw you that i never have got you mixed up except once when i first saw you in bathing caps. i really do not think you look as much like each other as you both look like your father. now he has dee's dimple in his chin; and his hair grows on his forehead just like dum's, in a little widow's peak; and all three of you have exactly the same shoulders." "well, all i know is i can tell myself from dum on the darkest night." with which irish bull, dee, having hooked on the offending blue girdle, hustled us downstairs where the boys from the camp were awaiting our coming. "let me see, eight escorts for six ladies!" exclaimed zebedee. "that means a good time all around!" and that is just what we had, a good time all around. the ballroom at the hotel was quite large with a splendid floor, and if there was a breeze to be caught, it caught it. seated on chairs ranged around the wall were what zebedee called the non-combatants, many old ladies: maids, wives and widows, some with critical eyes, some with kindly, but one and all bent on seeing and commenting on everything that was doing. the first person i beheld on entering the ballroom was no other than cousin park garnett, sitting very stiff and straight in a tight bombazine basque, at least, i fancy it must have been bombazine--not that i know what bombazine is; but bombazine basque sounds just like cousin park looked. with majestic sweeps she fanned herself with a turkey-tail fan, and her general expression was one of conscious superiority to her surroundings. how i longed for a magic cap so that i might become invisible to my relative! all sparkle went out of the scene for me. i felt that it would not be much fun to dance with the critical eye of mrs. garnett watching my every step and her unnecessarily frank tongue ready to inform me of my many defects. if i could only dissemble and pretend not to see her maybe she would not recognize me! but conscience whispered: "page allison, aren't you ashamed of yourself? you know perfectly well what your father would say: 'she is our kinswoman, daughter, and proper respect must be shown her.' go up and speak to her and give her no real cause for criticism." so, in the words of somebody or other, "i seen my duty and done it." "how burned and freckled you are, child!" was her cheerful greeting, as she presented a hard, uncompromising cheek for me to peck. "yes, i've been on the water a good deal," i ventured meekly. "when did you come?" "i have been here only a few hours but i have heard already of the very irregular household in which you are visiting." "irregular! why, we have our meals exactly on time. who said we didn't?" "i was not referring to meals but morals," and the bombazine basque creaked anew as she once more took up the task of cooling herself with the turkey-tail fan. i felt myself getting very hot with a heat that a turkey-tail fan could not allay. "morals, cousin park! why, blanche is a very respectable coloured girl highly recommended by the president of her industrial school and mammy susan, besides." "blanche! i know nothing of mr. tucker's domestic arrangements. what i mean is that i hear from miss binks that you are absolutely unchaperoned and i consider that highly immoral." "unchaperoned! how ridiculous! miss jane cox is our chaperone and there never was a lovelier one. mabel binks knows perfectly well miss cox is there with us and she herself would give her eyes to be one of the party," and then i bit my lip to keep from saying anything else about the mischief-making girl. "i understood from miss binks that there were only five young girls in the cottage and that a camp of boys spent most of their time there and that the carryings on were something disgraceful. she had some tale to tell of your going up to wake one of the boys yourselves and dragging him out of bed." and so mabel had distorted the truth about sleepy to suit her own ends. i flushed painfully and to the best of my ability told the story, but it sounded very flat and stupid recounted to the unsympathetic, unhumorous ears of mrs. garnett. i brought up miss cox and introduced her to the turkey-tail fan, and our chaperone's quiet manner and dignity did much to reassure my strict relative. i was laughing in my boots when i realized that mabel did not know of miss cox's engagement and so had not told cousin park of it, or that irate dame would have considered our chaperone not much of a chaperone, after all. zebedee claimed the first dance with me, speaking cordially to cousin park, but she gave him a curt nod and turned with unexpected amiability and condescension to converse with a faded little gentlewoman at her side who had up to that time been overshadowed by that lady's conscious superiority. "oh, my whole evening is ruined!" i wailed in zebedee's ear. "it won't be a bit of fun to dance, no matter how many or how few partners i may get, while cousin park sits there and watches my every step, making mental notes of the disagreeable truths she will get off to me or poor father the first time she gets a chance at him." "why, you poor little girl! do you think i am going to let your first hop be a failure? i am going to get that old harpie out of this room if i have to carry her out myself and propose to her in the bargain." when the dance was over, zebedee might have been seen eagerly looking around the hotel as if in search of someone, on the porches, in the lobby and finally in the smoking room, and then to pounce on a certain old judge grayson of kentucky, who was there poring over the afternoon paper and smoking a very bad cigar. judge grayson was judge by courtesy and custom, as zebedee afterwards told me. he had never been on any bench but the anxious bench of the grand stand, being a great judge of horses. "ha, judge, i am glad to see you! have a cigar." the judge accepted with alacrity, first carefully extinguishing the light on the poor one he was engaged in consuming and economically putting it back into his cigar case, quoting in a pleasant, high old voice: "'for though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.' how are you, tucker? gad, i'm glad to see you, boy! dull hole this!" [illustration: peeping in, we saw the game in full swing--_page _] "do you find it so? why don't you get up a game of auction? i wish i could join you, but i've got my daughters and some of their young friends here and dancing is the order of the evening for me." "gad, i'd like a game but don't know a soul. fool to come to such a place. i'll be off to virginia beach tomorrow." "now don't do that; you come see us tomorrow. i'll be bound you will fall in love with all my girls and no doubt they will fight over you." "why, that would be nice, tucker. no doubt this place is all right but i have been lonesome," and the old fellow beamed on zebedee. "of course you have. come on, i'll introduce you to some ladies and you can have a good game of auction bridge;" and before the judge could find any objection, zebedee had steered him across the ballroom floor and had him bowing and scraping in front of the haughty mrs. garnett. she unbent at his courtly, old-fashioned compliments, and i distinctly saw her tap him playfully with her turkey-tail fan. the faded gentlewoman was next introduced and readily joined in the proposed game. a fourth was easily found and before the next dance was over, zebedee was beaming on me, as i danced around with wink, delighted as he afterwards declared in having got the harpie out of the room without having either to carry her out or propose to her himself. the rest of the evening i could enjoy to my heart's content with no hypercritical glances following me around. cousin park had a good time, too. auction bridge was her dissipation and i have heard she played a masterly game. so zebedee felt he had been a real all 'round philanthropist. once between dances zebedee and i were out on the porch getting a breath of air and our steps took us near the window of the card room. peeping in, we saw the game in full swing. cousin park had just made a little slam and she looked quite complacent and cheerful. the courtly judge was dealing compliments with the cards, there was a flush of pleasure on the cheeks of the faded gentlewoman, and cousin park wielded her fan with almost a coquettish air, announcing her bids with elephantine playfulness. once judge grayson picked up the fan and, looking sentimentally at it, began to quote in his high, refined old voice the following poem. it was between rubbers so the card devotees listened with polite attention, but zebedee and i were indeed thrilled: "'it owned not a colour that vanity dons or slender wits choose for display; its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze, a brown softly blended with gray. from her waist to her chin, spreading out without break, 'twas built on a generous plan: the pride of the forest was slaughtered to make my grandmother's turkey-tail fan. "'for common occasions it never was meant: in a chest between two silken cloths 'twas kept safely hidden with careful intent in camphor to keep out the moths. 'twas famed far and wide through the whole country side, from beersheba e'en unto dan; and often at meeting with envy 'twas eyed, my grandmother's turkey-tail fan. "'a fig for the fans that are made nowadays, suited only to frivolous mirth! a different thing is the fan that i praise, yet it scorned not the good things of earth. at bees and at quiltings 'twas aye to be seen. the best of the gossip began when in at the doorway had entered serene my grandmother's turkey-tail fan.'" zebedee clapped a vociferous but silent applause and i wiped a tiny tear from my eye. poetry is the only thing that ever makes me weep but there is something about verse, recited in a certain way, that always makes me leak a little. the judge knew how to recite that way and while there was nothing in "my grandmother's turkey-tail fan" to make one want to weep, still that one little tear did find its way out. the faded gentlewoman was affected the same way and even cousin park's bombazine basque unbent a bit. "isn't he a sweet old man?" i exclaimed. "just the sweetest in the country. i have known the judge for many years and i have never seen him anything but a perfect, courtly gentleman. he is to have luncheon with us tomorrow." "oh, won't that be fine! maybe he will recite some poetry for us." "i haven't a doubt but that he will, and sing you some songs, too." "well, he has my undying gratitude for taking cousin park out of the ballroom;" and just then harvie came to hunt for me to claim his dance. i danced every single dance that evening except one that i sat out with wink, and hardly ever got through a dance without having to change partners several times. they say it is a southern custom, this thing of breaking in on a dance. it is all very well if you happen to be dancing with a poor dancer and a good one takes you away, but it is pretty sad if it happens to be the other way. sometimes i would feel as you might if an over-zealous butler snatched your plate from under your nose before you had finished, and you saw him bearing off some favourite delectable morsel and in its place had to choke down stewed prunes or mashed turnips or something else you just naturally could not abide. as a rule, however, the "delectable morsel" would not go away for good, but hover around and break in again in time to let you finish the dance with some pleasure and at least get the taste of stewed prunes or mashed turnip out of your mouth. chapter xiv. a letter and its answer. miss sue lee, congressional library, washington, d. c., from page allison. dearest cousin sue: i can hardly believe that july is more than half over and i have not written you. i have thought about you a lot, my dear cousin, and often wished for you. we have had just about the best time girls ever did have and more things have happened! i have learned to swim; we have been upset in a cat boat called the goop, right out in the middle of chesapeake bay; our chaperone, miss cox, has become engaged and expects to be married in a few weeks; and last and most exciting of all (at least most exciting to me), i have had a proposal; i, little, freckled-nosed, countrified page allison! it was the greatest shock of my life, as i wasn't expecting anything like that ever to happen to me, at least not for years and years. you see, it was this way: we went to a hop last night, the very first hop of my life, and we naturally dressed up for it in our best white muslins, low necks, short sleeves, silk stockings, tucked-up hair and all, and we looked quite grown-up. all of us are sixteen, except mary flannagan, who is just fifteen. we went with a goodly number of escorts: harvie price and shorty hawkins, who are staying in the house with us; mr. tucker and mr. gordon, who is miss cox's lover; and four boys from a camp near us who have been very nice to us since we have been at willoughby. one of these boys, stephen white (wink for short), is studying medicine at the university. he is very good looking and has lots of sense. he and i have had a great many very pleasant times together, but it never entered my head that he thought of me as anything but a kid. in fact, i thought he was in love with a girl in charlottesville; mabel binks, his cousin, told me he was. i also thought that dee was his favourite among all of us girls. i know dee likes him a lot. you see, dee is so interested in sick kittens and babies and physiology that she just naturally takes to medical students. but last night wink gave me what might be termed a rush. he broke in dances and claimed dances and did all kinds of things that were rather astonishing. he is not a very good dancer and as mr. tucker (i call him zebedee now) is a splendid one i did not relish wink's constantly taking me away from him nor did zebedee seem overjoyed to lose me. i thought all the time wink was doing it to tease mabel binks, who just naturally despises me and of course would not like to see her good looking cousin paying me too much attention. he asked me to sit out a dance with him and as he is a much better talker than dancer i was glad to do it, although i must confess i could not keep my feet still all the time he was talking to me. he took me to a nice corner of the porch looking out over the water and began. i hope you don't think it is wrong of me to tell you this, cousin sue. you see i would bite out my tongue before i would tell any of the other girls, but i feel as though i would simply have to tell some one or--well, bust! he started this way: "what do you think of long engagements?" and i said: "i don't think at all; but i heard one of father's old maid cousins say once when someone was discussing long engagements, 'hope deferred maketh the heart sick.'" and then wink went on telling me of his prospects and his ambitions. he seems to have little prospects and big ambitions, which after all is the best thing for a young man, i believe. he asked me if i thought it was too much to ask a girl to wait, say, five years. i thought of course he was talking about the charlottesville girl, who turns out to be a myth, and i said that i did not suppose true love would set any limit on waiting. he said he was almost twenty and had one more year at the university and expected to have a year in a new york hospital, and then his ambition was to become a first class up-to-date country doctor. he loves the country and says he has never yet seen a good country doctor who was not overworked. i agreed with him there and said that my father was certainly overworked. i also told him that i had in a measure suggested him to my father as a possible assistant. that pleased him so much that he impulsively seized my hand. i thought of course he was still thinking of the charlottesville girl and wondered if she would be a pleasant addition to our neighbourhood, when wink began to pour forth such an impassioned appeal that i could no longer think he was talking about the charlottesville girl but was actually addressing me. i felt mighty bad and very foolish. when i told him he had known me but a little over two weeks he said that made no difference, that there was such a thing as "love at first sight." "but," i said, "you did not love me at first sight." "yes i did, but i did not realize it until tonight when i saw you for the first time with your hair tucked up, and dressed in an evening dress." "well, when i let it down tomorrow and get back into a middy you will find out what a mistake you have made." "oh, page, please don't tease me! it makes no difference now what you wear or how you do your hair, i am going to love you forever and forever. don't you love me just a little?" and a spirit of mischief still prompting me, i answered: "i can't tell until i see you with a moustache." and then, cousin sue, i realized that i was not being my true self but was doing something that i had never expected to do in my whole life: flirting outrageously. so i up and told wink that i did not care for him except as a friend (i came mighty near saying "brother," but it sounded too bromidic). i said i was nothing but a kid and had no business thinking about lovers for years to come. i said a lot of things that sound too silly to write and he said a lot of things, or rather he said the same thing over and over. i never saw such a long dance. i thought the music would never stop. wink wanted to hold my hand all the time he was talking, but i just shook hands with him and thought that was enough. it seemed to me to be too sudden to be very serious. of course in books people do that way, romeo and juliet, for instance, but in real life my idea of falling in love is first to know someone very well, well enough to be able to talk to him without any restraint at all and then gradually to feel that that person is the one of all others for you. the idea of knowing a girl two weeks and then seeing her with her hair done up like a grown-up and deciding between dances that life could not be lived without her! of course wink thinks he is in dead earnest and it hurts just as bad for a while as though he were, but it won't last much longer than it did for him to make up his mind. he will be like a man who has had a nightmare: very trying while it lasts but not so bad but that he can eat a good breakfast the next morning and forget all about it, only wondering what made him have such a bad dream and what was it all about, anyhow! goodness, i was glad to see zebedee when he came around the corner of the porch looking for me to dance a particular one-step that he and i had evolved together. i believe zebedee (mr. tucker) knew what had been going on, because wink was looking so sullen and i, i don't know how i was looking, but i was certainly feeling very foolish. he tucked my arm in his and looked at me rather sadly just as he had at dum last winter when mr. reginald kent, the young artist from new york, asked her for a lock of her hair. i know zebedee hates for any of us to grow up, me as well as the twins. i wanted awfully to tell him it was all right but i did not know how to do it without giving wink away, so i just said nothing. i did not see wink again last night and the boys tell me he has gone over to newport news today with mabel binks to call on their relatives. i have written a terribly long letter and still have not told you that cousin park garnett is stopping at the hotel here in willoughby. she is the same cousin park, only a little more tightly upholstered, if possible. i wish i could like her better, but she always makes me feel all mouth and freckles. good-bye, cousin sue, and if i should not have told you all of this nonsense about wink and me, please forgive me. lots of girls would tell other girls if they got a proposal, but i would never do that; but you have been so like my mother to me that somehow i do not feel it is indelicate to tell you. with best love, page. from miss sue lee, washington, d. c., to page allison. my dearest little page: i was overjoyed to get your very interesting letter and i hasten to answer it and to tell you that you must always feel at perfect liberty to tell me anything and everything that comes up in your life. i am a little sorry for wink, but you were right not to encourage him. do not be too sure, however, that he will get over this malady as quickly as he took it. shakespeare was a very wise and true artist and you may be sure that when he made romeo fall in love with juliet as he did without a moment's warning,--and already in love with someone else, as romeo thought he was,--such a thing can come to pass. we find as much truth in fiction as in fact, everlasting truths. but then, i am a sentimental old maid and you must not take me too seriously. i want to know your friends, the tuckers, very much indeed. i hope to spend august at bracken and perhaps i can meet them then. washington is very hot and i am quite tired out and will be glad of the quiet and peace of bracken as well as the sane, delightful talks with your dear father. i hope cousin park will not choose the same time to make her visit. if she makes you feel all mouth and freckles, she makes me feel all nose and wrinkles. she told me once that she was confident my nose was the cause of my spinsterhood. as my nose is a perfectly good lee nose, and as spinsterhood is as much a mark of my family as my nose, i shouldn't mind her remark, but somehow i do. i am sending you a pair of blue silk stockings and a tie to match, to wear with white duck skirts and lingerie waists. no doubt you will be so captivating in this colour that proposals will come pouring in. please tell me about them if they do. don't grow up yet, little cousin page! there is time enough for lovers and such like, and sixteen is o'er young for taking things very seriously. i am glad indeed that you sent poor wink about his business and hope he will grow a moustache and a flowing beard before he addresses you again. with much love, cousin sue. chapter xv. the judge. the morning after the hop we slept late. of course we did not go to sleep as soon as we got into bed, as the best part of going to a dance is talking it over with the girls afterwards. we had much to tell and i for one had much that i couldn't tell. one and all we pronounced it a very delightful and successful party. had we not, everyone of us danced every dance, except the fatal one that i sat out? did we not have "trade lasts" enough to last 'til morning if sleep had not overtaken us? hadn't annie been freely spoken of as the prettiest girl there; the twins as the most popular; mary as by all odds the brightest and funniest; and had not i overheard someone say that i had a nameless charm that was irresistible? altogether, we were well pleased with ourselves and one another and slept the sleep of the just and healthy until late in the morning, when we heard miss cox singing at our door: "'kathleen mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, the horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; the lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,-- kathleen mavourneen! what, slumbering still? oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part? it may be for years and it may be forever! oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? oh, why art thou silent, kathleen mavourneen? "'kathleen mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! the blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! mavourneen, mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, to think that from erin and thee i must part! it may be for years and it may be forever! then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? then why art thou silent, kathleen mavourneen?'" there was a storm of applause from our porch and a great clapping of hands from down stairs as zebedee entered with old judge grayson. miss cox had an excellent voice and a singularly true one. "well, all of us kathleens had better rise and shine after that appeal," yawned dum. "it must be almost time for luncheon." and so it was. we just had time for a hasty dip in the briny and a hastier toilet in the way of middies and khaki skirts, when blanche appeared to announce that our repast was reserved. "well, gawd love us!" she exclaimed, when she beheld us dressed in our customary girlish middies. "ef'n the butterflies ain't chrystalized agin into plain grubs! when i beholden you last night in all the begalia of sassioty i ruminated to myself that our young misses had done flew the coop, hair turned up and waistes turned down, an' here you is nothin' but gals agin. i'll be bound ef'n the beau lovers of the evenin' recently relapsed could see you now they would wonder how come they felt so warmed to'ds you. not that you ain't as sweet as sugar now," she hastily added, fearing for our feelings, "but you is jes' sugar 'thout the proper ingredients to make you what you might call intoxicational." every single girl except mary looked a little conscious while blanche was talking, and i could not help wondering if there had not been others besides myself who had been the recipient of tender nothings. zebedee overheard blanche's remarks and i saw him go into the kitchen and a little later the girl came forth beaming, tying into the corner of her handkerchief a shiny new half dollar. "every time poor, dear blanche opens her mouth diamonds and pearls of wisdom come forth," he whispered to me. "it seems a shame to buy such priceless gems for fifty cents. i would not take anything for what she has just handed to all of my girls." the judge proved to be a delightful old man and all of us were charmed with his courtly manners and compliments. he seemed to think we were lovely and quite grown-up in spite of what blanche had just "handed" us. he quoted poetry to us with an old world grace and seemed to have a verse ready for every occasion. even blanche came in for her share of poetry as the judge helped himself to another and yet another popover: "'my mother bore me in the southern wild, and i am black, but oh, my soul is white!'" blanche smiled on him as though at last she had found someone who really understood her. after luncheon we repaired to the piazza where zebedee and the judge could enjoy their cigars and the family guitar was produced at the instigation of the host, hoping to persuade the judge to give us some of his fine old ballads. the tucker guitar was something of a joke, as none of them could really play on it; but it was always kept in perfect order if not in perfect tune and placed in a conspicuous place. "ready for an emergency if one should arise in anyone else," explained dum. dee could thrum out an accompaniment, if it happened to be a very simple one with only one or two changes. dum knew part of the spanish fandango, learned from a teacher who had struggled with the family once when they had determined that a musical education was necessary. zebedee, who had a very good voice and a true ear, could tell when the guitar was out of tune but never could tune it to his satisfaction; but when someone else got it in tune he could put up a very good imitation of following himself in his favourite song of "danny deever." the judge jumped to the instrument as a trout to a fly and held it with a loving embrace. "gad, tucker, but this is a good guitar!" and with a practiced hand and ear he quickly had it in tune. "sing, do sing!" we pleaded. "all right, i'll sing to all of you five girls if you will excuse an old man's faults. my voice is not what it used to be, but the heart is the same and "'no matter what you do if your heart be true, and his heart was true to poll.' "this song i am going to sing is one i have always loved and it seems to be singularly appropriate for all of you young ladies, who, last night as i peeped into the ballroom, showed promise of what you might be. but this morning i find you back 'where the brook and river meet.' i can't tell whether it is because of the absence of the gallant swains or a mere matter of rearrangement of tresses." harvie and shorty had gone to the camp for luncheon and to go crabbing with the boys, which was rather a relief, as dum declared we could not have boys all the time without getting bored. certainly on the morning after the hop we were glad just to be little girls again and not have to play "lady come to see" for a while at least. dear old judge grayson and zebedee were singularly restful after the friskings of the youths, and miss cox very calming as she sat on the piazza, an exalted expression on her good face, stitching, stitching on wedding clothes. all of us had undertaken to help her but mighty botches i am afraid we made of it, all except annie pore. she could take tiny stitches if shown exactly where to put them, but she was afraid to take the initiative even in sewing. dum could design patterns for embroidery and dee could tie wonderful bows; mary was great on button-holes; i could not even sew carpet rags together well enough to pass muster, but i was very willing and did my poor best. in his high, sweet old tenor the judge began to sing: "'my love she's but a lassie yet, a lightsome, lovely lassie yet; it scarce wad do to sit and woo down by the stream sae glassy yet. "'but there's a braw time coming yet, when we may gang a-roaming yet; an' hint wi' glee o' joys to be, when fa's the modest gloaming yet. "'she's neither proud nor saucy yet, she's neither plump nor gaucy yet; but just a jinking, bonny blinking, hilty-skilty lassie yet. "'but o, her artless smile's mair sweet then hinny or than marmalete; an' right or wrang, ere it be lang, i'll bring her to a parley yet. "'i'm jealous o' what blesses her, the very breeze that kisses her, the flowery beds on which she treads, though wae for ane that misses her. "'then o, to meet my lassie yet up in yon glen sae grassy yet; for all i see are naught to me, save her that's but a lassie yet.'" all of us sat very quietly as the old man finished his quaint, sweet song. zebedee looked very shiny-eyed and i rather guessed he was thinking of his tweedles, although he did look at me. i fancy he knew that i understood him and his anxiety about his dear girls. it is no joke to be the father of sixteen-year-old twins and only about thirty-six yourself. dum and dee were developing very rapidly and they had looked so grown-up at the hop and had conducted themselves so like young ladies that their anxious parent was troubled for fear their womanhood was upon him. he would rather see them romping hoydens than the sedate young ladies they seemed to be turning into. no wonder he had tipped blanche with the shiny fifty-cent piece. had she not put his mind at rest for the time being at least? they were certainly girlish enough looking on that day, even boyish looking as they crowded each other out of the hammock, both intent on getting the middle. "that's fine, judge, give us another!" begged zebedee, but the bard insisted upon miss cox's putting down her sewing and singing; and then annie pore must give us annie laurie; and so the lazy afternoon passed with songs and many good stories drawn from our guest by the tactful zebedee. judge grayson just naturally loved horses and next to being with them was talking about them. he had many delightful stories to tell of horses he had known and horses he had owned. he insisted that no horse was naturally vicious but always ruined in some way by its trainer, and no horse was irretrievably ruined if just the right person could get hold of it and by kindness bring it to reason. i had always felt that and of course this theory appealed to dee, who thought much worse of humanity than animality, as she called it. "the first horse i ever owned was the first horse i ever loved and he was in a way the best horse i ever owned," said the judge, addressing his remarks to dee who was all attention. "dobbin was the very ordinary name for a very extraordinary horse. my father gave him to me when i was six years old. i say gave him to me but what really occurred was that i was presented to dobbin. for if ever man was owned by an animal, dobbin owned me. he was an old circus horse and his intelligence was far beyond that of the average human. he was milk white with pink nostrils and eyes, a real albino, in fact. his legs were perfectly formed, his head small and very well shaped, his back broad and flat as though especially made for bare-back riding. if you fell off him it was your own fault, and no more was he to be blamed than a bed that you happen to roll out of. indeed his gaits were so smooth that you might easily go to sleep on him. his temper was perfect and his character very decided and firm. he knew exactly what he wanted to do and he also knew that his judgment was much better than a child's. i shall never forget the first time i got on his back. my father was going to have me taught to ride by our old coachman, but in the meantime i was given the duty and pleasure of feeding my horse myself. i had only owned him a day and already i would have foundered him on oats if it had not been for his own superior intelligence and judgment. he ate what he considered proper and then deliberately turned over the bucket and puffed and blew and pawed until even the chickens had a hard time pecking up the scattered grain." and here the old man laughed and took another cigar zebedee offered him, pausing in his narrative while he bit off the end and lit it. "but how about the first time you rode him?" demanded dee. "i'm coming to that. he was a very high horse, was dobbin, so high that it was a tall mount for a grown man and of course it was seemingly impossible for a little boy to climb up on such a mountain, but get up i did. my father came out on the gallery and there i was as proud as punch perched on the broad back of my snow-white steed. 'you rascal!' he shouted. 'who put you up there?' 'dobbin put me here,' i answered, and so he had, but my father could not believe it until dobbin and i demonstrated the fact for him. i slid down the shapely leg of my circus horse and then he lowered his head and i nimbly climbed up his neck and landed safely on his back. i can still hear my father laugh and then all the household was called out to witness this great feat, and my mother brought out sugar to feed my pet. she pulled down his head and whispered in his ear, 'be careful of my boy, dobbin! i am going to trust him to you, do you understand?' and dobbin whinnied an answer and blew in my mother's hair with his pink nostrils. after that he felt that he was a kind of nurse for me and he certainly did make me walk chalk," and the old man chuckled in delighted memory. "tell us more about him," pleaded dee. "he must have been darling." "well, sometimes he was right annoying. for instance, he saw to it that i minded my black mammy. one of mammy's rules was that i could play in the mud all i wanted to in the morning, but in the afternoon when i was dressed in my clean linen shirt and little white piquet pants, i had to keep clean. the mud attracted me as much in the afternoon as morning, and sometimes i would lose track of time and would begin to mix my delectable pies in spite of my spotless attire. do you know that old horse many and many a time has come up behind me and gently but firmly caught me by my collar or the seat of my breeches, whichever presented itself handiest, and after giving me a little shake put me out of temptation? he never was known to do it in the morning when i was in my blue jean jumpers. why, that horse knew morning from afternoon and jeans from white linen. he was a great disciplinarian, i can tell you. my mother would let me go anywhere just so dobbin was of the party. she knew perfectly well he would take care of me. had he not told her so as plainly as a horse could speak, and that is pretty plain to those who understand horse talk." dee nodded approval and muttered: "dog talk, too!" "we had an old basket phaeton with a rumble (they don't make them now-a-days) and in the afternoon in summer my sister and i would hitch up old dobbin and go off for a picnic in the beech woods. sam, my body servant and private property, perched in the rumble and dilsey, my sister's maid, crouched at our feet. dobbin would jog along until he found what he considered a suitable spot for a picnic and then he would stop, and no matter how we felt about it, out we had to get. nothing would budge dobbin. he would look at us and whinny as much as to say that he had forgotten more about picnic places than we could ever hope to know and no doubt he was right. "he usually stopped at a very nice spot where there was plenty of shade and a spring and maybe some luscious blue grass for him to nibble at. he was never tied but allowed to roam at his own sweet will. when the shadows lengthened, he would turn the phaeton around, with his nose headed for home, and as the sun touched the horizon he would send forth a warning neigh, gentle at first but if his voice was not hearkened to, more peremptory and then quite sharp. he would give us about five minutes and then he would start for home. i tell you there would be scrambling then to get in the phaeton, as none of us relished the thought of walking home, getting in late to supper and making the necessary explanations to the grown-ups. one time dilsey almost got left, having loitered behind in a fit of stubbornness. 'i's plum wo' out wif dis here brute beas' a bossin' er me!' she panted as she clambered over the wheel and sank on the floor of the phaeton. 'ef'n he was mine i'd lay him out.' with that ole dobbin turned his head around in the shafts, looked sternly at the girl, and deliberately switched her with his tail until she cried out for mercy, 'lawsamussy, marse dobbin, i's jes a foolin',' and then that old horse gave a whinny more like laughing than anything you ever heard and trotted peacefully home." the old man stopped and shook the ashes from his cigar. "yes, yes, i loved that old horse as much as i did mammy, and god knows mammy was next to my parents in my affection. not have souls! why, i as firmly believe i am going to meet dobbin when i cross the river as i am mammy." at that, dee tucker got up out of the hammock and went over and hugged and kissed the old judge, and zebedee and dum both wiped the tears from their eyes. i felt like it, too, but then tears are not mine to command as they are the tuckers'. certainly the judge had touched us all with his story. i wanted to ask him more about dobbin but i was afraid the next thing would be dobbin's death, as he must have been old when he was presented to the little boy, and somehow i felt none of us could bear up over the dear old horse's death. it must have been more than sixty years since those picnics in the beech woods, but you felt that in judge grayson's mind it was but as yesterday. chapter xvi. an axe to grind. harvie and shorty came in that afternoon with a great basket of crabs for supper and countenances like boiled lobsters. sunburn is as much a part of the seashore as sand and water, and sometimes it is even more in evidence. you can escape from the sand and water by going indoors and pulling down the blinds, but your sunburned nose you have to take with you. the boys also brought the mail, a letter for annie and one for me. my letter contained the bad news that my dear father could not come to the beach, after all, as sally winn was trying in dead earnest to die, and could not do it without dr. allison. annie's letter had, i am ashamed to say, not such very good news, either, as it said that mr. pore had decided to come to willoughby for a few days. we girls secretly dreaded this visit. we could not help knowing that mr. pore was very stiff and strait-laced, and we feared the effect he might have on poor little annie. annie was having such a good time and it did seem a pity to interrupt it. "i do wish zebedee would not be so promiscuous with his invitations," stormed dum, who was escorting me as far as the hotel where i was going to pay a duty call on cousin park. "he was certainly not called on to ask this old dried-up englishman down here. he could have been polite without being so effusive. it is going to ruin things for annie, i just know." "maybe it won't," i suggested, speaking for moderation that i did not feel. "harvie price says he is a very cultivated, interesting man." "oh, yes, i know the kind! i bet you he says position for job; and rabble for mob; retires when he goes to bed; and arises when he gets up; calls girls, maidens; women, females; ladies, gentlewomen; birds, feathered songsters; and dogs, canines. ugh! i just know he is going to be a wet blanket." "well, dum, your father got on with him and seemed to like him very much. maybe we can hit it off with him, too." "oh, that's nothing! zebedee can get on with human oysters and clams and make animated pokers unbend. why, that young father of ours is such a mixer he could even make ice cream and crabs agree. but that's no sign that annie's paternal parent is not going to be a difficult guest. if it only had been dear dr. allison coming instead!" i agreed with her there, but i tried to make impulsive, hot-headed dum feel that the best thing we could do was to try to see the good in mr. pore for annie's sake if not for his own. i was dying to tell her of the interesting things that annie had divulged to me about her family, but a confidence is a confidence and must be respected as such. for my part, it seemed foolish to keep such an item as being kin to the nobility so strictly a secret. i don't believe that many virginians would feel that being granddaughter to a baronet and great-granddaughter to an earl, something to be hid under a bushel. i fancy that annie felt her clothes and general manner of living to be rather incongruous to such greatness. we found cousin park ensconsed on the porch in a steamer chair, knitting an ugly grey shawl with purple scallops, while mabel binks, who had returned from her expedition to newport news with wink, danced attendance on the pompous lady. "i bet she's got an axe to grind!" muttered dum. "what do you fancy mabel wants to get out of your cousin?" "i can't imagine, but i'll take my hat off to her if she gets it," i laughed. "please come on and call with me. i can't face mabel and cousin park at the same time," i begged dum, and she good-naturedly complied, although i know she hated it. cousin park greeted us with what was meant to be a cordial manner, and mabel was almost effusive as she got us chairs and took upon herself to do the honours of the hotel porch. "i rather expected you this morning, page," said cousin park, looking over her spectacles at me. this habit of my relative of looking over her spectacles at you would have made a person as mild as a may morning appear fierce, and its effect on cousin park's far from mild countenance was disconcerting in the extreme; but i did not feel nearly so uncomfortable with her as i had heretofore. had i not seen her tap judge grayson with her turkey-tail fan, and listen with a pleasure that seemed almost human to the old man's recitation of the poem? "we slept so late after the dance that there was no time to do anything this morning, and then judge grayson came to luncheon and that kept us all the early part of the afternoon. i also had a letter to write today." "ah, a very pleasant, well-mannered man, the judge," said cousin park. "the legal profession should be proud of such a representative." dum and i smothered a giggle at this, as zebedee had confided to us that our charming old friend was only judge by courtesy. we said nothing, however. far be it from us to lessen his dignity by one jot or tittle. "we are to have another guest tomorrow," broke in dum, in order to change the subject from judge grayson's doubtful legal rights. "mr. pore, annie's father, is coming to visit us." mrs. garnett snorted and mabel's lip curled, but they said nothing to dum. however, the minute my friend left us, which she did after a moment to speak to an acquaintance she spied at the other end of the long porch, their eloquence was opened up on me. "i can't see why jeffry tucker should ask such a man to stay in the house with an allison. i am told he is nothing but a little country store-keeper, just the commonest kind of englishman, lower middle class, no doubt. it is bad enough to have his daughter, although she is very pretty and seems well mannered; but such acquaintances that cannot be continued in later life should be discouraged. i never did approve of your going to gresham, but sue lee, with the democratic notions that she has picked up in washington, insisted that it would be best for you to make a wide acquaintance. i thought a select home school where there were accommodations for very few girls would be much more desirable. one would at least know who the persons were you were meeting and you would be spared such embarrassing situations as you are now finding yourself in. i think you had better excuse yourself and come to the hotel and visit me. i could take you in my room without much inconvenience to myself." "thank you, cousin park! i would not inconvenience you even a little bit for the world, nor would i leave my friends until my visit with them is finished. annie pore is as much my friend as she is the tuckers', and i love her dearly and have found her a perfect lady on all occasions. mr. tucker is acquainted with mr. pore and his judgment as to who is a suitable person to introduce to us is to be relied on implicitly. mr. pore is not a common englishman at all but a very cultivated, highly-educated gentleman." how i did long to spring sir isaac pore and the earl of garth on them! there are times when i wish i did not have such a keen sense of honour. it certainly does restrict your actions and words at very inconvenient moments. "he may be educated but hardly a gentleman," said cousin park, dropping stitches in her indignation. "one would hardly find a gentleman weighing out lard and drawing kerosene from a barrel for his darkey customers, and that is what miss binks tells me this pore is accustomed to do." "ah!" i thought, "i fancied i could see mabel binks' fine italian hand in this. she has never forgiven annie since the seniors gave her a cheer when she arrived at gresham, all because the shy little english girl stood up for herself and downed the dashing mabel with the retort courteous." "i quite agree with you, mrs. garnett, about gresham's being entirely too democratic. my mother was shocked when i told her of some of the ordinary looking, badly dressed girls miss peyton had allowed to enter. it used to be quite select. i am glad i am through. i am dying to come out this next winter," continued mabel. "richmond society is so charming. i envy these girls who can come out there. i have a cousin who lives there but she is not one bit sociable and it is not very much fun to visit her." i was beginning to see mabel's axe as her grinding was quite evident. "i shall be glad to have you visit me," said cousin park. "i have not chaperoned a girl for some years, but no doubt i could make you have a very nice time." "oh, how lovely of you!" and mabel's expression was indeed triumphant as she picked up cousin park's ball of purple yarn and restored it to that lady's rather precarious lap. i could have told mabel that it was not such a sweet boon as she fancied: to visit the grand garnett mansion. i thought of jeremiah, the blue-gummed butler, with his solemn air of officiating at a funeral; of the oiled walnut furniture with its heavy uncomfortable carving, sure to hit you in the small of the back if you sought repose in one of the stiff hair cloth covered chairs, or to find a tender place on your shins when you passed a bureau or bed. i thought of the interminable, heavy dinners: roast mutton and starchy vegetables topped off with plum pudding or something equally rich and filling. i could fancy the line of family portraits, hung high against the ceiling, looking their disapproval at the far from dignified mabel and plainly showing their wonderment that she should have found her way into their august presence. those old portraits will little dream how much mabel had fetched and carried for that invitation; how many cushions she had arranged and rearranged behind the plump back of the present owner of the portraits; how many tiresome moments she had spent holding the skeins of grey and purple yarn for mrs. garnett to wind her fat knitting balls. she had also gathered bits of pleasing gossip to retail to the willing ear of my relative. cousin park was the type ever ready and delighted to be scandalized. the day after the sail that we had spent in dough masks, mabel had evidently spent in the mask of a lively, agreeable, obliging girl, doing everything in her power to make herself attractive to her possible hostess. success was hers! a long visit in richmond in her debutante winter with one of the wealthiest members of society meant a good deal to that young lady. mabel's mother belonged to a very good family but her father's name, binks, is enough to show that at least he was not of the f. f. v's. wink white, who was a cousin of mrs. binks, had confided to me that he rather preferred mr. binks to mrs. "the fact that she married old binks for his money and now is ashamed of him shows about what kind cousin florence is," he had said. having said all i could say in defense of mr. pore, and having played so well into mabel's hands that, by giving her a chance to agree so readily and heartily with cousin park, her invitation had come much more easily than she had dared to hope, i felt sure, i now took my departure with dum. it should have made no difference to me how many visits mabel binks would pay in richmond, but it did. i well knew what her game was there: she was determined to attract mr. jeffry tucker, and had been from the moment she had seen him at gresham, when he took tweedles there to enter them at school. i well knew that zebedee gave her not a moment's thought, but if she pursued him enough he might change his mind about her. she was certainly handsome and quite bright and entertaining. tweedles would not be there to protect their young father and he was but human, very human, in fact. i felt depressed on the way back to our cottage, so much so that dum noticed it and begged me to cheer up. "your cousin is enough to make you blue, but remember that everyone has some scrubby kin. just think of poor annie and what oceans of spirits we will have to produce to drown her sorrow and depression when her respected parent arrives!" i threw off my gloom the best i could and let dum go on thinking it was cousin park who had cast the spell over me. i knew quite well that if i even hinted at mabel and her machinations, tweedles would refuse to go back to gresham but stay in richmond all winter to guard their precious zebedee. chapter xvii. mr. arthur ponsonby pore. mr. pore was much more attractive than we had expected. things in this life hardly ever come up to your expectations, either good or bad, which sounds as though i were still brooding over mabel's proposed visit to cousin park and the possible enthralling of zebedee. i remind myself of the irishman who had raised a particularly fat pig from which he expected to realize great wealth. he took it to town on market day to sell. on the way home he met a neighbour who genially inquired: "and how mooch did your pig be after weighing, paddy?" "not as mooch as i thart it would,--and i thart it wouldn't," added paddy pessimistically. in the first place, mr. pore was handsome. he had a stately dignity and an aristocratic bearing that all the weighing of lard and drawing of molasses in the world could not lessen. his forehead was intellectual; his eyes piercing; his nose aquiline and rather haughty; his mouth a little petulant with a pathetic droop at the corners; and his chin (rather indicative of his character, i fancy, and explaining why he was keeping a country store at price's landing instead of taking that place in the world to which by birth and education he was entitled), his chin decidedly receded. in doing so, however, it gave you to understand that it retreated in good order and was unconvinced. i mean that it had that stubborn look that receding chins sometimes do have. after all, stubbornness was the key-note of mr. pore's character, rather than weakness. i had gathered that much from what annie had divulged to me that night at gresham when she had opened the box with her dead mother's dress in it and found the note from her mother, with the twenty-five dollars pinned in the sleeve. he was dressed in what books call decent black. certainly there was nothing about him to make anyone doubt he was a perfect gentleman, even had they been unaware of the fact that only one life stood between him and a title. he was so excessively english that it was hard to believe that he had spent the last fifteen years in a little settlement on the james river, never hearing his native tongue in all that time, perhaps. our spoken language was very different from his, although i have heard it said that virginians and kentuckians and bostonians come nearer to speaking the real english than any other americans. we may come nearer than others but we are still far off from the kind of english that mr. arthur ponsonby pore spoke. i thought of cousin park and her "lower middle class" to which she had consigned the gentleman, and wished that he might just once look at her and mabel through the gold _pince nez_ that straddled his aristocratic, aquiline nose! zebedee had gone over to norfolk to meet his guest, and under his genial influence i fancy mr. pore had somewhat melted; but his demeanor was still rather icy. he went through the introduction to miss cox and all of us girls as though it had been a court ceremony, and then turning to annie, he gave her a little arthur ponsonby peck in lieu of a kiss. shaking his hand, dee declared was like grasping an old pump handle when the sucker is worn out. you take hold thinking you are to meet with some resistance, but instead, the handle flies up and you find yourself foolishly shaking it up and down with no chance of getting any returns for your trouble. the tuckers were famous hand-shakers, as all their friends knew, but doubtless mr. pore was unprepared for such a vigorous grasp from young ladies. i found nothing to complain of in his manner of greeting me. not being such a hearty hand-shaker as tweedles, i put my hand in his and left him to do the shaking. this he did not do, but he gave my hand a slight pressure and gazed earnestly into my eyes. so earnest and burning was his glance that i felt almost confused, but i thought that no doubt annie had told him of her confiding in me about her birth and he felt some interest because of her affection for me. as we took our seats on the porch, mr. pore's chair was by mine and still he gazed at me with his piercing, melancholy eyes. "did i hear your name aright? was it not miss page allison?" "yes, sir! i am annie's friend from gresham. we have been intimate from the day we entered school." "yes, yes! i know much of you and your courtesy. but tell me, miss allison, are you american?" (his american was so different from ours one could almost spell it a-m-e-h-r-i-k-e-n.) "yes, mr. pore, i am american, but my mother was english." "ah! i thought as much. her name was lucy page, was it not?" "yes," i answered, wondering at his knowledge of my mother's name. "oh, page! page! only think of it!" exclaimed annie impulsively. "lucy page was my mother's little friend, the one who lent her the slippers to wear to the charity bazaar," and her enthusiasm went unrebuked by her father. indeed, he seemed almost as excited as annie. the poor man had been a long time away from persons who knew him and whom he knew and he had the absurd notion that very few "amehrikens" were his social equal; now he found that his daughter had made friends with the child of his wife's old friend. "to think of it, to think of it! my word, but it is strange! i knew the moment i saw you that i had seen either you or your counterpart before. tell me, child, all about your mother, and your grandfather, major page. what a fine old soldier he was!" and so i sat on the porch by this strange, stiff englishman, no longer stiff, but positively limber, dum declared, and told all i knew of my poor little mother and the fine old soldier, her father. they had come to america to look up some investments made by the retired army officer, had settled near warrenton and there had met my father,--and the marriage had ensued. "all i have left of my old english grandfather is his hat-tub, which i still use when i am at bracken," i said. "my word, how i should like to own one! i have not seen a hat-tub for twenty years," he sighed. "but tell me, miss allison, do you never see nor hear from your mother's family in england?" "i think all correspondence with them died a natural death many years ago. father used to write once a year to a great-aunt, gwendoline was her name, but she died; after that some of her daughters wrote once or twice and then stopped. i don't even know whether they are alive and i fancy they neither know nor care whether i am." "i have never seen a more striking likeness than you have to your mother. she was much younger than my wife when i knew her. we had all been visiting at the home of the earl of garth, my wife's uncle. little lucy page was really not old enough to be out of the nursery, certainly should have been in charge of a governess; but major page had his own ideas about such things and took his daughter wherever he went. she was about sixteen, i fancy." "just your age!" tweedled the tuckers, who had been listening, with open mouths and eyes, in speechless silence to mr. pore's revelations. when he spoke of the earl of garth as his wife's uncle they looked, as poor dear blanche expressed it, "fittin' to bust." and then when in the most casual manner he let drop that his own father was a baronet, i know it was a relief to them that the hammock rope broke at the crucial moment and they were precipitated to the floor with mary flannagan who was between them. "if something had not happened and happened pretty quick 'a kersplosion was eminent,'" whispered dee to me. "and now i am going to beat it to the hotel as fast as my legs can carry me and let that hateful mabel binks know that she has been nasty to the nobility. oh, i am going to be tactful and not let her know i came for the express purpose. i am going to ask her to tea and be generally sweet, and then just casually let it drop that mr. pore knew your mother while all of them were visiting at an earl's, and that said earl was mrs. pore's uncle. i'll rub in that it means that our modest, little english friend, called by mabel and her ilk orphan annie, is the great-granddaughter of an earl on her mother's side and the granddaughter of a baronet on her father's." all this dee whispered to me while the hammock was being tied up more securely by zebedee. the solemn englishman was evidently much amused by the mishap, as he laughed in a manner almost hilarious for one so dignified and sober. i have always heard an accident like that spoken of as an english joke, and truly it did seem to strike him as very funny. harvie price and shorty made their appearance soon after. harvie greeted mr. pore with great respect and in a few moments they were conversing most affably about harvie's grandfather, general price, and news of the settlement. mr. pore seemed to like the boy and harvie evidently liked him. once he had told me that he admired mr. pore greatly as one who could think in latin. it was easy to see that mr. pore was not going to be such a difficult visitor, after all. he had evidently decided that we were good enough socially for him, because of my mother's having been at the earl of garth's. he had already admitted harvie to his exclusive circle since he had permitted annie to play with him when they were children. he liked zebedee and zebedee's cigars and zebedee's children, who cracked such delicious jokes in falling out of hammocks. altogether he intended to have a very pleasant weekend. i fancied he was a little sorry that he had spoken of his connections, as it was a subject he evidently had not touched on to strangers, but it had slipped out in his delight in meeting someone he considered of his world, that world that he had turned his back on so many years before but the world to which he still belonged. he had never identified himself with his "amehriken" neighbours and had always held himself as an alien among them. annie looked a little startled and very happy. this was a new father to her, a genial gentleman who actually talked to her friends and admitted having titled connections in the old country. he had not censured her once and now he was talking to harvie with actual affability. "oh, page," she whispered to me, "how glad i am i accepted your slippers that night of the musicale at gresham. you remember i said to you that my mother had borrowed slippers, too, when she had worn that dress, and that she did not mind borrowing them because she knew her friend loved her. to think of that friend's being your mother! oh, page, i am so happy!" chapter xviii. the machinations of mabel. dee must have laid it on rather thick with mabel binks, as anything like that young woman's change of manner towards annie could not have been brought about by a light touch. i am afraid dee represented mr. pore's brother, the present baronet, as in the last stages of some wasting disease, and by some juggling of facts in regard to english titles gave the impression that annie was in a fair way to become the duchess of marlborough or at least the honourable anne. she afterwards told dum and me when we accused her of not having drawn it mild, that she had neglected to tell mabel the exact connection with the earl, but had hinted that it was very close and one likely to lead to untold honours to our little friend. "i saw to it that your haughty relative, mrs. garnett, was informed of the coincidence of annie's mother and your mother being friends and of their being at the house party of the big bugs together. mrs. garnett was duly impressed and somewhat astonished, intimating that her cousin, dr. allison, had picked up an english wife with no connections to speak of. she will evidently have a higher opinion of you now that she knows that your mother and grandfather were on visiting terms with an earl." dee pretended to be in jest about cousin park, but it was the truth that she had always rather looked down on my mother for not being virginian. she never lost the chance to inform any stranger when i was introduced that my name was not the virginia pages. with her, f. f. v's were the first and last and only families worth considering in the union or out of it. of course, english nobility was in a way admirable, since it had given birth to f. f. v.dom, but the claim of inhabitants of any other state to aristocracy was brushed aside with scornful disdain. i remember a story my father used to tell of an old gentleman who said he considered it very bad taste to ask any man where he came from. "if he is a virginian, he is sure to let you know it without your asking, and if he is not, there is no use in rubbing it in on the poor fellow by making him own up to it." mabel's being invited to supper was a question that had been discussed up and down by the tuckers, principally down; but they had finally determined that it was on the whole up to them. dee had been appointed inviter as being the tactful member of the team, and mabel naturally jumped at the chance, overlooking the fact that she did not consider us properly chaperoned. her politeness and cordiality to annie were entirely unlooked for by that shy maiden, who almost fainted from astonishment; and she actually gushed over mr. pore. he looked at her for a moment through his ultra gold glasses and then, deciding that she was nothing but a vulgar "amehriken," he never seemed to see her again, although he was forced to hear her very often. she addressed many remarks to him and tried in every way to make him notice her, but an "aw, reahly!" was about all she could get from him. "i simply adore the english!" she exclaimed. "they have so much reserve. do you know, my grandfather binks was english, and indeed he never lost his accent although he lived in this country for a great many years. i remember so well how he dropped his aitches and put them on in the most unexpected places." "aw, reahly now!" "aren't you and your sweet daughter going back to england soon? you don't know how we dote on your little annie," and so on and so on, until it was indeed sickening. it was easy to see that miss binks was as anxious to get an invitation to england as she had been to richmond, while mr. pore was entirely unconscious of what she was driving at. he looked upon her as some kind of escaped lunatic and annie sat in open-eyed wonderment, expecting every moment to be insulted as of yore. they did not dream of dee's having turned the tables on mabel binks as she had done. mr. pore was still the country store-keeper and annie was the same shy girl with her wardrobe as limited as ever, but the wily dee had turned them into dukes and duchesses in mabel's eyes, and the snobbish creature was grovelling at the feet of the nobility. i have never seen two persons have as much fun as tweedles did that evening. they were very quiet but spent the time "sicking mabel on," as dee expressed it. i was pleased to see that annie did not unbend in the least to her one-time persecutor. in spite of annie's shyness she had a dignity that was most admirable; and while she was perfectly polite to mabel, she permitted no advances. getting invitations to england to visit in grand country houses that still belong to older brothers was certainly up-hill work. winding purple and grey yarn for mrs. garnett and fetching and carrying for her, even agreeing with her at every point, was child's play to this thing of flattering a middle-aged englishman who seemed to have no conversation at his command but "aw, reahly!" or "my word!" and trying to undo the work of the last year and make a little english girl forget all the rudeness she had suffered at the hands of her persistent tormentor. i kept wondering how about the lard and molasses that the middle-aged englishman would perhaps spend the rest of his life weighing out and drawing from the barrel for his negro customers as well as white; also if mrs. binks would still think gresham too democratic in the class of pupils it enrolled. i so naturally hate a snob that i did not have a pleasant evening at all, and i could not quite see the fun in it that tweedles did. i was glad when it was over and we could stretch out on our cots with the pure sea air blowing on us, and, lulled by the soothing sound of the waves lapping the shore, sleep the sleep of the just. we could be thankful, at least, that mabel binks was, after all, none of us and when we left willoughby beach we might never have to see her again. as we lay side by side, all of us so quiet that one would have thought sleep held us fast, there was a sudden upheaval from mary's cot and a sound that might have been sobbing. "mary! mary! what is it?" we demanded. "are you ill?" and then the possible sobs turned into unmistakable giggles. "oh! oh! oh! i can't get to sleep for thinking of mr. pore's countenance when mabel told him of her binks grandfather who dropped his aitches." then we all went off into shrieks of laughter that very little would have turned into hysterics, if zebedee had not knocked sternly on our dressing-room door and bade us remember that we had other guests. of course he meant we must not do anything to make mr. pore think we were not perfect ladies, so we subsided with only an occasional upheaval and a smothered snicker. and while we lay there i thought of a title for a short story and almost got a plot worked out; but i went to sleep before it was quite clear. the title was: "the machinations of mabel." chapter xix. the wedding. july was almost over and it seemed but yesterday since we had come to the beach and taken possession of mrs. rand's cottage and made preparations for the continuous house-party. so many pleasures and excitements had been crowded into that month that really might have been spread over six months and still not have been stupid! it seems a pity that pleasant happenings make time pass quickly and sad and boresome things make it drag. how much better if it could only be the other way. i know miss cox felt that the month had gone very quickly and would have been glad of a few more weeks to give to preparations for matrimony, but mr. robert gordon had got the bit between his teeth and there was no holding him in. "haven't i been waiting for years and years? isn't my hair white with waiting?" he would say, shaking his exceedingly becoming, iron-grey locks. we girls privately thought that he might have spunked up a little sooner instead of spending all those weary years in growing grey, no matter how becoming it had proven to be; but zebedee told me he rather felt that miss cox and mr. gordon were more suited to each other than they had been in their youth. the years of separation had taught them a lesson they might never have learned together: how to control their tempers and bridle their tongues. i have never seen a couple who seemed to be in greater accord and harmony. it was a harmony of the soul and one that would last through eternity, not just a superficial agreement caused by the "glamor of the amour." perhaps zebedee was right and their happiness was more certain now that suffering and experience had instilled in their hearts the wisdom of moderation and self-control. it was to be a very quiet wedding at old st. paul's in norfolk, but we girls were in a state of excitement that made miss cox appear calm in contrast. the boys from the camp were invited and a half dozen of mr. gordon's most intimate friends. miss cox was singularly alone in the world except for some very dear friends who were not getatable. mr. gordon's mother was dead and his sister married and living in california, so we were, after all, the nearest thing to a family they could scrape up. the groom wanted zebedee for his best man but miss cox had to have him to give her away and a next best man must needs be chosen. blanche, of course, had to be included in the wedding party, and it was with a great deal of finesse that we persuaded her not to wear the fearful and wonderful costume she had arrived in. zebedee solved the problem of how to do it by presenting her with a very large new black mohair skirt and a plain, tailored linen shirt waist and a black sailor hat. "if poor, dear blanche has a hankering for her gorgeous finery, tell her that she must wear this sober costume to please me. i know she would not hurt my feelings for anything. also tell her that it would be perfectly _au fait_ for her to go to this gay function after the recent bereavement in her family, the untimely death of the brother's baby, provided she is suitably attired. there is a new white apron, too," said zebedee, handing the box to dum. "for goodness' sake, don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed dum. "dee is the diplomat and is fully capable of soft-soaping blanche into thinking that her striped skirt and purple waist are too fine to wear to a mere wedding but must be saved for funerals. i'd do it all wrong and make a mess of it." so dee consented to be the fashion dictator to the cook if i would go with her and uphold her in her arguments. "well, now the generositiness of my employerer is well nigh asphyxiating!" cried the girl. "i have always heard a simplifaction of costumery was the quintillion of excellency. but would it not be more respectful like to miss cox if we female maidens adorned of ourselves in more gorgeous affectations?" "oh, no! not at all!" declared dee quickly. "you see--you see--miss cox is going to wear a very simple gown herself--just a traveling dress--and it would not be fair for any of us to dress too finely and--and--attract attention to ourselves when all eyes should be drawn to the bride." this was a knock-down argument and with a sigh blanche put away her finery. donning the plain and appropriate clothes zebedee had purchased, she made herself ready for what she designated as "the wedding corsage." i had been to very few weddings, as i believe i have said before. our part of the country was like the hereafter in that the inhabitants neither married nor gave in marriage, being composed chiefly of bachelors and old maids, with a sprinkling of widowers and widows who seemed to have found once enough. this wedding was even more exciting to me than my first hop. all of us were nervous except miss cox, who was singularly composed. blanche forgot to put any salt in the batter bread that morning, and dum came down to breakfast in odd stockings, one black and one tan. as for zebedee, anyone would think it was his own wedding, he was so upset. "i don't see why they don't have undertakers for weddings as well as funerals," he exclaimed. "someone to take all the responsibility and not leave the matter to amateurs! here i am scared to death for fear the sexton won't remember to open the church in time; that the preacher won't come; that i might lose the ring--by jove! i have lost it! i told bob to keep it himself!" and he slapped his pockets frantically and began to turn them inside out. of course it was in the particular place it should have been, safe in his pocket book; but i know i saw him at least a dozen times go through exactly the same search during the morning, his eyes big with fright and his hands trembling. i don't know what there is about a wedding to make the masculine gender so panic-stricken, but i am told that there never was a man living who could go through a ceremony (whether it be his own or another's) without showing the white feather. maybe brigham young and solomon got so used to it they could at least assume composure, but i have my doubts about even those much-married gentlemen. the trolley was not considered good enough by mr. gordon and zebedee for the wedding party, so we were conveyed to norfolk in automobiles; and in spite of our host's lugubrious prognostications that we were going to be very late and the preacher would be gone, we arrived many minutes before we were due. there were a few persons in the church attracted by curiosity and the rumour of a wedding, and mr. gordon was waiting for us with his next best man, who had just arrived from south carolina. "gee whiz, i'm glad to see that man!" breathed zebedee, looking as though a great weight had fallen from him. "now he can take charge of this confounded ring. this is not in my jurisdiction, anyhow. whoever heard of the father of the bride having to take care of the ring?" then he began his usual search for the offending little circlet of gold, crying nervously: "i've lost it! i've lost it this time for sure!" but i reminded him of the pocket book and with a relieved sigh he handed the ring over to the next best man, who assumed the expression of hercules when atlas got him to hold the world for a while. as the bells rang out high noon, we seated ourselves sedately in the front pews. the minister took his stand in the pulpit and the organ pealed forth the wedding march. a little stir in the back and an almost inaudible titter from the strangers who were scattered about the church, caused us to turn to see what was going on, and who should be marching up the aisle, the observed of all observers, but poor, dear blanche, heading the "wedding corsage"! only a few yards behind her was miss cox on the arm of zebedee. it was awfully funny, but we were too taken up with the serious matter in hand to know how funny it was until afterwards. "thank goodness, she hasn't got on her 'costumery'!" whispered dee. mr. gordon was standing at the altar waiting for his bride, and the best man produced the ring at the proper time without much fumbling. zebedee gave the bride away with an air of great generosity and then wept shamelessly as was his habit. miss cox kept her composure even until she was mrs. robert gordon. the groom shook like an aspen leaf but managed to make his responses in a loud, determined voice. over at last, the knot safely tied and miss jane cox no more! by a word from the minister she had been miraculously turned into mrs. gordon. she looked very happy as she came down the aisle on the arm of her beaming husband, who had stopped trembling and had begun to prance, at least that is what dee declared he was doing. zebedee had stopped weeping and was now in a broad grin, and the next best man was evidently overjoyed to have shifted the burden of the ring to the rightful owner. how pretty the table was in the private room at the montecello hotel where zebedee gave the wedding breakfast! we all suddenly discovered we had eaten next to no breakfast, and now did our best to make up for lost time. there never were such brisk and attentive and omnipresent waiters anywhere before, i am sure. in addition, now and then we could see the delighted countenance of blanche, peeping in from an adjoining room where she had assumed the office of ladies' maid to help us off with our imaginary wraps. she felt that at last she was moving in high society and i think bitterly regretted the tabooed finery, especially when she saw the gleaming shirt fronts and tuxedos of the waiters. the breakfast was perfect. had not tweedles and i spent days going over the menu to be sure we forgot nothing and had everything we should and nothing we shouldn't? dum came very near spoiling the whole effect because she insisted upon having cakes and molasses. "you know zebedee and i like them better than anything and always order them when we eat at hotels. i can't see that it would not be perfectly appropriate. the montecello hotel would not have them on its menu if it wasn't elegant," she declared as we pored over the printed bill of fare that zebedee had brought to willoughby several days before the wedding. "but, dum," we explained, "this is not a real breakfast, just a wedding breakfast. it is to be luncheon instead of breakfast." "all right then, let's have pan-cakes instead of plain cakes! they have those on the luncheon menu." it took much persuading and arguing to convince dum that even pan-cakes would not do at a wedding breakfast. i thought once she and dee would have to resort to trial by combat, a measure they had not had to employ for a long time. they still practiced with the boxing gloves but had not put them on to settle disputes for many a month. they finally appealed to zebedee, who confessed himself to be no ladies' home advisor as to the proper food to be eaten on such occasions, but said: "what does page think?" "well, i think that there is nothing in the world better than plain cakes and molasses except maybe pan-cakes and syrup, but somehow it does not seem to me to be very romantic eating for a wedding breakfast." "the ultimatum is delivered," laughed zebedee. "if you must have pan-cakes, dum, for a wedding breakfast you will have to wait until you get a bridegroom of your own,--and i hope that will be many a day, honey." "all right, if you are all against me," sighed dum, "i'll give in; but i can't see that broiled chicken and english peas are any more romantic than cakes and molasses,--not as much so, in fact. what could be more romantic than a nice passionate hot cake all smothered in sweet, sticky, loving molasses?" what we did agree to have was canteloupe, then filet de sole with parker house rolls, then broiled chicken and peas with pop-overs, a fruit salad with mayonnaise, and last but not least, a great cake with all of the things baked in it that are usual to wedding cakes, and wonderful ice cream in molds appropriate for the occasion. if anyone felt like kicking, his or her feelings were carefully concealed. even the bride and groom ate, and as for the boys from the camp,--you would suppose they had been living on hard tack from the way they devoured that wedding breakfast. just before the cake was to be cut, the head waiter himself came in, a broad grin on his good-natured countenance and in his hands a great tray laden with orders of hot pan-cakes, a surprise and joke of zebedee's. it wasn't such a joke, after all, as every last one of those steaming cakes disappeared as if by magic. one would have thought that the guests had had enough, more than enough, in fact, but as sleepy said, no doubt voicing the sentiment of the crowd: "when there is no room in me for pan-cakes, then you fellows had better get ready for a funeral. it would be a sure indication of the last stages of a wasting disease." "consumption!" suggested wink. "consumption of food!" zebedee told me he had ordered the cakes because he hated to see dum disappointed; and then, too, he had a terrible fear that she might get married some time just so she could have pan-cakes at a wedding breakfast. "i want to keep my girls with me as long as i can, and certainly don't want one of them to marry for the sake of a hot cake. dum is fully capable of going any lengths to carry her point. did you see how she squared her chin when you and dee talked her down?" i hadn't seen it, but i knew full well that when dum did square her chin she meant business. pan-cakes and all were finally cleared away and the cake was cut, with many jests and much laughter. dee got the ring, annie the piece of money and wink the thimble, thereby causing many a merry bit of banter from his friends. he came very near swallowing it, not expecting to find anything in his slice of cake as usually, by some miraculous juggling, the females get the things in the wedding cake. i had not seen wink since the night of the hop. he had absented himself from willoughby, visiting various friends in suffolk and on the eastern shore, and only getting back to the camp in time for the wedding. his absence had been somewhat of a relief to me. i did not know just how he would behave nor was i certain what my attitude should be. i felt that i must treat him as though nothing had happened; but if he was going to show hurt feelings or be silly, i knew i would get embarrassed and stiff. i had not had a good look at him until we were seated at the table. then, to my dismay, he was placed next to me. i knew it was up to me to be pleasant, so i waltzed in to be agreeable but not too charming. if only i could make wink feel as i did! he looked different, somehow, but for a moment i could not account for it; and then it suddenly came over me that wink was growing a moustache! i felt like crawling under the table but instead i turned to the gentleman seated on my other side, no other than the next best man, and i am sure that mabel binks herself could not have got off a greater fire of small talk than i managed to pour forth. when i told wink that he would have to grow a moustache before i could be sure of the state of my feelings towards him, i was not in real earnest and he might have known it! i was quite sure at that wedding breakfast what my feelings were: decided resentment. why could he not realize that i was nothing but a little girl who occasionally played lady? at any rate i was not going to let a little old moustache composed of a few struggling hairs spoil either my pleasure or my appetite. the next best man proved to be most agreeable and very easy to talk to, and the breakfast was good enough to occupy one without conversation had it been necessary to give your attention only to the matter in hand. wink looked rather ruefully at the thimble. "you'll be darning your own socks 'til kingdom come," laughed sleepy, glad that the joke for once was not on him. wink sadly acquiesced, and then zebedee kindly added: "maybe that means the kind of thimble wendy gave peter pan, wink. you remember in that delightful fantasy a thimble was a kiss." "well, anyhow, one can't wear a thimble and a mitten at the same time," muttered wink so that no one heard him but me; and to my dying day i shall hate myself for the way i blushed. it was one of those blushes that hurt. i had a feeling that even my eyes were red. i had just taken the first mouthful of a wonderful molded ice: a pair of white turtle-doves billing and cooing, perched in the heart of a great raspberry sherbet rose. i choked (it must have been on the billing and cooing) and the next best man had to beat me in the back until i could get my breath. i was thankful for the choke and hoped no one had noticed that my crimson countenance had preceded the accident. and now the toasts were in order. everyone had to say something no matter how bromidic. "long life and happiness!" "may your shadows never grow less!" and dum blurted out: "may you have many more wedding breakfasts!" which caused a perfect storm of applause, as it sounded very much as though she meant marriages for the newly wedded couple. mary flannagan got off an impromptu limerick that amused us gresham girls very much, because we were well aware of the fact that miss cox was very unconventional in her ideas and always irritated by narrowness in religion or anything else: "there was a young lady named coxy, who wished to be married by proxy. when asked why this wuz, she said: 'oh, becuz i never could stand orthodoxy.'" then wink, who was very clever at everything but growing moustaches, came back very quickly with: "the groom then he swore and he cust; 'i hate to begin saying "must," but i know my dear jane will surely be sane and be married in church, or i'll bust.'" there had been some discussion about where they were to be married, miss cox rather leaning towards going to some friends in albemarle, but we had joined mr. gordon in talking her out of it. zebedee made a wonderful toast master, encouraging the bashful members of the party with so much tact and kindliness that even the timid annie actually got upon her feet and made a very graceful little speech before she seemed to be aware of the fact that she was really doing it. then sleepy, feeling that if annie did, he must, too, raised his bulky form, and very much in the tone of a schoolboy saying his piece, almost choking with embarrassment, managed to get out the following: "may joy and happiness be your lot, as down the path of life you trot." we expressed ourselves in various ways, but we were all sincere in wishing well for the gordons. i, for one, regretted exceedingly that the one person who had ever made me comprehend mathematics was no longer to teach me. i dreaded the coming year, certain that i would have a terrible time with that bug-bear of a subject. zebedee's speech was: "there are many kinds of toasts i have always known, dry toast, milk toast, french toast and buttered toast, and these may be hot or cold,--but bless me if we haven't more variety of toasts at this nuptial banquet than were ever dreamed of in my philosophy. one thing i can assert: no one has offered a dry toast nor proffered a cold one. each has been buttered and piping hot, and the best thing i can wish my two dear friends is that their toast may always be buttered and piping hot!" and he added feelingly: "may you always eat it together!" then mr. gordon made a very graceful little concession: he actually quoted "alice in the looking glass," substituting jinny for alice. this was pretty nice of him, considering that their early and lasting disagreement had been all because of lewis carroll's nonsense verses. "'then fill up the glasses as quick as you can, and sprinkle the table with buttons and bran; put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea-- and welcome queen jinny with thirty-times-three. "'then fill up your glasses with treacle and ink, or anything else that is pleasant to drink; mix sand with the cider and wool with the wine-- and welcome queen jinny with ninety-times-nine!'" then miss cox arose to answer the toast, and one would have supposed it was some great sonnet in her honour that her new husband had composed, so graciously did she accept the tribute paid her. "'o looking glass creatures,' quoth jinny, 'draw near! 'tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear; 'tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea along with the red queen, the white queen, and me!'" chapter xx. the after-math. they took a steamer to new york, that mecca of the newly-wed, and we all adjourned to the pier to wish them god-speed. as the vessel pulled out, rags produced from his pocket the self-same old tennis shoes that we had found the morning we took possession of mrs. rand's cottage, and threw them after the departing couple. they looked very comical as they floated along for a moment like veritable gun-boats and then filled and sank. "_requiescat in pace!_" muttered wink. "at least you can't forget them again." the boys were breaking camp next day, and the day after we were to get ready to turn over the cottage to mrs. rand's next tenants. zebedee bitterly regretted that he had not taken the place for two months, but it was too late now. besides, his holiday was over and we all well knew that willoughby would not be quite the same thing with our kind host not there, the boys no longer in their camp, and good miss cox married and gone. zebedee had to go back to richmond that night, ready for harness the next morning. "my, but i dread it!" he exclaimed as he took us over to the trolley to start us back to willoughby beach. "i almost wish i had never had a holiday, it is so hard to go back to work. what are stupid old newspapers for, anyhow? who wants to read them?" this made us smile, as zebedee is like a raging lion until he gets the morning paper, and then goes through the same rampageous humour later in the day until the afternoon paper appears to assuage his agony. "we journalists get no thanks, anyhow. i agree with the frenchman who says that a journalist's efforts are no more appreciated than a cook's; no one remembers what he had for yesterday's dinner or what was in yesterday's newspaper." blanche listened to mr. tucker's words with rapt attention. she always stood at a respectful distance but within easy ear-shot of the conversation, which she eagerly drank in and then commented on later to tweedles and me. but this too nearly touched her heart for her to wait until we were alone to make her original and characteristic comments. "oh, mr. tucker, it is so considerable of you to find a symbolarity between the chosen professions of master and handymaiden! sense i have been conductoring of the curlinary apartment of your enstablishment, i have so often felt the infutility of my labours. what i do is enjoyed only for the momentariness of its consumption, and is never more thought of unless it is to say too rich or something; and then, if it disagrees, poor blanche is remembered again, and then not to say agree'bly. sometimes whin i have been placin' clean papers on the kitchen shelves, the same sentimentality has occurred to me that you so apely quotetioned a moment ago, mr. tucker; namely, in relation to journalists and cooks. i see all that pretty printin' going to was'e jes as a restin' place for pots 'n pans, and then in the garbage pail i see the cold waffles that was once as fresh and hot as the next, one no more considered than the other, and i could weep for both of us. our electrocution teacher used to say a piece about 'impervious cæsar, dead and turned to clay doth stop the crack to keep the wind away.'" we stood aghast during this speech. dum looked as though she would welcome death, the deliverer, with joy, anything to relieve the strain she was on to keep from exploding with laughter; but zebedee did not seem to think it was funny at all. he listened with the greatest courtesy and when she had finished with her quotation (which we afterwards agreed was singularly appropriate, since cæsar had been made "impervious" enough to keep out water as well as wind), he answered her very kindly: "i thank you, blanche, for understanding me so well. i can tell you that i, for one, will always remember your waffles; and had i known at the time that there was any more batter, there would not have been any cold ones to find their last ignominious resting place in the garbage pail." "i also have saved some of your writings, mr. tucker,--an editorial that miss dum said you had written before you came for your holiday,--and i will put it in my mem'ry book as an epitaph of you." then dum did explode. she made out that she was sneezing and even insisted upon purchasing a menthol inhaler before she went back to willoughby, declaring she felt a head cold coming on. the beach seemed stale, flat and unprofitable somehow when we got back. we missed miss cox and above all we missed zebedee. "i'm glad we couldn't get the cottage for another month," yawned dum. "old zebedeelums couldn't be here more than once or twice in that time and it would surely be stupid without him;" and all of us agreed with her in our hearts. the cottage was in a terrible state of disorder. we had been too excited in the morning to do our chores. beds were unmade, the living-room messy and untidy with sweaters on chairs, crumbs on the table and floor and shades some up, and some down, and some crooked (nothing to my mind gives a room a more forlorn look than window shades at sixes and sevens); the kitchen, usually in the pink of perfection, just as blanche had left it after cooking what she had termed, a somewhat "forgetable" breakfast. "never do today what you can put off until tomorrow," said dee. "let's leave this mess and take a dip before supper. we will have fifteen minutes at least before blanche can get the funeral baked meats on the table." we were to have a very simple repast and we told blanche just to put it on the table and we would wait on ourselves. the girl was as tired as we were and we felt we must spare her. we determined to get the cottage in perfect order the next day and just to "live keerless" for that evening and night, as blanche expressed it. five hats and five pairs of gloves, dropped where the owners happened to fancy, did not help to make the living-room look any more orderly. dum took off her white kid pumps, that had been pinching a little all day, and left them in the middle of the floor. the morning paper, despised of zebedee but eagerly devoured nevertheless, was scattered all over the divan and floor, and a bag of bananas blanche had been intrusted with was in a state of dishabille on the crummy table. it was surely a place to flee from and flee we did. such a swim as we had! it seemed the best of the whole month. the water was perfect, just a little cooler than the air, and the setting sun turned it to liquid gold. "why, look at annie! she is swimming, really swimming!" called out mary flannagan. and sure enough there was annie staying on top of the water and calmly paddling around like a beautiful white swan. "of course i can swim in golden water! who couldn't? i do wish mr. tucker could see me. isn't it too bad after all his patience with me that i wait until he is gone to show what i can do? somehow this seems like a dream, and the water is fairy water." "let's all catch hold of hands and lie on our backs and float," i suggested. "if you won't leave me when the tide comes, to turn over and swim in," pleaded annie. "i will stay with you until your shoulders grate against the shore," promised mary. and so we lay all in a row on top of the water, faces upturned to the wonderful evening sky, our bodies as light as air and our hearts even lighter. "gee, dee! i am glad you suggested this!" sighed dum. "i never felt more peaceful in my life than i do this minute, and i know i never felt more forlorn than i did when we first got back to the cottage." "me too! me too!" we chorused. "let's float to spain and never come back," suggested annie. "and this from a little lady who has been afraid to get her toes wet all month! well, i'm game if the rest of you are," and mary gave a few vigorous kicks that sent the line some distance from shore; and still annie with her white-swan expression floated peacefully on. we lay there chatting and dreaming, washing off "the cares that infest the day," planning the future and gazing into the clear obscure of the darkening sky. "'star light, star bright, first star i've seen tonight! i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight,'" sang dum, and sure enough there was a star. "look here, girls, it's getting late! i hate to awaken you from this dream of eternal bliss, but we've got to go in," and dee turned over on her face to swim in, thereby causing some commotion in the hearts of the two swimmers newly initiated in the art. "don't leave me!" gasped annie. "didn't your faithful mary swear to take you safe to shore? just lie still and i'll tow you in;" and in they came, mary steaming away like a tug boat and annie floating like an ocean liner, until her shoulders grated on the sand and then and only then was she convinced that she could touch bottom. we raced back to the cottage, hungry and happy, the fifteen minutes that we had meant to stay having turned into an hour in the twinkling of an eye. from afar we espied blanche on the porch, shooing us back with one hand and beckoning with the other. we obeyed the beckoning one and eagerly demanded what was the matter. her face was so pale that the name of blanche was almost appropriate. "what is it, blanche? what has happened?" we cried. but she was speechless except for gasping: "oh, the disgrace, the disgrace!" we followed her trembling form into the living room, wet suits and all, feeling that the exigency of the case was sufficient cause for suspension of rules and for once we would bring dripping bathing suits into the house. the cause of blanche's perturbation of mind was easily understood when we beheld the portly figure of cousin park garnett stiffly seated in a dusty chair (on dum's panama hat it was discovered later). she was indignantly waving her turkey-tail fan, and such an expression of disgust i have never seen on a human countenance. the room looked no better than when we had left it and even a little worse, as the pickup supper we were to have had been dumped on the table in great confusion and not at all in blanche's usual careful style. we had told her not to set the table and she had taken us at our word. the odour of sardines left in the opened boxes mingled with that of the bananas, still in the bursting bag. the bread was cut in thick, uneven slices. a glass jar of pickle and one of olives added to the sketchiness of the table. it was "confusion worse confounded." "oh!" i gasped, on viewing my indignant relative, "i thought you had gone!" "no, i have not yet departed," stiffly from cousin park. "this is rather an unusual time for bathing, is it not?" "yes'm, but----" and i began to stammer out something, fully aware of the dismal figure i cut, standing limply in front of that august presence, my wet clothes sending forth streams of water that settled in little puddles on the floor. i was well aware of the fact that cousin park had never approved of my friendship with the tuckers, and now, coming on us in this far from commendable state, she would have what she would consider a handle for her hitherto unfounded objections. but dee, who by some power that she possessed in common with her father, the power by a certain tact to become master of any situation, no matter how embarrassing, came forward and with all the manners of one much older and clothed in suitable garments, so that you lost sight of her scant and dripping bathing suit, she said: "we are very glad to see you, mrs. garnett, and are extremely sorry to have missed any of your visit. you have found us in some disarray from the fact that we are preparing to move and at the same time have just been engaged in having a wedding in the family." "a wedding! whose wedding?" the wily dee had taken her mind off of the disorder in the room and now she felt she could soon win her over to complacency at least. the wetting paled to insignificance beside the wedding. "why, our dear friend and chaperone, miss cox." "your chaperone! goodness gracious, child! did she marry your father?" "heavens, no!" laughed dee. "mr. bob gordon is the happy man!" "miss binks did not tell me a word of it," said mrs. garnett rather suspiciously. "no, she did not know about it." "not know about it? that is strange! was there any reason for keeping it secret?" "no especial reason for keeping it secret except that it was to be a very quiet affair and the invited guests included only the most intimate friends. mabel binks has a way of getting herself invited by hook or crook, and we just decided not to tell her about the matter." "how long were they engaged? it seems strange behaviour in a chaperone." "i tell you what you do, mrs. garnett. if you won't mind the informality of a picnic supper, you stay and have supper with us. we will run up and get dressed and be down in a moment and then we will tell you the whole thing, how they got engaged and all about it." and so anxious was my cousin for a bit of news to retail to the ladies on the hotel porch that she actually stayed. when we got down stairs after very hasty toilets, we found the good-natured blanche had brought some order out of the chaos of the supper table and with an instinct truly remarkable had made a pot of delicious, fragrant coffee. coffee, i had often heard cousin park declare to be her one weakness. now you may be sure that what cousin park, with her smug self-satisfaction, considered a weakness in herself would really have been a passion in anyone else. as dee, who was doing the honours at the head of the table, it being her week as housekeeper, poured the coffee and our still far from mollified guest saw the beautiful golden brown hue that it assumed the minute it mingled with the cream, her expression softened and she looked very much as she had when judge grayson recited, "my grandmother's turkey-tail fan." the colour of coffee when it is poured on cream is a never failing test of its quality, and the colour of blanche's coffee was beyond compare. the food was very good if not very elegantly served, and i really believe mrs. garnett enjoyed herself as much as she was capable of doing. when anyone's spinal column has solidified she can't have much fun, and i truly believe that was the case with hers. what she enjoyed as much as the coffee and even more, perhaps, was the delightful news she was gathering in every detail to take back to the old hens roosting on the hotel porch. mr. and mrs. gordon had made no secret of their affairs, even their former engagement and cause of the break being known now to some twenty persons; so we felt that it would be all right if we told the whole thing to our eager listener. she agreed with the young lover that the lobster quadrille (of which she had never heard before) was nonsense pure and simple. dum had to recite it twice and finally we all got up and danced it and sang it for her. then she did acknowledge that it might appeal to some persons, but that a girl with as irregular features as the former miss cox had been very foolish to let such twaddle as that stand in the way of matrimony, and she was surely exceedingly fortunate, when time had certainly done nothing to straighten her face, to be able to catch a husband after all. we well knew that while time had not had a beautifying effect on our beloved miss cox's countenance, it had made more lovely her character and soul, and that was after all what mr. gordon loved more than anything else. we kept our knowledge to ourselves, however, as cousin park was not the kind of person to talk metaphysics to. she finally departed, much to our relief, as we were one and all ready for bed. we escorted her to the hotel and before we were out of earshot we could hear her cackling the news to the other old hens very much as a real barnyard fowl will do when she scratches up some delectable morsel too large to swallow at one gulp. she immediately bruits it abroad, attracting all the chickens on the farm, and then such another noise, pecking, grabbing and clucking ensues, until the choice bit is torn to shreds. we were very tired but not too tired to applaud mary flannagan, who imitated cousin park to the life as she recounted the tale to her cronies. then mary followed the gossipy monologue with her favourite stunt of barnyard noises, finally ending up with cousin park's parting speech anent the lobster quadrille and miss cox's imprudence in not taking a husband when she had a chance, even if their taste in the classics did not coincide. chapter xxi. settling up. the next day, our last at the beach, such scrubbing, sweeping and dusting went on as was never seen before i am sure. we were determined that mrs. rand should not say that girls at best were "goatish." blanche insisted that she could do all the cleaning herself, but we thought it but fair to turn in and help. "how could people in one short month collect so much mess?" demanded dum, as she turned bureau drawers out on the beds and did what she called "picking rags." "do you s'pose on a desert island we would find ourselves littered up with a lot of doo-dads?" "well, robinson crusoe collected friday, besides several other days of the week that i can't remember," answered dee, "and it seems to me he got a dog and a cat and a parrot, and he certainly 'made him a coat of an old nannie goat.' he had no luggage at all on his arrival and had much to cart away. and look at swiss family robinson! there was nothing they did not collect in the way of belongings on their desert island, even a wife for one of the boys." "do you know, i used to think swiss family robinson was the best book that had ever been written," said i, emerging from the closet with an arm full of shoes. "well, i don't know but that it is still," declared dum. "wouldn't it be just grand to be cast on a desert island? of course i mean if zebedee could be cast along, too." "of course we wouldn't be cast without him," said dee, "heaven would be more like the other place if zebedee wasn't there. goodness, i wish he didn't have to work and we could all stay together all the time!" "when i grow up a little more and learn how, i am going to sculp such a wonderful statue that zebedee can stop working." dum forgot all about the rags she was picking and with the dreamy expression we knew so well, began to ball up a perfectly clean shirt waist as though it were clay and with her sculptor's thumb shape it into i don't know what image of surpassing beauty. she was rudely awakened from her dream by dee, who snatched the imaginary clay from her twin, exclaiming: "since that happens to be my shirt waist, the one i am going to travel back to richmond in, i'll thank you to get-rich-quick on one of your own ... or this dirty middy blouse might prove a good medium," and she tossed a very soiled article over dum's head. it happened to be a middy that she had gone crabbing in, so it was not overly pleasant. anything was enough to start tweedles in a romp, and in a minute the air was black with shoes and white with pillows, and what work we had accomplished was in a fair way to be done over. annie and i took to the farthest cot for safety and mary perched upon the railing and egged the warriors to fiercer battle by giving her inimitable dog fight with variations. as is often the case, the non-combatants got the worst of the fight. dee ducked a pillow, thrown with tremendous force by her opponent, and annie got it square on her dainty nose, causing that aristocratic feature to bleed profusely. "oh, annie, annie, i'm so sorry!" wailed dum. "it is altogether my fault!" declared dee. "i had no business ducking!" "id's dothing adall," insisted annie, tightly grasping her offending member, "by old dose always bleeds. jusd a liddle dab will draw de clared." "oh, but i just know it hurts awfully," and dee raced off for a basin of cold water while dum rummaged in the debris for some of the gentleman's handkerchiefs that she and dee always used in common with their father. mary insisted upon dropping a large brass door key down the sufferer's back, declaring that nothing stopped nose-bleed so effectively as the shock occasioned by a brass door key dropped down the back. "i just know it is going to disfigure you for days to come!" exclaimed dee. "oh, i don't bind the loogs but id's just the bordification of being such a duisance," answered the poor girl, as usual embarrassed over being the observed of all observers. and just then in spite of the basin of gore and annie's pitiful expression and tweedles' great solicitude, mary and i went off into uncontrollable giggles. "i'm not laughing at you, annie, but at your 'bordification,'" gasped mary, holding her own nose to give the proper accent; and then everybody laughed and it had the effect described in the nursery rhyme: "little tommy grace had a pain in his face so bad he couldn't learn a letter. in came dicky long, singing such a funny song, tommy laughed and his face felt much better." blanche arrived on the scene with a bottle of witch hazel and annie was made to lie down in the farthest corner with healing cloths bound round her injuries. "i never heard sech carryings on!" exclaimed the girl. "mo' like a passel of boys. i couldn't believe my yers that 'twas my young missusses making sech hullybullyboo. that there rent woman come by jes' then, and she rubbered 'til i thought she would sho' twis' her po' white neck off." blanche had as frank a dislike to mrs. rand as that good woman had for all darkeys, and it was only with the most tactful management that we could keep them from coming to blows on the few occasions when mrs. rand came over to inspect our cottage. the white woman was very free in her use of the very objectionable term "nigger," and blanche on the other hand had an insolent bearing in her presence that was entirely foreign to her usual polite manner and gentle disposition. it seemed strange that two persons as excellent in their way as mrs. rand and blanche should be so antagonistic. they were like two chemicals, innocent and mild until brought together and then such a bubbling and boiling and exploding! mrs. rand always entered the house through the kitchen, which in itself was an irritation to blanche. "i don't hold to no back-do' company. if'n she calls herself a lady, wherefore don't she entrance like one? what call is she got to be pryin' and appearin' auspiciously into all my intensils? i ain't goin' to leave no mo' dirt than i found." "did she come in just now?" asked dee as blanche got off the foregoing tirade after having administered to annie. "no'm, she never come in! i squared myself in the do'way and she couldn't git by me and she couldn't git over me and gawd knows she couldn't git under me. i wa'n't goin' to let her or no one else come in my kitchen 'til i got the dislocation indigent to the undue disordinary of yesterday somewhat abated." "did she say anything?" laughed dum. "yessum, she said a absolute piece of po'try what i would not defame my lips by repeating to you." "oh, please tell us what it was!" we begged. "well, 'twas: "'nigger, nigger, never die, black face and shiny eye, flat nose and crooked toes, that's the way the nigger goes.'" "wasn't that horrid of her?" we cried. "and what did you say?" "well, i held my head up same as a white lady, an' i answered her back same as a white lady, an' i called out to her: "'i had a little dog an' his name was dash, 'druther be a nigger than po' white trash!'" "well, i'm glad you got back at her; and now come on and let's get the cottage in such good order that we won't care which way the owner comes in," and dee gave blanche a friendly pat on her broad shoulder. the girl left us, her good-humour restored by our sympathy, and if there was a speck of dirt left in that kitchen it would have taken a magnifying glass to find it. trunks were soon packed, and we had proceeded to the business of dismantling beds (all but on our porch), when we heard the rasping voice of mrs. rand in the living room below, that wily woman having slipped in through the kitchen while blanche's back was turned. "hey--miss tucker twins!! where's that so-called paw of yours? i come over to go over the inventory with him." "inventory! what inventory?" asked tweedles from the balcony. "what inventory? why, land's sakes alive, what are you handin' out to me? didn't i give him a list of my goods and chattels to be returned to me in the same condition in which they was delivered to him on the fust of the month?" "oh, i believe there is a list of things in the blue tea-pot," and dee raced down the steps and drew out the important document from the beautiful old blue tea-pot on the mantelpiece. "but, mrs. rand, our father has gone back to richmond, went yesterday, and he told me to tell you to send him the bill for anything that was broken or missing." "bill, indeed!" she sniffed. "i don't trust to bills with any of these here tenants. richmond is richmond and willoughby is willoughby." "certainly, mrs. rand," said dee with great dignity, "we will not ask you to trust us for any sum provided we have cash enough to reimburse you. there have been very few things broken and i fancy nothing will be missing. a few water glasses and some cups, i think, are the only things broken." "not with a nigger in the kitchen!" said our landlady, rudely. "yer can't tell me a nigger has gone through a month without bustin' mo' things than that." "why, blanche didn't break the things that have been broken. we did it ourselves. i don't believe blanche has broken a single thing," exclaimed dum. "you is quite exactitude in yo' statement, miss dum," said blanche, appearing in the kitchen door, where she had overheard all of mrs. rand's not too complimentary remarks. "i is not been the instructive mimber of the household, and what brokerage has been committed has been performed by you young ladies or yo' papa. i is fractured but one object since i engaged in domestic disuetude and that was a cup without no saucer, and before gawd it was cracked whin i come." blanche no longer looked the mild and peaceful character we had found her to be. her pleasant gingerbread coloured face was purple with rage, and one of her pigtails, usually tightly wrapped, had come unbound and was standing up in a great woolly bush on the top of her head, giving her very much the appearance of a zulu warrior in battle regalia. a rolling pin in one hand and a batter cake turner in the other added to her warlike aspect. "i never seed a nigger yet that didn't say everything she broke was cracked when she come," sniffed mrs. rand scornfully. "blanche is quite right!" exclaimed dum. "the cup she broke was cracked, because i cracked it myself. i cracked the cup and broke the saucer the first night at the beach, didn't i, dee?" "no, you didn't. i did it myself," said dee. "well, hoity-toity! it looks like you both think you done something fine to bust up the chiny," and mrs. rand smiled grimly as she gave an extra twist to her mrs. wiggs knot and got out of her capacious pocket a huge pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. "come on, now, and go over this here inventory. business is business, and if the chiny is busted, no matter who done it, it is the business of the renters to make good. i ain't a-saying the nigger done it, but i'm a-saying if'n she didn't, she's the fust nigger i ever seed that didn't behave like a bull in a chiny shop, bustin' and breakin' wherever she trod." but blanche had not had her say out and she took up the ball and continued: "i is large, 'tis true, but i is light to locomotion, and brokerage is never been one of my failures. my kitchen is open fer yo' conception at any time, miss dee. you kin bring in the rent woman when it suits yo' invention," and with a bow that took in all of us and left out mrs. rand, blanche retired to her domain and lifted up her voice in a doleful hymn. [illustration: "why don't you speak up, girl?"--_page _] everything in the cottage was carefully checked off, living room first and then the sleeping porches. we were thankful indeed that we had cleaned up so well and had all of our accumulated mess out of the way. the old woman complimented us on the appearance of everything. she was not at all an unkind person, except where coloured people were concerned. she seemed to take a motherly interest in us and highly approved of zebedee. "well, you gals is sho' kept my house nice and i must say it is some surprise to me. you look like such harum-scarums that i was fearing you would be worser tenants than them boys---- land sakes, if'n the tick covers ain't clean enough ter use agin. i always changes 'em fer a new tenant, but looks like it would be foolishness to take off perfectly clean things, 'thout spot or speck on 'em. of course, i'll take off the nigger's tick." every time mrs. rand said nigger it made me wince. mammy susan had brought me up to think that that was a word not to be used in polite society or anywhere else. "niggers is the onliest ones what kin say nigger," she used to tell me. "whin white folks says niggers they is demeaning of themselves, an' they is also paintin' of the nigger blacker than his maker done see fit to make him." blanche's room was in perfect order and i wondered if mrs. rand would not give her some praise, but that stern person only sniffed and passed on. dishes were next on the list and we ticketed them off easily. four cups were broken, three saucers and a plate and six water glasses, about a dollar's worth in all, as the china and glass were of the plainest. then came the kitchen and cooking utensils. we hoped blanche would go out, but she stood to her guns bravely and refused to desert the ship. mrs. rand poked her nose into every crack and crevice and seemed to be hunting dirt which she could not discover. the tins were counted and found o. k.; and then the kitchen spoons and forks were as carefully gone over as though they had been of the finest silver. one iron spoon was worn on the edges and a little bent from the vigorous beating and stirring the batter bread had undergone, and the strictly business mrs. rand looked at it dubiously, but finally let it pass along with the "sheep," although her expression was very much what peter's might be if a goat had butt his way into paradise. "where's that there can-opener, a perfectly good one that i bought from a peddler? i wouldn't lose it for a pretty! i never seed one like it before and the man i bought it from said he was the sole agent for it and mor'n likely would not be back this way for years to come," and mrs. rand rummaged in the table drawer like some lady who feared she had lost some precious jewel. blanche stood back abashed and was silent, and tweedles and i looked at one another guiltily. "why don't you speak up, girl? you needn't think you can get off with my can-opener, 'cause you can't." still blanche held to the policy of the tar baby and said nothing, and tweedles and i were as dumb as fish. "it was one of these here combination implements, a cork-screw and can-opener, beer-opener and knife-sharpener, with a potato-parer at one end and apple-corer at the other, and in the middle a nutmeg-grater. i never seen a finer thing, and besides it had a attachment fer the slicin' of sarytogy chips." "i am very sorry, mrs. rand, but your can-opener is--is--lost," said dee. "blanche is not responsible for it, as she had nothing to do with it. here is a very good can-opener, however, that our father brought back from norfolk," and she took from its accustomed nail a sturdy little affair of the old-fashioned kind, meant to open cans and to do nothing but open cans, and in consequence one that did open cans. "here is a cork-screw, and here is a nutmeg-grater! we never did know what all the other parts of the thing were meant for or i am sure my father would have got those, too, as he did not wish to defraud you in any way." "you talk like that there so-called paw of yours had lost it, and i believe you is just trying to shield this nigger. i never seed a nigger yet who had the gumption to use one of these here labor-saving devices." the purple colour again rose in blanche's dusky countenance and the tuft of unwrapped wool began to shake ominously, but still she held her peace, showing that she was a lady at heart. she knew as well as we did what had become of the prized and priceless implement, but her loyalty made her keep silence. the situation was tense and the irate owner looked from one to another of our solemn countenances, trying to solve the riddle of the lost can-opener. annie and mary had come to the kitchen door, annie with her nose not much the worse for the blow, but with her pretty face very pale from the loss of blood, mary with the whimsical expression that she always wore when she was taking mental notes of anyone whom she intended to imitate later on. we all of us could recall with the keenest delight the memorable evening when zebedee undertook to open the sardines at a beach party we were having and his scornful remarks anent our can-opener. "look at this thing!" he had said indignantly. "pretends to do so much and can't do a single thing right! broke the cork in the olive bottle! won't cut anything but a little round, jagged hole in this square can of sardines! i have cut a biscuit out of my hand with this butt end that is meant for the lord knows what!" (that must have been the end that was meant for an apple-corer.) he continued, "if it's the last act of my life, i intend to take this abomination out in the bay and drop it down ten fathoms deep." he was as good as his word, and the very next morning when we went out for our usual before-breakfast dip, zebedee appeared with the can-opener in his mouth (to leave his hands free for swimming) and with strong, rapid strokes shot out far into the bay, there to consign the hated abomination to its watery grave. and now what was to be said to mrs. rand? it wouldn't do to stand like patience on a monument smiling at grief, indefinitely. we looked to dee, our social deliverer, to save us, and i only hoped that mary and i would not disgrace the crowd by going off into our usual giggles. "as i said before, mrs. rand, it is lost and we are as sorry as can be. i will either reimburse you for your property or i'll send you another from richmond." we were mighty proud of dee, her reimburse sounded so grown-up and business-like, but mrs. rand seemed not one whit impressed. "how kin you git something when they ain't no more of them, and how kin you pay fer something when it is valued for its bein' so useful and so rare? i wouldn't a lef' it here if'n i hadn't 'a' thought you was all girls and had been raised proper, not to lose or break other folkses' things." "well then, mrs. rand, all i can say is that we are sorry, and if you will make out a receipted bill for the china and glass that is broken, we will pay you immediately and wish you good-morning, as we have a great deal to do on this our last day at the beach." dee's dignity was wonderful. how often i have seen her father behave in exactly that way: do all he could to keep the peace, exercise all his tact to smooth things over and, that failing, take on a dignity and a toploftical manner that would reduce the offender to pulp. "well, now, you needn't get so huffy about it! business is just business----" "exactly, so please make out the receipted bill and let us pay you what we owe you." "well, i never said i was goin' to charge you fer those few bits of broken chiny. i reckon i kin make my fifteen per cent. off my investment, anyhow," and the old woman gave her rare snaggle-toothed grin. "i'll give it to you that you is leaving my house as clean as you found it, and that's something i can't say of most tenants." "cleaner!" muttered blanche, but if mrs. rand heard, she pretended not to. dee's grande dame manner had had its effect and she now treated us with great cordiality, shaking hands and expressing a wish to see all of us again at the beach and complimenting us again and again on the neatness of the cottage. she sent messages to "that so-called paw" and was almost genial as she bade us good-bye. mary and i managed to wait until she got away before we were shaken by the inevitable storm of giggles. "all of that row about an old can-opener," gasped mary, "and after all it was a can't-opener." chapter xxii. good-bye to the beach. how we did hate to say good-bye to willoughby! when i remembered my feelings on our arrival and compared them to my feelings on departure, i could hardly believe i was the same person or that it was the same place. i no longer missed trees and grass; my eyes were accustomed to the glare; and as for the dead monotony of sand and water: i had learned to see infinite variety in the colour of the land and sea; no two days had been alike, no two hours, indeed. dum had taught me to see these shifting effects, and now land and water and sky instead of seeming as they had at first, like three hard notes that always played the same singsong tune, were turned into three majestic chords that with changing and intermingling could run the whole gamut of harmony. we had spent a perfect month with so little friction that it was not worth naming, and the friendship of the five girls was stronger than ever. it would be impossible to sleep five on a porch, with cots so close together that the covers had no room to slip between, without finding out each other's faults and virtues. dee, for instance, who was an exceptionally rapid dresser, had a habit of using more than her share of hair-pins. she always insisted that they were hers or that she had not used them, and she would not take down her hair to see. then when she finally undressed at night and plaited her thick, blue-black rope, she would be much abashed as we claimed our share of hair-pins. mary flannagan snored louder and more persistently than anyone i have ever known; she also had a habit of talking in her sleep. annie pore did take a little longer to arrange her ripe-wheat hair than was quite fair where there was only one mirror and four other girls trying to beautify themselves in front of it, but there is no telling how long any of us would have taken to prink had we been as pretty as annie. dum's fault was putting on anybody's and everybody's clothes, especially stockings, and then wild horses could not drag them off her when once she had them on. she had a habit of undressing and throwing her clothes on top of other people's. no matter where you put your clothes or how carefully you folded them, you were sure to find something of dum's on top of them in the morning. i was careless enough myself, so this did not bother me much, but it was a continual irritation to dee, who was much more orderly than dum; and poor little annie suffered greatly from this habit of dear old dum's. annie had very few clothes and she was painfully neat and careful with them, and i have seen her turn away her head to hide her emotion when she found dum's wet stockings, that she had been clamming in the day before, balled up on top of her clean shirt waist, and her muddy shoes resting fondly in the lap of her, annie's, last fresh white skirt. i know i had many faults as a room-mate, but i believe my habit of selfishly hogging the bathroom was the worst. i think people born and brought up without plumbing are always piggy about bath tubs when once they come in contact with them. i was irreverent enough to wish with all my heart that mr. pore had my grandfather's hat-tub and that bracken, my beloved home, could have water put into it with an altogether, all-over, all-at-once bath tub. one last look through all the dressing rooms and porches, to be sure that we were not leaving any valuables for the next tenants to find, a lingering glance at the quiet, peaceful living-room where we had spent so many delightful hours, and we went out of the front door as mrs. rand came in the back, pail and broom in hand, to make ready for the incoming hordes. "she won't find no use in that there kitchen fer buckets an' brooms. it's clean enough to ask any potentiate of europe to eat off'n any spot in it. the king of france himself could make no claimant of the perdition of my kitchen," and blanche's countenance began to take on the purple hue of rage. "oh, don't mind her, blanche! she just likes for a new tenant to find her busy. here come the new tenants, too! isn't it a good thing we got out so early in the morning?" sure enough, as dee spoke there loomed on the horizon a large family, coming to take possession of the cottage: a mother and father, four boys, two little girls, two young coloured maids and an old mammy carrying a baby. the last sound we heard as we hurried to catch the trolley was mrs. rand berating them for coming so early in the morning before she had time to clean up after the last tenants. "of course i know it is the fust of august, but the fust of august don't mean the fust thing in the morning. tenants is all alike, skeered to death for fear they ain't going to git all that's coming to them. i never understood when you come dickerin' for my house that you had three niggers. i ain't partial to rentin' to folks that keeps nigger help. now these last folks what jest left didn't keep but one nigger, but----" but what, we never knew, as we got out of earshot. blanche's countenance lost its purple hue as we settled ourselves on the norfolk trolley. we hoped that mrs. rand would realize that to make fifteen per cent. on an investment means one must be willing to put up with many things. the boys who had been at the camp met us in norfolk and engineered us to the pier to see annie and mary off on the james river boat, and then took tweedles and me to the station and put us on the train for richmond. at the boat sleepy shook hands with annie until i really thought the captain would have to interfere. with his face a fiery red, i heard him implore her to write to him. i don't know what she said, but i can't fancy annie in an adamant mood, and as i saw sleepy give her his card and hastily write something in a memorandum book, i have an idea she granted his request. wink's moustache was getting quite bushy, but his manner was still grand, gloomy and peculiar. he would walk by me, but would not talk to me, although i made every effort to make myself agreeable. he tugged viciously at his little moustache until i felt like telling him: "kill it, but don't worry it to death!" just before we got on the train he said to me in a cold and formal tone: "may i write to you, miss allison?" "certainly, mr. white!" "but will you answer my letters?" he looked so sad and melodramatic that i burst out laughing. "of course i will, wink! don't be so silly!" the last i saw of him he was trying seemingly to pull his poor little moustache out by the roots. chapter xxiii. until next time. zebedee met us at the station in richmond with the faithful henry ford, quite spruced up (i mean henry) with a new coat of paint, put on while the family was at the beach. brindle, dee's precious dog, was perched on the front seat with the air of injured dignity he always assumed, so dee said, when they went off to the seashore and left him behind. his damson-jam eyes were moist and sad and his breathing even more stertorous than usual. "well, you know yourself how you hate the water and how grouchy you were the last time you went with us!" said brindle's mistress, hugging the old dog and speaking to him as though in answer to the reproach in his eyes. "if you would learn to be a more agreeable traveling companion and eat fish like a respectable canine, we would never leave you. goodness knows, i miss you and long for you every minute of the day and night." brindle snorted and gurgled and licked dee's ear in token of forgiveness. "i am sure any physician would say that brindle's adenoids should be removed," commented dum from the back seat. "did you ever hear such a noise in your life as that old dog makes just simply living? every breath he draws seems to require all the force and strength he can muster." "virginia tucker, i will thank you not to be personal with brindle. his breathing shows his breeding, which is more than your conversation does. you know how easy it is to hurt his feelings," and dee looked daggers at her twin. "oh, excuse me, brindle, i was merely joking!" "you know perfectly well that brindle's one fault is that he has no sense of humour." "well, i had forgotten it for the moment.--i saved him a chocolate peppermint out of the box we bought on the train. do you think that would serve as balm to his wounded feelings?" "it might!" said dee dubiously. "brindle is very fond of chocolate peppermints, but he does hate to be guyed." it did, however, and peace was restored before zebedee finished attending to the trunks and cranking up henry. blanche's brother, "po' jo," had met her at the station, much to the relief of all of us. "i am no snob," declared zebedee, "but i'll be hanged if i was relishing the prospect of running poor, dear blanche uptown in henry ford, bedecked as she was in all that glory of second mourning." blanche's feelings were so hurt when we suggested that she should travel in the decent black skirt and plain shirtwaist bought for the wedding that we had to give in and let her return in the costume in which she had arrived. "po' jo" was quite as comfortable in figure as his sister. he was, in fact, as fat and sleek as a 'possum, and like that animal he had a perpetual grin on his coffee-coloured countenance. his portly form stretched the seams of a palm beach suit, on the left sleeve of which was stitched a large black heart in honour of his recent bereavement. brother and sister beamed on each other with family pride written all over their good-natured faces. "well, sister blanche, you is looking quite swanky, as a english gentleman at the club is contingently saying." jo was waiter at the club. "and you, brother jo, you is bearin' up wonderful an' lookin' mighty well in yo' new palm leaf suit," and she smoothed the sleeve with the black heart stitched thereon with an air of conscious pride that she could boast such a wonderful brother. we were sorry to tell blanche good-bye. she had endeared herself to all of us, and in spite of the fun we got out of her peculiarities, we were really very fond of her. she was perfectly honest and faithful, and above and beyond all that, as zebedee said, she was a born cook. she was to stay a while with jo and then go down to pay mammy susan a visit before returning to her school. i was to spend one night with the tuckers and then go back to my beloved bracken. i was reproaching myself for staying even the one night longer away from father, but zebedee had planned all kinds of things for my pleasure, and tweedles were so persistent in their entreaties that i had submitted, although i was getting very homesick for father and mammy susan, to say nothing of the dogs and peg, my old horse. lunch first! dee made all of us eat beefsteak, ordering a huge porterhouse so she could get the bone for brindle. "i know he is tired of the food at that old café," she said. "he does not look nourished to me and i intend to give him some building-up food." "why, dee, he is as fat as a pig," insisted dum. "yes, i know he is fat, but i don't like the colour of his tongue. flesh is not always an indication of health, dum tucker." "that's so," put in zebedee, "i've seen many a fat corpse, but my opinion is that brindle needs exercise. he is so lazy." after lunch as we spun up broad street, we noticed quite a crowd gathered near the marketplace. zebedee, with an eye ever open and nose ever twitching for news, slowed up his car. "nothing but a street fakir, but he must have something fine or be a very convincing talker." just then henry indulged in his little habit of stopping altogether, and zebedee had to get out and crank up. this enabled us to hear the fakir and see his wares. "this, ladies and gentlemen, is a most remarkable implement, taking the place of a whole chest of tools! this is a potato-parer! this is an apple-corer! this is a cork-screw! this is a can-opener! this is a nutmeg-grater! this is a knife-sharpener! this----" but dum leapt from the car and without any ceremony interrupted the man's stream of convincing eloquence. with every "this" he had illustrated the virtues of his wares by slicing potatoes, coring apples, opening bottles and cans, etc. "how much?" she asked excitedly. "ten cents! ten cents! eight perfect implements in one for ten cents! i am the sole agent in the united states and canada and you miss the chance of a lifetime if you do not purchase one. i am now on my way to california and will not return to virginia for many years." "give me five," demanded dum recklessly, producing her last fifty cents. the delighted and mystified salesman counted them out to her and the crowd began to buy excitedly, as though they thought that the wonderful magic implements would start on their trip to california and back by the great lakes and through canada and they might be old men and women before another chance came to own one of these rare combinations. "mrs. rand's lost treasure," gasped dee. "here's another for good measure!" and the man tossed an extra one into dum's lap as henry got up steam and moved off. "you started my sales and i won't have a one left by night at this rate." "i am going to send all of these to that hateful old mrs. rand," and dum settled herself on the cushions, her lap full of can-openers. we had told zebedee of mrs. rand's carryings-on over her precious tool and he had been vastly amused. "don't send them all," i pleaded. "take one back to gresham. it would be invaluable at boarding school to get olives out of the bottles, and to open trunks when the keys got lost. as a shoe-horn i am sure it could not be surpassed, for the apple-corer end would do for that. as for a finger-nail file, what could equal the nutmeg-grater?" so dum sent only five to mrs. rand, and one we took to boarding school with us, where it ever after played an important part in the curriculum under the pseudonym of "mrs. rand." the tuckers' apartment seemed especially crowded after the large simplicity of the living-room at willoughby. as a family they usually managed to get anything they wanted very much, and they had had some sixteen years of wanting and satisfying their desires. it was a fortunate thing that they had, one and all, innate good taste. mr. tucker had wanted pictures and prints; dum had wanted bronzes, carved curios of all sorts and casts of masterpieces; dee had a leaning towards soft persian rugs, old china and pets. the pets had some of them been mercifully overtaken by fate or i am sure we could not have squeezed into the apartment on that hot afternoon in early august. all of them had wanted books and the books wanted shelves, so wherever there wasn't anything else there were book shelves. small pictures were actually hung on the doors, as there was no wall space available, and the rugs lapped over each other on the floors. "we usually have the rugs stored for the summer, but brindle misses them so much that i wouldn't let zebedee do it this year. he loves to lie on them and i truly believe he appreciates their colour as well as their softness," and dee leaned over and patted her beloved dog, who had chosen a particularly wonderful old blue rug on which to take his after-lunch nap. "well, i only hope they won't get moths in them with your and zebedee's foolishness," sniffed dum. "oh, no, brindle promised me to catch all the moths, didn't you, brindle, old boy?" brindle, as though in answer to his mistress, looked solemnly up and snapped at some tiny-winged creature which had recklessly come too close to his powerful jaws. "look here, girls! do you realize that our vacation is more than half over? before we can turn around we will be back at gresham," i said, fearing a discussion was imminent. i had heard the subject of moths and brindle's fondness for persian rugs thoroughly threshed out before and the gloves had had to be resorted to to prove the point that brindle's comfort was more important than mere rugs. "oh, page, don't introduce such sad subjects!" exclaimed dum. "gresham is all right in its way, but i can't bear to contemplate another winter there. still, i know it is up to us to go back." "we'll be juniors, too--and juniors are always in hot water," sighed dee. "well, anyhow, we won't be beau-crazy juniors like last year's class," declared dum. "did you ever see such a lot of boy grabbers in your life?" "i can't fancy our being grabby about boys, but i tell you one thing," i laughed, "we are certainly much fonder of the male sex than we were a year ago. boys are nice and i do like 'em, and i don't care who knows it, so there!" zebedee came in from his afternoon work just then and overheard the last of my remarks. "what's all this? page confessing to a fondness for the opposite sex? you like boys, do you? well, i am glad indeed of my eternal youth. i am nothing but a boy, eh, dum," he said, tweaking his daughter's ear. "boy, indeed! you are nothing but a baby!" "well, i am a tired and hot baby and i thought i would find all of you old ladies dressed and ready to go to the country club with me for a game of tennis, a shower bath and supper afterwards on the terrace." "ready in a minute!" we chorused, and so we were. richmond was looking singularly attractive, i thought, as we spun along franklin street, in spite of the fact that most of the houses were closed for the summer and the female inhabitants off to the seashore or springs. here and there a lone man could be seen spreading himself and his afternoon papers over his empty porch and steps, and occasionally a faithful wife was conspicuous by reason of the absence of other faithful wives. usually she bore a conscious air of virtue and an expression that plainly said: "am i not a paragon to be sticking it out with john?" the trees, however, seemed to be flourishing in the masculine element, and in many places on that most beautiful of all streets the elms met overhead, forming a dark-green arch. there was a delicious odour of freshly watered asphalt and the streets were full of automobiles, all seeming to be on pleasure bent now that the day's work was over. a few carriages were making their stately way, but very few. the occupants of the carriages were as a rule old and fat. i thought i saw cousin park garnett in one, with her cross, stupid, old pug dog on the seat by her, but we were just then engaged in placing ourselves liable to arrest by breaking the speed law, so i could not be quite sure. dum was running the car and she always seemed to court arrest and fine. "when i see a clear stretch of road in front of me i simply have to whoop her up a bit," she explained when zebedee remonstrated with her. "that's all right if you are sure you are out of sight of a cop, but i have no idea of going your bail if you are hailed to the juvenile court for speeding. a one hundred dollar fine would just about break me right now. i don't set much store by the eleventh commandment in anything but motoring, but in this thing of running a car it is mighty important: 'don't get found out.' there's a cop now!" dum slowed up and looked very meek and ladylike as a mounted policeman approached us, touching his cap to mr. tucker in passing. "zebedee knows every policeman on the force," said dum teasingly. "there is nothing like keeping in with the law." "certainly not, if a man happens to own two such harum-scarums as i do." the country club was delightful, but they always are. when people club together to have a good out-door time and to give others a chance to do the same, a success always seems to be assured. certainly that particular club was most popular and prosperous and although we heard repeatedly that everybody was out of town, there were, to my mind, a great many left. the tennis courts were full to overflowing before the evening light became too dim to see the balls, and the golf links had so many players it resembled more a croquet ground. i had never played golf and while the tuckers all could, they did not care much for it, preferring the more strenuous game of tennis. "i'm saving up golf for that old age that they tell me is sure to come some day," sighed zebedee. "i don't really believe them." none of us did, either. how could old age claim such a boy as jeffry tucker? however, time itself was flying, and the one day and night i was to spend in richmond with my friends passed in the twinkling of an eye. before i realized it, it was really over, my vacation with the tucker twins was finished, and i was on the train for milton, a volume of alfred noyes' latest poems in my suitcase for father and a box of martha washington candy for mammy susan, who thought more of "white folkses' sto' candy" than of all the silks of the orient or jewels of the sultan of turkey. chapter xxiv. a bread-and-butter letter. milton, va., august , --. dear tuckers: how can i ever tell you what a good time i have had with you? maybe you know already by the glowing countenance i must have presented for the last month, only i can't believe it is really a month, it went flying by so fast. it took june tenants going out of mrs. rand's cottage and august tenants coming in to convince me that july was really gone, and still i don't see where it went. father met me at milton, driving the colt as usual, only the colt is getting to be quite a staid and respectable roadster. father says a country doctor's horse that can stay skittish very long is a wonder, with all of the hard driving he is forced to give him. he still shies at automobiles, but i truly believe it is nothing but jealousy. i don't think he is in the least afraid of them, but he thinks the automobile is snorting and puffing at him, and like a spirited animal, he wants to let the car know that he is perfectly ready to fight and orders coffee and pistols for two. mammy susan was pathetically glad to see me. she is very grieved, however, over the new freckles on my nose and tried to make me bind cucumber peelings on that much-abused and perfectly inoffensive member. the dough mask is too fresh in my memory, however, for me to get myself messed up with anything else. our neighbor, jo winn, was at the station and in his shy, husky voice actually had the spunk to inquire after dee. he says his cousin, mr. reginald kent, is making good in new york, and in every letter he writes he has something to say of the deer hunt and the wonderful miss tucker who shot the stag. his sister, sally winn, is at her old trick of trying to die. it is her midnight hurry calls that have tamed the colt, so father declares. bracken is looking very lovely and peaceful. some of father's old-maid cousins have just left; they were nice, soft ones, so father really enjoyed having them. next week cousin park garnett is coming for her annual visitation. i told father about judge grayson and the turkey-tail fan and he nearly died laughing. he says he is going to try reading his new book of alfred noyes to her and see what effect it will have on her. dear cousin sue lee is coming tomorrow and all of us are delighted. she is the dearest and sweetest in the world. i do hope you will all motor down to bracken while she is here. you simply must get to know one another. father is still regretting that he could not get to willoughby. i think he works too hard and he says he knows he does, but what is a doctor to do? the people will get sick and will send for him. good-bye, my dear friends! i would feel depressed that our wonderful vacation together is over, if i did not have the future to look forward to and know that i will soon be back at school with the tucker twins! your best friend, page allison. chapter xxv. bracken in august. it was good to be home and how easily i slipped back into being a child again! i could hardly believe i had been so grown-up for a month, going to hops and having a proposal and what not. i spent a great deal of my time driving around with father, who was very pleased to have me. sometimes we squeezed cousin sue lee into the narrow-seated buggy and then we would have a jolly time. cousin sue seemed younger even than the year before. it was incredible that she should be nearly fifty. it was not that she looked so young, as her hair was turning quite gray, but she was so young in her attitude towards life. we had to have our annual confab on the subject of clothes, and a catalogue from the mail order house was soon the chief in interest of all our literature. "i can't think what i would have done last year if you had not taken hold for me, cousin sue. my clothes were so satisfactory." i told her of poor annie pore and at her suggestion sent my little english friend a catalogue with things marked that i was going to order. my order was almost a duplicate of the year before except that i did not need quite so many things, as i had a goodly number of middies left over and some shirt waists. miss pinky davis, our country sempstress, was sent for, and again cousin sue spent hours planning how best to cut up and trim the bolts of nainsook she had ordered from richmond. she laughed at my awkwardness with a needle and declared i did regular "nigger sewing." i tried to whip lace, but no matter how clean my hands were when i started, i ended with a dirty knotted thread and the lace went on in little bunches with plain, tightly drawn spaces intervening. "i declare, child, i don't believe jimmy allison himself could have done it any worse," she said, looking at my attempt to whip lace on a petticoat. cousin sue always called father, jimmy. "how do you get it so grubby?" "it gets itself! i don't get it!" i exclaimed. "i washed my hands with lye soap so as to be sure they were clean, but they just seem to ooze dirt when i begin to sew." "well, in the first place you are sewing with a needle as big as a tenpenny nail and who ever heard of whipping on lace with thirty-six thread?" and my dear cousin patiently threaded me a finer needle with the proper thread and started me again. "go from left to right, honey, you are not a chinaman." "no, you are a zulu, my dear, and should go clothed as such," said father, coming in to view our operations. "i believe even you could string beads for your summer costume and cut a hole in a blanket for winter." "well, i do hate to sew so, no wonder i can't do it. i want the clothes but i don't want them bad enough to make 'em myself." "the time will come when you will like to sew," said miss pinky, her mouth full of pins. "that sounds terribly sad," laughed father. "what is going to make her like it, miss pinky?" "oh, the time will come when she will find it soothing to sew." miss pinky snipped away with a great pair of sharp shears as nonchalantly as though she were cutting newspapers instead of very sheer organdy for another white dress that cousin sue had decided i must have. i never could see how she could tell where the scissors were going to cut next, they were so big and she was so little. miss pinky always reminded me of a paper doll, somehow. she seemed to have no thickness at all to her. her profile was like a bas-relief and rather low relief at that. i remember when i was quite a little girl i examined her dress very carefully to see if it could be fastened on the shoulders in the manner of my paper dolls, with little folded-over flaps. "maybe it will, but it is certainly not soothing now. it makes me want to scream." "don't do it! just put up that flimsy foolishness and come drive over to milton with me. i think i'll drop in on poor sally winn before supper and maybe she will get through the night without me. we can call for the mail, too, and beat r. f. d. to it." the rural free delivery is a great institution in the country where persons cannot go for the mail, but sometimes it was a great irritation to us. our mail was taken from the post office very early in the morning and did not reach us until quite late in the afternoon, the carrier circling all around the county before he landed at our box. "come on, sue, you can squeeze in and we can have a jolly drive." we found sally winn up and very busy. as she had been snatched from a yawning grave only two nights before, we were rather astonished. "comp'ny's coming and i had to get up and put things to rights. i've stirred up a cake and set some sally lunn for supper, and while i was up i thought i had better preserve those peaches on the tree by the dairy before they got too ripe. they make the best tasting preserves of any peaches i ever saw. i am certainly going to fix a jar for you, doctor. don't let me forget it. i've got two of aunt keziah's children, she is raising, here helping me, but they are not much good for anything but just to run to the spring and wring the frying size chickens' necks." in writing i am perforce compelled to use a few periods, but not so sally. she poured forth this flow of conversation with never a pause for breath or reply. "the company that's coming is reginald kent, son of my first cousin once removed. he is a great hand at eating and made so much fuss over my cooking that it seemed like an awful pity for me to lay up in bed when he was here, although it may be the death of me to be up and doing and no doubt will bring on one of my spells." "if it does," broke in my wily parent, "take a teaspoonful of that pink medicine out of the low flat bottle and repeat in half an hour. be sure you do not take more than a teaspoonful and be very careful to have half an hour between doses." father told us afterwards that there was nothing in the pink medicine in the flat bottle but a most harmless and attenuated mixture of bromide, but he warned her to take the exact dose and wait the full half hour to make her feel it was a potent medicine that she must handle with great care so she would think it would make her well. there was nothing much the matter with sally winn but imagination; but imagination is sometimes more powerful than the most potent drugs, and sally was just as sick as she thought she was, so father said. he was wonderfully patient with her and treated her ailments as seriously as though they really existed. she had a leaky heart but there was a chance of her outliving her whole generation. of course there was also a chance of her being taken away at any time, but father considered the chance quite small as she seemed to be growing better as time went on instead of worse. "reginald kent is hoping that those tuckers will be back here when he comes on this visit, though he doesn't exactly say so. he just intimates it by asking if the allisons have any visitors. he is a mighty likely young fellow and is getting on fine with his work. he really is coming down here on business in a way. he wants to get some illustrations of some of these views around here. he says he wants aunt keziah's cabin and some of the little darkeys, and he wants an inside view of old aunt rosana's and uncle peter's house." here father stopped her long enough to say that he would go over to milton for the mail and come back for cousin sue and me. we had not got in a word edgewise, but i never tried to when sally once started. i should think that anyone who saw as few persons as she did would want to listen and find out things instead of imparting knowledge, but sally just seemed to be full to overflowing and she simply had to let off steam before she could take on anything more. she wanted to know but she wanted more to let you know. she told us all she could about reginald kent, which was on the whole rather interesting. then she began on her turkeys and chickens and enlarged somewhat on the subject of jo and his irritating way of keeping news to himself, and then with a bound she leapt upon her symptoms. i knew it was coming and bowed my head in resignation. "it looks like if i get to studying about things that one of my spells is sure to follow. now i have been thinking a lot lately about reginald kent's mother, my first cousin once removed, and the more i think of her the more i get to brooding. if you would believe me, in the night i got to trembling so that i could have sworn there was an earthquake going through the county. my bed fairly rocked. i had to call jo. he gave me a dose of my pink medicine and it ca'med me some. each time i get one of those attacks i hope it means the end, but somehow i always come back." "but, sally, why do you hope it is the end?" i asked. "i don't see why you want to die. it would be very hard on jo if you should leave him." "why, child, dying is one of the things i have always wanted to do. i somehow feel that in the other life i'm going to be so happy. i dream i am dead sometimes and, do you know, i am always real pretty and have curly hair in that dream and lots of young folks around me who seem somehow to belong to me." poor sally! i felt very sorry for her and so did cousin sue, whom i saw wiping a furtive tear away. i fancy sally's life had been a very stale, flat and unprofitable one and she had formed the habit of looking upon death as at least a change, an adventure where she would be the heroine for once. i determined to come to see her oftener and try to bring some young life into her middle-aged existence. father brought us quite a bunch of mail. in it was a letter from dee telling the good news that they were going to motor down to bracken on friday, the very next day, and stay over sunday with us. "now you will know them and they will know you," i exclaimed, hugging cousin sue. "i am going to bring them over to see you, too," i promised sally, noting her wistful expression. silent jo winn, who had come back from the station with father, grinned with delight when he heard that the tuckers were coming. i remembered on our memorable deer hunt of the winter before how dee had won his shy heart and had actually made him talk just like other folks. "i tell you what let's do," he ventured. "this young cousin of ours, reginald kent, is to be here to-night and he has to go over to uncle peter's cabin to take some pictures. what's the reason we couldn't all go on a picnic? we might fish in the river near uncle peter's, where miss dum tucker shot her deer." "splendid!" from cousin sue and me. cousin sue was always in for a picnic. sally winn gasped and clutched her heart until i thought we'd have to run for her pink medicine; but she pulled herself together. it was nothing but astonishment at the long speech from jo. jo actually stringing words together and getting up a picnic! it was too much for sally, but she rose to the occasion with plans for a big lunch. "i've a ham all cooked--and some blue dominicker chickens that have just reached the frying size--i'll make some fried pies--and some light rolls--some columbus eggs would eat good--and my pear pickle can't be beat, and a stem to every one so you can eat it without messing yourself up----" "i have some news that is not quite so entrancing as yours, my dear," said father, interrupting sally's flow of eatables as he read from a fat, crested, vellum letter. "cousin park garnett will be with us to-morrow, also." "but she said monday next, in her last letter!" "she has changed her mind. she arrives on the afternoon train and will bring her pug with her." "pug!" "yes, it seems the pug is the reason for her coming sooner. the doctor thinks he needs a change of air." "heavens! and dee is bringing brindle, too!" "well, they'll have to fight it out." "but, father," i wailed, "can we go on and have the picnic?" "yes, my dear," broke in cousin sue. "i'll stay with cousin park." "indeed you won't!" declared father. "cousin park can be invited to go to the picnic, which of course she will not do. she can just stay at home with mammy susan to wait on her and miss pinky davis to listen to her, while the pug dog breathes in great chunks of change of air. i have some business to attend to over in the neck of the woods near uncle peter's, so i can land at the ford for dinner with you." father was a great comfort to me. he always took such a sane view of subjects. i was very uneasy for fear he might think we would have to stay at home because of cousin park, as he was very strict with himself and me, too, where hospitality to disagreeable relatives was concerned. cousin park, however, could be perfectly well taken care of at bracken without us and there was no reason why we could not go on with our plans; certainly no reason why dear little cousin sue should have to forego the pleasure of the picnic to stay with a person who never lost an occasion to mention her lee nose and her spinsterhood. chapter xxvi. the picnic. the tuckers arrived right on the dot with cousin park. i had hoped they would get in first, but henry ford had a blow out and they had to stop for repairs. we always had to send for cousin park in a great old sea-going rockaway that was never pulled out of the carriage house except on state occasions. father and i hated to ride in it as it always reminded us of funerals and cousin park. it was a low swung vehicle with high, broad mud guards and a peculiar swaying motion that was apt either to put you to sleep or make you very seasick, if you were inclined that way. it took two large strong plow horses to propel it. i don't know where father got it but i do know that he had always had it. i believe there are no more built like it but its counterpart may be seen in museums. i used to play dolls in it when i was a kid, and on rare hilarious occasions when i had a companion we would get up great games of jesse james and dick turpin and other noted highwaymen who would stop the coach and rob all the dolls. cousin park came riding up in state, her ugly, cross old pug placed between her and cousin sue, who had most generously offered to go to milton to meet our august relative so i could be at home to receive the tuckers. as the rockaway made its ponderous way down the drive, the plow horses foaming painfully after their twelve-mile pull, six to milton and six back, i spied henry ford, in a swirling cloud of dust, turn into the avenue, and in a trice he was whizzing up behind the old sea-going rockaway. pug wrinkled his fat neck and whimpered when he saw brindle, who occupied the back seat with dee; cousin park gave an audible snort. brindle paid no attention at all to pug but sat like a bulldog done in bronze and for the time being even refrained from snuffling. i dreaded the meeting between my dear friends, the tuckers, and cousin park, knowing that lady's overbearing manner when things did not go to suit her. but i really had not fathomed the depth of zebedee's mixing powers. i remembered what dee had said about his being able to make crabs and ice cream agree if he set his mind to it. all the tuckers looked rather aghast as they drew up near the rockaway from which cousin park was emerging, pug clasped in her arms. they composed their countenances quickly, however, at least dee and zebedee did; dum was never able to pull her social self together quite so quickly as her father and sister. zebedee shut off his engine and in a moment was assisting my dignified relative with her many traveling necessities: small pillows of various sizes and shapes, designed to ease different portions of one's anatomy on trains and in carriages (she carried four of them); several silk bags bulging with mysterious contents; a black sunshade; her turkey-tail fan; pug and a box of dog biscuit. zebedee got them all safely into the house, even taking pug tenderly in his arms, much to the astonishment of that dull-witted canine. he assured cousin park that brindle would not hurt pug, provided pug did not try to get too intimate with him and bore him. "we can count on brindle up to a certain point, but if he gets very bored he is apt to be cross," another human attribute my dear tuckers gave their pet. cousin park rather bridled at the idea of her precious dog's boring anything, but zebedee's manner was so deferential and his solicitude so apparent that mortal woman could not have withstood him. cousin sue and the tuckers took to one another from the beginning. i had thought they would, but sometimes the friends that you expect to like one another are the very ones that act "dr. fell" and develop a strange and unreasoning dislike. the picnic was under discussion and was approved of unanimously. i thought dum blushed a little when i announced that mr. reginald kent was back in the county. she undoubtedly had a soft spot in her girl's heart for the good looking young illustrator who had been so enamoured of her the winter before. one thing occurred to mar our pleasant anticipations: cousin park, instead of declining the invitation to go on the picnic, which father and i pressed upon her, expecting of course that she would refuse, accepted with alacrity, announcing that the piney air would be good for pug. we told her the road was impossible for the rockaway and that she would have to go in a spring wagon; but that made no difference, go she would and go she did, four little cushions, bulging silk bags, purple and black knitting, pug and package of dog biscuit, turkey-tail fan and all. we made an early start to avoid the heat of the august day. mammy susan had packed a hamper with every conceivable good thing the countryside afforded, and the floor of the spring wagon was filled with watermelons, the pride of my dear father's heart. next to his library, father loved his watermelon patch. my earliest remembrance is watermelon seed spread out on letter paper to dry, with a description of that particular melon written on the paper. every good melon must have some seed saved from it for the purpose of reproducing the species. "very rich in colour with black seeds and thin rind. sweet and juicy," would be one; then another: "small, round, dark green,--meat pale in colour but mealy and very delicious;" another: "large, striped rattlesnake variety,--good if allowed to ripen, but great favourite with niggers." on that hot day in august small round ones rubbed noses with large rattlesnake varieties and the rich red ones with thin rinds and black seeds jostled each other in the bottom of the wagon as we bumped over the none too smooth roads that our country boasted. cousin park required a whole back seat for herself and pug and her many belongings. zebedee drove with cousin sue lee and brindle on the front seat with him, and we three girls sat in the back with the tail gate down and our legs a-dangling. it was thoroughly selfish of cousin park to allow us to do it but we enjoyed it hugely. father had many morning calls to make but was to land at the ford for dinner. jo winn was waiting at the cross roads in his knock-about, his favourite setter between his knees and his handsome cousin by his side. mr. kent could hardly wait for the vehicle to stop to jump out and speak to us. again he seemed to think we needed masculine protection so dee changed places with him and joined the grinning and delighted jo, and the young advertising artist squeezed in between dum and me. a jolly ride we had in spite of the many bumps in the road and the fact that at every bump the watermelons would roll against our backs. cousin park sat in solemn silence, but zebedee and cousin sue kept up a lively conversation on the front seat and we three with our legs a-dangling never paused a moment in our lively chatter. i think cousin park regretted many times that she had not decided to spend the day quietly at bracken with miss pinky davis for company and mammy susan to wait on her. we had not let her come without informing her of the bad roads and the long drive to uncle peter's cabin and then the rough walk to the ford, but nothing would keep her from coming and now she was making the best of it. she emitted an occasional groan but never a word of complaint, which was quite fine of her in a way. we found uncle peter hoeing his tobacco but glad of an excuse to stop. aunt rosana was as fat as ever and her cabin just as clean. she was overjoyed to see us and flattered beyond measure when mr. kent told her he had come all the way back from new york just to get another picture of the inside of her house. this time he wanted to make a drawing, not being satisfied with the time exposure he had taken before. of course he could not possibly find his way to the ford alone, so the wily youth persuaded dum to wait with him while he made his sketch. she seemed nothing loath and even made a sketch herself. "lawsamussy, rosana! come look at dese here watermillions docallison done sent to de pickanigger!" exclaimed uncle peter, his eyes rolling in delight. aunt rosana waddled out. "great gawd! they mus' be one apiece." "so they are, aunt rosana, and you must have one left here for you so you can have your share. which kind do you like best?" i asked. "well, all watermillions is good but some is scrumptious, and i low i'll take a chanct on one er dem striped rattlers. if it do prove to be scrumptious they will be so much er it. i is jes' lak a lil' pig wif a million--whin he'll eat a whole bucket er slop an' thin git in de bucket. i eats all they is an' thin jes' fair wallows in de rime." "i can't raise no millions, it looks like," said uncle peter sadly. "dem dere swamp niggers comes an' gathers 'em whin dey's no bigger 'n cowcumbers." he reached into the back of the wagon and thumped every melon with his horny forefinger, a smile of extreme satisfaction lighting his kindly features. "i tell yer, docallison ain't a gwine ter hab no millions on his plantation pulled green. he knows de music ub a ripe un 'bout as well as he reckernizes de soun' ub pneumony in a sick man's chist. whin i comes to think ub it they is similar sounds. i'll be boun' docallison done got up hisself an' pulled dese here millions wif de dew on 'em. dey's still cold in spite of the heat dey done been in." that was so. father always pulled the watermelons himself and always did it very early in the morning when the dew was still on them. we started on our walk to the ford, the same walk we had taken the winter before on our memorable deer hunt. uncle peter loaded the melons into his wheelbarrow and zebedee and jo winn swung the baskets on a stout pole which they carried between them. cousin park got between dee and me and taking an arm of each proceeded on her ponderous way. i would gladly have wheeled the watermelons or carried the hampers. it would have been child's play beside the load we carried. pug and brindle trotted along, brindle still ignoring the existence of pug and pug whimpering every time he caught brindle's eye. jo's setter kept well in advance and pretended he was none of us. "why do we go so far? why not sit down right here and have our repast?" panted poor cousin park. "but we are to fish at the river," suggested cousin sue, who was laden with cousin park's many cushions and bags and the knitting and dog biscuit. "and there is such a fine spring there, too," i said, and added, knowing cousin park's weakness: "we can't make the coffee unless we get near a spring." and so we trudged on, zebedee and uncle peter taking down the worm fences to let cousin park and the watermelons through, and then patiently building them up again. there was the deep cathedral peace in the pine woods and our presence seemed almost a sacrilege as we tramped heavily over the soft bed of fragrant pine needles. cousin park had to sit down and rest every now and then and it took the combined effort of all the males, white and coloured, to get her on her feet after one of these pauses. at last we reached our camping ground. the kindly and resourceful zebedee made a bed for my august relative of pine boughs and with the help of the different sized and shaped pillows she was quite comfortable. with her various bags distributed around her and her knitting and her stupid pug by her side she went off into a deep sleep, much to the relief and delight of all of us. "now we can be ourselves!" exclaimed zebedee, turning handsprings like a boy; and cousin sue and dee and i caught hold of hands and ran to the spring which sparkled and gurgled in a beautiful stone grotto at the foot of the hill near the river ford. uncle peter put all the melons into the little branch flowing from the spring and there they cooled to a queen's taste. we made the camp fire and prepared the coffee well away from cousin park and we devoutly hoped that she would sweetly sleep until her favourite beverage was ready. what a good time we did have that day! we fished in the river, and while our catch was nothing to be proud of, we had fun all the same. dee caught a catfish that pulled and tugged at her line like a veritable whale. she finally landed it with a shriek that made cousin park stir uneasily from her bed of pine boughs and brought on herself, dee, a good shaking from zebedee. "wake her up, and i declare you will have to entertain her! it's your turn, anyhow." i caught what uncle peter called "a mud turkle." we threw him back into his delectable mud and he went in with a grateful "kerchunk," sending back many bubbles of appreciation. "almost as good at making bubbles as a young lady i know," said zebedee, re-baiting my hook for me. enough small river perch were caught to make a little mess which uncle peter cleaned with great skill and fried on our camp fire. dum and her cavalier, having finished the sketching, joined us with such a racket that cousin park really waked up and confessed herself much refreshed when she detected the odour of coffee in the air. she was much more of a sport than i had expected to find her and not such a bad picnicker after all. father got there in time to sit down to as good a dinner as was served in all the land on that hot day in august, i am sure. sally winn had put on the big pot and the little, and mammy susan had out-susaned herself. we had no forks for our fried fish, but the person who can't eat a fried fish without a fork deserves to go fishless. cousin park drank so much strong coffee that she was really boozy and actually flirted with zebedee. the watermelons were--well, there are no words to describe those melons. watermelons are like sunsets--no words can picture them. you have to be on the spot with both wonders to appreciate them. father's pockets were bulging with seeds, saved for next year's planting. uncle peter, who sat over behind a pine tree having his dinner, declared himself "fittin' fur to bust!" all of us had reached our limit of endurance and when the food was all disposed of decided we should either have to go on a long walk or drop to sleep. cousin park again sought her pine bough couch where she sat in state, dozing and knitting on her ugly black and purple shawl. uncle peter acted as body guard to her while all the rest of us went on a long tramp on the other side of the river. we came back feeling fine and no longer full to "stuffifaction," as poor dear blanche used to say. zebedee held up two fingers, the sign all the world over among boys that a swim would be in order. father responded with a boyish laugh and all the men trooped off to a swimming hole that jo knew of a little way down the river. we could hear their shouts of laughter and a great splashing. they were hardly out of sight when we were out of our shoes and stockings and in wading, cousin sue as eager as any of us. how good it felt! i'd rather wiggle my toes in a clear brown stream with a sandy bottom than do anything in the world. we took bits of bark and slender twigs and scraps of stray paper and sailed them down the swift-flowing water, watching to see which reached the tiny eddying rapids first and cheering the winners. then at dee's suggestion we picked up little pieces of wood and named them _volunteer_, _valiant_, _vixen_, and _valkyrie_ and held an exciting cup race. we dabbled our hands in the cool water. we splashed and sang. we romped and ran. you know what we did and what fun we had if you ever spent part of an august day in such a lovely spot. but bye and bye we heard laughter again and voices, and we knew the men were coming back. so we scrambled out of the stream, dried our feet on the sunny bank and popped them again into demure and proper coverings. we sighed a little that it was over--that glorious bit of freedom--but argued that it must stop sometime. and that reminds me: this book, too, must stop, and it might as well be now, although the picnic story is not quite ended. i had thought of telling how uncle peter took cousin park back to the spring wagon in his wheelbarrow, and something of the wonderful drive home with the crescent moon shining in the glow of the sunset. how father drove cousin sue in his buggy and i sat on the front seat with zebedee,--but i must stop. i wonder,--shall i meet you all again when i am "back at school with the tucker twins?" * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. varied hyphenation was retained. this includes words such as cork-screw and corkscrew; football and foot-ball. this text spells the more usual "monticello" as "montecello." table of contents, chapter viii actually begins on page instead of the that the original prints. this was changed. page , "dun" changed to "dum" (come!" wailed dum) page , "dinnor" changed to "dinner" (for yesterday's dinner) page , "po'" changed to "po'" ("po' jo," had met her) getting married preface to "getting married" by bernard shaw transcriber's note -- the edition from which this play was taken was printed without most contractions, such as dont for don't and so forth. these have been left as printed in the original text. also, abbreviated honorifics have no trailing period, and the word show is spelt shew. preface to getting married the revolt against marriage there is no subject on which more dangerous nonsense is talked and thought than marriage. if the mischief stopped at talking and thinking it would be bad enough; but it goes further, into disastrous anarchical action. because our marriage law is inhuman and unreasonable to the point of downright abomination, the bolder and more rebellious spirits form illicit unions, defiantly sending cards round to their friends announcing what they have done. young women come to me and ask me whether i think they ought to consent to marry the man they have decided to live with; and they are perplexed and astonished when i, who am supposed (heaven knows why!) to have the most advanced views attainable on the subject, urge them on no account to compromize themselves without the security of an authentic wedding ring. they cite the example of george eliot, who formed an illicit union with lewes. they quote a saying attributed to nietzsche, that a married philosopher is ridiculous, though the men of their choice are not philosophers. when they finally give up the idea of reforming our marriage institutions by private enterprise and personal righteousness, and consent to be led to the registry or even to the altar, they insist on first arriving at an explicit understanding that both parties are to be perfectly free to sip every flower and change every hour, as their fancy may dictate, in spite of the legal bond. i do not observe that their unions prove less monogamic than other people's: rather the contrary, in fact; consequently, i do not know whether they make less fuss than ordinary people when either party claims the benefit of the treaty; but the existence of the treaty shews the same anarchical notion that the law can be set aside by any two private persons by the simple process of promising one another to ignore it. marriage nevertheless inevitable now most laws are, and all laws ought to be, stronger than the strongest individual. certainly the marriage law is. the only people who successfully evade it are those who actually avail themselves of its shelter by pretending to be married when they are not, and by bohemians who have no position to lose and no career to be closed. in every other case open violation of the marriage laws means either downright ruin or such inconvenience and disablement as a prudent man or woman would get married ten times over rather than face. and these disablements and inconveniences are not even the price of freedom; for, as brieux has shewn so convincingly in les hannetons, an avowedly illicit union is often found in practice to be as tyrannical and as hard to escape from as the worst legal one. we may take it then that when a joint domestic establishment, involving questions of children or property, is contemplated, marriage is in effect compulsory upon all normal people; and until the law is altered there is nothing for us but to make the best of it as it stands. even when no such establishment is desired, clandestine irregularities are negligible as an alternative to marriage. how common they are nobody knows; for in spite of the powerful protection afforded to the parties by the law of libel, and the readiness of society on various other grounds to be hoodwinked by the keeping up of the very thinnest appearances, most of them are probably never suspected. but they are neither dignified nor safe and comfortable, which at once rules them out for normal decent people. marriage remains practically inevitable; and the sooner we acknowledge this, the sooner we shall set to work to make it decent and reasonable. what does the word marriage mean however much we may all suffer through marriage, most of us think so little about it that we regard it as a fixed part of the order of nature, like gravitation. except for this error, which may be regarded as constant, we use the word with reckless looseness, meaning a dozen different things by it, and yet always assuming that to a respectable man it can have only one meaning. the pious citizen, suspecting the socialist (for example) of unmentionable things, and asking him heatedly whether he wishes to abolish marriage, is infuriated by a sense of unanswerable quibbling when the socialist asks him what particular variety of marriage he means: english civil marriage, sacramental marriage, indissoluble roman catholic marriage, marriage of divorced persons, scotch marriage, irish marriage, french, german, turkish, or south dakotan marriage. in sweden, one of the most highly civilized countries in the world, a marriage is dissolved if both parties wish it, without any question of conduct. that is what marriage means in sweden. in clapham that is what they call by the senseless name of free love. in the british empire we have unlimited kulin polygamy, muslim polygamy limited to four wives, child marriages, and, nearer home, marriages of first cousins: all of them abominations in the eyes of many worthy persons. not only may the respectable british champion of marriage mean any of these widely different institutions; sometimes he does not mean marriage at all. he means monogamy, chastity, temperance, respectability, morality, christianity, anti-socialism, and a dozen other things that have no necessary connection with marriage. he often means something that he dare not avow: ownership of the person of another human being, for instance. and he never tells the truth about his own marriage either to himself or any one else. with those individualists who in the mid-xixth century dreamt of doing away with marriage altogether on the ground that it is a private concern between the two parties with which society has nothing to do, there is now no need to deal. the vogue of "the self-regarding action" has passed; and it may be assumed without argument that unions for the purpose of establishing a family will continue to be registered and regulated by the state. such registration is marriage, and will continue to be called marriage long after the conditions of the registration have changed so much that no citizen now living would recognize them as marriage conditions at all if he revisited the earth. there is therefore no question of abolishing marriage; but there is a very pressing question of improving its conditions. i have never met anybody really in favor of maintaining marriage as it exists in england to-day. a roman catholic may obey his church by assenting verbally to the doctrine of indissoluble marriage. but nobody worth counting believes directly, frankly, and instinctively that when a person commits a murder and is put into prison for twenty years for it, the free and innocent husband or wife of that murderer should remain bound by the marriage. to put it briefly, a contract for better for worse is a contract that should not be tolerated. as a matter of fact it is not tolerated fully even by the roman catholic church; for roman catholic marriages can be dissolved, if not by the temporal courts, by the pope. indissoluble marriage is an academic figment, advocated only by celibates and by comfortably married people who imagine that if other couples are uncomfortable it must be their own fault, just as rich people are apt to imagine that if other people are poor it serves them right. there is always some means of dissolution. the conditions of dissolution may vary widely, from those on which henry viii. procured his divorce from katharine of arragon to the pleas on which american wives obtain divorces (for instance, "mental anguish" caused by the husband's neglect to cut his toenails); but there is always some point at which the theory of the inviolable better-for-worse marriage breaks down in practice. south carolina has indeed passed what is called a freak law declaring that a marriage shall not be dissolved under any circumstances; but such an absurdity will probably be repealed or amended by sheer force of circumstances before these words are in print. the only question to be considered is, what shall the conditions of the dissolution be? survivals of sex slavery if we adopt the common romantic assumption that the object of marriage is bliss, then the very strongest reason for dissolving a marriage is that it shall be disagreeable to one or other or both of the parties. if we accept the view that the object of marriage is to provide for the production and rearing of children, then childlessness should be a conclusive reason for dissolution. as neither of these causes entitles married persons to divorce it is at once clear that our marriage law is not founded on either assumption. what it is really founded on is the morality of the tenth commandment, which english women will one day succeed in obliterating from the walls of our churches by refusing to enter any building where they are publicly classed with a man's house, his ox, and his ass, as his purchased chattels. in this morality female adultery is malversation by the woman and theft by the man, whilst male adultery with an unmarried woman is not an offence at all. but though this is not only the theory of our marriage laws, but the practical morality of many of us, it is no longer an avowed morality, nor does its persistence depend on marriage; for the abolition of marriage would, other things remaining unchanged, leave women more effectually enslaved than they now are. we shall come to the question of the economic dependence of women on men later on; but at present we had better confine ourselves to the theories of marriage which we are not ashamed to acknowledge and defend, and upon which, therefore, marriage reformers will be obliged to proceed. we may, i think, dismiss from the field of practical politics the extreme sacerdotal view of marriage as a sacred and indissoluble covenant, because though reinforced by unhappy marriages as all fanaticisms are reinforced by human sacrifices, it has been reduced to a private and socially inoperative eccentricity by the introduction of civil marriage and divorce. theoretically, our civilly married couples are to a catholic as unmarried couples are: that is, they are living in open sin. practically, civilly married couples are received in society, by catholics and everyone else, precisely as sacramentally married couples are; and so are people who have divorced their wives or husbands and married again. and yet marriage is enforced by public opinion with such ferocity that the least suggestion of laxity in its support is fatal to even the highest and strongest reputations, although laxity of conduct is winked at with grinning indulgence; so that we find the austere shelley denounced as a fiend in human form, whilst nelson, who openly left his wife and formed a menage a trois with sir william and lady hamilton, was idolized. shelley might have had an illegitimate child in every county in england if he had done so frankly as a sinner. his unpardonable offence was that he attacked marriage as an institution. we feel a strange anguish of terror and hatred against him, as against one who threatens us with a mortal injury. what is the element in his proposals that produces this effect? the answer of the specialists is the one already alluded to: that the attack on marriage is an attack on property; so that shelley was something more hateful to a husband than a horse thief: to wit, a wife thief, and something more hateful to a wife than a burglar: namely, one who would steal her husband's house from over her head, and leave her destitute and nameless on the streets. now, no doubt this accounts for a good deal of anti-shelleyan prejudice: a prejudice so deeply rooted in our habits that, as i have shewn in my play, men who are bolder freethinkers than shelley himself can no more bring themselves to commit adultery than to commit any common theft, whilst women who loathe sex slavery more fiercely than mary wollstonecraft are unable to face the insecurity and discredit of the vagabondage which is the masterless woman's only alternative to celibacy. but in spite of all this there is a revolt against marriage which has spread so rapidly within my recollection that though we all still assume the existence of a huge and dangerous majority which regards the least hint of scepticism as to the beauty and holiness of marriage as infamous and abhorrent, i sometimes wonder why it is so difficult to find an authentic living member of this dreaded army of convention outside the ranks of the people who never think about public questions at all, and who, for all their numerical weight and apparently invincible prejudices, accept social changes to-day as tamely as their forefathers accepted the reformation under henry and edward, the restoration under mary, and, after mary's death, the shandygaff which elizabeth compounded from both doctrines and called the articles of the church of england. if matters were left to these simple folk, there would never be any changes at all; and society would perish like a snake that could not cast its skins. nevertheless the snake does change its skin in spite of them; and there are signs that our marriage-law skin is causing discomfort to thoughtful people and will presently be cast whether the others are satisfied with it or not. the question therefore arises: what is there in marriage that makes the thoughtful people so uncomfortable? a new attack on marriage the answer to this question is an answer which everybody knows and nobody likes to give. what is driving our ministers of religion and statesmen to blurt it out at last is the plain fact that marriage is now beginning to depopulate the country with such alarming rapidity that we are forced to throw aside our modesty like people who, awakened by an alarm of fire, rush into the streets in their nightdresses or in no dresses at all. the fictitious free lover, who was supposed to attack marriage because it thwarted his inordinate affections and prevented him from making life a carnival, has vanished and given place to the very real, very strong, very austere avenger of outraged decency who declares that the licentiousness of marriage, now that it no longer recruits the race, is destroying it. as usual, this change of front has not yet been noticed by our newspaper controversialists and by the suburban season-ticket holders whose minds the newspapers make. they still defend the citadel on the side on which nobody is attacking it, and leave its weakest front undefended. the religious revolt against marriage is a very old one. christianity began with a fierce attack on marriage; and to this day the celibacy of the roman catholic priesthood is a standing protest against its compatibility with the higher life. st. paul's reluctant sanction of marriage; his personal protest that he countenanced it of necessity and against his own conviction; his contemptuous "better to marry than to burn" is only out of date in respect of his belief that the end of the world was at hand and that there was therefore no longer any population question. his instinctive recoil from its worst aspect as a slavery to pleasure which induces two people to accept slavery to one another has remained an active force in the world to this day, and is now stirring more uneasily than ever. we have more and more pauline celibates whose objection to marriage is the intolerable indignity of being supposed to desire or live the married life as ordinarily conceived. every thoughtful and observant minister of religion is troubled by the determination of his flock to regard marriage as a sanctuary for pleasure, seeing as he does that the known libertines of his parish are visibly suffering much less from intemperance than many of the married people who stigmatize them as monsters of vice. a forgotten conference of married men the late hugh price hughes, an eminent methodist divine, once organized in london a conference of respectable men to consider the subject. nothing came of it (nor indeed could have come of it in the absence of women); but it had its value as giving the young sociologists present, of whom i was one, an authentic notion of what a picked audience of respectable men understood by married life. it was certainly a staggering revelation. peter the great would have been shocked; byron would have been horrified; don juan would have fled from the conference into a monastery. the respectable men all regarded the marriage ceremony as a rite which absolved them from the laws of health and temperance; inaugurated a life-long honeymoon; and placed their pleasures on exactly the same footing as their prayers. it seemed entirely proper and natural to them that out of every twenty-four hours of their lives they should pass eight shut up in one room with their wives alone, and this, not birdlike, for the mating season, but all the year round and every year. how they settled even such minor questions as to which party should decide whether and how much the window should be open and how many blankets should be on the bed, and at what hour they should go to bed and get up so as to avoid disturbing one another's sleep, seemed insoluble questions to me. but the members of the conference did not seem to mind. they were content to have the whole national housing problem treated on a basis of one room for two people. that was the essence of marriage for them. please remember, too, that there was nothing in their circumstances to check intemperance. they were men of business: that is, men for the most part engaged in routine work which exercized neither their minds nor their bodies to the full pitch of their capacities. compared with statesmen, first-rate professional men, artists, and even with laborers and artisans as far as muscular exertion goes, they were underworked, and could spare the fine edge of their faculties and the last few inches of their chests without being any the less fit for their daily routine. if i had adopted their habits, a startling deterioration would have appeared in my writing before the end of a fortnight, and frightened me back to what they would have considered an impossible asceticism. but they paid no penalty of which they were conscious. they had as much health as they wanted: that is, they did not feel the need of a doctor. they enjoyed their smokes, their meals, their respectable clothes, their affectionate games with their children, their prospects of larger profits or higher salaries, their saturday half holidays and sunday walks, and the rest of it. they did less than two hours work a day and took from seven to nine office hours to do it in. and they were no good for any mortal purpose except to go on doing it. they were respectable only by the standard they themselves had set. considered seriously as electors governing an empire through their votes, and choosing and maintaining its religious and moral institutions by their powers of social persecution, they were a black-coated army of calamity. they were incapable of comprehending the industries they were engaged in, the laws under which they lived, or the relation of their country to other countries. they lived the lives of old men contentedly. they were timidly conservative at the age at which every healthy human being ought to be obstreperously revolutionary. and their wives went through the routine of the kitchen, nursery, and drawing-room just as they went through the routine of the office. they had all, as they called it, settled down, like balloons that had lost their lifting margin of gas; and it was evident that the process of settling down would go on until they settled into their graves. they read old-fashioned newspapers with effort, and were just taking with avidity to a new sort of paper, costing a halfpenny, which they believed to be extraordinarily bright and attractive, and which never really succeeded until it became extremely dull, discarding all serious news and replacing it by vapid tittle-tattle, and substituting for political articles informed by at least some pretence of knowledge of economics, history, and constitutional law, such paltry follies and sentimentalities, snobberies and partisaneries, as ignorance can understand and irresponsibility relish. what they called patriotism was a conviction that because they were born in tooting or camberwell, they were the natural superiors of beethoven, of rodin, of ibsen, of tolstoy and all other benighted foreigners. those of them who did not think it wrong to go to the theatre liked above everything a play in which the hero was called dick; was continually fingering a briar pipe; and, after being overwhelmed with admiration and affection through three acts, was finally rewarded with the legal possession of a pretty heroine's person on the strength of a staggering lack of virtue. indeed their only conception of the meaning of the word virtue was abstention from stealing other men's wives or from refusing to marry their daughters. as to law, religion, ethics, and constitutional government, any counterfeit could impose on them. any atheist could pass himself off on them as a bishop, any anarchist as a judge, any despot as a whig, any sentimental socialist as a tory, any philtre-monger or witch-finder as a man of science, any phrase-maker as a statesman. those who did not believe the story of jonah and the great fish were all the readier to believe that metals can be transmuted and all diseases cured by radium, and that men can live for two hundred years by drinking sour milk. even these credulities involved too severe an intellectual effort for many of them: it was easier to grin and believe nothing. they maintained their respect for themselves by "playing the game" (that is, doing what everybody else did), and by being good judges of hats, ties, dogs, pipes, cricket, gardens, flowers, and the like. they were capable of discussing each other's solvency and respectability with some shrewdness, and could carry out quite complicated systems of paying visits and "knowing" one another. they felt a little vulgar when they spent a day at margate, and quite distinguished and travelled when they spent it at boulogne. they were, except as to their clothes, "not particular": that is, they could put up with ugly sights and sounds, unhealthy smells, and inconvenient houses, with inhuman apathy and callousness. they had, as to adults, a theory that human nature is so poor that it is useless to try to make the world any better, whilst as to children they believed that if they were only sufficiently lectured and whipped, they could be brought to a state of moral perfection such as no fanatic has ever ascribed to his deity. though they were not intentionally malicious, they practised the most appalling cruelties from mere thoughtlessness, thinking nothing of imprisoning men and women for periods up to twenty years for breaking into their houses; of treating their children as wild beasts to be tamed by a system of blows and imprisonment which they called education; and of keeping pianos in their houses, not for musical purposes, but to torment their daughters with a senseless stupidity that would have revolted an inquisitor. in short, dear reader, they were very like you and me. i could fill a hundred pages with the tale of our imbecilities and still leave much untold; but what i have set down here haphazard is enough to condemn the system that produced us. the corner stone of that system was the family and the institution of marriage as we have it to-day in england. hearth and home there is no shirking it: if marriage cannot be made to produce something better than we are, marriage will have to go, or else the nation will have to go. it is no use talking of honor, virtue, purity, and wholesome, sweet, clean, english home lives when what is meant is simply the habits i have described. the flat fact is that english home life to-day is neither honorable, virtuous, wholesome, sweet, clean, nor in any creditable way distinctively english. it is in many respects conspicuously the reverse; and the result of withdrawing children from it completely at an early age, and sending them to a public school and then to a university, does, in spite of the fact that these institutions are class warped and in some respects quite abominably corrupt, produce sociabler men. women, too, are improved by the escape from home provided by women's colleges; but as very few of them are fortunate enough to enjoy this advantage, most women are so thoroughly home-bred as to be unfit for human society. so little is expected of them that in sheridan's school for scandal we hardly notice that the heroine is a female cad, as detestable and dishonorable in her repentance as she is vulgar and silly in her naughtiness. it was left to an abnormal critic like george gissing to point out the glaring fact that in the remarkable set of life studies of xixth century women to be found in the novels of dickens, the most convincingly real ones are either vilely unamiable or comically contemptible; whilst his attempts to manufacture admirable heroines by idealizations of home-bred womanhood are not only absurd but not even pleasantly absurd: one has no patience with them. as all this is corrigible by reducing home life and domestic sentiment to something like reasonable proportions in the life of the individual, the danger of it does not lie in human nature. home life as we understand it is no more natural to us than a cage is natural to a cockatoo. its grave danger to the nation lies in its narrow views, its unnaturally sustained and spitefully jealous concupiscences, its petty tyrannies, its false social pretences, its endless grudges and squabbles, its sacrifice of the boy's future by setting him to earn money to help the family when he should be in training for his adult life (remember the boy dickens and the blacking factory), and of the girl's chances by making her a slave to sick or selfish parents, its unnatural packing into little brick boxes of little parcels of humanity of ill-assorted ages, with the old scolding or beating the young for behaving like young people, and the young hating and thwarting the old for behaving like old people, and all the other ills, mentionable and unmentionable, that arise from excessive segregation. it sets these evils up as benefits and blessings representing the highest attainable degree of honor and virtue, whilst any criticism of or revolt against them is savagely persecuted as the extremity of vice. the revolt, driven under ground and exacerbated, produces debauchery veiled by hypocrisy, an overwhelming demand for licentious theatrical entertainments which no censorship can stem, and, worst of all, a confusion of virtue with the mere morality that steals its name until the real thing is loathed because the imposture is loathsome. literary traditions spring up in which the libertine and profligate--tom jones and charles surface are the heroes, and decorous, law-abiding persons--blifil and joseph surface--are the villains and butts. people like to believe that nell gwynne has every amiable quality and the bishop's wife every odious one. poor mr. pecksniff, who is generally no worse than a humbug with a turn for pompous talking, is represented as a criminal instead of as a very typical english paterfamilias keeping a roof over the head of himself and his daughters by inducing people to pay him more for his services than they are worth. in the extreme instances of reaction against convention, female murderers get sheaves of offers of marriage; and when nature throws up that rare phenomenon, an unscrupulous libertine, his success among "well brought-up" girls is so easy, and the devotion he inspires so extravagant, that it is impossible not to see that the revolt against conventional respectability has transfigured a commonplace rascal into a sort of anarchist saviour. as to the respectable voluptuary, who joins omar khayyam clubs and vibrates to swinburne's invocation of dolores to "come down and redeem us from virtue," he is to be found in every suburb. too much of a good thing we must be reasonable in our domestic ideals. i do not think that life at a public school is altogether good for a boy any more than barrack life is altogether good for a soldier. but neither is home life altogether good. such good as it does, i should say, is due to its freedom from the very atmosphere it professes to supply. that atmosphere is usually described as an atmosphere of love; and this definition should be sufficient to put any sane person on guard against it. the people who talk and write as if the highest attainable state is that of a family stewing in love continuously from the cradle to the grave, can hardly have given five minutes serious consideration to so outrageous a proposition. they cannot have even made up their minds as to what they mean by love; for when they expatiate on their thesis they are sometimes talking about kindness, and sometimes about mere appetite. in either sense they are equally far from the realities of life. no healthy man or animal is occupied with love in any sense for more than a very small fraction indeed of the time he devotes to business and to recreations wholly unconnected with love. a wife entirely preoccupied with her affection for her husband, a mother entirely preoccupied with her affection for her children, may be all very well in a book (for people who like that kind of book); but in actual life she is a nuisance. husbands may escape from her when their business compels them to be away from home all day; but young children may be, and quite often are, killed by her cuddling and coddling and doctoring and preaching: above all, by her continuous attempts to excite precocious sentimentality, a practice as objectionable, and possibly as mischievous, as the worst tricks of the worst nursemaids. large and small families in most healthy families there is a revolt against this tendency. the exchanging of presents on birthdays and the like is barred by general consent, and the relations of the parties are placed by express treaty on an unsentimental footing. unfortunately this mitigation of family sentimentality is much more characteristic of large families than small ones. it used to be said that members of large families get on in the world; and it is certainly true that for purposes of social training a household of twenty surpasses a household of five as an oxford college surpasses an eight-roomed house in a cheap street. ten children, with the necessary adults, make a community in which an excess of sentimentality is impossible. two children make a doll's house, in which both parents and children become morbid if they keep to themselves. what is more, when large families were the fashion, they were organized as tyrannies much more than as "atmospheres of love." francis place tells us that he kept out of his father's way because his father never passed a child within his reach without striking it; and though the case was an extreme one, it was an extreme that illustrated a tendency. sir walter scott's father, when his son incautiously expressed some relish for his porridge, dashed a handful of salt into it with an instinctive sense that it was his duty as a father to prevent his son enjoying himself. ruskin's mother gratified the sensual side of her maternal passion, not by cuddling her son, but by whipping him when he fell downstairs or was slack in learning the bible off by heart; and this grotesque safety-valve for voluptuousness, mischievous as it was in many ways, had at least the advantage that the child did not enjoy it and was not debauched by it, as he would have been by transports of sentimentality. but nowadays we cannot depend on these safeguards, such as they were. we no longer have large families: all the families are too small to give the children the necessary social training. the roman father is out of fashion; and the whip and the cane are becoming discredited, not so much by the old arguments against corporal punishment (sound as these were) as by the gradual wearing away of the veil from the fact that flogging is a form of debauchery. the advocate of flogging as a punishment is now exposed to very disagreeable suspicions; and ever since rousseau rose to the effort of making a certain very ridiculous confession on the subject, there has been a growing perception that child whipping, even for the children themselves, is not always the innocent and high-minded practice it professes to be. at all events there is no getting away from the facts that families are smaller than they used to be, and that passions which formerly took effect in tyranny have been largely diverted into sentimentality. and though a little sentimentality may be a very good thing, chronic sentimentality is a horror, more dangerous, because more possible, than the erotomania which we all condemn when we are not thoughtlessly glorifying it as the ideal married state. the gospel of laodicea let us try to get at the root error of these false domestic doctrines. why was it that the late samuel butler, with a conviction that increased with his experience of life, preached the gospel of laodicea, urging people to be temperate in what they called goodness as in everything else? why is it that i, when i hear some well-meaning person exhort young people to make it a rule to do at least one kind action every day, feel very much as i should if i heard them persuade children to get drunk at least once every day? apart from the initial absurdity of accepting as permanent a state of things in which there would be in this country misery enough to supply occasion for several thousand million kind actions per annum, the effect on the character of the doers of the actions would be so appalling, that one month of any serious attempt to carry out such counsels would probably bring about more stringent legislation against actions going beyond the strict letter of the law in the way of kindness than we have now against excess in the opposite direction. there is no more dangerous mistake than the mistake of supposing that we cannot have too much of a good thing. the truth is, an immoderately good man is very much more dangerous than an immoderately bad man: that is why savonarola was burnt and john of leyden torn to pieces with red-hot pincers whilst multitudes of unredeemed rascals were being let off with clipped ears, burnt palms, a flogging, or a few years in the galleys. that is why christianity never got any grip of the world until it virtually reduced its claims on the ordinary citizen's attention to a couple of hours every seventh day, and let him alone on week-days. if the fanatics who are preoccupied day in and day out with their salvation were healthy, virtuous, and wise, the laodiceanism of the ordinary man might be regarded as a deplorable shortcoming; but, as a matter of fact, no more frightful misfortune could threaten us than a general spread of fanaticism. what people call goodness has to be kept in check just as carefully as what they call badness; for the human constitution will not stand very much of either without serious psychological mischief, ending in insanity or crime. the fact that the insanity may be privileged, as savonarola's was up to the point of wrecking the social life of florence, does not alter the case. we always hesitate to treat a dangerously good man as a lunatic because he may turn out to be a prophet in the true sense: that is, a man of exceptional sanity who is in the right when we are in the wrong. however necessary it may have been to get rid of savonarola, it was foolish to poison socrates and burn st. joan of arc. but it is none the less necessary to take a firm stand against the monstrous proposition that because certain attitudes and sentiments may be heroic and admirable at some momentous crisis, they should or can be maintained at the same pitch continuously through life. a life spent in prayer and alms giving is really as insane as a life spent in cursing and picking pockets: the effect of everybody doing it would be equally disastrous. the superstitious tolerance so long accorded to monks and nuns is inevitably giving way to a very general and very natural practice of confiscating their retreats and expelling them from their country, with the result that they come to england and ireland, where they are partly unnoticed and partly encouraged because they conduct technical schools and teach our girls softer speech and gentler manners than our comparatively ruffianly elementary teachers. but they are still full of the notion that because it is possible for men to attain the summit of mont blanc and stay there for an hour, it is possible for them to live there. children are punished and scolded for not living there; and adults take serious offence if it is not assumed that they live there. as a matter of fact, ethical strain is just as bad for us as physical strain. it is desirable that the normal pitch of conduct at which men are not conscious of being particularly virtuous, although they feel mean when they fall below it, should be raised as high as possible; but it is not desirable that they should attempt to live above this pitch any more than that they should habitually walk at the rate of five miles an hour or carry a hundredweight continually on their backs. their normal condition should be in nowise difficult or remarkable; and it is a perfectly sound instinct that leads us to mistrust the good man as much as the bad man, and to object to the clergyman who is pious extra-professionally as much as to the professional pugilist who is quarrelsome and violent in private life. we do not want good men and bad men any more than we want giants and dwarfs. what we do want is a high quality for our normal: that is, people who can be much better than what we now call respectable without self-sacrifice. conscious goodness, like conscious muscular effort, may be of use in emergencies; but for everyday national use it is negligible; and its effect on the character of the individual may easily be disastrous. for better for worse it would be hard to find any document in practical daily use in which these obvious truths seem so stupidly overlooked as they are in the marriage service. as we have seen, the stupidity is only apparent: the service was really only an honest attempt to make the best of a commercial contract of property and slavery by subjecting it to some religious restraint and elevating it by some touch of poetry. but the actual result is that when two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. and though of course nobody expects them to do anything so impossible and so unwholesome, yet the law that regulates their relations, and the public opinion that regulates that law, is actually founded on the assumption that the marriage vow is not only feasible but beautiful and holy, and that if they are false to it, they deserve no sympathy and no relief. if all married people really lived together, no doubt the mere force of facts would make an end to this inhuman nonsense in a month, if not sooner; but it is very seldom brought to that test. the typical british husband sees much less of his wife than he does of his business partner, his fellow clerk, or whoever works beside him day by day. man and wife do not as a rule, live together: they only breakfast together, dine together, and sleep in the same room. in most cases the woman knows nothing of the man's working life and he knows nothing of her working life (he calls it her home life). it is remarkable that the very people who romance most absurdly about the closeness and sacredness of the marriage tie are also those who are most convinced that the man's sphere and the woman's sphere are so entirely separate that only in their leisure moments can they ever be together. a man as intimate with his own wife as a magistrate is with his clerk, or a prime minister with the leader of the opposition, is a man in ten thousand. the majority of married couples never get to know one another at all: they only get accustomed to having the same house, the same children, and the same income, which is quite a different matter. the comparatively few men who work at home--writers, artists, and to some extent clergymen--have to effect some sort of segregation within the house or else run a heavy risk of overstraining their domestic relations. when the pair is so poor that it can afford only a single room, the strain is intolerable: violent quarrelling is the result. very few couples can live in a single-roomed tenement without exchanging blows quite frequently. in the leisured classes there is often no real family life at all. the boys are at a public school; the girls are in the schoolroom in charge of a governess; the husband is at his club or in a set which is not his wife's; and the institution of marriage enjoys the credit of a domestic peace which is hardly more intimate than the relations of prisoners in the same gaol or guests at the same garden party. taking these two cases of the single room and the unearned income as the extremes, we might perhaps locate at a guess whereabout on the scale between them any particular family stands. but it is clear enough that the one-roomed end, though its conditions enable the marriage vow to be carried out with the utmost attainable exactitude, is far less endurable in practice, and far more mischievous in its effect on the parties concerned, and through them on the community, than the other end. thus we see that the revolt against marriage is by no means only a revolt against its sordidness as a survival of sex slavery. it may even plausibly be maintained that this is precisely the part of it that works most smoothly in practice. the revolt is also against its sentimentality, its romance, its amorism, even against its enervating happiness. wanted: an immoral statesman we now see that the statesman who undertakes to deal with marriage will have to face an amazingly complicated public opinion. in fact, he will have to leave opinion as far as possible out of the question, and deal with human nature instead. for even if there could be any real public opinion in a society like ours, which is a mere mob of classes, each with its own habits and prejudices, it would be at best a jumble of superstitions and interests, taboos and hypocrisies, which could not be reconciled in any coherent enactment. it would probably proclaim passionately that it does not matter in the least what sort of children we have, or how few or how many, provided the children are legitimate. also that it does not matter in the least what sort of adults we have, provided they are married. no statesman worth the name can possibly act on these views. he is bound to prefer one healthy illegitimate child to ten rickety legitimate ones, and one energetic and capable unmarried couple to a dozen inferior apathetic husbands and wives. if it could be proved that illicit unions produce three children each and marriages only one and a half, he would be bound to encourage illicit unions and discourage and even penalize marriage. the common notion that the existing forms of marriage are not political contrivances, but sacred ethical obligations to which everything, even the very existence of the human race, must be sacrificed if necessary (and this is what the vulgar morality we mostly profess on the subject comes to) is one on which no sane government could act for a moment; and yet it influences, or is believed to influence, so many votes, that no government will touch the marriage question if it can possibly help it, even when there is a demand for the extension of marriage, as in the case of the recent long-delayed act legalizing marriage with a deceased wife's sister. when a reform in the other direction is needed (for example, an extension of divorce), not even the existence of the most unbearable hardships will induce our statesmen to move so long as the victims submit sheepishly, though when they take the remedy into their own hands an inquiry is soon begun. but what is now making some action in the matter imperative is neither the sufferings of those who are tied for life to criminals, drunkards, physically unsound and dangerous mates, and worthless and unamiable people generally, nor the immorality of the couples condemned to celibacy by separation orders which do not annul their marriages, but the fall in the birth rate. public opinion will not help us out of this difficulty: on the contrary, it will, if it be allowed, punish anybody who mentions it. when zola tried to repopulate france by writing a novel in praise of parentage, the only comment made here was that the book could not possibly be translated into english, as its subject was too improper. the limits of democracy now if england had been governed in the past by statesmen willing to be ruled by such public opinion as that, she would have been wiped off the political map long ago. the modern notion that democracy means governing a country according to the ignorance of its majorities is never more disastrous than when there is some question of sexual morals to be dealt with. the business of a democratic statesman is not, as some of us seem to think, to convince the voters that he knows no better than they as to the methods of attaining their common ends, but on the contrary to convince them that he knows much better than they do, and therefore differs from them on every possible question of method. the voter's duty is to take care that the government consists of men whom he can trust to devize or support institutions making for the common welfare. this is highly skilled work; and to be governed by people who set about it as the man in the street would set about it is to make straight for "red ruin and the breaking up of laws." voltaire said that mr everybody is wiser than anybody; and whether he is or not, it is his will that must prevail; but the will and the way are two very different things. for example, it is the will of the people on a hot day that the means of relief from the effects of the heat should be within the reach of everybody. nothing could be more innocent, more hygienic, more important to the social welfare. but the way of the people on such occasions is mostly to drink large quantities of beer, or, among the more luxurious classes, iced claret cup, lemon squashes, and the like. to take a moral illustration, the will to suppress misconduct and secure efficiency in work is general and salutary; but the notion that the best and only effective way is by complaining, scolding, punishing, and revenging is equally general. when mrs squeers opened an abscess on her pupil's head with an inky penknife, her object was entirely laudable: her heart was in the right place: a statesman interfering with her on the ground that he did not want the boy cured would have deserved impeachment for gross tyranny. but a statesman tolerating amateur surgical practice with inky penknives in school would be a very bad minister of education. it is on the question of method that your expert comes in; and though i am democrat enough to insist that he must first convince a representative body of amateurs that his way is the right way and mrs squeers's way the wrong way, yet i very strongly object to any tendency to flatter mrs squeers into the belief that her way is in the least likely to be the right way, or that any other test is to be applied to it except the test of its effect on human welfare. the science and art of politics political science means nothing else than the devizing of the best ways of fulfilling the will of the world; and, i repeat, it is skilled work. once the way is discovered, the methods laid down, and the machinery provided, the work of the statesman is done, and that of the official begins. to illustrate, there is no need for the police officer who governs the street traffic to be or to know any better than the people who obey the wave of his hand. all concerted action involves subordination and the appointment of directors at whose signal the others will act. there is no more need for them to be superior to the rest than for the keystone of an arch to be of harder stone than the coping. but when it comes to devizing the directions which are to be obeyed: that is, to making new institutions and scraping old ones, then you need aristocracy in the sense of government by the best. a military state organized so as to carry out exactly the impulses of the average soldier would not last a year. the result of trying to make the church of england reflect the notions of the average churchgoer has reduced it to a cipher except for the purposes of a petulantly irreligious social and political club. democracy as to the thing to be done may be inevitable (hence the vital need for a democracy of supermen); but democracy as to the way to do it is like letting the passengers drive the train: it can only end in collision and wreck. as a matter of act, we obtain reforms (such as they are), not by allowing the electorate to draft statutes, but by persuading it that a certain minister and his cabinet are gifted with sufficient political sagacity to find out how to produce the desired result. and the usual penalty of taking advantage of this power to reform our institutions is defeat by a vehement "swing of the pendulum" at the next election. therein lies the peril and the glory of democratic statesmanship. a statesman who confines himself to popular legislation--or, for the matter of that, a playwright who confines himself to popular plays--is like a blind man's dog who goes wherever the blind man pulls him, on the ground that both of them want to go to the same place. why statesmen shirk the marriage question the reform of marriage, then, will be a very splendid and very hazardous adventure for the prime minister who takes it in hand. he will be posted on every hoarding and denounced in every opposition paper, especially in the sporting papers, as the destroyer of the home, the family, of decency, of morality, of chastity and what not. all the commonplaces of the modern anti-socialist noodle's oration will be hurled at him. and he will have to proceed without the slightest concession to it, giving the noodles nothing but their due in the assurance "i know how to attain our ends better than you," and staking his political life on the conviction carried by that assurance, which conviction will depend a good deal on the certainty with which it is made, which again can be attained only by studying the facts of marriage and understanding the needs of the nation. and, after all, he will find that the pious commonplaces on which he and the electorate are agreed conceal an utter difference in the real ends in view: his being public, far-sighted, and impersonal, and those of multitudes of the electorate narrow, personal, jealous, and corrupt. under such circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that the mere mention of the marriage question makes a british cabinet shiver with apprehension and hastily pass on to safer business. nevertheless the reform of marriage cannot be put off for ever. when its hour comes, what are the points the cabinet will have to take up? the question of population first, it will have to make up its mind as to how many people we want in the country. if we want less than at present, we must ascertain how many less; and if we allow the reduction to be made by the continued operation of the present sterilization of marriage, we must settle how the process is to be stopped when it has gone far enough. but if we desire to maintain the population at its present figure, or to increase it, we must take immediate steps to induce people of moderate means to marry earlier and to have more children. there is less urgency in the case of the very poor and the very rich. they breed recklessly: the rich because they can afford it, and the poor because they cannot afford the precautions by which the artisans and the middle classes avoid big families. nevertheless the population declines, because the high birth rate of the very poor is counterbalanced by a huge infantile-mortality in the slums, whilst the very rich are also the very few, and are becoming sterilized by the spreading revolt of their women against excessive childbearing--sometimes against any childbearing. this last cause is important. it cannot be removed by any economic readjustment. if every family were provided with , pounds a year tomorrow, women would still refuse more and more to continue bearing children until they are exhausted whilst numbers of others are bearing no children at all. even if every woman bearing and rearing a valuable child received a handsome series of payments, thereby making motherhood a real profession as it ought to be, the number of women able or willing to give more of their lives to gestation and nursing than three or four children would cost them might not be very large if the advance in social organization and conscience indicated by such payments involved also the opening up of other means of livelihood to women. and it must be remembered that urban civilization itself, insofar as it is a method of evolution (and when it is not this, it is simply a nuisance), is a sterilizing process as far as numbers go. it is harder to keep up the supply of elephants than of sparrows and rabbits; and for the same reason it will be harder to keep up the supply of highly cultivated men and women than it now is of agricultural laborers. bees get out of this difficulty by a special system of feeding which enables a queen bee to produce , eggs a day whilst the other females lose their sex altogether and become workers supporting the males in luxury and idleness until the queen has found her mate, when the queen kills him and the quondam females kill all the rest (such at least are the accounts given by romantic naturalists of the matter). the right to motherhood this system certainly shews a much higher development of social intelligence than our marriage system; but if it were physically possible to introduce it into human society it would be wrecked by an opposite and not less important revolt of women: that is, the revolt against compulsory barrenness. in this two classes of women are concerned: those who, though they have no desire for the presence or care of children, nevertheless feel that motherhood is an experience necessary to their complete psychical development and understanding of themselves and others, and those who, though unable to find or unwilling to entertain a husband, would like to occupy themselves with the rearing of children. my own experience of discussing this question leads me to believe that the one point on which all women are in furious secret rebellion against the existing law is the saddling of the right to a child with the obligation to become the servant of a man. adoption, or the begging or buying or stealing of another woman's child, is no remedy: it does not provide the supreme experience of bearing the child. no political constitution will ever succeed or deserve to succeed unless it includes the recognition of an absolute right to sexual experience, and is untainted by the pauline or romantic view of such experience as sinful in itself. and since this experience in its fullest sense must be carried in the case of women to the point of childbearing, it can only be reconciled with the acceptance of marriage with the child's father by legalizing polygyny, because there are more adult women in the country than men. now though polygyny prevails throughout the greater part of the british empire, and is as practicable here as in india, there is a good deal to be said against it, and still more to be felt. however, let us put our feelings aside for a moment, and consider the question politically. monogamy, polygyny and polyandry the number of wives permitted to a single husband or of husbands to a single wife under a marriage system, is not an ethical problem: it depends solely on the proportion of the sexes in the population. if in consequence of a great war three-quarters of the men in this country were killed, it would be absolutely necessary to adopt the mohammedan allowance of four wives to each man in order to recruit the population. the fundamental reason for not allowing women to risk their lives in battle and for giving them the first chance of escape in all dangerous emergencies: in short, for treating their lives as more valuable than male lives, is not in the least a chivalrous reason, though men may consent to it under the illusion of chivalry. it is a simple matter of necessity; for if a large proportion of women were killed or disabled, no possible readjustment of our marriage law could avert the depopulation and consequent political ruin of the country, because a woman with several husbands bears fewer children than a woman with one, whereas a man can produce as many families as he has wives. the natural foundation of the institution of monogamy is not any inherent viciousness in polygyny or polyandry, but the hard fact that men and women are born in about equal numbers. unfortunately, we kill so many of our male children in infancy that we are left with a surplus of adult women which is sufficiently large to claim attention, and yet not large enough to enable every man to have two wives. even if it were, we should be met by an economic difficulty. a kaffir is rich in proportion to the number of his wives, because the women are the breadwinners. but in our civilization women are not paid for their social work in the bearing and rearing of children and the ordering of households; they are quartered on the wages of their husbands. at least four out of five of our men could not afford two wives unless their wages were nearly doubled. would it not then be well to try unlimited polygyny; so that the remaining fifth could have as many wives apiece as they could afford? let us see how this would work. the male revolt against polygyny experience shews that women do not object to polygyny when it is customary: on the contrary, they are its most ardent supporters. the reason is obvious. the question, as it presents itself in practice to a woman, is whether it is better to have, say, a whole share in a tenth-rate man or a tenth share in a first-rate man. substitute the word income for the word man, and you will have the question as it presents itself economically to the dependent woman. the woman whose instincts are maternal, who desires superior children more than anything else, never hesitates. she would take a thousandth share, if necessary, in a husband who was a man in a thousand, rather than have some comparatively weedy weakling all to herself. it is the comparatively weedy weakling, left mateless by polygyny, who objects. thus, it was not the women of salt lake city nor even of america who attacked mormon polygyny. it was the men. and very naturally. on the other hand, women object to polyandry, because polyandry enables the best women to monopolize all the men, just as polygyny enables the best men to monopolize all the women. that is why all our ordinary men and women are unanimous in defence of monogamy, the men because it excludes polygyny, and the women because it excludes polyandry. the women, left to themselves, would tolerate polygyny. the men, left to themselves, would tolerate polyandry. but polygyny would condemn a great many men, and polyandry a great many women, to the celibacy of neglect. hence the resistance any attempt to establish unlimited polygyny always provokes, not from the best people, but from the mediocrities and the inferiors. if we could get rid of our inferiors and screw up our average quality until mediocrity ceased to be a reproach, thus making every man reasonably eligible as a father and every woman reasonably desirable as a mother, polygyny and polyandry would immediately fall into sincere disrepute, because monogamy is so much more convenient and economical that nobody would want to share a husband or a wife if he (or she) could have a sufficiently good one all to himself (or herself). thus it appears that it is the scarcity of husbands or wives of high quality that leads woman to polygyny and men to polyandry, and that if this scarcity were cured, monogamy, in the sense of having only one husband or wife at a time (facilities for changing are another matter), would be found satisfactory. difference between oriental and occidental polygyny it may now be asked why the polygynist nations have not gravitated to monogamy, like the latter-day saints of salt lake city. the answer is not far to seek: their polygyny is limited. by the mohammedan law a man cannot marry more than four wives; and by the unwritten law of necessity no man can keep more wives than he can afford; so that a man with four wives must be quite as exceptional in asia as a man with a carriage-and-pair or a motor car is in europe, where, nevertheless we may all have as many carriages and motors as we can afford to pay for. kulin polygyny, though unlimited, is not really a popular institution: if you are a person of high caste you pay another person of very august caste indeed to make your daughter momentarily one of his sixty or seventy momentary wives for the sake of ennobling your grandchildren; but this fashion of a small and intensely snobbish class is negligible as a general precedent. in any case, men and women in the east do not marry anyone they fancy, as in england and america. women are secluded and marriages are arranged. in salt lake city the free unsecluded woman could see and meet the ablest man of the community, and tempt him to make her his tenth wife by all the arts peculiar to women in english-speaking countries. no eastern woman can do anything of the sort. the man alone has any initiative; but he has no access to the woman; besides, as we have seen, the difficulty created by male license is not polygyny but polyandry, which is not allowed. consequently, if we are to make polygyny a success, we must limit it. if we have two women to every one man, we must allow each man only two wives. that is simple; but unfortunately our own actual proportion is, roughly, something like / woman to man. now you cannot enact that each man shall be allowed / wives, or that each woman who cannot get a husband all to herself shall divide herself between eleven already married husbands. thus there is no way out for us through polygyny. there is no way at all out of the present system of condemning the superfluous women to barrenness, except by legitimizing the children of women who are not married to the fathers. the old maid's right to motherhood now the right to bear children without taking a husband could not be confined to women who are superfluous in the monogamic reckoning. there is the practical difficulty that although in our population there are about a million monogamically superfluous women, yet it is quite impossible to say of any given unmarried woman that she is one of the superfluous. and there is the difficulty of principle. the right to bear a child, perhaps the most sacred of all women's rights, is not one that should have any conditions attached to it except in the interests of race welfare. there are many women of admirable character, strong, capable, independent, who dislike the domestic habits of men; have no natural turn for mothering and coddling them; and find the concession of conjugal rights to any person under any conditions intolerable by their self-respect. yet the general sense of the community recognizes in these very women the fittest people to have charge of children, and trusts them, as school mistresses and matrons of institutions, more than women of any other type when it is possible to procure them for such work. why should the taking of a husband be imposed on these women as the price of their right to maternity? i am quite unable to answer that question. i see a good deal of first-rate maternal ability and sagacity spending itself on bees and poultry and village schools and cottage hospitals; and i find myself repeatedly asking myself why this valuable strain in the national breed should be sterilized. unfortunately, the very women whom we should tempt to become mothers for the good of the race are the very last people to press their services on their country in that way. plato long ago pointed out the importance of being governed by men with sufficient sense of responsibility and comprehension of public duties to be very reluctant to undertake the work of governing; and yet we have taken his instruction so little to heart that we are at present suffering acutely from government by gentlemen who will stoop to all the mean shifts of electioneering and incur all its heavy expenses for the sake of a seat in parliament. but what our sentimentalists have not yet been told is that exactly the same thing applies to maternity as to government. the best mothers are not those who are so enslaved by their primitive instincts that they will bear children no matter how hard the conditions are, but precisely those who place a very high price on their services, and are quite prepared to become old maids if the price is refused, and even to feel relieved at their escape. our democratic and matrimonial institutions may have their merits: at all events they are mostly reforms of something worse; but they put a premium on want of self-respect in certain very important matters; and the consequence is that we are very badly governed and are, on the whole, an ugly, mean, ill-bred race. ibsen's chain stitch let us not forget, however, in our sympathy for the superfluous women, that their children must have fathers as well as mothers. who are the fathers to be? all monogamists and married women will reply hastily: either bachelors or widowers; and this solution will serve as well as another; for it would be hypocritical to pretend that the difficulty is a practical one. none the less, the monogamists, after due reflection, will point out that if there are widowers enough the superfluous women are not really superfluous, and therefore there is no reason why the parties should not marry respectably like other people. and they might in that case be right if the reasons were purely numerical: that is, if every woman were willing to take a husband if one could be found for her, and every man willing to take a wife on the same terms; also, please remember, if widows would remain celibate to give the unmarried women a chance. these ifs will not work. we must recognize two classes of old maids: one, the really superfluous women, and the other, the women who refuse to accept maternity on the (to them) unbearable condition of taking a husband. from both classes may, perhaps, be subtracted for the present the large proportion of women who could not afford the extra expense of one or more children. i say "perhaps," because it is by no means sure that within reasonable limits mothers do not make a better fight for subsistence, and have not, on the whole, a better time than single women. in any case, we have two distinct cases to deal with: the superfluous and the voluntary; and it is the voluntary whose grit we are most concerned to fertilize. but here, again, we cannot put our finger on any particular case and pick out miss robinson's as superfluous, and miss wilkinson's as voluntary. whether we legitimize the child of the unmarried woman as a duty to the superfluous or as a bribe to the voluntary, the practical result must be the same: to wit, that the condition of marriage now attached to legitimate parentage will be withdrawn from all women, and fertile unions outside marriage recognized by society. now clearly the consequences would not stop there. the strong-minded ladies who are resolved to be mistresses in their own houses would not be the only ones to take advantage of the new law. even women to whom a home without a man in it would be no home at all, and who fully intended, if the man turned out to be the right one, to live with him exactly as married couples live, would, if they were possessed of independent means, have every inducement to adopt the new conditions instead of the old ones. only the women whose sole means of livelihood was wifehood would insist on marriage: hence a tendency would set in to make marriage more and more one of the customs imposed by necessity on the poor, whilst the freer form of union, regulated, no doubt, by settlements and private contracts of various kinds, would become the practice of the rich: that is, would become the fashion. at which point nothing but the achievement of economic independence by women, which is already seen clearly ahead of us, would be needed to make marriage disappear altogether, not by formal abolition, but by simple disuse. the private contract stage of this process was reached in ancient rome. the only practicable alternative to it seems to be such an extension of divorce as will reduce the risks and obligations of marriage to a degree at which they will be no worse than those of the alternatives to marriage. as we shall see, this is the solution to which all the arguments tend. meanwhile, note how much reason a statesman has to pause before meddling with an institution which, unendurable as its drawbacks are, threatens to come to pieces in all directions if a single thread of it be cut. ibsen's similitude of the machine-made chain stitch, which unravels the whole seam at the first pull when a single stitch is ripped, is very applicable to the knot of marriage. remoteness of the facts from the ideal but before we allow this to deter us from touching the sacred fabric, we must find out whether it is not already coming to pieces in all directions by the continuous strain of circumstances. no doubt, if it were all that it pretends to be, and human nature were working smoothly within its limits, there would be nothing more to be said: it would be let alone as it always is let alone during the cruder stages of civilization. but the moment we refer to the facts, we discover that the ideal matrimony and domesticity which our bigots implore us to preserve as the corner stone of our society is a figment: what we have really got is something very different, questionable at its best, and abominable at its worst. the word pure, so commonly applied to it by thoughtless people, is absurd; because if they do not mean celibate by it, they mean nothing; and if they do mean celibate, then marriage is legalized impurity, a conclusion which is offensive and inhuman. marriage as a fact is not in the least like marriage as an ideal. if it were, the sudden changes which have been made on the continent from indissoluble roman catholic marriage to marriage that can be dissolved by a box on the ear as in france, by an epithet as in germany, or simply at the wish of both parties as in sweden, not to mention the experiments made by some of the american states, would have shaken society to its foundations. yet they have produced so little effect that englishmen open their eyes in surprise when told of their existence. difficulty of obtaining evidence as to what actual marriage is, one would like evidence instead of guesses; but as all departures from the ideal are regarded as disgraceful, evidence cannot be obtained; for when the whole community is indicted, nobody will go into the witness-box for the prosecution. some guesses we can make with some confidence. for example, if it be objected to any change that our bachelors and widowers would no longer be galahads, we may without extravagance or cynicism reply that many of them are not galahads now, and that the only change would be that hypocrisy would no longer be compulsory. indeed, this can hardly be called guessing: the evidence is in the streets. but when we attempt to find out the truth about our marriages, we cannot even guess with any confidence. speaking for myself, i can say that i know the inside history of perhaps half a dozen marriages. any family solicitor knows more than this; but even a family solicitor, however large his practice, knows nothing of the million households which have no solicitors, and which nevertheless make marriage what it really is. and all he can say comes to no more than i can say: to wit, that no marriage of which i have any knowledge is in the least like the ideal marriage. i do not mean that it is worse: i mean simply that it is different. also, far from society being organized in a defence of its ideal so jealous and implacable that the least step from the straight path means exposure and ruin, it is almost impossible by any extravagance of misconduct to provoke society to relax its steady pretence of blindness, unless you do one or both of two fatal things. one is to get into the newspapers; and the other is to confess. if you confess misconduct to respectable men or women, they must either disown you or become virtually your accomplices: that is why they are so angry with you for confessing. if you get into the papers, the pretence of not knowing becomes impossible. but it is hardly too much to say that if you avoid these two perils, you can do anything you like, as far as your neighbors are concerned. and since we can hardly flatter ourselves that this is the effect of charity, it is difficult not to suspect that our extraordinary forbearance in the matter of stone throwing is that suggested in the well-known parable of the women taken in adultery which some early free-thinker slipped into the gospel of st john: namely, that we all live in glass houses. we may take it, then, that the ideal husband and the ideal wife are no more real human beings than the cherubim. possibly the great majority keeps its marriage vows in the technical divorce court sense. no husband or wife yet born keeps them or ever can keep them in the ideal sense. marriage as a magic spell the truth which people seem to overlook in this matter is that the marriage ceremony is quite useless as a magic spell for changing in an instant the nature of the relations of two human beings to one another. if a man marries a woman after three weeks acquaintance, and the day after meets a woman he has known for twenty years, he finds, sometimes to his own irrational surprise and his wife's equally irrational indignation, that his wife is a stranger to him, and the other woman an old friend. also, there is no hocus pocus that can possibly be devized with rings and veils and vows and benedictions that can fix either a man's or woman's affection for twenty minutes, much less twenty years. even the most affectionate couples must have moments during which they are far more conscious of one another's faults than of one another's attractions. there are couples who dislike one another furiously for several hours at a time; there are couples who dislike one another permanently; and there are couples who never dislike one another; but these last are people who are incapable of disliking anybody. if they do not quarrel, it is not because they are married, but because they are not quarrelsome. the people who are quarrelsome quarrel with their husbands and wives just as easily as with their servants and relatives and acquaintances: marriage makes no difference. those who talk and write and legislate as if all this could be prevented by making solemn vows that it shall not happen, are either insincere, insane, or hopelessly stupid. there is some sense in a contract to perform or abstain from actions that are reasonably within voluntary control; but such contracts are only needed to provide against the possibility of either party being no longer desirous of the specified performance or abstention. a person proposing or accepting a contract not only to do something but to like doing it would be certified as mad. yet popular superstition credits the wedding rite with the power of fixing our fancies or affections for life even under the most unnatural conditions. the impersonality of sex it is necessary to lay some stress on these points, because few realize the extent to which we proceed on the assumption that marriage is a short cut to perfect and permanent intimacy and affection. but there is a still more unworkable assumption which must be discarded before discussions of marriage can get into any sort of touch with the facts of life. that assumption is that the specific relation which marriage authorizes between the parties is the most intimate and personal of human relations, and embraces all the other high human relations. now this is violently untrue. every adult knows that the relation in question can and does exist between entire strangers, different in language, color, tastes, class, civilization, morals, religion, character: in everything, in short, except their bodily homology and the reproductive appetite common to all living organisms. even hatred, cruelty, and contempt are not incompatible with it; and jealousy and murder are as near to it as affectionate friendship. it is true that it is a relation beset with wildly extravagant illusions for inexperienced people, and that even the most experienced people have not always sufficient analytic faculty to disentangle it from the sentiments, sympathetic or abhorrent, which may spring up through the other relations which are compulsorily attached to it by our laws, or sentimentally associated with it in romance. but the fact remains that the most disastrous marriages are those founded exclusively on it, and the most successful those in which it has been least considered, and in which the decisive considerations have had nothing to do with sex, such as liking, money, congeniality of tastes, similarity of habits, suitability of class, &c., &c. it is no doubt necessary under existing circumstances for a woman without property to be sexually attractive, because she must get married to secure a livelihood; and the illusions of sexual attraction will cause the imagination of young men to endow her with every accomplishment and virtue that can make a wife a treasure. the attraction being thus constantly and ruthlessly used as a bait, both by individuals and by society, any discussion tending to strip it of its illusions and get at its real natural history is nervously discouraged. but nothing can well be more unwholesome for everybody than the exaggeration and glorification of an instinctive function which clouds the reason and upsets the judgment more than all the other instincts put together. the process may be pleasant and romantic; but the consequences are not. it would be far better for everyone, as well as far honester, if young people were taught that what they call love is an appetite which, like all other appetites, is destroyed for the moment by its gratification; that no profession, promise, or proposal made under its influence should bind anybody; and that its great natural purpose so completely transcends the personal interests of any individual or even of any ten generations of individuals that it should be held to be an act of prostitution and even a sort of blasphemy to attempt to turn it to account by exacting a personal return for its gratification, whether by process of law or not. by all means let it be the subject of contracts with society as to its consequences; but to make marriage an open trade in it as at present, with money, board and lodging, personal slavery, vows of eternal exclusive personal sentimentalities and the rest of it as the price, is neither virtuous, dignified, nor decent. no husband ever secured his domestic happiness and honor, nor has any wife ever secured hers, by relying on it. no private claims of any sort should be founded on it: the real point of honor is to take no corrupt advantage of it. when we hear of young women being led astray and the like, we find that what has led them astray is a sedulously inculcated false notion that the relation they are tempted to contract is so intensely personal, and the vows made under the influence of its transient infatuation so sacred and enduring, that only an atrociously wicked man could make light of or forget them. what is more, as the same fantastic errors are inculcated in men, and the conscientious ones therefore feel bound in honor to stand by what they have promised, one of the surest methods to obtain a husband is to practise on his susceptibilities until he is either carried away into a promise of marriage to which he can be legally held, or else into an indiscretion which he must repair by marriage on pain of having to regard himself as a scoundrel and a seducer, besides facing the utmost damage the lady's relatives can do him. such a transaction is not an entrance into a "holy state of matrimony": it is as often as not the inauguration of a lifelong squabble, a corroding grudge, that causes more misery and degradation of character than a dozen entirely natural "desertions" and "betrayals." yet the number of marriages effected more or less in this way must be enormous. when people say that love should be free, their words, taken literally, may be foolish; but they are only expressing inaccurately a very real need for the disentanglement of sexual relations from a mass of exorbitant and irrelevant conditions imposed on them on false pretences to enable needy parents to get their daughters "off their hands" and to keep those who are already married effectually enslaved by one another. the economic slavery of women one of the consequences of basing marriage on the considerations stated with cold abhorrence by saint paul in the seventh chapter of his epistle to the corinthians, as being made necessary by the unlikeness of most men to himself, is that the sex slavery involved has become complicated by economic slavery; so that whilst the man defends marriage because he is really defending his pleasures, the woman is even more vehement on the same side because she is defending her only means of livelihood. to a woman without property or marketable talent a husband is more necessary than a master to a dog. there is nothing more wounding to our sense of human dignity than the husband hunting that begins in every family when the daughters become marriageable; but it is inevitable under existing circumstances; and the parents who refuse to engage in it are bad parents, though they may be superior individuals. the cubs of a humane tigress would starve; and the daughters of women who cannot bring themselves to devote several years of their lives to the pursuit of sons-in-law often have to expatiate their mother's squeamishness by life-long celibacy and indigence. to ask a young man his intentions when you know he has no intentions, but is unable to deny that he has paid attentions; to threaten an action for breach of promise of marriage; to pretend that your daughter is a musician when she has with the greatest difficulty been coached into playing three piano-forte pieces which she loathes; to use your own mature charms to attract men to the house when your daughters have no aptitude for that department of sport; to coach them, when they have, in the arts by which men can be led to compromize themselves; and to keep all the skeletons carefully locked up in the family cupboard until the prey is duly hunted down and bagged: all this is a mother's duty today; and a very revolting duty it is: one that disposes of the conventional assumption that it is in the faithful discharge of her home duties that a woman finds her self-respect. the truth is that family life will never be decent, much less ennobling, until this central horror of the dependence of women on men is done away with. at present it reduces the difference between marriage and prostitution to the difference between trade unionism and unorganized casual labor: a huge difference, no doubt, as to order and comfort, but not a difference in kind. however, it is not by any reform of the marriage laws that this can be dealt with. it is in the general movement for the prevention of destitution that the means for making women independent of the compulsory sale of their persons, in marriage or otherwise, will be found; but meanwhile those who deal specifically with the marriage laws should never allow themselves for a moment to forget this abomination that "plucks the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and sets a blister there," and then calmly calls itself purity, home, motherhood, respectability, honor, decency, and any other fine name that happens to be convenient, not to mention the foul epithets it hurls freely at those who are ashamed of it. unpopularity of impersonal views unfortunately it is very hard to make an average citizen take impersonal views of any sort in matters affecting personal comfort or conduct. we may be enthusiastic liberals or conservatives without any hope of seats in parliament, knighthoods, or posts in the government, because party politics do not make the slightest difference in our daily lives and therefore cost us nothing. but to take a vital process in which we are keenly interested personal instruments, and ask us to regard it, and feel about it, and legislate on it, wholly as if it were an impersonal one, is to make a higher demand than most people seem capable of responding to. we all have personal interests in marriage which we are not prepared to sink. it is not only the women who want to get married: the men do too, sometimes on sentimental grounds, sometimes on the more sordid calculation that bachelor life is less comfortable and more expensive, since a wife pays for her status with domestic service as well as with the other services expected of her. now that children are avoidable, this calculation is becoming more common and conscious than it was: a result which is regarded as "a steady improvement in general morality." impersonality is not promiscuity there is, too, a really appalling prevalence of the superstition that the sexual instinct in men is utterly promiscuous, and that the least relaxation of law and custom must produce a wild outbreak of licentiousness. as far as our moralists can grasp the proposition that we should deal with the sexual relation as impersonal, it seems to them to mean that we should encourage it to be promiscuous: hence their recoil from it. but promiscuity and impersonality are not the same thing. no man ever fell in love with the entire female sex, nor any woman with the entire male sex. we often do not fall in love at all; and when we do we fall in love with one person and remain indifferent to thousands of others who pass before our eyes every day. selection, carried even to such fastidiousness as to induce people to say quite commonly that there is only one man or woman in the world for them, is the rule in nature. if anyone doubts this, let him open a shop for the sale of picture postcards, and, when an enamoured lady customer demands a portrait of her favorite actor or a gentleman of his favorite actress, try to substitute some other portrait on the ground that since the sexual instinct is promiscuous, one portrait is as pleasing as another. i suppose no shopkeeper has ever been foolish enough to do such a thing; and yet all our shopkeepers, the moment a discussion arises on marriage, will passionately argue against all reform on the ground that nothing but the most severe coercion can save their wives and daughters from quite indiscriminate rapine. domestic change of air our relief at the morality of the reassurance that man is not promiscuous in his fancies must not blind us to the fact that he is (to use the word coined by certain american writers to describe themselves) something of a varietist. even those who say there is only one man or woman in the world for them, find that it is not always the same man or woman. it happens that our law permits us to study this phenomenon among entirely law-abiding people. i know one lady who has been married five times. she is, as might be expected, a wise, attractive, and interesting woman. the question is, is she wise, attractive, and interesting because she has been married five times, or has she been married five times because she is wise, attractive, and interesting? probably some of the truth lies both ways. i also know of a household consisting of three families, a having married first b, and then c, who afterwards married d. all three unions were fruitful; so that the children had a change both of fathers and mothers. now i cannot honestly say that these and similar cases have convinced me that people are the worse for a change. the lady who has married and managed five husbands must be much more expert at it than most monogamic ladies; and as a companion and counsellor she probably leaves them nowhere. mr kipling's question, "what can they know of england that only england know?" disposes not only of the patriots who are so patriotic that they never leave their own country to look at another, but of the citizens who are so domestic that they have never married again and never loved anyone except their own husbands and wives. the domestic doctrinaires are also the dull people. the impersonal relation of sex may be judicially reserved for one person; but any such reservation of friendship, affection, admiration, sympathy and so forth is only possible to a wretchedly narrow and jealous nature; and neither history nor contemporary society shews us a single amiable and respectable character capable of it. this has always been recognized in cultivated society: that is why poor people accuse cultivated society of profligacy, poor people being often so ignorant and uncultivated that they have nothing to offer each other but the sex relationship, and cannot conceive why men and women should associate for any other purpose. as to the children of the triple household, they were not only on excellent terms with one another, and never thought of any distinction between their full and their half brothers and sisters; but they had the superior sociability which distinguishes the people who live in communities from those who live in small families. the inference is that changes of partners are not in themselves injurious or undesirable. people are not demoralized by them when they are effected according to law. therefore we need not hesitate to alter the law merely because the alteration would make such changes easier. home manners are bad manners on the other hand, we have all seen the bonds of marriage vilely abused by people who are never classed with shrews and wife-beaters: they are indeed sometimes held up as models of domesticity because they do not drink nor gamble nor neglect their children nor tolerate dirt and untidiness, and because they are not amiable enough to have what are called amiable weaknesses. these terrors conceive marriage as a dispensation from all the common civilities and delicacies which they have to observe among strangers, or, as they put it, "before company." and here the effects of indissoluble marriage-for-better-for-worse are very plainly and disagreeably seen. if such people took their domestic manners into general society, they would very soon find themselves without a friend or even an acquaintance in the world. there are women who, through total disuse, have lost the power of kindly human speech and can only scold and complain: there are men who grumble and nag from inveterate habit even when they are comfortable. but their unfortunate spouses and children cannot escape from them. spurious "natural" affection what is more, they are protected from even such discomfort as the dislike of his prisoners may cause to a gaoler by the hypnotism of the convention that the natural relation between husband and wife and parent and child is one of intense affection, and that to feel any other sentiment towards a member of one's family is to be a monster. under the influence of the emotion thus manufactured the most detestable people are spoilt with entirely undeserved deference, obedience, and even affection whilst they live, and mourned when they die by those whose lives they wantonly or maliciously made miserable. and this is what we call natural conduct. nothing could well be less natural. that such a convention should have been established shews that the indissolubility of marriage creates such intolerable situations that only by beglamoring the human imagination with a hypnotic suggestion of wholly unnatural feelings can it be made to keep up appearances. if the sentimental theory of family relationship encourages bad manners and personal slovenliness and uncleanness in the home, it also, in the case of sentimental people, encourages the practice of rousing and playing on the affections of children prematurely and far too frequently. the lady who says that as her religion is love, her children shall be brought up in an atmosphere of love, and institutes a system of sedulous endearments and exchanges of presents and conscious and studied acts of artificial kindness, may be defeated in a large family by the healthy derision and rebellion of children who have acquired hardihood and common sense in their conflicts with one another. but the small families, which are the rule just now, succumb more easily; and in the case of a single sensitive child the effect of being forced in a hothouse atmosphere of unnatural affection may be disastrous. in short, whichever way you take it, the convention that marriage and family relationship produces special feelings which alter the nature of human intercourse is a mischievous one. the whole difficulty of bringing up a family well is the difficulty of making its members behave as considerately at home as on a visit in a strange house, and as frankly, kindly, and easily in a strange house as at home. in the middle classes, where the segregation of the artificially limited family in its little brick box is horribly complete, bad manners, ugly dresses, awkwardness, cowardice, peevishness, and all the petty vices of unsociability flourish like mushrooms in a cellar. in the upper class, where families are not limited for money reasons; where at least two houses and sometimes three or four are the rule (not to mention the clubs); where there is travelling and hotel life; and where the men are brought up, not in the family, but in public schools, universities, and the naval and military services, besides being constantly in social training in other people's houses, the result is to produce what may be called, in comparison with the middle class, something that might almost pass as a different and much more sociable species. and in the very poorest class, where people have no homes, only sleeping places, and consequently live practically in the streets, sociability again appears, leaving the middle class despised and disliked for its helpless and offensive unsociability as much by those below it as those above it, and yet ignorant enough to be proud of it, and to hold itself up as a model for the reform of the (as it considers) elegantly vicious rich and profligate poor alike. carrying the war into the enemy's country without pretending to exhaust the subject, i have said enough to make it clear that the moment we lose the desire to defend our present matrimonial and family arrangements, there will be no difficulty in making out an overwhelming case against them. no doubt until then we shall continue to hold up the british home as the holy of holies in the temple of honorable motherhood, innocent childhood, manly virtue, and sweet and wholesome national life. but with a clever turn of the hand this holy of holies can be exposed as an augean stable, so filthy that it would seem more hopeful to burn it down than to attempt to sweep it out. and this latter view will perhaps prevail if the idolaters of marriage persist in refusing all proposals for reform and treating those who advocate it as infamous delinquents. neither view is of any use except as a poisoned arrow in a fierce fight between two parties determined to discredit each other with a view to obtaining powers of legal coercion over one another. shelley and queen victoria the best way to avert such a struggle is to open the eyes of the thoughtlessly conventional people to the weakness of their position in a mere contest of recrimination. hitherto they have assumed that they have the advantage of coming into the field without a stain on their characters to combat libertines who have no character at all. they conceive it to be their duty to throw mud; and they feel that even if the enemy can find any mud to throw, none of it will stick. they are mistaken. there will be plenty of that sort of ammunition in the other camp; and most of it will stick very hard indeed. the moral is, do not throw any. if we can imagine shelley and queen victoria arguing out their differences in another world, we may be sure that the queen has long ago found that she cannot settle the question by classing shelley with george iv. as a bad man; and shelley is not likely to have called her vile names on the general ground that as the economic dependence of women makes marriage a money bargain in which the man is the purchaser and the woman the purchased, there is no essential difference between a married woman and the woman of the streets. unfortunately, all the people whose methods of controversy are represented by our popular newspapers are not queen victorias and shelleys. a great mass of them, when their prejudices are challenged, have no other impulse than to call the challenger names, and, when the crowd seems to be on their side, to maltreat him personally or hand him over to the law, if he is vulnerable to it. therefore i cannot say that i have any certainty that the marriage question will be dealt with decently and tolerantly. but dealt with it will be, decently or indecently; for the present state of things in england is too strained and mischievous to last. europe and america have left us a century behind in this matter. a probable effect of giving women the vote the political emancipation of women is likely to lead to a comparatively stringent enforcement by law of sexual morality (that is why so many of us dread it); and this will soon compel us to consider what our sexual morality shall be. at present a ridiculous distinction is made between vice and crime, in order that men may be vicious with impunity. adultery, for instance, though it is sometimes fiercely punished by giving an injured husband crushing damages in a divorce suit (injured wives are not considered in this way), is not now directly prosecuted; and this impunity extends to illicit relations between unmarried persons who have reached what is called the age of consent. there are other matters, such as notification of contagious disease and solicitation, in which the hand of the law has been brought down on one sex only. outrages which were capital offences within the memory of persons still living when committed on women outside marriage, can still be inflicted by men on their wives without legal remedy. at all such points the code will be screwed up by the operation of votes for women, if there be any virtue in the franchise at all. the result will be that men will find the more ascetic side of our sexual morality taken seriously by the law. it is easy to foresee the consequences. no man will take much trouble to alter laws which he can evade, or which are either not enforced or enforced on women only. but when these laws take him by the collar and thrust him into prison, he suddenly becomes keenly critical of them, and of the arguments by which they are supported. now we have seen that our marriage laws will not stand criticism, and that they have held out so far only because they are so worked as to fit roughly our state of society, in which women are neither politically nor personally free, in which indeed women are called womanly only when they regard themselves as existing solely for the use of men. when liberalism enfranchises them politically, and socialism emancipates them economically, they will no longer allow the law to take immorality so easily. both men and women will be forced to behave morally in sex matters; and when they find that this is inevitable they will raise the question of what behavior really should be established as moral. if they decide in favor of our present professed morality they will have to make a revolutionary change in their habits by becoming in fact what they only pretend to be at present. if, on the other hand, they find that this would be an unbearable tyranny, without even the excuse of justice or sound eugenics, they will reconsider their morality and remodel the law. the personal sentimental basis of monogamy monogamy has a sentimental basis which is quite distinct from the political one of equal numbers of the sexes. equal numbers in the sexes are quite compatible with a change of partners every day or every hour physically there is nothing to distinguish human society from the farm-yard except that children are more troublesome and costly than chickens and calves, and that men and women are not so completely enslaved as farm stock. accordingly, the people whose conception of marriage is a farm-yard or slave-quarter conception are always more or less in a panic lest the slightest relaxation of the marriage laws should utterly demoralize society; whilst those to whom marriage is a matter of more highly evolved sentiments and needs (sometimes said to be distinctively human, though birds and animals in a state of freedom evince them quite as touchingly as we) are much more liberal, knowing as they do that monogamy will take care of itself provided the parties are free enough, and that promiscuity is a product of slavery and not of liberty. the solid foundation of their confidence is the fact that the relationship set up by a comfortable marriage is so intimate and so persuasive of the whole life of the parties to it, that nobody has room in his or her life for more than one such relationship at a time. what is called a household of three is never really of three except in the sense that every household becomes a household of three when a child is born, and may in the same way become a household of four or fourteen if the union be fertile enough. now no doubt the marriage tie means so little to some people that the addition to the household of half a dozen more wives or husbands would be as possible as the addition of half a dozen governesses or tutors or visitors or servants. a sultan may have fifty wives as easily as he may have fifty dishes on his table, because in the english sense he has no wives at all; nor have his wives any husband: in short, he is not what we call a married man. and there are sultans and sultanas and seraglios existing in england under english forms. but when you come to the real modern marriage of sentiment, a relation is created which has never to my knowledge been shared by three persons except when all three have been extraordinarily fond of one another. take for example the famous case of nelson and sir william and lady hamilton. the secret of this household of three was not only that both the husband and nelson were devoted to lady hamilton, but that they were also apparently devoted to one another. when hamilton died both nelson and emma seem to have been equally heartbroken. when there is a successful household of one man and two women the same unusual condition is fulfilled: the two women not only cannot live happily without the man but cannot live happily without each other. in every other case known to me, either from observation or record, the experiment is a hopeless failure: one of the two rivals for the really intimate affection of the third inevitably drives out the other. the driven-out party may accept the situation and remain in the house as a friend to save appearances, or for the sake of the children, or for economic reasons; but such an arrangement can subsist only when the forfeited relation is no longer really valued; and this indifference, like the triple bond of affection which carried sir william hamilton through, is so rare as to be practicably negligible in the establishment of a conventional morality of marriage. therefore sensible and experienced people always assume that when a declaration of love is made to an already married person, the declaration binds the parties in honor never to see one another again unless they contemplate divorce and remarriage. and this is a sound convention, even for unconventional people. let me illustrate by reference to a fictitious case: the one imagined in my own play candida will do as well as another. here a young man who has been received as a friend into the house of a clergyman falls in love with the clergyman's wife, and, being young and inexperienced, declares his feelings, and claims that he, and not the clergyman, is the more suitable mate for the lady. the clergyman, who has a temper, is first tempted to hurl the youth into the street by bodily violence: an impulse natural, perhaps, but vulgar and improper, and, not open, on consideration, to decent men. even coarse and inconsiderate men are restrained from it by the fact that the sympathy of the woman turns naturally to the victim of physical brutality and against the bully, the thackerayan notion to the contrary being one of the illusions of literary masculinity. besides, the husband is not necessarily the stronger man: an appeal to force has resulted in the ignominious defeat of the husband quite as often as in poetic justice as conceived in the conventional novelet. what an honorable and sensible man does when his household is invaded is what the reverend james mavor morell does in my play. he recognizes that just as there is not room for two women in that sacredly intimate relation of sentimental domesticity which is what marriage means to him, so there is no room for two men in that relation with his wife; and he accordingly tells her firmly that she must choose which man will occupy the place that is large enough for one only. he is so far shrewdly unconventional as to recognize that if she chooses the other man, he must give way, legal tie or no legal tie; but he knows that either one or the other must go. and a sensible wife would act in the same way. if a romantic young lady came into her house and proposed to adore her husband on a tolerated footing, she would say "my husband has not room in his life for two wives: either you go out of the house or i go out of it." the situation is not at all unlikely: i had almost said not at all unusual. young ladies and gentlemen in the greensickly condition which is called calf-love, associating with married couples at dangerous periods of mature life, quite often find themselves in it; and the extreme reluctance of proud and sensitive people to avoid any assertion of matrimonial rights, or to condescend to jealousy, sometimes makes the threatened husband or wife hesitate to take prompt steps and do the apparently conventional thing. but whether they hesitate or act the result is always the same. in a real marriage of sentiment the wife or husband cannot be supplanted by halves; and such a marriage will break very soon under the strain of polygyny or polyandry. what we want at present is a sufficiently clear teaching of this fact to ensure that prompt and decisive action shall always be taken in such cases without any false shame of seeming conventional (a shame to which people capable of such real marriage are specially susceptible), and a rational divorce law to enable the marriage to be dissolved and the parties honorably resorted and recoupled without disgrace and scandal if that should prove the proper solution. it must be repeated here that no law, however stringent, can prevent polygamy among groups of people who choose to live loosely and be monogamous only in appearance. but such cases are not now under consideration. also, affectionate husbands like samuel pepys, and affectionate wives of the corresponding temperaments may, it appears, engage in transient casual adventures out of doors without breaking up their home life. but within doors that home life may be regarded as naturally monogamous. it does not need to be protected against polygamy: it protects itself. divorce all this has an important bearing on the question of divorce. divorce reformers are so much preoccupied with the injustice of forbidding a woman to divorce her husband for unfaithfulness to his marriage vow, whilst allowing him that power over her, that they are apt to overlook the pressing need for admitting other and far more important grounds for divorce. if we take a document like pepys' diary, we learn that a woman may have an incorrigibly unfaithful husband, and yet be much better off than if she had an ill-tempered, peevish, maliciously sarcastic one, or was chained for life to a criminal, a drunkard, a lunatic, an idle vagrant, or a person whose religious faith was contrary to her own. imagine being married to a liar, a borrower, a mischief maker, a teaser or tormentor of children and animals, or even simply to a bore! conceive yourself tied for life to one of the perfectly "faithful" husbands who are sentenced to a month's imprisonment occasionally for idly leaving their wives in childbirth without food, fire, or attendance! what woman would not rather marry ten pepyses? what man a dozen nell gwynnes? adultery, far from being the first and only ground for divorce, might more reasonably be made the last, or wholly excluded. the present law is perfectly logical only if you once admit (as no decent person ever does) its fundamental assumption that there can be no companionship between men and women because the woman has a "sphere" of her own, that of housekeeping, in which the man must not meddle, whilst he has all the rest of human activity for his sphere: the only point at which the two spheres touch being that of replenishing the population. on this assumption the man naturally asks for a guarantee that the children shall be his because he has to find the money to support them. the power of divorcing a woman for adultery is this guarantee, a guarantee that she does not need to protect her against a similar imposture on his part, because he cannot bear children. no doubt he can spend the money that ought to be spent on her children on another woman and her children; but this is desertion, which is a separate matter. the fact for us to seize is that in the eye of the law, adultery without consequences is merely a sentimental grievance, whereas the planting on one man of another man's offspring is a substantial one. and so, no doubt, it is; but the day has gone by for basing laws on the assumption that a woman is less to a man than his dog, and thereby encouraging and accepting the standards of the husbands who buy meat for their bull-pups and leave their wives and children hungry. that basis is the penalty we pay for having borrowed our religion from the east, instead of building up a religion of our own out of our western inspiration and western sentiment. the result is that we all believe that our religion is on its last legs, whereas the truth is that it is not yet born, though the age walks visibly pregnant with it. meanwhile, as women are dragged down by their oriental servitude to our men, and as, further, women drag down those who degrade them quite as effectually as men do, there are moments when it is difficult to see anything in our sex institutions except a police des moeurs keeping the field for a competition as to which sex shall corrupt the other most. importance of sentimental grievance any tolerable western divorce law must put the sentimental grievances first, and should carefully avoid singling out any ground of divorce in such a way as to create a convention that persons having that ground are bound in honor to avail themselves of it. it is generally admitted that people should not be encouraged to petition for a divorce in a fit of petulance. what is not so clearly seen is that neither should they be encouraged to petition in a fit of jealousy, which is certainly the most detestable and mischievous of all the passions that enjoy public credit. still less should people who are not jealous be urged to behave as if they were jealous, and to enter upon duels and divorce suits in which they have no desire to be successful. there should be no publication of the grounds on which a divorce is sought or granted; and as this would abolish the only means the public now has of ascertaining that every possible effort has been made to keep the couple united against their wills, such privacy will only be tolerated when we at last admit that the sole and sufficient reason why people should be granted a divorce is that they want one. then there will be no more reports of divorce cases, no more letters read in court with an indelicacy that makes every sensitive person shudder and recoil as from a profanation, no more washing of household linen, dirty or clean, in public. we must learn in these matters to mind our own business and not impose our individual notions of propriety on one another, even if it carries us to the length of openly admitting what we are now compelled to assume silently, that every human being has a right to sexual experience, and that the law is concerned only with parentage, which is now a separate matter. divorce without asking why the one question that should never be put to a petitioner for divorce is "why?" when a man appeals to a magistrate for protection from someone who threatens to kill him, on the simple ground that he desires to live, the magistrate might quite reasonably ask him why he desires to live, and why the person who wishes to kill him should not be gratified. also whether he can prove that his life is a pleasure to himself or a benefit to anyone else, and whether it is good for him to be encouraged to exaggerate the importance of his short span in this vale of tears rather than to keep himself constantly ready to meet his god. the only reason for not raising these very weighty points is that we find society unworkable except on the assumption that every man has a natural right to live. nothing short of his own refusal to respect that right in others can reconcile the community to killing him. from this fundamental right many others are derived. the american constitution, one of the few modern political documents drawn up by men who were forced by the sternest circumstances to think out what they really had to face instead of chopping logic in a university classroom, specifies "liberty and the pursuit of happiness" as natural rights. the terms are too vague to be of much practical use; for the supreme right to life, extended as it now must be to the life of the race, and to the quality of life as well as to the mere fact of breathing, is making short work of many ancient liberties, and exposing the pursuit of happiness as perhaps the most miserable of human occupations. nevertheless, the american constitution roughly expresses the conditions to which modern democracy commits us. to impose marriage on two unmarried people who do not desire to marry one another would be admittedly an act of enslavement. but it is no worse than to impose a continuation of marriage on people who have ceased to desire to be married. it will be said that the parties may not agree on that; that one may desire to maintain the marriage the other wishes to dissolve. but the same hardship arises whenever a man in love proposes marriage to a woman and is refused. the refusal is so painful to him that he often threatens to kill himself and sometimes even does it. yet we expect him to face his ill luck, and never dream of forcing the woman to accept him. his case is the same as that of the husband whose wife tells him she no longer cares for him, and desires the marriage to be dissolved. you will say, perhaps, if you are superstitious, that it is not the same--that marriage makes a difference. you are wrong: there is no magic in marriage. if there were, married couples would never desire to separate. but they do. and when they do, it is simple slavery to compel them to remain together. economic slavery again the root difficulty the husband, then, is to be allowed to discard his wife when he is tired of her, and the wife the husband when another man strikes her fancy? one must reply unhesitatingly in the affirmative; for if we are to deny every proposition that can be stated in offensive terms by its opponents, we shall never be able to affirm anything at all. but the question reminds us that until the economic independence of women is achieved, we shall have to remain impaled on the other horn of the dilemma and maintain marriage as a slavery. and here let me ask the government of the day ( ) a question with regard to the labor exchanges it has very wisely established throughout the country. what do these exchanges do when a woman enters and states that her occupation is that of a wife and mother; that she is out of a job; and that she wants an employer? if the exchanges refuse to entertain her application, they are clearly excluding nearly the whole female sex from the benefit of the act. if not, they must become matrimonial agencies, unless, indeed, they are prepared to become something worse by putting the woman down as a housekeeper and introducing her to an employer without making marriage a condition of the hiring. labor exchanges and the white slavery suppose, again, a woman presents herself at the labor exchange, and states her trade as that of a white slave, meaning the unmentionable trade pursued by many thousands of women in all civilized cities. will the labor exchange find employers for her? if not, what will it do with her? if it throws her back destitute and unhelped on the streets to starve, it might as well not exist as far as she is concerned; and the problem of unemployment remains unsolved at its most painful point. yet if it finds honest employment for her and for all the unemployed wives and mothers, it must find new places in the world for women; and in so doing it must achieve for them economic independence of men. and when this is done, can we feel sure that any woman will consent to be a wife and mother (not to mention the less respectable alternative) unless her position is made as eligible as that of the women for whom the labor exchanges are finding independent work? will not many women now engaged in domestic work under circumstances which make it repugnant to them, abandon it and seek employment under other circumstances? as unhappiness in marriage is almost the only discomfort sufficiently irksome to induce a woman to break up her home, and economic dependence the only compulsion sufficiently stringent to force her to endure such unhappiness, the solution of the problem of finding independent employment for women may cause a great number of childless unhappy marriages to break up spontaneously, whether the marriage laws are altered or not. and here we must extend the term childless marriages to cover households in which the children have grown up and gone their own way, leaving the parents alone together: a point at which many worthy couples discover for the first time that they have long since lost interest in one another, and have been united only by a common interest in their children. we may expect, then, that marriages which are maintained by economic pressure alone will dissolve when that pressure is removed; and as all the parties to them will certainly not accept a celibate life, the law must sanction the dissolution in order to prevent a recurrence of the scandal which has moved the government to appoint the commission now sitting to investigate the marriage question: the scandal, that is, of a great number matter of the evils of our marriage law, to take care of the pence and let the pounds take care of themselves. the crimes and diseases of marriage will force themselves on public attention by their own virulence. i mention them here only because they reveal certain habits of thought and feeling with regard to marriage of which we must rid ourselves if we are to act sensibly when we take the necessary reforms in hand. christian marriage first among these is the habit of allowing ourselves to be bound not only by the truths of the christian religion but by the excesses and extravagances which the christian movement acquired in its earlier days as a violent reaction against what it still calls paganism. by far the most dangerous of these, because it is a blasphemy against life, and, to put it in christian terms, an accusation of indecency against god, is the notion that sex, with all its operations, is in itself absolutely an obscene thing, and that an immaculate conception is a miracle. so unwholesome an absurdity could only have gained ground under two conditions: one, a reaction against a society in which sensual luxury had been carried to revolting extremes, and, two, a belief that the world was coming to an end, and that therefore sex was no longer a necessity. christianity, because it began under these conditions, made sexlessness and communism the two main practical articles of its propaganda; and it has never quite lost its original bias in these directions. in spite of the putting off of the second coming from the lifetime of the apostles to the millennium, and of the great disappointment of the year a.d., in which multitudes of christians seriously prepared for the end of the world, the prophet who announces that the end is at hand is still popular. many of the people who ridicule his demonstrations that the fantastic monsters of the book of revelation are among us in the persons of our own political contemporaries, and who proceed sanely in all their affairs on the assumption that the world is going to last, really do believe that there will be a judgment day, and that it might even be in their own time. a thunderstorm, an eclipse, or any very unusual weather will make them apprehensive and uncomfortable. this explains why, for a long time, the christian church refused to have anything to do with marriage. the result was, not the abolition of sex, but its excommunication. and, of course, the consequences of persuading people that matrimony was an unholy state were so grossly carnal, that the church had to execute a complete right-about-face, and try to make people understand that it was a holy state: so holy indeed that it could not be validly inaugurated without the blessing of the church. and by this teaching it did something to atone for its earlier blasphemy. but the mischief of chopping and changing your doctrine to meet this or that practical emergency instead of keeping it adjusted to the whole scheme of life, is that you end by having half-a-dozen contradictory doctrines to suit half-a-dozen different emergencies. the church solemnized and sanctified marriage without ever giving up its original pauline doctrine on the subject. and it soon fell into another confusion. at the point at which it took up marriage and endeavored to make it holy, marriage was, as it still is, largely a survival of the custom of selling women to men. now in all trades a marked difference is made in price between a new article and a second-hand one. the moment we meet with this difference in value between human beings, we may know that we are in the slave-market, where the conception of our relations to the persons sold is neither religious nor natural nor human nor superhuman, but simply commercial. the church, when it finally gave its blessing to marriage, did not, in its innocence, fathom these commercial traditions. consequently it tried to sanctify them too, with grotesque results. the slave-dealer having always asked more money for virginity, the church, instead of detecting the money-changer and driving him out of the temple, took him for a sentimental and chivalrous lover, and, helped by its only half-discarded doctrine of celibacy, gave virginity a heavenly value to ennoble its commercial pretensions. in short, mammon, always mighty, put the church in his pocket, where he keeps it to this day, in spite of the occasional saints and martyrs who contrive from time to time to get their heads and souls free to testify against him. divorce a sacramental duty but mammon overreached himself when he tried to impose his doctrine of inalienable property on the church under the guise of indissoluble marriage. for the church tried to shelter this inhuman doctrine and flat contradiction of the gospel by claiming, and rightly claiming, that marriage is a sacrament. so it is; but that is exactly what makes divorce a duty when the marriage has lost the inward and spiritual grace of which the marriage ceremony is the outward and visible sign. in vain do bishops stoop to pick up the discarded arguments of the atheists of fifty years ago by pleading that the words of jesus were in an obscure aramaic dialect, and were probably misunderstood, as jesus, they think, could not have said anything a bishop would disapprove of. unless they are prepared to add that the statement that those who take the sacrament with their lips but not with their hearts eat and drink their own damnation is also a mistranslation from the aramaic, they are most solemnly bound to shield marriage from profanation, not merely by permitting divorce, but by making it compulsory in certain cases as the chinese do. when the great protest of the xvi century came, and the church was reformed in several countries, the reformation was so largely a rebellion against sacerdotalism that marriage was very nearly excommunicated again: our modern civil marriage, round which so many fierce controversies and political conflicts have raged, would have been thoroughly approved of by calvin, and hailed with relief by luther. but the instinctive doctrine that there is something holy and mystic in sex, a doctrine which many of us now easily dissociate from any priestly ceremony, but which in those days seemed to all who felt it to need a ritual affirmation, could not be thrown on the scrap-heap with the sale of indulgences and the like; and so the reformation left marriage where it was: a curious mixture of commercial sex slavery, early christian sex abhorrence, and later christian sex sanctification. othello and desdemona how strong was the feeling that a husband or a wife is an article of property, greatly depreciated in value at second-hand, and not to be used or touched by any person but the proprietor, may be learnt from shakespear. his most infatuated and passionate lovers are antony and othello; yet both of them betray the commercial and proprietary instinct the moment they lose their tempers. "i found you," says antony, reproaching cleopatra, "as a morsel cold upon dead caesar's trencher." othello's worst agony is the thought of "keeping a corner in the thing he loves for others' uses." but this is not what a man feels about the thing he loves, but about the thing he owns. i never understood the full significance of othello's outburst until i one day heard a lady, in the course of a private discussion as to the feasibility of "group marriage," say with cold disgust that she would as soon think of lending her toothbrush to another woman as her husband. the sense of outraged manhood with which i felt myself and all other husbands thus reduced to the rank of a toilet appliance gave me a very unpleasant taste of what desdemona might have felt had she overheard othello's outburst. i was so dumfounded that i had not the presence of mind to ask the lady whether she insisted on having a doctor, a nurse, a dentist, and even a priest and solicitor all to herself as well. but i had too often heard men speak of women as if they were mere personal conveniences to feel surprised that exactly the same view is held, only more fastidiously, by women. all these views must be got rid of before we can have any healthy public opinion (on which depends our having a healthy population) on the subject of sex, and consequently of marriage. whilst the subject is considered shameful and sinful we shall have no systematic instruction in sexual hygiene, because such lectures as are given in germany, france, and even prudish america (where the great miltonic tradition in this matter still lives) will be considered a corruption of that youthful innocence which now subsists on nasty stories and whispered traditions handed down from generation to generation of school-children: stories and traditions which conceal nothing of sex but its dignity, its honor, its sacredness, its rank as the first necessity of society and the deepest concern of the nation. we shall continue to maintain the white slave trade and protect its exploiters by, on the one hand, tolerating the white slave as the necessary breakwater of marriage; and, on the other, trampling on her and degrading her until she has nothing to hope from our courts; and so, with policemen at every corner, and law triumphant all over europe, she will still be smuggled and cattle-driven from one end of the civilized world to the other, cheated, beaten, bullied, and hunted into the streets to disgusting overwork, without daring to utter the cry for help that brings, not rescue, but exposure and infamy, yet revenging herself terribly in the end by scattering blindness and sterility, pain and disfigurement, insanity and death among us with the certainty that we are much too pious and genteel to allow such things to be mentioned with a view to saving either her or ourselves from them. and all the time we shall keep enthusiastically investing her trade with every allurement that the art of the novelist, the playwright, the dancer, the milliner, the painter, the limelight man, and the sentimental poet can devize, after which we shall continue to be very much shocked and surprised when the cry of the youth, of the young wife, of the mother, of the infected nurse, and of all the other victims, direct and indirect, arises with its invariable refrain: "why did nobody warn me?" what is to become of the children? i must not reply flippantly, make them all wards in chancery; yet that would be enough to put any sensible person on the track of the reply. one would think, to hear the way in which people sometimes ask the question, that not only does marriage prevent the difficulty from ever arising, but that nothing except divorce can ever raise it. it is true that if you divorce the parents, the children have to be disposed of. but if you hang the parents, or imprison the parents, or take the children out of the custody of the parents because they hold shelley's opinions, or if the parents die, the same difficulty arises. and as these things have happened again and again, and as we have had plenty of experience of divorce decrees and separation orders, the attempt to use children as an obstacle to divorce is hardly worth arguing with. we shall deal with the children just as we should deal with them if their homes were broken up by any other cause. there is a sense in which children are a real obstacle to divorce: they give parents a common interest which keeps together many a couple who, if childless, would separate. the marriage law is superfluous in such cases. this is shewn by the fact that the proportion of childless divorces is much larger than the proportion of divorces from all causes. but it must not be forgotten that the interest of the children forms one of the most powerful arguments for divorce. an unhappy household is a bad nursery. there is something to be said for the polygynous or polyandrous household as a school for children: children really do suffer from having too few parents: this is why uncles and aunts and tutors and governesses are often so good for children. but it is just the polygamous household which our marriage law allows to be broken up, and which, as we have seen, is not possible as a typical institution in a democratic country where the numbers of the sexes are about equal. therefore polygyny and polyandry as a means of educating children fall to the ground, and with them, i think, must go the opinion which has been expressed by gladstone and others, that an extension of divorce, whilst admitting many new grounds for it, might exclude the ground of adultery. there are, however, clearly many things that make some of our domestic interiors little private hells for children (especially when the children are quite content in them) which would justify any intelligent state in breaking up the home and giving the custody of the children either to the parent whose conscience had revolted against the corruption of the children, or to neither. which brings me to the point that divorce should no longer be confined to cases in which one of the parties petitions for it. if, for instance, you have a thoroughly rascally couple making a living by infamous means and bringing up their children to their trade, the king's proctor, instead of pursuing his present purely mischievous function of preventing couples from being divorced by proving that they both desire it, might very well intervene and divorce these children from their parents. at present, if the queen herself were to rescue some unfortunate child from degradation and misery and place her in a respectable home, and some unmentionable pair of blackguards claimed the child and proved that they were its father and mother, the child would be given to them in the name of the sanctity of the home and the holiness of parentage, after perpetrating which crime the law would calmly send an education officer to take the child out of the parents' hands several hours a day in the still more sacred name of compulsory education. (of course what would really happen would be that the couple would blackmail the queen for their consent to the salvation of the child, unless, indeed, a hint from a police inspector convinced them that bad characters cannot always rely on pedantically constitutional treatment when they come into conflict with persons in high station). the truth is, not only must the bond between man and wife be made subject to a reasonable consideration of the welfare of the parties concerned and of the community, but the whole family bond as well. the theory that the wife is the property of the husband or the husband of the wife is not a whit less abhorrent and mischievous than the theory that the child is the property of the parent. parental bondage will go the way of conjugal bondage: indeed the order of reform should rather be put the other way about; for the helplessness of children has already compelled the state to intervene between parent and child more than between husband and wife. if you pay less than pounds a year rent, you will sometimes feel tempted to say to the vaccination officer, the school attendance officer, and the sanitary inspector: "is this child mine or yours?" the answer is that as the child is a vital part of the nation, the nation cannot afford to leave it at the irresponsible disposal of any individual or couple of individuals as a mere small parcel of private property. the only solid ground that the parent can take is that as the state, in spite of its imposing name, can, when all is said, do nothing with the child except place it in the charge of some human being or another, the parent is no worse a custodian than a stranger. and though this proposition may seem highly questionable at first sight to those who imagine that only parents spoil children, yet those who realize that children are as often spoilt by severity and coldness as by indulgence, and that the notion that natural parents are any worse than adopted parents is probably as complete an illusion as the notion that they are any better, see no serious likelihood that state action will detach children from their parents more than it does at present: nay, it is even likely that the present system of taking the children out of the parents' hands and having the parental duty performed by officials, will, as poverty and ignorance become the exception instead of the rule, give way to the system of simply requiring certain results, beginning with the baby's weight and ending perhaps with some sort of practical arts degree, but leaving parents and children to achieve the results as they best may. such freedom is, of course, impossible in our present poverty-stricken circumstances. as long as the masses of our people are too poor to be good parents or good anything else except beasts of burden, it is no use requiring much more from them but hewing of wood and drawing of water: whatever is to be done must be done for them mostly, alas! by people whose superiority is merely technical. until we abolish poverty it is impossible to push rational measures of any kind very far: the wolf at the door will compel us to live in a state of siege and to do everything by a bureaucratic martial law that would be quite unnecessary and indeed intolerable in a prosperous community. but however we settle the question, we must make the parent justify his custody of the child exactly as we should make a stranger justify it. if a family is not achieving the purposes of a family it should be dissolved just as a marriage should when it, too, is not achieving the purposes of marriage. the notion that there is or ever can be anything magical and inviolable in the legal relations of domesticity, and the curious confusion of ideas which makes some of our bishops imagine that in the phrase "whom god hath joined," the word god means the district registrar or the reverend john smith or william jones, must be got rid of. means of breaking up undesirable families are as necessary to the preservation of the family as means of dissolving undesirable marriages are to the preservation of marriage. if our domestic laws are kept so inhuman that they at last provoke a furious general insurrection against them as they already provoke many private ones, we shall in a very literal sense empty the baby out with the bath by abolishing an institution which needs nothing more than a little obvious and easy rationalizing to make it not only harmless but comfortable, honorable, and useful. the cost of divorce but please do not imagine that the evils of indissoluble marriage can be cured by divorce laws administered on our present plan. the very cheapest undefended divorce, even when conducted by a solicitor for its own sake and that of humanity, costs at least pounds out-of-pocket expenses. to a client on business terms it costs about three times as much. until divorce is as cheap as marriage, marriage will remain indissoluble for all except the handful of people to whom pounds is a procurable sum. for the enormous majority of us there is no difference in this respect between a hundred and a quadrillion. divorce is the one thing you may not sue for in forma pauperis. let me, then, recommend as follows: . make divorce as easy, as cheap, and as private as marriage. . grant divorce at the request of either party, whether the other consents or not; and admit no other ground than the request, which should be made without stating any reasons. . confine the power of dissolving marriage for misconduct to the state acting on the petition of the king's proctor or other suitable functionary, who may, however, be moved by either party to intervene in ordinary request cases, not to prevent the divorce taking place, but to enforce alimony if it be refused and the case is one which needs it. . make it impossible for marriage to be used as a punishment as it is at present. send the husband and wife to penal servitude if you disapprove of their conduct and want to punish them; but do not send them back to perpetual wedlock. . if, on the other hand, you think a couple perfectly innocent and well conducted, do not condemn them also to perpetual wedlock against their wills, thereby making the treatment of what you consider innocence on both sides the same as the treatment of what you consider guilt on both sides. . place the work of a wife and mother on the same footing as other work: that is, on the footing of labor worthy of its hire; and provide for unemployment in it exactly as for unemployment in shipbuilding or an other recognized bread-winning trade. . and take and deal with all the consequences of these acts of justice instead of letting yourself be frightened out of reason and good sense by fear of consequences. we must finally adapt our institutions to human nature. in the long run our present plan of trying to force human nature into a mould of existing abuses, superstitions, and corrupt interests, produces the explosive forces that wreck civilization. . never forget that if you leave your law to judges and your religion to bishops, you will presently find yourself without either law or religion. if you doubt this, ask any decent judge or bishop. do not ask somebody who does not know what a judge is, or what a bishop is, or what the law is, or what religion is. in other words, do not ask your newspaper. journalists are too poorly paid in this country to know anything that is fit for publication. conclusions to sum up, we have to depend on the solution of the problem of unemployment, probably on the principles laid down in the minority report of the royal commission on the poor law, to make the sexual relations between men and women decent and honorable by making women economically independent of men, and (in the younger son section of the upper classes) men economically independent of women. we also have to bring ourselves into line with the rest of protestant civilization by providing means for dissolving all unhappy, improper, and inconvenient marriages. and, as it is our cautious custom to lag behind the rest of the world to see how their experiments in reform turn out before venturing ourselves, and then take advantage of their experience to get ahead of them, we should recognize that the ancient system of specifying grounds for divorce, such as adultery, cruelty, drunkenness, felony, insanity, vagrancy, neglect to provide for wife and children, desertion, public defamation, violent temper, religious heterodoxy, contagious disease, outrages, indignities, personal abuse, "mental anguish," conduct rendering life burdensome and so forth (all these are examples from some code actually in force at present), is a mistake, because the only effect of compelling people to plead and prove misconduct is that cases are manufactured and clean linen purposely smirched and washed in public, to the great distress and disgrace of innocent children and relatives, whilst the grounds have at the same time to be made so general that any sort of human conduct may be brought within them by a little special pleading and a little mental reservation on the part of witnesses examined on oath. when it conies to "conduct rendering life burdensome," it is clear that no marriage is any longer indissoluble; and the sensible thing to do then is to grant divorce whenever it is desired, without asking why. getting married by bernard shaw _______________________________________________________________ n.b.--there is a point of some technical interest to be noted in this play. the customary division into acts and scenes has been disused, and a return made to unity of time and place, as observed in the ancient greek drama. in the foregoing tragedy, the doctor's dilemma, there are five acts; the place is altered five times; and the time is spread over an undetermined period of more than a year. no doubt the strain on the attention of the audience and on the ingenuity of the playwright is much less; but i find in practice that the greek form is inevitable when drama reaches a certain point in poetic and intellectual evolution. its adoption was not, on my part, a deliberate display of virtuosity in form, but simply the spontaneous falling of a play of ideas into the form most suitable to it, which turned out to be the classical form. getting married, in several acts and scenes, with the time spread over a long period, would be impossible. _______________________________________________________________ on a fine morning in the spring of the norman kitchen in the palace of the bishop of chelsea looks very spacious and clean and handsome and healthy. the bishop is lucky enough to have a xii century palace. the palace itself has been lucky enough to escape being carved up into xv century gothic, or shaved into xviii century ashlar, or "restored" by a xix century builder and a victorian architect with a deep sense of the umbrella-like gentlemanliness of xiv century vaulting. the present occupant, a. chelsea, unofficially alfred bridgenorth, appreciates norman work. he has, by adroit complaints of the discomfort of the place, induced the ecclesiastical commissioners to give him some money to spend on it; and with this he has got rid of the wall papers, the paint, the partitions, the exquisitely planed and moulded casings with which the victorian cabinetmakers enclosed and hid the huge black beams of hewn oak, and of all other expedients of his predecessors to make themselves feel at home and respectable in a norman fortress. it is a house built to last for ever. the walls and beams are big enough to carry the tower of babel, as if the builders, anticipating our modern ideas and instinctively defying them, had resolved to show how much material they could lavish on a house built for the glory of god, instead of keeping a competitive eye on the advantage of sending in the lowest tender, and scientifically calculating how little material would be enough to prevent the whole affair from tumbling down by its own weight. the kitchen is the bishop's favorite room. this is not at all because he is a man of humble mind; but because the kitchen is one of the finest rooms in the house. the bishop has neither the income nor the appetite to have his cooking done there. the windows, high up in the wall, look north and south. the north window is the largest; and if we look into the kitchen through it we see facing us the south wall with small norman windows and an open door near the corner to the left. through this door we have a glimpse of the garden, and of a garden chair in the sunshine. in the right-hand corner is an entrance to a vaulted circular chamber with a winding stair leading up through a tower to the upper floors of the palace. in the wall to our right is the immense fireplace, with its huge spit like a baby crane, and a collection of old iron and brass instruments which pass as the original furniture of the fire, though as a matter of fact they have been picked up from time to time by the bishop at secondhand shops. in the near end of the left hand wall a small norman door gives access to the bishop's study, formerly a scullery. further along, a great oak chest stands against the wall. across the middle of the kitchen is a big timber table surrounded by eleven stout rush-bottomed chairs: four on the far side, three on the near side, and two at each end. there is a big chair with railed back and sides on the hearth. on the floor is a drugget of thick fibre matting. the only other piece of furniture is a clock with a wooden dial about as large as the bottom of a washtub, the weights, chains, and pendulum being of corresponding magnitude; but the bishop has long since abandoned the attempt to keep it going. it hangs above the oak chest. the kitchen is occupied at present by the bishop's lady, mrs bridgenorth, who is talking to mr william collins, the greengrocer. he is in evening dress, though it is early forenoon. mrs bridgenorth is a quiet happy-looking woman of fifty or thereabouts, placid, gentle, and humorous, with delicate features and fine grey hair with many white threads. she is dressed as for some festivity; but she is taking things easily as she sits in the big chair by the hearth, reading the times. collins is an elderly man with a rather youthful waist. his muttonchop whiskers have a coquettish touch of dundreary at their lower ends. he is an affable man, with those perfect manners which can be acquired only in keeping a shop for the sale of necessaries of life to ladies whose social position is so unquestionable that they are not anxious about it. he is a reassuring man, with a vigilant grey eye, and the power of saying anything he likes to you without offence, because his tone always implies that he does it with your kind permission. withal by no means servile: rather gallant and compassionate, but never without a conscientious recognition, on public grounds, of social distinctions. he is at the oak chest counting a pile of napkins. mrs bridgenorth reads placidly: collins counts: a blackbird sings in the garden. mrs bridgenorth puts the times down in her lap and considers collins for a moment. mrs bridgenorth. do you never feel nervous on these occasions, collins? collins. lord bless you, no, maam. it would be a joke, after marrying five of your daughters, if i was to get nervous over marrying the last of them. mrs bridgenorth. i have always said you were a wonderful man, collins. collins [almost blushing] oh, maam! mrs bridgenorth. yes. i never could arrange anything--a wedding or even dinner--without some hitch or other. collins. why should you give yourself the trouble, maam? send for the greengrocer, maam: thats the secret of easy housekeeping. bless you, it's his business. it pays him and you, let alone the pleasure in a house like this [mrs bridgenorth bows in acknowledgment of the compliment]. they joke about the greengrocer, just as they joke about the mother-in-law. but they cant get on without both. mrs bridgenorth. what a bond between us, collins! collins. bless you, maam, theres all sorts of bonds between all sorts of people. you are a very affable lady, maam, for a bishop's lady. i have known bishop's ladies that would fairly provoke you to up and cheek them; but nobody would ever forget himself and his place with you, maam. mrs bridgenorth. collins: you are a flatterer. you will superintend the breakfast yourself as usual, of course, wont you? collins. yes, yes, bless you, maam, of course. i always do. them fashionable caterers send down such people as i never did set eyes on. dukes you would take them for. you see the relatives shaking hands with them and asking them about the family-- actually ladies saying "where have we met before?" and all sorts of confusion. thats my secret in business, maam. you can always spot me as the greengrocer. it's a fortune to me in these days, when you cant hardly tell who any one is or isnt. [he goes out through the tower, and immediately returns for a moment to announce] the general, maam. mrs bridgenorth rises to receive her brother-in-law, who enters resplendent in full-dress uniform, with many medals and orders. general bridgenorth is a well set up man of fifty, with large brave nostrils, an iron mouth, faithful dog's eyes, and much natural simplicity and dignity of character. he is ignorant, stupid, and prejudiced, having been carefully trained to be so; and it is not always possible to be patient with him when his unquestionably good intentions become actively mischievous; but one blames society, not himself, for this. he would be no worse a man than collins, had he enjoyed collins's social opportunities. he comes to the hearth, where mrs bridgenorth is standing with her back to the fireplace. mrs bridgenorth. good morning, boxer. [they shake hands]. another niece to give away. this is the last of them. the general [very gloomy] yes, alice. nothing for the old warrior uncle to do but give away brides to luckier men than himself. has--[he chokes] has your sister come yet? mrs bridgenorth. why do you always call lesbia my sister? dont you know that it annoys her more than any of the rest of your tricks? the general. tricks! ha! well, i'll try to break myself of it; but i think she might bear with me in a little thing like that. she knows that her name sticks in my throat. better call her your sister than try to call her l-- [he almost breaks down] l-- well, call her by her name and make a fool of myself by crying. [he sits down at the near end of the table]. mrs bridgenorth [going to him and rallying him] oh come, boxer! really, really! we are no longer boys and girls. you cant keep up a broken heart all your life. it must be nearly twenty years since she refused you. and you know that it's not because she dislikes you, but only that she's not a marrying woman. the general. it's no use. i love her still. and i cant help telling her so whenever we meet, though i know it makes her avoid me. [he all but weeps]. mrs bridgenorth. what does she say when you tell her? the general. only that she wonders when i am going to grow out of it. i know now that i shall never grow out of it. mrs bridgenorth. perhaps you would if you married her. i believe youre better as you are, boxer. the general. i'm a miserable man. i'm really sorry to be a ridiculous old bore, alice; but when i come to this house for a wedding--to these scenes--to--to recollections of the past-- always to give the bride to somebody else, and never to have my bride given to me--[he rises abruptly] may i go into the garden and smoke it off? mrs bridgenorth. do, boxer. collins returns with the wedding cake. mrs bridgenorth. oh, heres the cake. i believe it's the same one we had for florence's wedding. the general. i cant bear it [he hurries out through the garden door]. collins [putting the cake on the table] well, look at that, maam! aint it odd that after all the weddings he's given away at, the general cant stand the sight of a wedding cake yet. it always seems to give him the same shock. mrs bridgenorth. well, it's his last shock. you have married the whole family now, collins. [she takes up the times again and resumes her seat]. collins. except your sister, maam. a fine character of a lady, maam, is miss grantham. i have an ambition to arrange her wedding breakfast. mrs bridgenorth. she wont marry, collins. collins. bless you, maam, they all say that. you and me said it, i'll lay. i did, anyhow. mrs bridgenorth. no: marriage came natural to me. i should have thought it did to you too. collins [pensive] no, maam: it didnt come natural. my wife had to break me into it. it came natural to her: she's what you might call a regular old hen. always wants to have her family within sight of her. wouldnt go to bed unless she knew they was all safe at home and the door locked, and the lights out. always wants her luggage in the carriage with her. always goes and makes the engine driver promise her to be careful. she's a born wife and mother, maam. thats why my children all ran away from home. mrs bridgenorth. did you ever feel inclined to run away, collins? collins. oh yes, maam, yes: very often. but when it came to the point i couldnt bear to hurt her feelings. shes a sensitive, affectionate, anxious soul; and she was never brought up to know what freedom is to some people. you see, family life is all the life she knows: she's like a bird born in a cage, that would die if you let it loose in the woods. when i thought how little it was to a man of my easy temper to put up with her, and how deep it would hurt her to think it was because i didnt care for her, i always put off running away till next time; and so in the end i never ran away at all. i daresay it was good for me to be took such care of; but it cut me off from all my old friends something dreadful, maam: especially the women, maam. she never gave them a chance: she didnt indeed. she never understood that married people should take holidays from one another if they are to keep at all fresh. not that i ever got tired of her, maam; but my! how i used to get tired of home life sometimes. i used to catch myself envying my brother george: i positively did, maam. mrs bridgenorth. george was a bachelor then, i suppose? collins. bless you, no, maam. he married a very fine figure of a woman; but she was that changeable and what you might call susceptible, you would not believe. she didnt seem to have any control over herself when she fell in love. she would mope for a couple of days, crying about nothing; and then she would up and say--no matter who was there to hear her--"i must go to him, george"; and away she would go from her home and her husband without with-your-leave or by-your-leave. mrs bridgenorth. but do you mean that she did this more than once? that she came back? collins. bless you, maam, she done it five times to my own knowledge; and then george gave up telling us about it, he got so used to it. mrs bridgenorth. but did he always take her back? collins. well, what could he do, maam? three times out of four the men would bring her back the same evening and no harm done. other times theyd run away from her. what could any man with a heart do but comfort her when she came back crying at the way they dodged her when she threw herself at their heads, pretending they was too noble to accept the sacrifice she was making. george told her again and again that if she'd only stay at home and hold off a bit theyd be at her feet all day long. she got sensible at last and took his advice. george always liked change of company. mrs bridgenorth. what an odious woman, collins! dont you think so? collins [judicially] well, many ladies with a domestic turn thought so and said so, maam. but i will say for mrs george that the variety of experience made her wonderful interesting. thats where the flighty ones score off the steady ones, maam. look at my old woman! she's never known any man but me; and she cant properly know me, because she dont know other men to compare me with. of course she knows her parents in--well, in the way one does know one's parents not knowing half their lives as you might say, or ever thinking that they was ever young; and she knew her children as children, and never thought of them as independent human beings till they ran away and nigh broke her heart for a week or two. but mrs george she came to know a lot about men of all sorts and ages; for the older she got the younger she liked em; and it certainly made her interesting, and gave her a lot of sense. i have often taken her advice on things when my own poor old woman wouldnt have been a bit of use to me. mrs bridgenorth. i hope you dont tell your wife that you go elsewhere for advice. collins. lord bless you, maam, i'm that fond of my old matilda that i never tell her anything at all for fear of hurting her feelings. you see, she's such an out-and-out wife and mother that she's hardly a responsible human being out of her house, except when she's marketing. mrs bridgenorth. does she approve of mrs george? collins. oh, mrs george gets round her. mrs george can get round anybody if she wants to. and then mrs george is very particular about religion. and shes a clairvoyant. mrs bridgenorth [surprised] a clairvoyant! collins [calm] oh yes, maam, yes. all you have to do is to mesmerize her a bit; and off she goes into a trance, and says the most wonderful things! not things about herself, but as if it was the whole human race giving you a bit of its mind. oh, wonderful, maam, i assure you. you couldnt think of a game that mrs george isnt up to. lesbia grantham comes in through the tower. she is a tall, handsome, slender lady in her prime; that is, between and . she has what is called a well-bred air, dressing very carefully to produce that effect without the least regard for the latest fashions, sure of herself, very terrifying to the young and shy, fastidious to the ends of her long finger-tips, and tolerant and amused rather than sympathetic. lesbia. good morning, dear big sister. mrs bridgenorth. good morning, dear little sister. [they kiss]. lesbia. good morning, collins. how well you are looking! and how young! [she turns the middle chair away from the table and sits down]. collins. thats only my professional habit at a wedding, miss. you should see me at a political dinner. i look nigh seventy. [looking at his watch] time's getting along, maam. may i send up word from you to miss edith to hurry a bit with her dressing? mrs bridgenorth. do, collins. collins goes out through the tower, taking the cake with him. lesbia. dear old collins! has he told you any stories this morning? mrs bridgenorth. yes. you were just late for a particularly thrilling invention of his. lesbia. about mrs george? mrs bridgenorth. yes. he says she's a clairvoyant. lesbia. i wonder whether he really invented george, or stole her out of some book. mrs bridgenorth. i wonder! lesbia. wheres the barmecide? mrs bridgenorth. in the study, working away at his new book. he thinks no more now of having a daughter married than of having an egg for breakfast. the general, soothed by smoking, comes in from the garden. the general [with resolute bonhomie] ah, lesbia! mrs bridgenorth. how do you do? [they shake hands; and he takes the chair on her right]. mrs bridgenorth goes out through the tower. lesbia. how are you, boxer? you look almost as gorgeous as the wedding cake. the general. i make a point of appearing in uniform whenever i take part in any ceremony, as a lesson to the subalterns. it is not the custom in england; but it ought to be. lesbia. you look very fine, boxer. what a frightful lot of bravery all these medals must represent! the general. no, lesbia. they represent despair and cowardice. i won all the early ones by trying to get killed. you know why. lesbia. but you had a charmed life? the general. yes, a charmed life. bayonets bent on my buckles. bullets passed through me and left no trace: thats the worst of modern bullets: ive never been hit by a dum-dum. when i was only a company officer i had at least the right to expose myself to death in the field. now i'm a general even that resource is cut off. [persuasively drawing his chair nearer to her] listen to me, lesbia. for the tenth and last time-- lesbia [interrupting] on florence's wedding morning, two years ago, you said "for the ninth and last time." the general. we are two years older, lesbia. i'm fifty: you are-- lesbia. yes, i know. it's no use, boxer. when will you be old enough to take no for an answer? the general. never, lesbia, never. you have never given me a real reason for refusing me yet. i once thought it was somebody else. there were lots of fellows after you; but now theyve all given it up and married. [bending still nearer to her] lesbia: tell me your secret. why-- lesbia [sniffing disgustedly] oh! youve been smoking. [she rises and goes to the chair on the hearth] keep away, you wretch. the general. but for that pipe, i could not have faced you without breaking down. it has soothed me and nerved me. lesbia [sitting down with the times in her hand] well, it has nerved me to tell you why i'm going to be an old maid. the general [impulsively approaching her] dont say that, lesbia. it's not natural: it's not right: it's-- lesbia. [fanning him off] no: no closer, boxer, please. [he retreats, discouraged]. it may not be natural; but it happens all the time. youll find plenty of women like me, if you care to look for them: women with lots of character and good looks and money and offers, who wont and dont get married. cant you guess why? the general. i can understand when there is another. lesbia. yes; but there isnt another. besides, do you suppose i think, at my time of life, that the difference between one decent sort of man and another is worth bothering about? the general. the heart has its preferences, lesbia. one image, and one only, gets indelibly-- lesbia. yes. excuse my interrupting you so often; but your sentiments are so correct that i always know what you are going to say before you finish. you see, boxer, everybody is not like you. you are a sentimental noodle: you dont see women as they really are. you dont see me as i really am. now i do see men as they really are. i see you as you really are. the general [murmuring] no: dont say that, lesbia. lesbia. i'm a regular old maid. i'm very particular about my belongings. i like to have my own house, and to have it to myself. i have a very keen sense of beauty and fitness and cleanliness and order. i am proud of my independence and jealous for it. i have a sufficiently well-stocked mind to be very good company for myself if i have plenty of books and music. the one thing i never could stand is a great lout of a man smoking all over my house and going to sleep in his chair after dinner, and untidying everything. ugh! the general. but love-- lesbia. ob, love! have you no imagination? do you think i have never been in love with wonderful men? heroes! archangels! princes! sages! even fascinating rascals! and had the strangest adventures with them? do you know what it is to look at a mere real man after that? a man with his boots in every corner, and the smell of his tobacco in every curtain? the general [somewhat dazed] well but--excuse my mentioning it--dont you want children? lesbia. i ought to have children. i should be a good mother to children. i believe it would pay the country very well to pay me very well to have children. but the country tells me that i cant have a child in my house without a man in it too; so i tell the country that it will have to do without my children. if i am to be a mother, i really cannot have a man bothering me to be a wife at the same time. the general. my dear lesbia: you know i dont wish to be impertinent; but these are not the correct views for an english lady to express. lesbia. that is why i dont express them, except to gentlemen who wont take any other answer. the difficulty, you see, is that i really am an english lady, and am particularly proud of being one. the general. i'm sure of that, lesbia: quite sure of it. i never meant-- lesbia [rising impatiently] oh, my dear boxer, do please try to think of something else than whether you have offended me, and whether you are doing the correct thing as an english gentleman. you are faultless, and very dull. [she shakes her shoulders intolerantly and walks across to the other side of the kitchen]. the general [moodily] ha! thats whats the matter with me. not clever. a poor silly soldier man. lesbia. the whole matter is very simple. as i say, i am an english lady, by which i mean that i have been trained to do without what i cant have on honorable terms, no matter what it is. the general. i really dont understand you, lesbia. lesbia [turning on him] then why on earth do you want to marry a woman you dont understand? the general. i dont know. i suppose i love you. lesbia. well, boxer, you can love me as much as you like, provided you look happy about it and dont bore me. but you cant marry me; and thats all about it. the general. it's so frightfully difficult to argue the matter fairly with you without wounding your delicacy by overstepping the bounds of good taste. but surely there are calls of nature-- lesbia. dont be ridiculous, boxer. the general. well, how am i to express it? hang it all, lesbia, dont you want a husband? lesbia. no. i want children; and i want to devote myself entirely to my children, and not to their father. the law will not allow me to do that; so i have made up my mind to have neither husband nor children. the general. but, great heavens, the natural appetites-- lesbia. as i said before, an english lady is not the slave of her appetites. that is what an english gentleman seems incapable of understanding. [she sits down at the end of the table, near the study door]. the general [huffily] oh well, if you refuse, you refuse. i shall not ask you again. i'm sorry i returned to the subject. [he retires to the hearth and plants himself there, wounded and lofty]. lesbia. dont be cross, boxer. the general. i'm not cross, only wounded, lesbia. and when you talk like that, i dont feel convinced: i only feel utterly at a loss. lesbia. well, you know our family rule. when at a loss consult the greengrocer. [opportunely collins comes in through the tower]. here he is. collins. sorry to be so much in and out, miss. i thought mrs bridgenorth was here. the table is ready now for the breakfast, if she would like to see it. lesbia. if you are satisfied, collins, i am sure she will be. the general. by the way, collins: i thought theyd made you an alderman. collins. so they have, general. the general. then wheres your gown? collins. i dont wear it in private life, general. the general. why? are you ashamed of it? collins. no, general. to tell you the truth, i take a pride in it. i cant help it. the general. attention, collins. come here. [collins comes to him]. do you see my uniform--all my medals? collins. yes, general. they strike the eye, as it were. the general. they are meant to. very well. now you know, dont you, that your services to the community as a greengrocer are as important and as dignified as mine as a soldier? collins. i'm sure it's very honorable of you to say so, general. the general [emphatically] you know also, dont you, that any man who can see anything ridiculous, or unmanly, or unbecoming in your work or in your civic robes is not a gentleman, but a jumping, bounding, snorting cad? collins. well, strictly between ourselves, that is my opinion, general. the general. then why not dignify my niece's wedding by wearing your robes? collins. a bargain's a bargain, general. mrs bridgenorth sent for the greengrocer, not for the alderman. it's just as unpleasant to get more than you bargain for as to get less. the general. i'm sure she will agree with me. i attach importance to this as an affirmation of solidarity in the service of the community. the bishop's apron, my uniform, your robes: the church, the army, and the municipality. collins [retiring] very well, general. [he turns dubiously to lesbia on his way to the tower]. i wonder what my wife will say, miss? the general. what! is your, wife ashamed of your robes? collins. no, sir, not ashamed of them. but she grudged the money for them; and she will be afraid of my sleeves getting into the gravy. mrs bridgenorth, her placidity quite upset, comes in with a letter; hurries past collins; and comes between lesbia and the general. mrs bridgenorth. lesbia: boxer: heres a pretty mess! collins goes out discreetly. the general. whats the matter? mrs bridgenorth. reginald's in london, and wants to come to the wedding. the general [stupended] well, dash my buttons! lesbia. oh, all right, let him come. the general. let him come! why, the decree has not been made absolute yet. is he to walk in here to edith's wedding, reeking from the divorce court? mrs bridgenorth [vexedly sitting down in the middle chair] it's too bad. no: i cant forgive him, lesbia, really. a man of reginald's age, with a young wife--the best of girls, and as pretty as she can be--to go off with a common woman from the streets! ugh! lesbia. you must make allowances. what can you expect? reginald was always weak. he was brought up to be weak. the family property was all mortgaged when he inherited it. he had to struggle along in constant money difficulties, hustled by his solicitors, morally bullied by the barmecide, and physically bullied by boxer, while they two were fighting their own way and getting well trained. you know very well he couldnt afford to marry until the mortgages were cleared and he was over fifty. and then of course he made a fool of himself marrying a child like leo. the general. but to hit her! absolutely to hit her! he knocked her down--knocked her flat down on a flowerbed in the presence of his gardener. he! the head of the family! the man that stands before the barmecide and myself as bridgenorth of bridgenorth! to beat his wife and go off with a low woman and be divorced for it in the face of all england! in the face of my uniform and alfred's apron! i can never forget what i felt: it was only the king's personal request--virtually a command--that stopped me from resigning my commission. i'd cut reginald dead if i met him in the street. mrs bridgenorth. besides, leo's coming. theyd meet. it's impossible, lesbia. lesbia. oh, i forgot that. that settles it. he mustnt come. the general. of course he mustnt. you tell him that if he enters this house, i'll leave it; and so will every decent man and woman in it. collins [returning for a moment to announce] mr reginald, maam. [he withdraws when reginald enters]. the general [beside himself] well, dash my buttons!! reginald is just the man lesbia has described. he is hardened and tough physically, and hasty and boyish in his manner and speech, belonging as he does to the large class of english gentlemen of property (solicitor-managed) who have never developed intellectually since their schooldays. he is a muddled, rebellious, hasty, untidy, forgetful, always late sort of man, who very evidently needs the care of a capable woman, and has never been lucky or attractive enough to get it. all the same, a likeable man, from whom nobody apprehends any malice nor expects any achievement. in everything but years he is younger than his brother the general. reginald [coming forward between the general and mrs bridgenorth] alice: it's no use. i cant stay away from edith's wedding. good morning, lesbia. how are you, boxer? [he offers the general his hand]. the general [with crushing stiffness] i was just telling alice, sir, that if you entered this house, i should leave it. reginald. well, dont let me detain you, old chap. when you start calling people sir, youre not particularly good company. lesbia. dont you begin to quarrel. that wont improve the situation. mrs bridgenorth. i think you might have waited until you got my answer, rejjy. reginald. it's so jolly easy to say no in a letter. wont you let me stay? mrs bridgenorth. how can i? leo's coming. reginald. well, she wont mind. the general. wont mind!!!! lesbia. dont talk nonsense, rejjy; and be off with you. the general [with biting sarcasm] at school you lead a theory that women liked being knocked down, i remember. reginald. youre a nice, chivalrous, brotherly sort of swine, you are. the general. mr bridgenorth: are you going to leave this house or am i? reginald. you are, i hope. [he emphasizes his intention to stay by sitting down]. the general. alice: will you allow me to be driven from edith's wedding by this-- lesbia [warningly] boxer! the general. --by this respondent? is edith to be given away by him? mrs bridgenorth. certainly not. reginald: you were not asked to come; and i have asked you to go. you know how fond i am of leo; and you know what she would feel if she came in and found you here. collins [again appearing in the tower] mrs reginald, maam. lesbia {no, no. ask her to-- } [all three mrs bridgenorth {oh, how unfortunate! } clamoring the general {well, dash my buttons! } together]. it is too late: leo is already in the kitchen. collins goes out, mutely abandoning a situation which he deplores but has been unable to save. leo is very pretty, very youthful, very restless, and consequently very charming to people who are touched by youth and beauty, as well as to those who regard young women as more or less appetizing lollipops, and dont regard old women at all. coldly studied, leo's restlessness is much less lovable than the kittenishness which comes from a rich and fresh vitality. she is a born fusser about herself and everybody else for whom she feels responsible; and her vanity causes her to exaggerate her responsibilities officiously. all her fussing is about little things; but she often calls them by big names, such as art, the divine spark, the world, motherhood, good breeding, the universe, the creator, or anything else that happens to strike her imagination as sounding intellectually important. she has more than common imagination and no more than common conception and penetration; so that she is always on the high horse about words and always in the perambulator about things. considering herself clever, thoughtful, and superior to ordinary weaknesses and prejudices, she recklessly attaches herself to clever men on that understanding, with the result that they are first delighted, then exasperated, and finally bored. when marrying reginald she told her friends that there was a great deal in him which needed bringing out. if she were a middle-aged man she would be the terror of his club. being a pretty young woman, she is forgiven everything, proving that "tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner" is an error, the fact being that the secret of forgiving everything is to understand nothing. she runs in fussily, full of her own importance, and swoops on lesbia, who is much less disposed to spoil her than mrs bridgenorth is. but leo affects a special intimacy with lesbia, as of two thinkers among the philistines. leo [to lesbia, kissing her] good morning. [coming to mrs bridgenorth] how do, alice? [passing on towards the hearth] why so gloomy, general? [reginald rises between her and the general] oh, rejjy! what will the king's proctor say? reginald. damn the king's proctor! leo. naughty. well, i suppose i must kiss you; but dont any of you tell. [she kisses him. they can hardly believe their eyes]. have you kept all your promises? reginald. oh, dont begin bothering about those-- leo [insisting] have? you? kept? your? promises? have you rubbed your head with the lotion every night? reginald. yes, yes. nearly every night. leo. nearly! i know what that means. have you worn your liver pad? the general [solemnly] leo: forgiveness is one of the most beautiful traits in a woman's nature; but there are things that should not be forgiven to a man. when a man knocks a woman down [leo gives a little shriek of laughter and collapses on a chair next mrs bridgenorth, on her left] reginald [sardonically] the man that would raise his hand to a woman, save in the way of a kindness, is unworthy the name of bridgenorth. [he sits down at the end of the table nearest the hearth]. the general [much huffed] oh, well, if leo does not mind, of course i have no more to say. but i think you might, out of consideration for the family, beat your wife in private and not in the presence of the gardener. reginald [out of patience] whats the good of beating your wife unless theres a witness to prove it afterwards? you dont suppose a man beats his wife for the fun of it, do you? how could she have got her divorce if i hadnt beaten her? nice state of things, that! the general [gasping] do you mean to tell me that you did it in cold blood? simply to get rid of your wife? reginald. no, i didn't: i did it to get her rid of me. what would you do if you were fool enough to marry a woman thirty years younger than yourself, and then found that she didnt care for you, and was in love with a young fellow with a face like a mushroom. leo. he has not. [bursting into tears] and you are most unkind to say i didnt care for you. nobody could have been fonder of you. reginald. a nice way of shewing your fondness! i had to go out and dig that flower bed all over with my own hands to soften it. i had to pick all the stones out of it. and then she complained that i hadnt done it properly, because she got a worm down her neck. i had to go to brighton with a poor creature who took a fancy to me on the way down, and got conscientious scruples about committing perjury after dinner. i had to put her down in the hotel book as mrs reginald bridgenorth: leo's name! do you know what that feels like to a decent man? do you know what a decent man feels about his wife's name? how would you like to go into a hotel before all the waiters and people with--with that on your arm? not that it was the poor girl's fault, of course; only she started crying because i couldnt stand her touching me; and now she keeps writing to me. and then i'm held up in the public court for cruelty and adultery, and turned away from edith's wedding by alice, and lectured by you! a bachelor, and a precious green one at that. what do you know about it? the general. am i to understand that the whole case was one of collusion? reginald. of course it was. half the cases are collusions: what are people to do? [the general, passing his hand dazedly over his bewildered brow, sinks into the railed chair]. and what do you take me for, that you should have the cheek to pretend to believe all that rot about my knocking leo about and leaving her for--for a--a-- ugh! you should have seen her. the general. this is perfectly astonishing to me. why did you do it? why did leo allow it? reginald. youd better ask her. leo [still in tears] i'm sure i never thought it would be so horrid for rejjy. i offered honorably to do it myself, and let him divorce me; but he wouldnt. and he said himself that it was the only way to do it--that it was the law that he should do it that way. i never saw that hateful creature until that day in court. if he had only shewn her to me before, i should never have allowed it. mrs bridgenorth. you did all this for leo's sake, rejjy? reginald [with an unbearable sense of injury] i shouldnt mind a bit if it were for leo's sake. but to have to do it to make room for that mushroom-faced serpent--! the general [jumping up] what right had he to be made room for? are you in your senses? what right? reginald. the right of being a young man, suitable to a young woman. i had no right at my age to marry leo: she knew no more about life than a child. leo. i knew a great deal more about it than a great baby like you. i'm sure i dont know how youll get on with no one to take care of you: i often lie awake at night thinking about it. and now youve made me thoroughly miserable. reginald. serve you right! [she weeps]. there: dont get into a tantrum, leo. lesbia. may one ask who is the mushroom-faced serpent? leo. he isnt. reginald. sinjon hotchkiss, of course. mrs bridgenorth. sinjon hotchkiss! why, he's coming to the wedding! reginald. what! in that case i'm off [he makes for the tower]. leo } { [seizing him] no you shant. you promised to be nice to (all four him. the general } rushing { no, dont go, old chap. not after him from edith's wedding. and capturing him on the mrs. bridge- threshold) north } { oh, do stay, benjjy. i shall really be hurt if you desert us. lesbia } { better stay, reginald. you must meet him sooner or later. reginald. a moment ago, when i wanted to stay, you were all shoving me out of the house. now that i want to go, you wont let me. mrs bridgenorth. i shall send a note to mr hotchkiss not to come. leo [weeping again] oh, alice! [she comes back to her chair, heartbroken]. reginald [out of patience] oh well, let her have her way. let her have her mushroom. let him come. let them all come. he crosses the kitchen to the oak chest and sits sulkily on it. mrs bridgenorth shrugs her shoulders and sits at the table in reginald's neighborhood listening in placid helplessness. lesbia, out of patience with leo's tears, goes into the garden and sits there near the door, snuffing up the open air in her relief from the domestic stuffness of reginald's affairs. leo. it's so cruel of you to go on pretending that i dont care for you, rejjy. reginald [bitterly] she explained to me that it was only that she had exhausted my conversation. the general [coming paternally to leo] my dear girl: all the conversation in the world has been exhausted long ago. heaven knows i have exhausted the conversation of the british army these thirty years; but i dont leave it on that account. leo. it's not that ive exhausted it; but he will keep on repeating it when i want to read or go to sleep. and sinjon amuses me. he's so clever. the general [stung] ha! the old complaint. you all want geniuses to marry. this demand for clever men is ridiculous. somebody must marry the plain, honest, stupid fellows. have you thought of that? leo. but there are such lots of stupid women to marry. why do they want to marry us? besides, rejjy knows that i'm quite fond of him. i like him because he wants me; and i like sinjon because i want him. i feel that i have a duty to rejjy. the general. precisely: you have. leo. and, of course, sinjon has the same duty to me. the general. tut, tut! leo. oh, how silly the law is! why cant i marry them both? the general [shocked] leo! leo. well, i love them both. i should like to marry a lot of men. i should like to have rejjy for every day, and sinjon for concerts and theatres and going out in the evenings, and some great austere saint for about once a year at the end of the season, and some perfectly blithering idiot of a boy to be quite wicked with. i so seldom feel wicked; and, when i do, it's such a pity to waste it merely because it's too silly to confess to a real grown-up man. reginald. this is the kind of thing, you know [helplessly] well, there it is! the general [decisively] alice: this is a job for the barmecide. he's a bishop: it's his duty to talk to leo. i can stand a good deal; but when it comes to flat polygamy and polyandry, we ought to do something. mrs bridgenorth [going to the study door] do come here a moment, alfred. we're in a difficulty. the bishop [within] ask collins, i'm busy. mrs bridgenorth. collins wont do. it's something very serious. do come just a moment, dear. [when she hears him coming she takes a chair at the nearest end of the table]. the bishop comes out of his study. he is still a slim active man, spare of flesh, and younger by temperament than his brothers. he has a delicate skin, fine hands, a salient nose with chin to match, a short beard which accentuates his sharp chin by bristling forward, clever humorous eyes, not without a glint of mischief in them, ready bright speech, and the ways of a successful man who is always interested in himself and generally rather well pleased with himself. when lesbia hears his voice she turns her chair towards him, and presently rises and stands in the doorway listening to the conversation. the bishop [going to leo] good morning, my dear. hullo! youve brought reginald with you. thats very nice of you. have you reconciled them, boxer? the general. reconciled them! why, man, the whole divorce was a put-up job. she wants to marry some fellow named hotchkiss. reginald. a fellow with a face like-- leo. you shant, rejjy. he has a very fine face. mrs bridgenorth. and now she says she wants to marry both of them, and a lot of other people as well. leo. i didnt say i wanted to marry them: i only said i should like to marry them. the bishop. quite a nice distinction, leo. leo. just occasionally, you know. the bishop [sitting down cosily beside her] quite so. sometimes a poet, sometimes a bishop, sometimes a fairy prince, sometimes somebody quite indescribable, and sometimes nobody at all. leo. yes: thats just it. how did you know? the bishop. oh, i should say most imaginative and cultivated young women feel like that. i wouldnt give a rap for one who didnt. shakespear pointed out long ago that a woman wanted a sunday husband as well as a weekday one. but, as usual, he didnt follow up the idea. the general [aghast] am i to understand-- the bishop [cutting him short] now, boxer, am i the bishop or are you? the general [sulkily] you. the bishop. then dont ask me are you to understand. "yours not to reason why: yours but to do and die"-- the general. oh, very well: go on. i'm not clever. only a silly soldier man. ha! go on. [he throws himself into the railed chair, as one prepared for the worst]. mrs bridgenorth. alfred: dont tease boxer. the bishop. if we are going to discuss ethical questions we must begin by giving the devil fair play. boxer never does. england never does. we always assume that the devil is guilty; and we wont allow him to prove his innocence, because it would be against public morals if he succeeded. we used to do the same with prisoners accused of high treason. and the consequence is that we overreach ourselves; and the devil gets the better of us after all. perhaps thats what most of us intend him to do. the general. alfred: we asked you here to preach to leo. you are preaching at me instead. i am not conscious of having said or done anything that calls for that unsolicited attention. the bishop. but poor little leo has only told the simple truth; whilst you, boxer, are striking moral attitudes. the general. i suppose thats an epigram. i dont understand epigrams. i'm only a silly soldier man. ha! but i can put a plain question. is leo to be encouraged to be a polygamist? the bishop. remember the british empire, boxer. youre a british general, you know. the general. what has that to do with polygamy? the bishop. well, the great majority of our fellow-subjects are polygamists. i cant as a british bishop insult them by speaking disrespectfully of polygamy. it's a very interesting question. many very interesting men have been polygamists: solomon, mahomet, and our friend the duke of--of--hm! i never can remember his name. the general. it would become you better, alfred, to send that silly girl back to her husband and her duty than to talk clever and mock at your religion. "what god hath joined together let no man put asunder." remember that. the bishop. dont be afraid, boxer. what god hath joined together no man ever shall put asunder: god will take care of that. [to leo] by the way, who was it that joined you and reginald, my dear? leo. it was that awful little curate that afterwards drank, and travelled first class with a third-class ticket, and then tried to go on the stage. but they wouldnt have him. he called himself egerton fotheringay. the bishop. well, whom egerton fotheringay hath joined, let sir gorell barnes put asunder by all means. the general. i may be a silly soldier man; but i call this blasphemy. the bishop [gravely] better for me to take the name of mr egerton fotheringay in earnest than for you to take a higher name in vain. lesbia. cant you three brothers ever meet without quarrelling? the bishop [mildly] this is not quarrelling, lesbia: it's only english family life. good morning. leo. you know, bishop, it's very dear of you to take my part; but i'm not sure that i'm not a little shocked. the bishop. then i think ive been a little more successful than boxer in getting you into a proper frame of mind. the general [snorting] ha! leo. not a bit; for now i'm going to shock you worse than ever. i think solomon was an old beast. the bishop. precisely what you ought to think of him, my dear. dont apologize. the general [more shocked] well, but hang it! solomon was in the bible. and, after all, solomon was solomon. leo. and i stick to it: i still want to have a lot of interesting men to know quite intimately--to say everything i think of to them, and have them say everything they think of to me. the bishop. so you shall, my dear, if you are lucky. but you know you neednt marry them all. think of all the buttons you would have to sew on. besides, nothing is more dreadful than a husband who keeps telling you everything he thinks, and always wants to know what you think. leo [struck by this] well, thats very true of rejjy: in fact, thats why i had to divorce him. the bishop [condoling] yes: he repeats himself dreadfully, doesnt he? reginald. look here, alfred. if i have my faults, let her find them out for herself without your help. the bishop. she has found them all out already, reginald. leo [a little huffily] after all, there are worse men than reginald. i daresay he's not so clever as you; but still he's not such a fool as you seem to think him! the bishop. quite right, dear: stand up for your husband. i hope you will always stand up for all your husbands. [he rises and goes to the hearth, where he stands complacently with his back to the fireplace, beaming at them all as at a roomful of children]. leo. please dont talk as if i wanted to marry a whole regiment. for me there can never be more than two. i shall never love anybody but rejjy and sinjon. reginald. a man with a face like a-- leo. i wont have it, rejjy. it's disgusting. the bishop. you see, my dear, youll exhaust sinjon's conversation too in a week or so. a man is like a phonograph with half-a-dozen records. you soon get tired of them all; and yet you have to sit at table whilst he reels them off to every new visitor. in the end you have to be content with his common humanity; and when you come down to that, you find out about men what a great english poet of my acquaintance used to say about women: that they all taste alike. marry whom you please: at the end of a month he'll be reginald over again. it wasnt worth changing: indeed it wasnt. leo. then it's a mistake to get married. the bishop. it is, my dear; but it's a much bigger mistake not to get married. the general [rising] ha! you hear that, lesbia? [he joins her at the garden door]. lesbia. thats only an epigram, boxer. the general. sound sense, lesbia. when a man talks rot, thats epigram: when he talks sense, then i agree with him. reginald [coming off the oak chest and looking at his watch] it's getting late. wheres edith? hasnt she got into her veil and orange blossoms yet? mrs bridgenorth. do go and hurry her, lesbia. lesbia [going out through the tower] come with me, leo. leo [following lesbia out] yes, certainly. the bishop goes over to his wife and sits down, taking her hand and kissing it by way of beginning a conversation with her. the bishop. alice: ive had another letter from the mysterious lady who cant spell. i like that woman's letters. theres an intensity of passion in them that fascinates me. mrs bridgenorth. do you mean incognita appassionata? the bishop. yes. the general [turning abruptly; he has been looking out into the garden] do you mean to say that women write love-letters to you? the bishop. of course. the general. they never do to me. the bishop. the army doesnt attract women: the church does. reginald. do you consider it right to let them? they may be married women, you know. the bishop. they always are. this one is. [to mrs bridgenorth] dont you think her letters are quite the best love-letters i get? [to the two men] poor alice has to read my love-letters aloud to me at breakfast, when theyre worth it. mrs bridgenorth. there really is something fascinating about incognita. she never gives her address. thats a good sign. the general. mf! no assignations, you mean? the bishop. oh yes: she began the correspondence by making a very curious but very natural assignation. she wants me to meet her in heaven. i hope i shall. the general. well, i must say i hope not, alfred. i hope not. mrs bridgenorth. she says she is happily married, and that love is a necessary of life to her, but that she must have, high above all her lovers-- the bishop. she has several apparently-- mrs bridgenorth. --some great man who will never know her, never touch her, as she is on earth, but whom she can meet in heaven when she has risen above all the everyday vulgarities of earthly love. the bishop [rising] excellent. very good for her; and no trouble to me. everybody ought to have one of these idealizations, like dante's beatrice. [he clasps his hands behind him, and strolls to the hearth and back, singing]. lesbia appears in the tower, rather perturbed. lesbia. alice: will you come upstairs? edith is not dressed. mrs bridgenorth [rising] not dressed! does she know what hour it is? lesbia. she has locked herself into her room, reading. the bishop's song ceases; he stops dead in his stroll. the general. reading! the bishop. what is she reading? lesbia. some pamphlet that came by the eleven o'clock post. she wont come out. she wont open the door. and she says she doesnt know whether she's going to be married or not till she's finished the pamphlet. did you ever hear such a thing? do come and speak to her. mrs bridgenorth. alfred: you had better go. the bishop. try collins. lesbia. weve tried collins already. he got all that ive told you out of her through the keyhole. come, alice. [she vanishes. mrs bridgenorth hurries after her]. the bishop. this means a delay. i shall go back to my work [he makes for the study door]. reginald. what are you working at now? the bishop [stopping] a chapter in my history of marriage. i'm just at the roman business, you know. the general [coming from the garden door to the chair mrs bridgenorth has just left, and sitting down] not more ritualism, i hope, alfred? the bishop. oh no. i mean ancient rome. [he seats himself on the edge of the table]. ive just come to the period when the propertied classes refused to get married and went in for marriage settlements instead. a few of the oldest families stuck to the marriage tradition so as to keep up the supply of vestal virgins, who had to be legitimate; but nobody else dreamt of getting married. it's all very interesting, because we're coming to that here in england; except that as we dont require any vestal virgins, nobody will get married at all, except the poor, perhaps. the general. you take it devilishly coolly. reginald: do you think the barmecide's quite sane? reginald. no worse than ever he was. the general [to the bishop] do you mean to say you believe such a thing will ever happen in england as that respectable people will give up being married? the bishop. in england especially they will. in other countries the introduction of reasonable divorce laws will save the situation; but in england we always let an institution strain itself until it breaks. ive told our last four prime ministers that if they didnt make our marriage laws reasonable there would be a strike against marriage, and that it would begin among the propertied classes, where no government would dare to interfere with it. reginald. what did they say to that? the bishop. the usual thing. quite agreed with me, but were sure that they were the only sensible men in the world, and that the least hint of marriage reform would lose them the next election. and then lost it all the same: on cordite, on drink, on chinese labor in south africa, on all sorts of trumpery. reginald [lurching across the kitchen towards the hearth with his hands in his pockets] it's no use: they wont listen to our sort. [turning on them] of course they have to make you a bishop and boxer a general, because, after all, their blessed rabble of snobs and cads and half-starved shopkeepers cant do government work; and the bounders and week-enders are too lazy and vulgar. theyd simply rot without us; but what do they ever do for us? what attention do they ever pay to what we say and what we want? i take it that we bridgenorths are a pretty typical english family of the sort that has always set things straight and stuck up for the right to think and believe according to our conscience. but nowadays we are expected to dress and eat as the week-end bounders do, and to think and believe as the converted cannibals of central africa do, and to lie down and let every snob and every cad and every halfpenny journalist walk over us. why, theres not a newspaper in england today that represents what i call solid bridgenorth opinion and tradition. half of them read as if they were published at the nearest mother's meeting, and the other half at the nearest motor garage. do you call these chaps gentlemen? do you call them englishmen? i dont.[he throws himself disgustedly into the nearest chair]. the general [excited by reginald's eloquence] do you see my uniform? what did collins say? it strikes the eye. it was meant to. i put it on expressly to give the modern army bounder a smack in the eye. somebody has to set a right example by beginning. well, let it be a bridgenorth. i believe in family blood and tradition, by george. the bishop [musing] i wonder who will begin the stand against marriage. it must come some day. i was married myself before i'd thought about it; and even if i had thought about it i was too much in love with alice to let anything stand in the way. but, you know, ive seen one of our daughters after another--ethel, jane, fanny, and christina and florence--go out at that door in their veils and orange blossoms; and ive always wondered whether theyd have gone quietly if theyd known what they were doing. ive a horrible misgiving about that pamphlet. all progress means war with society. heaven forbid that edith should be one of the combatants! st john hotchkiss comes into the tower ushered by collins. he is a very smart young gentleman of twenty-nine or thereabouts, correct in dress to the last thread of his collar, but too much preoccupied with his ideas to be embarrassed by any concern as to his appearance. he talks about himself with energetic gaiety. he talks to other people with a sweet forbearance (implying a kindly consideration for their stupidity) which infuriates those whom he does not succeed in amusing. they either lose their tempers with him or try in vain to snub him. collins [announcing] mr hotchkiss. [he withdraws]. hotchkiss [clapping reginald gaily on the shoulder as he passes him] tootle loo, rejjy. reginald [curtly, without rising or turning his head] morning. hotchkiss. good morning, bishop. the bishop [coming off the table]. what on earth are you doing here, sinjon? you belong to the bridegroom's party: youve no business here until after the ceremony. hotchkiss. yes, i know: thats just it. may i have a word with you in private? rejjy or any of the family wont matter; but--[he glances at the general, who has risen rather stiffly, as he strongly disapproves of the part played by hotchkiss in reginald's domestic affairs]. the bishop. all right, sinjon. this is our brother, general bridgenorth. [he goes to the hearth and posts himself there, with his hands clasped behind him]. hotchkiss. oh, good! [he turns to the general, and takes out a card-case]. as you are in the service, allow me to introduce myself. read my card, please. [he presents his card to the astonished general]. the general [reading] "mr st john hotchkiss, the celebrated coward, late lieutenant in the th fusiliers." reginald [with a chuckle] he was sent back from south africa because he funked an order to attack, and spoiled his commanding officer's plan. the general [very gravely] i remember the case now. i had forgotten the name. i'll not refuse your acquaintance, mr hotchkiss; partly because youre my brother's guest, and partly because ive seen too much active service not to know that every man's nerve plays him false at one time or another, and that some very honorable men should never go into action at all, because theyre not built that way. but if i were you i should not use that visiting card. no doubt it's an honorable trait in your character that you dont wish any man to give you his hand in ignorance of your disgrace; but you had better allow us to forget. we wish to forget. it isnt your disgrace alone: it's a disgrace to the army and to all of us. pardon my plain speaking. hotchkiss [sunnily] my dear general, i dont know what fear means in the military sense of the word. ive fought seven duels with the sabre in italy and austria, and one with pistols in france, without turning a hair. there was no other way in which i could vindicate my motives in refusing to make that attack at smutsfontein. i dont pretend to be a brave man. i'm afraid of wasps. i'm afraid of cats. in spite of the voice of reason, i'm afraid of ghosts; and twice ive fled across europe from false alarms of cholera. but afraid to fight i am not. [he turns gaily to reginald and slaps him on the shoulder]. eh, rejjy? [reginald grunts]. the general. then why did you not do your duty at smutsfontein? hotchkiss. i did my duty--my higher duty. if i had made that attack, my commanding officer's plan would have been successful, and he would have been promoted. now i happen to think that the british army should be commanded by gentlemen, and by gentlemen alone. this man was not a gentleman. i sacrificed my military career--i faced disgrace and social ostracism rather than give that man his chance. the general [generously indignant] your commanding officer, sir, was my friend major billiter. hotchkiss. precisely. what a name! the general. and pray, sir, on what ground do you dare allege that major billiter is not a gentleman? hotchkiss. by an infallible sign: one of those trifles that stamp a man. he eats rice pudding with a spoon. the general [very angry] confound you, _i_ eat rice pudding with a spoon. now! hotchkiss. oh, so do i, frequently. but there are ways of doing these things. billiter's way was unmistakable. the general. well, i'll tell you something now. when i thought you were only a coward, i pitied you, and would have done what i could to help you back to your place in society-- hotchkiss [interrupting him] thank you: i havnt lost it. my motives have been fully appreciated. i was made an honorary member of two of the smartest clubs in london when the truth came out. the general. well, sir, those clubs consist of snobs; and you are a jumping, bounding, prancing, snorting snob yourself. the bishop [amused, but hospitably remonstrant] my dear boxer! hotchkiss [delighted] how kind of you to say so, general! youre quite right: i am a snob. why not? the whole strength of england lies in the fact that the enormous majority of the english people are snobs. they insult poverty. they despise vulgarity. they love nobility. they admire exclusiveness. they will not obey a man risen from the ranks. they never trust one of their own class. i agree with them. i share their instincts. in my undergraduate days i was a republican-a socialist. i tried hard to feel toward a common man as i do towards a duke. i couldnt. neither can you. well, why should we be ashamed of this aspiration towards what is above us? why dont i say that an honest man's the noblest work of god? because i dont think so. if he's not a gentleman, i dont care whether he's honest or not: i shouldnt let his son marry my daughter. and thats the test, mind. thats the test. you feel as i do. you are a snob in fact: i am a snob, not only in fact, but on principle. i shall go down in history, not as the first snob, but as the first avowed champion of english snobbery, and its first martyr in the army. the navy boasts two such martyrs in captains kirby and wade, who were shot for refusing to fight under admiral benbow, a promoted cabin boy. i have always envied them their glory. the general. as a british general, sir, i have to inform you that if any officer under my command violated the sacred equality of our profession by putting a single jot of his duty or his risk on the shoulders of the humblest drummer boy, i'd shoot him with my own hand. hotchkiss. that sentiment is not your equality, general, but your superiority. ask the bishop. [he seats himself on the edge of the table]. the bishop. i cant support you, sinjon. my profession also compels me to turn my back on snobbery. you see, i have to do such a terribly democratic thing to every child that is brought to me. without distinction of class i have to confer on it a rank so high and awful that all the grades in debrett and burke seem like the medals they give children in infant schools in comparison. i'm not allowed to make any class distinction. they are all soldiers and servants, not officers and masters. hotchkiss. ah, youre quoting the baptism service. thats not a bit real, you know. if i may say so, you would both feel so much more at peace with yourselves if you would acknowledge and confess your real convictions. you know you dont really think a bishop the equal of a curate, or a lieutenant in a line regiment the equal of a general. the bishop. of course i do. i was a curate myself. the general. and i was a lieutenant in a line regiment. reginald. and i was nothing. but we're all our own and one another's equals, arnt we? so perhaps when youve quite done talking about yourselves, we shall get to whatever business sinjon came about. hotchkiss [coming off the table hastily] my dear fellow. i beg a thousand pardons. oh! true, it's about the wedding? the general. what about the wedding? hotchkiss. well, we cant get our man up to the scratch. cecil has locked himself in his room and wont see or speak to any one. i went up to his room and banged at the door. i told him i should look through the keyhole if he didnt answer. i looked through the keyhole. he was sitting on his bed, reading a book. [reginald rises in consternation. the general recoils]. i told him not to be an ass, and so forth. he said he was not going to budge until he had finished the book. i asked him did he know what time it was, and whether he happened to recollect that he had a rather important appointment to marry edith. he said the sooner i stopped interrupting him, the sooner he'd be ready. then he stuffed his fingers in his ears; turned over on his elbows; and buried himself in his beastly book. i couldnt get another word out of him; so i thought i'd better come here and warn you. reginald. this looks to me like theyve arranged it between them. the bishop. no. edith has no sense of humor. and ive never seen a man in a jocular mood on his wedding morning. collins appears in the tower, ushering in the bridegroom, a young gentleman with good looks of the serious kind, somewhat careworn by an exacting conscience, and just now distracted by insoluble problems of conduct. collins [announcing] mr cecil sykes. [he retires]. hotchkiss. look here, cecil: this is all wrong. youve no business here until after the wedding. hang it, man! youre the bridegroom. sykes [coming to the bishop, and addressing him with dogged desperation] ive come here to say this. when i proposed to edith i was in utter ignorance of what i was letting myself in for legally. having given my word, i will stand to it. you have me at your mercy: marry me if you insist. but take notice that i protest. [he sits down distractedly in the railed chair]. the general {both } what the devil do you mean by {highly } this? what the-- reginald {incensed} confound your impertinence, what do you-- hotchkiss { } easy, rejjy. easy, old man. steady, steady. { } [reginald subsides into his chair. hotchkiss { } sits on his right, appeasing him.] the bishop { } no, please, rej. control yourself, boxer, i beg you. the general. i tell you i cant control myself. ive been controlling myself for the last half-hour until i feel like bursting. [he sits down furiously at the end of the table next the study]. sykes [pointing to the simmering reginald and the boiling general] thats just it, bishop. edith is her uncle's niece. she cant control herself any more than they can. and she's a bishop's daughter. that means that she's engaged in social work of all sorts: organizing shop assistants and sweated work girls and all that. when her blood boils about it (and it boils at least once a week) she doesnt care what she says. reginald. well: you knew that when you proposed to her. sykes. yes; but i didnt know that when we were married i should be legally responsible if she libelled anybody, though all her property is protected against me as if i were the lowest thief and cadger. this morning somebody sent me belfort bax's essays on men's wrongs; and they have been a perfect eye-opener to me. bishop: i'm not thinking of myself: i would face anything for edith. but my mother and sisters are wholly dependent on my property. i'd rather have to cut off an inch from my right arm than a hundred a year from my mother's income. i owe everything to her care of me. edith, in dressing-jacket and petticoat, comes in through the tower, swiftly and determinedly, pamphlet in hand, principles up in arms, more of a bishop than her father, yet as much a gentlewoman as her mother. she is the typical spoilt child of a clerical household: almost as terrible a product as the typical spoilt child of a bohemian household: that is, all her childish affectations of conscientious scruple and religious impulse have been applauded and deferred to until she has become an ethical snob of the first water. her father's sense of humor and her mother's placid balance have done something to save her humanity; but her impetuous temper and energetic will, unrestrained by any touch of humor or scepticism, carry everything before them. imperious and dogmatic, she takes command of the party at once. edith [standing behind cecil's chair] cecil: i heard your voice. i must speak to you very particularly. papa: go away. go away everybody. the bishop [crossing to the study door] i think there can be no doubt that edith wishes us to retire. come. [he stands in the doorway, waiting for them to follow]. sykes. thats it, you see. it's just this outspokenness that makes my position hard, much as i admire her for it. edith. do you want me to flatter and be untruthful? sykes. no, not exactly that. edith. does anybody want me to flatter and be untruthful? hotchkiss. well, since you ask me, i do. surely it's the very first qualification for tolerable social intercourse. the general [markedly] i hope you will always tell me the truth, my darling, at all events. edith [complacently coming to the fireplace] you can depend on me for that, uncle boxer. hotchkiss. are you sure you have any adequate idea of what the truth about a military man really is? reginald [aggressively] whats the truth about you, i wonder? hotchkiss. oh, quite unfit for publication in its entirety. if miss bridgenorth begins telling it, i shall have to leave the room. reginald. i'm not at all surprised to hear it. [rising] but whats it got to do with our business here to-day? is it you thats going to be married or is it edith? hotchkiss. i'm so sorry, i get so interested in myself that i thrust myself into the front of every discussion in the most insufferable way. [reginald, with an exclamation of disgust, crosses the kitchen towards the study door]. but, my dear rejjy, are you quite sure that miss bridgenorth is going to be married? are you, miss bridgenorth? before edith has time to answer her mother returns with leo and lesbia. leo. yes, here she is, of course. i told you i heard her dash downstairs. [she comes to the end of the table next the fireplace]. mrs bridgenorth [transfixed in the middle of the kitchen] and cecil!! lesbia. and sinjon! the bishop. edith wishes to speak to cecil. [mrs bridgenorth comes to him. lesbia goes into the garden, as before]. let us go into my study. leo. but she must come and dress. look at the hour! mrs bridgenorth. come, leo dear. [leo follows her reluctantly. they are about to go into the study with the bishop]. hotchkiss. do you know, miss bridgenorth, i should most awfully like to hear what you have to say to poor cecil. reginald [scandalized] well! edith. who is poor cecil, pray? hotchkiss. one always calls a man that on his wedding morning: i dont know why. i'm his best man, you know. dont you think it gives me a certain right to be present in cecil's interest? the general [gravely] there is such a thing as delicacy, mr hotchkiss. hotchkiss. there is such a thing as curiosity, general. the general [furious] delicacy is thrown away here, alfred. edith: you had better take sykes into the study. the group at the study door breaks up. the general flings himself into the last chair on the long side of the table, near the garden door. leo sits at the end, next him, and mrs bridgenorth next leo. reginald returns to the oak chest, to be near leo; and the bishop goes to his wife and stands by her. hotchkiss [to edith] of course i'll go if you wish me to. but cecil's objection to go through with it was so entirely on public grounds-- edith [with quick suspicion] his objection? sykes. sinjon: you have no right to say that. i expressly said that i'm ready to go through with it. edith. cecil: do you mean to say that you have been raising difficulties about our marriage? sykes. i raise no difficulty. but i do beg you to be careful what you say about people. you must remember, my dear, that when we are married i shall be responsible for everything you say. only last week you said on a public platform that slattox and chinnery were scoundrels. they could have got a thousand pounds damages apiece from me for that if we'd been married at the time. edith [austerely] i never said anything of the sort. i never stoop to mere vituperation: what would my girls say of me if i did? i chose my words most carefully. i said they were tyrants, liars, and thieves; and so they are. slattox is even worse. hotchkiss. i'm afraid that would be at least five thousand pounds. sykes. if it were only myself, i shouldnt care. but my mother and sisters! ive no right to sacrifice them. edith. you neednt be alarmed. i'm not going to be married. all the rest. not! sykes [in consternation] edith! are you throwing me over? edith. how can i? you have been beforehand with me. sykes. on my honor, no. all i said was that i didnt know the law when i asked you to be my wife. edith. and you wouldnt have asked me if you had. is that it? sykes. no. i should have asked you for my sake be a little more careful--not to ruin me uselessly. edith. you think the truth useless? hotchkiss. much worse than useless, i assure you. frequently most mischievous. edith. sinjon: hold your tongue. you are a chatterbox and a fool! mrs bridgenorth } [shocked] { edith! the bishop } { my love! hotchkiss [mildly] i shall not take an action, cecil. edith [to hotchkiss] sorry; but you are old enough to know better. [to the others] and now since there is to be no wedding, we had better get back to our work. mamma: will you tell collins to cut up the wedding cake into thirty-three pieces for the club girls? my not being married is no reason why they should be disappointed. [she turns to go]. hotchkiss [gallantly] if youll allow me to take cecil's place, miss bridgenorth-- leo. sinjon! hotchkiss. oh, i forgot. i beg your pardon. [to edith, apologetically] a prior engagement. edith. what! you and leo! i thought so. well, hadnt you two better get married at once? i dont approve of long engagements. the breakfast's ready: the cake's ready: everything's ready. i'll lend leo my veil and things. the bishop. i'm afraid they must wait until the decree is made absolute, my dear. and the license is not transferable. edith. oh well, it cant be helped. is there anything else before i go off to the club? sykes. you dont seem much disappointed, edith. i cant help saying that much. edith. and you cant help looking enormously relieved, cecil. we shant be any worse friends, shall we? sykes [distractedly] of course not. still--i'm perfectly ready-- at least--if it were not for my mother--oh, i dont know what to do. ive been so fond of you; and when the worry of the wedding was over i should have been so fond of you again-- edith [petting him] come, come! dont make a scene, dear. youre quite right. i dont think a woman doing public work ought to get married unless her husband feels about it as she does. i dont blame you at all for throwing me over. reginald [bouncing off the chest, and passing behind the general to the other end of the table] no: dash it! i'm not going to stand this. why is the man always to be put in the wrong? be honest, edith. why werent you dressed? were you going to throw him over? if you were, take your fair share of the blame; and dont put it all on him. hotchkiss [sweetly] would it not be better-- reginald [violently] now look here, hotchkiss. who asked you to cut in? is your name edith? am i your uncle? hotchkiss. i wish you were: i should like to have an uncle, reginald. reginald. yah! sykes: are you ready to marry edith or are you not? sykes. ive already said that i'm quite ready. a promise is a promise. reginald. we dont want to know whether a promise is a promise or not. cant you answer yes or no without spoiling it and setting hotchkiss here grinning like a cheshire cat? if she puts on her veil and goes to church, will you marry her? sykes. certainly. yes. reginald. thats all right. now, edie, put on your veil and off with you to the church. the bridegroom's waiting. [he sits down at the table]. edith. is it understood that slattox and chinnery are liars and thieves, and that i hope by next wednesday to have in my hands conclusive evidence that slattox is something much worse? sykes. i made no conditions as to that when i proposed to you; and now i cant go back. i hope providence will spare my poor mother. i say again i'm ready to marry you. edith. then i think you shew great weakness of character; and instead of taking advantage of it i shall set you a better example. i want to know is this true. [she produces a pamphlet and takes it to the bishop; then sits down between hotchkiss and her mother]. the bishop [reading the title] do you know what you are going to do? by a woman who has done it. may i ask, my dear, what she did? edith. she got married. when she had three children--the eldest only four years old--her husband committed a murder, and then attempted to commit suicide, but only succeeded in disfiguring himself. instead of hanging him, they sent him to penal servitude for life, for the sake, they said, of his wife and infant children. and she could not get a divorce from that horrible murderer. they would not even keep him imprisoned for life. for twenty years she had to live singly, bringing up her children by her own work, and knowing that just when they were grown up and beginning life, this dreadful creature would be let out to disgrace them all, and prevent the two girls getting decently married, and drive the son out of the country perhaps. is that really the law? am i to understand that if cecil commits a mur- der, or forges, or steals, or becomes an atheist, i cant get divorced from him? the bishop. yes, my dear. that is so. you must take him for better for worse. edith. then i most certainly refuse to enter into any such wicked contract. what sort of servants? what sort of friends? what sort of prime ministers should we have if we took them for better for worse for all their lives? we should simply encourage them in every sort of wickedness. surely my husband's conduct is of more importance to me than mr balfour's or mr asquith's. if i had known the law i would never have consented. i dont believe any woman would if she realized what she was doing. sykes. but i'm not going to commit murder. edith. how do you know? ive sometimes wanted to murder slattox. have you never wanted to murder somebody, uncle rejjy? reginald [at hotchkiss, with intense expression] yes. leo. rejjy! reginald. i said yes; and i mean yes. there was one night, hotchkiss, when i jolly near shot you and leo and finished up with myself; and thats the truth. leo [suddenly whimpering] oh rejjy [she runs to him and kisses him]. reginald [wrathfully] be off. [she returns weeping to her seat]. mrs bridgenorth [petting leo, but speaking to the company at large] but isnt all this great nonsense? what likelihood is there of any of us committing a crime? hotchkiss. oh yes, i assure you. i went into the matter once very carefully; and i found things i have actually done--things that everybody does, i imagine--would expose me, if i were found out and prosecuted, to ten years' penal servitude, two years hard labor, and the loss of all civil rights. not counting that i'm a private trustee, and, like all private trustees, a fraudulent one. otherwise, the widow for whom i am trustee would starve occasionally, and the children get no education. and i'm probably as honest a man as any here. the general [outraged] do you imply that i have been guilty of conduct that would expose me to penal servitude? hotchkiss. i should think it quite likely, but of course i dont know. mrs bridgenorth. but bless me! marriage is not a question of law, is it? have you children no affection for one another? surely thats enough? hotchkiss. if it's enough, why get married? mrs bridgenorth. stuff, sinjon! of course people must get married. [uneasily] alfred: why dont you say something? surely youre not going to let this go on. the general. ive been waiting for the last twenty minutes, alfred, in amazement! in stupefaction! to hear you put a stop to all this. we look to you: it's your place, your office, your duty. exert your authority at once. the bishop. you must give the devil fair play, boxer. until you have heard and weighed his case you have no right to condemn him. i'm sorry you have been kept waiting twenty minutes; but i myself have waited twenty years for this to happen. ive often wrestled with the temptation to pray that it might not happen in my own household. perhaps it was a presentiment that it might become a part of our old bridgenorth burden that made me warn our governments so earnestly that unless the law of marriage were first made human, it could never become divine. mrs bridgenorth. oh, do be sensible about this. people must get married. what would you have said if cecil's parents had not been married? the bishop. they were not, my dear. hotchkiss } { hallo! reginald } { what d'ye mean? the general } { eh? leo } { not married! mrs. bridgenorth } { what? sykes [rising in amazement] what on earth do you mean, bishop? my parents were married. hotchkiss. you cant remember, cecil. sykes. well, i never asked my mother to shew me her marriage lines, if thats what you mean. what man ever has? i never suspected--i never knew--are you joking? or have we all gone mad? the bishop. dont be alarmed, cecil. let me explain. your parents were not anglicans. you were not, i think, anglican yourself, until your second year at oxford. they were positivists. they went through the positivist ceremony at newton hall in fetter lane after entering into the civil contract before the registrar of the west strand district. i ask you, as an anglican catholic, was that a marriage? sykes [overwhelmed] great heavens, no! a thousand times, no. i never thought of that. i'm a child of sin. [he collapses into the railed chair]. the bishop. oh, come, come! you are no more a child of sin than any jew, or mohammedan, or nonconformist, or anyone else born outside the church. but you see how it affects my view of the situation. to me there is only one marriage that is holy: the church's sacrament of marriage. outside that, i can recognize no distinction between one civil contract and another. there was a time when all marriages were made in heaven. but because the church was unwise and would not make its ordinances reasonable, its power over men and women was taken away from it; and marriages gave place to contracts at a registry office. and now that our governments refuse to make these contracts reasonable, those whom we in our blindness drove out of the church will be driven out of the registry office; and we shall have the history of ancient rome repeated. we shall be joined by our solicitors for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years--or perhaps months. deeds of partnership will replace the old vows. the general. would you, a bishop, approve of such partnerships? the bishop. do you think that i, a bishop, approve of the deceased wife's sister act? that did not prevent its becoming law. the general. but when the government sounded you as to whether youd marry a man to his deceased wife's sister you very naturally and properly told them youd see them damned first. the bishop [horrified] no, no, really, boxer! you must not-- the general [impatiently] oh, of course i dont mean that you used those words. but that was the meaning and the spirit of it. the bishop. not the spirit, boxer, i protest. but never mind that. the point is that state marriage is already divorced from church marriage. the relations between leo and rejjy and sinjon are perfectly legal; but do you expect me, as a bishop, to approve of them? the general. i dont defend reginald. he should have kicked you out of the house, mr. hotchkiss. reginald [rising] how could i kick him out of the house? he's stronger than me: he could have kicked me out if it came to that. he did kick me out: what else was it but kicking out, to take my wife's affections from me and establish himself in my place? [he comes to the hearth]. hotchkiss. i protest, reginald, i said all that a man could to prevent the smash. reginald. oh, i know you did: i dont blame you: people dont do these things to one another: they happen and they cant be helped. what was i to do? i was old: she was young. i was dull: he was brilliant. i had a face like a walnut: he had a face like a mushroom. i was as glad to have him in the house as she was: he amused me. and we were a couple of fools: he gave us good advice --told us what to do when we didnt know. she found out that i wasnt any use to her and he was; so she nabbed him and gave me the chuck. leo. if you dont stop talking in that disgraceful way about our married life, i'll leave the room and never speak to you again. reginald. youre not going to speak to me again, anyhow, are you? do you suppose i'm going to visit you when you marry him? hotchkiss. i hope so. surely youre not going to be vindictive, rejjy. besides, youll have all the advantages i formerly enjoyed. youll be the visitor, the relief, the new face, the fresh news, the hopeless attachment: i shall only be the husband. reginald [savagely] will you tell me this, any of you? how is it that we always get talking about hotchkiss when our business is about edith? [he fumes up the kitchen to the tower and back to his chair]. mrs bridgenorth. will somebody tell me how the world is to go on if nobody is to get married? sykes. will somebody tell me what an honorable man and a sincere anglican is to propose to a woman whom he loves and who loves him and wont marry him? leo. will somebody tell me how i'm to arrange to take care of rejjy when i'm married to sinjon. rejjy must not be allowed to marry anyone else, especially that odious nasty creature that told all those wicked lies about him in court. hotchkiss. let us draw up the first english partnership deed. leo. for shame, sinjon! the bishop. somebody must begin, my dear. ive a very strong suspicion that when it is drawn up it will be so much worse than the existing law that you will all prefer getting married. we shall therefore be doing the greatest possible service to morality by just trying how the new system would work. lesbia [suddenly reminding them of her forgotten presence as she stands thoughtfully in the garden doorway] ive been thinking. the bishop [to hotchkiss] nothing like making people think: is there, sinjon? lesbia [coming to the table, on the general's left] a woman has no right to refuse motherhood. that is clear, after the statistics given in the times by mr sidney webb. the general. mr webb has nothing to do with it. it is the voice of nature. lesbia. but if she is an english lady it is her right and her duty to stand out for honorable conditions. if we can agree on the conditions, i am willing to enter into an alliance with boxer. the general staggers to his feet, momentarily stupent and speechless. edith [rising] and i with cecil. leo [rising] and i with rejjy and st john. the general [aghast] an alliance! do you mean a--a--a-- reginald. she only means bigamy, as i understand her. the general. alfred: how long more are you going to stand there and countenance this lunacy? is it a horrible dream or am i awake? in the name of common sense and sanity, let us go back to real life-- collins comes in through the tower, in alderman's robes. the ladies who are standing sit down hastily, and look as unconcerned as possible. collins. sorry to hurry you, my lord; but the church has been full this hour past; and the organist has played all the wedding music in lohengrin three times over. the general. the very man we want. alfred: i'm not equal to this crisis. you are not equal to it. the army has failed. the church has failed. i shall put aside all idle social distinctions and appeal to the municipality. mrs bridgenorth. do, boxer. he is sure to get us out of this difficulty. collins, a little puzzled, comes forward affably to hotchkiss's left. hotchkiss [rising, impressed by the aldermanic gown] ive not had the pleasure. will you introduce me? collins [confidentially] all right, sir. only the greengrocer, sir, in charge of the wedding breakfast. mr alderman collins, sir, when i'm in my gown. hotchkiss [staggered] very pleased indeed [he sits down again]. the bishop. personally i value the counsel of my old friend, mr alderman collins, very highly. if edith and cecil will allow him-- edith. collins has known me from my childhood: i'm sure he will agree with me. collins. yes, miss: you may depend on me for that. might i ask what the difficulty is? edith. simply this. do you expect me to get married in the existing state of the law? sykes [rising and coming to collin's left elbow] i put it to you as a sensible man: is it any worse for her than for me? reginald [leaving his place and thrusting himself between collins and sykes, who returns to his chair] thats not the point. let this be understood, mr collins. it's not the man who is backing out: it's the woman. [he posts himself on the hearth]. lesbia. we do not admit that, collins. the women are perfectly ready to make a reasonable arrangement. leo. with both men. the general. the case is now before you, mr collins. and i put it to you as one man to another: did you ever hear such crazy nonsense? mrs bridgenorth. the world must go on, mustnt it, collins? collins [snatching at this, the first intelligible proposition he has heard] oh, the world will go on, maam dont you be afraid of that. it aint so easy to stop it as the earnest kind of people think. edith. i knew you would agree with me, collins. thank you. hotchkiss. have you the least idea of what they are talking about, mr alderman? collins. oh, thats all right, sir. the particulars dont matter. i never read the report of a committee: after all, what can they say, that you dont know? you pick it up as they go on talking.[he goes to the corner of the table and speaks across it to the company]. well, my lord and miss edith and madam and gentlemen, it's like this. marriage is tolerable enough in its way if youre easygoing and dont expect too much from it. but it doesnt bear thinking about. the great thing is to get the young people tied up before they know what theyre letting themselves in for. theres miss lesbia now. she waited till she started thinking about it; and then it was all over. if you once start arguing, miss edith and mr sykes, youll never get married. go and get married first: youll have plenty of arguing afterwards, miss, believe me. hotchkiss. your warning comes too late. theyve started arguing already. the general. but you dont take in the full--well, i dont wish to exaggerate; but the only word i can find is the full horror of the situation. these ladies not only refuse our honorable offers, but as i understand it--and i'm sure i beg your pardon most heartily, lesbia, if i'm wrong, as i hope i am--they actually call on us to enter into--i'm sorry to use the expression; but what can i say?--into alliances with them under contracts to be drawn up by our confounded solicitors. collins. dear me, general: thats something new when the parties belong to the same class. the bishop. not new, collins. the romans did it. collins. yes: they would, them romans. when youre in rome do as the romans do, is an old saying. but we're not in rome at present, my lord. the bishop. we have got into many of their ways. what do you think of the contract system, collins? collins. well, my lord, when theres a question of a contract, i always say, shew it to me on paper. if it's to be talk, let it be talk; but if it's to be a contract, down with it in black and white; and then we shall know what we're about. hotchkiss. quite right, mr alderman. let us draft it at once. may i go into the study for writing materials, bishop? the bishop. do, sinjon. hotchkiss goes into the library. collins. if i might point out a difficulty, my lord-- the bishop. certainly. [he goes to the fourth chair from the general's left, but before sitting down, courteously points to the chair at the end of the table next the hearth]. wont you sit down, mr alderman? [collins, very appreciative of the bishop's distinguished consideration, sits down. the bishop then takes his seat]. collins. we are at present six men to four ladies. thats not fair. reginald. not fair to the men, you mean. leo. oh! rejjy has said something clever! can i be mistaken in him? hotchkiss comes back with a blotter and some paper. he takes the vacant place in the middle of the table between lesbia and the bishop. collins. i tell you the truth, my lord and ladies and gentlemen: i dont trust my judgment on this subject. theres a certain lady that i always consult on delicate points like this. she has a very exceptional experience, and a wonderful temperament and instinct in affairs of the heart. hotchkiss. excuse me, mr alderman: i'm a snob; and i warn you that theres no use consulting anyone who will not advise us frankly on class lines. marriage is good enough for the lower classes: they have facilities for desertion that are denied to us. what is the social position of this lady? collins. the highest in the borough, sir. she is the mayoress. but you need not stand in awe of her, sir. she is my sister-in- law. [to the bishop] ive often spoken of her to your lady, my lord. [to mrs bridgenorth] mrs george, maam. mrs bridgenorth [startled] do you mean to say, collins, that mrs george is a real person? collins [equally startled] didnt you believe in her, maam? mrs bridgenorth. never for a moment. the bishop. we always thought that mrs george was too good to be true. i still dont believe in her, collins. you must produce her if you are to convince me. collins [overwhelmed] well, i'm so taken aback by this that--well i never!!! why! shes at the church at this moment, waiting to see the wedding. the bishop. then produce her. [collins shakes his head].come, collins! confess. theres no such person. collins. there is, my lord: there is, i assure you. you ask george. it's true i cant produce her; but you can, my lord. the bishop. i! collins. yes, my lord, you. for some reason that i never could make out, she has forbidden me to talk about you, or to let her meet you. ive asked her to come here of a wedding morning to help with the flowers or the like; and she has always refused. but if you order her to come as her bishop, she'll come. she has some very strange fancies, has mrs george. send your ring to her, my lord--he official ring--send it by some very stylish gentleman-- perhaps mr hotchkiss here would be good enough to take it--and she'll come. the bishop [taking off his ring and handing it to hotchkiss] oblige me by undertaking the mission. hotchkiss. but how am i to know the lady? collins. she has gone to the church in state, sir, and will be attended by a beadle with a mace. he will point her out to you; and he will take the front seat of the carriage on the way back. hotchkiss. no, by heavens! forgive me, bishop; but you are asking too much. i ran away from the boers because i was a snob. i run away from the beadle for the same reason. i absolutely decline the mission. the general [rising impressively] be good enough to give me that ring, mr hotchkiss. hotchkiss. with pleasure. [he hands it to him]. the general. i shall have the great pleasure, mr alderman, in waiting on the mayoress with the bishop's orders; and i shall be proud to return with municipal honors. [he stalks out gallantly, collins rising for a moment to bow to him with marked dignity]. reginald. boxer is rather a fine old josser in his way. hotchkiss. his uniform gives him an unfair advantage. he will take all the attention off the beadle. collins. i think it would be as well, my lord, to go on with the contract while we're waiting. the truth is, we shall none of us have much of a look-in when mrs george comes; so we had better finish the writing part of the business before she arrives. hotchkiss. i think i have the preliminaries down all right. [reading] 'memorandum of agreement made this day of blank blank between blank blank of blank blank in the county of blank, esquire, hereinafter called the gentleman, of the one part, and blank blank of blank in the county of blank, hereinafter called the lady, of the other part, whereby it is declared and agreed as follows.' leo [rising] you might remember your manners, sinjon. the lady comes first. [she goes behind him and stoops to look at the draft over his shoulder]. hotchkiss. to be sure. i beg your pardon. [he alters the draft]. leo. and you have got only one lady and one gentleman. there ought to be two gentlemen. collins. oh, thats a mere matter of form, maam. any number of ladies or gentlemen can be put in. leo. not any number of ladies. only one lady. besides, that creature wasnt a lady. reginald. you shut your head, leo. this is a general sort of contract for everybody: it's not your tract. leo. then what use is it to me? hotchkiss. you will get some hints from it for your own contract. edith. i hope there will be no hinting. let us have the plain straightforward truth and nothing but the truth. collins. yes, yes, miss: it will be all right. theres nothing underhand, i assure you. it's a model agreement, as it were. edith [unconvinced] i hope so. hotchkiss. what is the first clause in an agreement, usually? you know, mr alderman. collins [at a loss] well, sir, the town clerk always sees to that. ive got out of the habit of thinking for myself in these little matters. perhaps his lordship knows. the bishop. i'm sorry to say i dont. soames will know. alice, where is soames? hotchkiss. he's in there [pointing to the study]. the bishop [to his wife] coax him to join us, my love. [mrs bridgenorth goes into the study]. soames is my chaplain, mr collins. the great difficulty about bishops in the church of england to-day is that the affairs of the diocese make it necessary that a bishop should be before everything a man of business, capable of sticking to his desk for sixteen hours a day. but the result of having bishops of this sort is that the spiritual interests of the church, and its influence on the souls and imaginations of the people, very soon begins to go rapidly to the devil-- edith [shocked] papa! the bishop. i am speaking technically, not in boxer's manner. indeed the bishops themselves went so far in that direction that they gained a reputation for being spiritually the stupidest men in the country and commercially the sharpest. i found a way out of this difficulty. soames was my solicitor. i found that soames, though a very capable man of business, had a romantic secret his- tory. his father was an eminent nonconformist divine who habitually spoke of the church of england as the scarlet woman. soames became secretly converted to anglicanism at the age of fifteen. he longed to take holy orders, but didnt dare to, because his father had a weak heart and habitually threatened to drop dead if anybody hurt his feelings. you may have noticed that people with weak hearts are the tyrants of english family life. so poor soames had to become a solicitor. when his father died-- by a curious stroke of poetic justice he died of scarlet fever, and was found to have had a perfectly sound heart--i ordained soames and made him my chaplain. he is now quite happy. he is a celibate; fasts strictly on fridays and throughout lent; wears a cassock and biretta; and has more legal business to do than ever he had in his old office in ely place. and he sets me free for the spiritual and scholarly pursuits proper to a bishop. mrs bridgenorth [coming back from the study with a knitting basket] here he is. [she resumes her seat, and knits]. soames comes in in cassock and biretta. he salutes the company by blessing them with two fingers. hotchkiss. take my place, mr soames. [he gives up his chair to him, and retires to the oak chest, on which he seats himself]. the bishop. no longer mr soames, sinjon. father anthony. soames [taking his seat] i was christened oliver cromwell soames. my father had no right to do it. i have taken the name of anthony. when you become parents, young gentlemen, be very careful not to label a helpless child with views which it may come to hold in abhorrence. the bishop. has alice explained to you the nature of the document we are drafting? soames. she has indeed. lesbia. that sounds as if you disapproved. soames. it is not for me to approve or disapprove. i do the work that comes to my hand from my ecclesiastical superior. the bishop. dont be uncharitable, anthony. you must give us your best advice. soames. my advice to you all is to do your duty by taking the christian vows of celibacy and poverty. the church was founded to put an end to marriage and to put an end to property. mrs bridgenorth. but how could the world go on, anthony? soames. do your duty and see. doing your duty is your business: keeping the world going is in higher hands. lesbia. anthony: youre impossible. soames [taking up his pen] you wont take my advice. i didnt expect you would. well, i await your instructions. reginald. we got stuck on the first clause. what should we begin with? soames. it is usual to begin with the term of the contract. edith. what does that mean? soames. the term of years for which it is to hold good. leo. but this is a marriage contract. soames. is the marriage to be for a year, a week, or a day? reginald. come, i say, anthony! youre worse than any of us. a day! soames. off the path is off the path. an inch or a mile: what does it matter? leo. if the marriage is not to be for ever, i'll have nothing to do with it. i call it immoral to have a marriage for a term of years. if the people dont like it they can get divorced. reginald. it ought to be for just as long as the two people like. thats what i say. collins. they may not agree on the point, sir. it's often fast with one and loose with the other. lesbia. i should say for as long as the man behaves himself. the bishop. suppose the woman doesnt behave herself? mrs bridgenorth. the woman may have lost all her chances of a good marriage with anybody else. she should not be cast adrift. reginald. so may the man! what about his home? leo. the wife ought to keep an eye on him, and see that he is comfortable and takes care of himself properly. the other man wont want her all the time. lesbia. there may not be another man. leo. then why on earth should she leave him? lesbia. because she wants to. leo. oh, if people are going to be let do what they want to, then i call it simple immorality. [she goes indignantly to the oak chest, and perches herself on it close beside hotchkiss]. reginald [watching them sourly] you do it yourself, dont you? leo. oh, thats quite different. dont make foolish witticisms, rejjy. the bishop. we dont seem to be getting on. what do you say, mr alderman? collins. well, my lord, you see people do persist in talking as if marriages was all of one sort. but theres almost as many different sorts of marriages as theres different sorts of people. theres the young things that marry for love, not knowing what theyre doing, and the old things that marry for money and comfort and companionship. theres the people that marry for children. theres the people that dont intend to have children and that arnt fit to have them. theres the people that marry because theyre so much run after by the other sex that they have to put a stop to it somehow. theres the people that want to try a new experience, and the people that want to have done with experiences. how are you to please them all? why, youll want half a dozen different sorts of contract. the bishop. well, if so, let us draw them all up. let us face it. reginald. why should we be held together whether we like it or not? thats the question thats at the bottom of it all. mrs bridgenorth. because of the children, rejjy. collins. but even then, maam, why should we be held together when thats all over--when the girls are married and the boys out in the world and in business for themselves? when thats done with, the real work of the marriage is done with. if the two like to stay together, let them stay together. but if not, let them part, as old people in the workhouses do. theyve had enough of one another. theyve found one another out. why should they be tied together to sit there grudging and hating and spiting one another like so many do? put it twenty years from the birth of the youngest child. soames. how if there be no children? collins. let em take one another on liking. mrs bridgenorth. collins! leo. you wicked old man-- the bishop [remonstrating] my dear, my dear! lesbia. and what is a woman to live on, pray, when she is no longer liked, as you call it? soames [with sardonic formality] it is proposed that the term of the agreement be twenty years from the birth of the youngest child when there are children. any amendment? leo. i protest. it must be for life. it would not be a marriage at all if it were not for life. soames. mrs reginald bridgenorth proposes life. any seconder? leo. dont be soulless, anthony. lesbia. i have a very important amendment. if there are any children, the man must be cleared completely out of the house for two years on each occasion. at such times he is superfluous, importunate, and ridiculous. collins. but where is he to go, miss? lesbia. he can go where he likes as long as he does not bother the mother. reginald. and is she to be left lonely-- lesbia. lonely! with her child. the poor woman would be only too glad to have a moment to herself. dont be absurd, rejjy. reginald. that father is to be a wandering wretched outcast, living at his club, and seeing nobody but his friends' wives! lesbia [ironically] poor fellow! hotchkiss. the friends' wives are perhaps the solution of the problem. you see, their husbands will also be outcasts; and the poor ladies will occasionally pine for male society. lesbia. there is no reason why a mother should not have male society. what she clearly should not have is a husband. soames. anything else, miss grantham? lesbia. yes: i must have my own separate house, or my own separate part of a house. boxer smokes: i cant endure tobacco. boxer believes that an open window means death from cold and exposure to the night air: i must have fresh air always. we can be friends; but we cant live together; and that must be put in the agreement. edith. ive no objection to smoking; and as to opening the windows, cecil will of course have to do what is best for his health. the bishop. who is to be the judge of that, my dear? you or he? edith. neither of us. we must do what the doctor orders. reginald. doctor be--! leo [admonitorily] rejjy! reginald [to soames] you take my tip, anthony. put a clause into that agreement that the doctor is to have no say in the job. it's bad enough for the two people to be married to one another without their both being married to the doctor as well. lesbia. that reminds me of something very important. boxer believes in vaccination: i do not. there must be a clause that i am to decide on such questions as i think best. leo [to the bishop] baptism is nearly as important as vaccination: isnt it? the bishop. it used to be considered so, my dear. leo. well, sinjon scoffs at it: he says that godfathers are ridiculous. i must be allowed to decide. reginald. theyll be his children as well as yours, you know. leo. dont be indelicate, rejjy. edith. you are forgetting the very important matter of money. collins. ah! money! now we're coming to it! edith. when i'm married i shall have practically no money except what i shall earn. the bishop. i'm sorry, cecil. a bishop's daughter is a poor man's daughter. sykes. but surely you dont imagine that i'm going to let edith work when we're married. i'm not a rich man; but ive enough to spare her that; and when my mother dies-- edith. what nonsense! of course i shall work when i'm married. i shall keep your house. sykes. oh, that! reginald. you call that work? edith. dont you? leo used to do it for nothing; so no doubt you thought it wasnt work at all. does your present housekeeper do it for nothing? reginald. but it will be part of your duty as a wife. edith. not under this contract. i'll not have it so. if i'm to keep the house, i shall expect cecil to pay me at least as well as he would pay a hired housekeeper. i'll not go begging to him every time i want a new dress or a cab fare, as so many women have to do. sykes. you know very well i would grudge you nothing, edie. edith. then dont grudge me my self-respect and independence. i insist on it in fairness to you, cecil, because in this way there will be a fund belonging solely to me; and if slattox takes an action against you for anything i say, you can pay the damages and stop the interest out of my salary. soames. you forget that under this contract he will not be liable, because you will not be his wife in law. edith. nonsense! of course i shall be his wife. collins [his curiosity roused] is slattox taking an action against you, miss? slattox is on the council with me. could i settle it? edith. he has not taken an action; but cecil says he will. collins. what for, miss, if i may ask? edith. slattox is a liar and a thief; and it is my duty to expose him. collins. you surprise me, miss. of course slattox is in a manner of speaking a liar. if i may say so without offence, we're all liars, if it was only to spare one another's feelings. but i shouldnt call slattox a thief. he's not all that he should be, perhaps; but he pays his way. edith. if that is only your nice way of saying that slattox is entirely unfit to have two hundred girls in his power as absolute slaves, then i shall say that too about him at the very next public meeting i address. he steals their wages under pretence of fining them. he steals their food under pretence of buying it for them. he lies when he denies having done it. and he does other things, as you evidently know, collins. therefore i give you notice that i shall expose him before all england without the least regard to the consequences to myself. sykes. or to me? edith. i take equal risks. suppose you felt it to be your duty to shoot slattox, what would become of me and the children? i'm sure i dont want anybody to be shot: not even slattox; but if the public never will take any notice of even the most crying evil until somebody is shot, what are people to do but shoot somebody? soames [inexorably] i'm waiting for my instructions as to the term of the agreement. reginald [impatiently, leaving the hearth and going behind soames] it's no good talking all over the shop like this. we shall be here all day. i propose that the agreement holds good until the parties are divorced. soames. they cant be divorced. they will not be married. reginald. but if they cant be divorced, then this will be worse than marriage. mrs bridgenorth. of course it will. do stop this nonsense. why, who are the children to belong to? lesbia. we have already settled that they are to belong to the mother. reginald. no: i'm dashed if you have. i'll fight for the ownership of my own children tooth and nail; and so will a good many other fellows, i can tell you. edith. it seems to me that they should be divided between the parents. if cecil wishes any of the children to be his exclusively, he should pay a certain sum for the risk and trouble of bringing them into the world: say a thousand pounds apiece. the interest on this could go towards the support of the child as long as we live together. but the principal would be my property. in that way, if cecil took the child away from me, i should at least be paid for what it had cost me. mrs bridgenorth [putting down her knitting in amazement] edith! who ever heard of such a thing!! edith. well, how else do you propose to settle it? the bishop. there is such a thing as a favorite child. what about the youngest child--the benjamin--the child of its parents' matured strength and charity, always better treated and better loved than the unfortunate eldest children of their youthful ignorance and wilfulness? which parent is to own the youngest child, payment or no payment? collins. theres a third party, my lord. theres the child itself. my wife is so fond of her children that they cant call their lives their own. they all run away from home to escape from her. a child hasnt a grown-up person's appetite for affection. a little of it goes a long way with them; and they like a good imitation of it better than the real thing, as every nurse knows. soames. are you sure that any of us, young or old, like the real thing as well as we like an artistic imitation of it? is not the real thing accursed? are not the best beloved always the good actors rather than the true sufferers? is not love always falsified in novels and plays to make it endurable? i have noticed in myself a great delight in pictures of the saints and of our lady; but when i fall under that most terrible curse of the priest's lot, the curse of joseph pursued by the wife of potiphar, i am invariably repelled and terrified. hotchkiss. are you now speaking as a saint, father anthony, or as a solicitor? soames. there is no difference. there is not one christian rule for solicitors and another for saints. their hearts are alike; and their way of salvation is along the same road. the bishop. but "few there be that find it." can you find it for us, anthony? soames. it lies broad before you. it is the way to destruction that is narrow and tortuous. marriage is an abomination which the church has founded to cast out and replace by the communion of saints. i learnt that from every marriage settlement i drew up as a solicitor no less than from inspired revelation. you have set yourselves here to put your sin before you in black and white; and you cant agree upon or endure one article of it. sykes. it's certainly rather odd that the whole thing seems to fall to pieces the moment you touch it. the bishop. you see, when you give the devil fair play he loses his case. he has not been able to produce even the first clause of a working agreement; so i'm afraid we cant wait for him any longer. lesbia. then the community will have to do without my children. edith. and cecil will have to do without me. leo [getting off the chest] and i positively will not marry sinjon if he is not clever enough to make some provision for my looking after rejjy. [she leaves hotchkiss, and goes back to her chair at the end of the table behind mrs bridgenorth]. mrs bridgenorth. and the world will come to an end with this generation, i suppose. collins. cant nothing be done, my lord? the bishop. you can make divorce reasonable and decent: that is all. lesbia. thank you for nothing. if you will only make marriage reasonable and decent, you can do as you like about divorce. i have not stated my deepest objection to marriage; and i dont intend to. there are certain rights i will not give any person over me. reginald. well, i think it jolly hard that a man should support his wife for years, and lose the chance of getting a really good wife, and then have her refuse to be a wife to him. lesbia. i'm not going to discuss it with you, rejjy. if your sense of personal honor doesnt make you understand, nothing will. soames [implacably] i'm still awaiting my instructions. they look at one another, each waiting for one of the others to suggest something. silence. reginald [blankly] i suppose, after all, marriage is better than --well, than the usual alternative. soames [turning fiercely on him] what right have you to say so? you know that the sins that are wasting and maddening this unhappy nation are those committed in wedlock. collins. well, the single ones cant afford to indulge their affections the same as married people. soames. away with it all, i say. you have your master's commandments. obey them. hotchkiss [rising and leaning on the back of the chair left vacant by the general] i really must point out to you, father anthony, that the early christian rules of life were not made to last, because the early christians did not believe that the world itself was going to last. now we know that we shall have to go through with it. we have found that there are millions of years behind us; and we know that that there are millions before us. mrs bridgenorth's question remains unanswered. how is the world to go on? you say that that is our business--that it is the business of providence. but the modern christian view is that we are here to do the business of providence and nothing else. the question is, how. am i not to use my reason to find out why? isnt that what my reason is for? well, all my reason tells me at present is that you are an impracticable lunatic. soames. does that help? hotchkiss. no. soames. then pray for light. hotchkiss. no: i am a snob, not a beggar. [he sits down in the general's chair]. collins. we dont seem to be getting on, do we? miss edith: you and mr sykes had better go off to church and settle the right and wrong of it afterwards. itll ease your minds, believe me: i speak from experience. you will burn your boats, as one might say. soames. we should never burn our boats. it is death in life. collins. well, father, i will say for you that you have views of your own and are not afraid to out with them. but some of us are of a more cheerful disposition. on the borough council now, you would be in a minority of one. you must take human nature as it is. soames. upon what compulsion must i? i'll take divine nature as it is. i'll not hold a candle to the devil. the bishop. thats a very unchristian way of treating the devil. reginald. well, we dont seem to be getting any further, do we? the bishop. will you give it up and get married, edith? edith. no. what i propose seems to me quite reasonable. the bishop. and you, lesbia? lesbia. never. mrs bridgenorth. never is a long word, lesbia. dont say it. lesbia [with a flash of temper] dont pity me, alice, please. as i said before, i am an english lady, quite prepared to do without anything i cant have on honorable conditions. soames [after a silence expressive of utter deadlock] i am still awaiting my instructions. reginald. well, we dont seem to be getting along, do we? leo [out of patience] you said that before, rejjy. do not repeat yourself. reginald. oh, bother! [he goes to the garden door and looks out gloomily]. soames [rising with the paper in his hands] psha! [he tears it in pieces]. so much for the contract! the voice of the beadle. by your leave there, gentlemen. make way for the mayoress. way for the worshipful the mayoress, my lords and gentlemen. [he comes in through the tower, in cocked hat and goldbraided overcoat, bearing the borough mace, and posts himself at the entrance]. by your leave, gentlemen, way for the worshipful the mayoress. collins [moving back towards the wall] mrs george, my lord. mrs george is every inch a mayoress in point of stylish dressing; and she does it very well indeed. there is nothing quiet about mrs george; she is not afraid of colors, and knows how to make the most of them. not at all a lady in lesbia's use of the term as a class label, she proclaims herself to the first glance as the triumphant, pampered, wilful, intensely alive woman who has always been rich among poor people. in a historical museum she would explain edward the fourth's taste for shopkeepers' wives. her age, which is certainly , and might be , is carried off by her vitality, her resilient figure, and her confident carriage. so far, a remarkably well-preserved woman. but her beauty is wrecked, like an ageless landscape ravaged by long and fierce war. her eyes are alive, arresting and haunting; and there is still a turn of delicate beauty and pride in her indomitable chin; but her cheeks are wasted and lined, her mouth writhen and piteous. the whole face is a battlefield of the passions, quite deplorable until she speaks, when an alert sense of fun rejuvenates her in a moment, and makes her company irresistible. all rise except soames, who sits down. leo joins reginald at the garden door. mrs bridgenorth hurries to the tower to receive her guest, and gets as far as soames's chair when mrs george appears. hotchkiss, apparently recognizing her, recoils in consternation to the study door at the furthest corner of the room from her. mrs george [coming straight to the bishop with the ring in her hand] here is your ring, my lord; and here am i. it's your doing, remember: not mine. the bishop. good of you to come. mrs bridgenorth. how do you do, mrs collins? mrs george [going to her past the bishop, and gazing intently at her] are you his wife? mrs bridgenorth. the bishop's wife? yes. mrs george. what a destiny! and you look like any other woman! mrs bridgenorth [introducing lesbia] my sister, miss grantham. mrs george. so strangely mixed up with the story of the general's life? the bishop. you know the story of his life, then? mrs george. not all. we reached the house before he brought it up to the present day. but enough to know the part played in it by miss grantham. mrs bridgenorth [introducing leo] mrs reginald bridgenorth. reginald. the late mrs reginald bridgenorth. leo. hold your tongue, rejjy. at least have the decency to wait until the decree is made absolute. mrs george [to leo] well, youve more time to get married again than he has, havnt you? mrs bridgenorth [introducing hotchkiss] mr st john hotchkiss. hotchkiss, still far aloof by the study door, bows. mrs george. what! that! [she makes a half tour of the kitchen and ends right in front of him]. young man: do you remember coming into my shop and telling me that my husband's coals were out of place in your cellar, as nature evidently intended them for the roof? hotchkiss. i remember that deplorable impertinence with shame and confusion. you were kind enough to answer that mr collins was looking out for a clever young man to write advertisements, and that i could take the job if i liked. mrs george. it's still open. [she turns to edith]. mrs bridgenorth. my daughter edith. [she comes towards the study door to make the introduction]. mrs george. the bride! [looking at edith's dressing-jacket] youre not going to get married like that, are you? the bishop [coming round the table to edith's left] thats just what we are discussing. will you be so good as to join us and allow us the benefit of your wisdom and experience? mrs george. do you want the beadle as well? he's a married man. they all turn, involuntarily and contemplate the beadle, who sustains their gaze with dignity. the bishop. we think there are already too many men to be quite fair to the women. mrs george. right, my lord. [she goes back to the tower and addresses the beadle] take away that bauble, joseph. wait for me wherever you find yourself most comfortable in the neighborhood. [the beadle withdraws. she notices collins for the first time]. hullo, bill: youve got em all on too. go and hunt up a drink for joseph: theres a dear. [collins goes out. she looks at soames's cassock and biretta] what! another uniform! are you the sexton? [he rises]. the bishop. my chaplain, father anthony. mrs george. oh lord! [to soames, coaxingly] you dont mind, do you? soames. i mind nothing but my duties. the bishop. you know everybody now, i think. mrs george [turning to the railed chair] who's this? the bishop. oh, i beg your pardon, cecil. mr sykes. the bridegroom. mrs george [to sykes] adorned for the sacrifice, arnt you? sykes. it seems doubtful whether there is going to be any sacrifice. mrs george. well, i want to talk to the women first. shall we go upstairs and look at the presents and dresses? mrs bridgenorth. if you wish, certainly. reginald. but the men want to hear what you have to say too. mrs george. i'll talk to them afterwards: one by one. hotchkiss [to himself] great heavens! mrs bridgenorth. this way, mrs collins. [she leads the way out through the tower, followed by mrs george, lesbia, leo, and edith]. the bishop. shall we try to get through the last batch of letters whilst they are away, soames? soames. yes, certainly. [to hotchkiss, who is in his way] excuse me. the bishop and soames go into the study, disturbing hotchkiss, who, plunged in a strange reverie, has forgotten where he is. awakened by soames, he stares distractedly; then, with sudden resolution, goes swiftly to the middle of the kitchen. hotchkiss. cecil. rejjy. [startled by his urgency, they hurry to him]. i'm frightfully sorry to desert on this day; but i must bolt. this time it really is pure cowardice. i cant help it. reginald. what are you afraid of? hotchkiss. i dont know. listen to me. i was a young fool living by myself in london. i ordered my first ton of coals from that woman's husband. at that time i did not know that it is not true economy to buy the lowest priced article: i thought all coals were alike, and tried the thirteen shilling kind because it seemed cheap. it proved unexpectedly inferior to the family silkstone; and in the irritation into which the first scuttle threw me, i called at the shop and made an idiot of myself as she described. sykes. well, suppose you did! laugh at it, man. hotchkiss. at that, yes. but there was something worse. judge of my horror when, calling on the coal merchant to make a trifling complaint at finding my grate acting as a battery of quick-firing guns, and being confronted by his vulgar wife, i felt in her presence an extraordinary sensation of unrest, of emotion, of unsatisfied need. i'll not disgust you with details of the madness and folly that followed that meeting. but it went as far as this: that i actually found myself prowling past the shop at night under a sort of desperate necessity to be near some place where she had been. a hideous temptation to kiss the doorstep because her foot had pressed it made me realize how mad i was. i tore myself away from london by a supreme effort; but i was on the point of returning like a needle to the lodestone when the outbreak of the war saved me. on the field of battle the infatuation wore off. the billiter affair made a new man of me: i felt that i had left the follies and puerilities of the old days behind me for ever. but half-an-hour ago--when the bishop sent off that ring--a sudden grip at the base of my heart filled me with a nameless terror--me, the fearless! i recognized its cause when she walked into the room. cecil: this woman is a harpy, a siren, a mermaid, a vampire. there is only one chance for me: flight, instant precipitate flight. make my excuses. forget me. farewell. [he makes for the door and is confronted by mrs george entering]. too late: i'm lost. [he turns back and throws himself desperately into the chair nearest the study door; that being the furthest away from her]. mrs george [coming to the hearth and addressing reginald] mr bridgenorth: will you oblige me by leaving me with this young man. i want to talk to him like a mother, on your business. reginald. do, maam. he needs it badly. come along, sykes. [he goes into the study]. sykes [looks irresolutely at hotchkiss]--? hotchkiss. too late: you cant save me now, cecil. go. sykes goes into the study. mrs george strolls across to hotchkiss and contemplates him curiously. hotchkiss. useless to prolong this agony. [rising] fatal woman-- if woman you are indeed and not a fiend in human form-- mrs george. is this out of a book? or is it your usual society small talk? hotchkiss [recklessly] jibes are useless: the force that is sweeping me away will not spare you. i must know the worst at once. what was your father? mrs george. a licensed victualler who married his barmaid. you would call him a publican, most likely. hotchkiss. then you are a woman totally beneath me. do you deny it? do you set up any sort of pretence to be my equal in rank, in age, or in culture? mrs george. have you eaten anything that has disagreed with you? hotchkiss [witheringly] inferior! mrs george. thank you. anything else? hotchkiss. this. i love you. my intentions are not honorable. [she shows no dismay]. scream. ring the bell. have me turned out of the house. mrs george [with sudden depth of feeling] oh, if you could restore to this wasted exhausted heart one ray of the passion that once welled up at the glance at the touch of a lover! it's you who would scream then, young man. do you see this face, once fresh and rosy like your own, now scarred and riven by a hundred burnt-out fires? hotchkiss [wildly] slate fires. thirteen shillings a ton. fires that shoot out destructive meteors, blinding and burning, sending men into the streets to make fools of themselves. mrs george. you seem to have got it pretty bad, sinjon. hotchkiss. dont dare call me sinjon. mrs george. my name is zenobia alexandrina. you may call me polly for short. hotchkiss. your name is ashtoreth--durga--there is no name yet invented malign enough for you. mrs george [sitting down comfortably] come! do you really think youre better suited to that young sauce box than her husband? you enjoyed her company when you were only the friend of the family-- when there was the husband there to shew off against and to take all the responsibility. are you sure youll enjoy it as much when you are the husband? she isnt clever, you know. she's only silly- clever. hotchkiss [uneasily leaning against the table and holding on to it to control his nervous movements] need you tell me? fiend that you are! mrs george. you amused the husband, didnt you? hotchkiss. he has more real sense of humor than she. he's better bred. that was not my fault. mrs george. my husband has a sense of humor too. hotchkiss. the coal merchant?--i mean the slate merchant. mrs george [appreciatively] he would just love to hear you talk. he's been dull lately for want of a change of company and a bit of fresh fun. hotchkiss [flinging a chair opposite her and sitting down with an overdone attempt at studied insolence] and pray what is your wretched husband's vulgar conviviality to me? mrs george. you love me? hotchkiss. i loathe you. mrs george. it's the same thing. hotchkiss. then i'm lost. mrs george. you may come and see me if you promise to amuse george. hotchkiss. i'll insult him, sneer at him, wipe my boots on him. mrs george. no you wont, dear boy. youll be a perfect gentleman. hotchkiss [beaten; appealing to her mercy] zenobia-- mrs george. polly, please. hotchkiss. mrs collins-- mrs george. sir? hotchkiss. something stronger than my reason and common sense is holding my hands and tearing me along. i make no attempt to deny that it can drag me where you please and make me do what you like. but at least let me know your soul as you seem to know mine. do you love this absurd coal merchant? mrs george. call him george. hotchkiss. do you love your jorjy porjy? mrs george. oh, i dont know that i love him. he's my husband, you know. but if i got anxious about george's health, and i thought it would nourish him, i would fry you with onions for his breakfast and think nothing of it. george and i are good friends. george belongs to me. other men may come and go; but george goes on for ever. hotchkiss. yes: a husband soon becomes nothing but a habit. listen: i suppose this detestable fascination you have for me is love. mrs george. any sort of feeling for a woman is called love nowadays. hotchkiss. do you love me? mrs george [promptly] my love is not quite so cheap an article as that, my lad. i wouldnt cross the street to have another look at you--not yet. i'm not starving for love like the robins in winter, as the good ladies youre accustomed to are. youll have to be very clever, and very good, and very real, if you are to interest me. if george takes a fancy to you, and you amuse him enough, i'll just tolerate you coming in and out occasionally for--well, say a month. if you can make a friend of me in that time so much the better for you. if you can touch my poor dying heart even for an instant, i'll bless you, and never forget you. you may try--if george takes to you. hotchkiss. i'm to come on liking for the month? mrs george. on condition that you drop mrs reginald. hotchkiss. but she wont drop me. do you suppose i ever wanted to marry her? i was a homeless bachelor; and i felt quite happy at their house as their friend. leo was an amusing little devil; but i liked reginald much more than i liked her. she didnt understand. one day she came to me and told me that the inevitable bad happened. i had tact enough not to ask her what the inevitable was; and i gathered presently that she had told reginald that their marriage was a mistake and that she loved me and could no longer see me breaking my heart for her in suffering silence. what could i say? what could i do? what can i say now? what can i do now? mrs george. tell her that the habit of falling in love with other men's wives is growing on you; and that i'm your latest. hotchkiss. what! throw her over when she has thrown reginald over for me! mrs george [rising] you wont then? very well. sorry we shant meet again: i should have liked to see more of you for george's sake. good-bye [she moves away from him towards the hearth]. hotchkiss [appealing] zenobia-- mrs. george. i thought i lead made a difficult conquest. now i see you are only one of those poor petticoat-hunting creatures that any woman can pick up. not for me, thank you. [inexorable, she turns towards the tower to go]. hotchkiss [following] dont be an ass, polly. mrs george [stopping] thats better. hotchkiss. cant you see that i maynt throw leo over just because i should be only too glad to. it would be dishonorable. mrs george. will you be happy if you marry her? hotchkiss. no, great heaven, no! mrs george. will she be happy when she finds you out? hotchkiss. she's incapable of happiness. but she's not incapable of the pleasure of holding a man against his will. mrs george. right, young man. you will tell her, please, that you love me: before everybody, mind, the very next time you see her. hotchkiss. but-- mrs george. those are my orders, sinjon. i cant have you marry another woman until george is tired of you. hotchkiss. oh, if i only didnt selfishly want to obey you! the general comes in from the garden. mrs george goes half way to the garden door to speak to him. hotchkiss posts himself on the hearth. mrs george. where have you been all this time? the general. i'm afraid my nerves were a little upset by our conversation. i just went into the garden and had a smoke. i'm all right now [he strolls down to the study door and presently takes a chair at that end of the big table]. mrs george. a smoke! why, you said she couldnt bear it. the general. good heavens! i forgot! it's such a natural thing to do, somehow. lesbia comes in through the tower. mrs george. he's been smoking again. lesbia. so my nose tells me. [she goes to the end of the table nearest the hearth, and sits down]. the general. lesbia: i'm very sorry. but if i gave it up, i should become so melancholy and irritable that you would be the first to implore me to take to it again. mrs george. thats true. women drive their husbands into all sorts of wickedness to keep them in good humor. sinjon: be off with you: this doesnt concern you. lesbia. please dont disturb yourself, sinjon. boxer's broken heart has been worn on his sleeve too long for any pretence of privacy. the general. you are cruel, lesbia: devilishly cruel. [he sits down, wounded]. lesbia. you are vulgar, boxer. hotchkiss. in what way? i ask, as an expert in vulgarity. lesbia. in two ways. first, he talks as if the only thing of any importance in life was which particular woman he shall marry. second, he has no self-control. the general. women are not all the same to me, lesbia. mrs george. why should they be, pray? women are all different: it's the men who are all the same. besides, what does miss grantham know about either men or women? she's got too much self- control. lesbia [widening her eyes and lifting her chin haughtily] and pray how does that prevent me from knowing as much about men and women as people who have no self-control? mrs george. because it frightens people into behaving themselves before you; and then how can you tell what they really are? look at me! i was a spoilt child. my brothers and sisters were well brought up, like all children of respectable publicans. so should i have been if i hadnt been the youngest: ten years younger than my youngest brother. my parents were tired of doing their duty by their children by that time; and they spoilt me for all they were worth. i never knew what it was to want money or anything that money could buy. when i wanted my own way, i had nothing to do but scream for it till i got it. when i was annoyed i didnt control myself: i scratched and called names. did you ever, after you were grown up, pull a grown-up woman's hair? did you ever bite a grown-up man? did you ever call both of them every name you could lay your tongue to? lesbia [shivering with disgust] no. mrs george. well, i did. i know what a woman is like when her hair's pulled. i know what a man is like when he's bit. i know what theyre both like when you tell them what you really feel about them. and thats how i know more of the world than you. lesbia. the chinese know what a man is like when he is cut into a thousand pieces, or boiled in oil. that sort of knowledge is of no use to me. i'm afraid we shall never get on with one another, mrs george. i live like a fencer, always on guard. i like to be confronted with people who are always on guard. i hate sloppy people, slovenly people, people who cant sit up straight, sentimental people. mrs george. oh, sentimental your grandmother! you dont learn to hold your own in the world by standing on guard, but by attacking, and getting well hammered yourself. lesbia. i'm not a prize-fighter, mrs. collins. if i cant get a thing without the indignity of fighting for it, i do without it. mrs george. do you? does it strike you that if we were all as clever as you at doing without, there wouldnt be much to live for, would there? tae general. i'm afraid, lesbia, the things you do without are the things you dont want. lesbia [surprised at his wit] thats not bad for the silly soldier man. yes, boxer: the truth is, i dont want you enough to make the very unreasonable sacrifices required by marriage. and yet that is exactly why i ought to be married. just because i have the qualities my country wants most i shall go barren to my grave; whilst the women who have neither the strength to resist marriage nor the intelligence to understand its infinite dishonor will make the england of the future. [she rises and walks towards the study]. the general [as she is about to pass him] well, i shall not ask you again, lesbia. lesbia. thank you, boxer. [she passes on to the study door]. mrs george. youre quite done with him, are you? lesbia. as far as marriage is concerned, yes. the field is clear for you, mrs george. [she goes into the study]. the general buries his face in his hands. mrs george comes round the table to him. mrs george [sympathetically] she's a nice woman, that. and a sort of beauty about her too, different from anyone else. the general [overwhelmed] oh mrs collins, thank you, thank you a thousand times. [he rises effusively]. you have thawed the long- frozen springs [he kisses her hand]. forgive me; and thank you: bless you--[he again takes refuge in the garden, choked with emotion]. mrs george [looking after him triumphantly] just caught the dear old warrior on the bounce, eh? hotchkiss. unfaithful to me already! mrs george. i'm not your property, young man dont you think it. [she goes over to him and faces him]. you understand that? [he suddenly snatches her into his arms and kisses her]. oh! you. dare do that again, you young blackguard; and i'll jab one of these chairs in your face [she seizes one and holds it in readiness]. now you shall not see me for another month. hotchkiss [deliberately] i shall pay my first visit to your husband this afternoon. mrs george. youll see what he'll say to you when i tell him what youve just done. hotchkiss. what can he say? what dare he say? mrs george. suppose he kicks you out of the house? hotchkiss. how can he? ive fought seven duels with sabres. ive muscles of iron. nothing hurts me: not even broken bones. fighting is absolutely uninteresting to me because it doesnt frighten me or amuse me; and i always win. your husband is in all these respects an average man, probably. he will be horribly afraid of me; and if under the stimulus of your presence, and for your sake, and because it is the right thing to do among vulgar people, he were to attack me, i should simply defeat him and humiliate him [he gradually gets his hands on the chair and takes it from her, as his words go home phrase by phrase]. sooner than expose him to that, you would suffer a thousand stolen kisses, wouldnt you? mrs george [in utter consternation] you young viper! hotchkiss. ha ha! you are in my power. that is one of the oversights of your code of honor for husbands: the man who can bully them can insult their wives with impunity. tell him if you dare. if i choose to take ten kisses, how will you prevent me? mrs george. you come within reach of me and i'll not leave a hair on your head. hotchkiss [catching her wrists dexterously] ive got your hands. mrs george. youve not got my teeth. let go; or i'll bite. i will, i tell you. let go. hotchkiss. bite away: i shall taste quite as nice as george. mrs george. you beast. let me go. do you call yourself a gentleman, to use your brute strength against a woman? hotchkiss. you are stronger than me in every way but this. do you think i will give up my one advantage? promise youll receive me when i call this afternoon. mrs george. after what youve just done? not if it was to save my life. hotchkiss. i'll amuse george. mrs george. he wont be in. hotchkiss [taken aback] do you mean that we should be alone? mrs george [snatching away her hands triumphantly as his grasp relaxes] aha! thats cooled you, has it? hotchkiss [anxiously] when will george be at home? mrs george. it wont matter to you whether he's at home or not. the door will be slammed in your face whenever you call. hotchkiss. no servant in london is strong enough to close a door that i mean to keep open. you cant escape me. if you persist, i'll go into the coal trade; make george's acquaintance on the coal exchange; and coax him to take me home with him to make your acquaintance. mrs george. we have no use for you, young man: neither george nor i [she sails away from him and sits down at the end of the table near the study door]. hotchkiss [following her and taking the next chair round the corner of the table] yes you have. george cant fight for you: i can. mrs george [turning to face him] you bully. you low bully. hotchkiss. you have courage and fascination: i have courage and a pair of fists. we're both bullies, polly. mrs george. you have a mischievous tongue. thats enough to keep you out of my house. hotchkiss. it must be rather a house of cards. a word from me to george--just the right word, said in the right way--and down comes your house. mrs george. thats why i'll die sooner than let you into it. hotchkiss. then as surely as you live, i enter the coal trade to- morrow. george's taste for amusing company will deliver him into my hands. before a month passes your home will be at my mercy. mrs george [rising, at bay] do you think i'll let myself be driven into a trap like this? hotchkiss. you are in it already. marriage is a trap. you are married. any man who has the power to spoil your marriage has the power to spoil your life. i have that power over you. mrs george [desperate] you mean it? hotchkiss. i do. mrs george [resolutely] well, spoil my marriage and be-- hotchkiss [springing up] polly! mrs george. sooner than be your slave i'd face any unhappiness. hotchkiss. what! even for george? mrs george. there must be honor between me and george, happiness or no happiness. do your worst. hotchkiss [admiring her] are you really game, polly? dare you defy me? mrs george. if you ask me another question i shant be able to keep my hands off you [she dashes distractedly past him to the other end of the table, her fingers crisping]. hotchkiss. that settles it. polly: i adore you: we were born for one another. as i happen to be a gentleman, i'll never do anything to annoy or injure you except that i reserve the right to give you a black eye if you bite me; but youll never get rid of me now to the end of your life. mrs george. i shall get rid of you if the beadle has to brain you with the mace for it [she makes for the tower]. hotchkiss [running between the table and the oak chest and across to the tower to cut her off] you shant. mrs george [panting] shant i though? hotchkiss. no you shant. i have one card left to play that youve forgotten. why were you so unlike yourself when you spoke to the bishop? mrs george [agitated beyond measure] stop. not that. you shall respect that if you respect nothing else. i forbid you. [he kneels at her feet]. what are you doing? get up: dont be a fool. hotchkiss. polly: i ask you on my knees to let me make george's acquaintance in his home this afternoon; and i shall remain on my knees till the bishop comes in and sees us. what will he think of you then? mrs george [beside herself] wheres the poker? she rushes to the fireplace; seizes the poker; and makes for hotchkiss, who flies to the study door. the bishop enters just then and finds himself between them, narrowly escaping a blow from the poker. the bishop. dont hit him, mrs collins. he is my guest. mrs george throws down the poker; collapses into the nearest chair; and bursts into tears. the bishop goes to her and pats her consolingly on the shoulder. she shudders all through at his touch. the bishop. come! you are in the house of your friends. can we help you? mrs george [to hotchkiss, pointing to the study] go in there, you. youre not wanted here. hotchkiss. you understand, bishop, that mrs collins is not to blame for this scene. i'm afraid ive been rather irritating. the bishop. i can quite believe it, sinjon. hotchkiss goes into the study. the bishop [turning to mrs george with great kindness of manner] i'm sorry you have been worried [he sits down on her left]. never mind him. a little pluck, a little gaiety of heart, a little prayer; and youll be laughing at him. mrs george. never fear. i have all that. it was as much my fault as his; and i should have put him in his place with a clip of that poker on the side of his head if you hadnt come in. the bishop. you might have put him in his coffin that way, mrs collins. and i should have been very sorry; because we are all fond of sinjon. mrs george. yes: it's your duty to rebuke me. but do you think i dont know? the bishop. i dont rebuke you. who am i that i should rebuke you? besides, i know there are discussions in which the poker is the only possible argument. mrs george. my lord: be earnest with me. i'm a very funny woman, i daresay; but i come from the same workshop as you. i heard you say that yourself years ago. the bishop. quite so; but then i'm a very funny bishop. since we are both funny people, let us not forget that humor is a divine attribute. mrs george. i know nothing about divine attributes or whatever you call them; but i can feel when i am being belittled. it was from you that i learnt first to respect myself. it was through you that i came to be able to walk safely through many wild and wilful paths. dont go back on your own teaching. the bishop. i'm not a teacher: only a fellow-traveller of whom you asked the way. i pointed ahead--ahead of myself as well as of you. mrs george [rising and standing over him almost threateningly] as i'm a living woman this day, if i find you out to be a fraud, i'll kill myself. the bishop. what! kill yourself for finding out something! for becoming a wiser and therefore a better woman! what a bad reason! mrs george. i have sometimes thought of killing you, and then killing myself. the bishop. why on earth should you kill yourself--not to mention me? mrs george. so that we might keep our assignation in heaven. the bishop [rising and facing her, breathless] mrs. collins! you are incognita appassionata! mrs george. you read my letters, then? [with a sigh of grateful relief, she sits down quietly, and says] thank you. the bishop [remorsefully] and i have broken the spell by making you come here [sitting down again]. can you ever forgive me? mrs george. you couldnt know that it was only the coal merchant's wife, could you? the bishop. why do you say only the coal merchant's wife? mrs george. many people would laugh at it. the bishop. poor people! it's so hard to know the right place to laugh, isnt it? mrs george. i didnt mean to make you think the letters were from a fine lady. i wrote on cheap paper; and i never could spell. the bishop. neither could i. so that told me nothing. mrs george. one thing i should like you to know. the bishop. yes? mrs george. we didnt cheat your friend. they were as good as we could do at thirteen shillings a ton. the bishop. thats important. thank you for telling me. mrs george. i have something else to say; but will you please ask somebody to come and stay here while we talk? [he rises and turns to the study door]. not a woman, if you dont mind. [he nods understandingly and passes on]. not a man either. the bishop [stopping] not a man and not a woman! we have no children left, mrs collins. they are all grown up and married. mrs george. that other clergyman would do. the bishop. what! the sexton? mrs george. yes. he didnt mind my calling him that, did he? it was only my ignorance. the bishop. not at all. [he opens the study door and calls] soames! anthony! [to mrs george] call him father: he likes it. [soames appears at the study door]. mrs collins wishes you to join us, anthony. soames looks puzzled. mrs george. you dont mind, dad, do you? [as this greeting visibly gives him a shock that hardly bears out the bishop's advice, she says anxiously] that was what you told me to call him, wasnt it? soames. i am called father anthony, mrs collins. but it does not matter what you call me. [he comes in, and walks past her to the hearth]. the bishop. mrs collins has something to say to me that she wants you to hear. soames. i am listening. the bishop [going back to his seat next her] now. mrs george. my lord: you should never have married. soames. this woman is inspired. listen to her, my lord. the bishop [taken aback by the directness of the attack] i married because i was so much in love with alice that all the difficulties and doubts and dangers of marriage seemed to me the merest moonshine. mrs george. yes: it's mean to let poor things in for so much while theyre in that state. would you marry now that you know better if you were a widower? the bishop. i'm old now. it wouldnt matter. mrs george. but would you if it did matter? the bishop. i think i should marry again lest anyone should imagine i had found marriage unhappy with alice. soames [sternly] are you fonder of your wife than of your salvation? the bishop. oh, very much. when you meet a man who is very particular about his salvation, look out for a woman who is very particular about her character; and marry them to one another: theyll make a perfect pair. i advise you to fall in love; anthony. soames [with horror] i!! the bishop. yes, you! think of what it would do for you. for her sake you would come to care unselfishly and diligently for money instead of being selfishly and lazily indifferent to it. for her sake you would come to care in the same way for preferment. for her sake you would come to care for your health, your appearance, the good opinion of your fellow creatures, and all the really important things that make men work and strive instead of mooning and nursing their salvation. soames. in one word, for the sake of one deadly sin i should come to care for all the others. the bishop. saint anthony! tempt him, mrs collins: tempt him. mrs george [rising and looking strangely before her] take care, my lord: you still have the power to make me obey your commands. and do you, mr sexton, beware of an empty heart. the bishop. yes. nature abhors a vacuum, anthony. i would not dare go about with an empty heart: why, the first girl i met would fly into it by mere atmospheric pressure. alice keeps them out now. mrs collins knows. mrs george [a faint convulsion passing like a wave over her] i know more than either of you. one of you has not yet exhausted his first love: the other has not yet reached it. but i--i--[she reels and is again convulsed]. the bishop [saving her from falling] whats the matter? are you ill, mrs collins? [he gets her back into her chair]. soames: theres a glass of water in the study--quick. [soames hurries to the study door.] mrs. george. no. [soames stops]. dont call. dont bring anyone. cant you hear anything? the bishop. nothing unusual. [he sits by her, watching her with intense surprise and interest]. mrs george. no music? soames. no. [he steals to the end of the table and sits on her right, equally interested]. mrs george. do you see nothing--not a great light? the bishop. we are still walking in darkness. mrs george. put your hand on my forehead: the hand with the ring. [he does so. her eyes close]. soames [inspired to prophesy] there was a certain woman, the wife of a coal merchant, which had been a great sinner . . . the bishop, startled, takes his hand away. mrs george's eyes open vividly as she interrupts soames. mrs george. you prophesy falsely, anthony: never in all my life have i done anything that was not ordained for me. [more quietly] ive been myself. ive not been afraid of myself. and at last i have escaped from myself, and am become a voice for them that are afraid to speak, and a cry for the hearts that break in silence. soames [whispering] is she inspired? the bishop. marvellous. hush. mrs george. i have earned the right to speak. i have dared: i have gone through: i have not fallen withered in the fire: i have come at last out beyond, to the back of godspeed? the bishop. and what do you see there, at the back of godspeed? soames [hungrily] give us your message. mrs george [with intensely sad reproach] when you loved me i gave you the whole sun and stars to play with. i gave you eternity in a single moment, strength of the mountains in one clasp of your arms, and the volume of all the seas in one impulse of your souls. a moment only; but was it not enough? were you not paid then for all the rest of your struggle on earth? must i mend your clothes and sweep your floors as well? was it not enough? i paid the price without bargaining: i bore the children without flinching: was that a reason for heaping fresh burdens on me? i carried the child in my arms: must i carry the father too? when i opened the gates of paradise, were you blind? was it nothing to you? when all the stars sang in your ears and all the winds swept you into the heart of heaven, were you deaf? were you dull? was i no more to you than a bone to a dog? was it not enough? we spent eternity together; and you ask me for a little lifetime more. we possessed all the universe together; and you ask me to give you my scanty wages as well. i have given you the greatest of all things; and you ask me to give you little things. i gave you your own soul: you ask me for my body as a plaything. was it not enough? was it not enough? soames. do you understand this, my lord? the bishop. i have that advantage over you, anthony, thanks to alice. [he takes mrs george's hand]. your hand is very cold. can you come down to earth? do you remember who i am, and who you are? mrs george. it was enough for me. i did not ask to meet you--to touch you--[the bishop quickly releases her hand]. when you spoke to my soul years ago from your pulpit, you opened the doors of my salvation to me; and now they stand open for ever. it was enough: i have asked you for nothing since: i ask you for nothing now. i have lived: it is enough. i have had my wages; and i am ready for my work. i thank you and bless you and leave you. you are happier in that than i am; for when i do for men what you did for me, i have no thanks, and no blessing: i am their prey; and there is no rest from their loving and no mercy from their loathing. the bishop. you must take us as we are, mrs collins. soames. no. take us as we are capable of becoming. mrs george. take me as i am: i ask no more. [she turns her head to the study door and cries] yes: come in, come in. hotchkiss comes softly in from the study. hotchkiss. will you be so kind as to tell me whether i am dreaming? in there i have heard mrs collins saying the strangest things, and not a syllable from you two. soames. my lord; is this possession by the devil? the bishop. or the ecstasy of a saint? hotchkiss. or the convulsion of the pythoness on the tripod? the bishop. may not the three be one? mrs george [troubled] you are paining and tiring me with idle questions. you are dragging me back to myself. you are tormenting me with your evil dreams of saints and devils and--what was it?-- [striving to fathom it] the pythoness--the pythoness--[giving it up] i dont understand. i am a woman: a human creature like yourselves. will you not take me as i am? soames. yes; but shall we take you and burn you? the bishop. or take you and canonize you? hotchkiss [gaily] or take you as a matter of course? [swiftly to the bishop] we must get her out of this: it's dangerous. [aloud to her] may i suggest that you shall be anthony's devil and the bishop's saint and my adored polly? [slipping behind her, he picks up her hand from her lap and kisses it over her shoulder]. mrs george [waking] what was that? who kissed my hand? [to the bishop, eagerly] was it you? [he shakes his head. she is mortified]. i beg your pardon. the bishop. not at all. i'm not repudiating that honor. allow me [he kisses her hand]. mrs george. thank you for that. it was not the sexton, was it? soames. i! hotchkiss. it was i, polly, your ever faithful. mrs george [turning and seeing him] let me catch you doing it again: thats all. how do you come there? i sent you away. [with great energy, becoming quite herself again] what the goodness gracious has been happening? hotchkiss. as far as i can make out, you have been having a very charming and eloquent sort of fit. mrs george [delighted] what! my second sight! [to the bishop] oh, how i have prayed that it might come to me if ever i met you! and now it has come. how stunning! you may believe every word i said: i cant remember it now; but it was something that was just bursting to be said; and so it laid hold of me and said itself. thats how it is, you see. edith and cecil sykes come in through the tower. she has her hat on. leo follows. they have evidently been out together. sykes, with an unnatural air, half foolish, half rakish, as if he had lost all his self-respect and were determined not to let it prey on his spirits, throws himself into a chair at the end of the table near the hearth and thrusts his hands into his pockets, like hogarth's rake, without waiting for edith to sit down. she sits in the railed chair. leo takes the chair nearest the tower on the long side of the table, brooding, with closed lips. the bishop. have you been out, my dear? edith. yes. the bishop. with cecil? edith. yes. the bishop. have you come to an understanding? no reply. blank silence. sykes. you had better tell them, edie. edith. tell them yourself. the general comes in from the garden. the general [coming forward to the table] can anybody oblige me with some tobacco? ive finished mine; and my nerves are still far from settled. the bishop. wait a moment, boxer. cecil has something important to tell us. sykes. weve done it. thats all. hotchkiss. done what, cecil? sykes. well, what do you suppose? edith. got married, of course. the general. married! who gave you away? sykes [jerking his head towards the tower] this gentleman did.[seeing that they do not understand, he looks round and sees that there is no one there]. oh! i thought he came in with us. hes gone downstairs, i suppose. the beadle. the general. the beadle! what the devil did he do that for? sykes. oh, i dont know: i didnt make any bargain with him. [to mrs george] how much ought i to give him, mrs collins? mrs george. five shillings. [to the bishop] i want to rest for a moment: there! in your study. i saw it here [she touches her forehead]. the bishop [opening the study door for her] by all means. turn my brother out if he disturbs you. soames: bring the letters out here. sykes. he wont be offended at my offering it, will he? mrs george. not he! he touches children with the mace to cure them of ringworm for fourpence apiece. [she goes into the study. soames follows her]. the general. well, edith, i'm a little disappointed, i must say. however, i'm glad it was done by somebody in a public uniform. mrs bridgenorth and lesbia come in through the tower. mrs bridgenorth makes for the bishop. he goes to her, and they meet near the oak chest. lesbia comes between sykes and edith. the bishop. alice, my love, theyre married. mrs bridgenorth [placidly] oh, well, thats all right. better tell collins. soames comes back from the study with his writing materials. he seats himself at the nearest end of the table and goes on with his work. hotchkiss sits down in the next chair round the table corner, with his back to him. lesbia. you have both given in, have you? edith. not at all. we have provided for everything. soames. how? edith. before going to the church, we went to the office of that insurance company--whats its name, cecil? sykes. the british family insurance corporation. it insures you against poor relations and all sorts of family contingencies. edith. it has consented to insure cecil against libel actions brought against him on my account. it will give us specially low terms because i am a bishop's daughter. sykes. and i have given edie my solemn word that if i ever commit a crime i'll knock her down before a witness and go off to brighton with another lady. lesbia. thats what you call providing for everything! [she goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. leo. do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, edith. wheres rejjy? reginald [coming in from the study] here. whats the matter? leo [springing up and flouncing round to him] whats the matter! you may well ask. while edie and cecil were at the insurance office i took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess i found everything in. your clothes are in a disgraceful state. your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. reginald. oh, i cant be bothered looking after things like that. i'm all right. leo. youre not: youre a disgrace. you never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. you must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [she arranges his necktie]. you must stay with me until i marry st john; and then we can adopt you or something. reginald [breaking loose from her and stumping off past hotchkiss towards the hearth] no, i'm dashed if i'll be adopted by st john. you can adopt him if you like. hotchkiss [rising] i suggest that that would really be the better plan, leo. ive a confession to make to you. i'm not the man you took me for. your objection to rejjy was that he had low tastes. reginald [turning] was it? by george! leo. i said slovenly habits. i never thought he had really low tastes until i saw that woman in court. how he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- reginald. is this fair? i never-- hotchkiss. of course you didnt, rejjy. dont be silly, leo. it's i who really have low tastes. leo. you! hotchkiss. ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. i adore her. i would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [he folds his arms and stands like a rock]. reginald. you damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [he seems on the point of assaulting hotchkiss when leo gets between them and draws reginald away towards the study door]. leo. dont take any notice of him, rejjy. go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. tell sir gorell barnes that i have changed my mind. [to hotchkiss] i might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [she takes reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. he chuckles. hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. the bishop. all the problems appear to be solving themselves. lesbia. except mine. the general. but, my dear lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] now i put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? lesbia. no: i cant say it does. and [rising] you have been smoking again. the general. you drive me to it, lesbia. i cant help it. lesbia [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] well, i wont scold you to-day. i feel in particularly good humor just now. tie general. may i ask why, lesbia? lesbia. [drawing a large breath] to think that after all the dangers of the morning i am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old england! soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. the general. do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- lesbia. boxer! the general [rising, horrified] no, no, you must know, my dear lesbia, that i was not using the word in its improper sense. i am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what i mean. i feel sure you would be happier as my wife. lesbia. i daresay i should, in a frowsy sort of way. but i prefer my dignity and my independence. i'm afraid i think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. the general. oh, very well, lesbia. i shall not ask you again. [he sits down huffily]. lesbia. you will, boxer; but it will be no use. [she also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. some day i hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. the general [starting up again] ha! i think you are hard, lesbia. i shall make a fool of myself if i remain here. alice: i shall go into the garden for a while. collins [appearing in the tower] i think everything is in order now, maam. the general [going to him] oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. collins. certainly, general. [he takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the general, who takes it and goes into the garden]. lesbia. i dont believe theres a man in england who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. the bishop. by the way, what has happened to the wedding party? sykes. i dont know. there wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. edith. they had all gone home. mrs bridgenorth. but the bridesmaids? collins. me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. they were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. the truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. the organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. he asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. so he played god save the king and cleared out the church. he's coming to the breakfast to explain. leo. please remember, collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that i am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and mr hotchkiss. collins. bless you, maam! one could always see that. [to mrs bridgenorth] will you receive here or in the hall, maam? mrs bridgenorth. in the hall. alfred: you and boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. we have to dress edith. come, lesbia: come, leo: we must all help. now, edith. [lesbia, leo, and edith go out through the tower]. collins: we shall want you when miss edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. collins. yes, maam. anything you would like mentioned about miss lesbia, maam? mrs bridgenorth. no. she wont have the general. i think you may take that as final. collins. what a pity, maam! a fine lady wasted, maam. [they shake their heads sadly; and mrs bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. the bishop. i'm going to the hall, collins, to receive. rejjy: go and tell boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. come, cecil. [he goes out through the tower, followed by sykes]. reginald [to hotchkiss] youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to leo, youre mistaken. and i shall have to take her part, remember that. hotchkiss. i understand. your doors are closed to me. reginald [quickly] oh no. dont be hasty. i think i should like you to drop in after a while, you know. she gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. hotchkiss. i'll do my best. reginald [relieved] righto. you wont mind, old chap, do you? hotchkiss. it's fate. ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. so long, rejjy. [they shake hands; and reginald goes into the garden to collect boxer]. collins. excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? your name is on one of the covers; and i should like to change it if youre not remaining. hotchkiss. how do i know? is my destiny any longer in my own hands? go: ask she who must be obeyed. collins [awestruck] has mrs george taken a fancy to you, sir? hotchkiss. would she had! worse, man, worse: ive taken a fancy to mrs george. collins. dont despair, sir: if george likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than mr reginald's was, i daresay. hotchkiss [calling] polly. collins [promptly] oh, if it's come to polly already, sir, i should say you were all right. mrs george appears at the door of the study. hotchkiss. your brother-in-law wishes to know whether i'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. tell him. mrs george. he stays, bill, if he chooses to behave himself. hotchkiss [to collins] may i, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you bill? collins. with pleasure, sir, i'm sure, sir. hotchkiss. my own pet name in the bosom of my family is sonny. mrs george. why didnt you tell me that before? sonny is just the name i wanted for you. [she pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] bill: i'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. send the beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. collins. right, maam. [he goes out through the tower]. mrs george left alone with hotchkiss and soames, suddenly puts her hands on soames's shoulders and bends over him. mrs george. the bishop said i was to tempt you, anthony. soames [without looking round] woman: go away. mrs george. anthony: "when other lips and other hearts their tale of love shall tell hotchkiss [sardonically] in language whose excess imparts the power they feel so well. mrs george. though hollow hearts may wear a mask, twould break your own to see in such a moment i but ask that youll remember me." and you will, anthony. i shall put my spell on you. soames. do you think that a man who has sung the magnificat and adored the queen of heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. go home to your duties, woman. mrs george [highly approving his fortitude] anthony: i adopt you as my father. thats the talk! give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and i'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. soames. thats enough. you have another man to talk to. i'm busy. mrs george [leaving soames and going a step or two nearer hotchkiss] why arnt you like him, sonny? why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? hotchkiss [thoughtfully] i must apologize to billiter. mrs george. who is billiter? hotchkiss. a man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since i saw you first.[he rises]. we all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, soames? soames. we are members of one another. there is no need to refer to me. in the first place, i'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the church catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. of course you should apologize to billiter. he is your equal. he will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. mrs george [sitting down] and so will my husband the coal merchant. hotchkiss. if i were your husband's superior here i should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. the coal merchant and i are in love with the same woman. that settles the question for me for ever. [he prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. soames. psha! mrs george. you dont believe in women, do you, anthony? he might as well say that he and george both like fried fish. hotchkiss. i do not like fried fish. dont be low, polly. soames. woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. and do you, hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. some of the victims of the miraculous draught of fishes were fried. and i eat fried fish every friday and like it. you are as ingrained a snob as ever. hotchkiss [impatiently] my dear anthony: i find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, i dont believe. i dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. it fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. i happen, like napoleon, to prefer mohammedanism. [mrs george, associating mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. i believe the whole british empire will adopt a reformed mohammedanism before the end of the century. the character of mahomet is congenial to me. i admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. that beats you, you see, soames. religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. you are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. you would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. you can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and british officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than mahomet or confucius or any of the other johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? mrs george [admiring his eloquence] george will like you, sonny. you should hear him talking about the church. soames. very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. there is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. you two are on the verge of deadly sin. do you deny that? hotchkiss. you forget, anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. soames. the question is not now what i believe, but what you believe. take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. but if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. do you believe in marriage or do you not? hotchkiss. my soul is utterly free from any such superstition. i solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, i see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. i loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. if i were an eighteenth century marquis i could feel no more free with regard to a parisian citizen's wife than i do with regard to polly. i despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. mrs george [rising promptly] oh, indeed. then youre not coming home with me, young man. i'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but i'm looking out for a friend and not for a french marquis; so youre not coming home with me. hotchkiss [inexorably] yes, i am. mrs george. no. hotchkiss. yes. think again. you know your set pretty well, i suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. you know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. mrs george. we're not angels. i know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. hotchkiss. then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout christians, so all christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. mrs george. well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? hotchkiss. they are people of sentiment, not of honor. now, i'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. i know well what will happen to me when once i cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. this marriage bond which i despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. soames: youre a communist, arnt you? soames. i am a christian. that obliges me to be a communist. hotchkiss. and you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the church by henry the eighth? soames. i do not merely believe that: i know it as a lawyer. hotchkiss. would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? soames [fencing with the question] they have no right to their lands. hotchkiss. thats not what i ask you. would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? soames. i do not like turnips. hotchkiss. as you are a lawyer, answer me. soames. i admit that i should probably not do so. i should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: i cant defend my reluctance to do so; but i think i should not do so. i know i should not do so. hotchkiss. neither shall i be able to steal george's wife. i have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and i know that my hand will always come back empty. to disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. you may take me home with you, polly: you have nothing to fear. mrs george. and nothing to hope? hotchkiss. since you put it in that more than kind way, polly, absolutely nothing. mrs george. hm! like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? but the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. perhaps anthony here has a glimmering of it. eh, anthony? soames. christian fellowship? mrs george. you call it that, do you? soames. what do you call it? collins [appearing in the tower with the beadle]. now, polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. the beadle. make way there, gentlemen, please. way for the worshipful the mayoress. if you please, my lords and gentlemen. by your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the mayoress. mrs george takes hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the beadle. soames resumes his writing tranquilly. love among the lions a matrimonial experience by f. anstey author of "vice versa," etc. london j. m. dent & co. & bedford street, w.c. list of illustrations page the exquisite face looking out over the wire blind Æneas polkinghorne still i persevered the introduction of mr blenkinsop to miss lurana de castro "and whom should i marry, mr blenkinsop?" "let us be married in the lion's cage" "yes, papa, we are a little late" "first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop" "well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, i don't see any objection" we were still chatting when laurana returned a cleric of the broad-minded school "if you go on like that i shall begin to think you want to frighten me" mademoiselle "a de castro can never marry a craven" "if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight" i was forlornly mopping when niono returned my wedding toilette was complete it's a swindle a kind of small procession entered the arena then he addressed the audience "if only you had been firmer, theodore" love among the lions part i in the following pages will be found the only authentic account of an affair which provided london, and indeed all england, with material for speculation and excitement for a period of at least nine days. so many inaccurate versions have been circulated, so many ill-natured and unjust aspersions have been freely cast, that it seemed advisable for the sake of those principally concerned to make a plain unvarnished statement of the actual facts. and when i mention that i who write this am the theodore blenkinsop whose name was, not long since, as familiar in the public mouth as household words, i venture to think that i shall at once recall the matter to the shortest memory, and establish my right to speak with authority on the subject. at the time i refer to i was--and for the matter of that still am--employed at a lucrative salary as taster to a well-known firm of tea-merchants in the city. i occupied furnished apartments, a sitting-room and bedroom, over a dairy establishment in tadmor terrace, near baalbec road, in the pleasant and salubrious district of highbury. arrived at the age of twenty-eight, i was still a bachelor and had felt no serious inclination to change my condition until the memorable afternoon on which the universe became transformed for me in the course of a quiet stroll round canonbury square. for the information of those who may be unacquainted with it, i may state that canonbury square is in islington; the houses, though undeniably dingy as to their exteriors, are highly respectable, and mostly tenanted by members of the medical, musical, or scholastic professions; some have balconies and verandahs which make it difficult to believe that one has not met them, like their occupiers, at some watering place in the summer. the square is divided into two by a road on which frequent tramcars run to the city, and the two central enclosures are neatly laid out with gravelled paths and garden seats; in the one there is a dovecot, in the other there are large terra-cotta oil-jars, bringing recollections of the arabian nights and the devoted morgiana. all this, i know, is not strictly to the point, but i am anxious to make it clear that the locality, though not perhaps a chosen haunt of rank and fashion, possesses compensations of its own. strolling round canonbury square, then, i happened to glance at a certain ground floor window in which an art-pot, in the form of a chipped egg hanging in gilded chains and enamelled shrimp-pink, gave a note of femininity that softened the dusty severity of a wire blind. under the chipped egg, and above the top of the blind, gazing out with an air of listless disdain and utter weariness, was a lovely vivid face, which, with its hint of pent-up passion and tropical languor, i mentally likened to a pomegranate flower; not that i have ever seen a pomegranate flower, though i am more familiar with the fruit--which, to my palate, has too much the flavour of firewood to be wholly agreeable--but somehow it seemed the only appropriate comparison. [illustration: the exquisite face looking out over the wire blind.] after that, few days passed on which i did not saunter at least once round the square, and several times i was rewarded by the sight of that same exquisite face, looking out over the wire blind, always with the same look of intense boredom and haughty resentment of her surroundings--a kind of modern mariana, with an area to represent the moat. [illustration: Æneas polkinghorne.] i was hopelessly in love from the very first; i thought of nothing but how to obtain admission to her presence; as time went on, i fancied that when i passed there was a gleam of recognition, of half-awakened interest in her long-lashed eyes, but it was difficult to be certain. on the railing by the door was a large brass plate, on which was engraved: "Æneas polkinghorne, professor of elocution. prospectus within." so i knew the name of my divinity. i can give no greater indication of the extent of my passion, even at this stage, than by saying that i found this surname musical, and lingered over each syllable with delight. but that brought me no nearer to her, and at last a plan occurred to me by which the abyss of the area that separated us might possibly be bridged over. nothing could be simpler than my device--and yet there was an audacity about it that rather startled me at first. it was this: the brass plate said "prospectus within." very well, all i had to do was to knock boldly and ask for one, which, after some natural hesitation, i did. any wild hope of obtaining an interview with miss polkinghorne was doomed to instant disappointment. i was received by the professor himself, a tall, stout, flabby person, with sandy hair combed back over his brow and worn long behind, who showed a most sympathetic interest in me, inquiring whether i wished to be prepared for the church, the stage, or the bar, or whether i had any idea of entering parliament. i fear i allowed him to suppose the latter, although i am about as likely to get into parliament as into an imperial pint measure; but i had to say something to account for my visit, and the tea-trade does not call for much in the way of oratorical skill from its votaries. our interview was brief, but i came away, not only with a prospectus, but with tickets, for which i paid cash, entitling me to a course of six lessons in elocution. this was rather more than i had calculated upon--but, at least, it gave me the _entrée_ to the house, and it might lead to something more. it did not seem as if it was going to lead to much; the professor's method of teaching was peculiar: he would post me in a study at the back of the house, where i was instructed to declaim some celebrated oration at the top of my voice while he retired upstairs to discover how far my voice would carry. after twenty minutes or so he would return with the information, which i have no reason to disbelieve, that he had not heard a single word above the first landing. still i persevered, sustained by the thought that, when i was delivering the oration of brutus over cæsar, or the famous passage about the queen of france and the "ten thousand swords leaping from their scabbards," my words might perchance reach miss polkinghorne's ear and excite in her a passing emotion. but i came to the end of my tickets and still i was as far as ever from my goal, while the exertion of shouting had rendered me painfully husky. [illustration: still i persevered.] yet i would not give in; i set myself to gain the professor's good opinion; i took more tickets. it was not till after i had run through these that i ascertained, by an apparently careless inquiry, that there was no such person as miss polkinghorne--the professor was a widower and had never had a daughter! the thought that i had wasted so much time and money for nothing was bitter at first, and i very nearly decided to discontinue my studies there and then. but i conquered my feelings. though the professor was no relation to this young lady, he must know her name, he must be able to give me some information about her; a little judicious pumping might render him communicative. "my dear sir," he said, after i had been beating about the bush for some time with cautious delicacy, "i think i understand. you are anxious to make this young lady's acquaintance with a view to paying your addresses to her? is not that so?" i confessed that he had managed to penetrate my motives, though i could not imagine how. "you will not be the first who has sought to win lurana's affections," he said; "more than one of my pupils--but the child is ambitious, difficult to please. unfortunately, this is your final lesson--otherwise i might, after preparing the ground, so to say, have presented you to her, and i daresay she would have been pleased to give you a cup of tea occasionally after your labours. indeed, as miss lurana de castro's stepfather, i can answer for that--however, since our acquaintance unhappily ceases here----" it did not cease there; i took another dozen tickets at once, and if even polkinghorne had sounded sweetly to my enamoured ear, you may conceive what enchanting melody lay in a name so romantic and so euphonious as lurana de castro. the professor was as good as his word; at the end of the very next lesson i was invited to follow him to the drawing-room, where i found the owner of the brilliant face that had so possessed me seated at her tea-table. she gave me a cup of tea, and i can pay her witchery no higher compliment when i state that it seemed to me as nectar, even though my trained palate detected in it an inartistic and incongruous blend of broken teas, utterly without either style or quality. i am not sure that i did not ask for another. [illustration: the introduction of mr blenkinsop to miss lurana de castro.] she was astonishingly lovely; her spanish descent was apparent in her magnificent black tresses, lustrous eyes, and oval face of olive tinted with richest carmine. as i afterwards learnt, she was the daughter of a spanish government official of an ancient castilian family, who had left his widow in such straitened circumstances that she was compelled to support herself by exhibiting performing mice and canaries at juvenile parties, until she met and married the professor, who at that time was delivering recitations illustrated by an oxy-hydrogen lantern. the second marriage had not been altogether a success, and, now that the professor was a widower, i fancy that his relations with his imperious stepdaughter were not invariably of the most cordial nature, and that he would have been grateful to any one who succeeded in winning her hand and freeing him from her sway. i did not know that then, however, though i was struck by the deferential politeness of his manner towards her, and the alacrity with which, after he had refreshed himself, he shuffled out of the room, leaving lurana to entertain me single-handed. that first evening with her was not unmixed joy. i had the consciousness of being on trial. i knew that many had been tried and found wanting before me. lurana's attitude was languid, indifferent, almost disdainful, and when i went away i had a forlorn conviction that i should never again be asked to tea with her, and that the last series of tickets represented money absolutely thrown away! and yet i _was_ asked again--not only once, but many times, which was favourable as far as it went, for i felt tolerably certain that the professor would never have ventured to bring me a second time into his daughter's presence, unless he had been distinctly given to understand that my society was very far from distasteful to her. as i grew to know her better, i learnt the secret of her listlessness and discontent with life. she was tormented by the unbounded ambitions and the distinct limitations which embitter existence for so many young girls of our day. the admiration which her beauty excited gave her little satisfaction; such social success as highbury or canonbury could offer left her cold and unmoved. she was pining for some distinction which should travel beyond her own narrow little world, and there did not seem to be any obvious way of attaining it. she would not have minded being a popular author or artist--only she could find nothing worth writing about, and she did not know how to draw; she would have loved to be a great actress--but unfortunately she had never been able to commit the shortest part to memory, and the pride of a de castro forbade her to accept anything but leading _rôles_. no wonder that she was devoured by dulness, or that there were moments when she beat her pinions like some captive wild bird against the cage of her own incompetence. even i, although fairly content with my lot, would sometimes flap my own wings, so to speak, from sheer sympathy. "it's maddening to be a nobody!" she would declare, as she threw herself petulantly back in her chair, with her arms raised behind her and her interlaced fingers forming a charming cradle for her head--a favourite attitude of hers. "it does seem so stupid not to be celebrated when almost everybody is! and to think that i have a friend like ruth rakestraw, who knows ever so many editors and people, and could make me famous with a few strokes of the pen--if only i did something to give her the chance. but i never _do_!" miss rakestraw, i should explain, was an enterprising young lady journalist, who contributed society news and "on dits" to the leading islington and holloway journals, and was understood to have had "leaderettes" and "turnovers" accepted by periodicals of even greater importance. "if only," lurana burst out on one of these occasions, "if only i could do something once which would get my name into all the papers, set everybody thinking of me, talking of me, staring after me wherever i went, make editors write for my photograph, and interviewers beg for my biography, i think i should be content." i made the remark, which was true but not perhaps startling in its originality, that fame of this kind was apt to be of brief duration. "what should i care?" she cried; "i should have _had_ it. i could keep the cuttings; they would always be there to remind me that once at least--but what's the use of talking? i shall never see my name in all the papers. i know i shan't!" "there _is_ a way!" i ventured to observe; "you might have your name in all the papers, if you married." "as if i meant _that_!" she said, with a deliciously contemptuous pout. "and whom should i marry, if you please, mr blenkinsop?" "you might marry me!" i suggested humbly. "you!" she retorted. "how would _that_ make me a celebrity. you are not even one yourself." [illustration: "and whom should i marry, mr blenkinsop?"] "i do not care to boast," i said, "but it is the simple fact that nobody in the entire tea-trade has a palate approaching mine for keenness and delicacy. ask any one and they will tell you the same." "you may be the best tea-taster in the world," she said, "but the purity of your palate will never gain you a paragraph in a single society paper. and even if it did, what should _i_ gain? at the best a reflected glory. i want to be a somebody myself!" "what's the use of trying to make ourselves what we are not?" i broke out. "if fate has made us wooden ninepins in the world's nursery, we may batter our head against the walls as much as we like--but we can never batter it into a profile!" i thought this rather neatly put myself, but it did not appeal to miss de castro, who retorted with some asperity that i was the best judge of the material of my own head, but hers, at least, was not wooden, while she had hitherto been under the impression that it already possessed a profile--such as it was. she could not be brought to understand that i was merely employing a metaphor, and for the remainder of the evening her demeanour was so crushingly chilling, that i left in the lowest spirits, persuaded that my unlucky tongue had estranged me from lurana for ever. for some time i avoided canonbury square altogether, for i felt unequal to facing an elocution lesson unrecompensed by tea with miss de castro, and the halfhour or more of delightful solitude _à deux_ which followed the meal--for it had never occurred to the professor to provide his stepdaughter with a chaperon. at last, when on the verge of despair, hope returned in the form of a little note from lurana, asking whether i was dead, and inviting me, if still in existence, to join a small party to visit the world's fair at the agricultural hall the next evening, and return to supper afterwards at canonbury square, an invitation which, need i say, i joyfully accepted. we were only four; miss rakestraw and her _fiancé_, a smart young solicitor's clerk, of the name of archibald chuck, whose employer had lately presented him with his articles; myself, and lurana. the professor was unable to accompany us, having an engagement to read "hiawatha" to a young men's mutual improvement society that evening. part of the hall was taken up by various side-shows, shooting-galleries, and steam merry-go-rounds, which produced a discordant and deafening din until a certain hour of the evening, when the noises subsided, and wooker and sawkins' world-renowned circus gave a performance in the arena, which occupied the centre. miss rakestraw's connection with the press procured us free passes to the reserved seats close to the ring; my chair was next to lurana's, and she was graciously pleased to ignore our recent difference. the entertainment was of the usual variety, i suppose; but, to tell the truth, i was so absorbed in the bliss of being once more by her side and watching her face, which looked more dazzling than ever through the delicate meshes of her veil, that i have the vaguest recollection of the earlier items of the programme. but towards the close there came a performance which i have good reason to remember. an enormous elephant entered the circle, drawing a trolley, upon which was an iron cage containing forest-bred african lions. after the electric globes had been lowered, so as to illuminate the interior, "niono, the lion king," a dapper, wellmade man, of very much my own height and figure, so far as i could judge, went into the cage and put the animals through various exercises. niono was succeeded by mlle. léonie, the "circe of the carnivora," a pretty frenchwoman, who, as it seemed to me, surpassed him in coolness and daring. there was nothing disagreeably sensational about the exhibition; all the animals were evidently under perfect control; the huge, black-maned lions leaped through paper hoops and blazing circles without the slightest loss of either temper or dignity; the females followed obediently. only one lioness showed any disposition to be offensive, and _she_ did not venture to go beyond yawning ostentatiously whenever mlle. léonie's eye was upon her. altogether it was, as i remarked to lurana at the time, a wonderful instance of the natural dominion of man over the animal world. she enthusiastically commended the symmetry of mr niono's figure, which did not strike me as so very much above the average; and to pique her, i expressed equal admiration for mlle. léonie, and was gratified to observe unmistakable signs of jealousy on lurana's part. but we were both agreed that the profession of lion-taming looked more dangerous than it actually was, and archibald chuck mentioned that some townsman in the provinces had, for a very trifling wager, entered a den of lions in a travelling menagerie with perfect impunity. miss rakestraw capped this by a case from america, in which a young couple had actually chosen a lion's cage to be married in, though she admitted that the story was possibly a fabrication. i walked back with lurana alone, as we somehow lost sight of mr chuck and his _fiancée_ in the crush going out, and on the way home i could not refrain from pleading my cause once more. i told her how i had loved her at first sight, and how many elocution lessons i had endured for her sake; i pointed out that i was already receiving a salary sufficient to maintain a wife in comfort, if not luxury; and that her married life could hardly be more monotonous and uncongenial than her present existence. she listened attentively, as if moved. presently she said, "theodore, i will be perfectly frank. i do like you; i believe i could even love you. but i have spanish blood in my veins. i could never be satisfied with a humdrum conventional marriage." i was inexpressibly shocked. i had no idea that her views were so emancipated. "lurana," i said, "believe me, never mind what the lady novelists say against marriage; it may have its disadvantages, but, after all, as society is constituted----" "you don't understand," she said. "i am not opposed to marriage--with a man who is willing to make some concession, some slight sacrifice, to gratify me. but are you that _kind_ of man, theodore, i wonder?" i saw that she was already beginning to yield. "i would do anything--anything in the world you bid me," i cried, "if only you will be my wife, lurana." "i should ask you to do nothing that i am not perfectly prepared to do myself," she said. "a temporary inconvenience, a risk which is the merest trifle. still, you may think it too much, theodore." "name it," i replied. "the opportunities which the tea trade affords for the cultivation of heroism are rare; but there are few risks that i would shrink from running with you." "it is only this," she said. "i don't want a commonplace wedding. i want one that will be talked about and make a sensation. will you let me be married in my own way?" i was rather relieved by what seemed so moderate a demand. "certainly, darling," i said; "we will be married in westminster abbey, by the archbishop of canterbury, if you wish it, and it can be arranged. what matter where or how the ceremony take place, or what it costs, provided it makes you mine for ever?" [illustration: "let us be married in the lion's cage."] "then, theodore," she said, pressing my arm impulsively with her slim fingers, while the rays of a street lamp in the square fell on her upturned face and shining eyes, "let us be married at the agricultural hall--in the lions' cage!" i confess to being considerably startled. i had expected something rather out of the common, but nothing in the least like this. "in the lions' cage!" i repeated, blankly. "wouldn't that be rather _smelly_, lurana? and, besides, the menagerie people would never lend it for such a purpose. where would they put the lions, you know?" "why, the lions would be _there_, of course," she said, "or else there'd be nothing in it." "if i am to be married in a lion-cage," i said, with a very feeble attempt at levity, "i should very much prefer that there _was_ nothing in it." "ah, you may laugh, theodore!" she said, "but, after all your professions, surely you won't refuse the very first indulgence i ask! you may think it a mere whim, a girlish caprice; but understand this--i am thoroughly in earnest about it. if you are willing to marry me as i wish, the wedding may be as soon as ever you please. but if not, tell me so plainly, and let us part for ever. either i will be married in my own way, or not at all." what could i do? it was simply impossible to give her up now, the very moment after she was won. and to lose her for such a mere punctilio; for, of course, this condition of hers was too fantastic to be practicable; the professor would certainly refuse his consent to so eccentric a ceremony; lurana herself would probably realise before long the absurdity of the idea. in the meantime, as her acknowledged _fiancé_, i should have the immense advantage of being on the spot when she returned to a more reasonable frame of mind. so i gave way, and assured her that i had no personal objection to lions, and would as soon be married in their presence as elsewhere, provided that we could obtain the necessary permission; and even if i had thought this more probable than i did, i believe--so potent was the witchery of lurana's voice and eyes--i should have said precisely the same. "dearest theodore!" she murmured, "i never really doubted you. i felt so sure that you would be nice and sympathetic about it. if we couldn't agree about such a trifling thing as where we are to be married, we _should_ be unsuited to one another, shouldn't we? now we will just walk round the square once more, and then go in and tell the others what we have arranged." they had sat down to supper when we entered, and the professor cast a glance of keen inquiry through his spectacles at us, over the cold beef and pickles with which he was recruiting his energies after "hiawatha." "yes, papa," said lurana, calmly, "we _are_ a little late; but theodore has been asking me to marry him, and i have said i would." there was an outburst of congratulations from miss rakestraw and chuck. old polkinghorne thought fit to conceal his joy under a cloak of stagey emotion. "well, well," he said, "it is nature's law; the young birds spread their wings and quit the warm nest, and the old ones are left to sit and brood over the past. i cannot blame you, child. as for _you_, my boy," he added, extending a flabby hand to me, "all i can say is, there is no one to whom i would so willingly surrender her." there was scarcely any one to whom, in my opinion, he would _not_ surrender her with the utmost alacrity, for, as i have already hinted, lurana, with all her irresistible fascination, had a temper of her own, and was apt to make the parental nest a trifle _too_ warm for the elder bird occasionally. [illustration: "yes, papa, we are a little late."] "and when am i to lose my sunbeam?" he asked. "not _just_ yet?" "theodore wishes to have the marriage as soon as possible," said lurana, "by special licence." "have you settled where?" inquired miss rakestraw, with feminine interest in such details. "well," said lurana slowly, evidently enjoying the effect she was producing, "theodore and i have quite made up our minds to be married at the menagerie--in the den of lions." "how splendid!" exclaimed the lady journalist. "it's never been done over here. _what_ a sensation it will make! i'll do a full descriptive report for all my papers!" "that's what i call a real sporting way of getting spliced," said chuck. "only wish i'd thought of it myself before i had our banns put up, ruth. first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop." "of course," i said, "if the professor thinks it in the least unsafe----" [illustration: "first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop."] "oh, it's safe enough," put in chuck, who was a little too apt to volunteer his opinion. "why, we've seen the lions, professor; they're as quiet as lambs. and anyway, they'd have the lion-tamer in with them, you know. _they'll_ be all right!" "i think," said the professor, "we may disregard the danger; but the expense--have you thought what it will cost, theodore?" "i have not," i said, "not till you mentioned it. it will probably be enormous, more than i could possibly afford--unless you are ready to go halves?" i concluded, feeling perfectly certain that he was ready to do nothing of the sort. "but look here," said chuck, "why should it cost you anything? if you go the right way about it, you ought to get all your expenses paid by the circus, and a share of the gate-money into the bargain." "oh, mr chuck!" cried lurana, "_how_ clever of you to think of that! _wasn't_ it, theodore?" i could have kicked chuck, but i said it was a stroke of positive genius. "that's simple enough," he said. "the rock _i_ see ahead is getting the special licence. you see, if you want to marry anywhere else than in a certified place of worship or a registry office, you must first satisfy the archbishop of canterbury, or the surrogate, or whoever the old josser is at doctors' commons who looks after these things, that it's a 'convenient place' within the marriage act of . now, the point is, _will_ a cage of lions strike them as coming under that description?" if it should, the ecclesiastical notions of convenience must be more than peculiar. for the first time i realised what an able fellow chuck was. "my dear chuck!" i said, "what a marvellous knowledge you have of law! you've hit the weak spot. it would be perfectly hopeless to make such an application. it's a pity, but we must give it up, that's all--we must give it up." "then," said lurana, "we must give up any marriage at all, for i certainly don't intend to marry anywhere else." "after all," said the irrepressible chuck, "all you need apply for is a licence to marry in the agricultural hall; they won't want to know the exact spot. i tell you what, you go and talk it over with the circus people and fix the day, and i'll go up to doctors' commons and get round 'em somehow. you leave it to me." "do you know," said the professor, beaming, "i really begin to think this idea of yours can be carried out quite comfortably after all, theodore. it certainly has the attraction of novelty, besides being safe, and even, it may be, remunerative. to a true lover, a lions' cage may be as fit a temple of hymen as any other structure, and their roars be gentle as the ring-dove's coo. go and see these people the first thing tomorrow, and no doubt you will be able to come to terms with them." this i agreed to do, and lurana insisted on coming with me. miss rakestraw was in ecstasies over our proposal, and undertook to what she called "boom the wedding for all it was worth" in every paper with which she had any connection, and with other more influential organs to which the possession of such exclusive intelligence as hers would procure her the _entrée_. by the end of the evening she had completely turned lurana's head, and even i myself was not quite untouched by the general enthusiasm. it seemed to me that being married in a den of lions might not be such bad fun after all. when i awoke next morning with the dawning recollection of what i was in for, the glamour had in a great measure departed from the idea, which seemed to me at best but a foolish piece of bravado. it had been arranged that i should call for lurana immediately after breakfast, and interview the circus proprietors on my way to business, and i rather expected to find that the night had borne counsel to her as well as myself; but she was in exuberant spirits, and as keen about the project as ever, so i thought it better not to betray that my own ardour had abated. but what, after all, were we going to request? that these people should allow their lions to be inconvenienced, quite unnecessarily, by a wedding in their cage between two perfect strangers who had all london to choose from! i believed that they would decline to entertain the suggestion for a moment, and, if so, i could not blame them. i felt that they would have both right and reason on their side. on arriving at the hall, we inquired for mr wooker or mr sawkins, and were requested to wait, which we did in a draughty passage smelling strongly of stables, while loud snorting and wheezing reached our ears from the arena, where they seemed to be exercising the circus stud. at last we were told that mr sawkins would see us (i don't know to this day whether mr wooker had any real existence or not), and were shown up to his office, which did not differ from any other office, except that it had a gaudy circus poster and a bill announcing the sale by auction of some rival menagerie pinned against the wall. as for mr sawkins, he was a florid, jowly man, with the remnants of his hair dyed and parted down the middle, a kind of amalgam of a country job-master and the dignified person who bows customers into chairs in a fashionable draper's establishment. he heard lurana, who acted as spokeswoman, with magisterial gravity, and, to my surprise, without appearing to regard us as a pair of morbid maniacs. "there's no denying," he said, "that the thing would draw if properly billed, always supposing, mind you, that it's capable of being done at all. and the only person able to give an opinion about that is mr onion, the gentleman," he explained, "who is our lion king. he spells his name 'niono' professionally, which gives it more of an african flavour, if you follow my meaning. i'll call down the tube for him." i awaited mr onion's arrival with impatience. he presently made his appearance in a short-braided tunic, with black lamb's wool round the collar and cuffs. by daylight his countenance, though far from ill-looking, was sallow and seamed; there was a glance of admiration in his bold, dark eyes as they rested on lurana's spirited face. "well," he decided, after the case had been explained to him, "if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, _i_ don't see any objection. along with _me_, there'll be no more danger than if it was a cage of white mice--provided you've the nerve for it." lurana said proudly that her own mother had been an accomplished animal trainer--she did not mention the kind of animals--and that she herself was quite incapable of being afraid of a lion. [illustration: "well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, i don't see any objection."] "if you've _got_ nerve," said mr niono, "you're right enough, but you can't _create_ it; it's a gift. take _me_. i'm hardly ever away from my animals. i get downright impatient for every performance. but if ever i got the feeling that i was _afraid_ of them lions or they weren't afraid o' me, do you think i'd trust myself inside that cage? no fear! they've left their marks on me as it is--my 'trade marks,' as i call 'em--see!" and here he bared his arm and exhibited some fearful scars; "but that's affection, that is." he then offered to introduce us to his pets, and i should have accompanied lurana to see the cage, only on the way we met mlle. léonie, to whom mr sawkins presented me, and, naturally, i was compelled to stop. she was a piquant-looking woman, not quite in her first youth, perhaps, but still attractive, and with the indescribable, airy grace of a parisian, though i believe she came from belgium. mademoiselle was charmed with our project, complimented me upon my britannic phlegm, and predicted that i should find the little experience "all," as she put it, "that there was of the most agreeable," which i devoutly hoped would be the case. [illustration: we were still chatting when laurana returned.] we were still chatting when lurana returned, enraptured with the lions, one of whom had actually allowed her to tickle him behind the ear. niono testified that _her_ nerve, at all events, was beyond question. she was anxious that i should go and tickle the lion, too; but this i declined, being occupied in talking to mlle. léonie at the time. "there's one thing," said mr sawkins later, as we were discussing the arrangements, "we shouldn't object to paying for the special licence; but where are you going to find a parson to marry you? you must have a parson of _some_ sort, you know." again fate seemed to have interposed an insurmountable barrier between us and our desire. i had to admit that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a clergyman courageous enough to enter the cage with us. "well, there's no call for him to be _inside_ of it," said mr niono, who was with us, heart and soul, by this time. "in fact, the lady and yourself are about as many as i could undertake to be answerable for. we could rig him up a perch outside to read the service from, comfortable." even so, i said, i was afraid that it was hardly a service one could ask any divine to perform. "i know a party who'd jump at it," said mr niono, who was full of resource. "the reverend skipworth. _you_ know who i mean, sawkins. little chap in a check suit and goggles i introduced to you at the bar the other evening--always dropping in, he is. he'd do it, just for the lark of the thing. and he's a regular professional, you know," he added for my benefit, "though he don't sport a white choker in his off hours; likes to go about and see life for himself, and quite right. you get the licence, sir, and i'll guarantee that the reverend ninian skipworth will do the job for you." so we left the hall, delighted, especially lurana, with the unexpected ease with which our object had been attained. it had seemed at first the wildest extravagance, and now there was apparently every prospect that lurana and i would really exchange our marriage vows in a den of forest-bred lions, unless (which, of course, was a possibility that had to be taken into account) the ecclesiastical authorities should refuse to grant a special licence. i was unable to apply in person at doctors' commons, for lurana insisted that i should leave the whole matter in chuck's hands, but i impressed upon him the necessity of absolute candour with the officials. whether he told them all, whether they were remiss in making full inquiry, or whether--as i would rather not think--he intentionally deceived them, i cannot say, but at all events he came back triumphantly with the special licence. wooker and sawkins had fixed an early date, and wished the wedding to take place at night, so as to figure in the evening programme, but the surrogate, or somebody at the office, had insisted that it must be in the afternoon, which would, of course, oblige mr sawkins to introduce it at a _matinée_ performance. miss rakestraw proved herself a born journalist. she placed her news at the disposal of an enterprising evening journal, whose bills that very same evening came out with startling and alliterative headlines such as: love laughs at lions! _canonbury couple to marry in cageful of carnivora._ and from that moment, as the reader will recollect, lurana and i became public characters. there were portraits--quite unrecognisable--of us in several of the illustrated weeklies, together with sketches of and interviews with us both, contributed by miss ruth's facile stylograph, and an account of the professor, contributed by himself. as for the daily papers there was scarcely one, from the _times_ downwards, which did not contain a leader, a paragraph, or a letter on the subject of our contemplated wedding. some denounced me violently for foolhardy rashness, others for the selfishness with which i was encouraging an impressionable girl to risk her life to gratify my masculine vanity. several indignantly demanded whether it was true that the archbishop had sanctioned such a scandalous abuse of marriage rites, and if so, what the home office were about? there was a risk that all this publicity would end in the authorities being compelled to interfere and countermand the ceremony, and yet i cannot honestly say that i disliked the fuss that was made about it. in the city, to be sure, i had to put up with a certain amount of chaff; facetious inquiries as to whether i intended to present the leonine bridesmaids with bones or pieces of raw meat, and the precise locality in which my wife and i thought of spending our honeymoon. but such _badinage_ covered a very genuine respect for my intrepidity, and i was looked upon as a credit to the tea trade. the appointed day was getting nearer and nearer, and still--so wonderfully did fortune befriend us--the authorities gave no sign of any intention to interfere. parliament had not yet reassembled, so no one could rise and put a question in the house to the home secretary, and if government officials ever read the morning papers, it seemed that they did not feel called upon to take cognisance of anything they read there, unless compelled to do so by pressure from without. nor did the archbishop take any steps. no doubt he may have been unaware of the precise conditions under which the ceremony was to be sanctioned, and the same remark applies to the bishop of london. it is true that their attention was drawn to the facts by more than one postcard, as i have reason to know. but some people make a practice--and it is not for me to condemn them--of taking no notice of anonymous communications. however, as the time drew on, i thought it would be only proper on my part to go and call upon the reverend ninian skipworth, the curate with whom our energetic friend, mr niono, had now made all the necessary arrangements, and find out, quietly, what his state of mind was. he might be wavering, in which case i should have to strengthen his resolution. or he might not yet have realised all the possible consequences of his good nature, and if so, i should not be acting fairly towards him if i did not lay them before him, even though the result should be that he withdrew from his engagement. niono had given me his address, and i looked in at the curate's unpretentious lodgings one evening on my way home. i found him in, and as soon as he learnt my name, he offered me whisky and soda and a cigar with most unparsonical joviality. [illustration: a cleric of the broad-minded school.] the reverend ninian, i found, was a cleric of the broad-minded school which scorns conventional restrictions; he held that if the church was to maintain its influence, it must follow the trend of modern progress, and neglect no opportunity of winning the hearts of the people. he was only sorry, he told me, that the prejudices of his bishop would prevent him from reading the service inside the cage. i replied gratefully that i was sufficiently indebted to him as it was, since if his connection with the affair reached the episcopal ear, he would be in serious danger of being suspended, even if he did not receive some still heavier punishment. "oh, don't you bother about that!" he said, cheerily; "it's awfully good of you to trouble yourself on my account; but if the bishop is such an old stick-in-the-mud as to haul me up for a little thing like this, i shall simply chuck up the church altogether, that's all! in fact, i've almost decided to do it in any case, for i believe i could do more real good outside the establishment than in. and i admire your pluck, my dear fellow, and your manly straightforwardness in coming here like this; and i'm hanged if i don't marry you and chance the consequences, so don't say another word about it." i didn't, though i need not say i was profoundly moved by the genuine sympathy and assistance which our project seemed to inspire in the most unexpected quarters. my one anxiety now was about lurana. outwardly she appeared cheerful and even gay, and thoroughly to enjoy her position as the heroine of the hour; but how could i be sure that this was genuine and not a highstrung hysterical self-repression which would be succeeded by a violent reaction, it might be in the lions' cage itself? from that at all hazards she must be saved. earnestly, seriously, i pointed out how much would depend on her maintaining perfect coolness and composure during the ceremony, and implored her, if she felt the slightest misgivings, the smallest tendency to shrink in secret from the coming ordeal, not to allow any false pride to close her lips. there was still time, i reminded her. if on second thoughts, she preferred to be married in the old time-honoured way, instead of in a menagerie den, she had only to say so. her happiness and comfort were the chief things to consider. "withdraw now, theodore?" she said, "after announcing it in all the papers! why, how _could_ we?" "i would take all that upon myself," i told her; "i need only say that you don't feel quite equal to facing lions." "but i _do_, theodore," she said, "the dear, ducky, pussy-faced old things! who could possibly be afraid of lions--especially with mr niono to protect us?" "if you knew more _about_ lions, lurana," i said, "you would know how liable they are to sudden rages, and how little even lion-tamers themselves--" "if you go on like that, theodore," she said, "i shall begin to think that you want to frighten me--and even that you are just a little frightened yourself. but i'm not to be frightened. i should not be my mother's daughter if i had any fear of animals. and once for all, you will either marry me in the lions' cage or not at all!" [illustration: "if you go on like that i shall begin to think you want to frighten me."] i saw that i should only be exposing myself to further misunderstanding if i pursued the subject. lurana had that quality of courage which springs from a total lack of imagination; she had never seen a performing lion ramp and roar, and it was inconceivable to her that one could ever indulge in such exercises. still less did she understand that there is another type of courage, which sees all the difficulties and dangers beforehand, even exaggerated by distance, and yet advances calmly and undauntedly to encounter them. my courage was of that sort, and it is generally admitted that it belongs to a far higher order than the other. now that the die was cast i found myself anticipating the eventful day with philosophic equanimity. it was an uncomfortable method of getting married, no doubt, but after all, what man ever _was_ comfortable at his own wedding? and surely one crowded quarter-of-an-hour (for it would certainly be crowded in that cage) of glorious life would be worth an age without lurana--who was not to be won by any other means. part ii it was now the eve of my wedding-day, and it was generally taken for granted that lurana and i would be allowed to enter the lion-cage without opposition from any quarter. whether we should find it as easy to come out again was a point on which opinions differed considerably, but the majority must have been confident that the ceremony would pass off without any unpleasant interruption--for the rush to obtain seats was tremendous. i was just as tranquil and collected as ever; i could not detect that my valour had "ullaged," as wine-merchants say, in the slightest degree, though lurana was perpetually questioning me as to whether i was sure i would not rather withdraw. of course, i indignantly repudiated the very idea, but it is well known that a perfectly sober person, if suddenly taxed with being drunk, will seem and even feel so, and it is much the same with any imputation of cowardice. i began to think that constant tea tasting, even though the infusions are not actually swallowed, probably has some subtle effect upon the nervous system, and that it would brace me up and also show me how little cause i had to be uneasy, if i dropped into the agricultural hall once more and saw niono put his lions through their performances. so i left the city early that afternoon and paid for my admission to the hall like an ordinary sightseer; i did not ask lurana to accompany me, because i knew she must have plenty to keep her at home just then. i was just in time for the performing lions, and found a place in the outer edge of the crowd; it was strange to stand there unrecognised and hear myself being freely discussed by all around; strange and decidedly exhilarating, too, to think that in another twenty-four hours i should be, not a spectator of what was to take place in that arena, but one of the principal performers, the centre of breathless interest, the hero of the hour! but with the appearance of the cage, this unnatural exhilaration suddenly died down. it was not so much the lions, though they struck me as larger and less easy-tempered than on the first occasion, while the lioness was as nearly in open revolt as she dared. what troubled me most was that the cage contained another inmate, one whom i did not remember to have seen before--a magnificent specimen of the bengal tiger. it seemed perfectly clear to me that the brute was only about half-trained; he went through his tricks in a sullen perfunctory way, with a savage, snurring snap every now and then, which, even at that distance, made my flesh creep. and, whenever he snapped, clouds of steam issued from his great jaws; i could see, too, that the lioness was secretly egging him on to fresh acts of defiance, and that he was only watching his opportunity to crouch and spring as soon as niono's back was turned. i was perfectly determined that i would not have that tiger at _my_ wedding; he would never keep still for a moment; he would upset all the other animals, and how could i be expected to remain cool with a great, hot, steaming beast like that at my elbow? why, he must raise the temperature of that cage to the atmosphere of a turkish bath! for lurana's sake as well as my own, i really must draw the line at tigers--they were not in the bond. another thing that annoyed me was the senseless tomfoolery of the clowns, who persisted in running after the cage at the conclusion of the performance, and teasing the poor defenceless animals by making grimaces and dashing their ridiculous conical hats against the bars. it was painful to think that any one could be found to smile at such cheap buffoonery--if i had been the ring-master, i would have given those cowardly idiots a taste of the whip! i decided to go round afterwards and see onion about that tiger. i did not see the lion-tamer, as he had just left the hall, and mr sawkins, i was told, was engaged, but i saw mlle. léonie, who was most friendly. [illustration: mademoiselle.] i remarked, carelessly, that i saw they had put a tiger into the cage. mademoiselle said he was a member of the _troupe_, but had been indisposed and temporarily transferred to the hospital cage. i hinted that a tiger, however convalescent, was hardly a desirable addition to our wedding party. mademoiselle was astounded; a so gracious beast, a veritable treasure, with him present, the ceremony would have a style, a _cachet_, an elegance. without him--ah! bah! it would be _triste_--banal, tame! i admitted this, but urged that we were quiet people who wanted to be married as quietly as possible, and that a tiger, for persons in our condition of life, was a ridiculous piece of ostentation. it was always better to begin as one meant to go on. she differed from me totally. i was too modest, for, of course, it was incredible that i, who was so full of _sangfroid_, could object to the tiger for any other reason? "personally," i replied, "i had no prejudice against tigers whatever--but mademoiselle would understand that i was bound to consider another person's convenience." "not possible!" exclaimed mademoiselle, "a young lady with so much _verve_ to be timid! why, mons. onion raved of her fearlessness!" i said it was not timidity in lurana's case--she merely happened to have an antipathy for tigers. some people, as mademoiselle was doubtless aware, were unable to remain in the same room with a cat; miss de castro could not stay in the same cage with a tiger--it was temperament. "ah," said mdlle. hortense, "i understand that. a sensitive?" "yes," i said, "a sensitive." "but niono says she is one of us!" objected mademoiselle, "that she was brought up amongst animals--that her mamma was herself an animal-tamer." "of white mice and canary birds," i said, "but that is not quite the same thing as tigers, and i am perfectly certain that if that tiger is retained, the wedding will not take place." her keen grey eyes flashed with comprehension. ah, the poor little one! in that case it was another thing. she would speak to the "patron" and to mons. onion; the tiger should not be permitted to trouble the fête. i could rely absolutely upon her--he should be accommodated elsewhere. i went back to lurana in a somewhat relieved frame of mind, and when she asked me where i had been, i mentioned, perhaps unwisely, that i had dropped in at the circus and had a little chat with mlle. léonie. i did not say anything about the tiger, because there seemed to be no object in disturbing her, now that the matter was comfortably settled, not to mention that if lurana had known i had directed the removal of the tiger without consulting her, she was quite self-willed enough to insist on his immediate restoration to the lion-cage. most girls would have been impressed by my courage in going near the circus at all at such a time; not so lurana, who pretended to believe that mlle. léonie was the attraction. "oh, i noticed she was making eyes at you from the very beginning," she declared; "you had better marry her, and then mr niono could marry me. i daresay he would have no objection." "my darling," i said, gently, "do not let us quarrel the very last evening we may spend together on earth." "you might take a more cheerful view of it than that, theodore!" she exclaimed. "i think you are a little inclined to treat it too lightly," i replied. "i have been studying those lions, lurana, and it is my deliberate opinion that they are in a condition of suppressed excitement which will break out on the slightest pretext. unless you can trust yourself to meet their gaze without faltering, without so much as a flicker of the eyelid you will, unless i am greatly mistaken, stand a considerable chance of being torn to pieces." "nonsense, theodore!" she said, "they can't possibly tell whether i am meeting their gaze or not, or even shutting my eyes--for, of course, i shall be wearing a veil." but _i_ should not--and it really did not seem fair. "i rather thought of putting on a green shade myself," i said. it had only just occurred to me. "don't be absurd, theodore!" she replied. "what _can_ you want with a green shade?" "my eyes are not strong," i said, "and with those electric lights so close to the cage, i _might_ blink or even close my eyes. a green shade, like your bridal veil, would conceal the act!" "as if anybody ever _heard_ of a bridegroom with a green shade over his eyes! i certainly will not enter that cage if i am to be made publicly ridiculous!" "do i understand," i said, very gravely, "that you _refuse_ to enter the lion-cage?" "with a man in a green shade? most certainly i refuse. not otherwise." "then you will sacrifice my life to mere appearances? ah, lurana, that is only one more proof that vanity--not love--has led you to this marriage!" "why don't you own at once that you'd give anything to get out of it, theodore?" "it is you," i retorted, "_you_, lurana, who are secretly dreading the ordeal, and you are trying to throw the responsibility of giving up the whole thing on me--it's not _fair_, you know!" "_i_ want to give up the whole thing? theodore, you _know_ that isn't true!" "children, children!" said the professor, who had been a silent and unnoticed witness of our dispute till then, "what is this talk about giving up the marriage? i implore you to consider the consequences, if the wedding is broken off now by your default. you will be mobbed by a justly indignant crowd, which will probably wreck the hall as a sign of their displeasure. you are just now the two most prominent and popular persons in the united kingdom--you will become the objects of universal derision. you will ruin that worthy and excellent man, mr sawkins, offend archibald chuck, and do irretrievable damage to miss rakestraw's prospects of success in journalism. of myself i say nothing, though i may mention that the persons who have paid me fancy prices for the few seats which the management placed at my disposition will infallibly demand restitution and damages. i might even be forced to recover them from _you_, theodore. on the other hand, by merely facing a hardly appreciable danger for a very few minutes, you cover yourselves with undying glory, you gain rich and handsome wedding gifts, which i hear the proprietors intend to bestow upon you; you receive an ovation such as is generally reserved for royal nuptials; and yet you, theodore, would forfeit all this--for what? for a green shade, which would probably only serve to infuriate the animals?" this had not struck me before, and i could not help seeing that there was something in it. "i give up the shade," i said; "but i do think that lurana is in such a nervous and overstrung condition just now that it is not safe for her to enter the cage without a medical certificate." lurana laughed. "what for, theodore? to satisfy the lions? don't distress yourself on my account--i am perfectly well. at the appointed time i shall present myself at the--the altar. if you are not there to receive me, to stand by my side in the sight of all, you lose me for ever. a de castro can never marry a craven." she looked so splendid as she said this that i felt there was no peril in the world that i would not face to gain her, that life without her would be unendurable. since she was as resolved as ever on this project, i must see it out, that was all, and trust to luck to pull me through. onion would be there--and he understood lions; and, besides, there was always the bare chance of the ceremony being stopped at the eleventh hour. i left early, knowing that i should require a good night's rest, and lurana and i parted, on the understanding that our next meeting would be at the agricultural hall on the following afternoon. whether it was due to a cup of coffee i had taken at the professor's, or to some other cause, i do not know, but i had a wretched night, sleeping very literally in fits and starts, and feeling almost thankful when it was time to get up. a cold bath freshened me up wonderfully, and, as they naturally did not expect me in the city on my wedding-day, i had the whole morning to myself, and decided to get through it by taking a brisk walk. before starting, i sent a bag containing my wedding garments to the agricultural hall, where a dressing room had been reserved for me, and then i started, viâ the seven sisters road, for finsbury park. as i passed an optician's shop, i happened to see, hanging in the window, several pairs of coloured spectacles, one of which i went in and bought, and walked on with a sense of reassurance. through the medium of such glasses a lion would lose much of his terrors, and would, at the same time, be unable to detect any want of firmness in my gaze; indeed, if a wild beast can actually be dominated by a human eye, how much more should he be so when that eye is reinforced by a pair of smoked spectacles! [illustration: "a de castro can never marry a craven."] my recollection of the rest of that walk is indistinct. i felt no distress, only a kind of stupor. i tried to fix my thoughts on lurana, on her strange beauty, and the wondrous fact that in a very few hours the ceremony, which was to unite us, would be, at all events, _commenced_. but at times i had a pathetic sense of the irony which decreed that i, a man of simple tastes and unenterprising disposition, should have fallen hopelessly in love with the only young woman in the united kingdom capable of insisting on being married in a wild-beast cage. it seemed hard, and i remember envying quite ordinary persons--butchers, hawkers, errand-boys, crossing-sweepers, and the like, for their good fortune in not being engaged to spend any part of that afternoon in a den of forest-bred african lions. however, though there was nothing about the intentions of the home office in the early editions of the evening papers, the officials _might_ be preparing a dramatic _coup_ for the last moment. i was determined not to count upon it--but the thought of it kept me up until the time when i had to think of returning, for the idea of flight never for an instant presented itself to me. i was on _parôle_ as it were, and i preferred death by lurana's side to dishonour and security without her. so anxious was i not to be late, and also to discover whether any communication from the home secretary had reached the manager, that i almost hurried back to islington. i was admitted to the hall by a private entrance, and shown to the kind of unroofed cabin in which i was to change, and which, being under the balcony and at some distance from the gangway between the stables and the ring, was comparatively private and secluded. here, after asking an assistant to let mr niono know i had arrived, and would like to see him, i waited. the circus had begun, as i knew from the facts that the blare of the orchestrions was hushed, and that a brass band overhead began and left off with the abruptness peculiar to circus music. screens of board and canvas hid the auditorium from view, but i was conscious of a vast multitude on the other side, vociferous and in the best of humours. between the strains of the orchestra and the rattling volleys of applause, i heard the faint stamping and trampling from the stables, and, a sound that struck a chill to my heart--the prolonged roar of exasperation and _ennui_ which could only proceed from a bored lion. then there was a rap at the door, which made me start, and niono burst in. "so you've found your way here," he said. "feeling pretty fit? that's the ticket! the bride ain't arrived yet, so you've lots of time." "you've heard nothing from the home office yet, i suppose?" i asked. "not a word--and, between you and me, i made sure they meant to crab the show. you've the devil's own luck!" "i have, indeed," i said, with feeling. "still, we mustn't be too sure--they may stop us yet!" "they may try it on--but our men have got their instructions. if they _did_ come now, they wouldn't get near the ring till it was all over, so don't you worry yourself about that." i said everything seemed to have been admirably arranged. "by the way," i added, "where have you put the tiger?" "do you mean old rajah?" he said; and i replied that i _did_ mean old rajah. "why, _he's_ all right--in the cage along with the others--where did you _suppose_ he'd be--loose?" "i particularly requested," i explained, "that he might be put somewhere else during the wedding. mademoiselle promised that it should be seen to." "it's nothing to do with ma'amsell," he said, huffily; "_she_ don't give orders here, ma'amsell don't." "i mean, she promised to mention the matter to you," i said, more diplomatically. "she never said nothing about it to _me_," he replied; "i expect she forgot." "i can only say it was extremely careless of her," i said. "the fact is, i have my doubts whether that tiger is to be trusted." "well, you never can trust a tiger same as you can a lion," he replied, candidly, "so i won't deceive you. but old rajah ain't so particular nasty--as tigers go." "he may not be," i said, "but, in miss de castro's interests, i must beg you to shift him into some other cage till this affair is over. i can't allow her to run any unnecessary risk." "i don't say you're wrong," he answered, "i wish i'd known before, i'd have asked the gov'nor." [illustration: "if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight."] "ask him now," i urged, "surely you can put the tiger back in the hospital cage for an hour or two." "the jaguar's in there," he said; "he was a bit off colour, so we put him there this morning. and if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight!" "couldn't you put him somewhere else, then?" i suggested. "i _might_ ha' shunted him on to the armadillo at a pinch," he said thoughtfully, "_he_ wouldn't ha' taken any notice, but the gov'nor would have to be consulted first,--and he's engaged in the ring. besides, it would take too much time to move old rajah now--you must put up with him, that's all. you'll be right enough if you keep your head and stick close to me. i've taken care they've all had a good dinner. i say," he broke off suddenly, "you're looking uncommon blue." "i don't _feel_ nervous," i said, "at least, not more nervous than a man _ought_ to feel who's just about to be married. if you mean to suggest that i'm going to show the white feather----!" "not you," he said, "what would you _get_ by it, you know? after billing this affair all over the town, we can't afford to disappoint the public, and if i saw you hanging back--why i'm blest if i wouldn't carry you into the cage myself." i retorted angrily that i would not put him to that inconvenience, that i was as cool as he was, and that i did not understand his remark that i was looking blue. "lord, what a touchy chap you are!" he cried; "i meant looking blue about the jaw, that's all. if i was you, i'd have a clean shave. it's enough to put any lady off if she sees you with a chin like the barrel of a musical-box." somehow i had omitted to shave myself as usual that morning, intending to get shaved later, but had forgotten to look for a hairdresser's shop during my walk. "you'll find a razor in that drawer," he said, "if you don't mind making shift with cold water, for there's no one about to fetch you any hot. now i must be off and get into my own togs. make yourself at home, you know. i'll give you another call later on." [illustration: i was forlornly mopping when niono returned.] perhaps the razor was blunt, perhaps it was the cold water, anyhow i inflicted a gash on the extreme point of my chin which bled profusely. i dabbed and sluiced, but nothing i could do seemed to check the flow; it went on, obstinate and irrepressible. i was still forlornly mopping when niono returned in his braided jacket, tights and hessian boots, whistling a tune. "the bride's just driven up," he announced, "looking like a picture--what pluck she's got! i wish i was in your shoes! ma'amsell's taken her to her room. my word, though, you've given yourself a nasty cut; got any spider's web about you? stops it in no time." as i do not happen to go about festooned in cobwebs, his suggestion was of little practical value, and so i intimated rather sharply. "well, don't get in a fluster," he said, "we're only a couple of turns off the cage act as it is; you slip into them spicy lavender trousers and that classy frock-coat of yours as quick as you can, and i'll try if i can't borrow a bit of courtplaster off one of our ladies." i had just put on a clean shirt when he was back again; "i could only get goldbeater's skin," he remarked, "and precious little of that, so be careful with it. and the parson's come, and would like to have a look at the licence." i handed him the document, and tried to apply the goldbeater's skin, which curled and shrivelled, and would stick to nothing but my fingers--and still the hæmorrhage continued. "it's all over your shirt _now_!" said the lion-tamer, as if i was doing it on purpose. "i wouldn't have had this happen for something. why, i've known 'em get excited with the _smell_ of blood, let alone the sight of it." "do you mean the lions?" i inquired, with a faint sick sensation. "well, it was the _tiger_ my mind was running on more," was his gloomy reply. my own mind began to run on the tiger too, and a most unpleasant form of mental exercise it was. "after all," said niono with an optimism that sounded a trifle forced, "there's no saying. he _mayn't_ spot it. _none_ of 'em mayn't." "but what do you think yourself?" i could not help asking. "i couldn't give an opinion till we get inside," he answered, "but we'll have the red hot irons handy in case he tries on any of his games. and if you can't stop that chin of yours," he added, taking a wrapper from his own neck and tossing it to me, "you'd better hide it in this--they'll only think you've got a sore throat or something. but do hurry up. i'm just going to see the old elephant put in the shafts, and then i'll come back for you, so don't dawdle." once more i was alone; i felt so chilly that i put on my old coat and waistcoat again, for i did not venture to touch my new suit until my chin left off bleeding, and it seemed inexhaustible, though the precious minutes were slipping by faster and faster. the great building had grown suddenly silent; i could almost feel the air vibrating with the suppressed excitement of the vast unseen crowd which was waiting patiently for the lions, and lurana--and me. soon i heard a voice--probably a menagerie assistant's--in the passage outside, and presently a shuffling tread approaching, and then i perceived towering above the wooden partition, a huge grey bulk, ridged and fissured like a mountain side, and touched where the light fell on it with a mouldy bloom--it was the elephant on his way to be attached to the lion-cage! i stared helplessly up at his uncouth profile, with the knobby forehead worn to a shiny black, and the sardonic little eye that met mine with a humorous intelligence, as though recommending me to haste to the wedding. he plodded past, and i realised that i had no time to change now; my new wedding suit was a useless extravagance--i must go to the altar as i was. niono would be back to fetch me in a moment. lurana would never forgive me for keeping her waiting. hastily i wound the muffler round my neck till my chin was hidden in its folds, and put on my hat. could i have mislaid the spectacles? no, thank heaven, they were in the pocket of my great coat. i put them on, and my wedding toilet--such as it was--was complete. then i cast a hurried glance at myself in a tarnished mirror nailed against the matchboarding, and staggered back in dismay. i was not merely unrecognisable; i was--what is a thousand times worse--_ridiculous_! [illustration: my wedding toilette was complete.] yes, no bridegroom in the world could hope to make a creditable appearance with his nose only just showing above a worsted comforter and his eyes hidden behind a pair of smoked spectacles. it was enough to make any lion roar--the audience would receive me with howls! i had been prepared--i was still prepared--for lurana's dear sake, to face the deadliest peril. but to do so with a total loss of dignity; to be irresistibly comic in the supreme crisis, to wrestle with wild beasts to the accompaniment of peals of homeric laughter--would any lover in the world be capable of heroism such as that? true, i might remove the spectacles--but in that case i could not trust my nerve; or i might take off the muffler but then i could not trust the tiger. and in either case i should be courting not only my own destruction, but that of one whose life was far dearer to me than my own. i asked myself solemnly whether i had the right to endanger her safety, simply from a selfish unwillingness to appear grotesque in her eyes and those of the audience. the answer was what every rightminded reader will have foreseen. and, seeing that the probability was that lurana would absolutely decline to go through the ceremony at all with the guy i now appeared (for had she not objected even to my assuming a green shade, which was, comparatively, becoming), it was obvious that only one alternative remained, and that i took. cautiously opening the door of my cabin, i looked up and down the passage. at one end i could just see the elephant surrounded by a crowd of grooms and helpers, who were presumably harnessing him to the cage and were too far away or too much engaged to notice me. at the other were a few deserted stalls and rifle-galleries, whose proprietors had all gone to swell the crowd of spectators who were waiting to see as much as they could of my wedding, and it began to seem likely that they would see very little indeed. i was about to make for the nearest exit when i remembered that it would probably be guarded, so, assuming as far as possible the air of an ordinary visitor, i slipped quietly up a broad flight of stairs, on each of which was a recommendation to try somebody's "pink pills for pale people," and gained the upper gallery without attracting attention. i felt instinctively that my best chance of escaping detection was to mingle with the crowd, and besides, i was naturally curious to know how the affair would end, so, seeing a door and pigeon-hole with the placard "balcony seats, sixpence," i went in, and was lucky enough to secure the only cane bottom chair left in the back row. after removing my spectacles, i had a fairly good view of the ring below, with its brown tan enclosed by a white border cushioned along the top in faded crimson. the reserved stalls were all full, and beyond the barriers, the crowd swayed and surged in a dense black mass. nobody was inside the ring except a couple of nondescript grooms in scarlet liveries, who hung about with an air of growing embarrassment. the orchestra opposite was reiterating "the maiden's prayer" with a perseverance that at length got upon the nerves of the audience, which began to stamp suggestively. "it's a swindle," said a husky man, who was obviously inclined to scepticism, and also sherry, "a reg'lar take in! there won't be nobody married in a lion's cage--i've said so all along." "oh, it's too soon to say that yet!" i replied soothingly, though i had reasons for being of the same opinion, "they're a little behind time, that's all." [illustration: it's a swindle.] "i dunno _what_ it is they're behind," he said,--"but they don't mean comin' out. there, what did i _tell_ you?" one of the grooms, obeying instructions from without, had just gone to the indicator-post, removed the number corresponding with that of the wedding programme, and substituted another, which was the signal for a general uproar. a carpet was spread for a performance by a "bender," who made his appearance in a tight suit of green spangles, as the "marvellous boy serpent," and endeavoured to wile away the popular discontent by writhing in and out of the rungs of a chair, and making a glittering pincushion of himself. in vain, for they would have none of him, and the poor youth had to return at last amidst a storm of undeserved hissing. another long wait followed, and the indignation grew louder. so infectious is the temper of a mob that i actually caught myself growing impatient, and banging loudly on the floor with my umbrella--just as my neighbours were doing! all at once, to my extreme bewilderment, the stamping and hooting changed to tumultuous applause, the band began to bray out an air that was apparently intended for "the voice that breathed," the barriers were thrown open, and the great elephant lumbered into the arena drawing the cage. the brute had an enormous wedding favour attached to each side of his tusks, and all the animals in the cage, down to the very tiger, were wearing garlands of artificial orange-blossom, a touch of sentiment which seemed to go straight to the hearts of the people. but even while i looked down into the cage, with much the same reflection as that of john bradford of old, that there, but for special grace, i might myself be figuring, i was astounded by the audacity of the management. could they really imagine that an intelligent and enlightened audience like this would be pacified by anything less than the spectacle they had paid to witness--a marriage solemnised in a den of lions? and how did they propose to perform a ceremony at which, as they must be fully aware by this time, the bridegroom would be conspicuous by his absence? no, it might be magnificent, but it was not business. i was still speculating, when a kind of small procession entered the arena. first came mr sawkins, with the reverend ninian, looking rather like a cheap cranmer; next was a smart-looking person in a well-cut frock-coat and lavender trousers that i seemed to have seen before. it was my wedding suit; the wearer had gummed on a moustache and short side-whiskers which gave him a spurious resemblance to myself, but if nobody else knew him, i did--it was onion, the lion king! and the next moment, i received a still greater shock, as professor polkinghorne followed with the lofty bearing of a virginius, and on his arm was a slender shrinking figure, which, in spite of the veil she wore, i knew too well could be no other than lurana. "there's the bridegroom, d'ye see!" explained my hoarse neighbour; "he's a deal better lookin' than the pictures they've drawed of him in the papers. but he's as pale as plaster, he'll back out of it at the last moment--you just see if he don't!" but i knew niono better. i remembered his open admiration of lurana, his envy at my good fortune, i felt convinced that his pallor was merely due to the absence of rouge and the fear that he would not succeed in his daring imposture. for i saw now that he had been planning to supplant me from the first; hence his attempts to shake my nerve, and, when they failed, hence his treacherous loan of a blunt razor. he was staking everything on the chance that the bride's natural agitation, and the thickness of her veil would prevent her from suspecting that he was a fraudulent bridegroom until the ceremony was over, while the audience, not expecting to see a lion king in a tall hat, would be equally deceived. [illustration: a kind of small procession entered the arena.] "pore young things!" said a stout female in front, with a nodding feather in her bonnet; "it's to be 'oped there won't be any unpleasantness, i'm sure. i'm 'alf sorry i came." there was time even yet; i had but to rise, denounce the usurper, and take my rightful place at lurana's side. i felt strongly impelled to do so; i actually stood up and tried to speak. but i realised that it was hopeless to attempt to make my feeble voice heard above the thunders of applause, even if excitement and emotion had not rendered me speechless. besides, what satisfactory explanation of my present position could i offer? i sat down again with a sense of spellbound helplessness. i looked on as the great arc-lamps were lowered, hissing and buzzing, to the level of the cage, and the reverend mr skipworth prepared to ascend the inverted white tub that was to serve him as a reading-desk, and the unscrupulous onion took the bride by the hand and conducted her to the steps which led to the door of the lion-cage. "they're never goin' in among all them lions without nobody with them!" cried the stout lady. "it's downright temptin' of providence, that it is!" "don't you be afraid," said the cynical man. "_they_ ain't goin' in. just look at _that_ now!" as he spoke two persons in plain clothes, who had apparently been waiting for this moment, stepped over the barrier from the shilling stalls into the ring, and, from their gestures, seemed to be insisting that the wedding should not take place inside the cage at all events. there was an animated dispute in the ring; niono blustered, lurana pleaded, sawkins expostulated, and the professor and archibald chuck (who had contrived to push himself into the party) argued, while miss rakestraw filled page after page of her reporter's note-book, and the rev. ninian sat upon his tub with meekly folded hands, looking more than ever like a martyr who knew himself to be incombustible. the audience booed, and hissed, and yelled with natural rage and disappointment; the lions remained unmoved, blinking behind their bars, with crossed forepaws, and an air of serene indifference. "i told yer there wasn't going to be no blooming wedding!" said my husky friend. "it's a reg'lar put-up job, that's what it is!" it was possible; but whether the interrupters of the proceedings were hired supers or genuine officials, it was equally clear that there would be no wedding inside the cage. how bitterly i regretted that by yielding to an irresistible impulse i had forfeited the right to stand by lurana's side at this supreme moment! i could have done so with absolute impunity; i should have won a lifelong reputation for courage; lurana herself would have owned that i had done all that was possible to gratify her whim, and would have consented to marry me in the orthodox fashion. whereas, here i was, separated from her by impassable barriers, in the ignominious seclusion of a back seat! however, this official prohibition had at least solved one of my difficulties; it had rendered it unnecessary for me to interfere personally. the storm of indignation rose to a hurricane when the entire wedding party filed out of the arena with the officials, doubtless to discuss the matter in greater privacy. the stout lady with the feather was particularly annoyed. "why shouldn't the two young parties be allowed to please themselves?" she wanted to know. "it was _their_ wedding, not the government's. but it was always the way whenever she came out for a little amusement. somethink was bound to go wrong." another long interval, during which the wildest disorder reigned unchecked, the crowd, with the irrationality of an angry mob, actually throwing pieces of orange-peel at the unoffending lions as the only creatures within the range of their displeasure. the hubbub was at its height when sawkins reappeared and held up his hand for some time in vain before he could obtain a hearing. then he addressed the audience as follows: "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "certain individuals claiming to represent the home office and the london county council" (here there were groans, and my neighbour remarked disgustedly, that "that was what came of returning those progressives") "have protested against a wedding in the cage as involving danger to the principal parties concerned." (loud cries of "shame!" and general uproar.) "i have the honour and pleasure to announce that we have succeeded in convincing these gentlemen that the proposed ceremony is no more open to objection than the ordinary performance, and that they have no legal power to prohibit it. consequently the marriage will now be celebrated in the cage of forest-bred african lions, as advertised." [illustration: then he addressed the audience.] the revulsion of feeling after this most unexpected announcement was instant and tremendous; all hearts seemed touched with generous compunction for their uncharitable suspicions, and the hall rang with tumultuous cheers. for myself, i could not share the general exhilaration. this preposterous wedding was permitted after all, and, unless lurana's heart failed her at the critical instant, she would inevitably be lost to me for ever! i might still interpose; indeed i should have done so at all costs, but for a timely remembrance that no action i took now would regain her. she might have been in ignorance before--but in the course of this delay she must have learnt that i had failed her, she must have accepted the lion-tamer as a substitute, and, even if i were to present myself, she would only inform me that my place was already filled. i had too much spirit to risk a public snub of that kind, so i stayed where i was. it cannot have fallen to many men's lot to look on as passive spectators at their own wedding--but what choice had i? there was a deathlike silence as niono slipt the bolt and gallantly handed the bride into the cage. she stepped in as collectedly as if it had been an ordinary registry office, and the great tawny beasts retreated sullenly to the other end, where they stood huddled in a row, while the rev. ninian, mounting his tub, read an abbreviated form of service in a voice which was quite inaudible in the balcony. i tried to turn my eyes away from the scene that was taking place in that grim cage, and the two figures that were so calmly confronting those formidable brutes--but i felt compelled to look. and it was mortifying to see how trifling after all was the danger they incurred. i am afraid i almost wished that one of the animals would give some trouble--i don't mean of course by any actual attack--but by just enough display of ferocity to make lurana understand what they _might_ do. but they never even attempted to cross the pole which had been thrust across the cage as a barrier. i was never told there _would_ be a pole! they looked on, mystified--as well they might be--by proceedings to which they were totally unaccustomed, but still impressed, and sleepily solemn. even the tiger behaved with irreproachable decorum. i understood then what onion had been careful not to mention; their food had been doctored in some way. if i had only known! _anybody_ could beard a hocussed lion! and soon the words which made that couple man and wife were pronounced, or rather mumbled--for the rev. ninian would have been none the worse for a course of lessons from old polkinghorne--and the newly-wedded pair came out of the cage without so much as a scratch, to the triumphant blare of the "wedding march." there was frantic applause as the professor embraced the bride with an emotion that struck me as overdone, while the rev. ninian, miss rakestraw, and chuck, offered their congratulations and mr sawkins presented the happy couple with a silver biscuit-box (it may have been electro-plated), and a tantalus spirit case. but for that unfortunate slip of the razor, those gifts would have been mine--but i was in no mood to think of that just then, when i had lost what was so infinitely more precious. i looked on dully till the party left the arena, declining with excellent taste to return in answer to repeated calls and bow their acknowledgments, and then, as the electric lights were hoisted up again and the elephant was led in to remove the lion's cage, i thought it was time to go. it was all over; there was nothing to stay for now, and most of the people were leaving, so i joined the crowd which streamed down the staircase and along the broad passage to the main exit. once in the open air, i hurried blindly past the flaring shops in the high street, neither knowing nor caring where i was going, with only one thought possessing my numbed brain--how different it might all have been if only things had happened otherwise! wherever i looked i saw lurana's lovely scornful face and flashing eyes painted with torturing vividness on the murky air. how flat and stale all existence would be for me henceforth! life with lurana might not have been all sunshine; it might have had its storms, even its tempests--but at least it would never have been dull! i cursed the treachery which had induced her to link herself for life with a lion-tamer. happy, i knew she could not be, for of one thing i was confident--she loved me; not perhaps with the passionate single-hearted devotion i felt for her, but still with a love she would never feel for any other. perhaps she was already beginning to repent her desertion of me, and wishing she could undo that rash irrevocable act. i was pounding up highgate hill, with no object beyond escaping by active motion the demons of recollection and regret that haunted me--when suddenly, as i gained the top of the hill, a thought struck me. _was_ the act irrevocable after all? was it so absolutely certain that this onion had the legal right to claim her as his wife? he had certainly personated me. had he borrowed, not only my frock coat, and trousers, but also my name for the ceremony? if he had, and if lurana was, as she could hardly help being, aware of the fact, it did not require much acquaintance with the law to know that there was a chance, at all events, of getting the court to declare the marriage null and void. but he might have been married in his own name; i could not tell, owing to the indistinctness of mr skipworth's utterance, only lurana or those in their immediate neighbourhood could say. i must know that first; i must examine the register, if there was one, and then, if--if lurana wished to be saved, i might be able to save her. i knew that a sort of wedding high-tea had been prepared at canonbury square, where the whole party would be assembled by this time, and i hurried back to canonbury square as fast as the tramcar would take me. my blood was roused; she would not be niono's if i could prevent it. i would snatch her from him, even if i had to do so across the wedding-cake! but when i reached the well-known door and raised the familiar knocker--a fist clutching a cast-iron wreath--in my trembling fingers, there were no sounds of festivity within; the house was dark and deserted. i waited in the bitter january air; the street lamp opposite--the identical one under which lurana had first agreed to marry me--flickered at every gust of the night wind, as though troubled on my account. they must have transferred the feast to the circus, or to some adjacent restaurant; evidently there was no one there. i was just turning hopelessly away, when i heard the bolt being withdrawn, and the door was opened by a maid. "where is your mistress?" i asked breathlessly. i could not bring myself to ask for lurana as mrs onion. "in the drawing-room, upstairs," was the unexpected reply, "with the 'istericks." so long as she was not with niono, i cared little; i bounded up, and found her alone. as i entered, she raised her flushed, tear-stained face from the shabby sofa on which she had thrown herself. "go away!" she cried, "why do you come near me now? you have no right--do you hear?--no right!" "i know," i said humbly enough, "i deserve this, no doubt; and yet, if you knew all, you would find excuses for me, lurana!" "none, theodore," she said; "if you had really loved me, you would never have deserted me!" "i could not help myself," i retorted; "and really, lurana, if it comes to desertion----!" "ah, what is the use of wrangling about whose fault it was," she moaned, "now, when we have both wrecked our lives! at least, i know i've wrecked _mine_! why was i so insane as to set my heart on our being married in a den of disgusting lions? if you had only been firmer, theodore, instead of giving way as you did!" "at least it was not cowardice," i said. "when i show you the state of my chin----" "theodore!" she cried, with a little scream, "you are hurt! tell me; was it the tiger?" "it was not the tiger," i said. "never mind that now. i was betrayed by that infernal onion, lurana. i never knew till it was too late--you _do_ believe me, don't you?" "i do; we were both deceived, theodore. i should never have acted as i did if that horrid frenchwoman hadn't told me--oh, _what_ would i not give if all this had never been?" "if you are truly sincere," i began, "in wishing this unlucky marriage cancelled----" "if i am! are _you_, theodore? oh, if only there is a way!" "there may be, lurana. it all depends on whether my name was used at the ceremony or not. try to recollect and tell me." "but i can't, theodore. you were there--you must know!" "mr skipworth wouldn't speak up; and i was much farther away than you were." "than _i_ was, theodore! but--but i wasn't there at all!" "not present at your own wedding?" i cried, "but i saw you!" "it was not me!" she said, "it was mlle. léonie. is it possible you didn't know?" my heart leaped. "for heaven's sake, explain, lurana; let us have no more concealments." "when i arrived," she said, "mademoiselle explained about the tiger, and how sorry she was it was too late to remove it, since she understood i had an antipathy to tigers; and i said, not at all, i adored tigers, so she took me to see the cage, and i--i only tried to tickle the tiger, but he was so dreadfully cross about it--i nearly fainted. and she said it was simply madness for me to go in, and that you were every bit as frightened as i was." [illustration: "if only you had been firmer, theodore."] "she had no right to say that," i said; "it's absolutely untrue!" "i know, theodore," she replied; "you have proved that you, at least, are no coward--but i believed her then. and i wrote you a line to say that i had altered my mind, and did not think it right to expose you or myself to such danger, and that i would wait for you by the myddelton statue. she promised to give you the letter at once!" "i never got it," i said. "no, she took care you should not. and i waited for you--how long i don't know--_hours_, it seemed--but you never came! then i saw the people beginning to come out, and--and i went across and asked someone whether there had been any marriage or not, and he said, 'yes, it had gone off without any accident, the bridegroom looked pale but was plucky enough, and so was the bride, though he couldn't tell how _she_ looked, because of her veil.' and then of course, i knew that the deceitful cat had taken my place and managed to make you marry her! and at first i wanted to go back and stab her with my hat pin, but i hadn't one sharp enough, so i came home instead. and oh, theodore, i _do_ feel so ashamed! after boasting so much of my spanish blood, and taunting you with being afraid as i did, to think that you should have shown the truer courage after all!" i could not triumph over her then; i was too happy. "courage, my darling, is a merely relative quality," i said. "heaven forbid that we should be held accountable for the state of our nerves--even the bravest of us." "but this marriage, theodore," she said, "what can you do to have it set aside?" "do! nothing," i replied; "after what you have told me, i no longer care to try." "you despise me, then, because i broke down at the critical moment?" "not at all. i can never be grateful enough to you!" "grateful! then do you mean to say you prefer that coarse, middle-aged, lion-taming person to me, theodore?" "lurana," i said, "prepare yourself for a great surprise--a _pleasant_ surprise. if anybody is now that lady's lawful husband it is niono--not i; and a very suitable match too," i added (i saw now why the authorities had been compelled to waive their objections to it). "the fact is, i never went into the cage at all." "you didn't go into the cage, theodore! but how, why?" "do you imagine," i asked, "can you really suppose i should be capable of entering that cage with anybody but yourself, lurana? how little you know me! of _course_ i declined!" "but you didn't know i had run away _then_, theodore! why, you thought only a few minutes ago _i_ was the person mr niono married! perhaps you will kindly explain?" for the moment i was in a fix, but i saw that the moment had arrived for perfect candour, and accordingly i told her the facts pretty much as they have been set down here. she could hardly blame me for having behaved precisely as she herself had done, or refuse to admit that by taking any other course i should have imperilled our joint happiness, and yet i thought i could see that, with feminine unreason, she was just a _little_ disappointed with me. the true explanation of that marriage, if it was a marriage, in the den of lions, i have never been able to discover, nor for that matter have i been particularly curious to inquire whether onion attempted to get rid of me in order to secure lurana; whether mdlle. léonie played upon lurana's fears with the hope of becoming my bride, or his; or whether the lion king and his fellow artist gallantly sacrificed themselves to get the management out of a difficulty, i don't know, and, as i say, i haven't cared to ask. but however it was, they were ably seconded by old polkinghorne, who was naturally unwilling to be called upon to refund the money he had got for his free tickets, and by miss rakestraw and archibald chuck, whose reputations were also more or less concerned. nevertheless, although every effort was made to keep the public off the scent, and the circus people behaved, i am bound to say, with commendable discretion, sundry garbled versions of the facts _did_ get about, and altogether lurana and i have found the task of denying or correcting them such a constant nuisance that i have felt compelled, as i said at starting, to furnish, once for all, a statement of what actually occurred. now that it is written i have no more to add, except to append a cutting from an announcement which appeared not long ago in the principal papers. the arrangements for its publication were entrusted to archibald chuck, who i think must have added the last two words on his own responsibility. _blenkinsop_--_de castro_.--on the th inst., at the parish church of st mary, islington, by the rev. merton sandford, d.d., vicar, theodore pidgley blenkinsop, of highbury, to lurana carmen de castro, only daughter of the late manuel guzman de castro, formerly deputy sub-assistant inspector of spanish liquorice to the government manufactory at madrid. no lions. the end. printed by turnbull and spears, edinburgh transcriber's note: inconsistent and archaic spelling retained. sweet content by mrs molesworth illustrations by w. rainey published by e.p. dutton and co, west rd street, new york. this edition dated . sweet content, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ sweet content, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. an "only" baby. "sweet content." that was my name when i was a very tiny child. it may sound rather conceited to tell this of myself, but when i have told all the story i am now beginning, i don't _think_, at least i _hope_, you, whoever you are that read it, won't say i am conceited. indeed, if i thought any one i knew, or rather that knew me, would be likely to read it and to know that the "i" of it was _me_, i am not by any means sure that i would write it. but, of course, it is not at all certain that it ever will be printed or seen by any one (except, perhaps, by my children, if, when i am grown up, i am married and have any) who ever heard of me. the world seems to me a very big place; there are such lots and lots of people in it, old ones and children, and middling ones; and they are all busy and taken up about their own affairs. some other children might like to read my story, just _as_ a story, for i do think some parts of it are rather _extra_ interesting; but it is not probable that any of them would recognise _me_, or the other "characters" (i think that is the right word) in it. except--except some of the other characters themselves! they don't know i am writing it, perhaps they never will know about it; but if they did--yes, even if they read every word of it--i don't think i'd mind. they are so truly-- no, i mustn't begin telling about them like that; you will understand, all in good time, why, least of any people in the world, perhaps, i should mind their reading the exactly how it was of everything i have to tell. this shows how perfectly i can trust them. and in saying even that, though i really couldn't help it, i'm afraid i have already got rather out of the proper orderly way of telling a story. i will start clearly now. what i have written already is a sort of preface or introduction. and it has a much better chance of being read than if i had put it separately. as i began about my baby name, and as i am going to use it for a title-- for several reasons, as you will see--i will first explain about it. i have been an only child ever since i can remember. but i was not always an only child. when i was a baby of a very few months old, a terrible trouble came to our house: scarlet fever broke out very badly in the little town or big village, whichever you like to call it, where we lived then, and where we still live. and among the first deaths from it were those of my brothers and sister, the doctor's own children! fancy--_three_ dear little children all dying together--in two days at least, i think it was. no one was to blame for their catching the infection; the fever broke out so suddenly that there was no time to send them away, and though papa, as the doctor, had of course to be constantly attending the fever cases, his own children must have caught it before there could possibly have been time for him to bring it to them. even if he _could_ have done so, which was doubtful, as for the two or three days before they got ill he never came into the house at all, and did not even see mamma, but eat his meals and slept in a room over the stables. i have always been glad for papa to know it could not have come through him, for even though it would have been in the way of duty--and papa is a perfect _hero_ about duty--he might have blamed himself for some carelessness or forgetfulness. and once--though they seldom speak of that awful time--mamma said something of the kind to me. i was the baby, as i have told you. a tiny, rather delicate little thing. and, strange to say, i did not catch the fever. they did not send me away; it seemed no use after all the risks i had already run. i could almost think that poor mamma must have felt as if it would not so very much matter whether i got it or not; _my_ dying then could not have made things much worse for her to bear! for, after all, a very little baby, even though it is nice and funny and even sweet in its way, can't be anything like as interesting or as much a part of your life as talking, understanding, loving children. so it seems to me, though mamma doesn't quite agree with me. she loves me so very much that i think she couldn't bear to think there ever was a time when i was less to her. i fancy the truth is that she does not very clearly remember what she felt during those dreadful days; i hope she does not, for even to think of them makes me shiver. they were such dear children; so bright and healthy and happy. mamma seemed like a person in a dream or a trance, our old prudence has often told me, after the last, kenneth, the eldest, it was, died. fancy the empty nurseries, fancy all the toys and books, and, worst of all, the little hats, and jackets, and _shoes_ lying about just as usual! for they were only ill four days--oh, i think it must have been _awful_. and yet so beautiful too. and the little, stupid, crying baby lived, and throve, and grew well and strong. when papa, weeks after, ventured at last to look at me, he could not believe i was the same! i _hope_ he felt it was a little tiny bit of a reward to him for his goodness to others. to think of him going about as usual, no, not as usual, for he worked like _ten_, i have been told, to save others, though his own poor heart was breaking. and he did save many--that, too, must have been a real reward. he kissed me gravely--prudence told me this, too--but just then i smiled, a slow-coming baby smile, i think it must have been; you know how a baby stares first before it makes up its mind to smile--and he stopped; he had been turning away, and took me in his arms. "my poor little darling," he said, "i feel almost afraid to love you. but no, that would be faithless." and he carried me downstairs to mamma in the drawing-room. i can fancy how she must have been sitting there alone, looking out on to the pretty old-fashioned garden behind the house, and watching the spring flowers blossoming out, for it was in spring that all this happened, and thinking of _her_ spring flowers. i have so often fancied it, and seen her there in her deep black dress, in my mind, that it has come to be like a real picture to me. but of course i don't know what actually happened, for prudence wasn't there to see. only i _think_ that from that day they took me into their hearts in a quite wonderful way, for, ever since i can remember, they have been, oh, so _very_ good to me--too good, i am afraid. i fear they spoilt me. and i for long, long, was not a good and grateful little daughter to them. it is difficult to blame them for spoiling me; is it not? and perhaps there is just a _little_ excuse for me in its having been so. i don't want to make excuses for myself, but looking back i do see that i didn't know in the least how selfish, and self-seeking, and vain and proud and stuck-up, and everything horrid like that, i was. jealous, too; but that, you see, i had no reason to find out for a long while. what a good thing it was for me that a day came when i was really tested! i was a fat, healthy, perfectly happy baby, and i grew into a fat, healthy, perfectly happy little girl. nothing seemed to come wrong to me. i never got ill, and by nature i think i must have had a very even, comfortable temper. i was always smiling and satisfied. now you see how i came by my name of "sweet content." mamma kept it for a sort of private pet name, but it did very well with my real name, which is constantia. and this was naturally shortened into "connie." i remember papa and mamma laughing very much one day at a new servant, who must, i suppose, have overheard my private name, and wishing to be very respectful, spoke of me as "miss _content_." "never let it get into `discontent,' connie," said papa. "that she never will," said mamma fondly. "i am sure all the good fairies, and none of the spiteful ones, were at my sweet content's christening." i was quite used to hearing pretty things like that said to me or of me, and i took them as a matter of course, never doubting that i deserved them. and as no one contradicted me, and i had everything i wanted, and as i was not naturally a cross-grained or ill-tempered child, the spoiling did not show as quickly, or quite in the same ways, that it usually does, though i cannot help thinking that some people must have noticed it and thought me a selfish little goose. if they did, however, they were too kind to mamma, remembering her sad story, ever to say so. besides, mamma was gentle and sweet to everybody, and she had too much good taste and feeling to go on fussing about me before people, in the way some _very_ foolish parents do. so altogether, up to the time i was ten or eleven years old, my fool's paradise was a very perfect one. i was quite satisfied that i was a model of every virtue, as well as _exceedingly_ clever, and i am afraid papa and mamma thought so too; as to my looks, i have no doubt they were more than satisfied too; though to do myself justice, i really did not trouble myself about that part of my perfections, beyond being very particular indeed about my clothes, which i never would wear if they were the least shabby or spoilt. and as i was careless and extravagant, i must have cost a good deal in this way. "connie has such wonderful taste for a child of her age," i remember hearing mamma say. "she cannot bear anything ugly, or ill-assorted colours." all the same, connie had no objection to fishing for minnows in the pond with a perfectly new white muslin frock on, which was not rendered lovelier by streaks of green slime and brown mud stains all over the sash. i don't know if i thought those "well-assorted colours." and though i told mamma that my every-day hat was very common-looking without ostrich feathers, i never troubled myself that my best one was left out in the garden one sunday afternoon, so that on monday morning it was found utterly ruined by a shower of rain that had come on in the night! if i had had any brothers or sisters i _could_ not have been so indulged, for papa was not a rich man--no country doctors ever are, i think--though he was not poor. but no more babies came, and, in her devotion to me, i hardly think mamma wished for them. i remained the undisputed queen of my kingdom. mamma was never very strong after her three children's deaths i was obliged to be gentle and quiet; i learnt to be so almost unconsciously, and this, i think, helped to make me seem much sweeter and better than i really was. i had almost no companions; there did not happen to be many children near my age in the neighbourhood, and even if there had been i doubt if mamma would have thought them good enough to be allowed to play with me. though she never actually spoke against any one to me, i saw things quickly, and i know i had this feeling myself. once or twice papa, who was too wise not to know that companionship is good for children, tried to bring about more friendship between me and our clergyman's daughters. but i did not take to them. anna, the eldest, was "stupid," i said, so old for her age (she was really three years older that i), and always "fussing about her sunday-school class, and helping her father, as if she was his curate." how well i remember mamma's smiling at this clever speech! and the two little ones were "babyish." then some other girls at elmwood went to school, and even in their holiday time i did not care to play with "school-girls." besides which poor mamma was quite dreadfully afraid of infection, and perhaps this was only to be expected. once during some summer holidays when we happened to be at home, for mamma and i generally went to the seaside in july, a little cousin came to stay with us. he was two years younger than i and the only first cousin i had, for papa was an only child. he was mamma's nephew, and i know now that he was really a nice little boy; he is a nice big boy now, and we are great friends. but perhaps he was rather spoilt too, though in a different way from me, and i, as i have said, was very selfish indeed. so we quarrelled terribly, and the end of it was that poor teddy was sent home in disgrace; no one dreaming that it _could_ have been "connie's" fault in the least. i think, now, i have explained pretty well about myself and my home when i was very little. nothing very particular happened till after my tenth birthday. i had scarcely a wish ungratified, and yet everybody praised me for my sweet contented disposition! there were times when i used to wish or to _fancy_ i wished for a sister, though if this wish had magically come true, i don't believe i _would_ have liked it really, and now and then papa and mamma would pity me for having no friends of my own age. but i do not think i was to be pitied for this, except that it certainly is better training for a child to have companions of one's own standing, instead of grown-up people who can see no fault in you. things happen queerly sometimes. what are called "coincidences" are not so uncommon after all. the first great change in my life happened in this way. it was in the autumn of the year in which i was ten. the weather had been dull and rainy. i had caught cold and was not allowed to go out for some days. i was tired of the house and of myself, and though no one ever thought of saying so to me, i feel sure i was very cross. i took it into my head to begin grumbling about being lonely; grumbling, it is true, was not usually a fault of mine, and it distressed mamma very much. "my darling, it must be that you are not at all well," she said, one dreary afternoon--afternoon just closing into evening--when she and i were sitting in the drawing-room waiting for papa to come in. he had told mamma he might be late, so that she had had dinner early with me, and there was only some supper ready waiting for him in the dining-room, beside our tea. i always dined early of course, but when papa expected to be home pretty early and not to go out again, he and mamma dined at half-past six or seven. "no, it isn't that at all," i replied to mamma's anxious question. "i'm not a bit ill. i'm quite well, and i'm sure it couldn't have hurt me to go a ride on hop-o'-my-thumb to-day." hop-o'-my-thumb was my pony. i often called him "hoppo" for short. "dearest connie, in the rain?" said mamma. "well--i forgot about the rain. but to-morrow, mamma, i really must go out. it isn't for me like for most children, you know. _they_ have each other to play with in the house if they have to stay in. my only pleasure is being out-of-doors," and i sighed deeply. "you wouldn't like to send for anna gale or the twins to spend the day with you to-morrow, would you?" mamma suggested. "i am so afraid that if this east wind continues papa won't let you go out." "oh, mamma dear, how you do fuss about me," i said. "no, i don't care for any of the gales. anna doesn't know how to play: when she's not cramming at her lessons, she's cleaning the store-closet or making baby-clothes for the parish babies," i said contemptuously. "poor girl! i don't think she is a very lively companion," mamma agreed. "but then she has no mother, and her aunt is a dull sort of woman." it never struck me that, whether _i_ cared for her or not, an afternoon among my pretty toys and books, and other luxuries, might have been a pleasant change for anna, even if she were rather commonplace and very overworked. "i wish," i remarked, "i do wish there were some nicer people at elmwood. i wish you knew some nice companions for me, mamma." "so do i, darling. but you know, dearest, _how_ different all would have been if--" but here there came a sort of break in mamma's voice, and she turned away. i gave myself an impatient wriggle; not so that she could see it, but still it was horrid of me. "i know what she was going to say," i thought; "`if eva and the others had lived.' but they _didn't_ live. i wish mamma would leave off thinking about them and think more about me who _am_ alive." in my heart i did feel tenderly for mamma about her lost children; but i was so selfish that whatever came before _me_, even for a moment, annoyed me. i sighed again more deeply. i have no doubt mamma thought it was out of sympathy with her. but just then there came the sound of wheels-- faintly, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house, and the street at the front; up i jumped, delighted at the interruption. "it's papa," i said, as i ran off to welcome him. chapter two. papa's bit of news. yes, it was papa. i opened the front-door a tiny bit just to make sure. he had already sprung out of the dog-cart, throwing the reins to the groom, who went round by a back way to the stables. as papa came close to the door he caught sight of me. "connie!" he exclaimed; "my child, keep out of the draught. well, dear," when he had come in and was standing by me in the hall, where a bright little fire was burning--we have such a nice hall in our house, old-fashioned and square, you know, with a fireplace--"well, dear, how are you? and what have you been doing with yourself this dull day?" "oh, i _have_ been so tired of myself, papa," i said, nestling up to him. if there is, or could be, any one in the world i love better than mamma, it's papa! "i am so glad you've come home, and now we may have a nice evening, mayn't we?" "i hope so. mamma must let you come in at the end of dinner, to make up for your dull day," said papa. but i interrupted him eagerly: "it's not dinner to-night, papa--not proper dinner--because you were so uncertain, you know." "all the better," he replied, "for i have some news for mamma and you." news! what could it be? it was not often that news of much interest came to enliven our quiet life. i felt so curious and excited about it that by the time we were all three comfortably settled round the dining-table, my cheeks were quite rosy and my eyes bright. "connie is looking quite herself again," said papa. "i don't like to hear her complain of being dull and tired. it isn't like you, my little girl." "no, indeed," mamma agreed, "it isn't like our sweet content." "but i'm not sweet content at all just now," i said. "i've been just _boiling_ for peter to go out of the room so that papa can tell us his news." mamma had not heard of it. she, too, glanced up with interest in her eyes. "it isn't anything _very_ important," said papa. "no one has left us a fortune, and all my patients are much the same; it is only that i think--nay, i may say i am sure--i have got a tenant for the yew trees." mamma looked pleased. "i am very glad indeed," she replied. "i am quite tired of seeing the place deserted, and it is a good deal of expense to keep it at all tidy. i hope the offer is from some nice people." i had not spoken. i was very disappointed. i did not care at all whether the yew trees was let or not. i was far too unpractical to think anything about the money part of it. i suppose papa saw the expression on my face, for he turned to me as he answered mamma's question. "yes," he said, "that is the best part of it. i think they are certainly very nice people. and, connie, there will be some companions for you among them--two girls just about your age, perhaps a little older. their name is whyte--a captain whyte and his family; he has been in the navy, but is shelved for the present. they are old friends of the bickersteths." "white?" i repeated. i think i pictured it with an "i," not a "y." "white: what a common name!" mamma smiled. i think my pert speech seemed to her rather clever; but papa turned upon me almost sharply. "nonsense, child!" he said; "where do you get such ridiculous notions from?" "_our_ name is so pretty," i replied, "and not at all common. it is a very old name, everybody says." our name is percy; papa is dr percy. i don't think "dr" suits it as well as "major," or "colonel," or "sir." "sir something percy," not "thomas," which is papa's name, but some grander name, like "harold" or "bevis," would sound lovely before "percy." papa looked at me, and he, too, smiled a little. "it is a pretty name if you like, my dear," he said, "and i am glad it pleases you. but as for our family being `old' in the usual sense, don't get any fancies into your head. my father was an honest yeoman, and _his_ father was only a head-man on a farm, though thrifty and hardworking, and, best of all, god-fearing. so that, bit by bit, he came to own land himself, and my father, following in his steps, was able to give me a first-rate education." i had heard this before, or some of it, but it rather suited me to ignore it. i gave my head a little toss. "i don't see that that has anything to do with `white' being a common name," i said. "perhaps not. but i don't want you to get silly fancies in your head, dear," said papa, gently. "trust me that captain whyte and his family are _not_ common. it would be a pity for you to lose the chance of nice companions by any prejudice." "oh, connie would never be so foolish as that," said mamma; "and the bickersteths' friends are sure to be nice people." mr and lady honor bickersteth, i may as well explain, were the former rector of elmwood and his wife. mr bickersteth was a very old man now, and had resigned the living some years ago in favour of mr gale, anna's father, who had been his curate. lady honor was quite an old lady, and though she was very kind, i think most of our neighbours were a little afraid of her. she was what is called "a lady of the old school," and had very precise ideas about how children should be brought up. i think she was the only person who ever dared to hint that i was at all spoilt. the bickersteths still lived at elmwood, in a pretty house a little way out of the town. they had never inhabited the vicarage, but had let the curate have it, so when mr gale became vicar it made no difference in that way. and even now mr bickersteth still preached sometimes when he was feeling well enough. "i am quite sure the whytes are nice people," papa repeated in a settled sort of way; "and i shall be very glad for connie to make friends with them." his tone was so decided that neither mamma nor i _could_ have made any kind of objection. in my heart, too, i was really pleased, and not a little excited, at the idea of some new friends of my own age. "have they only those two children--the girls you spoke of?" asked mamma. "those are the only girls, but there are ever so many boys of all ages-- from fifteen or sixteen down to a baby, i believe," papa answered. "the elder boys are to be weekly boarders at leam; that is one reason why they have chosen elmwood." mamma raised her eyebrows a very little. "then they are not--not rich?" she said. "not at all rich," papa replied promptly. "i want to spare them all the expense i can. captain whyte is to pay a very fair rent for the yew trees--the same that old mrs nesbitt paid. i would have taken less had he pressed it, but he did not. he is very gentlemanlike and liberal--it is curious how you can see the liberal spirit even when people are poor--so i want to meet him half-way. i shall have his final decision to-morrow morning, and if it is closing with the thing, i should like you to drive over with me to the yew trees and have a look round. there are some things it is only fair we should do, and as it is your house, rose, you have a voice in it." the yew trees had been mamma's own home as a girl. her father had been the elmwood doctor before papa, and this house was left to her as she was older than her sister. yet she had never lived there since her parents' death; it was larger than we required, and mamma fancied it was lonely. "i should like very much to go with you," she replied. "except--connie, dear, i don't like leaving you alone." "connie is much better," said papa; "and i think the wind is changing. i should not wonder if we have a bright, mild day to-morrow. if so, she might come too. old martha always has a good fire in the kitchen at the yew trees, and if the rest of the house is draughty, she can wait for us there." i was very pleased at this. strange to say, the little prejudice, though it seems exaggerated to speak of it as that, which i had so ridiculously taken up on the mention of the whyte family, had quite melted away when i heard they were not rich. i liked the idea of being kind and generous to people less well off than ourselves, and though there was, perhaps, a little love of patronage in this, i hope it was not _only_ that. "i should _so_ like to go too," i exclaimed. "i do hope it will be a fine day. papa, if you are going to paint and paper any of the rooms, _mayn't_ i choose the paper for the little girls." papa smiled. i saw he was pleased. "how can we tell which room will be theirs?" he said. "oh, i _think_ we can guess. they're sure to have a room together as they're so near of an age. i daresay their papa and mamma will let them choose, and if the paper is the kind of one i mean, it would _make_ them fix on the room where it is. i saw it in fuller's shop-window the other day; roses, mamma, little climbing ones on a pale grey ground. and the painting shall be pale grey with a pink line. it'll be lovely." i felt so eager about it i could scarcely sit still. "i'm afraid that kind of paper is rather expensive," said papa. "and though i want to make the house neat and nice, still i can't spend very much. however, we shall see." "the room my sister and i had would be the nicest," said mamma, quite entering into my plans. dear mamma is not _very_ sensible about money-- she won't mind my saying so, for she says it herself. she leaves everything to papa, and a good deal _now_, i am proud to say, to me. "you remember it, connie? mrs nesbitt called it her best room. it looks out to the side with a sort of square bow-window, though that sounds very irish!" she added, laughing. papa glanced at her with such pleasure. he is always _so_ delighted when mamma laughs. "i do hope it will go through with the whytes," i heard him say to himself in a low voice. "i am so glad they are not rich," i said, with such satisfaction that papa and mamma really looked rather startled. "dear child--" mamma began. i had scarcely known i was speaking aloud. i felt myself grow a little red. "i mean," i began confusedly--"if they had been rich, you know, we couldn't have done anything for them, and--and--they might have been spoilt, and very likely they would have looked down on us." "even though they have such a common name," said papa, mischievously. "eh, connie? try and keep your mind clear of all those prejudices, my dear. take people as they really are, and be as good and kind to them in deed and thought, rich or poor, grand or lowly, as you _can_ be, and you will find it will be all right. the real way to get on happily is to think as little of _yourself_ as possible: then you will neither despise those below you, nor expect to be despised by those above you." i don't know that i quite understood papa then; i think i understand it better now. but that night my dreams were very pleasant; they were not about myself at all, nor even about the unknown whytes. they were all about a lovely room with roses growing up the walls, and as they grew higher and higher the walls seemed to melt away and i found myself in a beautiful garden. but just as i was rushing forward in delight i caught sight of old lady honor sitting in an arbour, knitting. "connie percy," she said solemnly, in her rather peculiar voice; "remember, the true way to gather roses is first to plant them." wasn't it a funny dream? the postman's knock came, as it generally does, while we were sitting at breakfast. there were two letters for papa, only. i had forgotten about captain whyte's answer being expected by post; my head was full of the yew trees and the climbing rose paper, and wondering if it was going to be a fine enough day for papa to say i might drive out. it was only when he looked up with a pleased exclamation that i remembered what a disappointment that letter _might_ have brought. "it is all right," said papa. "captain whyte agrees to my terms. indeed, i almost wish," he went on less brightly, "that i had not named so high a rent. i'm afraid they are very--well, not at all rich, to put it mildly. he says they cannot afford to do anything to the house, and as it is quite healthy, they will be satisfied if it is just clean and tidy. strictly speaking, you see, i am not bound to do much to it; i did it up so thoroughly for mrs nesbitt, and it is in perfectly good order, substantially speaking, only--" "the papers are _so_ ugly," said mamma. "you know mrs nesbitt chose them all, and her taste was dreadful, and there are several little things that would make it much nicer for a family of younger people. these two poky little rooms at the back would make a nice schoolroom if thrown into one." "just what captain whyte said himself," papa agreed. "well, we must go over it, and i will see what i can afford." "if they are paying a good rent," said mamma, "that might make up a little." dear mamma! she looked quite delighted with herself for being so business-like. "any way," i said, "you really _must_ let me choose a paper for the girls' room. i'd rather pay for it myself, or count it as one of my birthday presents, papa, than not have it." papa laughed at us both. "what delightful `landladies,' i suppose that's the feminine of `landlord,' even in the sense of a `proprietor,' you would make, you two," he said. but by the way he stroked my head when he went out i could tell he was pleased. i think, though he very seldom found fault with me, that papa was terribly afraid of my becoming selfish. ah, dear, i see now that i was that already! to my great delight papa's prophecy about the weather proved true. the wind _had_ changed; it was mild, and, for november, pleasant. if only a little bit of sun would come out, said mamma, it would be perfect. and after luncheon--which was my dinner--the sun _did_ come out, and papa came driving up just as we were beginning to be afraid he was going to be late. "i've two hours free," he called out cheerfully, as he came in. "i only want a scrap of luncheon, rose; i won't be two minutes. run and get your hat, connie. wrap up well, though it is a fine day, for you've not been out lately." chapter three. the yew trees. when i said "a pleasant day _for november_," i think i should have left out the two last words. for they rather sound as if november was rarely pleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of england it is certainly not so with us. our novembers are generally this way: there are some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; not heavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds and tell them to be quick about it. and then for a day or two, everything and everywhere are just _sopping_; it's almost worse than the rain, for the sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thought of beginning again. but _then_--there comes sometimes a little wind, and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller, and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for pleasantness can scarcely be matched. they are soft, quiet, dreamy days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little melancholy. there is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child that can't leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. somehow these days make me feel much _gooder_ ("better" doesn't do so well) than even the brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. they make me think more of heaven--and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish thoughts and feelings i have had. altogether there is something about them i can't put in words, though once--i will come to that "once" later on--some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly. and this day--the day we went to the yew trees--it was the first time mamma and i had been there for very long--was one of those days. it was not late in november, so though it had been raining tremendously only the day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much more expeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strength still with which to help. "the wind has been pretty busy in the night," said papa. "he must have sent out all his elves to work. i scarcely remember ever seeing the roads dry up so quickly." "but they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa," i replied--i do like when papa says these funny kinds of things--"just look what a lot of their brushes and dusters they have left about." we were driving along crook's lane as i spoke--the road to the yew trees goes that way, right through crook's wood, and i pointed to lots of boughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that had been blown off in the night. "yes," said papa, laughing. we were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage, though it is much too big for hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove a rather small horse, a cob, of papa's in it. i did feel so happy and nice. papa was driving and i was beautifully wrapped up in the seat behind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. it seemed to me i had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, nor heard the birds' mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender. the yew trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it is still nearer. we were soon there, and old martha, knowing we were coming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. it did not look at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in a plain sort of way. the trees which give their name to the house make a short avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, i believe, though i always think them rather gloomy. inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. i had never thoroughly explored it before, and i was surprised to find how large it was. mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all over while papa was speaking to a man--a builder, who had come by appointment to meet him. it was found that the partition between the two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma's great pleasure, papa decided on this. "it will make such a nice bright schoolroom," she said, as we went upstairs. "and here," she went on, "is the room bessie and i used to have. isn't it a nice room, connie? long ago, i remember, i used to fancy that if ever my little evie had a sister, and we came to live here some day, i would have it beautifully done up for my own girls." mamma's voice faltered a little as she said this. i was not feeling cross or impatient just then, so i answered her more gently than i am afraid i sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and sister. "well, mamma dear," i said, "if you do it up very prettily now it will be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you, and _also_ to the two stranger little girls. i am sure, too, that if eva knew about it, _she_ would be pleased. and perhaps she does." "darling! my own sweet content!" said mamma. she thought me _so_ good for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to please myself. "it shall be done, connie dearest, if i can possibly manage it," said mamma. "i wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the papering and painting?" it turned out that he had--in little country towns you don't find separate shops for everything, you know. this was the very man in whose window i had seen the lovely rose paper. so it was settled that on our way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. and soon after, we left the yew trees and drove off again. mr bickersteth's house was between the yew trees and the town. as we were passing the gate it opened, and lady honor came out. she was walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. in my eyes _very_ old, for i could not remember her anything else. papa drew up when he saw her, and jumped down. "we have just been at the yew trees," he said. "my wife and connie are so interested in getting it made nice for your friends." "ah, yes!" said lady honor, looking pleased, "we heard from frank whyte this morning that it is settled. very good of you to go yourself to look over the house, my dear mrs percy. and connie, too! that is an honour--however in this case you will be rewarded. you will find the whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, mrs percy, evey especially." mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp. "_evie_," she whispered (i spell it "evie," because i know that was how mamma _thought_ it), "do you hear, connie?" "yes, of course," i said rather sharply. no one else noticed mamma, for lady honor had turned to papa. i felt half provoked. i wished the little whyte girl had not been called "evie." "mamma will always be mixing her up with our evie, and thinking her a sort of an angel," i thought to myself, and something very like a touch of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. just at that moment, unluckily, lady honor glanced my way again. "are you quite well again, connie?" she said. "you don't look very bright, my dear. she needs companionship, doctor--companionship of her own age, as i have always told you. it will do her good in every way, yes, in _every_ way," and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. i am not sure that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the satisfaction--a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be such a thing! and perhaps it was not to be wondered at: "bright" i certainly was not looking, and indeed i fear there must have been something very like sulkiness in my face just then. "sweet content," lady honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, "a very pretty name and a very lovely character. i was telling the whyte children about it when i was with them the other day." mamma flushed with pleasure, but i felt inwardly furious. i was sure the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards i felt glad that papa had not seen my face just then. for the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to lady honor, i was quite silent. if it had not been for very shame, i would have asked to be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to fuller's shop. and mamma's gentle coaxing only made me crosser. "i am sure you are too tired, darling," she kept saying. "you don't think you have caught cold? do say, if you feel at all chilly?" and when i grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew more and more anxious, till at last papa turned round and looked at me. "she is all right, rose," he said. "it is as mild as possible--leave the child alone. at the same time, connie," he added to me, "you must answer your mother more respectfully. you have nothing to be so cross about, my dear." i felt startled and almost frightened. it was very seldom papa found fault with me. yet there was something in his tone which prevented my feeling angry; something in his tone and in his eyes too. it was as if he was a little sorry for me. i felt myself redden, and i think one or two tears crept up. "i am sorry," i said, gently. papa's face brightened at once, and this made it easier for me to master myself. we were just at fuller's by this time. i went in with papa and mamma, and after a minute or two i found it was not difficult to talk as usual, and to feel really interested in the papers. papa and mamma chose very nice ones for the dining- and drawing-rooms, and i was asked my opinion about them all, especially about the schoolroom one. then came the bedroom ones, most of which were quickly decided upon. i grew very anxious indeed when mamma asked to see the pale-grey-with-roses one, which had been in the window a week or two ago. fuller's man knew it at once and brought it out. "it is beautiful," he said, "a french paper, but expensive." and so it was, dearer than the one chosen for the dining-room! but papa glanced at it and then at me with a smile. "yes," he said, "i will have that one for the bedroom to the right--the room off the passage up the first stair." "oh, papa, _thank_ you," i said earnestly. and i meant it. i have told all these little things to make you understand as well as i can, the mixture of feelings i had about the whyte children even before i ever saw them. now i will skip a bit of time, and go on to tell about how things actually turned out. things _almost never_ turn out as one expects, the older one gets the more one sees this, especially about things one has thought of and planned a good deal. i had planned the first seeing the whytes ever so many times in my own mind, always in the same way, you know, but with little additions and improvements the more i thought it over. the general idea of my plan was this. it was to be a lovely day: i was to ride over with papa one morning, hoppie was to be looking his sweetest, and as we rode up to the house i was to see (and pretend not to see, of course) a lot of heads peeping out of a window to admire the little girl and her pony. then we should be shown into the drawing-room, which i had furnished in my own mind rather shabbily and stiffly, and captain and mrs whyte would come in and begin thanking papa for all his kindness, and would speak to me _very_ nicely and rather admiringly, and mrs whyte would sigh a very little as if she wished her daughters were more like me. she would say how _very_ much they wanted to know me, and she would beg papa to stay a few minutes longer while she called them. she would be very kind, but rather fussy and anxious. then the girls would come in, looking very eager but shy. they were to be smaller than i, and younger-looking, very shabbily dressed, but nice, and very admiring. i would talk to them encouragingly, and they would tell me how beautiful they thought the rose paper, and that lady honor had told them i had chosen it--at least, _perhaps_ it should be lady honor, i was not quite sure--sometimes i planned that papa should smile and it should come out by accident, as it were. then this should lead us to talk of flowers, and i would tell them how they might make winter nosegays to brighten up the drawing-room a little, and i would promise them some flowers out of our conservatory, and papa would ask mrs whyte to let them come to have tea with me the next day, and they would look delighted though half afraid, and they would all come to the door to see me mount, and, and--on and on i would go for hours, in my fancies, of which "i" and "we" were always the centre, the pivot on which everything else revolved! now i will tell what really happened. it was about six weeks after the day that i had gone with papa and mamma to the yew trees. so it was within a fortnight of christmas. mamma and i had been to the yew trees again once or twice to see how things were getting on, but for the last ten days or so we had not gone, as the whytes' two servants and their furniture had come, and the house was now, therefore, to all intents and purposes theirs, and one morning a letter from captain whyte to papa announced that he and mrs whyte and "some of our numerous youngsters" were to arrive the same day. "poor things," said mamma, with a little shiver, "how i do pity them removing at this season." "but it isn't cold," said papa. "so far it has been an unusually mild winter, though certainly we have had a disagreeable amount of rain." he glanced out as he spoke. it was not raining, but it looked dull and gloomy. "i suppose there is nothing we can do to help the whytes?" said mamma. "you will tell me, tom, if you think there is." "i almost think the kindest thing in such circumstances is to leave people alone till they shake down a little," he replied. "however, i shall be passing that way this evening, and i'll look in for a moment. captain whyte won't mind me." i didn't think any one could ever "mind" papa! i suppose it comes partly from his being a doctor and knowing so much about home things, children and illnesses, and so on, that he is so wonderfully sensible and handy and tender in his ways--"like a woman," prudence says; but indeed i don't think there are many women like _him_--and i don't think it can be all from his being a doctor, it must be a good deal from his own kind, tender, sympathising heart. "please find out how soon we can go to see them at the yew trees," i said. "perhaps i might ride there with you some morning on hop-o'-my-thumb before mamma goes regularly to call." "we'll see," said papa, as he went off. of course, i was thinking of my imaginary programme, but papa did not know that. when he came home that night i was disappointed to find that he had not seen any of the whytes. captain whyte was out, and mrs whyte, after all, had not yet come. "only miss whyte and two of the young gentlemen," the servant had said, and as papa had no very particular reason for calling, he had not asked to see "miss whyte." "do you think she is one of the little girls?" i asked. papa shook his head. "i don't know. she may be an aunt who has come to help," he said. this idea rather annoyed me. i had not planned for a helpful aunt; it disarranged things. "never mind, connie," said mamma, thinking i was disappointed. "we shall soon know all about them. i should think we might call early next week. the old-fashioned rule in a country-place is to wait till you have seen people in church," she added. this was wednesday. it was a good while to wait till next monday or tuesday. however, i set to work at my fancies again, determining all the same to ride past the yew trees, as often as i could this week. it would be rather nice and romantic for them to have seen me riding about without knowing who i was, before they actually met me. whom i meant by "they" i am not quite sure. i fancy i did the whyte girls the compliment of placing them _next_ in importance to myself in my drama. "i wonder," i thought, "if lady honor told them _nicely_ of my being called `sweet content,' or if she said it mockingly. it was horrid of her if she did." chapter four. all my own fault. "what are you in such a brown study about, connie?" asked mamma at breakfast the next morning. i started. "nothing very particular," i said, and i felt myself get red. i should not have liked mamma to know my thoughts--i was rehearsing for the hundredth time the scene of my first meeting with the whytes, or rather, i should say, of their first meeting _me_. just as mamma spoke i was wondering how i could persuade papa to let me ride over with him before mamma paid her more formal call at the yew trees. mamma smiled but did not press for an answer. "i must go and order dinner," she said, rising from her seat rather wearily. papa had already gone out. "how nice it will be when you are grown up, my sweet content, and able to help me with the housekeeping." "oh dear, i hope you will have a housekeeper when you get tired of it," i said. "you never need count upon me for anything to do with eating and cooking, mamma. i should hate ordering dinners and looking over the butcher's and grocer's books. you wouldn't like to see me a second anna gale, i hope?" "no, indeed, dear; that you never could be. poor anna has no brains, and she is so very dowdy--though, perhaps that sounds unkind, for she is a very good girl," and mamma looked rather shocked at herself. "but one may be good without being _quite_ so dull and `dowdy,'" i said, coaxingly. mamma stooped to kiss me as she passed my chair. "i trust you will never have to do any uncongenial work, my darling," she said. "you shall not if i can help it." i remained where i was for a minute or two, thinking what i would best like to do that morning. it was a holiday, for my daily governess had got a slight cold and sore throat, and till _quite_ satisfied that it was nothing infectious mamma had decided that she had better not come. i was rather sorry than otherwise, for i by no means disliked my lessons, and in dull weather the time was apt to hang heavily. there was no question of my going out for a ride, for, though not actually raining, it looked as if it might do so any moment. "i may as well do the flowers in the drawing-room," i said to myself. this was one of the few things i did regularly for mamma, and i am afraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to my _liking_ it! i sauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers i could cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through the conservatory, i sauntered on into the drawing-room. the housemaid, a young girl, whom i was not at all in awe of, was giving the room its morning cleaning. it was _nearly_ done, but there remained the last touches--the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or two dust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about--without which, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy and disorderly. "oh, eliza, why isn't the drawing-room done?" i exclaimed. "i want to arrange the flowers, and i can't have you fussing about while i am doing them. you must leave it for a quarter of an hour." the girl looked round regretfully. "i'd have done in five minutes, miss connie," she said; "i would indeed. i'm no later than usual, but you don't often come in here so early; and the fire isn't lighted, and you with your cold," she added, as if that would decide matters. "oh, bother my cold," i said. "it's not chilly in here with the door open into the conservatory. i _must_ do the bowers now, or i can't do them at all, and those in the glasses are very withered." eliza gave in. but as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan and brushes behind her, she stopped short again. "oh, miss connie!" she exclaimed, "your frock's all out of the gathers at the left side; and there's a hole in your elbow." "i know," i said, composedly; "i caught it in the balusters--the skirt i mean; but i didn't know about the elbow. that's prue's fault, but it doesn't matter; i'll change it before luncheon;" and i set to work at my flowers. it was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold water in the conservatory, and a little table on which i always arranged the flowers. and i had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; i threw them in a heap on the floor, and the gardener carried them away. but, all the same, i made myself rather dirty; my hands were smudged with mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time i was half through my task. and as i had particular ideas about arranging the colours, and so on, i was very deliberate in my movements. quite half an hour must have passed, and i had not begun to think of calling eliza back to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. "who can that be?" i thought to myself, though without much interest in the matter. "some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; people are so stupid." for rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confined to the postmen and visitors for mamma, as, besides the surgery-bell, there is a side-door for tradespeople. i thought no more about it, till suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and i heard benjamin the "boy"--benjamin was not even a "buttons," and he only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while eliza was busy "with the rooms," as housemaids say--in colloquy with some person or persons unseen. "step this way, please sir," he was saying with his broadest accent, as i ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see who it could possibly be. oh, dear! _how_ i wished i had not yielded to my curiosity; how i wished i had run out by the door of the conservatory into the garden; how i wished i had not interrupted eliza at her work, which would by this time have been neatly accomplished! for there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking than papa--very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side--a girl quite half a head taller than i, with grave, considerate eyes, and a quiet, pale face. she was dressed very simply, but with extreme neatness; all that, i took in, in less than an instant, even while i felt my face growing scarlet, and i seemed conscious of but one intense wish--that the ground would open and swallow me and the drawing-room up! yes--the room was worse than i--i did not care so much for my own appearance at any time, but the drawing-room--it looked so messy and horrid--so _common_, too--"as if we only kept one servant," i said to myself, "and could not afford to have the fire lighted early." and to know that it was all my own doing! a smile flickered over the gentleman's face; he must have seen how wretchedly awkward and ashamed i looked--my burning cheeks must have told their own tale. but the girl only looked at me gravely, though very gently. i am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be. "i am afraid," captain whyte said at last--all this time i was blocking up the doorway, remember--"that we are taking a great liberty in disturbing mrs percy so very early, but--" here the girl interrupted. "you are busy arranging your flowers," she said. "_may_ we look at the conservatory? perhaps, papa, miss percy can tell us all we want to know?" and before i knew where i was she had crossed the room, not seeming even to _see_ that it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in the conservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not look nearly so bad as the drawing-room. "_how_ pretty your flowers are!" she went on, and one could see that she meant it. "papa, do look at those begonias--but--shouldn't we introduce ourselves first?" and she gave a nice little kind sort of laugh. "i know who you are," i said, as i awkwardly rubbed my hands on my apron to clean them from the mould. "i--i can't shake hands--but--it's all my fault that the fire isn't lighted, and the room so messy. mamma will be very vexed--she's always ready as early as this to see any one." "we have unfortunately lost the address of the `odd man' that dr percy was so good as to give us, and we find ourselves sadly in want of his services already," said captain whyte. "there are one or two other points we should be grateful for a little advice about, too, but these can wait." i was beginning to recover my presence of mind a little by this time, though with it, alas! an increased feeling of mortification. "i will fetch mamma," i began; but captain whyte interrupted: "please don't disturb her," he said. i felt more and more vexed. "i believe they think she's a vulgar, fussy old thing like agnes gale's aunt," i said to myself; "never fit to be seen till the afternoon." "it won't disturb her at all," i said. "mamma is never very busy." and just as i spoke i heard her voice from the drawing-room. "connie dear," it said, "where are you, and what's the matter with the drawing-room?" oh, how glad i was that she said that! "benjamin said some one wanted me;" and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came. they started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in mrs percy. never in all my life did i feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. just think--many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. and many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. not so my dear little mother. she came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty--with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. "what is the matter, connie dear?" she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers. i flew to her side. "mamma dear," i said--i was not often so gentle, but i was humbled for once--"it is captain whyte and miss whyte. it is all my fault about the drawing-room. i would not let eliza finish it, because she was in the way when i was doing the flowers." then mamma glanced at me, and i saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state i myself was in. "my dear child!" she exclaimed. but in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors. "i am so sorry," she said. "nay," captain whyte replied, "it is our place to apologise. i only ventured to intrude so early--" but mamma interrupted him. "won't you come into the dining-room?" she said; "it will be more comfortable." and so it certainly was, though it was the very thing of all others i would have hated. i had so often mocked at the gales for never using their drawing-room except on great occasions, and always huddling together in the dining-room. but our dining-room did look nice that morning. it was as neat as could be, and the window was a tiny bit open, and a bright fire burning, and on a small table in the window stood a pretty glass with one or two late roses and a trail of ivy, which mamma had just gathered in the garden outside. captain whyte walked towards the fireplace and stood on the hearthrug, talking to mamma. miss whyte drew nearer the window, where i followed her. "how sweet these late roses are," she said. "you and mrs percy must be very fond of flowers." "yes," i said, stupidly enough. i could see she thought me shy and awkward, and that made me still more so. "and what a dear garden you have," she went on, evidently anxious to set me at my ease, "just as if i had been agnes gale," i thought. "our garden at the yew trees will be very nice, but i do love those walled-in gardens at the back of a house in a street. i always think there's a sort of surprise about them which makes them still nicer. do you do much gardening yourself, miss--no, won't you tell me your first name?" "connie," i blurted out. a smile lighted up her grave little face. "`connie?'" she repeated. "oh, yes, i remember. is that the short for--" but then she stopped abruptly, murmuring something about "lady honor;" and for the first time _she_ looked a little shy. it made me feel pleased. "i suppose," i said, rather disagreeably--"i suppose lady honor made fun of my baby name?" miss whyte looked puzzled and surprised. "made fun of it," she said; "of course not. we all thought it _so_ sweet--`sweet content,' i mean--and what lady honor said has made us look forward ever so much to knowing you. i think it was a little _that_," she went on, smiling again, "that made me beg papa to bring me with him this morning." how ashamed i felt! it seemed as if i were to do nothing but be ashamed this morning--and this time with more reason. my ugly suspicions of lady honor _were_ something to be ashamed of. she had always been a true and kind friend; and just because she did not flatter and spoil me, i could not trust the good old lady. "oh," i began, "i didn't mean--i thought perhaps--" then i stopped short. "my real name is constantia," i went on hurriedly, "not constance. i think constantia prettier; don't you?" "it is more uncommon; it's like my name. people think mine is eva or evelyn, when they hear me called--" "evey!" came her father's voice across the room. we both laughed. "wasn't that funny?" said evey, as she turned with a "yes, papa." "wasn't there something else rather particular, that you had to ask about, if possible, at once?" said captain whyte. "mrs percy is so kind." evey went towards my mother; a very business-like expression came over her face. "it's about the laundress, mrs percy. mother would be so glad to know of one at once. you see there are so many of us, it's an important consideration. mother will be here by tuesday, we hope, and it would be nice for her to find it arranged, and all the things sent for the week. it was one of the reasons she was sorry not to come at once herself--to see about it." "i hope it was not illness that delayed mrs whyte's coming," said mamma, kindly. "not her own," said captain whyte, "but one of the boys had caught cold--he's our delicate one--and very subject to croup. so it was safer to wait, and evey and i came on with the three other small ones and one big one, leaving mary and joss to help their mother with the invalid." "i am sure i can find you a nice laundress," said mamma, on which evey's brow cleared. "and not dear?" the little girl asked--for, after all, she _was_ a little girl, barely thirteen. mamma could not help smiling. evey was so business-like. "i think mrs whyte would find our laundress reason able," she said. "indeed, i don't think any prices about here are extortionate." "that is one of the recommendations of elmwood to us," said captain whyte, smiling. "but, evey, we have really intruded on mrs percy too long. thank you so very much for your kind help." and he turned to go. "i will not forget to send mrs green, the washerwoman, to speak to you," said mamma, as she shook hands with evey. "oh yes, thank you--this evening, please, if possible," the little girl replied. chapter five. a large family. after they had gone, neither mamma nor i spoke for a minute or two. i did not quite know what to say, and i was not sorry to have some little time to consider, while mamma quickly wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, which she folded and addressed to mrs green. then she rang for benjamin, and told him to take the note at once and bring back an answer. "i could have taken it, mamma," i said. "mrs green's is so near." it was not often i volunteered any little service of this kind, but somehow i had a wish to be of use to evey whyte, too, and i spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was quite a usual thing for me to do. "thank you, dear," said mamma. "i don't think you should go out till we see what the day is going to be. your cold is not quite gone yet." "oh, bother!" i said, crossly. "mamma, i wish you would not fuss so. i'm sure that little girl looks far more delicate than i, and she's out. i only wish i had gone out _quite_ early, and then they wouldn't have come in and found everything in such a mess." "i mind the most their seeing you yourself in such a mess," said mamma, regretfully. "i don't think you should do the flowers if it dirties you so." "oh, i _needn't_ be so dirty," i said. "but i didn't mind that half as much as the drawing-room;" and then i had to explain how i had interfered with the housemaid. "it can't be helped," mamma replied. "they are nice, kind people, i am sure, and the next time they come we must have things ready. besides, such a large family as they are, they can't be always in apple-pie order themselves. connie," she went on, "did you hear that dear child's name?" "of course," i said, rather sharply. "they call her evey, but her name's not `eva,' nor `evelyn'--she told me so, and she was just going to tell me her real name, when captain whyte called to her. i daresay it's some name not the least like `eva.'" "oh," said mamma, in a tone of disappointment, "i had hoped it was." in my heart i was sorry for her; how gentle and kind she was! and when i went upstairs to wash my hands, i had even more reason to think so, for when i looked in the glass--oh dear!--what an untidy, dirty little girl i saw! there was a smear of mould all down one cheek, some of which i had rubbed on to my nose, and my hair was straggling and my frock torn, as i have said. "i would have scolded _my_ daughter dreadfully if i had been mamma," i said to myself. and i got hot and red all over when i thought of my grand plans and pictures of my first meeting with our new friends. my next meeting with them, though different from this first one, was also quite different from my fancies. we saw the whytes in church on sunday--not mrs whyte, she was not to come until monday--but captain whyte and evey and a big boy--quite big, looking almost grown up, and three small ones--dear little fellows in sailor-suits, all in a row, between evey and the big brother. and they were so good! evey herself was as neat as could be, and her jacket and hat were a very nice shape, and her hair prettily done. altogether i began to be afraid the whytes were not the sort of people i could at all "show off" to--(not that i called it "showing off" to myself). and after church i saw lady honor hurry up to them, and i _felt_ she was asking them all to go home with her to luncheon. so i walked on rather gloomily beside mamma. "i don't think i want to know the whytes," i said; "i think they're very stuck-up." mamma stared at me in astonishment. "connie, dear?" she said, "that simple child! and so plainly dressed, too. she might rather think it of you, i'm afraid." but she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt rather smoothed down than otherwise. "i am glad for little miss whyte to see that you are not _usually_ going about in a torn frock and with a dirty face," mamma went on. "of course, mrs whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. i am sure every one must admire that jacket of yours, connie; it is really very pretty." it was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with fur; rather _too_ handsome altogether, i now think, for a girl of the age i was then. but i had been very well pleased with it and the cap to match, and it had struck me--though really i was _not_ vain of my looks, nor much interested in my clothes--as i was dressing, that my fair, long hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. now, however, i gave myself a dissatisfied shake. "i don't think i like it, mamma. i would much rather have a tweed jacket and frock the same. i think velvet and fur are rather vulgar. and--mamma--i wish you'd cut my hair off--i think evey whyte looks so nice with her short, dark, curly hair." i forget if i have said that evey's hair was almost as short as a boy's. mamma gasped. "cut off your hair, connie!" she said. "my sweet content's great beauty! cut off your hair, connie?" i was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us--short, quick, pattering steps--made both mamma and me look round. a little boy in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some little distance, we saw evey, also running. "oh, please, please stop," panted the small boy. he was the biggest of the three we had seen in church. "evey's got something to say to you, mrs percy." he tugged off his cap as he spoke, and stood smiling up at us--his round, rosy face all in a glow. he was a dear, sunburnt little fellow, not the least shy, and yet not a bit forward. "i am so sorry we did not hear you coming before," said mamma, kindly. "you have run so far. i hope you won't get cold from being so overheated," she added, anxiously. "oh no, thank you. i never catch cold. it's only addie that catches cold," the boy replied. he evidently thought we must know who addie was, and all about him or her. and by this time evey's voice was heard near at hand. "how do you do, mrs percy?" she said. "i hope you didn't mind charley running after you? it was lady honor sent him, and i've come to explain. she wants to know if you will let connie--mayn't i say `connie'?--come to luncheon at her house with all of us? we're _all_ going--isn't it kind?--charley and douglas and tot and papa and lancey, too. oh, do let connie come. i'm the only girl, and i do feel so funny without mary." she was so bright and eager it would have been difficult to refuse. my contradictory humour melted away before her heartiness, and i smiled back in answer to the unspoken inquiry in mamma's face. "certainly, my dear; i shall be delighted for connie to go. please thank lady honor very much. shall i send for her in the afternoon?" "oh, please, we can bring her home. we aren't going to church, because we're not very settled yet, and the servants couldn't go this morning, so we shall be going home by ourselves and passing your house before four o'clock. connie won't spoil her things," she added considerately, glancing at my smart attire, "for we shan't be romping, as it is sunday." "oh, i'm not afraid. connie is not a great frock-tearer," said mamma, smiling, though she spoke quickly. i think she was afraid that my appearance the other day was still in evey's memory. "then good-bye, connie, till four o'clock. and good-bye, master charley, and many thanks. thank you, too, miss whyte, very much." then we separated. mamma continuing her way home, quite happy in my happiness, while i retraced my steps with evey and her brother. evey glanced over her shoulder at mamma. "you don't mind mrs percy going home alone, i hope?" she said, half anxiously. it had never struck me that there was anything to mind! "oh, of course not," i said. evey looked a little sorry, but walked on. "i didn't mean--" she began. "at least, i only meant--" then her face cleared. she evidently thought she had hit upon an explanation of my indifference. "i see," she said; "it must be quite different when one is an only child. your mother _must_ be alone, sometimes; it isn't like ours. you see there are such a lot of us; she would feel quite miserable if there weren't some of us with her. at least, she says so," and evey laughed merrily. "perhaps," i said, half mischievously, "she says it a _little_ out of politeness. i think grown-up people all do like to be alone _sometimes_." we both laughed at this, and then the remains of shyness that had hung about seemed quite to disappear. but i did not forget evey's gentle anxiety about mamma. we soon came up to the others, who were all walking on slowly together-- such a party they looked! captain whyte and old mr bickersteth in front, then lady honor and the big boy, lancey, and the two smaller sailor-suits, tot and douglas, as evey had called them, now joined by charley, bringing up the rear. "what a lot of you there must be when you are all together," i exclaimed, not very politely, i am afraid, to evey. she smiled, as if she thought it rather a compliment. "yes," she said--we were walking rather more slowly now to get back our breath, as lady honor had nodded back to us to show it was all right--"yes, eight are a good many, and somehow, so many being boys, makes it seem even more--in the house above all. boys can't help being noisy, you see." she said it in such an old-fashioned way that i couldn't help smiling. "i don't know much about boys," i said. "i think i'd rather have sisters." "oh, no, you wouldn't," replied evey quickly. "you don't _know_ how nice brothers are. when you see joss--" but here she had to break off. lady honor had stepped back a pace or two to speak to us. her face looked very kind and pleased, and there was nothing the least "mocking," as i called it to myself, in her tone. "that's right, connie, my dear," she said, as she shook hands with me. "very good of your dear mother to let you come. now, is it your place or mine, evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to miss percy, or shall we let things settle themselves? you _will_ learn them all in time, connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would." in evey's place i should probably have been rather offended at this, but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the old lady's joke very amusing. "i'll introduce them by telling connie all their names and ages, thank you, lady honor," she answered brightly. "come on, connie; it will take some time, i warn you." we ran on a little way together, lady honor looking quite pleased. it was easy to see that she really wanted evey and me to be friends, and i felt gratified at this. "it will be nice for evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd of boys," i thought to myself. "i daresay lady honor thinks being with me may make her quiet and refined," though, truth to tell, for all her simplicity, i had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenish in my new friend. "lady honor is always so funny, isn't she?" was evey's first remark, as soon as we were out of hearing. "papa says it's delightful to see an old person so fresh and merry. but she has such a kind heart: that keeps people young more than anything," she added, in her wise way. "yes," i agreed, "she is very kind; but sometimes she's rather"--"rather sharp," i was going to say, but something in evey's eyes made me hesitate--"i mean i sometimes am a very little frightened of her." "you needn't be," said evey, composedly. "if you had ever stayed in the house with her for weeks together as we do at my uncle's at christmas, you would see that she's just _quite_ good." i could not say anything more after that, and evey evidently wanted to change the subject. "shall i tell you _us_, now?" she began again, laughingly. "that big lancey is the eldest of us--he's sixteen, and, of course, his name's lancelot. then comes joss--he's jocelyn--those two names and mine are very--what's the word--not `fanciful,' but something like that." "fantastic," i suggested. "yes, that's it. how clever of you to know!" she said, admiringly. "at least they sound so, though really the boys' names are both family ones." "but yours," i interrupted, "isn't a very fanciful one--`eva' or `evelyn'--oh, no; you said it wasn't one of these. i forgot." "it's yvonne," said evey. "it's a french name--a very old french name. a cousin of mother's was called yvonne first, and i'm named after her. then, after these three names, we get quite sensible. next to me is mary, `plain mary' we call her in fun, because she's the prettiest of us! and then come addie and charley and douglas and tot. addie's the delicate one, and charley and the two little ones you've seen." "what a lot of boys!" i said, my breath nearly taken away. "yes," said evey, laughing; "and fancy, now they'll all be living at home. won't it be nice? till now, you know, lancey and joss have been at school away, but now they'll all be at home; at least till lancey goes to india," and for the first time evey sighed a little at this doleful prospect. "dear me," i thought to myself, "surely they'll be glad to get rid of a few of them. i should think their mother would, any way." but, as if she answered my thought, evey went on: "mother can't bear to think of lancey going; nor joss either, and i suppose he'll have to go, too. we have an uncle there who is a tea-planter; they're going to him. joss would give anything not to--he wants to go to college, but of course it's _impossible_, so we never speak about it." "and doesn't lancey mind?" i said. "not so much, except just for leaving us. but it's no good thinking of things long before they come. we've settled that we're going to be as happy as anything at the yew trees for two years at least. oh, how nice it is, and _how_ kind your father has been about putting it in order. we've never had a house at all like it before; our house at southsea was so--just like other houses you know." i felt more on my own ground, now. "i am so pleased you like the yew trees," i said, amiably. "it is a nice old house, and it _might_ be made quite perfect. if we ever went to live in it ourselves, i daresay we should change it a good deal--but i don't think we ever shall. when papa retires, and i hope he will before i'm grown up, mamma and i want to travel a good deal, and perhaps to live in london. one gets tired of a little country-place." yvonne looked at me quite simply. "do you think so?" she said. "i feel as if we should never get tired of elmwood. and the people all seem so kind. london seems so very big, but then, of course, i haven't been _very_ much there." my conscience pricked me. "well, i haven't, either," i said; "but still--" i had really only been there once, and for one week! "we always stay with mother's godmother for a month every summer in london, mary and i, and mother comes for the last fortnight. mother's godmother is very kind, and we have very good music lessons--she gives us them--she is lady honor's sister. but we _are_ always so glad to come home again." i could not understand her, but i thought it wiser to say no more about london and its attractions. nor was i sorry when evey suddenly changed the conversation by exclaiming: "oh, connie, i have _so_ wanted to thank you about the rose paper. lady honor told us. you can't think how lovely it looks--you must come and see. father says i may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, and _perhaps_ pink on the dressing-table--we shall fix when mother comes. i think we could trim the table ourselves. perhaps you could help us, connie? are you clever at things like that?" "i don't know," i said. "i don't think i ever tried. the servants always do up the dressing-tables, i suppose." "oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven't so much to do as ours. but you know, connie, we're really very poor indeed, so we _have_ to do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things-- pretty things. i daresay you can't understand how careful we have to be. but we're very happy all the same." "i suppose people get accustomed to things," i said. "i don't think i should like to be poor at all. you see i've always had everything i wanted. but i should like very much to help you if ever i could." i meant to be gracious, i am afraid i was only patronising. vague thoughts of presents to evey and the others out of my lavish pocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, i did not express them, and evey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of "help" quite differently. "i think very likely you could give me some ideas about the dressing-table," she said consideringly. "i'm sure you have good taste--because of that lovely paper." and just then we found ourselves at mr bickersteth's gate. chapter six. new ideas. that luncheon and afternoon, or part of an afternoon, at lady honor's were very nice, and yet rather strange to me. i had so seldom been among several young people that i scarcely felt at home; and the whytes in themselves were unlike any children i had ever known. they were not the least shy, far less so, really, than i was. i remember getting very hot and red when i knocked over a glass of water, and evey, who was sitting next me, made me feel still worse by her open and outspoken fears that i would spoil my frock. she thought it was that that i was so distressed about. "i don't care a bit about my frock," i said to her quite crossly. "if it is spoilt, i can get another. it is only that i hate to look so awkward." "everybody does awkward things sometimes. if you don't mind about your frock, i don't see that a little spilt water matters much," said evey, looking at me in her straightforward way. "lady honor isn't vexed, are you, lady honor?" she said loud out, turning to the old lady. "of course not, there's no harm done. don't look at me as if i were red riding hood's grandmother, my dear child," she said in her funny way, meaning to be kind to me, of course; and evey meant to be kind too, but i suppose it was that i didn't know lady honor as well as they did; and still more, i daresay, it was from my habit of thinking about myself so much, and fancying other people were noticing me, when very likely they weren't, that i felt so horrid. i forgot about it, however, after luncheon, when we all went out into the garden. yvonne was so kind. she felt a little, i think, as if i were her visitor, and she just did everything she possibly could to make me enjoy myself; and the boys were all very nice, too. i could not have believed that boys could be so nice, for i had always had rather a horror of them. i said so to evey; she seemed pleased at my liking her brothers, but amused, too, at my ideas about boys. "you must see us when we are all together," she said. "fancy, besides mary, two more boys! though addie is scarcely like a boy, he's the delicate one, you know. but he is _so_ brave. i think it's almost more brave of _him_ to be brave than if he were strong and big, don't you?" "yes," i said. "it's what is called moral courage, isn't it?" "it's that, and the other too," evey replied. "or perhaps he's able to make himself brave the other way by having moral courage. i suppose it's that; anyway i do _love_ addie. oh, connie, you wouldn't think that way about boys if you had brothers." "not if they were like yours," i said; "but i have seen some brothers that weren't at all nice to their sisters." "then i'm sure it was the sisters' fault; anyway, a good deal their fault," evey returned promptly. "i'm just the opposite of you, for, do you know, i have often longed to be a boy, and so has mary. if we had all been boys, it would have been easier for father and mother. i almost think they'd have gone to the colonies." "how _horrible_," i said. "i am sure you should be glad you and mary aren't boys, just to have stopped that." but yvonne was not to be convinced. "no," she said. "i think it would be delightful--all going together, you know; and perhaps we may, some day, after all. it would be much better than staying in england, and the boys by themselves all over the world, and father and mother looking anxious; and you know," she added, "even mary and i _mightn't_ be able to stay at home. we, might have to work somehow, too." "do you mean to be governesses?" i asked, in a very appalled tone of voice. but evey's reply appalled me still more. "perhaps, or, if not governesses, teachers of some kind, if we were good at teaching. but there are lots of other things for girls now. father often talks about them. we might have some sort of business. something like a big upholsterer's, perhaps. that would be nice, for the boys might be in it too. and joss could design things, he _is_ so clever; and lancey could keep the books. lancey's very good at figures. it would be almost as nice as going to the colonies." i stared at her. "evey," i said, "you are joking." but a glance at her face showed me she was quite in earnest. "no, indeed," she said. "if people are poor they must work. indeed, rich people often work hard too, though in a different way. what's there to be ashamed of?" "but a _shop_," i said, with extreme disgust--"that's not for ladies and gentlemen." "i don't see why, if they're poor and could get on that way. of course, if the boys and we two were all together in it, you may be sure mary and i would be given the nicest part of the work," she said, smiling. "and if we could earn enough to make father and mother _quite_ comfortable when they get old, really not to have any bother at all and not to need to think about money, why, what _would_ we care what we did? we'd be--" here evey stopped to find a sufficiently strong expression--"we'd be _chimney-sweeps_." this was rather a relief to my feelings. "she knows they couldn't be chimney-sweeps," i thought to myself, "so very likely she's joking about a shop too." and i was still more satisfied when, a moment or two after, yvonne added: "of course, it's all castles in the air. i daresay," and she sighed, "we shall never be able to do anything much, any of us--not even for father and mother. _they_ say the best thing we can all do for them is each to be good in his or her own way. but one can't help sometimes wishing to do something big--oh, what heaps of nice things one could do for people if one were rich! we often plan them together--for father and mother first, you know." "yes, i suppose it would be nice to be rich," i replied; "but i've never thought much about it,"--"still, i don't think going to the colonies or keeping a shop would be `something big,'" i was on the point of saying, when evey interrupted me. "no," she said earnestly; "it's not being rich, it's the things one would do. there's all the difference;" and perhaps it was as well i had not finished my sentence. this conversation was not the part of the afternoon i enjoyed the most, nor did it take very long. i have told it because it helps to show yvonne whyte's way of looking at things, and the difference between her and me. i enjoyed much more talking about evey's room, and how it was to be dressed up in pink and white, and also the making plans for meeting often, and discussing the lawn-tennis ground at the yew trees with lancey. it was not a very good one and had been neglected, but captain whyte and lancey had great ideas about it, and captain whyte thanked me very nicely, though he smiled a little, when i said rather pompously that i was sure they could have our garden-roller and the under-gardener to help, when the time came for attending to it. just before it was time to go, lady honor called us all in to sing a hymn. it was to please mr bickersteth, who was too feeble to go to church again. it was a long time since he had heard his young friends' voices, he said, looking at yvonne and her brother, and their hymn should be his vespers to-day. and when i heard them i was not surprised at his wanting them to sing. their voices were _so_ nice, and, to my surprise, evey played the accompaniment on mr bickersteth's chamber organ quite beautifully. i was very fond of music, so i really enjoyed it, and for once forgot that i was not the centre of it all. "_how_ nice!" i exclaimed heartily, when it was over. and lady honor smiled at me when i said this, in her very kindest way; for no one who does not know lady honor pretty well can fancy how kind her smiles _sometimes_ are. "how have you learnt to play the organ so beautifully? it takes a lot of time, doesn't it?" i said to evey. "yes," said lady honor, replying for her. "but i have always found in my life, my dear connie, that it is the people who have the most to do who do the most. think that over--you'll find it's not an irish bull, though it sounds like one." i was not so pleased at this speech. "she is thinking that i don't do much, i can see," i began fancying. but evey broke in upon my disagreeable thoughts. "i don't think it's any credit to me that i can play the organ a little, truly," she said. "i've had such good lessons every year in london, where we never really have anything to do except things like that. and at southsea i was always allowed to practise on the church organ. we have a harmonium of our own," she went on to me. "it's very nice, but of course not as nice as this dear organ," and she touched the keys lovingly. mr bickersteth's organ was a very nice one indeed. and, a few minutes after that, we went home. the whytes, all six of them, escorted me all the way, as lady honor's is not far from our house, and i showed them the short cut across the fields to the yew trees through a turnstile close to us. it was very kind of them all the same, for they had to hurry a good deal after that to get home in time to send the servants to church. i found mamma by herself in the study. we don't use the drawing-room on sunday. "well, darling?" she said. i knew that meant a tender inquiry as to how i had enjoyed myself, but a rather contradictory mood had come over me. "it was very nice," i said. "but, they're not a bit like what i thought they would be, mamma. you know--when we heard they were so poor--" "but they _are_ poor," she replied, "and i'm sure they are not--they would not set themselves up in any disagreeable way. they seem so well-bred." "ye-es," i said. "they're--oh i think they are just everything they should be, whether they're poor or not. they're _much_ cleverer than me, mamma. they've learnt so many things i haven't, and seen so much more--they go to london _every_ year--and--" my depressed, discontented tone must have hurt and troubled mamma, for she answered indignantly: "it is very wrong and unkind of them--of that girl," she said, "to boast and show off to you, darling. you are too sensitive. i am quite sure they are not cleverer than my connie, and as for looks--you shall not see any more of them, dear. it would be quite new indeed for my sweet content to be made discontented. i am disappointed in evey whyte. i was sure she was so nice." there was a hot, red spot on each of poor mamma's cheeks; this state of things was not at all what i had bargained for. i had only wanted to work off my own dissatisfaction, which was partly jealousy, but partly too, i hope, a less unworthy feeling, by grumbling and by trying to put blame on those who had had the care of me. i was punished. "oh no, no, mamma dear," i said eagerly. "evey's _not_ like that. she's not the least _atom_ boasting; it was more--things i noticed and asked about, myself. it's not only that she's clever--you should hear how she can play the organ; but i daresay you'd let me learn it too, if i liked--it's--it's partly, mamma, that i can feel she's so much more useful, and--and unselfish than i am. i can see it quite well; she does such a lot to help her mother and them all." and, greatly to mamma's surprise and distress, i leaned my head down on her lap and burst into tears. how she consoled and petted me! how she assured me i was _everything_ to her; the very light of her eyes; her comfort, her blessing--that she could not wish me any different from what i was, and ever so much more in the same strain. it was very sweet, and to a certain extent soothing, but in the end it only deepened the impression. for it made me feel how utterly unselfish and self-forgetting mamma was, above all wherever i was concerned, and it made me feel, too, how little i deserved such devotion. then the thought of her cruel trials came over me as it had never done before--how often i had grudged my sympathy to her? even if she were almost weakly and foolishly indulgent to me, she was scarcely to be blamed. instead of taking advantage of it and treating her fondness with something very like contempt, as i had often done, would not the right way be to try my best to be more worthy of it? i don't know what put the thought into my head just then. i had a queer feeling that if i had been talking it all over with yvonne, it was what _she_ would have said, for it had struck me once or twice that in her way of speaking to and of mamma there had been a special sort of tenderness, almost reverence, as if she had heard her sad story, and i remembered the anxious, half-reproachful way she had glanced at me when i seemed so indifferent about mamma's walking home alone. yes; i felt and knew that the sudden thought was one evey would have approved of, and i grew calmer. i wiped my eyes and kissed mamma as i had seldom done before: a new kind of strength seemed to come into me, and i resolved that from that moment i would care for her in quite a new way. "mamma dear," i whispered, "you are too good to me. but i will try to be better. only will you please let me be more useful to you? i am sure," i added, and if this was a _very_ little cunning, i don't think it was in a naughty way--"i am sure i should be far happier if i felt i were of use." and of course mamma promised. what would she not have promised me! i think she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingering feeling of indignation against evey had still been in her mind, i am sure what he said must have removed it. for the next morning they were both full of plans for my being a great deal with the whytes, and of little kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seeming officious or--he hesitated for a word. "patronising," mamma suggested. he smiled at this. "my dear," he said, "_that_ we could not possibly be accused of towards the whytes. you scarcely realise--" but there he stopped. i felt a little ashamed when i recalled one or two of my speeches to evey. "papa has always such _perfectly_ nice feelings," i thought; and as i glanced at his kind, quiet face i said to myself that i might indeed be proud of him. and when he kissed me that morning before he went out, i felt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and my new resolutions, better even than mamma did. chapter seven. a trio of friends. one of the hardest things about trying to be good, particularly about trying to be _better_, for that means getting out of bad ways as well as getting into good ones, is the dreadful persistence of bad habits. even when your heart is quite, _quite_ in earnest, and your mind too, and often at the very time you're planning beautifully about keeping your new resolutions, and quite bubbling over with eagerness about them, you get a sudden shock, just as if you had walked straight into a bath of cold water that you didn't know was there--and oh, dear, you stop to find you have done the exact wrong or foolish thing you had been fixing so to avoid. how many times this happened to me about the new resolutions i wrote of in the last chapter i should be afraid to say. sometimes it was almost laughable. one morning i remember i was busy writing down one or two rules i had thought might help me, when i heard mamma's voice calling me. "bother," i said to myself in my old way, "i shall never remember about the third rule, if i leave it just now." and i went on calmly writing, just calling to mamma, "yes, yes, i'll come directly;" and so absorbed was i, that when, a full quarter of an hour afterwards, i happened to glance out of the window, and saw mamma hot and out of breath from a chase after my new persian kitten, who had escaped through the conservatory and might _very_ easily have got lost or stolen, or even killed, it never struck me that i might have saved her this trouble. trouble on my account, too! "what _is_ the matter, mamma?" i exclaimed as i ran out, half crossly, for i could not bear to see her so tired and breathless. "how you do fuss--why didn't you make the servants fetch persica in?" "my dear," said mamma, as gently as if i had any right to find fault with her, "you know she won't come to any one but you or me; and i did call you." how ashamed i felt! i tore up the rules, and called them nasty things in my own mind, which was exceedingly silly. afterwards, when i had had more talk with yvonne, and mary, i made some others. not half such grand ones. only very, very simple ones, which i almost despised on that account; but they were useful to me, by showing me that, simple as they were, it was no easy matter to keep them, even for a few hours at a time. you see i had been selfish all my life. i had never even _thought_ of its being wrong. once i did begin to think about it, i was perfectly startled and horrified to find how wide-spreading and deep-rooted my selfishness was. i should often have lost heart altogether had it not been for my new friends. not that they ever "preached" to me or to anybody, it was just the seeing and _feeling_ how different they were, from what a different point of view they looked at everything, that made me understand better where i was wrong, and take courage to go on trying. and now and then nice things happened to make me feel i was getting on a little; some of these i will tell you about, though i have also to tell you of some rather dreadful things that showed how very naughty and horrid--oh! i get hot still when i think of one of these--i still was. it was not only selfishness i had to fight against i was exceedingly, absurdly, really _vulgarly_ self-conceited and stuck-up. i don't think evey and mary really ever knew the worst of me; for one thing, i began to _try_ almost from the first of knowing them; for another, just as an honest person cannot believe, and never suspects another of dishonesty till he is actually _forced_ to do so, the dear whytes were too sincere and simple and single-minded to understand or take in my ridiculous vanity and affectations. but i must tell about my first visit to the yew trees--i mean my first visit to its new inhabitants. it was two or three days after the sunday at lady honor's. i was fidgeting dreadfully to see evey again, and i think one of my first real "tries" at not being selfish was doing my best not to tease mamma about when we should go, and worrying her all day long to fix the exact day and hour. it was not a very hard "try" certainly, for it was only on wednesday morning that papa told us at breakfast that he had met captain whyte the evening before, and had been told by him that mrs whyte and the other children had arrived that morning. "he said," papa went on, "that mrs whyte would be very pleased to see you, rose; and when you go to call on her, you are to be sure to take connie." "when should we go, do you think?" asked mamma. "not to-day--they will hardly be settled enough to see us." "i don't know that," papa replied. "captain whyte said _any_ time; the sooner the better. mrs whyte may have little things to ask you about; and i fancy they are very methodical, sensible people, who will soon get into order." "they all help so; they're so useful," i could not help saying with a little sigh. "well, dear," said mamma, with an encouraging glance, "other little daughters are useful, too. you should have seen how beautifully connie dusted and rearranged the bookshelves for me yesterday, tom," she went on to papa, for which he gave me one of his nicest smiles. and it was settled that mamma and i should go that very afternoon. i felt a very little nervous about seeing mrs whyte. somehow the mother of such very well brought up children, and a person, too, whom lady honor evidently approved of so thoroughly, must, it seemed to me, be rather alarming; and i am not sure but that dear mamma was a very little nervous too. "we won't stay long, connie," she said, as we drew near the yew trees. "very likely they are still busy, though they don't mind us. i have been thinking we might ask evey and her sister to spend an afternoon with you--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after." "yes," i said. "i should like that. if their mother can spare them, and if all their time isn't settled out for lessons, and sewing, and taking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls in story-books. i'm afraid they're a _little_ that way, mamma--very, very regular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular. i'll tell you what i'm sure she's like, mamma. very tall, much taller than you,"--and mamma is not little--"and black hair, quite straightly done, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking." mamma began to laugh. "hush, connie," she said, "you mustn't upset my gravity. once i begin laughing,"--poor mamma, it wasn't very often she was really merry, though she tried to seem so for other people's sake--"i can't leave off." we were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubs hid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds of ringing laughter--the most ringing, happy, _pretty_ laughter i ever heard--reached our ears; and then voices. "joss, evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. no, no, lancey--" and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. a lady, a rather little lady, with dark hair--nice, wavy dark-brown hair, like what evey's would have been if it hadn't been so short--and the brightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was running at full speed across the little lawn before the door, with lancey, the biggest boy of all, you know, after her. she was waving something white, a roll of paper, above her head, which lancey was evidently determined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction it seemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young whytes--the three sailor-suits, two girls, evey and a fair-haired one, and two or three more boys. such a lot they looked! all rushing about, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices. suddenly somebody--evey, i think--caught sight of us. there came an instant hush. "oh dear," were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up to us. "i am so ashamed. you must think me out of my mind, mrs percy--it is mrs percy?" with a quick bright glance of questioning. "how good of you to come! we have been hoping you would. and this is connie? i am so pleased to see you, dear." how charming she was. not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet and irresistible--prettier than evey and not as grave, but yet quite like enough to be her mother. "you must think me a terrible tomboy," she said, laughing again, and blushing a very little. "but we are in such spirits. it's so long since we've been all together like this, for the big boys only came from school last week, and--" "mother _is_ rather a tomboy," said lancelot, coolly. "i think mrs percy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she will never be shocked at our goings on." "you impertinent boy," said his mother, laughing up at him. he was a great deal taller than she. "you shouldn't waste your time in writing verses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, mrs percy?" this hint silenced lancey effectually. and soon all the children dispersed, and mrs whyte took mamma away into the house. only yvonne and the fair-haired girl, who, i knew, must of course be mary, stayed with me. i had not yet spoken--i had felt so completely bewildered by the contrast between the real mrs whyte and the fancy picture i had been drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to my lips. yvonne thought that i was feeling shy, i suppose, and to put me at my ease she drew forward her sister. "this is `plain mary,' connie," she said. "i see i must introduce you formally. doesn't she suit her name?" she added, and i could hear in her tone how proud she was of mary. no wonder. mary was _so_ pretty. she was very, very fair--and she seemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. but she had dark eyes, much darker than mine; i am not speaking of myself out of conceit, truly, but because i know that fair hair and dark eyes are thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and mary's hair is fairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweet expression, what is called an "appealing" expression, i think. she stood there glancing up at evey in a little timid way, as if accustomed to be protected and directed by her, that i did think so sweet. i had not one atom of jealousy--i am so glad i hadn't--in my thoughts as i looked at her, even though there was a _sort_ of likeness between her and me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so much prettier. but then, this particular kind of envy has not been my temptation; so it wasn't any goodness in me not to feel it. i just stood looking at mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. and she looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and yvonne looked at us both for a moment in silence. then she gave a sort of jump and clapped her hands. "connie," she said, "i knew there was something that made me feel sure i'd love you at once. do you know you and mary are really rather like each other? i wonder if the others have seen it?" i felt myself get rosy with pleasure. "are we really?" i said. "i am so glad." and sweet mary grew red too, when i said that. "i'm very glad you're glad," she said, shyly. "of course _i_ would like to be like you." and i think that afternoon sealed our friendship. how happy we were! we explored all the garden together, making plans for all sorts of nice things, out-of-door teas, games of hide-and-seek, gardening and flower-shows (i will tell you about our flower-shows some other time-- they were such fun), when the summer came; then we went into the house and explored it too, spending most of our time in the girls' room, the room with the rose paper, where the two little white beds were standing side by side and everything as neat as could be, though to my eyes, accustomed to much more luxury, it looked rather bare. but evey was full of her plans for dressing up the toilet-table and adorning the windows with blinds and ribbons to match. "i've been waiting for you to come to talk about it with us," she said. "connie has such good taste," she went on to mary; "you know she chose this paper." and though i had always fancied and had even, i fear, been rather proud of saying that i hated needlework, i found myself undertaking a share in it all, quite cheerfully. "you'll join our poor work, won't you, connie?" said evey; "unless, of course, you've got a club of your own already." and when i stared, she went on to explain that, busy as they were, busier still as their mother was, they all gave a certain amount of time regularly every week to sewing for the poor. "you wouldn't believe how much one can do if one keeps to it," said evey. "and you know things that are neatly made are so much more good to poor people than what one can buy. once we had quite a proper club, and twice a year we had a shop--it was such fun. mother says it is best to let them buy the things when they can, though we always gave away _some_. i wonder if we can have a club here." "there is a sort of one i think," i said. "anna gale and her aunt manage it. but i'm sure it is stupidly done. they are so dull and stupid about everything." evey glanced up quickly. "mother is so clever about things like that," she said. "perhaps something might be done about it. i daresay she would talk about it to miss gale. there are a good many new ideas about such things now, and perhaps--perhaps it is a little old-fashioned here, and mother might improve it. i think anna gale must be a very good girl." "oh, yes," i said contemptuously; "she's _good_ enough." again evey's quick little glance. i didn't quite like it. "evey," i said, "you needn't look at me that way. i know it's wrong to say unkind things of people, but when any one _is_ very dull and stupid, you can't say they're interesting and clever." "i don't think you needed to say anything. i wasn't asking you about what the gales were," said evey, in her rather blunt way. "i don't mean to be rude or laying down the law, connie, only--" "mother says," mary interrupted in her shy way--"mother says it is always so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. it takes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them." i had begun to feel rather angry, but mary's words made me think a little. "well," i said, "i daresay that's true. but, i don't like anna gale, i suppose, and i daresay i've never tried to. do you think that's wrong? you can't like everybody the same." "no," said evey, "not the same. that's just the difference. but there's _something_ to like in nearly everybody. and i think we should try to see that part of them most. but, _of course_, you don't need to like everybody the same; that would do away with friends and friendship. one thing i do like you for, connie, is that you're frank and honest." i smiled. "well, then, try to think most of that part of me," i said, repeating her own words. "no, i'd like you to see the bad parts of me too, and help me to be better." evey opened wide her bright brown eyes, and for once she got a little red. "my dear connie," she said, "i'm far too full of bad things myself to be able to make any one else better," and i saw she quite meant it. a nice little thing happened that afternoon as we were leaving, which was great encouragement to me. it had grown rather chilly, and at the door i was helping mamma on with some extra wraps we had brought. "you mustn't catch cold, mamma dear," i said. we thought we were alone, but just then evey ran out again with some forgotten message to mamma, and as they two were speaking i heard voices just behind the inner door. "i like to see how gentle and tender connie percy is to her mother," one said--it was mrs whyte's. "i might have been sure any girl lady honor liked would be _that_." where were all my unworthy fears that lady honor had spoken "against me" to the whytes? chapter eight. found wanting. that winter and spring and summer, and the winter that followed them too, were, happy as my life had been in many ways, the happiest i had ever known. i was not, of course, constantly with the whytes, for we had our lessons separately, and they had a great many other things to do beside lessons, things which it had never entered my head that a little girl could help in, though, once i made a start, i found that this had been quite a mistake. i have marked down a few special days to write about--for looking back upon your life after a few years you can see what were the really important things that happened, the events which were the first links in a chain that led to lasting effects--little and trifling as these events may have seemed at the time. yvonne's birthday was in november. not a very nice month for a birthday, one might think. but, as i have said before, november in our part of the world is often very nice. _some_ days in it are sure to be so, and of course we made up our minds that _the_ day could not but be one of the nicest. "i have always been sorry my birthday was in november," said evey one afternoon, a week or two before the important date, "but connie has almost made me change my mind." "i think it rather suits you," i said. "you wouldn't seem in your place on a very hot, lazy, full-summer day, when one _can't_ be active and energetic and useful: the sort of day when you feel you _may_ be idle and of no use for once," and i gave a little sigh. they all laughed. "poor connie," said mary, "evey has bullied you out of your nice comfortable lazy ways rather too much, hasn't she? well, i'll tell you what, when your birthday comes you shall stay in bed and we'll all come and pay you a visit." they were paying me a visit that day. we were at tea in my schoolroom: i was making the tea--pouring it out i mean--and mamma, who had come in to see how we were getting on, was sitting knitting in the window, where evey had just carried her a cup. two of the boys were with us; addie, whom they always tried to get any treat for, as he was kept out of so many boys' pleasures; and charley, the next in age to him. lancelot and jocelyn did not often honour us with their society; they were working very hard now, at their particular studies. mamma looked up at this speech of mary's, and said quickly: "i am sure that way of spending her birthday would not be at all to connie's taste. she has _never_ been lazy, though of course in a large family there are a great many things to do that it would be absurd to spend time over where there is only one child and plenty of servants." i felt a little vexed. mamma need not have started up in my defence, and _i_ knew that even if i had never been actually lazy, i had, before i began to think about such things, been often very, very _idle_. i could tell by mamma's tone that she was annoyed, though she spoke as usual quite gently. i could see, too, that yvonne and mary felt it, but then they were so simple and downright that they never took things in a hurt, _self_ sort of way. mary's face shadowed over a little--she was just sorry to have vexed mamma, and ready to blame herself. "oh, dear mrs percy," she exclaimed, "_please_ don't think i was in earnest. it would have been very unkind and--impertinent. do you know we often say connie is the most active of us all, and it's all the more credit to her, for she doesn't _need_ to be, like us. you couldn't fancy one of us ever able to sit with our hands before us doing nothing--up at the yew trees. now could you?" and she broke into a merry sweet little laugh, for, indeed, the idea of any one at the yew trees indulging in much _dolce far niente_, was rather comical. they had only two servants, and the odd man, for all there was to do, and yet everything was nice and comfortably done, and there was never any "fussing," which _is_ so disagreeable. the laugh made mary's peace. "it is all right, my dear," said mamma, kindly. "i daresay i take up things mistakenly sometimes," she added. "you must forgive me; i fear i lost some of my capacity for fun long ago." she spoke in the rather touching way she sometimes, but rarely, did, when one could see she was thinking of that sad long ago time. yvonne and mary glanced at each other, and then at her half wistfully. they knew the story, of course, and even if mamma had been cross and disagreeable, i don't believe they would ever have found it in their hearts to blame her. still, there was no doubt mamma had never taken to mary in the same way as to evey. it was partly, i think, because of the name, "evey" i mean, which mamma loved so; and partly--now i _hope_ it is not wrong or disrespectful of me to say this--that mary was like me, only _much_ prettier, and i am afraid poor little darling mamma was a tiny atom jealous _for_ me. however, it was all smoothed down now about mary's little speech, and the boys' talk soon took away any feeling of constraint. "the worst of a birthday so near christmas," said charley, thoughtfully, "is that it muddles the presents. either you feel as if you'd got too much, or else people give you less than if christmas wasn't coming, and that isn't fair." "it doesn't matter so much now we've made a new rule," said addie. "we all give birthday presents to each other, but at christmas we only give them to father and mother, and they give to us. it's a good plan." "yes," said mary, "there are so many of us, you see, that the lots of christmas presents were really dreadful." you might think from this that the whytes were very rich--but if you had seen the simple presents they gave each other! yet they weren't silly or rubbishing, though as often as not home-made, and if not home-made, useful and practical--like gloves or neckties--the kind of presents _i_, i am afraid, would rather have despised. i once heard a rather spoilt little girl call such things "at any rate presents," meaning that she would have got them _any way_. but new gloves and so on were too rare among my nine friends for them to be looked on in this way. "mother made another rule," said charley, who was rather a chatterbox, "at least it wasn't a settled rule--it was one we might keep or not and nobody need know--it was about birthdays, for everybody on their birthday to promise themselves that they'd do something kind to somebody--i mean something _extra_, you know, like addie writing a long letter to old nurse, which is rather a bore. but he did it." addie grew red. "and," pursued the irrepressible charley. "i _think_ i know what evey's fixed for her private birthday treat, that's what we call it. i couldn't help hearing, evey--your door was wide open when you were telling mary. she's going to ask an--" "charley, _hush_," cried evey, for once almost cross. "if you couldn't help hearing, you could help telling it over. and i hadn't settled--i haven't yet." "if it's anything about anna gale, i just hope you haven't settled," i said, _very_ crossly. "at least i hope you won't go and do anything that will spoil your birthday for other people." yvonne did not answer, but mary began talking rather eagerly about a new game we were going to try, and for the time i forgot about anna gale. i was very anxious and important about _my_ present to evey. i had plenty of pocket-money, and i would have loved to give evey something _very_ nice. but mamma--i rather think it was papa who put it into her head to say so to me--told me that she did not think it would do to give yvonne anything very expensive. it might rather annoy the whytes instead of pleasing them. i felt very disappointed at first, till mamma reminded me that if my real wish was to give pleasure to evey, i should not risk mingling anything uncomfortable with it. "that would be selfish," she said, "pleasing yourself instead of her," and i saw that that was true. indeed, everything in this world that is worth anything seems mixed up with self-denial! the longer one lives the more one sees this--i suppose it is _meant_ to be so. there did seem rather more self-denial than need have been about evey's birthday. i don't think so _now_; it was my own fault that things went wrong. if i had been different about it, lots of going wrong would have been avoided, but i must tell it all straight on as well as i can, and as nearly as it happened. two or three days before the birthday, evey came to me looking rather grave. "connie," she said, "i've something to tell you which i'm afraid will vex you rather. it's about my birthday. you remember what charley said the other day?" "about doing something nice for other people on your birthday," i said. "oh, you needn't tell me anything more, evey. i know what it is--you're going to ask that horrid anna gale; well, i must say, i don't see that you've any right to spoil _other_ people's pleasure, whatever you choose to do about your own. that is a queer sort of self-sacrifice." yvonne looked very distressed, i had never seen her bright face so troubled before. "connie," she said, "you do make me feel so unhappy, and rather puzzled. i wonder if really i have been selfish when i was so wanting to be unselfish. but it can't be helped now. i'm not _going_ to ask anna, because i _have_ asked her." poor evey; she got red and blurted it out. i think she was a little afraid of me. i was very angry, and i fear something mean in me made me get still more so when i saw that she was frightened. "upon my word," i said, "you're a queer sort of friend. if it _had_ to be done, you might at least have told me about it, and given me the chance of being self-denying too--it wouldn't have seemed _quite_ so bad then. but to be forced into joining in a horrid thing and not to get any credit for it, i don't think _that's_ fair. i won't come to your birthday, evey, that'll be the best way out of it; and if you do care for me as you make out, that'll be a little more self-denial, as you're so fond of it." evey looked on the point of crying, and she very seldom cried. "oh, connie," she said, "you _can't_ be in earnest." but that was all. i only saw her once again before the birthday, and that was after church on sunday, when mary came running after mamma and me--we were walking home rather quickly--to say that evey had sent her to remind me not on any account to be later than three o'clock on tuesday afternoon. tuesday was _the_ day. "certainly, dear," mamma replied, as i hesitated a little, "connie will be in good time. if it is a wet day she must have a fly, for our pony-- the one we drive--has got a cold, unluckily." "but it's not going to be a rainy day," said mary, brightly. "it's going to be lovely. so if it's fine, connie, do walk, and we'll meet you. i hope the field path won't be too muddy with the rain last week." and off she flew again, before i had time to say anything. but mamma looked at me inquiringly. "is there anything the matter, darling?" she said, anxiously. i had not told her about anna--i was ashamed of myself in my heart. "_everything's_ the matter," i said, shaking myself, crossly. and then i told her. mamma was sorry for me, and sorry about the thing itself. "i do think evey might have--" she began, but then she stopped. her conscience would not let her say more. it was so very clear a case of right and wrong, of selfishness and unselfishness. for she knew, and i knew, that it was not often the whytes could afford, any sort of "treat"--they lived very simply and plainly, and the cakes for the birthday were thought of a long time before. they were glad to ask anna to an entertainment which would really please her and her friends, much more than being invited to tea with them quite in an every-day way. "dear connie," mamma went on, "you must try to be self-denying too. after all, i daresay anna won't interfere much with your amusement." "yes she will," i said, kicking the pebbles on the road; "she'll quite spoil it. and then she'll go telling everybody--all miss parker's girls that she's such friends with--about having been at the yew trees for evey's birthday. it'll make it seem so _common_." "you can any way go early," said mamma, "and be there with your friends before she comes. then you can give your present by yourself. i don't suppose anna will have a present, so it is better on all accounts for you to give yours alone." this smoothed me down a little. then the interest of the present itself was very great--it was a very pretty little silver brooch, made of the letters "c" and "y" twisted together, and in those days monogram brooches were not yet common. it had been made to order of course, and though it looked simple, it had really cost a good deal. still there was nothing about it to make the whytes feel as if it were too handsome. by tuesday morning, especially when the day proved clear and fine--one of our very sweetest november days--i had pretty well recovered my good temper, and was prepared to make myself agreeable. but i had not really struggled against my selfishness--i had just got tired of being cross, and let my ill-humour drop off--so i was not at all in a firm state of mind for resisting any new trial. and the trial came. it came that very morning about twelve o'clock, and it was brought by the "boy" from the vicarage, in the shape of a note to mamma, from miss gale, senior--that is anna's aunt--asking if her niece might call for me on her way to the yew trees that afternoon, and walk there with me, as it was not convenient to send a maid with her. there was no question of its being much of a favour on my side. old miss gale, as i called her, seemed quite comfortably assured that it would be a pleasant arrangement for all parties. i was with mamma when the note came; i saw there was something wrong, and i insisted upon her telling me what it was. i listened in silence. then i broke out: "i _won't_ go with her; i say i _won't_" i exclaimed loudly. "you may just write and say so, mamma." but at that moment papa put his head in at the door. i had not known that he was in the house. "what is all this?" he said, and his face and his voice were as i had never seen them before. mamma explained, as gently as she could, of course, and so as to throw the least possible blame on me. "it is rather trying for connie, you see, tom," she finished up. "and does connie expect never to be tried?" he answered, sternly. "why are you to be exempt from the common lot?" he went on, turning to me. "where is your principle, your boasted superiority--yes, child, you may not exactly say so in words, but you _do_ think yourself superior to others," he went on, seeing that i was about to interrupt him--"if at the very first little contradiction you are to lose your temper, and forget yourself so shamefully? you have no right to feel it a contradiction even--it is only proper and natural that anna should sometimes share your pleasures." "then i won't go," i said sulkily; "i will stay at home anna may have the whytes all to herself." papa looked at me. it was like the waiting for the thunderclap one knows must come. "if you do not go, and, what is more, behave like a lady, i shall tell the reason in plain words to captain and mrs whyte, and leave them to judge if you are a fitting associate for their children." i said nothing more. i knew i must give in. i had met with my master! mamma was nearly crying by this time, but i was not the least sorry for her, i was only angry. i turned and left the room, saying as i did so, in a cool, hard voice, that i hardly recognised as my own: "very well. i will be ready in time." chapter nine. the strange old woman. it was a good thing for anna's own comfort that afternoon that she was not of a very observant nature, otherwise she would certainly not have found me either a pleasant or courteous companion. i was obliged to obey papa, and i dared not be positively rude to her, but beyond this i was determined not to go; the very feeling of having been forced to give in made me the more bitter and the more inclined to resent my grievances on her, the innocent cause of them. but anna had never been accustomed to overmuch civility from me; even as quite little children i had treated her as if it did not matter _how_ she was treated. and she only smiled placidly at my vagaries, and doubtless said to herself that "poor little connie was very spoilt." we had seen each other very rarely of late, and then generally with the whytes, so i don't think it struck anna as at all strange that i walked on beside her in grim silence, scarcely even condescending to notice her few amiable commonplace remarks. poor child! her head was always full of home cares; i think it must have been a treat to her even to walk along quietly without a lot of "little ones" tugging at her skirt. "it _is_ a nice day," she observed for about the fifth time. "the boys have gone to belton woods. i hope aunt won't let prissy go with them, however; she is sure to catch cold if they stay late. november evenings are so chilly." "i should think you'd be rather glad for some of them to catch cold sometimes," i said. "it must be a blessing to have a few quiet in bed." anna stared at me, then a smile broke over her rather dull face. "how funny you are, connie!" she said. "no, i think they're quite as noisy in bed as anywhere else, except when they're really very ill, and that, of course, is no laughing matter. but they're all well just now, and really to-day is like september: it _is_ a nice day." "yes," i agreed. "it's one of our nicest autumn days. if--if only some things were different," i added to myself. we were by this time in the lane, which, after crossing the fields, was the nearest way to the yew trees. this lane ran into the high road too, so any one coming to the whytes' _had_ to go some way along it. just as i spoke--we had climbed over a stile into the lane--i saw coming towards us, as if going to the yew trees from the road, a very curious figure. it was that of a small old woman. she seemed a little lame, yet she walked pretty fast. but i did not like her look at all; indeed, as she came nearer and i saw that her face was almost hidden by a lace veil of a very heavy pattern, and that she had a wig of very black and shiny curls, falling on each side of her cheeks, i felt almost frightened, i scarcely knew why. she had a long cloak of rusty black silk, and a queer brown fur "pelerine"--i think that is the old-fashioned name for such things. and she seemed to have sprung up so suddenly, that i almost felt as if i was _fancying_ her. for the first time that afternoon i turned to anna with a sort of friendliness. "anna," i said, "do look. who can that queer woman be?" "a tramp," anna began to say. we were used to tramps of all kinds, but still this description hardly suited the person now closely approaching us. a thought crossed my mind--could it be one of the whyte boys dressed up to frighten us? but no; they never played such tricks. "it must be one of those tiresome old things from the marley almshouses," i said. marley was a village about five miles off. "i know how they pester papa. he is far too good to them. very likely she thinks the whytes are new-comers, and that she'll get something out of them." and no longer frightened, but rather disgusted, i prepared to walk on, when suddenly a sharp, almost imperious, voice bade me stop. "please to tell me if this is the way to the yew trees," it said. "the yew trees--a cottage where captain whyte has come to live. don't you hear me, child--can't you speak?" for i had been at first too startled to answer; and then, as i took in the meaning of the old woman's words, i grew angry. what right had she to call the yew trees--mamma's own old house, which would be _my_ house some day--"a cottage"? and what business had she to speak to me so sharply--"child," indeed--a dirty old tramp, or, worse, a cheat, a begging-letter impostor, or something of that kind, to speak to _me_ so? for she was addressing me and not anna, who was a little behind me. "i don't see that i am obliged to answer every beggar in the road who may happen to speak to me," i said, very rudely, i must confess. for queer as she was, the old woman was plainly not a common beggar. she came closer. "beggar," she repeated, "beggar indeed!" then she gave a horrid mocking little laugh. but suddenly she controlled herself again. "be so good as to tell me where captain whyte's cottage is." "it isn't a cottage. it's a large house," i said. "i should know, considering it's mine, or as good as mine." she started a little, then eyed me curiously. "oh!" she exclaimed. "i might have guessed it. then you are one of the whyte children; let me see--not the eldest?" "no; i'm not the eldest. but i don't see what business it is of yours who i am. let me go,"--for she had laid her hand--it was covered with an old black kid glove much too large for her--on my sleeve; "let me go," i said, as i felt her holding me more firmly. "you may save yourself the trouble of going on to the yew trees. captain whyte and mrs whyte wouldn't speak to you." "indeed," she said with a sneer, "i can quite believe it, to judge by their daughter's pretty manners to a poor tired old woman. i could not have believed it of--he was proud, but you are insolent, i can tell you. it's as well, perhaps, but i wish i hadn't met you, with your fair hair and pretty eyes, just like--have they never taught you to show respect to age, young lady? i suppose you think yourself a lady?" "_you_ are insolent," i said, stamping my foot in fury. "how dare you--get away you dirty old tramp, or i'll send for the police." but at that moment, while the old woman positively glared at me through her veil, anna, who had not yet spoken, came close and whispered something in my ear, "i daresay she's insane," anna said; "you know there's an asylum at wichthorpe. she may have escaped. you should never provoke mad people, connie." and she turned to the stranger, and spoke to her gently. "i think you would get any information you want in elmwood better than here," she said. "captain and mrs whyte have not been here so very long. and-- and i think they're rather busy to-day." the old woman turned to her. she looked at anna for a moment or two without speaking. "thank you," she said. "i have changed my mind; i have no wish to pay the whyte family a visit. i--i think i've had enough of them. and who are you, pray?" she went on. "you have a civil tongue in your head at least." "i'm--my father's the vicar of elmwood," said anna, very frightened, but not daring not to reply. "he's mr gale--if you want anything, i daresay he could help you. you could ask for the vicarage." "no, thank you; but i'm obliged. yes, i'm obliged to you," said the queer creature. then she turned and walked rapidly back the way she had come. we lost sight of her, of course, when she turned into the road; but a moment or two afterwards we heard wheels, and looking right on to the end of the lane, we saw a fly drive rapidly past. we looked at each other. "dear me," said anna, "it's just as if the fly had been waiting for her." "nonsense," i said roughly; "an old beggar like that." "i don't think she was exactly a beggar," said anna. nor did i, at the bottom of my heart. "then she was mad, as you said yourself," i rejoined. "but listen, anna; don't tell them about her at the yew trees. i don't want yvonne's birthday spoilt any more. do you hear, anna?--you're not to tell." anna hesitated. "i don't see that it would spoil the birthday," she said; "and perhaps--" "it would spoil it to _me_," i said, "if you care about that. of course you'd tell them i was rude to the old woman, and they'd be all down upon me. i don't deny i was rude; i've been too vexed by other things to be in a good temper." "i'm so sorry," said anna, her kind heart at once touched. "no, i won't say anything about it then. the only thing was--are you sure it isn't anything that matters? suppose she really had some message for captain or mrs whyte?" "we didn't stop her going on if she had. at least i only told her they wouldn't be bothered with her, and you said they were busy to-day. that wouldn't have stopped her if it was anything real." "n-no, i suppose not," said anna. she was very slow at seeing things, and i could generally overrule her, in the first place, any way. so, though she was plainly not quite satisfied, she gave in. i felt a little conscience-stricken myself, to own the truth. i knew i had behaved inexcusably to the strange old woman, and the consciousness of this made me gentler and more conciliatory, so to speak, than i might otherwise have been. so the birthday party went off peacefully, and on the whole, pleasantly, though somehow not as merrily and cheerily as was usual with the whytes' simple festivities. evey was very pleased with the monogram brooch, so pleased that i could afford not to feel jealous when she warmly thanked anna for her present of a neat and well-made, but extraordinarily ugly, toilet-pincushion. and i was able heartily to admire the other presents, all from her own family, and mostly of home manufacture. "evey's _best_ present hasn't come yet," said mary. "it's a post late somehow." "it's sure to come this evening," said evey, hopefully. "papa's going to walk in to the post-office to see; you know we don't get afternoon letters unless we send for them. and there's sure to be a letter too; indeed, that's almost what we care most for." "but what is the present?" i asked curiously. "whom is it from? and is it always the same thing? and why do you care so for a stupid letter?" yvonne hesitated. she and mary looked at each other. "i am sure you may tell connie," said innocent mary. "well," said evey, "i can tell part any way. the present, that we call my best present," she went on, "comes from my godmother, papa's aunt. it isn't always the same, but it's always something very nice and useful. last year it was two muffs and four pairs of gloves, for me to do what i liked with; so of course i gave one muff and two pairs of gloves--we take the same size, you know--to mary. and this year we were half hoping it _might_ be jackets." "what stupid presents," i said. "i don't care a bit for _clothes_ presents." "but then you're different; things are quite different for you, connie," said evey. "i know," i replied, with self-satisfaction. "but if it was jackets, evey, they couldn't come by post." it was before the days of parcel-post. "no, but the letter telling of them would be coming. and it _mightn't_ be jackets." "why do you care so for the letter?" i asked. "oh, because it pleases papa and mamma so. papa hasn't seen her for ever so long, though she almost brought him up--but--there were things-- i don't think i can tell you any more," she broke off, and of course i could not ask any more questions after that. but i had a vaguely uneasy and anxious feeling, especially a little later in the evening, when captain whyte returned, dispirited and tired. "it's beginning to rain," he said. "evey dear, your birthday is not ending as brightly as it began; however--" "there was no letter?" said mrs whyte. he shook his head. "it may come to-morrow morning still," he replied. but i saw that they all seemed disappointed. anna gale and i went home as we had come, with the addition of peters, our old gardener, as escort. it had left off raining again, and there was some faint moonlight struggling through the clouds. mamma had meant to send the brougham, but papa had been suddenly summoned to a distance, and as the evening was fine after all, she thought we might walk, by the road of course. as we got to the end of the lane, the scene of that afternoon came back to our minds. i did not want to think of it, but anna would speak about it. "i _wonder_," she said--fancy anna "wondering" about anything--"i really _wonder_ who she was." "oh, rubbish," i said. "who could she be but some old lunatic?" "well," said anna, "if she were, it isn't very nice to think of." i faced round upon her. "now, anna, you're not to go talking about it, for i know it would sound as if i had been horrid to her, and perhaps i was; i don't pretend to be an angel. but i don't want any fuss--do you hear, anna?" "yes," she said, "of course i hear you, connie." "well, then, will you promise?" "i'll promise not to speak about it if i can help it," she said; and with that i had to be content. i don't quite know why i was so anxious that no one should hear of our adventure. i was not, after all, so _very_ ashamed of my behaviour to the old woman; not as ashamed as i should have been. but i had an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling--i just wanted to forget all about it. i did not see yvonne and mary for some days after that; the next morning was showery, though it cleared up between times. but after that, the rain set in, and we had a week or two of almost constant downpour, which interfered very much with our usual ways. they came to spend an afternoon with me at last. mamma arranged that the carriage should both fetch them and take them back, for the roads were really sopping, though the rain overhead was less incessant. we were very glad to be together again. evey wore my little brooch; it reminded me of her birthday. "oh, by-the-by," i said to her, "did your jackets, or whatever it was, come the next day?" a cloud came over their bright faces. "no," said evey, "nothing came--and no letter. we were very disappointed." "perhaps something will come at christmas instead," said mary, hopefully. "you greedy little thing," i said, thoughtlessly. "i wonder you care, especially if it was something to wear." "you--you don't quite understand, connie," said mary, her eyes filling with tears; "there was no letter, and father and mother mind _that_." "letters are often lost in the post. why don't you write to the old lady,"--what was it that gave me a queer thrill as i said the words?--"and ask if there is anything the matter?" i said, meaning in a clumsy way to suggest some comfort. "we can't," said yvonne, in a low voice. but they explained no more, and i was not sorry. i did not want to spoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects. christmas came. the day after, there was a large gathering at lady honor's, as there had been the year before. captain and mrs whyte would not leave their own home on christmas-day itself, as they did not like to separate from any of the little ones; but mr bickersteth was not satisfied without a christmas party, so it was arranged to have it on the th. a good many whytes came; all, down to the three youngest, i think. papa and mamma and i were of the party too. mr and miss gale, anna and her two brothers from school, and two or three people staying with lady honor. it was a very nice party, and everything was done to make it so; but somehow it was not quite so merry as it should have been. mrs whyte, who was generally the life of everything, looked tired, and owned to a headache for once; captain whyte was very silent, and the boys and girls were rather subdued. in the course of the evening, during some of the games, i happened to be standing near lady honor and captain whyte, and i could not avoid hearing what they said. "did you know, frank," asked lady honor, "that hugo is expected back next week?" he started. "no, indeed," he said. "i had no idea of it." "i only heard it this morning," she went on, "in a letter from--" i did not catch the name. "he is not well--coming on sick leave, straight to--your aunt's." captain whyte looked grave. still there was a touch of something not altogether regret in his voice as he answered: "i am very sorry, very--but, oh, i should be glad to see him again; and, selfishly speaking, just now--" he hesitated and glanced round. at that moment i was called for in the game, and i ran off and heard no more. "i wonder who `hugo' is," i thought, "and if his aunt is the whytes' jacket-aunt too." chapter ten. the look on papa's face. a week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and i were finishing luncheon, looking rather grave. "i am very sorry for the yew trees people," he said; "i've been there this morning to see addie. i'm afraid he's in for bronchitis, poor little chap, and troubles never come singly. captain whyte has heard that a favourite cousin of his--a major hugo whyte, who has just come home from india--is very ill. he says he is like a brother to him, and he's very cut up." "is he going to see his cousin?" mamma asked. "n-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. he was going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. lady honor sent for captain whyte in a hurry. i hope there's nothing wrong there. i don't know what's coming to everybody." papa, usually so cheerful, looked rather depressed. "the whytes have some money bothers, too, i fear." "evey and mary haven't got any new winter jackets," i said. "they're still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. the old lady can't have sent them any christmas present." papa glanced at me in surprise. "what old lady? you seem to know a great deal about our neighbours' affairs, miss connie." "no," i said. "i don't know much. only it's an old lady who's evey's godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn't this year." papa looked grave. "i wonder," he said, consideringly, "if that is what's wrong. whyte has an aunt, i know, who almost brought him up. i have heard lady honor speak of her as very eccentric. perhaps--but i mustn't gossip about my friends' concerns," he added more lightly, "though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so." "i am sure no one could ever accuse _you_ of gossiping, tom," said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa's or my defence. "no one has done so, my dear, except my own self. _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_, you know." and whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day's work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me. i have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it was _so_ miserable. it was about three o'clock only; i was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. i had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. still i was not exactly startled when i heard his voice in the hall, calling me. he did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far. "connie," i heard, "connie, i want you at once." "run, connie," said miss wade, my governess, for i was delaying a moment to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; "run at once, dr percy has no time to spare." she spoke rather sharply, and i got up. "yes, papa," i said as i opened the door, rather affecting deliberateness till out of miss wade's sight (i have told you that i had been "going back" lately in several ways.) "yes, papa, i am here." i moved quickly once i got into the hall. papa was standing there, booted and spurred--how nice and big and manly he looked!--for he had been riding. but his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and yet upset. under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, i could see an unusual flush of excitement. "is anything the matter?" i asked, startled, i scarcely knew why. "addie whyte isn't worse?" "no, no, nothing like that. but i want you at once, connie,"--he had begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that i looked frightened. "you needn't look so terrified, my dear. it is nothing--only--only a little misapprehension which you will be able to set right at once. i want you to come with me to lady honor's. i have ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. run and put your things on, something warm; it is very cold." "but papa," i began, "won't you tell--" "no, my dear, i can't explain. you will see for yourself that it is better not i will tell miss wade that you cannot have any more lessons this afternoon, and i have already told mamma that i want you. be quick, dear." in five minutes i was seated beside papa in the brougham. he drew the soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me. "why are you trembling so, connie?" he said. "you have done nothing wrong--what are you so frightened about?" "i--i don't know, papa," i said, which was true. "it seems so strange." but this was not the whole truth. i _had_ a queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly. "you will understand it directly," said papa. "ridiculous--"--he gave a strange little laugh--"as if my connie--so open too--" but somehow this did not reassure me. when we got to lady honor's, we were shown into the library. there was no one there, but in a moment or two old mr bickersteth hobbled in. he nodded to papa; afterwards i found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. papa had looked in to speak to lady honor about some poor _protege_ of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the whytes' troubles. old mr bickersteth spoke kindly to me--even more kindly than usual--almost as though he were a little sorry for me. i fancy i did look rather white and startled. "connie is a little frightened," said papa. "i told you i should say nothing to her, so that lady honor or captain whyte can question her themselves straight away. i should like to lose no time, if you please, mr bickersteth; i am extremely busy." "of course, of course, very sorry to detain you," said the old gentleman. "just a little mistake, no doubt. you have taken it up too seriously, my dear percy." but papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too. "shall we go to the drawing-room?" he said; on which mr bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter. a servant was standing close by. he threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. there were several people in the room, and i shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. then by degrees i disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. captain and mrs whyte and mary--not yvonne lady honor, of course, and anna gale and her father. anna was very pale, and i could see she had been crying. mary came up close to me and stood beside me. i think she took hold of my hand. "now, connie," said my father, "i want to ask you something. it has been stated--it is believed by some of our friends here--but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right--that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the yew trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. and that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one should _always_ do to a stranger, above all to an _old_ person, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. that you called her an old beggar, a tramp--i know not what;" here anna gale began sobbing audibly. papa took no notice, but went on coolly. "furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident--strangers are not so common at elmwood as all that--you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it from _some_ motive. your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. now, i shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake--or--or--no, _i_ can't accuse other people's daughters of anything worse than making a mistake." he glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. i seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. and i think i was very pale, but while he spoke i don't think my expression had changed or faltered. _now_, however, when he looked at me again, i felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still i looked up. "yes, papa," i said; "it is all quite true. i spoke even worse than that. i made anna promise not to tell, and i have never told myself, because i knew i had behaved disgracefully. but--but--i thought she was some kind of a tramp--there are plenty of tramps about here." i stopped for a second. "no," i went on, something seemed _pushing_ at me to tell the whole truth, "no, i didn't think she was a tramp when she came close. i thought she was from the almshouses. but she called me `child,' and--and i was cross already, and i didn't think she was a lady, and--yes, i said it all, worse than you know even. and i didn't want any one ever to know." papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. he seemed turned to stone. i could not bear it. "oh, papa!" i cried, stretching out my hands to him, "don't--don't look--" but he did not move. only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. it was mary. "you should forgive her," she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. "you _should_--everybody. she has told it all now bravely, and she didn't mean it. she didn't know it was our aunt." "your aunt?" i gasped. "yes," said captain whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. "my aunt, connie. you did not know it, but i fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. she took you for mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on evey's birthday--and now nothing will make her believe it was _not_ mary. you allowed her to think so." "yes; i suppose i did. i couldn't explain," i replied; "but she would believe--she _must_--if you told her." he shook his head. "you cannot understand," he said, quietly. i don't clearly remember what happened after this. i think lady honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. i remember anna going on sobbing till i turned to her. "what are you crying for?" i said. "nobody is vexed with you." "i should have told sooner," she wept. "yes, i suppose you should. but it was my fault, not yours. why can't you be satisfied that it's i--only i--to blame? everybody thinks me as bad as i can be, but _you_ needn't go on. did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?" i was growing desperate. papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. i did not know any one heard what i said to anna till i felt some one's arm passed round me. it was mrs whyte. her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes--evey's eyes--were kind and true still. "don't speak like that, connie dear," she said. "i am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. i will come and see you to-morrow. i wish i could go home with you now but poor addie is so ill;" and i saw the tears glistening. then i found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage again--alone! i heard captain whyte speak to the coachman. "take miss percy home, and then drive back to todholes as fast as you can," he said. "dr percy will be there." i would have liked to say i could walk, and that the carriage might go after papa at once, but i was too stupified. i think if all the village children had turned out and hooted after me as i drove along i should not have been surprised. i had only one thought--however wicked and horrid other people thought me, _mamma_ would still love me. but for all that i hardly felt as if i could have kept my senses. perhaps i had better explain here how it had all happened and why, naughty as i had been, what was after all in itself but a trifling matter was considered so very seriously. the old lady i had insulted was mrs fetherston, captain whyte's own aunt. she had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and very peculiar. she was rich partly through her husband, partly because the whytes' family place was hers, left her by her father, for the property was not entailed. she had another nephew, major hugo whyte, who as well as captain whyte had been partly brought up by her. but captain whyte had always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger than major whyte, his father had been older than hugo whyte's father, so mrs fetherston made him her heir. there was no jealousy between the two cousins; they loved each other dearly. major whyte went into the army while captain whyte was still at school, and he was out in india when a quarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. she wanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home with her, doing nothing; she also, i _think_, wanted him to marry some girl he did not care for. he would not consent to either, and he would marry mrs whyte! so mrs fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin in his place. at first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his own home, and his aunt still continued his allowance. it was not a very large one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began to seem a very small one. at last he was forced to retire on half-pay. he had a little money of his very own, and mrs whyte had a little, and major whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, at present, rich himself. he also was always trying to soften his aunt to them; she had no real cause for disliking mrs whyte, who was very well-born indeed, only not rich. it was in consequence of one of hugo whyte's letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see her nephew's family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. then-- you know what happened. soon after yvonne's unfortunate birthday, major whyte, who had not been well for long--he was a delicate man, and had had much active service-- got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember my overhearing at lady honor's party, he came home. he had seen by his aunt's letters that she was more bitter than ever against "frank" and his family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told him the whole. he was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely to live long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. for mrs fetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, even the whytes' own old place, to some charity, away from captain whyte altogether. hugo whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what had happened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl was mary! poor mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was some strange mistake. captain whyte went off to consult lady honor, whose quick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle. "there were two little girls," she said. and that very day she saw mr gale and had a long talk with him. mr gale, in turn, had a long talk with anna. anna, it must be remembered, had only promised "not to tell" of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it. in one sense it was a relief to her to _have_ to tell; but she got more than her share of punishment, poor girl, i shall always think. lady honor was unwilling to tell papa about it. she knew how sensitive he was, and how he would take it to heart. so a letter was sent to major whyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow captain whyte to take his two girls to see her. but the old lady had got an obstinate fit. she would not believe that the culprit was not mary. then at last lady honor told papa. he took it up very seriously, just as she had feared, _too_ seriously in one sense, though i well deserved all the blame i got. and another long letter was despatched to poor major whyte, who ill as he was, was determinedly trying to put things right. the answer to this letter did not come for some days. but i have forgotten one part of the sad business. not only was no birthday present or christmas present sent to yvonne by her godmother, but for the first time no cheque was received by captain whyte's bankers from mrs fetherston. her rancour had gone the length of stopping his allowance! no wonder the poor yew trees people were anxious. and this was _my_ doing. chapter eleven. nothing venture, nothing win. the short winters day was already closing in when the carriage stopped at our own door. i was crouched up in one corner, _perfectly_ miserable, the fur rug was in a heap at my feet--when i glanced at it, and thought of how papa had tucked it round me that very afternoon, i felt as if i _could_ not bear it. as i got out and entered the hall, where the light was dim, i saw some one standing at the drawing-room door. it was mamma waiting for me; she had heard the carriage stopping. "connie, is that you?" she said. "is papa there?" "no, mamma," i managed to get out. "i'm alone." then she drew me into the drawing-room--it looked so warm and bright, the red firelight dancing on the old furniture--and i was so shivering and cold! somehow the look of it all--the look, above all, in mamma's eyes--was too much for me. "mamma, mamma," i sobbed, and once i had begun my tears came like a thunderstorm, "do you know? do you know about how naughty i've been?" she had not really known of course; till i owned to it no one could have really known, except anna. but mamma had guessed it was true--in some ways she knew me and my faults and follies even better than papa did, gentle as she was. she had been afraid it was true when he told her that afternoon what i had been accused of--and he had been rather vexed with her! "yes, darling," she said, "i know about it, mostly at least." she drew my head on to her knee, as i crept close to her where she sat on a low couch, and let me sob out all my misery. oh, mamma, dear little, sweet, unselfish mother--was there, _could_ there ever be any one so kind as you? and i, who had sometimes almost dared to look down on her for her very goodness! that afternoon brought me the end of the lesson i had begun to learn. it was quite dark, and growing late, before mamma rang for lights. i had cried my eyes into a dreadful state, and i was still shivering every now and then from a sort of nervousness. mamma took me upstairs and made me go to bed. "you will feel better in the morning," she said. "and i will talk more to you. we must not _exaggerate_ things, you know, dear. good-night, my connie, my own little sweet content." was it not nice of her to call me that! i did not go to sleep for a good while. when i did i slept heavily. it was quite daylight when i woke. mamma was standing beside me, and prudence was setting down a tray with my breakfast. "i will come back when you have finished, dear," mamma said. she did not mention papa, and when i asked prue she only said he was already out. so he was. not only out, but away. when mamma came up again she told me that he had got a letter the night before, which had decided him on going to london for two or three days--i think it was to attend some scientific meeting. "he came up to look at you last night," mamma went on, "but you did not wake." i did not speak for a minute or two. then i said timidly: "mamma, do you think he will ever forgive me? mamma, do you know that he could scarcely have seemed more _terribly_ angry if--if--i had done it on purpose to hurt the whytes, and you _know_ it wasn't that i love them too much; and even if i didn't, i _couldn't_ be as bad as that?" "i know, dear," said mamma. "but papa has very strong feelings about courtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor--and that strange old mrs fetherston _seemed_ poor. and then, too, the consequences are so _very_ serious to the whytes. papa said to me he was afraid of judging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why he sent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two to think things over. i may tell you connie," she went on, "that bright and sweet-tempered, almost _perfect_ as he seems to us, papa has naturally a very hot and violent temper. you have never seen it; he has learnt to control it so perfectly; but yesterday he was afraid of saying _too_ much to you; that was partly why he went away." "i understand," i said, "though after all i think i deserved everything any one could have said--mamma," i added, "perhaps it's from papa i get _my_ temper: it's certainly not from you. and people generally think i'm good-tempered, just as they do him. but he _is_ good-tempered, because he has mastered himself, and i'm only not often bad-tempered, because i generally manage to get my own way, and am very seldom crossed!" mamma smiled. she was glad to see me really thinking seriously. "mamma," i said, "even if that--that horrid old woman does leave everything to the other one--to major whyte,"--mamma had explained it all to me the evening before--"it couldn't matter so very much, would it? for he's so fond of them all--could he not make it up to them?" "they fear he would be bound down by her will to do nothing for his cousins," said mamma. "the old lady, once she has taken a thing in her head, seems very vindictive. besides, captain whyte is a proud man, he has always hoped his aunt would leave him something--it would be hard for him to take it as a gift, almost like a charity, from his cousin. and what can they do for the present? they had little enough before; but now they must be terribly poor. and the old lady may live many years. the worst of all would be if major whyte died before her, without her being reconciled to his cousins." this made it all clear enough to me--only too clear. i could think of nothing else. i got up and dressed, for i was not ill. i was only feeling very miserable and rather shaky with crying so. mamma had very kindly sent to miss wade to tell her not to come, which was a comfort. i was very glad to see no one but mamma, even though i longed for papa. i wanted so to consult him, and see if nothing could be done. it was a very rainy day; it went on steadily till late in the afternoon. it was one of those days which seem as if the sun had not risen. i could not settle to anything. i tried to work and read, but it was no use. then i began a letter to evey; i did so want to let them know how miserably sorry i was, but the words would not come, and i gave it up. "it would only seem a mockery," i said to myself; "i don't suppose they want to be reminded of me at all," and i got up and stood drearily by the window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles of the gravel walk. suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes--where was it coming from? i looked up. yes, there, over where the sun would soon be setting there was a little break in the clouds; some thin, cold, watery yellow was peeping out, and even as i gazed it reddened and warmed a little. and at that moment an idea struck me, which, the more i reflected on it, the more my judgment approved of. i stood there some minutes thinking intently. then i flew into the library where mamma was, i knew, tidying some of papa's books that afternoon. she had finished and was standing by the fire. "mamma dear," i said, "i have thought of something;" and i went on rapidly to tell her what had come into my mind. she listened eagerly, but her face flushed and she looked half-frightened. "we must wait till papa comes home and see what he says," she replied. i clasped my hands in entreaty. "no, mamma," i said. "i have a feeling that we mustn't wait. there _can't_ be any harm in it. it is my duty to apologise. i could write her a letter, but that would not be the same good. i will not go to her to say `i'm not mary'; i will just say i am the little girl that was so rude to her." mamma considered. "but if she refuses to see us," she said. i saw she was yielding. "oh well, then--i don't know. but any way i will have _tried_. do you know her address, mamma?" "i know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. we can easily find the number in any address-book when we get there. but, connie--" i stopped any further misgivings by kissing her. and seeing me look so much happier, mamma had not the heart to say anything more against it. i need not explain what it was i wanted to do, more particularly, for i think any one who reads this will understand. i will just go on to tell exactly what happened. the next morning--it was a fine day; how glad i was of that!--saw mamma and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage, _en route_ for london. we had no luggage, for we were only going up for the day--elmwood is only two hours from victoria. when we got there mamma hailed a four-wheeler--_i_ would rather have had a hansom, but mamma is rather nervous about hansoms, and after all i was scarcely in the humour to care much--and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops she knew well. there she got an address-book and found out old mrs fetherston's number, and off we set again. we scarcely spoke--i was growing so nervous--not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it should all fail! at last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular london house. we got out. the door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall were one or two other men-servants. it was a stately, rather old-fashioned house. how strange to think that it belonged to the queer old woman i had so mistaken! "is mrs fetherston at home?" mamma inquired. it was now about half-past two; we had chosen the time well. the footman hesitated. "i think my mistress is at home," he said, "but she don't see many visitors." mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: "i can inquire if--" "perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on business. and pray say i will not detain her many minutes." at the word "business" the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. "will you step in?" he began again. in her turn mamma hesitated. "we could wait in the cab," she said to me doubtfully. but it was a very cold day. at that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man--a gentleman, i mean--crossed the hall. "shut the door, david," he said hastily. but then seeing us there he came forward a little way, courteously, "i beg your pardon, won't you come in?" we did so, sufficiently at least for david to shut the door; then the man turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case. "do come in," the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of a library which looked warm and comfortable. "i am half afraid mrs fetherston--" mamma and i glanced at each other. she was going to speak, i think, but i forestalled her. "major whyte," i said, "please may we tell you about it? mamma--mamma is mrs percy," i added. he was very quick-witted. he seemed to know in an instant. indeed, though we did not hear that till afterwards, he had that morning got a letter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of "mary's" strange behaviour! and in another moment we were in the library with him, the door closed, and david told to wait till he was rung for, while mamma told our story. major white listened most attentively while mamma, clearly and without hesitation--except just once, and that was at the part about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; "i need not say how deeply constantia has grieved over this," she said-- related everything. the only sound besides her voice was major whyte's cough, the sort of cough one cannot bear to hear. and when she stopped, for a minute or two he could not speak for coughing; his thin brown face grew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. how sorry i felt for him! mamma waited quietly. then glancing round she caught sight of a carafe of water and a glass on the side-table. she poured some out and brought it to him. "thank you--so much," he said, and in a little he was able to speak again. "i see it all, of course," he said. "it is brave of your daughter to have come herself, mrs percy, and it seems to me it was the best thing to do. there is certainly a very strong likeness between her and mary, though i have not seen mary for four years. if i had been told you were mary," he went on, turning to me with a smile, "i think i should have believed it. now, have you the courage to beard the--to come with me to mrs fetherston alone? i think, perhaps, that is the best chance." mamma and i looked at each other, and major whyte looked at us both. "yes," i said, "i'll come alone, if it's best." "bravo," said our new friend--i felt he was a friend at once--and he held out his hand to me in a way i could not resist or resent, though generally i stood on my dignity a good deal. "we had been thinking of trying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to her senses," he said. "but i believe your effort will be more successful." we left the room together, he and i. i followed him upstairs to the first floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smaller one at the back. in he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in i crept after him. a big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close to it, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallow her up, was seated a small dark figure. she was reading the newspaper. "what is it, hugo?" she said, at the sound of my conductor's footsteps. "there you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to every draught, of course." the sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all too familiar to me. i could not help shivering a little. "aunt angela," he said--only fancy _that_ being her name!--"i have brought a young lady to see you," and he drew me forward a little. "you have seen her before,"--piercing eyes were upon me by this time--"but perhaps i can best introduce her and best explain her visit by telling you she is _not_ your great-niece, mary whyte." he stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. the old lady began to tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. but this gave me courage, because it made me sorry for her. "who--who are you then? who do you say you are?" she said, in a shaky, quavering voice. i came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is on a winter's day in a london back-drawing-room--i pushed my hat back-- it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. major whyte picked up my hat; i shook back my hair. the old lady could see me quite plainly. "you will remember my face, i think?" i said, gently. "my name is connie--constantia percy--papa is dr percy. he is the doctor at elmwood; everybody there knows us. i have come to--to apologise to you _very_ much for being so rude to you that day. i was in a bad temper before i met you. i don't think i'd have been so rude--and--and unkind--to a stranger, if it hadn't been for that i do hope you will forgive me." she looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. then she turned to her nephew. "i can see now that there is no real likeness to frank," she said coolly. "still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where i did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph." "yes," said major whyte, his face flushing nervously, "the original _mistake_ was natural enough, aunt angela: that is to say, if you could imagine, which i _couldn't_, that one of frank's girls could have behaved so; but after you were assured that it _was_ a mistake, when they absolutely denied it--" he stopped--his indignation had carried him further than was prudent. he had hit mrs fetherston hard; he had hit some one else hard too. indeed, i think he had forgotten i was there. but i was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of his words. "you could not think me like mary if you saw us together," i said eagerly. "she is ever, _ever_ so much prettier, and, _of course_, just as good as i am naughty. it is quite true, neither she nor yvonne could have behaved as i did." my voice began to break as i said the last words; the long strain was beginning to tell on me. i felt the tears coming, and i tried to choke them down. i knew mrs fetherston's keen eyes were on me. "my dear," she said--i could scarcely have believed her voice could have been so different--"there are worse little girls in the world than you. i freely forgive you what i have to forgive. some day i _may_ see you and mary together." major whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face. "aunt angela," he began joyfully. then i think the remembrance of what he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me. "my dear child," he said, "you must forgive me. i forgot." "no, no, please," i said, though i was crying by this time. "i don't mind; it was quite true." but at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door--this room was the old lady's private sitting-room and a man-servant, not david--an older one--appeared in answer to mrs fetherston's "come in." "a--a gentleman to see major whyte, if you please, ma'am," he said; adding in a lower tone, "i think it's something rather particular." major whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. "my poor boy, you are killing yourself," said his aunt; "freeland, bring the gentleman up here if it is anything particular. your master can't go running up and down stairs in this way." chapter twelve. true hearts. we all waited, without speaking. poor major whyte indeed seemed exhausted by his cough. there was a feeling in the air, i think, as if something strange were going to happen. and in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up the stairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. and then--the door opened. freeland murmured something, and i saw coming through the doorway the familiar figure of captain whyte, and close behind him the sweet fair face of dear mary. major whyte started up. he wrung his cousin's hand without speaking. but i--what do you think i did? i seized mary and dragged her forward. fancy _me_, naughty me, being the one to introduce mary to her own aunt! "here she is," i cried; "now you _can_ see us together. this is mary, your own niece, mrs fetherston; you can see if what i said wasn't true." mary _did_ look sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and very frightened. in that grand house the old tweed jacket looked even shabbier than at elmwood. she clung to me, till i almost pushed her into the old lady's arms. "kiss her, mary. she's your own aunt. oh, _do_" i whispered; "you don't know what good it might do. oh, do kiss her." perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement; perhaps the old lady's ears were as sharp as her eyes! however it was, she heard, and she smiled. "yes, _do_," she repeated, and she half held out her arms to mary. "you are not my special child, i suppose," she said. "yvonne is my godchild; but, oh, you are very like what frank was. frank," she added tremulously, "my boy, frank--are you not going to speak to me, too?" he came to her at once; i turned away, and somehow or other i found myself with major whyte in the outer room. "do you--do you really think it is going to be all right?" i could not help saying to him. he nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and i think there were tears in his eyes. his voice was husky when he did speak, but that might have been from his cough. "yes," he said, "i do--i do really hope so. _thank god_." and as i glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be a light about it--a light such as one never sees save in the face of those who have suffered much, and have learnt to thank god for both sorrow and joy. i knew then that poor major whyte was not--as our simple country-folk say--was not "long for this world." i never saw him again, and i had never seen him before, but i have never forgotten him. he took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. he had ordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, he said, before setting off on our cold journey back. he was so gentle and considerate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs as frankly as if she had been an old friend--i always notice that people who are quite, _quite_ well-bred, are so much franker than commoner people, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your one object in life was to get their secrets out of them--and he was quite right, for she did indeed feel like one. and when we went away he took both my hands in his _so_ nicely and thanked _me_--me, the naughty horrid little mischief-maker. was it not more than good of him? when we were by ourselves in the cab i leant my head against mamma's shoulder and burst into tears. i could not help it. "all's well that ends well, my connie--my little sweet content," she said. but i could not help going on crying when i thought of poor major hugo's thin face and his terrible cough, and of how much _i_ had added to his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on evey's birthday. papa came home the next day. we were longing to see him and to tell him everything. i fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking we had been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of making me anxious. i _was_ anxious all the same. we had heard nothing of the whytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to the yew trees till papa came home. we did not know what time to expect him; his letter only said "to-morrow, as early in the afternoon as i can manage it." i spent that afternoon principally at the dining-room window, watching for him, which was very silly i know, and certainly did not make the time pass quicker. but i really _could_ not settle down to anything. just fancy: i had not seen papa since he turned away from me in silent, cold contempt in lady honor's drawing-room, though it was a comfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night and looked at me as i lay asleep. when at last he _did_ come, i was, of course, not at my post: that is always the way. i was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma. i did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as i often did. he was standing at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he was there! all my plans of what i would say, how i would ask him to forgive me, flew out of my head. i just rushed up to him and threw my arms round him and burst into tears. "oh, papa, papa!" i said. he did not repulse me; he did not speak for a moment, but i felt his kind, firm clasp. then he said: "my poor little girl," and he stooped and kissed me. the kiss said everything. mamma came forward. "tom, dear," she began, a little nervously, "we have a great deal to tell you." poor little mamma--what a shame it was that she should be nervous, when if she _had_ done anything imprudent it had only been for my sake! but papa's first words took away all our fears. "no, darling," he said. i liked to hear him call mamma "darling"; he did not often do so, for he is not at all what is called "demonstrative." "no, you haven't; i know all you have to tell me, and a good deal more. indeed, i rather think i have a good deal to tell _you_. but first, give me a cup of nice hot tea. it _is_ cold this afternoon;" and still with his arm thrown round my neck, he came close up to the fireplace and stood there, watching mamma as she poured out his tea in the nice neat way she does everything. "this is comfortable," said papa; "it's worth having a cold journey to come home like this, especially when--when one has good news, too, to bring back." i started at this. "oh, papa," i said, "is it about the whytes?--is it all right?" "i think so. i quite believe so," he replied. "i had a most cheerful note from captain whyte this morning written from his aunt's house. we were together in london yesterday. he came to my hotel with mary, on his way to mrs fetherston's, little thinking of your stealing a march on us! indeed, it was a good deal my idea--the taking mary to show that she was herself, and not--" "not _me_," i interrupted. "oh, papa, i have been _so_ sorry, _so_ ashamed." "i know you have," said papa, gravely. "i would have spared it you if i could; but yet, connie--" "i deserved it," i said, "and i wouldn't have minded its being twice as bad as it was yesterday, if it was to put things right. and the old lady was really kind, papa, at the end." "captain whyte told me all," he said. "i don't think any of them dared to hope in the least that things would turn out so well. they are all going up to town to-morrow--all, that is to say, except the three little fellows. mrs fetherston is not one to do things by halves, i fancy. the saddest part of the whole is poor hugo whyte's precarious state." "have you seen him?" mamma asked. "yes," papa replied. "i called on him the day i went up to speak about captain whyte's idea of bringing mary. he is very, very ill. i don't think they quite realise how ill he is. perhaps, however, it is just as well. he may have a little breathing-time now he is happier and cheered by having them all about him; he may live a few months in comparative comfort. that is the best i can hope for." "it is a comfort to think that his last days will be cheered and happy," said mamma, softly. but i could not help crying again just a little, at night when i was alone, when i thought of major whyte's face, and that i could never hope to see him well and strong and bright like papa and captain whyte. things turned out pretty much as papa had predicted. two days after the evening i have been telling you about--the evening of papa's return--all the yew trees people came home again. we knew they had come home by hearing accidentally that the fly from the stag's head had been ordered to meet them at the station at three o'clock. so i posted myself at the dining-room window, and had the tantalising gratification of seeing both it and lady honor's brougham pass our door on their way to the yew trees. i could distinguish mrs whyte in the brougham, and a bag or two, and the back of a hat which i was sure was yvonne's. and the fly was well filled too. but none of them looked out our way, nor nodded to me, though they _might_ have seen me. i felt rather unhappy again. "mamma," i said, when i got back to the drawing-room, "i have seen them all pass, but they didn't look this way. mamma, you and papa have forgiven me, but perhaps--even if they _forgive_ me, they're perhaps not going to be the same ever again," and i could scarcely choke down a sob. "connie, dearest," said mamma, "how can you fancy such things? you will see, dear, it will be all right." but i was very unhappy all that evening. "they have _never_ passed before without looking out," i kept saying to myself, and mamma could not manage to cheer me. but just as i was going to bed, the "odd man" from the yew trees made his appearance with a note for "miss percy," from evey! i knew the handwriting, and tore it open. "dearest connie," it said, "we _were_ so disappointed not to find you here, at the yew trees, when we arrived. i wrote yesterday from london, to ask you to be here to spend the evening, so that we could tell you everything. i gave the note to lancey, and he has just found it in his pocket! so please ask dear mrs percy to let you come to-morrow. you must have a whole holiday for once, and stay all day. oh, we are so happy. "your loving "evey." "_now_, connie," said mamma, triumphantly, "surely you will never mistrust your friends again." i thought i never could, and i thought so still more when i came home the next evening, after one of the very happiest days i ever spent. but i have not _quite_ kept to it, as i will tell before i come to the end of my story. i must go straight on--was it not sweet of them to make me so happy?-- they would not let me keep the least sore feeling about what i had done; they would have it i had been so "brave and unselfish"--fancy _me_ unselfish!--in going to see mrs fetherston on my own account, as i had done. everything was coming right, mrs fetherston had fallen in love with their mother, and what wonder! they were all to spend the next summer holidays at southerwold--that was the old home of the whytes, which none of the yew trees children had ever seen; "uncle hugo," as they called him, was to get quite well immediately, and though i felt more inclined to cry than to smile when they said this, knowing what papa thought about major whyte, i took care not to cloud their bright hopes. it was so like the whytes. they could not see anything other than hopefully--some people think that a bad way to face life and its troubles, but i really can't say. all i know is that when troubles do come, these dear friends of ours meet them bravely. "isn't uncle hugo a darling?" said yvonne. "of course we've known _hint_ all our lives, though we never saw aunt fetherston before. but it's nearly five years since uncle hugo went to india, so of course we had all to learn each other over again, as he says. he's taken such a fancy to you, connie. he's coming down here to stay with us as soon as ever the milder weather really sets in; just now he's best in london. there's no pleasure in being in the country if one can't go out." "no, of course not," i agreed. evey's confident tone almost made me feel as if, perhaps, papa was wrong, and that major whyte _would_ get well again after all. but, alas! it was not so. he did seem to get better for a little, and even papa, who was up in london again, a month or so later, and went to see him, allowed when he came home, that he could not have believed major whyte could have rallied so much. and as the spring set in early, and the good symptoms continued, all was arranged for his coming down to the yew trees; the very day and train were fixed, and we three were nearly as pleased at the idea of seeing him again as the whytes themselves, when the blow fell. something, no one could say certainly what--it might have been a slight chill, or over-fatigue, or, perhaps merely the pleasant excitement of the visit in prospect--something--he was so far gone that a mere nothing was enough, papa said--brought on his cough again fearfully. he broke a blood-vessel, i think, and there was only time to telegraph for captain and mrs whyte, and the elder children to go to bid him good-bye before he passed away, very peacefully and very happily, evey and mary told me, when they were able to tell me about it. for it was a real and sad grief to them all, and it was the first trouble of _that_ kind they had ever known. "he sent his love and good-bye to you," yvonne said; "`little connie percy' he called you. and i heard him say, `but for her, things might not have been as they are.' yes, he was quite happy. do you know," she went on in a very low voice, "years and years ago uncle hugo was going to be married to somebody very nice and sweet, and she died. mother told us--i think it was that that made him so gentle and kind, though he was very brave too." the children gave no thought to the difference major whyte's death would make to them all in the end. i think captain whyte told papa all, but i never heard or thought about it till the change actually came. that was two years after major whyte's death, when poor old mrs fetherston died too. she felt the shock of his death very much, for though he had not been originally her favourite nephew, no one could have lived with him without learning to love him. she had grown dependent on him, too, for helping her to manage things. altogether it was a great blow, though now, fortunately, as things were, she had captain whyte instead, and for the rest of her life she did indeed cling to him and his wife, and to them all. but she never came down to elmwood again. she stayed on at southerwold, where she went immediately after major whyte's death, and one or the other, or more of the yew trees family were always with her. so i never saw her again, though now and then there was a talk of her coming to the yew trees. these two years were very happy. the whytes, though they still lived very simply, were free from anxiety about the future, and instead of this making them selfish, it only made them the kinder. all children, i suppose, live a good deal in the present. i don't think i understood this till the great change came, which made such a difference to me. i had thought, i suppose, that things would always go on much the same. but one day--it was only six months ago--captain and mrs whyte, who had both been at southerwold for nearly a week, telegraphed to papa, that old mrs fetherston had died; it was rather sudden at the last; and in the telegram they asked him to go to the yew trees to tell the children. i had seen them only the evening before, when there was no expectation of such a thing. "give them my love, papa," i said, as he was starting, "and tell them i am very sorry." "they _will_ be sorry, i suppose," i added to mamma, when we were sitting alone; "but not _very_, do you think? she was rather a frightening old lady, though i don't mean to be unkind." "she was very much softened of late," said mamma, but she spoke rather absently. "still, mamma, it can't make them _very_ miserable--not like if one of themselves had died," i said. "i may go to see them soon, mayn't i, and everything be the same?" mamma looked at me very tenderly. "connie, dear," she said, "don't you understand that it must make a great difference? captain whyte will be the owner of southerwold, and one or two other smaller places as well, i believe. he will be a very, very rich man, and they will be very important people. i don't say it will change their _hearts_; indeed, i am very, very sure it will not; but they will have many new ties, and responsibilities, and duties, and--they will have to leave us." i stared at her. it was very silly of me not to have thought of it before, but i just hadn't. then i burst into tears, and hid my face on mamma's shoulder. "you must try not to be selfish, darling," she whispered. "try to be my own sweet content, and trust." i did try--i have tried, and i daresay mamma thinks i have succeeded. but in my heart i know i have not, _quite_. it all happened as mamma had said; as it _had_ to, indeed. but it came so soon: i had not realised that. they were all as kind and dear as they could be to the end. only they were very busy, and, of course, a little excited by the change. what wonder! who could have helped it? in their place, i am sure, i should have been just _horridly_ selfish. and before we knew where we were they were gone; the yew trees empty and shut up again. i went through it once, just once--but never again, for when i came to evey and mary's room, with the climbing roses paper on the walls, i felt as if my heart would burst. that was six months ago. i have seen none of them since. they write me nice letters, but lately i have not had one--and, after all, letters are only letters. some of them have been abroad for part of the winter; poor addie was ill again, and no doubt they have new friends, and lots and lots to do. perhaps it will be wisest for me to remember this, and not expect ever hardly to see them again; but--there is mamma calling me--what can it be? i must run and see. it was a letter from yvonne--a letter and an _invitation_. i am to go to southerwold for the easter holidays! oh, i can hardly believe it. i don't know if i am glad or not. i am _so_ afraid they will have grown so grand, and that i shall feel strange and shy. oh, my dear evey and mary--if i could but have you again like last year--with your dear old shabby tweed jackets, and the loving hearts inside them! southerwold, _april_ th, -. i am _here_, at southerwold, and oh, so happy! it is the most beautiful, the grandest place you can imagine. they have _everything_! but it is not the place nor the grandeur that makes me happy. it is themselves. they are just quite, _exactly_ the same. i will never, never, never have horrid, distrustful fancies about them again. they met me at the station--evey and mary--in their own beautiful pony-carriage, and in one moment i felt it was all right. and just fancy--they had on the old tweed jackets! "it has got so suddenly hot," said yvonne, in her funny, practical way, "that we couldn't stand our winter things; so we routed these out. they do very well, don't they? i suppose we shall get new ones this year. there isn't any difficulty now about such things, you see, connie," she added smiling. "how pretty your jacket is, connie," said mary, admiringly. "do let us ask mother to get us ones something like it, evey." dear mary--they were all dear. they are going to show me all the things they do--the poor people, and the schools, and everything, so that when i come here i shall know their ways and be able to help them. for i am to come _very_ often they say. and the week after next, dear little mamma and papa are coming to fetch me. i shan't mind going home, for i know now we shall never be separated for very long, and never at all _in our hearts_. peggy raymond's way _or_ blossom time at friendly terrace _the friendly terrace series_ by harriet lummis smith [illustration] _the girls of friendly terrace_ $ . _peggy raymond's vacation_ . _peggy raymond's school days_ . _the friendly terrace quartette_ . _peggy raymond's way_ . [illustration] the page company beacon street, boston, mass. [illustration: peggy raymond] _the friendly terrace series_ peggy raymond's way or, blossom time at friendly terrace by harriet lummis smith author of "the girls of friendly terrace," "peggy raymond's vacation," "peggy raymond's school days," "the friendly terrace quartette," etc. illustrated by frank t. merrill [illustration] boston [illustration] the page company [illustration] mdccccxxii _copyright, _, by the page company _all rights reserved_ made in u. s. a. first impression, august, printed by c. h. simonds company boston, mass., u. s. a. contents chapter page i what's in a name? ii a telephone party iii a triumph of art iv an afternoon call v the rummage sale vi priscilla has a secret vii the friendly terrace orphanage viii the longest week on record ix the most wonderful thing in the world x mistress and maid xi quite informal xii good-by xiii peggy gives a dinner party xiv at the foot-ball game xv the cure xvi deliverance xvii peggy comes to a decision xviii a partial eclipse xix the end of school life xx a surprise xxi a missing bride xxii a july wedding list of illustrations page peggy raymond _frontispiece_ "'come right in,' said amy with a misleading air of cordiality" "'a hundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved'" "she raised her eyes and met his" "peggy looked at him without replying" peggy raymond's way chapter i what's in a name? it was the first day of the spring vacation, and amy lassell had spent it sewing. to be frank, it had not measured up to her idea of a holiday. self-indulgence was amy's besetting weakness. her dearest friend, peggy raymond, was never happy unless she was busy at something, but amy loved the luxury of idleness. yet although indolence appealed so strongly to amy's temperament, to do her justice she was generally able to turn a deaf ear to its call. the first summer after america's entry into the war she had enlisted in the land army along with peggy and priscilla, and then in the fall had taken up her work at the local red cross headquarters, serving in an unpaid position as conscientiously as if she had received a salary and was depending on it for her bread and butter. after a strenuous year with the red cross, amy had entered college with ruth wylie. neither girl had expected to enter till after the close of the war, and amy was continually harping upon the respect which the young and unsophisticated freshmen were bound to feel for classmates of such advanced years. but nelson hallowell's discharge from the service had altered the aspect of affairs. ruth had pledged herself to keep nelson's position for him till he should return, and amy had promised to wait for ruth. the wound which had kept nelson in the hospital less than a month had nevertheless incapacitated him from military service. heavy-hearted, he had returned to his job at the book store, while ruth and amy had immediately made their plans for entering college just two years behind peggy and priscilla. after her months of hard study, the first day of the spring vacation found amy at the sewing machine, which in itself was sufficient proof that, whatever her natural bias in the direction of indolence, her will was more than a match for that tendency. as a matter of fact she was the only one of the friendly terrace quartette to spend the day in unremitting industry. peggy and ruth had gone off with graham for the day. priscilla was entertaining an out-of-town guest. but amy, resolution manifest in every line of her plump little figure, was sewing for dear life. though the armistice had been signed months before, there still remained foes to fight, as the girls had promptly discovered. the reaction from economy and hard work had come in the shape of an orgy of extravagance and frivolity. the high war prices were continually going higher, as dealers realized that people would get what they wanted regardless of price. the four friendly terrace girls, after an afternoon of shopping which had ended in the purchase of a box of hair-pins and two spools of thread, had returned home to hold a council of war. "the only way to bring prices down is to stop buying things," declared peggy, with all the authority of a college junior. "i don't know as i have anything to make over, but if i have, nothing new for me this spring." amy sighed. "i'd just been luxuriating in the thought of a lot of new dresses," she said mournfully. "don't you know how after you've been dieting, all at once you're hungry for creamed chicken and pineapple fritters, and chocolate with whipped cream, and strawberry sundaes, all rolled into one. and that's just the way i feel about clothes. but i suppose it will end in my making over my blue taffeta." "i've two or three summer dresses that will do very well if i make the skirts scanty," said ruth. "they're too full for this season." they talked on seriously, planning their little economies as if they expected unaided to bring down the high cost of living. they were not the sort of girls who follow the crowd unthinkingly, nor had any of them contracted the fatal habit of asking, "what can one do?" the program they outlined would have resulted in a general lowering of prices in a month's time if every one had agreed to it. and it did not occur to them that public indifference excused them from doing their little part toward combating a serious evil. that was how it happened that amy lassell had spent the spring day sewing. the blue taffeta had been ripped and pressed in anticipation of the vacation leisure, and as soon as the breakfast dishes were out of the way amy had commandeered the dining-room table as a cutting table. with the help of a paper pattern she had remodeled the taffeta according to the latest dictates of fashion. caution suggested that it would be advisable to wait for assistance in the fitting, but having basted the breadths together and surveyed her reflection in the mirror, amy had been so favorably impressed that she had gone to work energetically stitching up seams. like many people whose natural tendency is in the direction of indolence, amy was capable of relentless industry, almost as though she were afraid that if once she halted she might not get her courage to the point of starting again. she swallowed a hasty luncheon and rushed back to her sewing. her eyes grew tired, her back ached. she became nervous and hot and impatient, so that breaking a thread or dropping a thimble seemed almost a calamity. and yet she did not stop. it was after five when she laid her work reluctantly aside. amy's responsibilities for the day were not limited to the blue taffeta. as in many another household, the domestic service problem had become acute in the lassell establishment during the last few years. incapable servants demanding preposterous wages, had been replaced by others equally incompetent, and there had been interims when it had been difficult to secure so much as a laundress. amy and her mother had learned a good many short cuts to achievement, and had accepted the frequent necessity of doing their own work with a philosophy of which they would have been incapable in pre-war times. on this first day of vacation amy was without a servant, and without a mother, as well; for mrs. lassell had left home that morning not to return till nearly bed-time. at five o'clock the realization that she must prepare her father's supper forced itself on amy's attention. it was not a formidable responsibility, for at breakfast that morning mr. lassell had informed her that he was to take a customer out to lunch and would be satisfied with very little for the evening meal. amy meant to take him at his word. there was cold meat, quite enough for two, she thought; and some potatoes to fry, and her father did not care much for dessert. accordingly, amy had waited till five o'clock before she laid down her sewing, and then she realized for the first time how very tired she was. a glimpse of herself in the mirror emphasized her certainty that it was high time to stop. amy's fair hair was disheveled, her plump cheeks brilliantly pink. there were dark lines under her eyes, eloquent of weariness. amy regarded herself with extreme disfavor. "looks as if i'd taken up rouge in my old age. and i positively must do my hair over. i can't ask even poor patient daddy to look at such a frowsy head all through supper. o, well, he won't mind, if i am a little late." encouraging herself with this reflection, amy bathed her burning cheeks, combed her hair hastily, and slipped into a little gingham gown which, if somewhat faded and passée, had at least the merit of being fresh and clean. it buttoned in the back, and by virtue of much twisting and stretching amy finally succeeded in securing the middle button which for a time had defied her efforts. and just as she did so, the door-bell rang. [illustration: "'come right in,' said amy with a misleading air of cordiality"] amy went placidly downstairs. she had no apprehensions about the door-bell. she took it for granted that it was somebody to collect for the newspaper, or an old-clothes man, or else a friend so intimate that she could ask her into the kitchen while she made her supper preparations. as she reached the door she realized her mistake. of the two young people waiting admission she had met the sister several times. the brother she knew merely by sight, for the family had moved into the neighborhood only recently. for a moment amy's mood was one of unqualified dismay. she wanted to turn and run. with lightning-like rapidity she compared her faded gingham with the stylish frock setting off the girlish, graceful figure of hildegarde carey. and hildegarde's brother, robert, if looking a trifle bored, was immaculately attired. amy recollected that in her absorption with the blue taffeta she had neglected to dust the living room that morning. amy opened the door with a smile that poorly concealed her anguish of spirit. her flickering hope that hildegarde had made a mistake in the number was dissipated by the composure of hildegarde's greeting. the two young people entered, as amy realized, without waiting to be asked, and in the hall hildegarde performed the ceremony of introduction. "come right in," said amy with a misleading air of cordiality. she wondered if she had better apologize for the undusted living room, but decided against it. perhaps they would overlook it, though robert carey impressed her as one who would notice the least little thing out of the way. amy decided that the young fellow's handsome face was almost spoiled by its discontented expression. another shock came when she said to hildegarde, "let me take your coat." she expected hildegarde to reply that the coat was light and that she did not mind it for the few minutes she had to stay; but on the contrary she not only removed her coat, but slipped off her gloves, unpinned her hat, and added it to the collection amy carried into the hall with a growing sense of stupefaction. "any one would think," she told herself, "that she was an old friend come to spend the day." perhaps amy's perplexity partly explained the fact that the next half hour dragged. amy was not her usual entertaining self. she thought of the dust showing gray against the shining mahogany of the piano. she thought of her faded gingham. she heard herself talking stupidly, unnaturally, and chiefly about the weather. robert carey looked more bored than ever. at half past six her father came in. he glanced at the group in the living room as he entered, and amy hastily summoned him. her guests must realize that when the man of the house came home it was time to leave. amy introduced her father, pulled out an arm chair invitingly, and mr. lassell seated himself. it was from him that his daughter had inherited her sense of humor, and on this occasion he made himself much more entertaining than amy had done. the conversation became almost animated. the clock in the hall struck seven, tolling out the notes sonorously. every one seemed to be listening to it, and amy flushed. it was almost as if the clock had said, "time to go home! time to go home!" and then to her horror her father turned toward her inquiringly. "hadn't you better put on the supper, my dear?" he asked. "your friends will be getting hungry." for an agonized half minute amy vainly tried to think of something she could say to soften the blow. she was magnanimous enough to acquit her father of all blame. seeing them sitting there at that hour, especially as hildegarde had taken off her hat, he had innocently assumed that they had been invited to dinner. and of course his blunder was equivalent to saying that they had stayed longer than was proper or desirable. then amy's head whirled again. her guests did not spring to their feet as she had expected them to do, protesting that they had not dreamed it was so late. instead they sat quite still, only murmuring a polite disclaimer of being hungry. with the force of a blow the realization came over amy that they had accepted her father's tacit invitation. they were going to stay to supper. amy rose, murmuring something unintelligible, and got out of the room quickly. o, if peggy were only home, peggy who had such a faculty for evolving something savory and appetizing from the least promising materials. amy's cooking until recently had been confined to chafing-dish delicacies and candy. it was too late, she realized, to add to her scanty stores. she must feed four people with what had seemed barely enough for two, and must do it quickly. mechanically she lighted the oven of the gas stove. she remembered there was a can of tomato soup in the house, and the cold meat, sliced very thin, might possibly pass muster. she herself would refuse meat. luckily there was a generous plateful of potatoes. creamed and with a little cheese grated over them, they would be appetizing--and filling. she could make baking powder biscuit,--amy excelled in baking powder biscuit--and there was honey to eat with them. for dessert she would fall back on preserved peaches and some left-over fruit cake. it was a queer, hit-or-miss meal, not a company repast in any sense of the word, but the best she could do under the circumstances. it was while the biscuits were browning in the oven, and amy was hastily setting the table for four, that her native common-sense re-asserted itself. "after all," her thoughts ran, "if people take pot luck, they can't expect to find things just as they would be if they were especially invited. they've seemed real friendly and if they like me well enough to stay to a pick-up supper, the first time they've ever set foot in my home, i ought to meet them half way. i can't give them much to eat, but i don't need to be quite as stupid as i've been for the last hour." and so it came about that when the guests were summoned to the dining room, they encountered a very different hostess from the one who had entertained them previously, a hostess who twinkled and sparkled and kept them laughing. it seemed to amy that, when she had removed the soup plates and brought in the sliced meat and creamed potatoes, she had seen an expression of astonishment flicker across hildegarde's face, but she resolutely put the thought aside and continued to make herself agreeable. the baking-powder biscuits had risen nobly to the occasion. amy thought them the best she had ever made. and she saw with relief that the bored expression had disappeared from robert carey's face, and that he really seemed to be enjoying himself. then suddenly into the midst of all this gaiety, hildegarde dropped a bomb in the shape of a question. "what happened to detain isabel?" "isabel?" "yes, isabel vincent, you know." "i'm afraid," amy hesitated, "that i don't know any one of that name." apparently the meal had come to a full stop. "why," hildegarde cried, "the isabel vincent who attended the pelham school when i was there." she was so insistent that amy unconsciously became apologetic. "i'm sorry but i can't say i remember such a girl. did she ever say she had met me?" "why," hildegarde almost screamed, "didn't you ask us here to-night to meet her?" "to meet isabel vincent! why, i never heard of her." "there's some mistake," exclaimed robert. he had just helped himself to a fifth baking-powder biscuit, but he laid it down unbuttered. "you've made some mistake," he informed his sister. hildegarde ignored him and addressed herself to amy. "didn't you telephone me this morning?" "i--why, to tell the truth, no i didn't." "then it was a disgusting practical joke. some one called me up about eleven o'clock and said she was amy lassell, and that isabel vincent was to stop here twenty-four hours on her way to new york from her home in chicago. and then she invited bob and me to dinner to meet isabel. there wasn't anything in her manner to give me an idea it was a hoax." but amy had found the clew. "o, did isabel come from chicago?" she cried. "then i know. it was avery zall who telephoned you." "but i don't know her." "she went away to boarding school--yes, it was the pelham school, i'm sure. and i know she has a friend from chicago visiting her. probably the vincent girl spoke of knowing you, and avery called you up. o, dear!" groaned amy with a sudden change of countenance. "what's the matter?" demanded bob carey, still ignoring his biscuit. "i've cheated you out of a regular feast. the zalls have a wonderful cook. you'd have had broiled chicken and fresh mushrooms and i don't know what beside, and i've given you cold meat and--" "you've given us the best biscuits i ever ate," said bob, and buttered his fifth, but his sister had turned pale. "i don't believe any one ever did such a dreadful thing before. here we descended on you without warning and simply forced you to invite us to stay--" "happy escape, i think," said bob. "if there's anything i hate, it's these social stunts hildegarde's crazy about." "the only dreadful part," said amy, reassuring the distressed hildegarde, "is that you've exchanged a perfectly gorgeous dinner for a pick-up supper." "but what must miss--miss zall think of me?" "she must know there's some mistake. probably they're not waiting dinner any longer, for it's after eight o'clock." "o," groaned hildegarde, "i never was so mortified. what am i going to do?" "it seems to me you'd better finish your supper, such as it is," suggested amy. "and then you can call up avery zall and explain your mistake. she'll see that the names sound alike over the phone. and after that there'll be plenty of time to see your friends." "seems to me," suggested bob, "that as long as we've started the evening here, we might as well put it through." his eyes met amy's with a twinkle that was like a spark to tinder. amy struggled for a moment, then gave way to peals of laughter. "o," she gasped, when at length she could find her voice, "what must you have thought of me, inviting you to dinner and then coming down in this old, faded gingham." "and what must you have thought of _me_," hildegarde cried, "coming at such an hour and calmly taking off my hat." "the dust was thick over everything," giggled amy. "i've been sewing every minute all day long, and i warned father to expect a light meal." "i should have known i had made a mistake," hildegarde lamented, "when you never said a word about isabel. i don't know how i could have been so ridiculously stupid." but for all her dismay, she laughed. indeed if laughter aids digestion, there was little danger that amy's biscuits would disagree with any one, even robert, who had dispatched such an extravagant number. while amy cleared the table and brought in the dessert, hildegarde went to the phone and explained matters to a young woman whose preliminary stiffness melted as hildegarde reviewed the situation. and then hildegarde hurried back to inform her brother that they must go over as soon as he had finished. "she was as sweet as she could be, but she said they had waited dinner an hour." "so it's up to you to 'gobble and git,'" quoted amy, dishing out the preserves with a lavish hand. "i'm not going to be hurried over that fruit cake," declared bob. "it carries me back to the merry christmas time." "it ought to, for it's a christmas cake, but it's been kept in a tin box with an apple and i hope it isn't dry. it was all i had in the cake line." amy paused to laugh again. "i really must stop," she exclaimed, wiping her moist eyes. "they say that laughing at meal-time makes one fat, and i don't dare risk another pound." "can't have too much of a good thing," declared bob carey with a significant glance at the flushed face. strictly speaking, amy was perhaps the least pretty of the four friendly terrace girls; but good humor has a charm, and a face radiant with fun can hold its own against discontented beauty any day. there was such frank admiration in the look the young man bent upon her, that amy's cheeks grew hot with an unwonted self-consciousness. the brother and sister left with evident reluctance. "now we've had dinner with you," said hildegarde, "you must dine with us very soon." "oh, this doesn't deserve to be counted," amy laughed. "i'll ask you again some day and show you what i can do if i really try." "no, don't," pleaded bob. "have us again when you're going to have biscuit. it's so much jollier to be informal than to work the society racket." and then hildegarde carried him off, protesting that, if they didn't hurry, avery zall would not believe a word of her excuse. amy found her father clearing the table. she put on her long apron and joined him, chattering excitedly as she worked. "no full garbage can to-night, daddy. every dish is scraped clean. i suppose i ought to feel crushed over setting such a meal before people i hardly knew, but somehow i don't." her father smiling, responsive to her high spirits, shook his head. "it isn't much to set good food before folks, amy. any waiter in a restaurant can do that. give people the best of yourself and you don't need to worry about your bill of fare." chapter ii a telephone party however much the rest of the year may drag, the spring vacation always ignores the speed limit. what with dress-making and shopping, and going over one's bureau drawers and closets in anticipation of the spring cleaning, and trying to do the things one has been postponing till this week of leisure, and taking advantage of all the pleasures that start up like mushrooms, twenty-four hours in a day are all too few. when priscilla dropped in on peggy to suggest going out into the country for wild flowers, the monday afternoon that closed the holiday season, peggy hesitated. "i'd love it. i don't feel that spring is really here until i have picked a few violets and spring beauties. but i was thinking of going to see mary donaldson." "why, is anything the matter?" priscilla asked. peggy stared, "matter! you know that since that attack of inflammatory rheumatism she hasn't walked--" "but i meant anything new." "o, there's nothing _new_, not as far as i know. i haven't been in to see mary since--o, dear, i'm afraid it's been an age." "i only meant," explained priscilla reasonably, "that if mary's no worse off than she has been for the last year and a half, there's no especial point in taking to-day to go to see her. you could go any afternoon." "i could," owned peggy with a significant inflection. "and it's such a perfect day to go after wild flowers." peggy looked from the window. the blue sky seemed to smile an invitation. priscilla's argument all at once appeared unanswerable. "yes, isn't it lovely!" peggy drew a long breath. "too lovely to stay indoors. i'll go to see mary some stormy afternoon when she needs cheering up." and now that her decision was made, the thought of mary donaldson passed completely from peggy's mind. she had never been particularly intimate with this class-mate, and had it not been for mary's illness it is unlikely that the two girls would have seen much of each other after high school days. but the winter of peggy's freshman year, an attack of rheumatism had left mary seriously crippled. though now she was able to be dressed and to hobble from her bed to a chair by the window, getting downstairs was too difficult a process to be considered, except on very especial occasions. with all the yearnings for life and joy that characterize the normal girl, mary was condemned to vibrate between her bed and chair. it was not strange that with all her sympathy peggy had found it difficult to see much of her invalid friend. the demands made by the war upon the scanty leisure of a college student left her little time she could call her own. she had worked making surgical dressings under the red cross, and had given much time to collecting and mending worn garments for the destitute children of belgium and france. she had subscribed for a bond in each of the government loans, and to pay for these with her own earnings had required hard work and careful financing. on the whole, though peggy was sorry not to have seen more of mary donaldson, her conscience acquitted her of neglect. the season was advanced and the girls had no difficulty in filling their baskets with the early arrivals among the wild flowers, and as their baskets filled, they feasted their eyes on the myriad indeterminate shades of a spring landscape, and drank in the exhilarating odors of damp earth, warmed by the april sun. when peggy's wrist-watch warned them it was time to start for home, they went reluctantly, with an unreasonable feeling that in returning to town they were leaving the spring behind them. at their transfer point a sign in a drug store window caught amy's eye. "ice cream soda with fresh fruit," she read impressively. "i wondered what it was i wanted. i've lost a pound and a half since vacation began, so i dare to risk one." "i haven't been buying sodas, because i needed the money for something else," said peggy. "but this is the last day of vacation and i believe i'll celebrate." they filed in and gave their orders. peggy had just taken the first sip of a ravishing concoction, whose formula would have given a dyspeptic heart-failure, when at the opposite counter she spied a stout, middle-aged woman who was regarding her with savage intentness. her features were familiar, in spite of a look of hostility peggy was not accustomed to see on the faces that looked in her direction. for some minutes peggy was frankly puzzled. not till she was finishing her soda did she remember where she had seen that heavy, lowering face before. but with the recollection, she slipped from her stool and crossed to the opposite side of the room. "i've been trying to think where i've seen you before, but now i remember. you're the miss potts who takes care of mary donaldson, aren't you?" rather ungraciously miss potts admitted her identity. she was not a trained nurse, for in mary's case skilled hands were no longer necessary. miss potts was big and strong and kind of heart, though at the moment her expression was far from suggesting the latter characteristic. a little puzzled by the woman's manner, peggy continued, "i've been wanting to see mary for ever so long. how is she?" "well, she ain't doing very well, and no wonder. old folks get kind of used to the way things are in this world, and it doesn't surprise 'em none to be forgotten. but it's sort of hard on the young." peggy flushed hotly. she realized that miss potts' disagreeable manner was a deliberate expression of resentment. "i'm sorry that i haven't been able to see more of mary this last year," she said with gentle dignity, "but i've been very busy, and it's such a long way over here." "i s'pose it's a long way to your telephone, too." "telephone!" peggy repeated. she looked at miss potts so blankly that mary's caretaker had no alternative but to explain. "her pa had it put in for a surprise. it's right beside her bed, and the little thing it stands on moves 'round, so she can talk without any trouble. he thought it would be a comfort to her, for she could chat with all her friends, and sort of keep up with things." "why, yes," said peggy, feeling uncomfortable. "i should think she'd get lots of fun out of it." she was remembering that mary had called her up--it was weeks or months, or was it fully a year before--to tell her about the new telephone. there had been an eagerness in mary's voice that she remembered vividly. peggy had agreed that it was "splendid," without realizing just what this link with the outside world would mean to a girl shut out from so much. miss potts indulged in an unmusical laugh. "oh, yes," she said. "she gets lots of fun. every now and then she gets a call. there's so many new girls on the telephone exchanges nowadays, that they're bound to give her number every little while. and then she tells 'em it's the wrong number and rings off." peggy's face was a study. "do you mean that she--that no one--" the aggressiveness suddenly disappeared from miss potts' manner. her eyes filled with tears. "it's the heart-breakingest thing i ever want to see," she cried. "she was so hopeful at first. as soon as that telephone was put in, she called up everybody she knew, to tell 'em about it. and then she'd lie there smiling, watching that phone, as if it was something out of a fairy book and was going to bring her all kinds of happiness." peggy's imagination was a vivid one. as miss potts spoke, she could almost see mary's smiling, expectant face. a pang of sympathy stabbed her tender heart. "the very first time that telephone rang it was somebody that wanted the butcher; and the second time, a girl, who was coming over to spend the afternoon with her, rang up to say her aunt was in town and she was going to the matinée instead. i don't think mary ever felt the same about her phone after that start-out. when it rang, she looked kind of scared, as if she was afraid she was going to hear something disappointing." "but surely," peggy exclaimed, "she must have lots of calls from her friends. i--why, i know i haven't called very often, but that was because i was always hoping to get time to go over to see her." there was such genuine distress in her voice that miss potts was visibly melted. "it's a busy world," she said, "for young folks and old folks, too, and i guess on the whole it's lucky it is so easy for us to forget. but all the same," she ended, with a shake of her head, "it's pretty hard on the ones who get forgotten." the clerk brought out the prescription for which miss potts had been waiting, and peggy rejoined her friends. for a moment she considered sending her flowers to mary, but a fear that to miss potts this might seem an effort to evade a more exacting expression of sympathy led her to relinquish her purpose. her crest-fallen manner revealed that something was wrong, and as they left the drug store her friends resentfully demanded an explanation. "peggy, what was that woman saying to you?" priscilla was bristling like a mother hen who sees one of her brood attacked. in a few words peggy explained. her three listeners exchanged conscience-stricken glances. "it seems rather mean that you should be the one to be scolded," said amy, "when you have gone to see mary oftener than all the three of us together." "that isn't saying much," peggy stated gloomily. "i haven't been near her for months." "but you haven't had time," cried ruth, slipping her hand through her friend's arm. "no, i think i really haven't," peggy said frankly. "but i certainly have had time to go to the telephone." then suddenly her face brightened. "i know what we'll do, girls; we'll give her a telephone party." "a telephone party," amy repeated. "what do you mean by that?" the car for which they were waiting came along before peggy could answer, and she finished her explanation hanging to a strap, while her three companions, similarly supported and swaying violently with each jerk of the car, listened absorbedly. "college opens to-morrow, and the first day is never so very busy, so we'll call mary up every hour. my hour will be between nine and ten. priscilla, you take the hour between ten and eleven; and amy, you can have the next one. i think we'd better omit the hour between twelve and one, for she'll probably be eating luncheon then. ruth, you may call between one and two." "but you said every hour, peggy. don't you think it would be rather over-doing it to call twice in one day?" "i'm going to get hold of some of the other girls who were in mary's class in high school, elinor hewitt, and anna joyce, and blanche eastabrook--" "she's in new york." "well, marian o'neil isn't. and i'll see aimee dubois at college and tell her about it. mary's telephone is going to work overtime to make up for its long idleness." "what i don't understand," said priscilla, "is if mary was so lonely, why didn't she call us up?" "i can understand that easy enough," replied peggy. "she called us up to tell us she had a phone, and after that, it was our move." "and i suppose," suggested amy, "that there isn't a great deal to talk about, when you don't get out of an upstairs room from one month to another." "i suppose not," priscilla acknowledged. everything considered, it was a rather crest-fallen quartette of girls who returned from their afternoon's outing. it was just half past nine next day when mary donaldson's telephone rang. "i'm not too early, am i?" said a cheery voice. mary, who had taken up the receiver with the air of uncertainty to which miss potts had referred, uttered a joyful exclamation. "why, it's peggy raymond!" "yes, it's peggy. i wanted to tell you about something perfectly killing that happened to amy the other day." peggy had made up her mind to ignore the months of silence. explanations would not help matters, for nothing could explain away the fact that in the whirl and rush of their over-full lives they had, for the time being, quite forgotten mary. the story of amy's impromptu dinner party proved as entertaining as peggy had anticipated. mary donaldson laughed as she had not laughed for months. and in the next room miss potts, listening, made strange grimaces that seemed only distantly related to smiles. when the story was finished, mary had some questions to ask. "who are the careys? there used to be a carey girl in school--" "i'm pretty sure they aren't related to her. they come from some place in new york and they've lived in our neighborhood less than a year. and do you know, mary, we think amy must have made quite an impression on the brother--bob. he's called on her twice since, and he's asked her to go to the glee club concert." "he has!" romance dies hard in the heart of a girl. poor mary, shut away from contact with young life, was thrilled by the suggestion of an incipient love-story. "is he nice looking?" she asked eagerly. "well, i've not met him yet, but i've noticed him passing several times, and i thought he was quite handsome. and hildegarde is an awfully stylish girl, though i'd hardly call her pretty." in ten minutes peggy announced that she must go to a history lecture and rang off. she was smiling as she went to class, and wishing she could be an unseen listener to the conversations scheduled to take place in mary's room every hour in the day. as peggy had promised, the bell of mary's telephone worked over-time. the friendly terrace girls were supplemented by former school-mates in sufficient numbers to keep up the excitement till half past eight that evening. most of the girls, whose memories peggy had undertaken to jolt, were conscience-stricken when they realized how they had neglected mary. and they readily fell in with peggy's suggestion. "even if we can't get over there very often," urged peggy, "we can use the telephone. five minutes talk every few days will make mary feel that she's in touch with us still. it doesn't seem to me i could bear feeling forgotten." peggy did not realize that, even with mary's disability, she would have made herself the center of some circle; and in her failure to understand that mary's rather colorless personality was in part responsible for what had happened, peggy was the more severe upon herself for what now seemed to her inexplicable and inexcusable neglect. thanks to the sudden activity of peggy's conscience, mary donaldson heard more outside news in one day than she had heard in the three months previous. and as the trouble with most young people is want of thought, rather than want of heart, few of the girls were satisfied with chatting five or ten minutes over the telephone. they promised to come to see her soon. they offered to lend her books or mail her magazines. one girl suggested that she would bring over some of her victrola records for mary to hear, and another informed her that as soon as the lilies of the valley were out she should have a cluster. all at once mary donaldson's friends were remembering her in earnest. when marian o'neil rang off at twenty minutes of nine, mary hesitated a moment and then called peggy raymond. and peggy who was giving her studies that half-hearted attention customary on the first day after vacation, whether the student is in the primary grade or a college junior, came running downstairs when dick shouted her name. "hello--hello--why, mary!" the pleasure in her tone was unmistakable, and the shut-in, two miles away, thrilled responsively. "peggy, i just wanted to tell you before i went to sleep that i've had such a lovely day." "have you, dear? i'm glad. what happened?" the question took the guileless mary aback. "i thought perhaps you knew something about it. my telephone has been ringing all day. it was queer if it was only a coincidence, for some girls called me up that i haven't heard from for years." "must have been what they call a brain wave," suggested peggy, audaciously. "well, anyway, it was nice. i've heard so many things and talked with so many people that i feel as if i'd been to a party." "if that's all, mary, i'll prophesy there'll be just as nice days coming as this." "oh, do you think so, peggy! well, it's my bed time now, so i won't talk any longer. good-night." "good-night!" and as peggy hung up the receiver, she reflected that she had never done justice to the possibilities of the telephone. chapter iii a triumph of art it was one of those warm, summer-like days of early june, when lessons and college classes are forgotten in the enjoyment of thoughts of the summer vacation to come. such a few days left, and the four girls would be free for all the reading and the tennis and the sewing and the tramping which the press of examination preparation had forced aside. and they would all be together again this summer, which gave promise of many quartette larks. the day was so perfect that all four had, as if of one mind, discarded their lessons for the remainder of the day, and had drifted over to amy's. "do you know what i've been thinking about all week?" demanded amy of the trio occupying her front porch. she did not wait for any of them to hazard a guess, but gave the answer herself, "strawberries." a soft little murmur went the rounds. "we had strawberries for dinner last night," said peggy, "the best i've tasted this year." "and we had strawberry short-cake." priscilla smacked her lips reminiscently. "and i had some strawberry ice cream at birds'," put in ruth. "it was so warm along about nine o'clock, you know, and nelson and i went down. my, but it was good!" amy listened unmoved. "what i've been thinking about," she explained, "is strawberries in the patch, sticking their heads out from under the leaves, as if they were begging to be picked, warm from the sun, and sweet, and just spilling over with juice." the girls sat attentive. something in amy's manner indicated that there was a background of reality for this flight of fancy. "i've got a sort of relation living about ten miles out of town," amy continued. "aunt phoebe cummings, only that isn't her name. five years ago she married a man named frost." "how interesting to get a new uncle at your age," interjected ruth. "i don't regard him as much of an addition to the family," retorted amy drily. "when i talk about him, i call him, 'uncle philander-behind-his-back.' but to his face, he's mr. frost. you see, aunt phoebe isn't exactly an aunt. i believe she's a second cousin of my grandfather's first wife, but she's nicer than lots of real aunts." "i do think you have the nicest relations, amy lassell," interposed peggy. "now aunt abigail, at doolittle cottage, was a perfect dear." priscilla showed signs of impatience. "what has all this to do with strawberries?" "well, i'm coming to that. my uncle philander-behind-his-back owns a little farm, and they've got strawberries to burn. and almost every year aunt phoebe says she wishes i'd come out when the strawberries are ripe and bring some of my friends." "amy lassell!" exclaimed priscilla reproachfully. "do you mean that mrs. philander has been begging you to do this for the last five years, and that this is the first we've heard of it?" "well, as a rule she mentions it along about august, or october, and i forget it by june. but she came in town to shop the other day and took dinner with us, and when she left, she broached the subject again. she said the strawberries would be at their best by the middle of next week and she'd love to meet you all. what do you think of a trip to the country along about wednesday?" there were certain subjects regarding which, in spite of their devoted friendship, the friendly terrace quartette could develop considerable diversity of opinion. but on this occasion, their unanimity would have gratified the hospitable instincts of amy's aunt phoebe. strawberries boxed and displayed in show windows, or even transformed into such delicacies as short cake and ice cream, seemed prosaic all at once. what they wanted was to be turned loose in a strawberry patch, to stain their fingers plucking the strawberries from the vines. before leaving the porch the girls watched amy pen a note to her relative, accepting her oft-repeated invitation in behalf of herself and friends, and suggesting the following wednesday as a desirable time for their visit. a rather cloudy tuesday awakened anxious apprehensions in the minds of the four girls, apprehensions dissipated, however, by the cloudless dawn of wednesday. the height of the strawberry season is the most charming time of the year. the four ate an early luncheon at peggy's home, and then took the trolley for the outskirts of the city. once outside the city, the trolley car bowled along at an exhilarating pace, and in spite of the prospects ahead, the girls were almost sorry when the ten-miles were up, and the breezy ride was ended. aunt phoebe was a little old lady whose black skirt was quaintly full and showed signs of wear, partially concealed by a white ruffled apron of unusual size. she greeted them as affectionately as if they had all been nieces by adoption, and conducted them indoors to take off their hats. the living room through which they passed was large and pleasantly and immaculately neat, the unpainted floor having been scrubbed to a milky whiteness. the tapping of the girls' heels on the boards emphasized their bareness. "got your rugs up for the summer, i see," remarked amy casually. the comment was natural enough under the circumstances, but unluckily it opened the door of the closet which contained the frosts' family skeleton. aunt phoebe reddened as if amy's innocent remark had been a slap in the face. "my sitting room carpet's worn out," she said. "it was worn out when i came here. i patched it and i pieced it and i made it last a good three years after anybody else would have put it in the rags, and now he says there's no sense buying a new one." "mr. frost, you mean?" "yes. he's got awful queer notions, philander has. he talks about bare floors being healthy. good gracious! it gives me a chill to think of this room in november without a carpet on the floor. i've done without lots of things in my life, but i never was too poor to have my floors carpeted." amy was sorry she had broached the subject, for now that aunt phoebe was started, she seemed to find it difficult to stop talking about her grievance. like many people who do not ask a great deal of life, she was the more insistent regarding the few things she counted essential. the bare floor, echoing noisily under the tread of her guests, stirred her indignation and almost spoiled her childlike satisfaction in entertaining amy and her friends. but worse was coming. it appeared that aunt phoebe had a heaped glass dish of berries to be served in the conventional fashion with sugar and cream, but she suggested that first the girls might enjoy helping themselves from the patch. as this was really what they had come for, they acquiesced heartily, and aunt phoebe led the way. her kindly old face lost its pensiveness as she watched the laughing girls picking the berries from the vines, their lips and fingers reddening as the feast proceeded. then without any warning, a deep voice spoke out of the shrubbery, and only too much to the point. "the commission men," said the voice, "are paying twelve cents a box for them strawberries." four berry-pickers straightened themselves and looked at one another aghast. aunt phoebe rushed furiously to their defense. "philander frost, this is my niece, amy lassell, and she's brought out some young friends to eat strawberries, because i asked her to." her faded blue eyes emitted electric sparks as she defied him. "pleased to meet you, i'm sure," said mr. frost, still with an air of profound melancholy. "i don't grudge a few strawberries any more than the next man, but with them bringing twelve cents a box--" "philander!" the little wrinkled wife was fairly beside herself with mortification. her withered skin, suffused by a burning blush, rivalled the vivid coloring of youth. "philander, i don't care if the strawberries are a dollar a quart--" "oh, well," said mr. frost patiently. "i just thought i'd mention it." he turned away while four girls stood motionless in the strawberry patch, as if there had been a medusa-like quality in his gaze, turning them all to stone. "go right on, dearies," commanded aunt phoebe, raising her voice defiantly, so that it should reach the ears of her departing lord and master. "eat all you want to." but though as a matter of principle, the girls attempted to obey, the sweetness had gone from the luscious fruit. they ate half-heartedly, ashamed to meet one another's eyes, calculating, in spite of themselves, how much mr. frost was out of pocket because of their visit. aunt phoebe was plainly disappointed when they declared that they had had enough. she tried to encourage them to think better of it, and when they still insisted, led the way to the house. "i don't think much of strawberries without trimmings, myself," she declared over her shoulder. "when you taste them with sugar and cream, i guess you'll find your appetites coming back." the porch at the side of the house was shaded and inviting. aunt phoebe insisted on their seating themselves, while she waited on them. against the snowy covering of the small, round table, the big dish of choice berries made a fine showing. then aunt phoebe brought out a pitcher of rich yellow cream, and the spirits of the crest-fallen group began to revive. the appearance of a heaping plate-full of cookies was hailed with appreciative smiles. "plenty more cookies in the jar," said aunt phoebe, helping them with lavish hand. "and plenty more berries. eat all you can." they had almost reached the point of forgetting mr. frost and his discomforting comments, when he again made his appearance. peggy lost the thread of the story she was telling and stopped short, but as no one was listening, that made no difference. mr. frost seated himself and sighed heavily. "some folks is afraid to eat too many strawberries," he said. "they're likely to cause a rash." the girls, not knowing what to say, went on eating mechanically. aunt phoebe, however, straightened herself over her saucer. "i don't mind a rash," she announced, "not in such a good cause." "it ain't that i care for the expense," mr. frost said feelingly, "though of course, with the cost of living so high, sensible folks ought to do without everything that ain't necessary. now phoebe's got an idea that she wants a new carpet for the sitting room--" "i've got an idea that i'm going to have one, too," said aunt phoebe, breathing hard. "i tell her that bare floors is all the rage," said mr. frost, looking from one to another of the girls, as if he hoped to find an ally in one of them. "carpets are hiding-places for all sorts of germs. the swellest folks there is have bare floors nowadays, i tell her." "i guess their bare floors don't look much like mine," exploded aunt phoebe, "just common pine boards, not even painted." "i wouldn't mind letting you paint 'em," said mr. frost. "of course paint is very expensive these days, but if it would make you feel any better--" "what i want," aunt phoebe was beginning wrathfully, when amy interrupted. she addressed herself to mr. frost, and her manner was propitiatory. "a painted floor isn't so bad," she said. "lots of folks have painted floors." "a body's feet would freeze in winter," exclaimed aunt phoebe, plainly bewildered at amy's taking sides against her. "you want to wear good thick shoes and stockings," replied mr. frost, eyeing amy approvingly. his manner indicated that as far as she was concerned, he did not grudge the strawberries. "i was going to say," continued amy, returning his friendly gaze with interest, "that i wouldn't mind coming out and painting the floors for you some day." the other friendly terrace girls looked at one another in surprise. they could not understand amy. apparently she was trying to curry favor with mr. frost by taking sides with him against aunt phoebe, yet none of them considered this the real explanation. whatever her intention, it was plain that amy had made a conquest of uncle philander-behind-his-back. for the rest of their stay, he addressed most his remarks to her, and though his conversation dealt largely with the high cost of living and the necessity for thrift, their inexplicable friend seemed highly edified. when they took their departure, mr. frost again brought up the subject of the floor. "if you should happen to feel like painting it some day--" "oh, i'm coming," said amy smiling up at him. "i'll get the other girls to help me, and we'll make short work of it." "i think i've got pretty near enough paint left from painting the barn--" aunt phoebe's accession of color suggested an attack of apoplexy, for the barn was the color of a ripe pumpkin. amy hastily interposed, "oh, i'll bring the paint." "will you now? well, i call that the right spirit. i like to see young folks appreciative," declared mr. frost. "strawberries are bringing a good price this year, but i'm sure you're welcome to every one you et." on the way to the car amy walked beside aunt phoebe, holding fast to her arm and chattering like a magpie. and as she kissed the old lady good-by, she pulled her close and whispered in her ear. it was impossible to know what she said, but aunt phoebe's lugubrious countenance showed an immediate improvement. she stared at amy with an expression of incredulity which presently became a bewildered smile. the uncertainty of the other friendly terrace girls, as to whether or not amy had intended her promise to be taken literally, was dissipated about a week later when she called on them to accompany her and assist in the painting of aunt phoebe's sitting-room floor. thoughtlessly amy had selected a date when peggy had an imperative engagement. peggy urged her to choose another day, but amy found insuperable objections to a change. "but i don't like this," said peggy. "i ate as many strawberries as anybody, and if you're painting the floor to pay your uncle philander-behind-his-back, i want to do my share." and to this, amy replied imperturbably that she need not worry, for uncle philander-behind-his-back would be paid in full, without her assistance. "it really is a pity peggy couldn't come." the trio was fairly on its way. "she knows more about such work than any of us." "i'm afraid peggy wouldn't be much of a help to-day," replied amy. "peggy not a help? why not?" priscilla's manner indicated that if any criticism of peggy were implied, she would not stand for it. "peggy's conscience is such a johnny-on-the-spot," amy explained. "it never seems to take a vacation the way ours do, and i'm afraid it would be dreadfully in the way to-day." "why, what do you mean?" demanded priscilla and ruth together. amy opened the little grip she carried, produced a small-sized can of paint and handed it to priscilla. a similar one was bestowed on the perplexed ruth, and then amy leaned back and looked from one to the other triumphantly. "what do you want me to do with it?" frowned priscilla. then with a violent start, "why, amy lassell!" "well?" "this paint is moss green." "and this," cried ruth excitedly, "is yellow." "and in here," explained amy, patting her bag tenderly, "are all the colors of the rainbow in half pint cans. did you ever see an exhibition of cubist pictures?" "yes, once," replied priscilla mechanically, while ruth too amazed for words, stared dumbly at her friend. "well, that is the way aunt phoebe's floor is going to look when we are through with it." "why, amy," gasped ruth, suddenly finding her voice. "you can't do anything like that. he wouldn't let you." "he won't be there. i've arranged for aunt phoebe to take him off for the day. the key to the house has been left hanging on the back porch." "does she know?" "she doesn't, for i thought it was best for her to be able to say she didn't know a thing about it. but she suspects that something's in the wind." priscilla hesitated. "i suppose your idea is--" "my idea is to make such a looking floor that he will be only too glad to buy a carpet to cover it." the three girls looked at one another, and then ruth gave a little nervous giggle. after a minute priscilla joined in. and then all three leaned back in the seats in a paroxysm of silent laughter, while their fellow passengers regarded them enviously. "well, i don't know but you're right about peggy," admitted priscilla, at length, wiping her eyes. "i'm pretty sure she would not have approved." "i think it serves him just right," declared ruth. "i detest stingy people." "it does serve him right," said amy. "he has plenty of money, but he hates to part with any of it. poor aunt phoebe has a little money of her own, and before she married him she got no end of fun out of doing things for other people. and now the dear old soul can't even treat her friends to strawberries without being humiliated. anyway," concluded amy with decision, "i'm bound she shall have a carpet for her living room next winter." they found the farm house on the hill silent and deserted, the back door locked, and the key hanging in such plain view that it seemed an invitation to enter. indoors they found the living room made ready against their coming. all the furniture had been moved into adjoining rooms and the floor had been given an extra and quite unnecessary scrubbing. the girls hastily arrayed themselves for the work. priscilla and amy had brought along the outfits they had worn as farmerettes, while ruth donned a worn-out bathing suit. then amy pried off the covers of her array of cans, and presented each of her friends with a small paintbrush. the fun began. amy's suggestion that a striking design should be painted in the middle of the room, and at each of the four corners, was enthusiastically accepted, and priscilla at once undertook the execution of a chinese dragon in the corner of the room which was most in evidence to one standing in the doorway. amy taking possession of the can of yellow paint, set herself to reproduce a sunrise in the center of the room, the yellow rays radiating from the central golden orb in the most realistic manner. ruth, her imagination stimulated by the discovery of a can of black paint, promptly set about balancing priscilla's dragon by a black cat in the opposite corner, its back arched like a bow, and its tail standing upright like an ebony plume. they splashed about, admiring one another's work enthusiastically and complacently accepting compliments for their own. and when the various masterpieces had been executed to the satisfaction of the artists, they fell to work filling in the remaining spaces with gaily colored rhomboids, red, yellow, green, black, and purple. nothing more gorgeous than aunt phoebe's painted floor could possibly be imagined. even the highly colored chromos on the wall paled before it. in some respects it suggested an old-fashioned crazy-quilt, though when the dragon and the black cat were taken into account, it was more like a bad case of nightmare. after the girls had finished, they withdrew to the next room and, gazing upon it, tried to imagine the sensations of uncle philander-behind-his-back when its kaleidoscopic magnificence should break upon his astonished gaze. suddenly they were panic-stricken for fear the occupants of the farm house should return before they had taken their departure. they dressed in such haste that they failed to get the full benefit of the bottle of turpentine amy had brought along for cleansing purposes, and they went back to town with green and purple smudges on their fingers. as soon as they had reached home, they descended on peggy to tell her of the manner in which they had fulfilled amy's promise, and peggy listened with amazement tinged with admiration. "i'm rather glad you didn't tell me, for i'm afraid i should have thrown cold water, and i can't help thinking it's exactly what uncle philander-behind-his-back deserves. and if it really drives him into buying a new carpet, i shall feel satisfied that you've done the right thing." the four girls had agreed to play tennis saturday of that week, but early saturday morning amy called peggy up to ask to be excused. "aunt phoebe is coming in town for some shopping," she explained, and interrupted herself by an ecstatic giggle. "and she wants me to go with her. she wants me to help her select a carpet for the sitting room." chapter iv an afternoon call priscilla sat at her little dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror with an absorbed intentness which would have impressed nine observers out of ten as a naïve exhibition of vanity. this verdict, however, would have been most unfair. though many people considered priscilla a really handsome girl, she had always been inclined to be unduly modest regarding her personal appearance. her present scrutiny was solely for the purpose of discovering the blemish which she was sure must be apparent to all beholders. for a girl of her age, priscilla had thought very little about the opposite sex. her devotion to peggy had been a sufficient outlet for her sentiment, while her contempt for those girls who could think and talk of nothing but the "boys" had, perhaps, led her to go needlessly far in the opposite direction. the youths who had fluttered mothlike about the tall, graceful girl had met such a baffling indifference that they had transferred their attentions to some more responsive luminary, while priscilla went on her way unruffled. but this year things were different. the four friendly terrace chums were no longer sufficient to themselves. peggy was engaged. since nelson hallowell's return from the service, he had been a very frequent caller at ruth's home. and on one or two occasions when priscilla had run over to amy's in the evening, she had found one of the porch chairs occupied by robert carey. priscilla began to have a feeling of being left out, new in her experience and most unpleasant. she wondered what there was about her to differentiate her from other girls. she studied her reflection, dreading yet half expecting to see some flaw which would inevitably repel the beholder. on this particular afternoon as priscilla faced herself in the glass and tried to discover the defects that kept admirers at a distance, affairs had reached a crisis. the university field day had long been a thrilling occasion to many of the young people of the city, not merely because of their interest in the various events, but because it was customary for each of the young fellows who attended to ask some girl to accompany him. priscilla had taken it for granted that peggy would go with graham, and was not surprised to learn that nelson had been promised the pleasure of ruth's company on the important occasion. but when she had suggested to amy that they should go together, and amy after a moment's hesitation had replied, "why, the fact is, priscilla, bob carey has asked me to go with him," priscilla was conscious of a distinct shock. her subsequent dejection had nothing to do with the prospect of missing field day. but when she asked herself if she were really the least attractive girl in the world, she could see no escape from an affirmative answer. it was while she sat there, heavy-hearted and vaguely resentful, that the maid brought up a card, one of those small, inobtrusive slips of cardboard which proclaim the modesty of the socially inclined male. priscilla took it, impressed in spite of herself. though she was old enough to have become accustomed to such little conventions, the life of a college girl is so necessarily informal that few people who came to see priscilla announced their presence in this fashion. and this was the first time a young man had sent up his card to priscilla. "mr. horace endicott hitchcock," read priscilla, and if the truth be told, she was conscious of an undefined disappointment. she had known horace hitchcock for a dozen years, ever since a smug little boy in a velvet suit, he had attended the children's parties which were her earliest social dissipations. as he was about three years older than priscilla she had admired him extremely in those days when the velvet suit was much in evidence. but her attitude had altered long before she had considered herself too old to play dolls. horace's boyhood had been a trying period. he had never had a boy friend, the lads of his own age agreeing with contemptuous unanimity that he was a "sissy." perhaps for the same reason, the girls had found him as little appealing. but as he neared his majority, horace had blossomed into a belated popularity. he was somewhat effeminate as far as his appearance went. he talked very rapidly, and used more gestures than is customary with young americans. horace dressed in excellent taste, and was somewhat of an authority on shirts and ties and matters equally important. although he was supposed to be an insurance solicitor, he was never too occupied to attend any social affair at any hour of the day, and this gave him an advantage over the young men who were on duty till five o'clock or later. priscilla had seen very little of him since she had entered college, and now as she looked at his card she only wondered if he had come to ask her to play for some entertainment. priscilla gave a last dissatisfied glance at her reflection in the glass, captured a stray lock with a hairpin, and went downstairs. sensible girl as she was, she found herself impressed by horace's greeting. he bowed very low over her hand, like the hero of a picture play, and drew up a chair for her with great elegance of manner. to a girl suffering from lack of proper self-esteem, his air of deference was peculiarly soothing. yet even then, it never occurred to priscilla that this was a social call. she listened to horace's voluble talk, made such replies as seemed necessary, noted approvingly the perfect fit of his light suit, and the fact that his tie matched his silk socks, and waited patiently for him to come to the point. something like twenty minutes had passed when priscilla reached a realizing sense of the situation. all at once, while horace was describing minutely the country house where he had spent the previous week-end, priscilla gave a little start and colored high. it had just dawned upon her that horace had not come upon any utilitarian errand, that he was there for the sole purpose of seeing her. it took her a little time to adjust herself to the novel idea, and if horace had asked her a point-blank question during the interval, she would not have known whether to answer yes or no, for she had not the least idea what he was talking about. then priscilla waked up. she exerted herself to be charming. she talked almost as fluently as horace himself. she laughed delightedly at his little jests; though, if the truth be told, horace's humor was decidedly anemic. she listened raptly to his stories of his achievements, and was ready with the expected admiring smile when the time arrived. a curious sense of unreality possessed her. she felt as if she were taking part in an exciting game. "miss priscilla," said horace suddenly, "are you at all interested in field day?" "it's not so bad when one knows the men," priscilla replied, and the answer showed the effect of horace's influence in a little over half an hour. for priscilla adored field day. when she watched the various events her heart pounded as if she herself were taking part in the hundred yard dash. at the close of an exciting race, she had often found herself on her feet, shrieking spasmodically, and waving her handkerchief, and feeling the smart of tears in her strained eyes. but instinctively priscilla knew that horace would not consider field day a legitimate cause for excitement, and so she answered as she did. "sometimes i find it a deuce of a bore," horace said. "the crowd and the noise, don't you know. but if you are willing to accompany me next friday, miss priscilla, i'm sure this field day will prove a delightful exception." "oh, thank you," priscilla said carelessly. "i should enjoy going very much." her nonchalant acceptance of the invitation gave no idea of her tumultuous excitement. she was no longer the odd one of the quartette of chums. she was no longer left out. her misgivings regarding herself were instantaneously set at rest, for she knew that, had she been as unattractive as she had feared, horace hitchcock would never have invited her to accompany him on such an occasion. her pulses throbbed, and there was a humming in her ears as she chattered on without any clear idea of what she was saying. priscilla's feeling of elation had nothing to do with horace's personality. had he been any other young man, equally well dressed and well mannered, she would have felt exactly the same. yet under the circumstances she experienced a not unreasonable sense of gratitude. she shut her eyes to the little affectations of manner which ordinarily she would have found amusing. she refused to acknowledge to herself that horace was bragging. she had never liked him, and the horace who had invited her to the field day exercises was in all essentials the horace of the velvet suit; yet now, if she had heard him criticized, she would have rushed impetuously to his defense. in short, priscilla was started on a course which many an older and wiser woman has followed to disaster. priscilla was in no hurry to mention the fact that she expected to be a spectator of the field day events. the very intensity of her previous qualms made her the more inclined to treat the present situation nonchalantly. on thursday evening, however, she remarked casually to peggy that she hoped their seats would not be too far separated. peggy looked up in pleased surprise. "are you going, priscilla? i'm awful glad. who's taking you?" "horace hitchcock." "horace hitchcock!" peggy repeated the name in such accents of astonishment that priscilla flushed. "why not?" she asked rather coldly. "i didn't know you saw anything of him." "i've known him as long as i've known you--almost as long as i've known anybody." "why, of course, priscilla. i remember when we used to see him at parties in a fauntleroy suit. but i've lost track of him for an age and i thought you had, too, that's all." there was an underlying astonishment in peggy's apology. she could not understand priscilla's seeming readiness to take offense. and when priscilla began to talk of something quite different, peggy realized with fresh amazement that the peculiarities of horace hitchcock were, for the present, a tabooed topic between them. chapter v the rummage sale summer vacation! although the field day exercises, and the few commencement festivities to which undergraduates are invited, were only four days past, classes and lessons seemed to the quartet never to have existed; or if so, only in a dream. and it would be the same way when college began again in the fall. summer, of a few days before, would be a dim memory of the past. though they had not heard from their examinations, they all felt reasonably confident of having passed successfully. at any rate, they had put the thought of them resolutely out of mind, following peggy's, "one thing at a time, and when it's done, it doesn't do any good worrying about it." those four days had been devoted to concentrated doing nothing. "'dulce far niente' is such a pretty phrase it makes a virtue of loafing," said priscilla. and to this, for the time being, the other three agreed. it was indirectly through horace hitchcock that the friendly terrace girls became interested in the rummage sale. for at the field day exercises horace and priscilla had happened to occupy seats in the grand stand next to mrs. sidney vanderpool, and horace, who seemed a prime favorite with that influential lady, had introduced priscilla. mrs. vanderpool was in charge of a rummage sale to be held for the benefit of a local charity, and recognizing priscilla's efficiency at a glance, she had promptly enlisted her under her banner. since whatever concerned one of the friendly terrace quartette concerned all, mrs. vanderpool in securing priscilla's coöperation had gained four new assistants. it was peggy, strange to say, whose enthusiasm it was hardest to kindle. "somehow i never thought much of rummage sales," she owned. "perhaps it is because _rummage_ always reminds me of _rubbish_." "but that's not fair, peggy," priscilla remonstrated. "every family has a lot of things packed away that would be a blessing to people a little poorer." peggy reflected. "i can't think of anything we could spare that would be much of a blessing to any one." "you haven't looked your things over with that thought in mind. take mrs. vanderpool, for instance. why, she'd discard a piece of furniture we would be proud to put in the parlor. a chair or sofa we'd think too shabby to have around would seem magnificent to your friends, the bonds." "i suppose there's something in that," owned peggy. "of course there is. thanks to the rummage sales, people get rid of a lot of stuff that's no further good to them; and other people get a great many things that they can use, and pay almost nothing for them." "if they pay so little, why does mrs. vanderpool expect to make such a lot of money!" demanded peggy. "look at the five-and-ten cent stores. little profits count up, if you make sales enough. and in a rummage sale the expenses are so small that almost everything is profit." peggy began to think that her prejudice had been unreasonable, and she hunted the house over to find something worth contributing. but her search was far from satisfactory to herself. mrs. raymond was not one of the house-keepers who make a practice of hoarding useless articles. if a piece of furniture broke down, she had it mended if it were worth repairing; if not, she either gave it to some poor family who could make use of it, or else had it carted away by the rubbish collector. when peggy's exhaustive search ended, she had succeeded in collecting for the sale only a few pieces of crockery and a carpet-sweeper which had outlived its halcyon days, though still capable of picking threads off the carpet. the sale was to be held in a large vacant store in the down-town district, and was to last three days. all contributors had been asked to send their offerings several days in advance, and the friendly terrace girls, with a score of others, were on hand to assist in classifying the articles as they arrived, and were arranging them so as to make the best possible showing. as peggy worked with the others, she was conscious of a return of her former misgivings. undoubtedly among the contributions arriving by the wagon load there were many articles which would be useful to some one, but peggy wondered who would be able to make use of the cracked pitchers and leaky kitchen utensils which were coming in such quantities. she looked disapprovingly at the loads of worn-out finery, displayed on the clothing table. in her opinion people who would buy second-hand evening dresses ought not to afford any. of the flimsy evening frocks, most of them cut excessively low, some were spotted and soiled, while others were torn and generally bedraggled. peggy made up her mind that under no circumstances would she be a saleswoman at that table. the array of bric-a-brac aroused similar qualms. looking the collection over, peggy wondered at the things people had once regarded as ornamental. and even though they now realized their error, and were glad to rid themselves of these offenses against good taste, it seemed to peggy rather hard that they should encourage the unenlightened to purchase such monstrosities under the mistaken notion that they were beautifying their homes. she was glad to turn to the book table where, if nowhere else, really worth-while bargains were offered. there were piles of the best magazines, many of them with the leaves uncut. there were odd volumes of classic writers, the most of which seemed in excellent condition. peggy set herself to make the book table as inviting as possible, in hopes that the sales would be gratifying. but while her original misgivings had returned in full force, peggy said nothing about them. as far as she could see, they were unshared by any person present. the three girls who were her most intimate friends were working away enthusiastically, their bright faces unclouded by a doubt. peggy had been a little startled by the discovery that amy had deliberately left her out of the plot for painting aunt phoebe's sitting-room floor. it led her to wonder if perhaps she was over-particular. "no one else seems to see anything out of the way," peggy reflected. "it seems as if it must be all right, if i'm the only one who thinks it isn't. oh, dear, i hope i'm not getting so critical and fussy that i imagine that things are wrong when they're not." again her thoughts turned to aunt phoebe's painted floor. if amy had asked her coöperation, she would have refused, and would have done her best to dissuade amy from her reckless scheme. but the results had been all that could be desired. aunt phoebe had her new carpet, and was radiantly happy, while uncle philander-behind-his-back had undoubtedly been taught a lesson he sorely needed. strange to say, he did not seem to hold any grudge against amy for taking sides against him. amy, who had been out to admire the new carpet, reported that he had received her without any display of animosity, and unprotestingly had allowed aunt phoebe to serve her with ice cream. "it must be that i'm getting too particular," thought peggy. "this time i won't say a word." she broke her resolution, however, when the committee, who had been delegated to mark the prices of each article, set to work. peggy had comforted herself by recalling priscilla's assurance that everything would be sold at prices almost too small to mention. instead, it seemed to the astonished peggy that a good price was set on articles which from her standpoint were quite valueless. "o, don't you think that is too much?" she could not help exclaiming as one of the committee attached a price card to a three legged chair, which kept an upright position only by balancing itself against a rickety table. the lady smiled upon her. "we'll have the prices rather high the first day," she replied. "of course we want to make all we can. then we'll reduce them for the second day, and on the third we'll take anything we can get." peggy did not return the smile. she was perplexed and troubled. she was beginning to realize that though these women were working for charity, they knew very little about the practical problems of the poor. she looked at the three-legged chair and wondered what she would do if she saw some reckless mother of a family preparing to squander real money on anything so worthless. although peggy had expressed a wish to be stationed at the book table, mrs. vanderpool had insisted on placing her among the household furnishings. "you've got such a winning way, my dear," she said, "and you would be wasted on the books. nobody buys books at a rummage sale except the people who would buy them anyway. i'm expecting great things from that persuasive tongue of yours." peggy blushed guiltily, even while she smiled. she was glad mrs. vanderpool had such a complimentary idea of her persuasive powers and hoped she would not disappoint her. from the hour of its opening, the rummage sale was crowded. peggy's heart went out to the women who came pouring in as soon as the doors were opened to the public. many of them had a distinctly foreign look. they came hatless, holding their money tightly, and looking about them with sharp, dark eyes in search of the bargains they coveted. in the evening the shop girls and factory workers were out in full force, and peggy noticed uneasily how inevitably they gravitated toward the cast-off finery which had aroused her disapproval. she turned her back that she might not be a witness to the thriving business she suspected that department of doing. but resolving to allow events to take their course without a protest, peggy had failed to reckon with her inborn inability to shirk responsibility. the formula which acts as a sedative to so many consciences, "it's none of my business," had never proved effective in her case. and though she stuck to her resolution on the first day, the developments of the second proved too much for her. it was late on that afternoon when she noticed a flutter at one of the adjacent counters, and discovered to her astonishment, that the occasion of the excitement was an acquaintance of her own, no other than the husband of elvira bond. peggy had always felt a certain responsibility for elvira, due to the fact that she had known the good-natured, slatternly girl ever since she could remember. mrs. bond had done the raymonds' washing, off and on for many years, less because of her excellence as a laundress, than because she needed the work. then elvira had grown up, and taken her mother's place at the wash-tubs. the year of america's entry into the war she had unexpectedly married a young man considerably above her in the social scale, who had immediately been called to the colors. elvira's romance had been her awakening. to peggy's attentive ear she had confided her dawning aspirations. "joe likes things neat and clean," she explained, a little wistfulness in her voice. "not cluttered up the way ma keeps 'em. and i'd hate to make him ashamed of me." "of course you would," peggy had cried. "and there's not a bit of need, elvira. why, of course you can keep your house as nice as anybody's. all you've got to do is to make up your mind that you will." in the absence of the young husband peggy had a watchful eye on elvira. she had done her best to keep alive the girl's newly awakened ambitions, in spite of the discouraging home atmosphere. and after joe's return she had frequently gone to see elvira in the little home the young couple had purchased, and were paying for on the installment plan. in view of the girl's bringing up, it is hardly surprising that she had her relapses; but on the whole, peggy was proud of her. elvira worked hard, was developing a commendable thrift, and was extremely proud of her little home and of her baby. it was at one of the bric-a-brac tables that peggy discovered elvira's husband, and he seemed, as far as she could judge from his manner and the manner of the women who were calling his attention to one thing after another, on the point of investing largely in the heterogeneous collection. but he happened to look over his shoulder in peggy's direction, recognized her instantly, and came toward her, his face irradiated by a broad smile. "afternoon, miss peggy," he exclaimed. "i'm looking around. i'm thinking of buying a few little things to take home to the wife." he slapped his pocket. "it's pay-day, miss peggy, and the best ain't none too good for elvira and the kid, i'll swear it ain't." peggy looked at him silently. it was the era of prohibition, yet an unmistakable odor radiated from joe's person and confirmed the suspicion aroused by his unnatural manner. peggy's heart sank. all unconscious of her dismay, joe was examining her stock. "what's that, miss peggy?" he indicated by a gesture the object which had aroused his interest. "that is a churn, joe." "fine! fine! i've been wanting a churn ever since i got married. what's the damage?" "but you can't want a churn, joe; you don't keep a cow." "no telling, miss peggy, i might buy a cow 'most any day." but his vacillating attention went to a battered table and he gave it a seemingly close examination. "i'll take it, miss peggy," he declared with a wave of his hand, "just the thing for our front room." "why, joe, elvira has a table for the front room already." "can't have too much of a good thing, you know," grinned joe. "say i like the looks of that." peggy's eyes followed his extended finger and she frowned. "why, joe, that's a coffee urn, and it wouldn't be suitable for a small family. besides, it leaks." "i'm bound to take home something, miss peggy," snickered joe. "nothing small about me. my pockets are pretty well lined, and you'll find me a good customer." "joe," said peggy desperately, "listen to me. you don't want any of this stuff in your pretty little home. it's not good enough." "i guess i know what i want." "no, joe. you must excuse me, but to-day you don't know what you want. if you were quite yourself you'd never think of taking elvira home a rickety table or a churn." "you mean to tell me that i'm drunk." joe's manner had lost its suavity. his eyes flashed as he regarded her. "no, joe, you're not drunk, but you've been drinking and you're not yourself. and i know by to-morrow you'll feel awfully sorry if you have carried a lot of rubbish into your dear little home." for a moment joe wavered between amiability and anger. his masculine pride was touched by the implication that he did not know his own mind, and alcohol had quickened his propensity to take offense. but on the other hand, there was something disarming in the way peggy spoke of his wife and his home, and her smile was appealing. mrs. vanderpool had counted on her winning way and it was as effective as she had hoped, though peggy did not apply it exactly as she had expected of her. after a moment's hesitation, joe capitulated. "i guess you're right, miss peggy. when a fellow's had a few drinks, most anything looks like a bargain. guess this is a lot of junk." "there's nothing here that you and elvira want, i'm sure of that, joe." "good-by, miss peggy." "good-by, joe. tell elvira i'll be over to see her very soon." peggy drew a breath of relief when she saw joe leave the building. but her congratulatory mood was not to last. for not long after joe's departure, she became aware of mrs. vanderpool at her elbow. "well, you had a profitable customer at last," smiled the lady. "wanted to buy you out, didn't he?" the possibility of evasion did not occur to peggy. she lifted her frank eyes. "he talked about buying a lot of useless things," she answered, "but of course i wouldn't let him. you see, he'd been drinking and he didn't really know what he wanted. and besides, i know his wife." the blank expression with which mrs. vanderpool regarded her made plain the impossibility of their ever coming to an understanding. peggy started to go on, and then lapsed into silence, realizing the uselessness of further explanations. mrs. vanderpool having relieved her mind by a long stare, turned majestically away, and peggy heard her a little later, talking animatedly of some one who, it appeared, was totally lacking in the business instinct. peggy thought she could come very near guessing the identity of the person referred to. but as she went on pointing out to possible purchasers the flaws in her wares, she made up her mind that the chance of being over-particular in matters of right and wrong was very trifling compared with the danger of not being particular enough. chapter vi priscilla has a secret peggy was worried about priscilla. for the first time in their years of intimacy she could not understand her friend; and worst of all, it seemed out of the question to discuss the situation and come to an understanding. "do you think she can like him?" peggy asked the other friendly terrace girls despairingly. "because he's always seemed to me almost a joke. i don't know how i could bear to have priscilla fall in love with a man i wanted to laugh at." though both girls would have been glad to reassure her, an ominous silence followed her outbreak. "there's no accounting for tastes," said ruth at length, a suggestion of superiority in her tone. "priscilla ought to have a good talking to," exclaimed amy. "she's got plenty of sense, and to think of her letting horace hitchcock hang around! i'd like to tell her--" "you mustn't, amy," peggy interrupted. "it would never do to let her know how you feel about it. that's one of the things that make me so anxious--she's so awfully touchy on the subject of horace. she won't have him criticized." peggy had valiantly done her best to cultivate a liking for horace hitchcock. since the fatal field day when he had acted as priscilla's escort, his attentions had been unremitting. he had called several times a week. he had brought priscilla flowers and boxes of candy, to say nothing of books of poems, from which he had read aloud to her by the hour. peggy, assuming that since priscilla was seeing so much of horace, he must be quite a different person from what she supposed, had invited him to her home along with the others of her little circle, only to find it would not do. horace and the others would not mix any more than oil and water. "for heaven's sake, don't ask that hitchcock here again," graham implored peggy, after an evening that had been a failure, socially considered. "he puts on airs as if he were the prince of wales--no, that's not fair to the prince. but hitchcock is a snob and a sissy and he makes me tired." "but if priscilla likes him, graham--" "she can't," graham had argued, not unreasonably. "she must see through him just as the rest of us do; and even while she's so pleasant to him, she must be laughing in her sleeve." but reasonable as graham's stand had seemed, priscilla was in no mood to laugh at horace hitchcock. indeed, she was deliberately shutting her eyes to his weaknesses, and holding before herself such an idealized likeness of the real horace that no one but herself would have recognized it. horace's attentions flattered her vanity. every call helped to reassure her anxiety in the matter of her own attractiveness. moreover, priscilla was a little dazzled by horace's seeming familiarity with the people whose names were chronicled in the society columns of the daily paper. she had seen for herself that mrs. sidney vanderpool regarded him with favor, and horace had been at some pains to let her know that other ladies, some of them young and beautiful, held him in equally high esteem. that he should leave girls, who could not go to new york for a week without the fact brought to the public attention in the daily papers, in order that he might spend his evenings with her, gave priscilla an intoxicating sense of power. but foolish as this all was, worse was to come, and all because amy disregarded peggy's prudent counsel. peggy had discovered an undue sensitiveness in priscilla, where horace was concerned, and had been sensible enough to perceive that any criticism of her ardent admirer, instead of prejudicing priscilla against him, was likely to have the opposite effect. it hardly need be said that amy did not flout peggy's advice, but in the course of a conversation with priscilla she lost her temper and subsequently her head. it began with a most amiable intention on amy's part. "is horace coming up to-night?" she asked priscilla, as the two strolled along the terrace in the hazy hush of a summer afternoon. "i--i shouldn't be surprised to see him," owned priscilla, with a becoming blush. "bob telephoned me this morning that he'd be up. if horace comes, bring him over and i'll try to get peggy and ruth--" "shall you ask nelson hallowell?" priscilla inquired, a reservation in her tone which amy did not understand. "i'll tell ruth to bring him if he comes, and he's pretty sure to be on hand," laughed amy. "he's making up for the chances he missed when he was in the service." "then i'm afraid we can't come," said priscilla. "horace thinks bob carey is fine, and he rather likes graham, but he draws the line at nelson." amy stopped short, her plump face crimson. "please tell me what you mean by his drawing the line?" "well, amy, i've no doubt that nelson is a very fine fellow, as far as morals go, but his social position, you know--" "what about it?" as the two girls were standing side by side, it was quite unnecessary for amy to speak so loudly. her defiant tone seemed to challenge the entire block. "hush, amy. i'm not deaf. of course nelson comes from quite an ordinary family, and he's only a clerk, and horace really doesn't care to meet him socially." amy burst into an angry laugh. "horace hitchcock said that. what a joke!" "i don't quite understand you, amy." priscilla spoke with extreme frigidity. "why, there's enough in nelson hallowell's little finger to make several horaces. to think of that dandified little manikin's turning up his nose at a fellow like nelson." "amy lassell, how dare you?" "oh, fudge, priscilla, you know perfectly well what horace hitchcock is, and you needn't pretend to admire him, for i know better." "i won't listen to you any longer," cried priscilla furiously, "slandering my friends." she turned abruptly and crossed the street. the two girls continued on their homeward way with the width of the terrace between them, each looking steadily ahead, ignoring the other's presence. before amy reached home she was sorry. she saw she had been wrong as well as right. her whole-hearted championship of nelson had not necessitated sneering at horace. amy realized that priscilla had good reason to be angry, and resolved on a whole-hearted apology next day. it was a pity she had not followed up her feeling of penitence by immediate action, for when horace came that evening he found priscilla in an unwonted mood. she had dramatized the whole affair to herself. everyone was unjust to horace. even peggy allowed her childish prejudices to influence her unwarrantedly. but she herself was horace's friend and she would be loyal to that friendship, cost what it might. a few minutes after his arrival horace suggested a walk in the neighboring park, which had been so little "improved" that walking through it was almost like strolling along country lanes. though the night was warm, most of the populace preferred the movies, and horace and priscilla had the park practically to themselves. the night wind sighed languorously through the trees. the air was full of ineffable fragrances. "oh, priscilla," exclaimed horace suddenly, and caught her hand. it seemed to priscilla that her heart stood still. there was a note in horace's voice she had never heard before. she was sure that something wonderful was happening. and the irritating part was that she could not do justice to it, for she kept thinking of something else. she should, she was sure, be entirely absorbed in what horace was going to say; and right at that moment, she wondered if ruth and nelson were sitting on amy's porch. "oh, priscilla," horace was murmuring, "do you not feel as i do, that we have met and loved before? you were mine, priscilla, when the pyramids were building. you were mine in babylon. tell me that you have not forgotten. tell me that you love me." it was only about half an hour from that impassioned speech before they were walking home decorously along the lighted streets, but priscilla had a feeling as if she had been away for months and months. an unbelievable thing had happened. she was engaged. it was understood that the engagement was not to be mentioned at present, not even to priscilla's father and mother. horace had said something to the effect that to let outsiders into their secret would bruise the petals of the flower of love, and she had agreed to the postponement of that catastrophe, without asking herself why the flower of love should be so fragile. but the fact remained that she was the second of the quartette to become engaged, and she took a rather foolish satisfaction in the realization. she made up her mind that her former qualms as to her own unattractiveness were without foundation, for otherwise a social favorite like horace would never have asked her to marry him. priscilla's father and mother were on the porch when the young people reached home, and, as it was much too warm to stay indoors, the evening which had contained so thrilling an episode ended rather tamely. mr. combs and horace exchanged ideas on local politics, and mrs. combs and horace expressed themselves on the subject of the weather. priscilla had nothing to say on either interesting topic. she was trying to realize that some day, instead of saying "mr. combs" and "mrs. combs," horace would be addressing her parents as "father" and "mother." this seemed so extraordinary that she was almost inclined to believe that she had dreamed the whole thing, though the significantly tender pressure of horace's fingers, as he said good-night, assured her to the contrary. priscilla slept very poorly that night. her dreams were troubled. and each time she woke, which was on the average of once an hour, she had a dreadful sense of impending disaster. on each occasion it took her several minutes to convince herself that nothing was wrong, that instead she was a very fortunate and happy girl, singled out of the world of girls by a most unusual young man. and thus reassured, she would drop off to sleep, to start again with troubled dreams, and to go again through the whole program. owing to her restless night, priscilla overslept and had to dress in a hurry to avoid being late to breakfast. by expedition she reached the dining room just after her mother had seated herself. her father followed a half minute later, and leaning over her mother's chair kissed her cheek. "know what day it is?" "of course, silly," laughed mrs. combs. "but i'm astonished to hear that you do." smiling broadly, mr. combs went around the table and took his seat. "we should have planned a celebration," he remarked. "what, and advertise our advanced age!" exclaimed his wife in mock consternation. "that's so," owned mr. combs with a chuckle. "i remember when a silver wedding seemed to me significant of extreme age. what do you think, daughter, of having parents old enough to have been married twenty-five years?" then priscilla knew what was the matter with her. she thought of sitting opposite horace hitchcock twice a day, year in and year out, for a quarter of a century, and her heart turned sick within her. all at once she knew how his affections of manner would grate on one who watched them for twenty-five years. he had a way of raising his eye-brows and pursing his mouth which, she was convinced, would drive her frantic in course of time. and then her relentless common-sense, awake at last, went on to assure her that the horace hitchcock who had made love to her in the park the previous evening was in all essentials the smug, vain little boy nobody liked. she watched her father and mother exchanging smiles and knew that such good comradeship between horace and herself was unthinkable. she doubted if there would be a smile left in her after twenty-five years of his society. "you look tired this morning, priscilla," said mr. combs. "and i can't say i wonder. that admirer of yours makes me rather--" "he's a very pleasant boy, i'm sure," interrupted mrs. combs hastily, "though i wish his manners were just a little simpler. but he always looks so neat that it's refreshing to the eye. and by the way, dear, i think you had better see your tailor and get samples for your fall suit. you've got to the point where you must have something." priscilla did not notice her mother's dextrous changing of the subject. she was too absorbed in looking ahead twenty-five weary years. of course, in view of her discovery, the only sensible thing to do was to get in touch with horace, and tell him that the lady with whom he had been on such friendly terms in babylon was an entirely different person. but that sane and simple way of escape never occurred to priscilla. she had given her word. she must stand by it, no matter what it cost. amy came over about eleven o'clock, looking very penitent. "priscilla," she said, "i don't blame you a bit for getting angry yesterday. i'm ashamed of what i said. of course," added amy, her natural candor getting the better of her, "horace hitchcock doesn't appeal to me, but that doesn't excuse me for calling him a manikin, and you have a right to choose your friends to please yourself." priscilla's acceptance of this apology took amy by surprise. she dropped her head on her visitor's shoulder--as priscilla was tall and amy was short, this was a feat requiring considerable dexterity--and burst into tears. chapter vii the friendly terrace orphanage priscilla's engagement, instead of interrupting her intimacy with her chums on friendly terrace, seemed to intensify it. up to the night that she had walked with horace in the park, and he had claimed her on the score of an affection dating back to babylon, priscilla had rather enjoyed informing peggy and others that she would be unable to join in their plans for the evening, as she was expecting a caller. but now all this was changed. instead, when horace called up to suggest coming out, he was very likely to hear that his sweetheart of babylonian days had an imperative engagement with peggy, or ruth, or amy, or more probably with all three. it was after an evening spent at a moving picture house that peggy made a suggestion destined to have more momentous results than she dreamed. they had gone early to avoid the crowd which a popular film is likely to draw even in the warmest weather, and at nine o'clock they were occupying chairs on peggy's porch, and discussing the heat. "how about ice cream?" inquired amy, fanning herself with a magazine some one had left in the hammock. before any one could answer, peggy had interposed with her astonishing suggestion. "girls, i move we adopt a french orphan." amy forgot her interest in ice cream. "a french orphan," she gasped, "what for?" "well, there are plenty of reasons from the orphan's standpoint, and several from ours, it seems to me. do you know we're getting extravagant." "oh, peggy," ruth reproached her. "why, as far as clothes go, i never got along with so few in my life." "i didn't say we were extravagant in clothes. but do you know, we're getting to spend lots of money for little, no-account things. how many nights this week have we been to a movie?" the question was a rhetorical one, as peggy knew the answer as well as any one. but nevertheless amy replied, "we've been three times, but one night the boys took us." "it costs just as much, no matter who pays. there are four of us; and at twenty-five cents apiece, that makes a dollar an evening. three dollars a week for movies, just for us four." "goodness," exclaimed amy in as astonished a tone as if this very simple arithmetical calculation had been beyond her. "that does seem a lot." "and that's not all," continued peggy. "we've had ice cream, or ice cream soda, or something of the sort, at least three times this week, and these days you can't go near a soda fountain for less than fifteen cents, and you're more likely to pay twenty or twenty-five. if we call our bill two dollars, that's putting it pretty low. five dollars, altogether." "that _is_ too much, peggy," priscilla agreed. "unless you stop to count up, you wouldn't believe how much you can spend and all the time think you've been economical. but why the french orphan?" "well, it's awfully hard work saving by main strength, and it's easy enough if you have something to save for. if i happen to feel hungry for ice cream--" amy groaned. "don't!" she said in a hollow voice. "if we're not going to have any, for pity's sake don't talk about it." peggy heartlessly ignored her friend's protest. "if i'm hungry for ice cream, it doesn't do me much good to tell myself that i had a dish night before last. i'll just think, 'oh, well, what's twenty-five cents!' but if i'm saving up for something, it's a different matter. we found that out when we were paying for our liberty bonds." "won't it cost a great deal to adopt an orphan?" asked ruth doubtfully. "why, we won't have to pay all its expenses. but there are lots of french children left without fathers and mothers, who have some relative who can give them a home if they have a little extra to help them out. i think forty dollars will do it." "forty dollars a year?" amy exclaimed in amazement. "i'm pretty sure that's it. mrs. alexander was talking to me about it just the other day, and i'm certain she said forty dollars." "then let's adopt an orphan right away," cried amy. "and we'll have money enough left for sodas." "why, of course i didn't mean we should give up all our good times," peggy exclaimed. "only it seemed to me we were getting a little too extravagant. then if you all agree, i think i'll go and telephone mrs. alexander that we'll take an orphan. she's worried because people aren't as interested as they ought to be." it was while peggy was at the telephone that a small girl appeared, carrying a large bundle. "i've brought home mrs. raymond's dress," she said shyly, looking from one to another of the occupants of the porch. "mrs. raymond isn't home, but miss peggy is. she's telephoning now, but she'll be out in a minute," said priscilla. "you'd better sit down and rest while you wait for her," suggested ruth kindly, pushing forward a porch rocking-chair. the small girl accepted the invitation and looked smaller than ever in the capacious depths of the big chair. peggy came out beaming. "mrs. alexander is perfectly delighted, girls. she says--why, hello, myrtle!" "hello, miss peggy," returned the girl with the bundle. "i brought home your mother's dress. aunt georgie couldn't get it finished any earlier." "mother gave you up for to-night, myrtle. she left at eight o'clock, but i think i know where she put the money." peggy's conjecture proved correct. she brought out the amount of the dressmaker's bill, and having counted it before myrtle's eyes, she folded the bills carefully and stuffed them into myrtle's diminutive pocket book. "shall you be glad when school opens, myrtle?" she asked pleasantly. "i'm not going to school any more, miss peggy." "what! you're going to leave school?" "aunt georgie can't afford to keep me any longer. everything is so high," sighed the child, with a worldly-wise air that would have seemed funny had it not been so apparent that she knew what she was talking about. "but you can't be nearly fourteen, myrtle," protested peggy. "and you were doing so well in school." "i'm twelve in september, but aunt georgie can get permit for me to work, if she can't afford to keep me in school." "would you rather work than go to school?" asked amy, rather tactlessly. the eyes of the little girl filled. she sniffed bravely as she fumbled for her handkerchief. "i like school better," she explained, a catch in her voice. "but i don't like to be a burden." there was a brief silence on the porch as the little figure went down the walk, and then priscilla murmured pityingly, "poor child!" "it's a shame," exclaimed peggy warmly. "she's a bright little thing. she's not twelve till september, and she's ready for the high school already. if she could go to school four years more she'd probably be able to earn a good living, but she'll never do very well if she stops school now, for she's not strong enough for heavy work." "it almost seems a pity," ruth suggested, "that we've just adopted a french orphan. it seems there are orphans right at home who need help just as much." peggy sighed. "i'm not sorry about the french orphan. i suppose we can't imagine the need over there. but i do wish we could do something for myrtle." "peggy raymond," warned amy. "don't let your philanthropy run away with you, and get the idea that we're an orphan asylum. one orphan is all we can manage." "yes, of course," peggy agreed hastily. "only i was wondering--poor little myrtle!" "can't her aunt afford to give her an education?" priscilla asked, "or is she stingy?" "oh, i suppose it's pretty hard for miss burns to get along with everything so expensive. she's not a high-priced dress-maker, and besides she's mortally slow; one of the puttering sort, you know. at the same time," added peggy, "i mean to see her and have a talk with her about myrtle." peggy was as good as her word. as postponement was never one of her weaknesses, she saw miss burns the following day, and the faded little spinster shed tears as she discussed myrtle's future. "of course i know she ought to go on through high school," she sobbed. "she's been at the head of her class right up through the grades, and if she could finish high school, she wouldn't need to ask any odds of anybody. but i've laid awake night after night thinking, and i can't see my way to do it." "if you had a little help, miss burns, i suppose you could manage, couldn't you? what is the very least you could get along on and let myrtle stay in school?" "why she can't earn a great deal of course," said miss burns, wiping her eyes. "she's not old enough for a sales-woman, and she's not strong enough for any hard work, and she don't know anything about stenography." "and what is the very least you think you could take in place of having myrtle go to work?" miss burns was one of the people who have a constitutional aversion to answering a direct question, but peggy's persistence left her no loop-hole of escape. cornered at last, she expressed the opinion that she could do with a hundred dollars. for some reason not quite clear in her own mind, peggy had hoped it might be less, and her face showed her disappointment. "you think that is the very least you could get along on, miss burns." "i'm afraid it is, miss peggy. maybe i should have said a hundred and fifty. look at the price of coal." "oh, i know," peggy agreed. "well, perhaps something will come up so myrtle won't have to leave school. i'm sure i hope so." peggy repeated the substance of her conversation with miss burns to her three chums that afternoon as they were on the way out to amy's aunt phoebe's. for in their efforts to circumvent the high cost of living, the friendly terrace girls had begun making weekly or even semi-weekly visits to the country. the season had been a favorable one for all garden produce, but mr. frost was finding it difficult to get anything like the help he needed. the girls went out into the garden, picked and pulled what they wanted, paid a price which, compared with the charges in the retail markets, seemed extremely reasonable, and came home with loaded market baskets and a tinge of sunburn in their cheeks. the weekly saving paid their car-fare many times over, and the fact that they all were together lent a festive air to the enterprise. peggy's three friends listened silently to their story of her visit to miss burns. peggy's generosity was always leading her to attempt things far too big for her. the girls had stood by her loyally in the matter of the french orphan, but there they drew the line. a second orphan was too much. "i'm sorry," amy said, with an air of dismissing the subject. "but i don't see that we can do anything for her." "you don't think, do you," peggy hesitated, "that we could give a little entertainment--" "oh, peggy, people are bored to death with benefits and drives, and to try to raise money for a little girl nobody knows about would be hopeless, especially when she's no worse off than thousands of others." "i suppose that's so," peggy replied, and reluctantly dropped the subject. under her submission was a persistent hope that something might happen to aid her in the matter she had so much at heart. but the last thing she or any one else would have thought was that such assistance would come from uncle philander-behind-his-back. mr. frost had been having an unusually hard time with help and was in an exceptionally bad humor. he was one of the men who, when out of sorts, invariable relieve their minds by criticism of the opposite sex. he had heard the girls chattering as they picked the lima beans, and doubtless that furnished the text for his ill-natured sermon. "women's tongues do beat all," he declared, as the girls came to the house to pay their reckoning. "it's small wonder they don't count much when it comes to work. they get themselves all wore out talking." "i think we do some other things beside talking," declared peggy, dimpling in a disarming fashion. "and i can't see that we say any sillier things than men do," added amy. "o, men can talk or be quiet, just as they please, but a woman's got to talk or die. you couldn't pay her enough to get her to hold her tongue." "you could pay me enough," said peggy with spirit. "me, too," amy cried. uncle philander-behind-his-back sneered contemptuously. "why, i'd give you four a hundred dollars to hold your tongues for a week." "girls," cried peggy turning to her friends, "i move we take him up on that." had uncle philander-behind-his-back been less disagreeable, less contemptuous, the girls might have hesitated, for a week of silence is an ordeal to the least voluble. but mr. frost's sneers, combined with peggy's enthusiasm, swept them off their feet. "yes, we'll take you up," amy cried, and priscilla and ruth nodded approval. uncle philander was a little taken aback, and showed it. "you understand when i said hold your tongues, i meant it. if there's an _aye_, _yes_, or _no_ out of any of the four of you, it's all off." "of course," agreed the four girls in chorus. mr. frost was plainly growing nervous. "of course i haven't any way to keep tab on you." "philander," cried his wife, bristling with indignation, "if you think amy or any of her friends would lie for the sake of money--" "no, i didn't mean that," he half apologized. "i put all four of you on your honor. not a word out of you, not so much as an _ouch_." "but we can write notes and explain to our families, of course," cried peggy. "of course," cried amy, as mr. frost hesitated. "and talk on our fingers. all you said was _tongues_." "you can write all the notes you want to," conceded uncle philander generously. now that he had time to think of it, he was convinced that the conditions he had imposed could not possibly be complied with. who had ever heard of four lively girls maintaining an unbroken silence for a week? his hundred dollars was safe. after some discussion it was decided that the week should begin the following morning, to give the girls ample chance to explain their singular undertaking to their friends. and then the four started off with their heavy baskets, chattering excitedly, as if in the hopes of saying in the few hours remaining before bed time, all they would ordinarily have said in the next seven days. chapter viii the longest week on record it was a thursday when the four friendly terrace girls entered on their remarkable contract with uncle philander-behind-his-back, and friday began the longest week recorded in the experiences of any of the four. according to the calendar, it contained only the usual seven days. according to the clock, each of these days consisted of the customary twenty-four hours. but the four chums knew better. it was at least a month long. they had spent thursday evening explaining the situation to their friends and relatives and saying good-by as if for a week's absence. it was not to be expected that their news would meet the same reception in all quarters. fathers and mothers, while not exactly approving, were on the whole rather amused, and inclined to take the attitude that girls will be girls. among their friends outside, their announcement was received with a surprise that was sometimes suggestive of enjoyment, and again of indignation. peggy found graham particularly obdurate. "not to speak to me for a week? well, i like that!" "i can write you letters, dear." "letters!" graham's repetition of the word was anything but flattering to peggy's epistolary efforts. "of course," he went on in a milder tone, "i love your letters when i'm away from you. but to read letters instead of talking to you is like--like eating dried apple pie in october." "it's only a week," said peggy, but she sighed. and her sigh would have been much more vehement had she dreamed how long that week would prove. priscilla writing a little note to horace hitchcock did not sigh over the prospect that she could exchange no words with him for seven days. indeed she was conscious of a profound relief. recently horace had taken up the philosophical style in conversation, and priscilla, as she listened, frequently found herself unable to understand a word he was saying. at first she assumed that this was due to her not having given him sufficiently close attention, and she had chided herself for her wandering thoughts. but things were no better when she listened her hardest. priscilla knew that she was not a fool. she had finished her junior year in college, and her class standing in all philosophical subjects had been excellent. if she could not understand what horace was talking about, she felt reasonably sure that the explanation was not in her own intellectual lack but because horace was talking nonsense. the polysyllables he used so glibly and the epigrammatic phrases which to the unthinking might have seemed indicative of erudition and originality, when priscilla came to analyze them seemed to have no more relation to one another than glittering beads strung on a wire. priscilla was driven to the conclusion that horace had been reading literature considerably over his head, and that he was reproducing for her benefit a sort of _pot-pourri_ of recollections, blended without much regard to their original connection. but this was not the only reason why priscilla had a sense of relief in writing to ask horace not to call for a week. as the days went on, the thought of her silver wedding had been increasingly painful. horace's affectations, to which for a time she had deliberately closed her eyes, were continually more glaringly in evidence. once, when they were alone, priscilla had tremulously hinted that perhaps they had been mistaken in supposing themselves fitted for each other, and horace's reception of the suggestion had terrified her unutterably. he had addressed himself to the stars and asked if it were true that there was neither faith nor constancy in womankind. then he had looked at priscilla, with an expression of agony, and said, "i thought it was you who was to heal my tortured heart, and now you have failed me." but when he began to put his hand to his forehead and mutter that life was only a series of disappointments and that the sooner it was over the better, priscilla, white to the lips, had assured him that he had misunderstood her. her efforts to restore his serenity were not altogether successful and she did not feel at ease about him until, a day or two later, she saw his name among the guests at a dinner dance, at mrs. sidney vanderpool's country house. but the interview had confirmed her certainty that there was no escaping the snare into which she had walked with eyes wide open. and for that reason a week free from horace's society was more than welcome. the silent week starting friday morning had seemed rather a joke to begin with. at four breakfast tables, four girls who contributed not a syllable to the conversation, contributed largely, nevertheless, to the family gaiety. but by noon the humorous phase of the situation had passed, at least for the four chiefly concerned. all of them went about with an expression of spartan-like resolve, blended with not a little anxiety. for when people have been chattering animatedly every day for fifteen or twenty years, it is very easy for an exclamation to escape their lips in spite of resolutions to the contrary. peggy probably had the hardest time of any one. for her brother, dick, although fond of calling attention to a fuzzy excrescence which he denominated his mustache, was as fond of mischief as he had ever been. and while undoubtedly he would have been sorry to have peggy break her vow of silence, and lose the hundred dollars which meant another year in school for little myrtle burns, he nevertheless subjected his sister to any number of nerve-racking tests. a crash as of a falling body in an upstairs room, a cry of anguish from the cellar, a loud knocking on the ceiling of her room apparently by ghostly fingers, were among the devices dick used for the testing of his sister. on each occasion peggy started convulsively, but somehow or other choked back the cry that rose to her lips, "oh, what is it? what is the matter?" though dick was the only one of the raymond family who made deliberate attempts to betray his sister into unguarded speech, mrs. raymond, innocent as were her intentions, was almost as much of a stumbling-block. "now what do you think, peggy," she would begin, "had we better try turners again or--" and then catching sight of the joan-of-arc expression on peggy's face, she would break off her question in the middle, and cry, "oh, dear, i entirely forgot! i shall certainly be glad when this ridiculous week is over." there was one advantage in a week of silence. the girls were allowed to write letters, and they took full advantage of that permission. they wrote to aunts and uncles and cousins and all sorts of neglected relatives. they wrote to old friends, who had moved to other cities. they wrote to the girls they had come to know in their work as farmerettes. they wrote--all four of them--to lucy haines, a country girl they had helped one summer vacation, now a successful teacher. if all weeks had been like this one, the postman who collected the mail from the friendly terrace letter-box would have needed an assistant. peggy also wrote to graham every day, and she tried to make her letters as sprightly and entertaining as possible, so that he should not miss their daily talks so much. but under the circumstances there was not a great deal to tell, and if it had not been for dick's machinations, which peggy repeated in much detail, she feared that her missives would have proved dull reading. every afternoon the four girls met at the home of one or the other of the quartette, bringing sewing or fancy work. they usually sat indoors, for if a neighbor conversationally inclined had happened to come along while they were occupying the porch the situation might have been embarrassing. amy made a valiant effort to revive a finger alphabet they had used in school to carry on extended conversations across a school room. but though it had not taken long for the girls to refresh their memories of the letters, they found it much harder work to converse after the fashion of the deaf and dumb than it had seemed when they were younger, and for the most part conversation languished. they sat and sewed, each vaguely cheered by the proximity of her fellow sufferers, though all the time conscious that this was an abnormally long week. but long as the days were, each came to an end in time. amy had fallen in the way of apprising aunt phoebe by post-card that another day had been passed in silence. "tell mr. frost he might as well make out his check now," she wrote at the conclusion of the third day. "we haven't spoken yet, and now we've learned the secret, there isn't the least danger that any one will speak before the week is up." as the days went by, the vigilance of the girls increased instead of relaxing. each realized that a single inadvertent exclamation from the lips of one would render vain the effort and sacrifice of all. this realization got rather on their nerves, and ruth particularly, showed it. "it's the most absurd thing i ever heard of," declared mr. wylie at breakfast one morning, as ruth came downstairs heavy-eyed. "you girls call yourselves college women, don't you? this affair is worthy of a bunch of high-school freshmen." "i think ruth wants me to remind you," said mrs. wylie, as her daughter looked at her appealingly, "that they mean to use the hundred dollars in sending a little girl to school." "but no man in his senses is going to pay good money for anything like this. who is he, anyway?" "a sort of uncle of amy's, didn't you say, ruth?" as amy's relationship to uncle philander-behind-his-back was too complicated to explain without the assistance of language, ruth contented herself with nodding. "probably he was only joking. a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, especially these days. you oughtn't to have taken him seriously, ruth." "i think peggy is really responsible," remarked mrs. wylie, with a rather mischievous smile, for mr. wylie's admiration for his son's fiancée was as outspoken as graham's own. "is that so, ruth?" ruth nodded. "then all i can say," declared mr. wylie, pushing back his chair from the table, "is that in this matter my future daughter-in-law showed less than her usual good horse-sense." "i'm beginning to understand something that always puzzled me," peggy wrote graham, that same evening. "you know in mathematics they talk about an _asymptote_, something that something else is always approaching, but never reaches. that always seemed so foolish to me, to approach a thing continually and never get there. but now i understand. thursday is an asymptote." but though thursday loitered on the way, it arrived at last, and four girls woke to the realization that it was supremely important--the day that either made void or confirmed the success of the previous six. they spent the morning characteristically. ruth, who had felt under the weather for a day or two, decided to stay in bed, this being a safe refuge. priscilla took a basket of mending and retired to her room. peggy spent her time at her writing desk and tried to collect some fugitive ideas into a theme for her college english work in the fall. amy devoted herself to making a cake with a very thick chocolate frosting. it happened that this morning amy had received a postcard from aunt phoebe, the first reply to her daily bulletins. "glad to hear you are getting on so well," wrote the old lady. "p---- quite nervous." after the cake was finished and the frosting hardening, amy resolved to take aunt phoebe's card over to peggy. while they could not talk it over, they could exchange smiles, and probably a few ideas as well, through the medium of a lead pencil. the luckless amy picked up the post card and started off in high spirits. it happened that one of the houses on the terrace had been built with a slate roof, which at the present time was undergoing repairs. amy, swinging lightly along the familiar way, gained rapidly on an old man ahead who walked very deliberately, apparently examining the numbers of the houses. amy noticed that, although the sky was clear, he carried a massive cotton umbrella. the old gentleman was just opposite the house which was being repaired, when one of the workmen pulled out a broken slate and without even looking behind him, flung it to the street below. amy saw the workman before the slate left his hand, and some intuition warned her of danger. "look out!" she cried shrilly, "look out!" the old man ahead dodged back. he was none too quick, for the piece of slate, flying through the air with the sharp edge down, dropped where he had stood an instant before. the old man took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. amy saw it was uncle philander-behind-his-back. the discovery, interesting in itself, meant nothing to amy at the moment. she uttered a heart-broken wail. she had spoken before the week was up. by her impulsive exclamation she had forfeited the hundred dollars. though she knew acknowledgment must be made to her partners in the undertaking, since as she had broken the spell the others were automatically released from the obligation of silence, to face any of them at that moment seemed impossible. without a word to mr. frost, amy wheeled about and started for home, the tears running down her cheeks. breathing hard, uncle philander-behind-his-back trotted after her. what he meant to say does not matter, since the discovery that amy was in tears resulted in the inquiry, "what are you crying for, hey?" "i lost it," amy sobbed. "i spoke." her companion seemed to be deliberating. "i s'pose you mean the hundred dollars." "of course i mean the hundred dollars. but i don't see how i could have helped it. i couldn't walk on deliberately and see a sharp piece of slate drop on a man's head." [illustration: "'a hundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved'"] "i came in to-day thinking i'd have a talk with that friend of yours," said mr. frost, "seeing she seemed to be the head one in this thing. i was going to tell her that now i'd thought it over, my conscience wasn't quite easy about this agreement of ourn. i'm afraid it is too much like placing a bet." amy's jaw dropped as she looked at him. her tears dried instantly, the moisture evaporated by the fires of her wrath. but either because her usually ready tongue was out of practise after six days of idleness, or because the realization of the perfidy of the old man produced a momentary paralysis of her vocal chords, not a word escaped her parted lips. "yes, it didn't look right to me," mr. frost continued. "it was the same as betting that you four girls couldn't keep from talking for a week. my conscience wouldn't let me be a party to anything of that sort. but--" the pause after the "but" was prolonged. amy searched her vocabulary for words that would do justice to the occasion, but uncle philander-behind-his-back was continuing before she knew what she wanted to say. "having your life saved is a different thing. that slate had an edge on it like a meat ax, and coming through the air the way it was, it would have cleft my head open like it had been an egg shell. my widow could have got damages all right, but that wouldn't have helped me out." they had reached amy's door by now. "got pen and ink handy?" asked mr. frost, with a marked change of manner. "yes," said amy tonelessly, and opened the door for him. she led the way to the writing desk, and pointed out the articles he required. mr. philander frost, seating himself, wrote out a check for a hundred dollars, payable to amy lassell or order. "there," he said as he reached for the blotter. "can't nobody no matter how sensitive their consciences are, find any fault with that. a hundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved." and then the ink had a narrow escape from being overturned, for amy flung her arms around the old gentleman's neck and hugged him. "uncle philander!" she screamed, "you're a prince." and that is how little myrtle burns was assured of her year in high school, and uncle philander-behind-his-back was adopted, unreservedly, by four unusually attractive nieces. chapter ix the most wonderful thing in the world nelson hallowell had something on his mind. ruth had discovered it early in the evening. they had all gone over to peggy's, and there had been the usual amount of talk and laughter, but nelson had hardly spoken. every time she looked in his direction, ruth found his eyes upon her, and something in his manner said as plainly as words could have told it, that he was only waiting to get her alone to impart some confidence of more than ordinary importance. ruth was not in the least inclined to be self-conscious, but for some reason his unwavering regard made her nervous. she was glad when the clock struck ten and she could take her leave. though graham had lingered for a little talk with peggy, and nelson and ruth had the sidewalk to themselves, the young man seemed in no hurry to relieve his mind. instead he walked at ruth's side apparently absorbed in thought. ruth, waiting, half amused and half vexed by his air of preoccupation, pinched her lips tightly shut as she resolved not to be the first to break the silence. at the door of her home nelson suddenly roused himself. "may i come in for a little while, ruth?" "of course, nelson. it's friday. no classes to-morrow." "there's something i want to talk to you about," he said, and followed her indoors with an air of summoning his resolution. as ruth turned on the lights in the living room, he drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. "i'd like to have you read that." ruth seated herself by the drop light, and drew out the enclosure. it was folded so that her eye fell at once on the signature. "why," she exclaimed, "that's the nice soldier you got acquainted with in the hospital." "yes. the fellow from oklahoma, you know." ruth unfolded the letter and began to read. immediately her expression underwent a noticeable change. one would have said that the letter annoyed her, though when at length she lifted her eyes and met nelson's expectant look, she was laughing. "did you ever hear of anything so absurd!" she exclaimed. nelson cleared his throat. "if you look at it in one way, it's quite an unusual chance. you see he's willing to take me without any capital--" "i don't know what he ever saw in you to make him think you'd make a ranchman," ruth exclaimed. "i can't imagine you as a cowboy. i suppose," she added excusingly, "that he's always been used to an out-door life and it seems rather dreadful to him for any one to be shut up in a book-store." "it is rather dreadful." ruth gave a little start. for a moment she was under an impression that she had not heard nelson aright, or else that he was joking. and yet his voice had no suggestion of humor. it was hoarse and curiously intense, and as she looked at him, she saw that his face was unnaturally flushed. "why, nelson," she cried, "what are you talking about? you can't mean that you don't like your work." nelson looked at her appealingly. without realizing it, ruth had spoken in a rather peremptory fashion, and at once his sensitive face showed his fear of having offended her. "i used to think i liked it, ruth." "used to! why, nelson--" "but now it's like being in a strait jacket. i don't see how any fellow who was in the service can ever get back to standing behind a counter and be satisfied." again ruth noticed the curious intensity of his manner. she looked at the letter lying upon the table with a feeling of irritation she did not stop to analyze. "nelson, you don't mean you want to take that offer? you wouldn't really like to go to oklahoma, would you? why it's the jumping-off place." he sat looking at the floor. "i wanted to know what you thought," he murmured. "i'd hate to say all i thought. why, nelson, i don't believe it's ever occurred to you what it would mean to your mother." ruth herself had not thought of mrs. hallowell until that instant, and she made up for her tardiness by speaking very earnestly. "it would simply kill her to have you off at the ends of the earth." "mother's pretty game, you know." nelson smiled as if recalling something that had pleased him particularly. "she says she wouldn't mind a bit living in oklahoma." ruth swallowed hard. something in his reminiscent smile added to her vexation. "i should think you would know better than to take her seriously. she'd die of homesickness. but of course, if you've really set your heart on going thousands of miles away from all your friends, i wouldn't want to put anything in your way." "ruth, you know i don't mean that." he looked rather bewildered at her injustice. "i haven't answered the letter. i just wanted to know what you thought about it." "well, i think the whole thing is absurd. i suppose you are a little restless after your army life, but you'll get over that." "i suppose i will," nelson acknowledged. he was so humble about it that ruth promptly forgave him for having given favorable consideration to the offer of his friend in oklahoma, and was her usual pleasant self during the remainder of his stay. as far as nelson was concerned, the matter was dropped, but unluckily for ruth's peace of mind peggy was yet to be heard from. the next day was saturday and peggy dropped in soon after breakfast. "ruth, what was the matter with nelson last evening? i never knew anybody to be so quiet. i was afraid that perhaps something was said that hurt his feelings. he's such a sensitive fellow." "no indeed, peggy. it wasn't anything particular." ruth hesitated, uncertain whether to let it go at that, or to explain the situation in full. her life-long habit of confiding in peggy proved more than a match for her undefined hesitation, and she went on to tell of the letter from oklahoma with its preposterous offer. she finished with a little contemptuous laugh, but peggy's face was grave. "did he want to go, ruth?" "why, he--well, it seems, peggy, that since he got out of the service he's been sort of restless. he got so used to outdoor life that he doesn't enjoy indoor work. but i tell him he'll get over that." "i suppose," said the downright peggy, looking straight at her friend, "that you feel that you wouldn't want to live in oklahoma." ruth jumped. then as the blood rushed tingling to the roots of her hair, she turned on peggy a look of intense indignation. "peggy raymond, what on earth are you talking about?" peggy sat without replying and ruth continued vehemently, "of course i like nelson hallowell; like him very much. i consider him one of my very best friends. but that's all. the very idea of your talking as if--" "i suppose," said peggy, as ruth came to a halt, "you'd miss him if he went out west." ruth brightened. "yes, that's just it. i'd miss him terribly. i really think he's one of the nicest boys i ever knew, and for all he's so quiet, we have dandy times together. but as for anything else--" "don't you think," suggested peggy, as ruth halted again, "that it seems a little bit unfair to interfere with nelson's future, just because you like to have him dropping in every day or two and because it's convenient to have an escort whenever you want to go somewhere?" ruth found herself incapable of replying. she sat staring at peggy with a resentment that she could not have concealed if she had tried. and peggy, quite unmoved by her friend's indignation, continued judicially, "if you were going to marry nelson, you would have a perfect right to help decide where he should be located. but it's considerable of a responsibility to persuade him to turn down an offer like that, just because you're afraid you're going to miss him if he goes away." ruth found her voice. "nelson hallowell can do exactly as he pleases. he asked my advice and i gave it, but he doesn't have to take it unless he wants to." "that's not fair, ruth. however you feel about it, you know perfectly well that nelson wants to please you more than anything in the world. and besides, when a friend asks you your advice, you're supposed to think of what is best for him and not of what you want yourself." "really, peggy," said ruth rather witheringly, "as long as nelson is satisfied with my advice, i can't see that any one else need take it to heart." peggy colored. it was a fact that, relying on long intimacy and close friendship, she had said more to ruth than she would have been justified in saying to another girl. "excuse me, ruth," she answered quickly. "i'm afraid i was rather interfering." the effect of this apology was peculiar. ruth burst into tears. "oh, don't, peggy," she sobbed. "don't act as if it wasn't any business of yours what i did." "i'm afraid," owned peggy, "that i'm too much inclined to think everything you do is my business." "no, you're not. we're just the same as sisters. and it would kill me if you washed your hands of me." peggy burst into a reassuring laugh. "small danger of that, dearie. i'm likely to remain meddlesome peggy to the end of the chapter, as far as you're concerned. and i don't know what you're crying for, ruth." ruth was not quite sure herself, but she continued to sob. "do you think i ought to encourage nelson to go, peggy?" "i don't say that. but it seems to me you ought not to discourage him, unless you have a good reason. and though i don't know much about such things, it sounded to be like a wonderful offer. what does nelson think?" "i--i guess he thought so, too, but i didn't give him a chance to say much." ruth dropped her head upon peggy's shoulder and sobbed. "oklahoma is such a dreadful way off." "i know it is," peggy patted her shoulder tenderly. "i'd nearly cry my eyes out if anybody i loved went there to live." "nelson is so good, peggy. he wanted to go, but he gave it up just as soon as he saw i didn't like the idea. and i know he hates that old book store." peggy continued to smile rather wistfully and to pat the heaving shoulders while ruth prattled on. "i'm awfully selfish, i know. it's just as you said. i never gave a thought to what was best for him." "i never said that, ruth, i'm sure." "well, it's so, anyway. i wonder if he's answered that letter yet. i'm going to call up and see." ruth had no need to look in the telephone book to find the number of flynn's book store. as the hour was early, nelson himself answered the call. his politely interrogative tone changed markedly as in response to his, "hello," ruth said, "it's i, nelson." "ruth! why, good morning!" "have you answered that letter from oklahoma?" "no, i haven't, ruth. but never mind that letter. we won't talk about it any more." "i just wanted to ask you not to answer it till we'd talked it over again, nelson." he hesitated a moment. "i don't see the use of that. i wanted to see how you really felt about it, and now i've found out." "well, don't answer it right away. that's all. are you coming up to-night, nelson?" "sure." ruth smiled faintly at the emphatic syllable. "good-by," she said, then sighed as she hung up the receiver. "well, it's all right," she told the waiting peggy. "i haven't done any mischief that i can't undo." but when nelson came that evening he proved unexpectedly obdurate. he showed an extreme reluctance to re-open the subject of the oklahoma proposition, and roused ruth's indignation by hinting that the matter did not concern peggy raymond, and he could not see any reason for her "butting in." and when sternly called to order for this bit of heresy, he still showed himself unwilling to talk of oklahoma. "what's the use?" he burst out suddenly. "i know how you feel about it. i--i--it's awfully hard explaining, ruth, when i haven't any right to--to say how i feel--but the long and short of it is i wouldn't go to any place where you wouldn't live." he stopped, his face scarlet as he realized all his statement implied. nelson was keenly conscious of his own disadvantages. graham would soon be in a position to support a family, but the salary mr. flynn paid his competent clerk made a wife seem an impossible luxury. nelson regarded ruth as the bright particular star of the friendly terrace quartette. he considered her prettier than peggy, wittier than amy, and more talented than priscilla. for him to aspire to be the first in her heart was the height of presumption, in nelson's opinion, and yet he had just said to her in effect that he would not go to any place where she would not go with him. despairingly he realized how poorly his presumptuous speech had expressed his attitude of worshipful humility. then he became aware that ruth was looking at him from the other side of the table, and that her manner lacked the indignation appropriate to the occasion. she held her head very high, and her eyes were like stars. nelson suddenly experienced a difficulty in breathing. his heart was beating more rapidly than it had ever beaten under fire. he heard himself asking a question, the audacity of which astounded him. "you wouldn't think of it, would you, ruth, going out to that rough cattle country, a girl like you?" he did not realize the desperation in his voice as he put the question, but its appeal went straight to ruth's heart. she answered unhesitatingly. "the place wouldn't matter, nelson. everything would depend on the one--the one i went with." it was not an opportune time for graham to walk into the room. and it argued him obtuse, that instead of realizing he was in the way, he seated himself in the easy chair, and proceeded to discuss a variety of subjects. once or twice nelson's answers suggested that his mind was wandering, and small wonder. for when the most wonderful thing in the world has just happened, it is hard on any young fellow to be held up and forced to give his views on universal training. chapter x mistress and maid a careworn, anxious expression had come to be so much at home on priscilla's countenance, that it did not surprise peggy to look from her window one saturday morning and see priscilla approaching, her face so lined by worry as to suggest that the heaviest responsibilities rested on her shoulders. as she was quite unconscious of peggy's observation, she did not make her usual effort to smile and appear natural. "i wish i knew what ailed that girl," thought peggy, studying priscilla's changed countenance with a heart-sick concern. "she looks years older than she did six months ago, and i can't make out whether she's sick or just unhappy. and the worst of it is that one can't get a thing out of her." but in this particular instance peggy was to have no reason to complain of priscilla's reticence. as priscilla raised her heavy eyes and saw her friend's face at the window, her own face brightened and she quickened her steps. peggy hurried to the door, and flung it open with an unreasonable hope that this interview would end the mystery which had baffled her for so long. but the perplexity priscilla had come to confide was too recent to explain her worried air through the months past. she was hardly in the house before she burst out, "peggy, i'm in an awful pickle." "what's the matter? can i help!" "i wondered if you would lend me sally." "sally?" repeated peggy in accents of astonishment. for the maid-of-all-work in the raymond household was a possession of which few people were envious. whether sally was really weak minded was a question on which a difference of opinion was possible, but there was no possible doubt of her talent for doing the wrong thing at the right time or else, vice versa, the right thing at the wrong time. her one redeeming feature was her amiability, but as this frequently took a conversational turn, it was not without its drawbacks. that any of her friends could want to borrow sally, or that any household but their own would put up with the blundering, good-natured apology for a domestic servant, had never entered peggy's head. "sally," she repeated, still in a tone of mystification. "of course you can have her if you want her, but whatever it is, she'll do it wrong." "i suppose she could open the door for a caller, couldn't she?" "why, she can open a door, as a rule, but just now she's got a tooth-ache, and her head is tied up in a red flannel, so unless the callers are people of strong nerves, they may be startled." "o dear!" priscilla's acceptance of this bit of information was so suggestive of tragedy that peggy was more puzzled than ever. "who is the caller?" she demanded. "and why in the world do you want sally?" "well, it's quite a story, peggy. you know mother's away this week and martha's having her vacation, and father and i are taking our meals at the lindsays. and last evening horace hitchcock called, and it seems that an aunt of his is in town." "oh!" said peggy. she always made desperate efforts to act just as usual when horace's name was mentioned, but under such circumstances she invariably felt as if a thick curtain had dropped between her friend and herself. "horace hitchcock's aunt," she repeated, trying valiantly to speak naturally. "is she his mother's sister or his father's?" "neither one. she's his father's aunt, and of course she is quite old and very rich, and it seems she's coming out to call on me." "to call on you," peggy exclaimed. "how interesting!" but that adjective registered an exception to peggy's usual frankness. had she spoken her real feelings she would have said, "how dreadful!" for a call from the young man's great-aunt seemed to imply that the young man's intentions were serious, and recognized by the family. horace and priscilla! peggy stifled a groan. "and you see the fix i'm in," priscilla was explaining disconsolately. "of course she's used to butlers and everything, and here i've got to go to open the door myself." peggy listened wonderingly. for even if horace hitchcock had been an entirely different young man, the necessity for opening the door to his great-aunt would not have impressed her as a tragedy. priscilla's intuition told her what was passing through the other girl's mind, and she spoke a little fretfully. "of course it's silly to mind, peggy, but i _do_ mind, just the same. mrs. duncan has a houseful of servants, and she thinks of women who answer their own door-bell as we think of women who take in washing." priscilla's feeling of resentment at peggy was enhanced by her own wonder at herself. the glamor which had surrounded horace in the first renewal of their childish acquaintance had quite disappeared, and yet she could not bear the thought that horace's great-aunt might look down upon her. "sally wouldn't be the least bit of good," peggy declared, "even if it wasn't for the red flannel. just when i want sally to be on her good behavior, she does some perfectly unheard-of thing. when do you expect mrs. duncan?" "oh, sometime this forenoon. horace thought about eleven. and that's another thing that puzzles me," exclaimed priscilla unhappily. "ought i to dress up, do you think, as long as i'm expecting a call?" "i'd wear my blue serge, if i were you. blue serge is always safe and, besides, you look awfully well in that dress. and you need not worry about the maid. i'm it." "why, peggy, what do you mean?" "don't insult me by asking for sally, and then pretending that i won't do. i've got a black dress and a cute little ruffled apron, and i'm just aching to try my hand at one of those fetching caps the maids wear in the movies." "but, peggy, suppose horace should come with his aunt!" "you don't expect him, do you?" "no. i'm sure he didn't plan to come last evening. but he might change his mind." "we'll keep on the look-out. if we see a lady arriving with a young man in tow, i'll roll my cap and apron into a bundle and put them under my arm. then i'll be your friend, peggy raymond, making a morning call. but if the lady is alone, i'm margaret, the maid." priscilla was hardly arrayed in her blue serge when peggy arrived, and the two girls inspected each other admiringly. the plainness of the blue serge set off the long lines of priscilla's slender, graceful figure, while the little frilled, nonsensical cap gave a charm to peggy's mischievous face. "you look like a queen," peggy declared. "and you're darling in that cap. i'm afraid she'll suspect something the minute she sees you." mistress and maid were sitting comfortably side by side in the dining-room when the door-bell rang. peggy started to her feet, but priscilla clutched her arm. "don't go far, will you, peggy." "i don't want to appear to be eavesdropping, ma'am." "nonsense: you can pretend to be dusting something out here. i don't want you to go away." priscilla was experiencing a panic at the thought of being left to the tender mercies of horace hitchcock's great-aunt. she needed the close proximity of peggy to give her confidence. horace had not accompanied mrs. duncan. she stood upon the steps, a little withered woman, rather elaborately dressed, and she inspected peggy through her lorgnette. "is miss combs in?" she inquired, after finishing her leisurely scrutiny. "i think so, madame. please walk in." peggy ushered the caller into the front room and brought a tray for her card. her cheeks had flushed under mrs. duncan's inspection. the small, beady eyes in the wrinkled face had a curiously piercing quality, and she wondered uneasily whether this remarkable old woman could possibly have recognized that she was only masquerading. she carried the card upstairs to priscilla who had retreated to her room, the prey of nerves, and brought back word that miss combs would be down in a few minutes. then she retired to the adjoining room and began on her dusting. she was not sorry priscilla had insisted that she be near, for she was extremely curious to hear what the visitor was going to say. priscilla followed peggy in something like half a minute, and greeted her caller sweetly, though with some constraint. mrs. duncan looked her over approvingly. "you're not as pretty as i expected," was her disconcerting beginning. in the next room peggy gasped. priscilla drew herself up and blushed crimson. "what i meant to say," explained the terrible old woman, "is that you're not as pretty as i expected, but much handsomer. i took it for granted horace would admire some namby-pamby with a doll's face. i suppose you know you're a very striking type, don't you?" "i can't say i've thought much about it," prevaricated priscilla. "and you're going to college," continued mrs. duncan. "what's your idea in that? i suppose you know that if you marry horace, you ought not to know too much." "really, mrs. duncan--" but priscilla's caller was off at a tangent. "you've got a nice-looking maid? have you any brothers?" "no," replied priscilla mechanically. "i'm an only child." "when you're married, miss combs, take an old woman's advice and never have an attractive maid about the house. my married life of twenty years was reasonably successful," explained mrs. duncan complacently, "and i lay it all to my habit of selecting maids who were either cross-eyed or else pock-marked." priscilla felt that she hated her, but as she struggled to conceal her inhospitable emotion, her visitor inquired blandly, "what do you and horace talk about?" "about--oh, about all sorts of things." priscilla wondered if ever in her life she had appeared as inane and stupid as on this momentous occasion. "i can't understand him, you know," explained mrs. duncan, rubbing her nose. "sometimes i think it's because i'm a fool, and sometimes i think it's because he's a fool. i dare say you've felt the same uncertainty. but we'd better talk of something else, so you won't look to conscious when he arrives." "arrives?" repeated priscilla blankly. "yes, he's to lunch with me down town. he suggested that i would enjoy taking him to--what's the name of the place? oh, well, he'll know. perhaps you'll join us." priscilla declined fervently. without saying it in so many words, she gave the impression that she had a most imperative engagement for the afternoon. as she voiced her stammering refusal, she felt like a criminal on the verge of exposure. for when the bell rang peggy would answer it, and horace would at once recognize that priscilla's attractive maid was no other than priscilla's bosom friend. but peggy, dusting industriously in the adjoining room, had overheard the news that had carried consternation to priscilla's soul, and acted upon the hint with characteristic promptness. a moment later she appeared in the doorway, waiting unobtrusively till priscilla looked in her direction. and then she said respectfully, "miss priscilla." priscilla struggled to play her part. "yes--margaret?" "i haven't done the marketing yet. if you can spare me for a little while, i'll attend to it." "certainly, margaret," replied priscilla with boundless relief. as peggy disappeared, mrs. duncan leaned forward and tapped priscilla's knee. "i tell you she's too good to be true," she insisted. "she's too pretty, too well-mannered. there's something wrong somewhere. don't trust her." and priscilla had to conquer the impression that it was her friend peggy who was being slandered, before she could assume the nonchalant manner suited to the statement that they had always found margaret a most trustworthy girl. horace arrived some fifteen minutes after peggy's departure, and his apologies to his great-aunt were more profuse than his slight tardiness called for. indeed, as priscilla watched his manner toward the domineering old lady, she was unpleasantly reminded that mrs. duncan was a rich widow, and that horace might cherish the hope of inheriting at least a portion of her wealth. priscilla had all the contempt of a normal american girl for a fortune-hunter, and her lover had never appeared to less advantage in her eyes than in his obvious efforts to please his eccentric relative. in her revolt from horace's methods she went a little too far in the other direction, and her manner as she parted from her guest was frigid rather than friendly. mrs. duncan's call was the first indication that horace's people were aware of his intentions, and priscilla had a not unreasonable feeling of resentment at being inspected to see if she would do. although the door had been opened for mrs. duncan by a correctly appointed maid, priscilla was miserably conscious that the call had not been a success, and that her unfavorable impression of horace's great-aunt was probably returned by that terrible old person with something to spare. chapter xi quite informal amy's memorable dinner party, which had resulted in making bob carey such a frequent caller, was responsible for another agreeable friendship. bob's sister hildegarde, if she did not fully share her brother's sentiments where amy was concerned, acknowledged, nevertheless, to a thorough liking for the girl who had played the part of hostess under such trying circumstances. she saw considerable of amy and, through her, had made the acquaintance of amy's especial chums on friendly terrace. the girls all liked hildegarde, and hildegarde liked them, though she was continually accusing them of being old-fashioned in their ideas. hildegarde had rather more spending money than was good for her, and her social ambitions were the bane of bob's existence. bob hated formality. he never put on his dress suit except under protest, and his popularity among his sister's friends, with the resulting invitations to all sorts of affairs, awakened his profound resentment. the simple good times of amy's set where every one came at eight o'clock and went home at ten, exactly suited him. there was perhaps a spice of malice back of an invitation amy received one morning. the previous evening bob had accompanied his sister to the home of one of her friends. he had gone reluctantly, only yielding when hildegarde had agreed to start for home promptly at ten. there had been other callers, however, and bridge had been suggested, so that it was quarter of one when the brother and sister reached home. bob was frankly sulky. "i hate to go down to the office in the morning feeling like a fool because i haven't had sleep enough," he declared. "bob carey, any one would suppose you were an old grandfather to hear you talk. i don't know another fellow your age who thinks he has to go to bed with the chickens." "and knowing the hours some of your friends keep," returned bob irritatingly, "i'm not surprised at their seeming lack of intelligence. they're practically walking in their sleep." "please leave my friends alone. you wouldn't be particularly pleased if i began sneering at amy." "sneering at amy!" bob's tone was scornful as he repeated his sister's words. "if you did, it would be only to get even with me." "i don't suppose she's absolute perfection." "i don't know." "oh, bob, don't be so absurd." but though hildegarde ended with a laugh, she was still resentful. she knew that bob had planned to call on amy that evening and shrewdly judged that, since she had thwarted his intention, he would go the following night. accordingly she called amy on the phone bright and early, and invited her to attend a down-town picture show; not an ordinary movie, but a special attraction with the seats selling at regular theater prices. amy exclaimed delightedly, and then caught herself up. "i forgot that peggy and priscilla were coming over to-night. but i'm sure they'll let me off. i'll call them up and then call you. i'm crazy to see that picture, but i didn't expect to for a year or two till it got down to the twenty-five cent houses." "we'll ask peggy and priscilla to go, too," said hildegarde. "gorgeous," replied amy, "and it's so near the end of vacation we can make it a final spree"; and hildegarde, smiling a little, proceeded to call the two sweet p's as she mentally designated them. both girls were unqualifiedly delighted to accept, for one of the advantages of not possessing too much money is that the zest for simple pleasures remains keen. hildegarde had friends who were blasé over a trip to europe, and she always felt a little wonder, not without a tinge of patronage it must be admitted, over the thoroughness with which amy and her friends could enjoy things. when hildegarde announced casually at the dinner table that she would have to be excused before the desert, as she and amy were to see the "star of destiny" that evening, her brother shot her a comprehending glance. "i'd have bought a ticket for you, bob," hildegarde explained teasingly, "only i felt sure you meant to go to bed at nine, and make up the sleep you lost last evening." "you're always thoughtful, hildegarde," said bob with an irony so apparent that his mother stared. and hildegarde hurrying through her dinner, felt cheerful certainty that as far as her brother was concerned, she had evened the score. the "star of destiny" proved quite as thrilling as any of the audience could have wished, and the accompanying comedy a trifle less inane than the average picture comedy. at ten o'clock the girls left the theater, while the crowd that had been standing in line scrambled to take the seats they had vacated. as they reached the sidewalk, hildegarde slipped her hand through the arm of priscilla, who happened to be nearest, "i'm on the point of starvation," she declared gaily. "i had to hurry through my dinner so, i feel as though i hadn't had a thing. now we'll go over to the green parrot and get something to eat." the guests hesitated. "is--do you think it is all right for girls to go there alone in the evening?" asked peggy doubtfully. "why of course. the name's rather lurid, but it's a perfectly nice place. let's take this cross-street and then we'll save half a block." on the way to the popular restaurant, hildegarde did most of the talking. none of her guests felt exactly comfortable over accepting the invitation; and yet to decline it, when hildegarde declared herself half starved, seemed decidedly ungracious. none of the friendly terrace girls had been brought up to think a chaperone a necessary accompaniment to all youthful pleasures, but venturing into a down-town restaurant at ten o'clock in the evening, without either chaperone or escort, was rather too up-to-date to please any of them. peggy pictured graham's face when she told him of the climax of the evening's pleasures, and smiled rather ruefully. once inside, it must be admitted, the spirits of all three revived. the big room was so lighted that it was more dazzling than the noon day. a space had been cleared for dancing, and several couples were revolving in time to a catchy popular air. the majority of the tables were occupied, but the head-waiter, who evidently recognized hildegarde, led the way to a small round table at the side, and seated them with a flourish. no one had seemed to notice them, and peggy hoped that their inconspicuous location would prevent any unwelcome attention. "after all," she thought sensibly, "it's a perfectly respectable place, and perhaps it's not considered queer for girls to come alone." unconsciously her fear of arousing unfavorable comment rendered her unusually subdued, and the other girls took their cue from her, speaking in their lowest voices, smiling discreetly, and otherwise conducting themselves with as much decorum as if there had been a chaperone apiece. after some discussion they decided on welsh rarebit, and hildegarde also ordered coffee and rolls. the rarebit came in due time, an island of toast in a seething lava-lake of rarebit. the girls sniffed appreciatively and exchanged smiles. "to think i didn't know i was hungry," amy exclaimed. "i wish i could make my rarebits smooth like this," sighed peggy. "it looks so wonderful that i hate to eat it." their faces cheerful, but their manners still decorously subdued, the four girls attacked the dainty which has so undesirable a reputation in the matter of dreams. though hildegarde was the only one of the four who had not done justice to her dinner, all were young enough to feel hungry at the sight of the tempting dish. the islands of toast vanished as if submerged by a tidal wave. the miniature lava lakes gradually disappeared, and the big plate of rolls was so diminished by successive onslaughts that the few remaining had a lonely look. priscilla was buttering the end of her roll when, in involuntary emphasis of something she was saying, she pressed it more energetically than she realized. as if determined to escape the fate of its comrades, the fragment flew from her fingers. it cleared the space between that table and the next as if it had been winged, and then made sure of escape by dropping in the coffee cup of a young man in eye glasses, who was composedly eating fried oysters. the young man looked up, startled as a splash of coffee on his cheek challenged his attention. he looked about in all directions and at length his inquiring gaze came to the table where sat the agonized priscilla. here, alas! it halted. for as she had seen the bewildering gyrations of the fragment of priscilla's roll, amy had burst into an astonished giggle and had continued to giggle without cessation. hildegarde, too, had lost interest in the remnant of her meal, and sat leaning her head on her hand, speechless with laughter. as for peggy and priscilla, they were looking at each other in silent stupefaction, their flaming cheeks seemingly proclaiming their guilt. it was no wonder the young man in eye-glasses looked no farther. he had found the ones responsible. for an agonizing moment priscilla sat uncertain what to do. then summoning her common sense to her aid, she turned to the sole occupant of the next table. "i am very sorry," she said with that dignity that was priscilla's own. "a piece of roll slipped from my fingers when i was buttering it, and flew across to your table. it--it is in your coffee cup." the young man looked into his cup and perceived the floating fragment. when again he lifted his eyes to priscilla's he was smiling. "i thought some acquaintance had thrown something at me to attract my attention," he explained. "no," said priscilla. "it was an unfortunate accident. i beg your pardon." and then she turned to her own coffee, and seemingly gave it her attention, though so intense was her excitement that she might as well have been drinking warm water as the coffee for which the green parrot was famous. peggy was proud of the dignity with which priscilla had met a difficult situation, but poor priscilla was not to find it easy to preserve that dignity. amy was still giggling, her face wearing an expression of suffering, due to the exhausting effect of continuous laughter. across the table hildegarde pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned softly. and all at once it seemed to priscilla that she must shriek with laughter or die. a moment later peggy uttered an ejaculation of consternation, for the tears were running down priscilla's cheeks. she sat perfectly erect, her eyes upon the table, and her only sign of emotion those tell-tale tears. peggy was really alarmed. "priscilla, you mustn't take it so to heart. it wasn't anything. don't cry." "but i must do something," responded priscilla in a strangled voice. "oh, can't we get away?" her laughing companions sobered at the discovery that priscilla was in tears. hildegarde called the waiter and demanded her check. but before they could get away, the young man in eye-glasses had risen and crossed to their table. "i hope you're not worrying about that roll," he said, looking down dismayed at priscilla's tear-wet cheeks. "it's not worth thinking of twice, you know." seeing that priscilla was incapable of replying, peggy came to her friend's assistance. "of course it was only an accident," she said, "but it made her a little nervous." "so i see. i'm terribly sorry. if i could be of any service--" the young man's face was troubled, his manner earnest. peggy appreciated the sincerity of his feeling, even while she longed to take him by the ear and lead him to the door. for heads were turning in their direction from all over the room. they were the observed of all observers. "oh, thank you," said peggy hastily, "she will feel all right as soon as she gets outside. this room is so warm," she added rather inanely. to her enormous relief the waiter appeared with hildegarde's change. hildegarde tipped him extravagantly, rammed her remaining bills into her purse, and all four girls started for the door. the young man with the eye-glasses remained standing, staring after them, and peggy's cheeks crimsoned as she realized the attention they were attracting. she was quite sure she had a case of hysterics on her hands when, once outside, priscilla began to laugh. it started in a little smothered giggle which soon had developed into peals of laughter. peggy was terrified. "priscilla," she cried, "for heaven's sake--" but amy who had begun laughing sympathetically, as soon as priscilla started off, checked herself to remonstrate. "let her alone, peggy. all that ails her is she wanted to laugh and couldn't, and i don't know anything that hurts worse. isn't that it, priscilla?" priscilla could not answer in words, but she nodded vehemently and laughed and wiped her wet eyes and laughed on till she sobbed. and then all at once she stopped short, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, "i feel better." they made their way to the street cars, discussing the late unpleasantness with much animation and making use of many lurid adjectives. it was hildegarde who exclaimed, "don't you wish you knew who he was?" she referred, of course, to the young man in eye-glasses. priscilla stiffened. "mercy, no! i hope he was a stranger in town, stopping over a train, and that i'll never lay eyes on him again." but that wish, though it came from the depths of priscilla's heart, was not destined to come true. chapter xii good-by college had opened; but they had slipped into it so quietly that there hardly seemed to be a break. for peggy and priscilla, perhaps, there was a bit of a pang at the realization that this was the last year of what would probably be one of the sweetest periods in their lives to look back on; and they privately vowed to make it rich in experience and the beauty of living. ruth and amy, like southey's brother who said that "no young man believes that he will ever die," felt that college life would never, could never, end. so a week after the beginning of classes found the four girls trying conscientiously to live in the present, and stifling vague, tantalizing memories of the past three months. a number of letters passed between nelson hallowell and his friend in oklahoma before the great step was decided on. and it must be confessed that in the meantime ruth's college work suffered. nelson came almost every evening to pour into her attentive ears the story of his hopes and ambitions, and ruth listened with the happy confidence that her approval meant more to him than to any one in the world. ruth and nelson were living in an enchanted world, where perfect understanding took the place of speech. nelson did not feel himself at liberty to say to her the thing that was constantly in his thoughts. the salary mr. flynn had paid him had not enabled him to save any money, and his venture in oklahoma, promising as he believed it, was, after all, only a venture, with a possibility of failure. nelson knew that he himself was bound fast and irrevocably, but he wanted to leave ruth free as air. yet he talked to her with the assurance that she knew all he was in honor bound not to say, and her look, as she listened, confirmed that certainty. those weeks during which the matter was being settled were a happy time for both of them. youth has a way of making the most of a present joy, regardless of what the future has in store, and while this seems very short-sighted to some older people, who can always look ahead far enough to be miserable, the young will probably continue to enjoy to-day's sunshine--regardless of the weather prognosticator, who assures them of a storm in the middle of the week with a drop in temperature. nelson and ruth saw as much of each other as they could, and looked no further than a happiness born of a confidence and understanding. but the thing was settled at last, and the generous offer of nelson's soldier friend definitely accepted. nelson gave mr. flynn notice, and that irritable gentleman promptly lost his temper, and accused his reliable clerk of folly and ingratitude. later he realized his mistake, and offered to raise his salary. but nelson was as little moved by mr. flynn's smiles as he had been by his frowns, and mr. flynn promptly relapsed into his former irascibility. "the war spoiled a lot of you young fellows. you're sick of hard work. loafing is the only thing that appeals to you." "i never heard," laughed nelson, "that life on a cattle ranch was considered a soft snap." "well, if it isn't, you'll soon give it up," said mr. flynn disagreeably. "an easy berth is what you're looking for, and it's my opinion that you'll look some time before you find it." the next two weeks fairly flew. nelson was getting his necessary outfit, and every afternoon, on the way home, he stopped to exhibit to ruth his latest purchases. and now the time had come when it was hard for ruth to smile and show the proper interest. sometimes when she remembered that the decision had been left to her, and that she had brought this on herself, her heart almost failed her. it would have been so much easier to have gone on in the old way. the thought of the thousands of miles that would soon stretch between nelson and herself gave her a weak feeling in the knees. they had a great deal to say in those days about letters but each realized, only two well, that the best letter ever penned is a poor substitute for the exchange of speech and of smiles. the day of nelson's departure ruth went through the customary routine with a curious sense of unreality. she had suggested nelson's coming to dinner, but he had declined, and she would never know what that refusal cost him. "i'd love to, ruth. you don't know how i'd love to. but i think i should take my last meal with mother." "yes, nelson, i think so, too." "she says she won't go down to the station to see me off," nelson went on. "she's been keen about my going from the start, but now that it's come to the point, it's harder than she thought." ruth reflected that she could sympathize with mrs. hallowell perfectly. "the train goes at ten," nelson continued with a sprightly air that would not have deceived the most gullible, "so i'll have plenty of time to bore you stiff before you see the last of me." ruth forced the smile his jest demanded. "you know we're all going to the station with you," she said. "even bob carey's coming." "i hope that hitchcock won't show up," exclaimed nelson apprehensively. ruth laughed. "no, i don't think horace expects to honor us. isn't it the queerest thing," she added, "what priscilla can see in him?" "i should say so. priscilla's one of the finest girls you'd meet in a day's journey, and hitchcock is a nut. i shouldn't think she could stand it to have him around. though i suppose," concluded nelson with customary modesty, "that priscilla thinks just the same about you and me." "priscilla! she wouldn't dare." ruth's indignation was so intense that nelson shouted with laughter, but it warmed his heart, nevertheless. in that last quick-moving saturday, ruth saw nelson for a few moments in the morning, and again about three in the afternoon. his stay was short and rather unsatisfactory for he had some last errands to attend to, and his mind was so full of them that his thoughts wandered from what he was saying, and he left his sentences unfinished in the most irritating fashion. after he had answered a question of ruth's in a way which showed he had hardly heard what she had said, he looked up quickly at her half-vexed exclamation, laughed, and jumped to his feet. "it's no use, ruth," he said. "i'm one of the fellows who's good for only one thing at a time. i'll attend to these thousand-and-one things that have been left over, and i'll see you about eight o 'clock to-night. that will give us time for a nice little visit." up till that time the hours had fairly flown. now they dragged. ruth watched the clock and waited for the tiresome, leisurely hour hand to point to eight. the clan was to gather at a little after nine, and she was thankful when graham departed for peggy's shortly after finishing dinner. peggy would keep him till the last minute. peggy would understand. ruth had taken great pains in dusting the living-room that morning, and she looked around it thinking that it made a picture of cosy comfort nelson might be glad to carry with him. it was eight o'clock at last. ruth straightened a book on the table, brushed a speck of dust from her gown, and sat down facing the door. there were quick steps on the side walk, and she never doubted that they would come on up the walk, and then up the steps, and she meant to have the door open before he had time to ring. but the footsteps went on and the minute hand of the clock was also moving. at quarter past eight ruth was nervous. she got up and down, adjusted the window shades, changed the arrangement of the chairs, fussed with the flowers on the mantel, looked at herself in the mirror, and did something to her hair. at half past eight she sat very still, frowning slightly and biting her lip. at quarter of nine her cheeks had reddened and she tapped the carpet with the toe of her shoe. and at nine o'clock her heart gave a jump and she forgot how near she had come to being angry. for the footsteps for which she had waited were coming up the walk. "hello!" it was priscilla's voice. "don't tell me i'm the first one." "the others will be here in a minute," ruth replied in an even voice. "come right in and take off your coat, priscilla, for this room's awfully warm." priscilla complied with her friend's suggestion, and glanced at her admiringly. she thought she had never seen ruth look so pretty. "you've got a lovely color to-night," she exclaimed. "it's just because it's so hot here. i always get flushed when i'm warm." priscilla was looking around the room as if in search of something. "why, where's nelson?" "he'll be here right away. you know there are always so many things to be attended to in the last few minutes." but though ruth gave this explanation with a matter-of-fact cheerfulness that deceived even priscilla who knew her so well, she was seething inwardly. so this was all he cared. he had sacrificed their quiet hour together. now there would be a crush and a crowd and everybody talking at once, and no chance to say any of the things she had saved up for their last evening. not that she cared. ruth flung up her head and laughed gaily at something priscilla was telling. her hands were cold and her mouth felt very dry, and her heart was pounding furiously. nelson could come when he was ready, and so that he didn't miss the train, it made no difference to her. amy and bob were next to arrive. then came peggy and graham. "nelson's late, isn't he?" said peggy with an uneasy glance at the clock. "he hasn't any time to spare." "i'll put on my things so we'll all be ready to start when he gets here," ruth returned casually. she had put on a little blue frock, of which nelson was especially fond, for the last evening, and she was glad to conceal it by a long coat. her hand trembled as she pinned her hat in place. she hoped nelson hallowell wasn't conceited enough to suppose she cared whether he came at one hour or another. it was twenty minutes past nine when nelson arrived, and he looked rather white and shaken. as he had left for camp two years before, his mother had stood smiling in the doorway to watch him go. when it was whispered that they were going across, and he had told her she was not likely to see him again till the war was over, she had kissed him with lips that did not tremble. but then she had been lifted above herself by the exalted spirits of the times. now she had no sense of patriotic service to sustain her. she realized that she was no longer a young woman, that life was uncertain, and that her boy was going very far away. over their last meal together she had broken down, and wept as nelson had never seen his mother weep in all his life. it is not to nelson's discredit that he had forgotten ruth. or if that is saying too much, his thought of her was vague and shadowy. nelson's father had died when he was a little boy, and through the years that he was growing to manhood, his mother and he had been everything to each other. the sight of her grief was torturing. he had put his arms about her, and comforted her as best he could. he had offered to give up the whole thing, and had started to go out to telegraph his friend in oklahoma that he was not coming. that, more than anything else, had helped her to regain her self-control. as mothers have been doing from time immemorial she wiped her wet eyes and tried to smile, that he might go on his great adventure without a shadow on his heart. throughout that distressing, solemn, sacred time, it had never occurred to nelson to look at the clock. the thought of ruth had hardly crossed his mind. even on his way to her homo, he was still thinking of the mother he had left. it was graham who, hearing nelson's step outside, rushed to admit him. nelson entered, blinking a little in the bright light of the room, and speaking first to one and then another. ruth in the corner by the fireplace was talking to bob carey, and was so interested that she only glanced in nelson's direction, to toss him a smiling nod, and then resume her conversation with bob. nelson gave a little start as if some one had pinched him in the middle of a dream and he had suddenly awakened. "well, old man," remarked graham cheerfully, "you haven't left yourself much leeway. it's just about time to start." "i--yes, i suppose it is." nelson looked in ruth's direction and then looked quickly away. as for ruth, she was so absorbed by what bob carey was saying, that her brother had to repeat his remark for her benefit. "come, ruth. better get a move on. we haven't any time to waste." "oh, is it really time to start?" ruth asked carelessly. "i hadn't noticed." and with that fib on her conscience, she rose and joined the others. fond as peggy was of ruth, that evening she could have shaken her in her exasperation. for on the walk to the street-car, ruth clung to her arm and chattered unceasingly. as graham stuck doggedly to peggy's other side and bob was with amy, nelson and priscilla found themselves walking together. but since nelson was too dazed for speech, and priscilla was wondering what horace would say to this juxtaposition, they walked in an almost unbroken silence. it was no better on the street car. peggy maneuvered shamelessly to put nelson and ruth into the one vacant seat, but ruth slipped past and took her seat beside a fat woman, who left so little space that ruth was in imminent danger of falling into the aisle, whenever the car turned the corner. in peggy's opinion such a catastrophe would have been no more than she deserved. peggy had to take the place she had designed for ruth, and did her best to be agreeable, but nelson's wandering replies showed the futility of her efforts. a slight delay on the way brought them to the station less than ten minutes before train time. nelson's tickets were bought, of course, and his reservations made. they stood in a group in the station waiting-room and said the aimless things people generally say five minutes before train-time. all but ruth, that is. when nelson looked at her he found her attention absorbed by an italian family, whose bundles and babies occupied the nearest row of seats. it was graham who again took on himself the ungracious duty of calling nelson's attention to the flight of time. "i guess you'd better go aboard, nelson. you don't want to stand right here in the station, and miss the train." nelson started violently. "oh, no," he replied, "certainly not." he turned to bob carey and shook hands with him, murmuring a mechanical good-by. amy stood at bob's side and nelson held out his hand to her. amy had shared peggy's feeling of vexation with ruth, and like peggy had resented her sense of impotence. neither one of them would have hesitated to take ruth roundly to task for her conduct, but it was impossible to scold her in nelson's presence, and after he had started on his long journey westward it would be too late. but as amy looked into the young fellow's down-cast face, a brilliant inspiration came to her aid. she grasped his hand, pulled herself up on tiptoes, and kissed the astonished youth squarely on the lips. "good-by, nelson, and good luck." peggy, the next in line, saw her friend's ruse, and seconded her admirably. it was impossible to tell whether nelson blushed at the second kiss, for the flaming color due to amy's salute still dyed him crimson. priscilla pushed aside the obtrusive thought of horace, and backed up the others. and then nelson came to ruth. for a moment ruth had been in a quandary. after their warm friendship, to part with nelson with a formal handshake when the other girls had kissed him, would be to proclaim publicly that she was angry, and ruth did not wish to seem angry, but only indifferent. and yet if she kissed nelson good-by, she had a suspicion that the barrier her pride had built between them would melt like mist in the sun. she raised her eyes and met his, those honest eyes in which she read bewilderment and grief and appeal and something greater than all. and then, all at once, her resentment seemed incomprehensibly petty. whatever the reason that nelson had come late, it was not because he did not care. and so their first kiss was exchanged in the garish light of a railway waiting-room, with the calls of the trainmen blending with the unmelodious crying of babies, with travelers coming and going, and a little circle of friends standing by and taking everything in. but there are some experiences it is impossible to spoil. [illustration: "she raised her eyes and met his"] "all aboard," cried graham, and carried nelson away. ruth slipped her arms through peggy's, and turned toward the door, swallowing hard at something that refused to be swallowed. "if ever a girl deserved a scolding!" said peggy in the tenderest tones imaginable. "but i'm not going to do it now, because at the last minute you redeemed yourself--thanks to amy." chapter xiii peggy gives a dinner party ruth moped after nelson's departure. just how much her depression was due to missing him, and how much was the result of self-reproach, she could not have told. each time she realized his absence she remembered with a pang the hurt wonder of his face that night in the station. it did not help matters that nelson seemed to consider himself entirely to blame for what had happened, and had written her from the train a most humble apology for failing to be at her home at eight o'clock as he had promised. in fact, his assumption that she could not possibly be in the wrong only made ruth the more conscious of her pettiness. it was largely on ruth's account that peggy resolved on her dinner party. for after scolding ruth soundly, and giving her to understand that she was very much ashamed of her, peggy had set herself resolutely to cheer her despondent friend. on the friday following nelson's departure something went wrong with the heating plant at college, and the classes were dismissed at ten o'clock. at once peggy determined to celebrate. "father and mother have gone away for the week end, and dick's going home with his chum after school, and i shan't see him till bed-time. come to dinner all of you. we'll have an old-fashioned good time." the recipients of this invitation accepted promptly. they were in the rather hilarious mood which for some reason characterizes the most ambitious student when school is dismissed for the day, college seniors as well as kindergarten tots. "only you must let us come over and help you," stipulated ruth. "yes, come on, and then if anything doesn't turn out well, i can blame some of you. i wonder--do you know, i've half a mind to invite hildegarde carey." the others approved, especially priscilla who had a great admiration for bob's attractive sister. "she took us out that evening, you know," peggy continued. "she's always been awfully sweet to me and i've never done anything for her. the only thing--well, i feel a little bit afraid of her." "i'll testify that she can eat a very simple meal and seem to enjoy it." and amy chuckled as she always did when she recalled the first time hildegarde had sat at her table. peggy laughed understandingly. "i think i'll ask her. i've always thought it was a sort of snobbishness to be ashamed to give your best to people who have more than you do. though i'm not sure that a party of girls will appeal to her." apparently she had misjudged hildegarde. for the latter's tone, when she responded to peggy's invitation given over the phone a few minutes later, was unmistakably enthusiastic. "a dinner party and just girls! how cute! i'd adore to come, peggy, but would it put you out if i brought my friend virginia dunbar? she's a new york girl who's making me a little visit and she's perfectly fascinating." "why, bring her of course. i shall love to meet her." peggy's hospitality rendered her response sufficiently fervent, but as she hung up the receiver, her face wore a thoughtful expression. the little dinner party, which had seemed pure fun when her three chums were her prospective guests, had become a responsibility, as soon as hildegarde was added to the number. and with a new york girl coming, it seemed distinctly formidable. it had not previously occurred to peggy that the house was not in suitable order for the reception of guests, but now as she looked about the dining-room its shortcomings were painfully evident. she donned a long apron and a sweeping cap, and set resolutely to work. when the dining room was swept and garnished, the living room across the hall suffered comparison, and peggy gave that equally careful attention. and as by this time she was on her mettle, she went to work cleaning the silver. the twelve o'clock whistles surprised her in this exacting task, and she swallowed a peanut-butter sandwich by way of luncheon, promising herself to make up for this abstemiousness at dinner, peggy was not one of the temperamental cooks who cannot enjoy their own cooking. at half past one she hurried forth with her market basket to make the necessary purchases. she left by the back door and took the key with her. a little after two she was back again, the loaded basket on her arm. peggy set her burden down, rubbed her aching muscles, and felt in her coat pocket for the key. then she felt in the other pocket. then she continued to search one pocket and then the other, with increasing evidences of consternation. but it was of no use. the key was gone. "i must have had it in my hand and laid it down on the counter somewhere," thought peggy. "was ever anything so exasperating." she left the basket outside the locked door, and hurriedly retraced her steps. the butcher, whom she had visited first, shook his head in answer to her question. no, he had not seen a stray door-key. it was the same at the grocer's, the same at the bakery where she had bought parker-house rolls. peggy walked home over the route she had traversed, her eyes glued to the side-walk, but she did not find the key. ruth was waiting for her by the front steps. "i thought i'd come over and help you. i hope you haven't finished everything." "i haven't even started," replied peggy in a hollow voice, and explained the situation. ruth was a girl of resources and at once she had a bright idea. "peggy, our front door key looks a good bit like yours. perhaps it will open the door. i'll run over and get it." "then, fly," pleaded peggy, "it's simply awful to be locked out of your house when you have a million things to do." ruth sped on her errand at a pace which satisfied even the impatient peggy, and returned with a key which really did look like the latch key with whose appearance peggy was most familiar. hopefully she inserted it in the appropriate key-hole. patiently she turned it this way and that. the latch key was like a great many people, encouraging one's expectations by almost doing what it was asked to do, but never quite succeeding. in the end peggy mournfully relinquished all hope of entering the house by its aid. "i can't waste any more time on that key. it won't work, and i've got to get in." "how about the windows," suggested ruth. "the windows on the first floor are all locked, for i made sure of that before i started out." "if we could borrow a ladder--" "i don't know anybody who owns a ladder. no, there's just one chance as far as i can see. i've always wondered if i could get in through the coal shute and now i'm going to see." "but, peggy, it's so dirty." "i know, but it's got to be done." "you might get stuck," exclaimed ruth, turning pale. "wait a little, peggy. perhaps something will happen." "unless an air ship comes along and takes me to a second story window, i can't think of anything that could happen that would be of any help to me." the narrow, inclined passage through which the coal was chuted from the side walk to the cellar bin, looked small enough and black enough to justify ruth's forebodings. but peggy's impatience had reached the point where anything seemed better than inaction. she lowered herself into the chute, and when she released her hold of the edge, her descent was so rapid that ruth shrieked. but after a moment of suspense she heard an encouraging rattle of coal, and then steps slowly ascending the cellar steps. a little later the front door was shaken violently without opening, however, and peggy's face presently appeared at one of the living-room windows. regardless of the fact that her friend was attempting to tell her something, ruth screamed with laughter, for peggy's face was so begrimed as to suggest that her habitual occupation was that of a chimney-sweep. ruth's laughter was short-lived, however, for raising her voice, peggy made herself heard, and with an accent of authority by no means characteristic. "stop laughing, ruth, and help me. in fooling with your key i've done something to that wretched lock, and now i can't open the door even from the inside." "the front door?" "i can't open either door," cried peggy. "i can't open _any_ door. the only way to get into the house is by the window, and hildegarde carey is coming to dinner and a girl from new york." "what do you want me to do, peggy?" ruth was so carried away by her friend's excitement that for the moment she was unable to see anything humorous in the situation. "bring me my market basket, first. it's on the back steps. and then find a locksmith and bring him here. don't be satisfied with having him say he'll come. bring him with you." ruth hurried to the back of the house, secured the heavy basket, and returned with it to the living room window. and then she astonished peggy by setting the basket down and beginning to laugh hysterically. "what on earth--" "oh, peggy, please excuse me. i really didn't mean to laugh, but honestly you're the funniest sight i've ever seen. you're striped just like a zebra." curiosity led peggy to consult the mirror over the mantel. but instead of laughing as ruth had done, she uttered a tragic groan. "it's going to take a terrible time to clean that off, if it ever does come off. oh, ruth, hurry! when i think of all that will have to be done before six o'clock, my head just whirls." ruth took a hasty departure and peggy, having carried the basket to the kitchen, rushed upstairs to remove all traces of her recent novel entry. as this necessitated an entire change of clothing and the use of a prodigious amount of soap and hot water, her toilet consumed more time than she could well spare. but at length, clean and extremely pink, and attired in a little frock not too good for getting dinner and yet good enough to pass muster at the table, she rushed downstairs and attacked her vegetables. and still no sign of ruth, bringing the locksmith. about five o'clock priscilla arrived ready to lend a hand. peggy answered her ring at the window, instead of at the door, and after a brief conversation, the tall priscilla made an unconventional entry. amy arriving twenty minutes later was admitted by the same entrance. the girls made themselves useful and speculated on what was detaining ruth. "i don't mind letting you girls in through the window," groaned peggy. "but it's different with hildegarde. and that new york girl. oh, heavens!" at five o'clock they were all too nervous to know what they were doing. peggy set skillets on the stove with nothing in them, and snatched them off again, just in time to avert disaster. she salted vegetables and then forgot and salted them all over again. priscilla was trying to set the table, and making a poor job of it, as is generally the case when one is doing one thing and thinking of another. amy, after going to the front window on the average of once in every two minutes to see if ruth were coming, felt that she could bear inaction no longer. "peggy, where's the latch key to your front door?" "hanging on a hook over by the umbrellas. but you can't do anything with it. i've tried." "what a key has done a key can undo," replied amy, sententiously; and possessing herself of the magic piece of steel, she climbed out of the window and set to work. for fifteen or twenty minutes she continued to fumble at the lock without results, and she was on the point of deciding that she might be putting in the time to better advantage, when something clicked encouragingly. amy turned the knob, and squealed with delight; for the door opened. before she could proclaim her success, priscilla had made a discovery. lying across a chair in the kitchen was a garment of some indeterminate shade between blue and black. "what's this?" asked priscilla, pausing to examine it. "it's my old blue coat. but since i came down the coal chute, i don't know as i can ever wear it again. it isn't worth sending to the cleaner's, and i'm afraid it's beyond my skill." "i'll hang it in the laundry," said priscilla, and lifted the smutty garment daintily by the tips of her fingers. the coat swung against the round of the chair with a distinct clink, and peggy looked up quickly. "what was that?" "a button, wasn't it?" "the buttons are cloth. and that was such a queer sound--like metal." priscilla had a brilliant idea. disregarding the fact that the coal dust with which the garment was covered came off on her hands, she began eagerly feeling along the lower edge. and just as amy heard the click that meant victory, priscilla uttered an ecstatic cry. "the key, peggy! i've found your key!" "what? where? oh, priscilla, not really?" "there must have been a hole in your pocket," declared priscilla. "the key slipped down between the outside and the lining. you can feel for yourself. there's a key all right, and it's not likely it's a different one." "take a knife and rip up the lining at the bottom," ordered peggy recklessly. "yes, of course it's the key. i wonder if i'd rather have that new york girl come in by the back door or the front window." that query had hardly left her lips, when amy rushed in. "i've done it, peggy, i've done it." "you don't mean you've got the door open?" "yes, i have. i was just ready to give up and then i tried again and something clicked and the deed was done." "and priscilla's found the back-door key. now ruth will come with the locksmith." they heard footsteps even as she spoke, and then ruth's voice explaining to the locksmith that the only way to get into the house was by the window. peggy went to meet them, assuming a very dignified air that she might not look sheepish. "we succeeded in opening the doors that were troubling us, but there's a key broken off in a lock upstairs. since you're here, you might as well attend to that. will you take him upstairs ruth? it's the door of the den." and then peggy beat a retreat to the kitchen, leaving ruth to propitiate the locksmith, who had left his shop reluctantly, yielding to her impassioned representations of the urgency of the case. dinner was more than half an hour late, and failed to justify peggy's reputation as a cook, for some dishes were over-salted and others entirely lacking that essential ingredient, while the pudding was so overdone that it was necessary to remove the top layer, and conceal deficiencies by a quite superfluous meringue. but since peggy had planned her dinner party with the purpose of distracting ruth's thoughts, she had every reason to consider it an unqualified success. chapter xiv at the foot-ball game the foot-ball season was on. it had opened auspiciously when the university had crushingly defeated the visitors, and the attendance upon the second game showed that the public anticipated a similar victory. priscilla, sitting demurely beside horace hitchcock, was a-tingle with excitement. not for the world would she have allowed horace to guess how momentous the occasion seemed. the tiers of seats gave a dazzling effect of color. pennants and flags and the bright-colored hats of the girls made priscilla think of terraces covered with flowers. every one was talking, almost drowning out the noisy efforts of the 'varsity band. it seemed to priscilla an unfitting time to quote schopenhauer, but the schopenhauer pose was horace's latest, and it recognized neither time nor seasons. priscilla leaned impulsively across horace to wave to amy, whose good-humored face had suddenly differentiated itself from the mass of surrounding faces. horace interrupted in the midst of a peculiarly pessimistic utterance, looked frankly vexed, and priscilla apologized. "excuse me, i just happened to see amy." "it is not a surprise to me, priscilla, to find you uninterested. it is the fate of some souls to be solitary. once i had hoped--but it doesn't matter." priscilla's mood was a little perverse. "perhaps the reason you're solitary is that you choose such unpleasant paths. if you'd only walk where it was nice and sunny, you'd have plenty of company." "plenty of company! heavens!" horace shuddered. "that suggests the crowd. it is bad enough for the body to be jostled, but at least the spirit can command unhampered space. i had dreamed once that you might follow me to the heights where the atmosphere is too rare for the multitude, but--why do we cling to life, when each hour that passes shatters another illusion?" "i'm sorry i'm such a disappointment, horace," priscilla bit her lip. she was young and eager. she wanted passionately to be happy. she longed to respond to the charm of the hour, to enjoy it ardently, and instead she was obliged to listen to quotations from schopenhauer, and think of horace's lost illusions. the thought crossed her mind that since she could not make horace happy even for an afternoon, and since he was certainly not making her so, it promised ill for the future. if only horace could be brought to see that they had made a mistake. a little flutter of hope stirred in priscilla's heart. horace was speaking in a tone of extreme bitterness. "blessed is the man who expects nothing from life, for he shall not be disappointed." "horace," began priscilla firmly. "don't you think that we--i mean wouldn't it be better--" a number of people were coming into the vacant places on her left. a young man seated himself beside priscilla, and involuntarily she turned. then she gave an impulsive start and her ready color flamed up. the young man, who wore glasses, also started and after an almost imperceptible hesitation lifted his hat. simultaneously priscilla bowed in the most unresponsive fashion possible, and looked away. horace stared suspiciously at her flushed cheeks. horace had never heard the story of the supper at the green parrot, and the fragment of roll that had sought to drown itself in the stranger's coffee-cup. if priscilla had ever taken him into her confidence, he might have guessed the explanation of her present embarrassment. as it was, he leaned close and said in her ear, "who is that fellow?" "sh! i'll tell you afterward." poor priscilla! the game to which she had looked forward had become an impossible nightmare. horace's philosophical pursuits had not freed him from that ready jealousy which is the characteristic of small natures. he sat glowering across priscilla's shoulder at the young man seated on her left. as it was impossible to misunderstand horace's expression, the young man, after his first recognition of priscilla's presence, obligingly ignored her. the finishing of the first half was an enormous relief to priscilla. the majority of the seats in the grand-stand were immediately vacated. the flower bed had become kaleidoscopic, with the bits of color continually rearranging themselves, as laughing girls and glowing youths moved about, excitedly discussing the points of the game they had witnessed. but though priscilla was so ardent a fan, she knew little of the game and cared less. the young man at her left had been one of the first to rise. as he moved away, priscilla turned to horace, and without giving herself time to be frightened by his forbidding expression, she told him the story of her first and only visit to the green parrot. after she had finished, horace seemed to be waiting for more. "do you mean that is all?" he demanded at length. "all? of course it's all." "then why did you blush that way?" the red went out of priscilla's cheeks. even the color due to the frostiness of the outdoor air was replaced by an angry pallor. "do you mean," she said in a level voice, "that you don't believe me?" "a fellow crowds in and sits down beside you, a fellow i've never seen. you recognize each other and then you turn crimson. you refuse to give me any explanation till enough time has elapsed for fabricating a story, plausible from your point of view--" "horace!" "and you then tell me a yarn that is no explanation whatever. what if a piece of roll did fly out of your hand and fall into somebody's coffee cup! what is there in that to turn you all colors of the rainbow? you're stringing me, that's all." the horace who quoted schopenhauer, and talked like the hero of a society novel, had magically disappeared, and in his place was a slangy young man, very much like other young men in a bad temper. "horace," said priscilla, her lips trembling, "i've been afraid for a long time that we'd made a mistake. i can't seem to please you, no matter how hard i try, and probably it won't surprise you to know that i've been perfectly miserable for the last six months. and it seems to me the best thing we can do--" the people were beginning to come back to their seats. a couple just in front of horace and priscilla turned to scream something to a row of young people back of them. priscilla tightened her grip on her self control and looked straight ahead. it was not the time nor place for breaking an engagement. she must wait till she could get away from this noisy, laughing crowd. oh, if only the dreadful afternoon were over. the university triumphed again, as its friends had anticipated. there was the usual tumultuous cheering, the usual frantic demonstrations. priscilla gave horace the benefit of a frigid profile. her sense of indignity kept her sternly silent. he had accused her of lying, and that meant all was over between them. underneath her hurt and humiliation was a sense of relief she refused to acknowledge even to herself. fortunately the young man in eye-glasses did not return to take the vacant place at priscilla's left, and the situation was not further complicated by his embarrassing presence. she stood up as the crowd rose, thankful for the prospect of escape. horace put his hand lightly on her arm. "wouldn't you like something hot to drink?" he asked. "chocolate or coffee?" his tone was caressing. "i don't want anything except to get home." "then we'll go home, little girl. i only thought you might be chilled sitting here in the cold so long." he spoke with placid tenderness, as if their quarrel belonged to the babylonian era of their acquaintance. priscilla cast a frightened glance at him. she felt like a fly, partially disentangling itself from the spider's web, only to find itself again mysteriously ensnared. "don't, horace," she exclaimed impulsively. "don't what, priscilla?" "don't talk as if nothing had happened. if you believe that i'm a liar--" "my dear girl, don't be absurd. we'd better not talk till you're calmer." "i'm as calm as i'm likely to be when i'm talking of this, horace. if you think it a little thing to doubt my word, i don't agree with you." he took her arm and bent down till his face was very close to hers. "can't you make allowances, priscilla, for a man crazed with love and jealousy?" "you haven't any right--" her voice broke in a sob. she fought desperately against the tears that placed her, she vaguely realized, at such a serious disadvantage, but they were too much for her. they splashed down on her white cheeks, and the couples crowding past glanced at her curiously. "forgive me, priscilla. i accept your explanation. i ask your forgiveness. i am at your feet." she was lost and she knew it, but she struggled nevertheless. "we've made a mistake. we're not happy, either of us. it's better to stop now than later." "priscilla--are you in love with him?" horace's tone had changed magically. it was no longer tenderly matter-of-fact, but tragic, desperate. she stared at him aghast. "in love--why, what, do you mean?" "with that man who sat beside you to-day, the man who did not dare come back and face me." "horace,--why, horace, you must be crazy. i told you i had never seen him but once before, and i told you what happened then." her disclaimer did not afford him any especial relief. he was muttering to himself. she caught the words, "as well now as later," and fear gripped her heart. he did not directly address her till they had left the field behind, and were no longer surrounded by the laughing, buoyant throng. "i have foreseen this, priscilla. i have known that happiness was not for me. but i have tried to shut my eyes to the truth, to hope for the impossible. now you have thrown me away like a ripped glove--" "horace, i didn't." even at this tragic moment the thought crossed priscilla's mind that instead of throwing away a ripped glove as worthless, she would sit down conscientiously to mend it. she brushed aside the reflection as unworthy the occasion and hurried on, "it isn't that. but if we can't be happy now, if we're always irritating and hurting each other--" "you don't need to say more, priscilla. you are weary of me. i had dreamed i had found a soul capable of constancy--but no matter. this is good-by, priscilla. i cannot live without you. when you take away your love from me, you take away all that makes life endurable. all i ask now is forgetfulness, and only death can promise me that--good-by, priscilla." poor priscilla! she should have known better. long before she had discovered horace's weakness for posing. it was no secret to her that he experienced the keenest satisfaction in contemplating the ravages wrought in his nature by successive disillusionments. yet though she understood, at this crisis her good sense failed her. in spite of herself, she interpreted horace's speech by her own sincerity, and a chill terror took possession of her. he would kill himself and she would be to blame. although the law would not recognize her crime, at the bar of her own conscience she would be adjudged guilty of murder. "horace," she wailed, "you did not understand me. i want to make you happy, that's all. if you think we haven't made a mistake, i'm satisfied." it took a long time to reassure horace. it was so hard to explain matters satisfactorily that it almost seemed as if he were stupid or else wilfully perverse. much of the time he stared blankly ahead, so lost in gloomy reflections that she had to speak his name twice, before she could attract his attention. his lips moved, too, but without a sound, as if he were saying things too dreadful to be heard. altogether priscilla suffered intolerably before she could bring the unhappy young man to reconsider his desperate purpose. at last she was partially successful. he became calm enough to listen to her repeated assurances that all she thought of was his happiness and, though his mood was still sober when they parted, he had given a half-hearted and reluctant promise that he would surrender, for the present at least, all thought of doing away with the life he valued so lightly. priscilla was not sure how she got through the rest of the day. her mother noticed her abstraction and speculated hopefully as to whether she had quarreled with horace. while priscilla's parents had never been let into the secret of the engagement, they could not be unaware of the significance of horace's attentions. like most american fathers and mothers, they believed a girl should be allowed to choose her own friends, unless there was some decided reason to oppose her choice. although neither of them liked horace, the reasons for their prejudice were too vague and too personal to constitute a ground for opposing the intimacy. moreover, both of priscilla's parents were of the opinion that if she saw enough of the young man she would tire of the mannerisms they found so objectionable. it was not till priscilla was safe in bed that she dared relieve her over-burdened heart by tears. and as she lay sobbing with the coverlet over her head, she solemnly relinquished all hope of happiness in this world. "it was my vanity that got me into this," lamented priscilla. "i didn't like to feel i was less attractive than the other girls and so i fairly snatched at horace. now i've got to stand by my promise if it kills me, but oh, how am i going to bear it!" so priscilla cried herself to sleep. and there was an added poignancy in her grief as she remembered that the combs family was notably long-lived, boasting some distant ancestors who had rounded out a full century of existence. chapter xv the cure they were out for a walk one saturday evening, peggy and amy, with graham and bob in attendance, when in front of a little movie theater, peggy stopped short. a young couple stood at the ticket booth, the girl giggling vacuously as the very slender youth fumbled in his pockets for the price of admission. peggy's abrupt halt was not due to the charm of the flaring poster, representing a fat woman with a broom in pursuit of a thin man attired in a bath-robe. her attention was absorbed by the young couple, who were planning to enjoy the show. for while she had never seen the girl before, the slender youth was her younger brother, dick. as the two disappeared behind the swinging doors, peggy turned to her companions. "think you could stand it?" she indicated the poster by a gesture, and bob carey, who did not have the pleasure of dick's acquaintance, looked surprised, while graham's face wore an expression of doubt. "i've seen just as bad, peggy, and still survive," graham said. "but i hardly think--" "of course we can stand it, if you'd like to go in, peggy," interrupted amy. and bob, though evidently puzzled by peggy's taste moved quickly forward to purchase the tickets, thus getting ahead of graham who was still inclined to remonstrate. graham understood that peggy was not especially pleased to discover dick in company with a girl she knew nothing about, especially since her manner had made anything but a favorable impression in the few seconds she had been under observation. but dick, while considerably short of his majority, was old enough to resent interference in his affairs, and graham could not see that peggy would gain anything by trying to play detective. the film which constituted the evening's entertainment was exceptionally poor. the comedy was of the atrocious, slap-stick sort that moves the judicious almost to tears while the feature play, a melodrama only saved from being a tragedy by an inconsistently happy ending, was frequently so overdone as to be extremely funny. peggy paid comparatively little attention to the drama as it unrolled before her eyes. first of all she set herself to locate dick and his companion, and then to evolve a plan of action suited to the requirements of the case. graham spoke confidentially in her ear. "don't worry, peggy. every boy has his silly times. i did myself." graham's manner suggested that he was speaking from the vantage-point of discreet middle age. "yes, i know." peggy did not mean her answer just as it sounded. she was simply thinking of something else. graham stared at the inane chase, unfolding on the screen, where a procession of people ran into everything imaginable from a peanut vendor's cart to an express train, and presently tried again. "you want to be careful, peggy. he's just at the age to resent your trying to manage him." "yes, i know," whispered peggy again. she was fully as alive as graham to the necessity of tact. but she was aware, too, that all boys do not pass through the silly stage as unscathed as graham had done. all the loyal sister in her was alert. they sat through the depressing comedy and the amusing tragedy, and then suddenly peggy rose. she had seen dick on ahead getting to his feet. in the darkness of the picture house there was no danger he would recognize her. indeed it was unlikely that he would have seen her even if the lights had been turned on, so engrossed was he by the plump little person whose head barely reached his shoulder. peggy and her party were outside first. all unaware of the ambush, dick came blundering on. he was talking fast and the girl was giggling approval. peggy saw that she was all she had feared. her round cheeks were rouged so as to give an excellent imitation of a pair of baldwin apples. between the crimson circles her nose gleamed ludicrously white, suggesting a very recent use of her powder puff. her bobbed hair, together with her diminutive frame, gave her a childish air, contradicted by the shrewdness of her eyes. peggy guessed that dick's friend was considerably his senior, probably not far from her own age. dick was laughing rather boisterously at one of his own witticisms, when peggy touched his arm. "hello, dick!" her tone was nonchalant, but dick started, straightened himself and flushed angrily. all his masculine pride was up in arms at the thought of coercion. but peggy's matter-of-fact air partly allayed his suspicions. "we sat about six rows back of you," she explained. "dick, you haven't met mr. carey, have you? my brother, richard, bob." the two shook hands and dick realized that reciprocity was in order. under the most favorable circumstances, performing the ceremony of introduction was to dick an agonizing ordeal, and the present situation increased his inevitable embarrassment a hundred fold. he was the color of a ripe tomato as he blurted out, "miss coffin, let me introduce you to my sister--miss raymond--and miss--miss----" he had forgotten amy's name after having known it all his life, and peggy came to the rescue, and introduced the others. whatever dick's feeling in regard to the meeting, it was clear that miss coffin was not displeased. she fixed a hypnotic gaze on bob carey as she exclaimed, "fierce name, isn't it! but take it from me, i'm no dead one, coffin or no coffin." peggy's smile gave no hint of her inward anguish. "we're just going home to have some oysters. won't you and dick come along, miss coffin?" graham had difficulty in choking down an impatient exclamation. what was peggy thinking of? it was bad enough for dick to be associating with a girl of this sort, but for peggy to encourage him in his folly by welcoming the girl to her home, the first time she had ever seen her, impressively illustrated the feminine incapacity to act reasonably in a crisis. while it was impossible to put his disapproval into words, graham's manner left little unexpressed. dick looked as if he agreed with graham, but peggy had not addressed herself to him. and as for miss coffin, peggy's invitation was responsible for a marked increase in her sprightliness. "eats!" she cried dramatically, "oh, boy! lead me to it!" they went down the street in the direction of friendly terrace, miss coffin chattering animatedly at dick's elbow, and speaking loudly enough to be heard easily by the others. indeed, there was ground for supposing that she was willing to allow her vivacious conversation to make an impression on more important listeners than dick. her youthful escort, stalking awkwardly at her side, was almost as silent as graham who walked on ahead with peggy. but the silence of her brother and her lover, even though it implied criticism and displeasure, seemingly failed to shadow peggy's spirits. she turned her head every now and then to address a remark to dick's companion, and miss coffin showed her appreciation of the friendly attitude by the request that she "cut out the formal stuff." "you kids are the kind that can call me mazie," she chirruped, apparently under the impression that she was addressing some one at a considerable distance. it was perhaps as well for the success of peggy's plan that neither her father nor her mother were at home. she ushered her guests into the living room and insisted on their laying aside their wraps. mazie coffin having removed her hat, went straight as a homing pigeon to the mirror over the mantel, and made an unabashed and quite unnecessary use of her powder puff. "you're coming out to help me, aren't you, amy?" peggy inquired casually. "i thought i'd fix little pigs-in-blankets, you know. they're awfully good, but rather fussy." "why, of course i'll help," responded amy, wondering if mazie, also, would be called on to render assistance. but apparently peggy's acquaintance with mazie had not progressed to that point of informality. "we'll try not to be any longer than we can help," she smiled, "and we'll leave you to amuse one another till we're ready." out in the kitchen as they wrapped fat oysters in blankets of bacon, pinning the latter in place with wooden tooth-picks, the two girls exchanged significant glances. "what's the idea?" amy asked, with the frankness of long friendship. "well, i'm not sure that it will do any good. but i've got an idea--don't you know that the impression a thing makes on you depends a lot on the background?" "hm! i don't quite understand what you mean." "well, if you see a girl on the stage with a skirt nine inches long, it doesn't make the same impression on you that it would if you saw her in your own home." "no, it doesn't." "dick's been used to nice people all his life," peggy went on, plainly trying to encourage herself as well as to explain matters to amy. "a girl like this might attract his attention if he saw her behind the counter of a cigar store--" "does she work in a cigar store?" "i haven't the least idea. i only meant she wouldn't seem particularly out of place in a tobacco shop. but here in our home--oh, it seems as though dick must see how cheap and tawdry she is." amy skewered a particularly juicy oyster with a vicious thrust of the tooth pick. "hope so, anyway," she said, and felt an exasperated desire to box dick's ears. but when peggy had left the field to mazie coffin, she had builded better than she knew, mazie had accepted the responsibility of entertaining the masculine portion of the company with extreme complacency. never for a moment had she doubted her ability to make a favorable impression. as she gave her smiling attention to the trio, her late escort occupied a very small fraction of her thoughts. dick was only a boy, a boy to whom shaving was still a novel art, and whose voice cracked ludicrously in moments of excitement. but graham and bob were young men, and good looking young men at that. mazie hoped that the girls would not hurry with the oysters. as this young woman's methods were not characterized by subtlety, it was not long before dick realized that he was being disregarded. mazie had eyes only for his seniors. she had begun by saying, as the door closed behind peggy and amy, "gee, but they're trusting! how do they know that i won't vamp you two guys!" and when dick, resenting his new rôle of unnoticed on-looker, had attempted to bear his part in the conversation, mazie had silenced him with a jocose, "what are you butting in for, kid? children must be seen and not heard, you know." dick raymond was by no means a bad boy, and he was just as far from being a stupid boy. mazie's conversational advances, as she had weighed out peanut brittle and caramels in quarter pound lots, had flattered his vanity. dick was not accustomed to being regarded as a young man, and mazie's manner of considering him worth-while game had naturally convinced him that she was a girl of exceptional insight. but now as she made eyes at graham and smiled at bob, the conviction seized dick that her previous attentions had been due to the fact that he was the only one of his kind within reach. as was natural, the discovery made him critical. he noticed the harshness of mazie's voice, the vacuity of her giggle. her repetition of cheap slang began to jar on him, even though he was himself a similar offender. he looked distrustfully at the crimson cheeks, with the powdered nose gleaming whitely between. "i'll be 'jiggered if it doesn't look exactly like a marshmallow," he told himself. the possibility that dick's mood was critical did not trouble mazie. she had looked peggy and amy over with the complacent certainty of her superior charms. dick's sister wasn't a bad looker, mazie owned condescendingly, but she was slow, dead slow, and nowadays the fellows liked plenty of pep. mazie prided herself, not without reason, on having an abundance of that essential quality. she was sorry when the fragrance of frying bacon and coffee greeted her nostrils. though graham was stiffly polite and bob carey plainly amused, she would have been glad of a little more time. the impromptu supper in the dining-room completed dick's disillusionment. determined not to yield any advantage she had gained mazie continued to take the lead in the conversation. she gestured freely and frequently with the hand which held her fork, even with an oyster impaled on the tines. she drank her coffee noisily. once, dick was sure, he saw bob choke down a laugh, though he made a pretence of coughing behind his napkin. and it was not, dick was certain, because he found her amusing, but because he thought her ridiculous. dick glared furiously at the averted shoulder of his erst-while charmer. mazie had elected to treat him like a little boy, but if she had listened to him, thought dick, he could have kept her from making a fool of herself. mazie seemed willing to linger, even after amy and bob had taken their departure. "guess we might as well be starting," suggested dick, his thoughts upon the probable return of his father and mother, rather than on his responsibility as host. "getting sleepy aren't you, little boy?" mocked mazie. "don't let me keep you from your downy. i can get home somehow," and she glanced significantly at graham, whose good looks, for all his air of reserve, had made a strong impression on her susceptible temperament. when at length she left under the escort of a frankly sulky dick, she turned back to remind graham that he could always find her in streeter's sweet shop between the hours of nine and five. and then she took dick's arm, and went out the door, smiling back coquettishly over her shoulder. graham hardly waited for them to be out of hearing before he exploded. the evening had been a great disappointment, and while graham would have resented any outside suggestion that peggy came short of absolute perfection, there were times when he felt himself quite capable of pointing out her errors in judgment. peggy's painstaking explanation failed to enlighten him, and while peggy thought graham the most wonderful of men, in this instance she found him disappointingly slow of comprehension. they did not quarrel, but they kept on arguing the question long after it was clear that neither would be able to take the other's point of view. they were still arguing when dick returned. dick was in that state of irritation when scolding somebody seems an indispensable luxury. "see here, peggy, just because you see me with a girl, you don't have to start right in and invite her to the house." "why, dick, i thought--" "sometimes a fellow asks a girl out just so he can size her up. and if he finds that she's a blamed idiot, he don't want her mixed up with his family. you mean all right, peggy, but you don't understand life the way graham and i do. i don't want you to have anything more to do with mazie coffin, peggy. she's not the sort of girl for you to associate with. you can ask graham about it if you don't believe me." and as dick stalked off to bed, ill tempered and aggrieved and abnormally dignified, even graham was obliged to admit that it looked like a cure. chapter xvi deliverance priscilla had seen horace only once since the football game, and then for a short and unsatisfactory interview. immediately after, horace had left town for one of those trips which so cleverly combined business and pleasure, a combination of which horace seemed to have the secret. a long letter which might have been an excerpt from the journal of another disappointed man gave her no address to which to write him, and the best she could do was to promise herself to be very, very kind to horace on his return. she owed him that for the wrong she had done him. the days went by without any further word from horace, and friday rounded out a full week since she had last seen him. priscilla and peggy walked home from class together with that sense of leisure friday afternoon brings to each student, no matter how much must be done before monday morning. they paused at peggy's door and peggy urged hospitably, "come on in." "i think i'd better go home and see if mother's there, and if she wants anything. we haven't seen our maid for three days." "well, we've _seen_ sally, if that's any comfort," laughed peggy. "but she's been about as much good as if she'd been at the north pole. a woman she knows was knocked down by an automobile and taken to the hospital, and all sally has been good for since is to dramatize the affair. first she's the automobile speeding recklessly on, and then she's the poor victim. you never saw anything so realistic as the way she drops on the kitchen floor." priscilla laughed, but disapprovingly. "i don't see how you folks put up with her, peggy. she'd drive me crazy." "well, there's no denying she's a trial at times, but sally has her good points. she's devoted to us all, for one thing, and that isn't very common these days. and besides," added peggy simply, "if we didn't keep her i don't know how the poor thing would get along." the two girls had been together all day but they lingered, loath to separate. "listen, peggy," priscilla exclaimed. "come home with me. like enough mother will have an errand for me to do and then we can go together. don't you love outdoors when it's still and cold like this?" "yes, love it. i'll go and see if we need anything in the way of groceries, and i'll join you in about a minute." peggy hurried up the walk and priscilla went on her way. the evening paper lay folded on the porch of her home and she picked it up and tucked it under her arm before she slipped her key into the latch. she found the kitchen empty and ran upstairs, calling her mother. but only the echoes answered, and priscilla realized that except for herself the house was empty. priscilla seated herself to wait for peggy, picking up the paper she had thrown on the library table. her eye ran mechanically over the columns. she turned the sheets, her thoughts still busy with the day's happenings, and with vague plans for the morrow. then unexpectedly a familiar face flashed out at her from the page, set above head-lines that seemed fairly to shriek their news. young hitchcock surprises friends society man marries in new york priscilla, sitting motionless, read the news over several times. then her eyes began moving down the column. even when she saw horace's name written out in full, her sense of unreality persisted. the reporter had treated the matter humorously, following the precedent which makes love and marriage the most popular theme for jests. that the lady in question had become mrs. hitchcock just three days after meeting her future husband furnished a partial excuse for the levity. "mr. hitchcock denies that there is anything hasty in his romantic marriage," wrote the reporter. "when asked if he considered a three days' acquaintance a sufficient prelude to matrimony, he smilingly replied that he preferred three thousand years. in explanation of his enigmatic remark, mr. hitchcock gave his views on reincarnation, while in the background mrs. hitchcock blushed assent. both are convinced that, to quote mr. hitchcock, 'they were soul mates when the pyramids were in building, lovers in babylon--'" priscilla suddenly crumpled the paper in her hand. the familiar phrases were like a dash of cold water, rousing her from her daze. "i'm free," she cried, "i'm free! i'm free!" and broke into violent weeping. peggy rang several times without attracting attention. when at length she put her finger to the button and held it there, priscilla woke to the realization that there was some one at the door. she crept downstairs, unconsciously holding fast to the paper that had announced her release, and admitted a justly incensed peggy. "i'm afraid you need some of those artificial ear-drums, priscilla--why, what's happened?" peggy's attempted irony changed to affectionate concern, as she saw priscilla with her tear-streaked cheeks and eyes inflamed and swollen. she threw her arms around her friend, her imagination running the gamut of possible calamities. "oh, what is the matter?" she pleaded. it seemed to priscilla that a verbal explanation was beyond her. dumbly she held out the crumpled sheet. peggy caught sight of horace's smug smile, snatched the paper from priscilla's hand, and read the incredible story at a glance. the blood rushed to her brain, dying even her ears crimson. rage shook her. for the instant, the gentle peggy was a silent fury. priscilla roused herself to the need of explanation. "peggy!" peggy whirled upon her. "my dear, it is the most abominable thing i ever heard of, but you couldn't have cared for him, priscilla. oh, tell me you didn't." "we--well, we were engaged." "engaged," choked peggy. she took a backward step, looked at priscilla's disfigured face, and dug her nails deep into her palms. "oh, i wish i were a man," she breathed in a voice hardly recognizable. priscilla uttered a choked laugh. combined with the fact that the tears were still running down her face, this did not tend to allay peggy's apprehensions. but as the laugh seemed to unlock priscilla's tongue, her distressed friend was not long kept in suspense. "i suppose i looked as if i were heart-broken," exclaimed priscilla, laughing and crying. "yes, we were really engaged, peggy, but you can't imagine what a nightmare it has been." "a nightmare," gasped peggy. "your engagement a nightmare!" she put her hands to her head as if the unexpected information acquired in the last few minutes had crowded it to the bursting point. "wait, peggy! i've had a dreadful time, but it's been my own fault. i blame myself for everything that has happened. if it hadn't been for my silly vanity--" "vanity--" interrupted peggy, and sniffed her scorn. "oh, you can sneer, peggy raymond, but i've been a silly little fool. in the first place, i made myself miserable because nobody wanted me." "priscilla," peggy interrupted again, "i believe you ought to go to bed. you're talking as if you were delirious." "i know perfectly well what i'm saying, peggy. you were engaged to graham, and nelson was in love with ruth and bob carey was getting very attentive to amy, and i was the only one left out and i resented it." "do you mean," cried peggy incredulously, "that you don't know that you're so handsome that people are always turning to look after you when you pass?" priscilla laughed. "i won't choke you off, peggy. after that news--" she nodded significantly toward the paper. "i fancy i can stand a little flattery and not be injured. but anyway i was sour and sore when horace began to call. i knew exactly what horace was, peggy, but i shut my eyes to it. i wouldn't criticize him even in my thoughts. i wouldn't let you laugh at him--" "don't i know it!" peggy drew a long breath. "that was one of the things that made me anxious." "well, when he told me--that he cared for me, i just snatched at him, peggy. i was perfectly delighted that somebody thought i was attractive. and i was such a silly little fool that i actually gloated over being the second girl out of us four to get engaged. peggy, i'm terribly ashamed to tell you all this, but now's the time to finish up the subject and be done with it." "priscilla darling, i can understand everything except your feeling that way about yourself." "of course i wasn't happy," priscilla went on. "i don't know whether horace was or not. he always talked in a dreadfully pessimistic fashion, but i rather think--" "just a pose," interpolated peggy witheringly. "even when he was a little boy, horace was always playing a part." "once or twice i tried to tell him i thought we had made a mistake. when i thought of going on and on through the years it didn't seem as if i could bear it. and then he talked so dreadfully, peggy, and i was afraid he'd kill himself." "no such luck," snorted priscilla's audience. it was hard to believe that it was really peggy making such a speech and looking so fierce and angry. priscilla interrupted her story by a little hysterical laugh. "the last time was only two weeks ago at the foot-ball game. he was so disagreeable that i tried again to get out of it, and then he took it so to heart that i gave up all hope of ever being free. when i read that account today, and it came over me all at once that i needn't ever see horace hitchcock again, it seemed as if i'd die of joy. i believe i should have, too, if i hadn't begun to cry." peggy was still scornful. "the idea of your sacrificing yourself for such a fellow as horace." "only because i was to blame, peggy. as long as my silly vanity had got me into such a scrape, i thought nothing was too bad for me." "didn't it ever occur to you that two wrongs didn't make a right? if you were wrong in getting engaged to horace when you didn't love him, marrying him without love would be a million times wickeder." priscilla took the reproof meekly. "perhaps so. anyway, i have learned my lesson. the wrong man is so much worse than no man at all that now i'm perfectly resigned to being an old maid." peggy sniffed derisively. "you talk about your silly vanity. you certainly were silly enough, but when it comes to vanity, why, priscilla combs, you're the most painfully modest girl i know. the timid violet is a monster of arrogance compared to you. i adore ruth and amy, as everybody knows, but when it comes to looks, they're simply not in it alongside you. you're handsome, priscilla, just as horace's dreadful old aunt said, and you're talented and you're charming, and lots of men would fall in love with you in a minute if they thought they had the ghost of a chance." priscilla clapped her hands over her ears and blushed till peggy's eloquence lost itself in laughter. "i'm not going to be punished by having to marry horace," she said, when at length she judged it safe to lower her defenses. "but i shan't get off scott-free. just think, peggy, how many people in this city will be sorry for me, because i've been jilted by horace hitchcock." chapter xvii peggy comes to a decision it was mid-afternoon on a crisp february day when graham called peggy on the phone. in his preliminary "hello" she detected an unwonted note of excitement. "hello, graham. yes, it's peggy." "i want you to take dinner with me to-night." "take dinner? why, i can't possibly, graham. i've got quite a lot of cramming to do for the mid-year examinations. and i haven't even looked at my lessons for to-morrow." "hang your lessons." peggy pricked up her ears. "what did you say?" she queried incredulously. "i said, 'hang your lessons,' and i'll add, 'hang your examinations.' i've got to see you and have a long talk." one of the advantages of habitual faithfulness to duty is that the rare relapse into irresponsibility comes as a delightful holiday. peggy's face suddenly crinkled into a charming smile. it was a pity graham could not see it. "oh, well," she said demurely, "if it's terribly important--" "it is." "then i suppose i must let you have your way." "i'll call for you at half past six and we'll dine at the mclaughlin." "the mclaughlin! you haven't happened to come into a fortune since last evening, have you!" "not exactly. it's a celebration." "what for?" "that's telling. see you at six-thirty, peggy darling. good-by." and graham rang off in a hurry, as if he feared her powers of persuasion, and suspected that if he gave her half a chance she would have the whole story out of him over the wire. peggy went back to her books with a smile which proved her thinking of something very different from history or economics. she was well aware that she would go to the class next day without her usual careful preparation, but having made up her mind to accede to graham's request, she had no intention of spoiling her pleasure by thinking of slighted tasks. and though she made a valiant effort at concentration in the short time left her for study, her attempt was not particularly successful. the dinner was a celebration, graham had said. she racked her brain to recall some anniversary that had momentarily escaped her recollection, but without results. peggy was dressed by six o'clock, having spent an unprecedentedly long time over her toilet. the mclaughlin, though not the largest hotel in the city, was one of the most exclusive, and the costumes seen in the dining-room were frequently of an elegance compared with which peggy's little evening frock was almost dowdy. but neither at the mclaughlin nor elsewhere was one likely to see a face more charming than that which looked back at peggy from her mirror, so that her haunting fear that graham might be ashamed of her was entirely unfounded. mrs. raymond left the dining table to see the young couple off. "have a good time, dears," she said, and was pleased but not surprised when graham followed peggy's example, and stooping kissed her. she stood at the window looking after them as they went down the street. what a dear boy graham was! in the far-off, nebulous future when peggy began to think of being married, she could trust her to graham without a fear. and then they would live near, where she could see peggy every day. mrs. raymond told herself she would not have anything different. "mother," called mr. raymond's voice from the dining-room, "your dinner's getting cold." meanwhile peggy, tilting her head on one side like an inquisitive canary, was asking graham, "what is it we are going to celebrate?" "washington's birthday and the fourth of july, christmas and new year's." "now, graham, really i want to know." "i'll tell you when the time comes. it's not the sort of thing to be sprung on the street." "oh, how interesting!" but though peggy stopped asking questions, her curiosity grew prodigiously. silent as graham was as to the occasion of this unwonted festivity, she realized that there was about him an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. sometimes, when his eyes were on her, he seemed to be looking through her at something big in the distance. peggy was at the age when thrills and mysteries are always welcome. she climbed aboard the street-car all a-tingle with pleasurable excitement. the dining-room at the mclaughlin impressed peggy with its grandeur. the hour was still early for fashionable diners, and less than half of the tables were occupied. but the rows of waiters in black clothes and gleaming shirt fronts, and the scrape of violins in the background, gave peggy an uneasy sense of being out of place. but graham, convinced that he was escorting the queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, walked to his place as sure of himself as a young prince. and what he saw in peggy's eyes was not of a sort to lessen his self-confidence. peggy soon perceived that her customary little hints regarding economy were to have no weight on this particular occasion. graham began with oysters and then appealed to peggy as to her choice in soups. and perceiving that he was determined to be extravagant, for all she could say or do, peggy gave herself up to enjoying the fruits of his extravagance. this was clearly graham's night. peggy decided not to ask again about his secret till he told her of his own accord. [illustration: "peggy looked at him without replying"] as a matter of fact, graham seemed in no hurry to take her into his confidence. the meal went on through its leisurely courses, the tables about them gradually filling, till the attentive waiter set their dessert before them--french pastries with small cups of deliciously fragrant coffee. peggy tasted and sipped and smiled, and looked across the table with such an air of radiant happiness that if graham had kept the smallest fragment of a heart in his possession, he would have been forced to surrender it on the spot. he laid down his fork and leaned toward her. "peggy, i've got my promotion." "oh, graham!" "they want me to go to south america for two years," graham continued, speaking with curious breathlessness. "they're not asking me to stay permanently, you understand. but they want a man here who's thoroughly familiar with conditions down there." peggy looked at him without replying, all the radiant happiness drained from her face. south america! her sensations were almost the same as when he went to france, except that now she had no patriotic ardor to sustain her. he was to be away two years, and yet his mood was exultant, and he seemed to expect her congratulations. peggy rallied her courage and lifted her eyes with a wan little smile. "when--when do they want you to go?" her fork clattered against her plate, and she laid it down. she conceived on the instant an intense loathing for french pastry. "in july." "oh!" peggy winked hard. it would be a shame to spoil that beautiful dinner by crying. and besides, it was a long time before graham would have to go, from february to july. then a dreadful thought wrung her heart. if six months was a long time, what of two years? graham's face seemed to waver as he leaned toward her across the little round table. his voice sounded far-off and unfamiliar. "what do you say, peggy? shall we go?" "i--i--what are you talking about graham?" "you're always saying how you'd love to travel. don't you see this is your chance." "do you--do you mean--" "yes, of course i do. won't you marry me, peggy, and go along? i can't leave you for two years. i can't. when i came back from the other side i promised myself i'd never be separated from you again by anything less than a world war. if i went by myself, peggy, it would be going into exile for two years. but with you along, it would be a two-years' honeymoon. think what it would be to see those new countries together." "i suppose it would be a good thing for our spanish," said peggy, and the inane remark set them both to laughing, which undoubtedly was a good thing. when the paroxysm was over, peggy wiped her eyes and struggled to be reasonable. "but, graham, i don't graduate till the twelfth of june." "and i don't sail till the sixth of july. loads of time." "but i always meant to earn my living for a few years after i graduated, before--" "i wouldn't have stood for that, peggy, not if i was making enough to take care of you, and i shall be." peggy was breathing fast. it was hard to realize that she and graham were sitting there in the mclaughlin dining-room, discussing the question of whether or not they should be married in july. for except on one memorable occasion, when graham had been on the point of going across and peggy had been ready to marry him at a moment's notice, she had felt about her marriage much as her mother did, as if it belonged to the misty, distant, indeterminate future. and now the six months she had assured herself was a long time had dwindled down almost to nothing. july! it was incredibly, overwhelmingly near. "we'll have to see what father and mother think." she tried to make her voice matter-of-fact, but it had an unnatural tension. graham on the other side of the little table, nodded agreement. "of course we'll see what they think. but we know they can say only one thing. it's such a reasonable solution that only one opinion is possible. don't you like your dessert, peggy? won't you have some ice-cream?" peggy protested she liked her desert, and finished it without tasting a morsel. then they went home and proceeded to bomb the peaceful raymond household with graham's astounding proposition. and while mrs. raymond began by pronouncing it out of the question, before the evening ended she was driven to admit the reasonableness of graham's plan. it was true that peggy's marriage would follow rather closely on the heels of her graduation, but thanks to common-sense hours of sleep, and an abundance of outdoor exercise, she had come through her four years' college course in radiant health. a separation of two years just now would be hard for both, and especially for graham. indeed graham frankly declared that he would not go without peggy, and yet to refuse such a chance was to prejudice his future success. when peggy went to bed that night she knew the whole thing was settled. to be sure, both her father and mother had warned her against a hasty decision, insisting that she take plenty of time to think the matter over. but peggy knew what the final verdict would be, and she was sure graham also knew it, by the triumph in his eyes as he kissed her good night. changes! she lay in her little white bed and thought of the new life opening before her, strange countries, unfamiliar tongues, alien customs, even the dear, friendly constellations replaced by unknown stars. and the queerest part of all was that she herself would no longer be peggy raymond, but a strange young woman, margaret wylie by name. peggy gave a little incredulous laugh. it was astonishing how the world had turned upside down since morning. chapter xviii a partial eclipse the wedding day was set for the second of july, and after that decision had been reached, peggy professed a complete loss of interest in the subject. when graham consulted her on details more or less important, she gave him a reluctant attention. "i tell you, graham, i don't want to think about it. i never did enjoy mixed flavors. i shall have years and years of being mrs. graham wylie, fifty or sixty probably, and there's only a few months left of my college life." "if you feel so keenly on the subject," teased graham, "we'd better postpone our wedding, and let you take a post-graduate course of ten years or so." "that won't be necessary. i know i shall love my wedding clothes, and my wedding day, and being married to you, and everything. but if i let myself think of that, i'll spoil this, don't you see? it would be like eating ice-cream with soup." "i suppose i shall be allowed to call occasionally." "don't be silly! of course i should be wretched if i didn't see you every day. but unless you have to settle something very important about south america, don't ask my opinion. up to the twelfth of june, i'm a college senior, first, last and all the time." peggy was as good as her word. as far as her conversation revealed, she never looked beyond commencement day. and if it was inevitable that her thoughts should be more unruly than her tongue, her mental excursions into the future were surprisingly few. peggy had never been a girl to discount to-day in favor of to-morrow, and this life-long habit aided her in her determination to extract the full flavor from the present. while peggy had thoroughly enjoyed her college life, college associations had naturally never meant to her what they mean to a girl who leaves home to complete her education. although she was popular in her class, her closest friends were the girls who had been her intimates long before her high-school days, even, and she enjoyed her home so thoroughly that it never occurred to her to regret having missed the associations of dormitory life. but now she gave herself so unreservedly to her college interests that no on-looker would have dreamed that any event of special importance had been scheduled for early july. as a matter of fact, peggy could hardly have done justice to her varied duties in connection with commencement, had she brought to them a divided attention. her knack at rhyming had resulted in her election as class poet, and the same gift, doubtless, had caused her to be chosen one of the editorial staff of the annual, gotten out each spring by the senior class. moreover she had a part, though a small one, in the class play that was to be given out-of-doors and promised to be one of the most interesting features of commencement week. since even for seniors there were lessons to be learned, and examinations to be passed, it is no wonder that peggy found herself quite occupied without giving thought to the great changes on ahead. while she struggled with her poem, which she was determined as all class laureates, to make a masterpiece, and scribbled off jokes for the annual and practised for the play, and studied in her odd minutes, the days had a most disconcerting fashion of shooting by without regard to speed regulations. every saturday night awoke in peggy's mind the same incredulity. another week was gone--only it couldn't be, for it was no time at all since last sunday morning. she had an unreasonable impulse to clutch at the flying hours and hold them fast. but the last spring of her college life was not to be altogether a season of flowers. one afternoon at the close of recitations, peggy hunted up ruth who had agreed to go with her for a call on mary donaldson. "ruth, i'm sorry, but priscilla and i are going to be busy until after dinner time, probably. it's the annual again." "that old annual takes so much time," scolded ruth, objecting on principle to anything that separated her from peggy for these few precious weeks. poor ruth was trying to imitate peggy's example and not look ahead, but there were times when the coming desolation settled over her spirits like a chilling fog. with peggy and graham in south america, and nelson in oklahoma, ruth felt that existence would be flat and flavorless. "yes, i know it takes time." peggy resolutely ignored the undertone of tragedy in ruth's voice. "but somebody has to do it, and anyway, it's fun." it was due to her lingering to cheer the despondent ruth that peggy was the last of the annual staff to reach the class room, which for that particular evening had been promoted to the dignity of an editorial sanctum. peggy made her entry on a somewhat hilarious scene. everybody was laughing, or so peggy thought. had she been more observant she would have noticed that priscilla's face wore no smile, but a look of anxiety, bordering on distress. "what's the joke?" inquired peggy, as she took her seat. though the gathering was made up of college seniors and was therefore a dignified, deliberative assembly, its proceedings were sometimes as informal as if they had been merely a group of high-school girls. by way of answer, a sheet of card-board that evidently had made the rounds was put in her hand. peggy looked at it curiously. at the top, under the heading, "the misfit," was a clever caricature representing a small man attired in garments much too large for him. his broad-brimmed hat came down over his ears, his overcoat trailed on the ground, while the umbrella he carried was more than double his height. but the artist had avoided giving the impression that he was a masquerading child by bringing into prominence a somewhat scraggly mustache. peggy smiled appreciatively at the undoubted humor of the drawing and gave her attention to the verses below. but though they showed quite as much ability as the illustration, the effect of reading them was to erase the smile from her lips, leaving her gravely attentive. the laughter had quieted. she was aware that the girls were all watching her, and though she did not raise her eyes, she knew instinctively that priscilla's face wore a look of apprehension. the previous spring, one of the most popular men in the english department had resigned to devote himself to literary work, and his place had been nominally filled by a young man with good credentials but no experience. he had proved a great disappointment, for whatever his attainments, he lacked the ability to impart; while in contrast to the enthusiasm which professor baer's lectures had aroused, his classes seemed veritable refrigerating plants. peggy knew that the seniors who had taken his courses were complaining bitterly that they had been "stung," and had congratulated herself that her own work in english had been continued with another member of the faculty. in the verses before her, all the resentment of the students toward an incompetent teacher, following an able and popular one, was expressed with diabolical cleverness. the fact that the present incumbent was named fox, and that he followed professor baer, had already been the theme of innumerable jokes, and the author of the verses had used it as the motive of her lines, so that there was no chance that even the outsider would remain ignorant of the instructor satirized. peggy read the verses over more than once in order to gain time. she was sorely tempted to say nothing. peggy was under no illusions regarding the path of the reformer. it was vastly easier, vastly pleasanter, to let things go. it was not that she had any cowardly shrinking from hard knocks, but now, almost at the close of her college life, she was not in the mood to antagonize any one. she loved everything about the college, its gray stone buildings draped in ivy, its campus dotted with stately trees, the class-rooms and the laboratories, the dignified president, the professors and the girls--oh, most of all, the girls. she loved to believe in their affection, their admiration. never in her life had popularity meant as much to her as now. and yet in spite of her distaste, she knew she had no choice. she must disagree, antagonize, anger. when she lifted her eyes, the room was very quiet, almost as if every one knew what she was going to say. "awfully clever, aren't they?" peggy spoke very deliberately. "what are they for?" a dark-eyed girl across the room took it on herself to answer, and as soon as her lips parted, peggy knew her for the author. "i'd intended it for the _atlantic monthly_," she smiled with frank sarcasm. "but i think perhaps it's better suited to the annual. what do you say?" "i'm afraid i don't think it's at all suited to the annual." there was a little chorus of protests. "you never were in his classes, peggy," cried some one from the rear seat. "if you'd endured what we have at the hands of that man, you'd love every line." a burst of approving laughter showed how completely the sympathies of this group of girls were with the speaker. half-whispered comments were being exchanged. "the stupidest lectures!" "the greatest waste of time!" peggy was perfectly able to understand this point of view. she struggled to make the girls see hers. "of course that's not right. if i had been in his class i'd have been perfectly ready to go to president eaton, and tell him how unsatisfactory everything was. but to take this way of doing it--" she looked down at the mocking lines and said with a visible effort, "don't you think it seems a little bit cowardly--and cruel, too?" priscilla came to her friend's assistance. "if the faculty knew about those verses, i'm sure we'd never be allowed to put them in the annual." "how's the faculty to know?" demanded the criticized author, ida craig, with much asperity. "don't you think," suggested peggy with all the diplomacy she could muster, "that since they leave it all to us, we're put on our honor to see that nothing gets in that they could object to?" ida smiled disagreeably. "after all," she said, "you're not the editor-in-chief, you know." the rudeness gave peggy the courage that she needed. "no, of course. i haven't any more voice than any of the rest of you. but if the poem goes in, i shall ask you to accept my resignation." "in other words," exclaimed ida, "if you can't have your own way, you'll take your dolls and go home." "no indeed," peggy was trying to speak calmly, but her voice shook, "but if my name appears among the editors of the annual, it'll be taken for granted that i approve of all that is in it. i'm not willing to stand for anything like this." "nor i," said priscilla. "i agree with peggy." ida craig leaned toward the girl nearest her. "miss combs is nothing if not original," she said in an echoing stage-whisper audible to every one in the room. but the editor-in-chief, dismayed at the prospect of losing two of her most reliable aides, hastily interposed. "now we mustn't get personal, girls," she said. "you know how the newspapers are always trying to make out that the members of women's organizations do nothing but quarrel. i think college graduates ought to disprove that sort of thing." she looked at peggy rather appealingly. "i suppose you're willing to abide by the will of the majority," she said. "if the majority vote to include 'the misfit,'" returned peggy, "of course that settles it." and then as the face of the editor-in-chief brightened, she added, "but i shall have to resign, because the vote of the majority can't decide a question of right and wrong for me." "oh," said the editor-in-chief rather blankly, and then she quickly rallied. "we'll decide that question when we come to it," she said. "will the meeting please come to order." the mooted question was not put to vote till the end of the hour. "all in favor of including 'the misfit' in the annual," said the editor-in-chief, after the motion had been duly made, "please signify it by saying 'aye.'" "aye," chimed two defiant voices, that of the author and her dearest friend in the class. "those opposed, 'no.'" there was a murmur of 'noes,' indicating that peggy had won her fight, but she had none of the elation of the victor. she realized that several had not voted, and that those who had espoused her side had acted from motives of policy rather than conviction. ida craig was plainly offended, and as for the rest, peggy suspected that they failed to make the fine distinction between standing up for one's principles and being determined to have one's way. those closing weeks of college life were not all she had hoped. peggy fancied a reserve in the friendliness of her friends. she became unnaturally sensitive, imagining slights where none existed. she was troubled by the thought that priscilla shared in her partial eclipse of popularity, and inclined to regard her uncompromising conscience as a decided inconvenience, if nothing worse. but peggy's stand was to have a tragic justification. three weeks before commencement the annual came from the binders, looking very attractive in its cover of blue and white, the college colors. the editorial force had been called together to make the necessary arrangements for placing it on sale. peggy and priscilla had an early class wednesday morning, and as they entered the hall on their way to the cloak-room, they encountered phyllis riordan, the annual's editor-in-chief. phyllis' greeting was more than cordial, but peggy hardly noticed that, in her concern for the girl herself. "why, phyllis," she cried. "what's the matter? you're as white as a sheet." phyllis looked from one to the other. "you haven't heard about mrs. fox?" "what about her?" the question came simultaneously from two pairs of lips. "she died last night." peggy and priscilla uttered a shocked exclamation. they were both but slightly acquainted with the girlish wife of the unpopular professor of english, but intimacy was not needed to point the tragedy of the news. her voice curiously tense, phyllis continued. "it seemed she had serious heart trouble, and the doctor thought she ought to live in a milder climate. professor fox has resigned, and they were to locate in southern california. and oh, peggy raymond--" she turned suddenly toward peggy, and caught both of her hands. "since i heard the news last evening, i haven't been able to think of anything else. peggy, do you realize what it would have meant if we had let that poem of ida's go in? we'd have had to destroy the whole edition of the annual. we couldn't have done anything else." peggy changed color slightly, but did not speak. "you've saved our lives," declared phyllis, her eyes bright with tears. "if it hadn't been for you, we'd have been in the worst box of any class since the college was founded. and when i think how brave you were, standing out against us all--" "why, phyllis," peggy interposed, "i wasn't brave at all. this--this dreadful thing that has happened doesn't make me a bit more right than i was in the beginning. and i knew it, too, and yet i wasn't satisfied. i've been ready to wish i hadn't done it a hundred times. and when you call me brave, you make me desperately ashamed, for nobody knows as well as i do what a coward i've been." "if you're cowardly, peggy," cried priscilla, up in arms at once, "i'm sorry for the rest of us." "heavens, i should say so," agreed phyllis. and then as the signal bell sounded, the girls rushed for the cloak room. blended with peggy's sorrow and her sense of humility, was a gratifying certainty that the last three weeks of her college life would be all she had dreamed. chapter xix the end of school life the senior banquet was the most intimate and, in the opinion of many, the most delightful festivity of commencement. no guests were invited. the only member of the faculty present was the honorary member of the class, a charming woman, who taught greek and talked slang--as an antidote, she was wont to say. and because it was so strictly a class affair, a great deal of fun was in order which would have been impossible before ever so limited an audience. "what i like about it is that it's frankly selfish," peggy told priscilla. and then noticing priscilla's expression of incredulity, "i don't mean selfish in the mean sense, just the nice, comfortable, homey sort. all the rest of commencement we're thinking about other people, the board of trustees, and the fathers and mothers, and the audience and the public. it's a comfort that there's one thing where we don't have to think of any one but ourselves, and we can be as silly as we please." the first class to graduate had established a precedent which every succeeding class had strictly followed, that all engagements were to be announced at the class banquet, commencement week. if for any reason it was preferred that such announcements should be regarded as confidential, it was understood that the members of the class would be put to torture rather than reveal a word. so strictly had a few such items of news been guarded--in some instances for several years--that the ability of a woman to keep a secret had apparently been satisfactorily demonstrated by the graduates of peggy's alma mater. as a rule, however, the graduate who announced her engagement at the class banquet was willing that all the world should know the joyful news. the banquet was held in the college gymnasium, the long tables being arranged in a hollow square. after the feasting was over, the waiters were dismissed and the doors closed to ensure perfect secrecy,--after which every girl engaged in the class was expected to take her stand in the central enclosure, carrying with her a photograph of her fiancé, the back of the said photograph being duly inscribed with her name and his. and as if this were not enough, each was required to state in a few well-chosen words the qualities which differentiated her particular young man from all the rest of mankind. at the conclusion of this unique ceremony, the photographs were passed about and duly inspected, and then a vote was taken to determine the handsomest. the gentleman so honored was presented with a stick-pin, which his betrothed took charge of until such time as she chose to deliver it. as the girls dispatched their deviled crabs and chicken salad and ice cream, and other incongruous and indigestible dainties, the thoughts of many turned expectantly toward the ceremony immediately following the banquet. it was true that some of the engagements were no secret. graham wylie, for instance, had been peggy raymond's devoted cavalier ever since she graduated from high school. and there were girls in the dormitories who heard so frequently and at such length from certain men friends that they were assumed to be engaged whether they admitted it or not. but on the other hand there were always surprises enough to render the occasion exciting. the ice cream was dispatched at last, along with the cakes and candies. the little coffee cups were emptied. the waiters cleared the tables and withdrew, closing the door according to instructions. and then from here and there in the long rows of diners, one laughing girl after another rose, and made her way into the vacant space enclosed by the tables. priscilla's eye followed peggy on her way, blushing, laughing, and looking to priscilla's fond eyes the embodiment of girlish loveliness. and then some one called her name. "why, priscilla combs!" priscilla turned. a classmate that she knew only slightly was leaning across the table. "why aren't you going with the others?" she cried. "i?" priscilla colored to the roots of her hair. "i'm not eligible." "oh, come!" retorted the other archly. "this isn't any time for prevarication, you know. you're expected to tell the truth." some one caught the speaker by the arm, and as she turned, hissed a terse statement in her ear. only too well did priscilla know the import of that whisper. inaudible as it was, its news might as well have been shouted. the girl who had innocently assumed priscilla's engagement was now hearing that horace hitchcock, after paying priscilla every attention, had met some one he liked better in new york, and had married her after three days' acquaintance. priscilla held her head high. she saw her _vis-à-vis_ change color and lift startled eyes. when she found priscilla regarding her, the girl lost her head. "oh, excuse me," she gasped. "why certainly," laughed priscilla. "i'm like the man who was asked to change a twenty-dollar bill. i appreciate the compliment." but for all her cheerful air, the thing rankled. would they never be done pitying her because she had been jilted by horace hitchcock. it was impossible to explain, but it really seemed to priscilla that some of them might suspect what a relief the termination of that unacknowledged engagement had been. there were now a dozen girls in the enclosure. the appearance of some was greeted with loud cries, intended to convey reproach, or incredulity. excited comments ran around the tables. "look, there's cynthia, after insisting that there wasn't a thing between them." "why, there's anne gordon." "now who in the world--" and while the eager inspection went on, the twelve girls in the middle stood rather close together as if each found it a help in that trying moment to feel she was not alone. the talk and laughter quieted when the president rapped for order. eloise hayden was the first to be called on to introduce her fiancé to her attentive classmates. eloise was one of the girls who affect the modern pose of matter-of-factness. she was so afraid of undue sentimentality that she went too far in the other direction, like one who is so determined to be straight as to bend backward. as eloise's name was spoken, she stepped out from the group, and held up to view the photograph she carried. "friends and classmates, i am introducing john mackenzie rowe. as you see, he is no beauty, and he'll never wear the stick pin unless it's given for a consolation prize. but on the other hand, he isn't bad looking enough so he needs to wear a mask when he goes on the street." the momentary silence as eloise stopped for breath was filled by a chorus of groans, eloise's classmates disapproving her extreme lack of sentiment. quite unabashed by this demonstration, eloise continued. "john and i live in the country, as some of you know. the only thing between his father's place and my father's place is a privet hedge, not high enough to be a barrier. we've lived on the two sides of that hedge since he was thirteen and i eleven. i suppose if any other boy had lived there, i should now be engaged to him. and if any other girl had lived where i do, he would have been engaged to her." the signs of displeasure redoubled. mingled with the groans were hisses, and eloise, who liked nothing better than to stir her friends to protest against her nonchalant attitude, continued blithely: "our engagement is in every way a sensible one. neither of us thinks the other perfect, so we won't have the usual disillusionment and disappointment after we are married. i'm sorry i shan't be able to introduce john to you to-morrow, but he wrote me that if he came he would have to put off a business trip, and i wrote him, 'business first.'" the demonstrations of disapproval were now so marked that eloise considered this a good place to stop. she laid down the photograph for the girls' inspection and stepped back, seemingly very well satisfied with her performance. judith west, a plump pink and white girl, looking, thanks to her bobbed hair and round face, not a day over fifteen, was next to be called on. judith blushed rosily as she held up the photograph of a handsome young man in a lieutenant's uniform. "this is philip carpenter," she announced in a faint, frightened voice. "and all i can say is that he's as good as he looks." "he looks good enough to eat," encouraged an admiring voice from a side-table. "he is," declared judith. "at least--well, you know what i mean. he's just as nice as he can be, and after i'd seen him once, nobody else in the world had the least chance." as this impressed the class as the proper attitude for an engaged girl, the applause was hearty, and the blushing judith interpreted it as a _finish_ to her remarks, and retreated in charming confusion. but the applause dropped into instantaneous silence as anne gordon arose. anne's appearance in the enclosure had surprised every one. "i haven't much of a photograph to show you," said anne holding up a kodak picture in which three diminutive figures appeared seated under an apple tree. "the one in the middle is elmer wharton. he looks very tiny, but believe me, he's longer than our engagement." anne stopped to laugh, and the class laughed with her. "i had a letter from elmer yesterday," anne continued, "a very particular letter. i can't say it was a great surprise to me, though you all seem so astonished. and in this letter elmer told me a number of things he meant to say to me as soon as i got home. but i thought of to-night, and i couldn't see why i shouldn't be engaged the day before commencement as well as the day after. so i telegraphed him, _yes_." amid the shrieks of laughter due to this frank acknowledgment, peggy was called, and she held up her photograph with an engaging pride. "i fancy there aren't many of you who need to be introduced to graham wylie, for he's been very much in evidence ever since i entered college. i don't know any way of doing justice to the subject, but when i feel strongly about anything, i'm very likely to drop into poetry, like mr. wegg." peggy, who had been brought up on dickens as if she had been a girl of the fifties, had forgotten how few of her contemporaries had ever heard of mr. wegg. warned of her slip by the blank faces that looked back at her, she began to recite the lines she had written in sheer desperation the previous evening, after she was supposed to be in bed. "it isn't because he's six feet two with shoulders to match his height, that i'm happy and proud to be facing you on this very eventful night. "it isn't because his face is fine, clear-cut, like a cameo, that i value the right to call him mine more than any one here can know. "it isn't because he's so very wise; we both could improve right there. his faults are plain to the kindest eyes, and i know that i have my share. "he's not perfection--to hint at this would waken his scornful mirth. and yet he has made me--just as he is-- the happiest girl on earth. "i know he is built of the sterling stuff of which manly men are made. and that glad certainty is enough to render me unafraid. "as we scatter to go our devious ways like sparks from the anvil hurled, i want you to think of me all your days, as the proudest girl in the world." the applause that greeted peggy's effort was not due chiefly to the quality of her verses, nor even to the charm of her undisguised happiness. the editorial staff of the annual had leaked out. it had been whispered about that if it had not been for peggy's protests, the annual would have contained a satirical attack on a stricken man, which would have rendered its circulation impossible. the clapping died down, and then broke out again, as if to emphasize the fact that it was a personal tribute. and so one after another, the girls in the enclosure introduced the possessors of the names they themselves would some day bear, and having finished, went laughing back to their seats. the photographs were passed about for examination and the ballots distributed. the voting was a somewhat protracted process due, doubtless, to the fact that so much was at stake. but in course of time the ballots were collected and the judges retired to count them, the girls filling in the interval with college songs. the announcement of the result of the balloting came as a great surprise to peggy. for the recipient of the stick pin was not graham but philip carpenter. judith, blushing very prettily, made the speech of acceptance in behalf of her fiancé, and took the pin. "i wish to say to you all," said the class president, "that twenty-five dollars is deposited with the treasurer for the purchase of a wedding-present for the first of our number to marry. i can only say it can't be spent too soon to suit me. it's time," she added severely, "that somebody was disproving the slander that college women care only for civic reform and settlement work and teaching school, and that home and husbands don't matter to them at all." priscilla glanced discreetly in peggy's direction, but peggy was looking at the table. indeed her expression remained thoughtful till the first toast was given, and she stood with the others to drink to her alma mater in a draught of fruit punch. it was not till they were on their way home that priscilla discovered the reason for peggy's temporary abstraction. for while they were talking of something entirely different, peggy suddenly exclaimed, "do you suppose it was the uniform that dazzled them?" "i don't quite understand you, peggy." "why, that vote, you know. of course judith's lieutenant is a very good looking fellow, but the idea of comparing him to graham." priscilla looked at her friend askance and said nothing. "i have a photograph of graham in uniform," peggy continued, "and now i wish i'd brought that. but i hadn't any idea it would count so much." "peggy," began priscilla faintly. "will you promise not to be angry if i tell you something?" "of course. why should i be angry?" "well, then, i voted for philip carpenter." peggy looked at her in seemingly speechless amazement. "but why?" she asked at last. "because--well, there could be only one reason for that, peggy, because i thought him the handsomest man in the collection. his nose is wonderful." "and so is graham's. i never saw a more perfect nose." "philip's eyes are so big and beautiful." "a little _too_ big, it seems to me. it gives him a rather girly look. now graham's eyes are just large enough." priscilla burst into an irrepressible shriek of laughter. "i wonder if it ever occurred to you, peggy, that you might be a little bit prejudiced." it was plain that such an idea had never occurred to peggy. she looked blank for a moment and then joined in priscilla's helpless laughter. "i suppose," she owned when again she could find her voice, "that it's just as well that tastes differ." they parted at priscilla's door, kissing each other good-night, a somewhat unusual ceremony, far they were not girls who made a parade of affection. peggy, who had started toward her own home, suddenly turned back as if she had forgotten something. priscilla hurried down the steps to meet her. "priscilla, do you realize that to-morrow is commencement day? what a little time it seems since we entered as freshman. don't you remember how scared we were, and how in awe of the seniors? and now, priscilla our school life is over." and much to priscilla's astonishment, and even more to her own, peggy burst into tears. chapter xx a surprise rather to the surprise of those who knew her best, peggy had decided on a church wedding. but when she came to give her reasons, the decision seemed characteristic, after all. "i think this is the dearest house in the world. when graham and i come back from south america, i hope we can find one just like it--and on friendly terrace, too. but it's not what you'd call spacious. a dozen extra people crowd it, and it makes you uncomfortable to have a wedding and leave out so many." "our wedding seems likely to be a unique affair," grinned graham. "from the looks of peggy's list, the guests will make up in variety what they lack in exclusiveness. what do you think of her asking the bonds?" "now, graham, that's not fair. i haven't any idea of asking the bond family. i only said that elvira had improved so much that i felt like encouraging her by sending her an invitation." "and the dunns. she's got them down." for all matrimonial responsibilities loomed so close, graham's boyish fondness for teasing remained one of his most prominent characteristics. "why, graham wylie! not the dunns at all. just jimmy! and he's doing so well and looks as nice as any boy." "and she says she's going to have her sunday school class, one and all." "well, i should think so. i've taught those girls ever since they came out of the infant room, and they're darlings. and it would break their hearts if i were married and they weren't there to see." now that her college life was over, peggy had thrown herself joyously into her planning for the next thing. ruth, as graham's sister, was to be the maid of honor, priscilla and amy bridesmaids. they decided on their gowns after hours and hours of delicious deliberation. for a july wedding, organdie was the thing--the sheerest pale pink organdie, with pink roses to match on their wide hats. "you'll be dreams," peggy declared ecstatically. "everybody'll say so." "nonsense!" scoffed amy, "as if people at a wedding ever looked at anybody but the bride!" "i had a letter from alice, yesterday," exclaimed peggy, changing the subject. "she thinks little irma had better be the flower-girl instead of dorothy. she says dorothy has been shooting up so fast lately, that now she's lanky and self-conscious, and that irma is plump and adorable. i only hope dear little dorothy won't feel left out. that would spoil everything." robert carey was to be graham's best man, a decision which pleased peggy immensely. most of the ushers were young men the girls knew more or less, though graham had included in the number a comparative new-comer at the office, kennedy by name, with whom he was on especially friendly terms. "you ought to bring him out some evening," suggested peggy, "and not wait till just before the wedding to introduce him." "no, that's right. i'll ask him to-morrow to set a time." when graham appeared shortly after dinner the following evening, peggy and priscilla were addressing invitations. graham seated himself lazily in the arm chair and congratulated them on their industry. "have you addressed all that pile to-day?" "yes, sir. we've been working ever since i got back from the dressmaker's, about four o'clock. priscilla stayed to dinner so as not to lose any time." there was a brief silence. two pairs of pens scratched busily while graham entertained himself by watching the anxious pucker of peggy's mouth as she wrote each new address. "by the way," he remarked, "he's coming out to-night." "who is?" "kennedy." the scratching of the pens came to an abrupt stop. "priscilla," peggy cried in tones of horror, "graham has asked that mr. kennedy to call and he's coming this evening." "you told me to ask him," graham defended himself. "of course, i want him to come. but i don't want him to descend on me without warning, and get the impression that you are going to marry a frump." "why, i was just thinking how nice you looked--both of you," graham declared, kindly including priscilla, who scorned to acknowledge the compliment. she rose, returned her pen to the writing desk, and said briefly, "i'm off." "put on your glad rags and come back, priscilla," begged peggy, who also was making preparations for a retreat. "oh, i think not. mr. kennedy isn't coming to see me." "it'll be ever so much nicer if he meets some of you before the last minute. ruth says she's got to put in this evening letter writing, and amy and bob are going somewhere." "oh, very well. i'll be back after a little." priscilla spoke nonchalantly, but as a matter of fact, she was glad of peggy's insistence. now that the time was growing so short, she grudged every hour she was away from her friend. as she left by the door, peggy ran up the stairs, leaving graham to the companionship of his own agreeable anticipations. peggy was back in about twenty minutes, looking, in graham's estimation, very much the same, except that her dress was a lighter blue than the other, and her hair, having been freshly combed, did not show as much of the curl. he expressed his opinion and peggy smiled tolerantly. "i wore that old thing because a drop of ink more or less wouldn't matter. it's as old as the hills, and i made it when i didn't know as much about dress-making as i do now. of course i like to have you think i look nice, no matter what i wear, but now you're going to be married, you'd better learn more discrimination in regard to clothes. it would be dreadful to have a new dress and you not able to see that it was any prettier than the old one." "very well. suppose you start on my education right away. tell me the fine points about the rig you've got on." but before peggy could begin, the bell rang, and graham's education was left incomplete for the time being. mr. kennedy was a slender, pleasant-mannered young man, who looked considerably older than graham, partly perhaps, because he wore eye-glasses. as peggy greeted him, she was conscious of something hauntingly familiar in his face. "i haven't met you before, have i?" she asked. "it hardly seems that i could have met you and not remember it," said young kennedy gallantly. "i'm very sure i've seen you before, however." "and i believe i've seen you, but i don't know where." "hitchcock would say," remarked graham, "that probably you had been well acquainted in nineveh or babylon or some other ancient burg." mr. kennedy smiled, and took the chair graham had pulled forward for him. "who's hitchcock?" he asked. "oh, a nut that peggy used to have here till i told her she'd have to choose between us." "graham, what a misleading thing to say." "well, it might give the wrong impression, i confess. peggy didn't care much about him herself, but one of her friends had a case on him." "sh!" warned peggy, in an agony as she heard priscilla's footsteps outside. she filled the somewhat awkward pause by springing to her feet, crying as she ran to the door, "you needn't ring; i hear you." the results of the half hour priscilla had given to vanity were more evident, graham thought, than in peggy's case. peggy could be disheveled and still irresistible. priscilla's rather stately beauty was more exacting in its demands. in her dress of pale green voile, which set off her clear pallor and the beauty of her smooth, dark hair, she looked the incarnate spirit of spring. even graham stared. peggy, her arm slipped caressingly through priscilla's, led her forward. "priscilla, this is graham's friend, mr. kennedy. miss combs--" peggy stopped short. priscilla had jumped. mr. kennedy's conventional smile had changed to startled recognition. "why, you know each other," peggy cried. "only--why, surely, peggy, you remember." peggy's vague, irritating certainty of something familiar in mr. kennedy's face was suddenly transformed to recollection. "oh, of course. the green parrot." "oh, of course! the green parrot!" mocked graham, who had risen on priscilla's entrance, and now stood looking from one to another of the trio. "makes it perfectly clear." they took their seats, and peggy explained, helped out by suggestions from the others. as they recalled the absurd experience, the three narrators went off into fits of laughter, but the audience maintained a dignified calm. "take my word for it, john, it's an inscrutable sex. now, i would have sworn that this young woman hadn't a thought i didn't share, and look what she's been keeping from me, lo! these many months. when we're alone i shall expect you to give me a full account of what really happened." for some reason the discovery that graham's friend, kennedy, was the young man whose coffee cup had been invaded by priscilla's roll seemed to put him at once on the footing of an old acquaintance. they had a very jolly evening, and it was not till after ten that priscilla said, "graham, i think you'd better take me home, now. i've got a busy day before me." "you have indeed, poor dear," peggy cried. "i expect you to finish addressing those invitations and do any number of errands. these are trying times for my friends, mr. kennedy. they have hardly a minute in the twenty-four hours that they can call their own." the young man smiled at her in the abstracted fashion of one whose thoughts are on something else. "won't you let me be your escort?" he asked priscilla. "it would give me the greatest pleasure." "thanks, but it's only a step, and my going early won't break up graham's evening, for he'll come directly back." she softened her refusal by giving him her hand and saying pleasantly, "i'm glad to have met you properly at last, with a real introduction, you know." "i shall look forward to the next time," said young kennedy, with rather more ardor than conventional courtesy required. "this is our third meeting, i believe." "third?" exclaimed peggy, pricking up her ears. "why, when was the second?" "at one of the football games last fall," explained priscilla. "i was there with horace hitchcock, and mr. kennedy sat next me." and then recalling the suspicious glances horace had shot in the direction of the guiltless mr. kennedy, priscilla began to blush. the worst of blushing is that it is much easier to start it than to call a halt. there were innumerable things connected with the thought of horace that made priscilla uncomfortable, and now she found herself blushing for them all. the tide of color flooded her smooth forehead and dyed her throat. peggy's observant eyes detected an unmistakable shadow on mr. kennedy's erst-while radiant face. later, when graham and herself were alone, she scolded him a little. "you oughtn't to have said that a friend of mine had a case on hitchcock. now mr. kennedy knows you meant priscilla." "well, is that such a tragedy?" "couldn't you mention to him some day that horace did admire priscilla, but that now he's safely married to another. you could bring it in in a casual way, you know." graham looked at her hard. "my dear peggy," he said, "just because you yourself have been fortunate--unusually fortunate i might say--in your love affairs, don't let that lead you into trying your hand at matchmaking. fooling with high explosives is child's play compared to that, believe me." but instead of seeming impressed by the warning, peggy only answered dreamily, "when he doesn't see horace at the wedding, he'll probably begin to suspect that it's ancient history. if only priscilla could learn to speak of him without blushing." chapter xxi a missing bride it was two days before peggy's wedding, and in the front room downstairs peggy was looking around complacently on her wedding presents. they were very much like the wedding presents of other prospective brides. a few were admirably suited to the needs of a young couple of moderate means, about to start house-keeping. others would have been useful in the establishments of wealthy people who expected to do a great deal of entertaining. and there were still others whose use was problematical, anywhere and under any circumstances. peggy's mood, however, was far from critical. each gift as it came had given her the keenest pleasure, and if it were impossible to find anything admirable in the article itself, she could always say, "how awfully kind of them to send it. everybody's being perfectly dear to me." she approached every newly arrived package with the same feeling with which she had once taken up a bulging christmas stocking. the clock in the dining room, a pert little timepiece with a peremptory voice, struck three. it was characteristic of this particular clock always to strike the hour as if it were reminding somebody of something. on this occasion it reminded peggy that she had an engagement with the dressmaker at half past three, and that she was to call for ruth, who had promised to accompany her. as it was impossible to take along a crowd of girls to the dressmaker's rather cramped quarters, peggy avoided hard feeling by inviting a different girl each day. peggy had hardly reached the top of the stairs when the bell rang, and sally came rushing from the kitchen to answer it. the prospect of a wedding in the family had so excited sally that she was even less responsible for her conduct than usual. almost the only thing she could be trusted to do was to answer the door-bell, but as the bell rang very often, she succeeded in making herself rather useful. on this occasion a swarthy woman stood outside, and in a quick, parrot-like fashion said something sally did not understand. "you want to see miss peggy?" sally demanded. such wits as she possessed were not on duty, for ordinarily she would have recognized the stranger's errand, and sent her about her business. as the woman nodded, sally at once admitted her, showing her into the room where the wedding presents stood about in picturesque confusion. "miss peggy," shrieked sally, forgetting for the moment the lesson impressed on her on innumerable occasions that she was not to save her steps by calling up the stairs, "somebody to see you." it was a minute or two before peggy came down, and sally had retreated to the kitchen in the meantime. peggy who had naturally expected to see an acquaintance, was rather startled to be confronted by a dark-skinned woman with jet black eyes and an oily voice. "buy lace, lady? very cheap: three inch wide up to nine inch. very cheap!" peggy replied politely that she did not care for any lace, reflecting as she spoke that had the woman presented herself a few months earlier, she might have thought it worth while to examine her stock. having had some experience in the persistence of her kind, she was surprised when the dark woman took her refusal as final, and meekly let herself out. peggy stepped into the kitchen to warn sally against her late indiscretion, and came back through the hall, reflecting that she must hurry, since the dressmaker did not like to be kept waiting. as she passed the open door of the room the vender of lace had so lately quitted, she stopped and stood transfixed. one of her wedding presents was missing. she knew exactly the place where it had stood on the center table, flanked on one side by a pair of book-ends, and on the other by a cloisonné vase. the gap left by its removal was as obvious to peggy's startled eyes as the breach in a smile, due to a missing tooth. instantly she understood that there was no mystery about its disappearance. she had seen it not ten minutes before, and the only person who had entered the room since then was the woman with lace to sell. the discovery went to peggy's head. the stealing of any of her other possessions would not have affected her in just the same way. but these were her wedding presents, invested with a certain sanctity because of the goodwill they represented, and the occasion which led to their bestowal. it never once occurred to peggy that she could submit to such an outrage. she ran out of the house, looking up and down the street, and immediately caught sight of the woman she wanted. apparently she had suspended business for the day, for she was walking, rapidly and making no attempt to dispose of her wares in any of the houses she passed. peggy promptly started in pursuit. her idea was to follow the woman, keeping her in sight until she could encounter a policeman. peggy had no desire to deprive any human creature, however erring, of her liberty. she hoped the officer of the law would force the surrender of her ill-gotten gains without formally arresting her. but whatever the consequences, she meant to recover her property. according to the calendar it was the last day of june, but the thermometer proclaimed it mid-july. the heated air quivered. the streets seemed as silent as the thoroughfares of a deserted village. a block from peggy's home, the woman took the right-hand turning and went down rossiter street. peggy followed, walking rapidly in her determination to gain on the quick-walking figure on ahead. three blocks on rossiter street, and then the woman turned north, giving peggy a clew to her plan. friendly terrace lay near the outskirts of the city. a walk of a mile from peggy's home brought one into a section sparsely settled. it looked as though peggy's quarry were making for the open country. oh, for a policeman! peggy rather unjustly resented the scarcity of officers of the law, forgetting how seldom their services were required in the law-abiding part of town. she discovered, too, that the woman pursued was uncannily aware of her pursuer. though apparently she never looked back, she accommodated her pace to peggy's, accelerating her speed, as peggy quickened hers, so that the distance between them remained about the same in spite of peggy's efforts to lessen it. owing to the lack of policemen, had any reliable looking man passed her in a car, peggy believed herself capable of stopping him and commandeering his services. but apparently the heat had driven every one indoors. two or three delivery wagons passed with small boys handling the reins. one machine glided by, but the driver was a woman. after an hour's chase the two participants in the singular game of "follow my leader," came out upon the turnpike, stretching away to the north, white and dusty and hot in the brilliant sun. here the houses were scattered and stood back from the road. the likelihood of encountering a policeman had become extremely faint. but peggy set her teeth and pressed forward. graham got off half an hour early this particular afternoon, and reached peggy's a little before five. irma, dimpled and sweet, a replica of dorothy a few years earlier, rushed to meet him squealing with delight, while dorothy smiled a welcome, her lips pinched tightly together. one of dorothy's upper front teeth was missing and dorothy was painfully conscious of the lack every minute that she was awake. graham kissed his prospective nieces, greeted the older members of the family cordially, if less effusively, and put the inevitable question, "where's peggy?" "oh, at the dressmaker's of course," sighed mrs. raymond. "i hope she won't keep the poor child very long. it's so dreadfully warm." the telephone tinkled, and dick went to answer it. he scowled as he listened. "who did you say it was? oh, wait a minute!" he turned to his mother. "i thought you said peggy had gone to the dressmaker's." "she has. she had a fitting at half past three." "well, this is the dressmaker, and she says peggy hasn't come." "let me speak to her." mrs. raymond crossed to the phone, with an air of expecting to clear up the puzzle immediately. and hardly had she made herself known, when the door opened and ruth appeared. "what's become of peggy? she was to call for me a little after three, and i've had my hat on waiting for her nearly two hours." what had become of peggy? she had not kept her engagement with the dressmaker, and ruth knew nothing of her whereabouts. mrs. raymond called up priscilla and amy, each of whom disavowed having seen peggy since noon. and then as there seemed nothing better to do, she went on calling neighbors and friends and trades-people, growing more and more puzzled, moment by moment. for no one had seen peggy. it finally occurred to peggy's sister, alice, to make inquiries in the kitchen. sally informed her that miss peggy had come into the kitchen with her hat on, and had said something about the dressmaker. the new girl, who had been engaged to help out for the few weeks before the wedding, confirmed sally's story, adding that it was a little after three when peggy left the house. obviously peggy had started out with the intention of keeping her appointment, and obviously she had not done so. dinner was ready at six o'clock, but no one was ready for dinner. peggy's failure to appear at meal-time added to the general consternation. peggy was by nature prompt and methodical, and she had acted the rôle of cook too often not to realize how the best efforts of that important functionary are frustrated by late arrivals. at quarter past six mr. raymond went to the telephone and called up the hospitals one after another. but the hot sleepy day had not been productive of automobile accidents, and the only cases of sun-strokes reported were elderly people, four men and one old woman. graham was very pale. a dreadful suspicion was taking shape in his mind. could it be that, as the second of july drew near, peggy had found herself unable to face the situation? perhaps he had asked too much of her when he had urged her accompanying him to south america. he thought of the innumerable ties that bound her to her native land, and yet he had assumed that she would be ready to leave everything and every one she loved, and go with him to a land of strangers. graham was no more troubled by excessive humility than other popular young men, but in the present emergency he seemed to himself to have put a most preposterous estimate on the value of his own society. he had a horrible conviction that, through his demanding too much, peggy was lost to him forever. it hardly need be said that no one in the anxious company shared this particular apprehension. at seven o'clock peggy's father made up his mind that it would be necessary to appeal to the police. but before he could bring himself to act on this conviction, the gate clicked and irma, standing at the window, her nose flattened against the screen, exploded in a series of joyful shrieks. "aunt peggy! aunt peggy! oh, it's aunt peggy!" and peggy it was, though it took a second glance to be sure. the perspiration trickling over her dusty face had produced a curious piebald effect, and she walked with a noticeable limp. they rushed to the door, greeting her with mingled cries of joy and reproach. all but graham. he sat down in the darkest corner of the living room and put his hands over his face. the intensity of his relief was almost too much for him. peggy limped in, looking decidedly ashamed of herself. "have you waited dinner for me? i'm awfully sorry." "waited dinner," repeated mrs. raymond, and burst into tears. peggy's sister alice caught her by the shoulders and gave her a sharp little shake. "peggy raymond, where have you been and what have you been doing? don't you understand that we've been frightened to death about you?" peggy dropped into the nearest chair and began on her story. she told of the woman sally had admitted to the house, the missing wedding present, and the purpose with which she had started in pursuit. they all listened breathlessly, graham left his corner and stood back of the others, unwilling to miss a word. it was not till peggy's recital brought her to the turnpike that she lost a little of her fluency. at this point she hesitated and seemed to appreciate the difficulty of making matters clear to her audience. "of course i should have given up then. but somehow i couldn't. i kept hoping that somebody would appear, and it seemed such a shame when i'd followed that thief so far, to give up and go back. i'd made up my mind that as soon as an automobile came along, i'd ask for a lift. i felt if i could only catch up with her i could frighten her into giving me what belonged to me. but nobody passed me, and then when she got to the old toll-gate--" mr. raymond interrupted, "you don't mean you followed her to the toll gate?" "yes, father. or at least i was almost there. you know there's a cross-road just beyond the gate, and a ford car came up that cross-road and turned north on the pike. and the woman stopped it--" "confederates, i'll bet," cried dick. "no, it looked as if she were just asking some stranger for a ride. and as far as they knew she was only a tired woman carrying a bag and they took her in. and then i saw it wasn't any use to go further." "you surprise me." mr. raymond's voice was satirical. "i can't understand why you didn't run after the machine." peggy accepted the sarcastic rejoinder meekly. "then i turned around and came home. but you see i had put on my new brown shoes because mrs. morley wanted to fit my brown dress with the shoes i was going to wear with it, and all at once they began to hurt me terribly. instead of hurrying i had to slow up, and sometimes i had to stop and wait. i never had anything hurt so." "if you'd walked three blocks east," exclaimed graham, speaking for the first time, "you could have got a car." "i knew it, but i'd come off without my pocket book. i didn't have a penny with me. that was the reason i didn't telephone." peggy looked about her with a crestfallen air. while she was far from realizing the extent of the alarm her family had felt, and would not have believed graham had he told her of the apprehensions that had tortured him through the terrible time of waiting, she understood that they had all been worried and that she had inconvenienced every one by making dinner late. "don't wait for me any longer," she pleaded. "have the dinner put on, mother, and i'll be down as soon as i've washed up a little." mrs. raymond put her arm about her. "yes, come upstairs, darling. you must have something on those blisters right away. alice, tell sally to put on plates for ruth and graham." it was while they were eating lamb chops, which after an hour and a half in the warming oven might as well have been anything else, that some one thought to put the question peggy had been dreading. "do you know what present she stole?" peggy took a hasty sip of her iced tea and looked appealingly at her questioner. but her reluctant manner only aroused the curiosity of every one. "i'll bet it was the silver teapot," exclaimed dick. "it doesn't matter what's missing, as long as peggy herself is here safe and sound," declared mrs. raymond fervently. "but what _did_ she take?" insisted alice, eyeing her sister with suspicion. again peggy forfeited herself with iced tea, and her cheeks, flushed by heat and weariness, took on a deeper hue. "it--it really wasn't so valuable,--" stammered peggy. "you know elvira bond gave me half a dozen teaspoons that she got by saving soap wrappers or something. they came in a neat little case, and i suppose the woman snatched the nearest thing without looking. i didn't chase her because the spoons were worth so much because--well, it was the principle of the thing." there was a long moment of silence, and then a roar of laughter. they laughed long and helplessly and wiped their eyes and started all over again. as a rule peggy could appreciate a joke, even if it was against herself, but on this occasion a rather wry smile was the best she could do. she was beginning to realize that she had been very silly. "well, graham," remarked mr. raymond when he could make himself heard, "in my opinion you're assuming quite a responsibility in planning to take this young woman to south america." graham's eyes met peggy's and something in his look arrested her attention, a peculiar radiance as if he had just heard a wonderful piece of news. but all he said was, "i'm ready to take the risk, sir." chapter xxii a july wedding peggy's brother dick had parodied an old rhyme to fit the occasion and sang it with gusto, in season and out of season. it was dick's voice, caroling in a high falsetto, and breaking ludicrously on an average of once a line, that woke peggy on the most eventful morning of her life. "a wedding day in may is worth a load of hay. a wedding set for june is worth a silver spoon. a wedding in july isn't worth a fly." peggy winked hard and sat up in bed, turning instantly toward the east windows. "oh," she cried joyously, "what a glorious day!" and so indeed it was. apparently the weather man had carefully selected whatever was best in all the year, and combined his selections into one perfect day in honor of peggy's wedding. there had been a little rain the night before, and the air was as sweet as if perfumed by june's roses. there was a freshness that suggested early spring, and something in the breeze as exhilarating as october. peggy reflected complacently that this was just her luck. she wondered, as she dressed, what she was to do with herself between the hours of eight and six. her trunk was packed for going away, and the other trunks were ready except for a few articles to be added at the last minute. she had acknowledged every gift she had received. the dressmaker was through with her, and the wedding dress was hanging in peggy's closet, with a sheet draped over it that no speck of dust should mar its immaculate whiteness. peggy decided that her wedding day was to be characterized by elegant leisure. of course this expectation was not realized. to begin with, there were more presents. they came by parcels post and by express. deliverymen handed them over as nonchalantly as if they had been ordinary purchases. others came by special messengers, who grinned knowingly when peggy signed for them. breakfast was hardly over when it was necessary to send for graham, that he might assist in opening the packages. but graham was not as satisfactory in opening packages as a number of other people, priscilla and amy, for instance. if peggy cried "isn't that beautiful?" he always looked straight at her as he said "yes," and then it was necessary to remind him that he was supposed to be admiring a piece of silverware or glass. peggy always said, "how beautiful!" when a package was opened. and then if the article were something she really wanted, she would add, "isn't it lucky, graham, that some one thought of that? i don't see how we could have kept house without it." and if it were something quite unsuitable she would cry, "how kind everybody is. i never saw anything like it." the present from peggy's college class came the morning of the wedding day, when it was practically certain that no one was to be married in advance of peggy. it was a very attractive silver vase, with the class motto engraved about its base. peggy's delight was marred by one characteristic reflection. "i have so many things. it's almost a pity this didn't go to some girl whose friends weren't so generous." "any one could have had it," graham reminded her, "who was ready to take the risk. this is in recognition of your courage, like the victoria cross." of course the wedding presents were not going to south america, but were to be stored against the young people's return. "don't you hate to go away and leave all these lovely things, graham?" peggy asked, stroking the gleaming sides of a copper bowl as if it had been a kitten. and then with her usual happy faculty for seeing the bright side, she added, "but think of coming home and finding them waiting for us! why, it'll be like getting married all over again." wedding presents, however, were not to occupy peggy's thoughts to the exclusion of other matters. all sorts of affectionate messages kept coming, special deliveries, telegrams, telephone calls. a girl like peggy, who for twenty-one years and over has been helping to make the world a happier place, is likely to be surprised when she comes to count up her friends. elaine marshall, who had moved from the city and now lived with her married sister, came down for the day. "i couldn't stand it, not to be at your wedding, peggy," she declared. and lucy haines walked in about noon, looking so radiant that peggy at once suspected an especial reason. there was a little pearl ring on the third finger of lucy's left hand that peggy had never seen before. lucy blushed when she saw peggy's contemplative gaze focused on it. "yes, peggy, it's--it's jerry," owned lucy, looking so proud and happy that she did not seem even distantly related to the disheartened girl who had once thought it was no use trying. "he's grown into such a splendid fellow. everybody says i'm so lucky. and, peggy, if it hadn't been for the summer you spent at doolittle cottage, it's not likely that either of us would ever have amounted to anything." mary donaldson called up to say that she was coming to the wedding. her father and cousin had promised to carry her downstairs, and they were going early so she could be in her place before any one else arrived. "i don't believe you're a bit more excited than i am, peggy," mary laughed. and another surprise was when uncle philander and his wife drove into town, with a bushel or two of flowers piled about them in the buggy. "they're not such awful stylish flowers," beamed aunt phoebe. "of course there's a few roses, but most of our bushes bloomed themselves 'most to death in june and haven't done much since. the rest are just everyday posies, so to speak, but they'll make little bright spots around the house, and anyway, you can't have too many flowers at a wedding." at four o'clock the bridesmaids went home to dress. the mother of the flower girl pounced on her and carried her upstairs. "peggy, dear," said mrs. raymond warningly. "just a minute mother. i want to tell graham something." peggy led her lover into a corner and whispered in his ear, "don't you want to come back and get a glimpse of me after i'm dressed." "well rather." "because you know, if you don't like me," dimpled peggy, "it's not too late to change your mind." she was inclined to be reproachful when graham caught her in his arms and kissed her before everybody, but graham insisted it was her own fault, and on reflection peggy decided he was right. at six o'clock the little church was well filled. in spite of graham's teasing, peggy's humble friends could hardly be distinguished from their so-called betters. hildegarde carey, slender and elegant, sat in the pew behind elvira bond, and noticed nothing peculiar except that elvira blew her nose oftener and with more emphasis than is customary on such occasions. it was either that or weep, and elvira chose the least of the two evils. as for jimmy dunn, with his purple necktie and a large scarfpin that resembled a diamond, he was fairly resplendent. the march pealed out and the people rose. up the aisle came the bridesmaids walking very slowly. the little flower girl, all smiles, seemed as unconscious as if weddings were an old story in her experience. and then came peggy on her father's arm, and elvira bond was not the only one whose eyes brimmed over as she passed. a great deal can happen in five minutes. the organ pealed out again, and now peggy was mrs. graham wylie. she put her hand on her husband's arm and smiled up into his face, peggy's own sunny smile. she had promised for better or for worse, but in her heart of hearts she was confident that the future held only good for the two of them. and as graham was equally positive on that score, they went down the aisle with illumined faces. only a few besides the two families came to the house from the church. these, with the out-of-town guests like elaine and lucy, and the wedding party, filled the cosy little house to overflowing. mary donaldson sat in a corner, radiant; and since she could not cross the room to kiss the bride, the bride crossed to kiss her. it was after the chicken salad had been disposed of, and they were passing the ice cream, that peggy's attention focussed itself on her new friend, mr. kennedy. he stood by himself for the moment and his face was rather grave for a young man, a guest at a wedding. but as he caught her eye, he smiled resolutely and came over to her. "i'm sorry you're going away, mrs. wylie, just as i met you. it doesn't seem fair." "i'm sorry, too," said peggy. "if we'd only known that night at the green parrot that you were a friend of graham's it would have simplified matters so much." mr. kennedy's face again lost its smile. he turned and looked the company over. "your friend hitchcock isn't here to-night, is he?" peggy was delighted. she had been wishing for a chance to bring horace into the conversation, and here mr. kennedy had done it himself. when again the young man looked at her, he was almost startled by the radiant mischief of her face. "horace hitchcock here? oh, dear, no! i can't think of anybody i'd be less likely to ask to my wedding." "that's one point, evidently, on which you and miss combs are not in agreement." peggy pondered. "priscilla might ask him to her wedding. i don't know. but it's certain he didn't ask _her_ to _his_." young mr. kennedy's start was unmistakable. "you don't mean he's married?" "yes indeed. there was quite an account of it in the papers. but if you didn't know his name, you wouldn't remember." "no, i wouldn't remember," agreed mr. kennedy. all at once he was beaming. "i shall be glad when the next two years are up, mrs. wylie," he cried boyishly. "i have a hunch that you and i are going to be great friends." a moment later he joined priscilla, and from that time on followed her about like her shadow, and the observant peggy smiled approval. she was not in the least discomfited by graham's reference to high explosives. the most dangerous things in the world, in her estimation, were misunderstandings. at ten o'clock the bride went upstairs to change to her little going-away suit with the eton jacket, that made her look hardly older than the peggy raymond who entered college. and then the good-bys began. "we'll be back in a few days," said peggy as she kissed each one, but even that assurance failed to give comfort. for though peggy and graham were coming back for twenty-four hours, they were to sail on the sixth. peggy's friends returned her smiles bravely, but there was hardly one who did not struggle to keep back the tears. they crowded out on the porch to see her go. some one hurled an old shoe as the taxi-cab glided away. peggy leaned from the window to wave her hand, and then the darkness swallowed her up. amy, ruth, and priscilla stood side by side. the tears were running down ruth's cheeks, and priscilla's eyes were wet. amy had forced herself to smile during peggy's protracted leave-taking and the smile persisted, though it had become a grimace. "is this place called friendly terrace?" amy demanded tragically, "or is it the--the dismal swamp." "or the desert of sahara," suggested priscilla, a quaver in her voice showing that the suggestion was not altogether a joke. "girls!" for a moment ruth struggled with a sob, but she conquered it and went on resolutely, "i don't know who named friendly terrace, but i do know it was peggy who made the name fit. and we've got to keep it up. we can't let it become like other little streets where nobody cares for his neighbor. we've got to show what peggy meant to us by--by--" "by keeping the home fires burning," interpolated amy, and ruth nodded as if the familiar phrase said all she had wished to say. as the others crowded indoors, declaring after immemorial fashion that there had never been a prettier wedding nor a lovelier bride, peggy's three friends stood side by side; ruth's hand was fast in amy's, and amy's arm was about priscilla's waist. and while none of them spoke, each of them in her heart was silently pledging herself to keep friendly terrace what peggy had made it. the end mark gray's heritage a romance _by eliot harlow robinson_ _author of "smiles: a rose of the cumberlands," "smiling pass," "the maid of mirabelle," etc._ _cloth, mo, illustrated, $ . _ "_what is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh._" mr. robinson's distinguished success came with the acclaim accredited to his novel, smiles, "_the best-loved book of the year_," and its sequel, smiling pass. with delicate humor and a sincere faith in the beautiful side of human nature, mr. robinson has created for himself a host of enthusiastic admirers. in his new book he chooses a theme, suggested perhaps by the old proverb quoted above ("pilpay's fables"). his setting is a quaker village, his theme the conflict between grave quaker ideals and the strength and hot blood of impulsive mark gray. here is a book that is worthy of the reception accorded smiles by all readers who appreciate a story of deep significance, simply yet powerfully built upon fundamental passions, wrought with a philosophy that always sees the best in troubled times. the enthusiastic editor who passed on mark gray's heritage calls it--hardly too emphatically--"a mighty good story with plenty of entertainment for those who like action (there is more of that in it than in any other of mr. robinson's novels). the reading public will unquestionably call it another 'courage book'--which they called the smiles books, you know. the language is both strong and smooth. the story has a punch!" polly the pagan her lost love letters _by isabel anderson_ _with an appreciative foreword by basil king_ _cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . _ isabel anderson, who heretofore has confined her literary talents to writing of presidents and diplomats and fascinating foreign lands, contributes to our list her first novel, polly the pagan, a story of european life and "high society." the story is unfolded in the lively letters of a gay and vivacious american girl traveling in europe, and tells of the men whom she meets in paris, in london or rome, her flirtations (and they are many and varied!) and exciting experiences. among the letters written to her are slangy ones from an american college boy and some in broken english from a fascinated russian prince (or was he disillusioned, when after dining at a smart parisian café with the adorable polly he was trapped by secret police?); but the chief interest, so far as polly's _affaires d'amour_ are concerned, centers around the letters from a young american, in the diplomatic service in rome, who is in a position to give intimate descriptions of smart life and italian society. * * * * * the character drawing is clever, and the suspense as to whom the fascinating polly will marry, if indeed the mysterious young lady will marry anybody, is admirably sustained. uncle mary a novel for young or old _by isla may mullins_ _author of "the blossom shop" books, "tweedie," etc._ _cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . _ since the great success of pollyanna there have been many efforts to achieve the "_glad_ book" style of fiction, but none so successful trade mark as mrs. mullins' uncle mary. here is a story, charming in its new england village setting, endearing in its characters, engrossing in its plot, and diverting in its style. the page imprint has been given to many books about beautiful characters in fiction,--pollyanna, anne shirley, rose webb of "smiles," and lloyd sherman of the "little colonel" books. to this galaxy we now add "uncle" mary's protégé, libbie lee. mrs. mullins is an author gifted with the ability to appeal to the young in heart of whatever age. her characters are visually portrayed. her situations have the interest of naturalness and suspense. the reader of uncle mary will become in spirit an inhabitant of sunfield; will understand the enjoyment of the sudden acquisition of wealth, a limousine, and--an adopted child (!), by the sisters, "uncle" mary and "aunt" alice; will watch with interest the thawing and rejuvenation of "uncle" mary, the cure of alice, and the solving of the mystery of the wealth of sweet little libbie lee. the red cavalier or, the twin turrets mystery _by gladys edson locke_ _cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . _ here is a mystery story that is different! the subtlety and strangeness of india--poison and daggers, the impassive faces and fierce hearts of prince bardai and his priestly adviser; a typical english week-end house party in the mystery-haunted castle, twin turrets, in yorkshire; a vivid and contrasting background. and the plot! who is the mysterious red cavalier? is he the ghost of the ancestral portrait, that hangs in sir robert grainger's strange library? is he flesh and blood, and responsible for the marauding thefts in the neighborhood? is he responsible for prince kassim's murder? or is it only coincidence that one of the guests at the masked ball happened to wear the costume of the red cavalier? miss locke has been able to weave a weird and absorbing tale of modern detective romance, the strangeness of india in modern england. there is lady berenice coningsby, a bit _déclassé_; ethelyn roydon, more so; princess lona bardai, "little lotus-blossom," sweet and pathetic; mrs. dalrymple, the woman of mystery; miss vandelia egerton, the spinster owner of twin turrets. there is dashing max egerton and the impeccable lord borrowdean; captain grenville coningsby; prince kassim bardai, with the impenetrable eyes, and chand talsdad, his venerable adviser. which of them is the red cavalier? * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired while varied hyphenation has been retained. page , "asumed" changed to "assumed" (assumed that they had) page , the ligature was removed from "phoebe" to conform to the numerous uses without it (turned to aunt phoebe's) page , "epigramatic" changed to "epigrammatic" (epigrammatic phrases which) page , "your're" changed to "you're" (what you're looking for) page , "rob" changed to "bob" (absorbed by what bob) page , "publicity" changed to "publicly" (publicly that she was) page , "incomprehensiblely" changed to "incomprehensibly" (incomprehensibly petty) page , repeated word "the" removed from text. original read (how much . was the the result of) page , "upstair" changed to "upstairs" (upstairs ruth? it's) page , "fiinished" changed to "finished" (after she had finished) page , "tumultous" changed to "tumultuous" (tumultuous cheering, the) page , "forseen" changed to "foreseen" (have foreseen this) page , repeated word "to" removed from text. original read (four to to get engaged) page , "rudness" changed to "rudeness" (the rudeness gave peggy) page , "af" changed to "of" (losing two of her) page , "spare" changed to "space" (vacant space enclosed by) page , "attenion" changed to "attention" (priscilla every attention) page , "emphazie" changed to "emphasize" (to emphasize the fact) page , "there" changed to "three" (three blocks on rossiter) elsie's young folks in peace and war by martha finley [illustration] new york dodd, mead and company publishers copyright, . by dodd, mead & company. elsie's young folks. chapter i. it was a lovely summer day, bright and clear, but the heat so tempered--there on the coast of maine--by the delicious sea breeze that it was delightful and exhilarating. the owner and passengers of the _dolphin_ had forsaken her more than a fortnight ago, and since spent their days and nights at a lovely villa on shore there in bar harbor; but now no longer able to resist the attractions of the beautiful sea, the most of them had come aboard, and were sitting, standing, or roaming about the deck. "oh, i'm so glad to be in our own dear sea home again!" cried elsie raymond. "aren't you, ned?" "yes; though we have been having a splendid time on shore in bar harbor." "yes, so we have; but as we expect to be back again in a few days, we needn't fret at all about leaving it." "no, nor we needn't if we were just going back to woodburn, our own beautiful home--certainly a better place than this in fall and winter, anyhow." "but i'm glad to have a sail again," said elsie. "brother max says we'll soon see some places where they had sea fights in our two wars with england," remarked ned, with satisfaction. "oh, does he? i mean to ask papa or grandma to tell us about them," exclaimed elsie, in tones of excitement. "oh, yes, let's!" cried ned. "but the men are taking up the anchor," he added hastily, "and i must see that first. come," catching his sister's hand and hurrying her along to a good position from which to view the operation. that duly attended to, they sought out their grandma, who happened to be at the moment sitting a little apart from the others, and made their request. she smilingly consented to tell them all she could recall on the subject that would be interesting to them, and bidding them seat themselves close beside her she began. "your father has told me that we are now going out to the extreme eastern point of the state--and of our country--the united states. west quoddy head is its name now, but in very early times it was called nurumbega. in john walken, in the service of sir humphrey gilbert, conducted an expedition to its shores, and reached the penobscot river. in two vessels, the _speedwell_ and the _discoverer_, entered the penobscot bay and the mouth of a river--probably the saco. about three years after that two french jesuits, with several families, settled on mount desert island. a few years later some twenty-five french colonists landed on mount desert and founded a settlement called st. saviour. but not long afterward they were driven away by some english under command of captain argal, who considered them trespassers upon english soil. that, i think, is enough of the very early history of maine, for to-day, at least." "oh, yes, grandma! but won't you please tell about revolutionary times and the war of - ?" pleaded elsie. "maine was one of the thirteen colonies, wasn't she?" "no, dear; she was considered a part of massachusetts at that time, and did not become a separate state until ." "oh, didn't the people there care about the revolution and help in it?" asked elsie in a tone of disappointment. "yes, dear, they did. in a county convention in sheriff william tyng declared his intention to obey province law and not that of parliament. he advised a firm and persevering opposition to every design, dark or open, framed to abridge our english liberties." "english!" exclaimed ned, in a half scornful tone, at which his grandma smiled, and stroking his curls caressingly, said, "yes, neddie, at that time--before the revolutionary war--our people liked to call themselves english." "but we don't now, grandma; we're americans." "yes; that is the name we have given ourselves in these days; but we consider the english our relations--a sort of cousins." "well, then i hope we and they will never fight any more," said elsie. "but, please, grandma, tell us something more of what has happened along this coast." "in ," continued her grandma, "the british kept the coast of new england from falmouth (now called portland) to new london in continual alarm; they were out in every direction plundering the people to supply their camp with provisions." "in this state, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; and in connecticut and massachusetts. they bombarded stonington, in connecticut, shattered houses and killed two men. that was in august or september. in october mowatt was sent to falmouth in maine to get a supply of provisions from the people there, and to demand a surrender of their arms. they refused and defied him; then--after giving time for the women and children to leave the town--he bombarded and set it on fire. more than four hundred houses were destroyed--nearly all the town of about five hundred buildings." "what a cruel thing!" exclaimed elsie; "i suppose they had to give up then?" "no," said mrs. travilla; "so brave and determined were they that they repulsed the marauders and would not let them land." "grandma," asked elsie, "didn't arnold go through maine with an army to attack canada about that time?" "yes; about the middle of august a committee of congress visited washington in his camp, and together they formed a plan to send a force into canada by way of the kennebec river to co-operate with general schuyler, who was preparing to invade that province by way of the northern lakes. arnold was well known to be brave. he had been complaining of being ill-used upon lake champlain. washington desired to silence his complaints, and knowing that this expedition was suited to his talents he appointed him to command, and gave him the commission of colonel in the continental army. "the force under his command consisted of eleven hundred hardy men--ten companies of musketeers from new england, and three companies of riflemen from virginia and pennsylvania. those riflemen were commanded by captain daniel morgan, who afterward did such good work for our country in her hard struggle for liberty. arnold and his troops marched from cambridge to newburyport, where they embarked on transports which carried them to the mouth of the kennebec. they went up that river in bateaux and rendezvoused at fort western, opposite the present town of augusta. now they had come to the edge of a vast and almost uninhabited wilderness." "and had to go through it, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; they were very brave men, ready to encounter difficulties and dangers for the sake of securing their country's freedom. two small parties were sent on in advance to reconnoitre, and the rest moved forward in four divisions, morgan with his riflemen in the van. arnold, who was the last, passed up the river in a canoe." "hadn't they a very hard time going through that wilderness, grandma?" asked elsie. "yes, very hard indeed; over craggy knolls, deep ravines, through creeks and ponds and deep morasses; sometimes paddling along a stream in their canoes--sometimes carrying them around a fall on their shoulders. suddenly, at length, they came to a mountain covered with snow. at its foot they encamped for three days. then they went on again, but a heavy rain set in, sending down such torrents from the hills that the river rose eight feet in one night. the water came roaring down the valley where our soldiers were, so unexpectedly and powerfully that they had scarcely time to retreat and get into their bateaux before the whole plain was flooded with water. seven boats were overturned and the provisions in them lost. many of them were made sick, too, by the storm and exposure, and so grew sad and discouraged. some gave up and went back to their homes, while arnold went on with the rest. the rain changed to snow, and there was ice in the water in which the poor fellows had to wade to push their bateaux along through ponds and marshes near the sources of the dead river. "at last they reached lake megantic. they encamped on its eastern shore, and the next morning arnold, with a party of fifty-five men on shore with captain nanchet and thirteen with himself in five bateaux and a birch canoe, pushed on down the river to a french settlement to get provisions to send back to his almost starving men. they passed seventeen falls, marching through snow two inches deep, then reached the highlands which separate the waters of new england from canada. but as it is of the history of maine i am telling you, and arnold and his band have now passed out of it, we will leave the rest of his story for another time." "he did a good deal more for his country before he turned traitor, didn't he, grandma?" asked elsie. "yes; he fought bravely again and again. the great victory at saratoga was largely due to him; in a less degree to morgan." "daniel morgan who commanded at the battle of the cowpens?" asked elsie. "the very same," replied mrs. travilla. "didn't some other things happen along this coast, grandma?" asked ned. "yes, indeed; several things. in the war of - there occurred a naval battle near portland, between the american ship _enterprise_ and the english brig _boxer_. on the morning of the st of september, , the _enterprise_ sailed from portsmouth, new hampshire, and on the morning of the d chased a schooner suspected of being a british privateer, into portland harbor. the next day she left that harbor and steered eastward looking for british cruisers. on the th they discovered in a bay what captain burrows supposed to be a vessel of war getting under way. she was a british brig, and on sighting the _enterprise_ she displayed four british ensigns, fired several guns as signals to boats that had been sent ashore to return, and crowding canvas, bore down gallantly for the _enterprise_. "seeing that, burrows cleared his ship for action, sailed out a proper distance from land to have plenty of sea room for the fight, then shortened sail and edged toward the _boxer_. that was at three o'clock in the afternoon. twenty minutes later the two brigs closed within half pistol shot, and both opened fire at the same time. the sea was almost quiet, there was but little wind, and that condition of things made the cannonading very destructive. ten minutes after the firing began the _enterprise_ ranged ahead of the _boxer_, steered across her bows and delivered her fire with such precision and destructive energy that at four o'clock the british officer in command shouted through his trumpet that he had surrendered, but his flag being nailed to the mast, could not be lowered until the _enterprise_ should cease firing." "and did she, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; i do not think our men ever fired on a foe whom they believed to be ready to surrender. captain blyth of the _boxer_ was already dead, having been nearly cut in two by an eighteen-pound ball, and captain burrows was mortally wounded. he had been helping the men to run out a carronade, and while doing so a shot, supposed to be a canister ball, struck his thigh, causing a fatal wound. he lived eight hours, and must have suffered terrible agony. he refused to be carried below until the sword of the commander of the _boxer_ should be brought to him. he took it eagerly when brought, saying, 'now i am satisfied; i die contented.'" "what did they do for a commander after their captain was so dreadfully injured?" asked elsie. "lieutenant edward r. m'call took command of the _enterprise_ and showed great skill and courage," replied grandma elsie. "on the morning of the th he took both vessels into portland harbor, and the next day the bodies of the two commanders were buried side by side in the same cemetery, and with all the honors to which their rank and powers entitled them." "were the ships quite spoiled, grandma?" asked ned. "the _enterprise_ was not, but the _boxer_ was much cut up in both hull and rigging," she replied. "the battle showed that the americans exceeded the english in both nautical skill and marksmanship. lossing tells us that a london paper, speaking of the battle, said, 'the fact seems to be but too clearly established that the americans have some superior mode of firing, and we cannot be too anxiously employed in discovering to what circumstances that superiority is owing.'" "i think the man who wrote that was feeling mortified that one of their vessels had been whipped by one of ours," remarked ned sagely. "yes," said grandma elsie, "i think the nailing of their flag to the mast showed that they felt confident of victory. cooper tells in his history that when the _enterprise_ hailed to know if the _boxer_ had struck--as she kept her flag flying--one of the officers of the british vessel leaped upon a gun, shook both fists at the americans, and shouted 'no, no, no!' adding some opprobrious epithets." "oh, didn't that make our fellows angry?" asked ned. "i think not," replied grandma elsie; "it seems to have amused them, as they saw that he was ordered down by his superiors." "was it a long fight, grandma?" asked elsie. "it had lasted only thirty-five minutes when the _boxer_ surrendered." "had a great many of her men been killed?" asked ned. "i don't know," replied his grandma, "but on the _enterprise_ there was but one besides burrows; midshipman kervin waters, who had been mortally wounded, died a few weeks later. he was buried by the side of his gallant leader--burrows." "oh, dear!" sighed little elsie, "war is so dreadful!" "it is indeed," said her grandma, "and it was made especially dreadful at that time to the people of this country by reason of our being so much weaker than england in men, money, and ships." "but it was a blessing that our seamen were so much more skilful than hers, grandma elsie," said max, who had drawn near in time to hear the last few sentences. "our little navy did good work in that war, small as she was in comparison with the enemy's. we had but twenty ships to her thousand, yet showed ourselves strong enough to put an end to her tyrannical conduct toward our poor sailors. she has never interfered again in that way with them." "and never will, i think," added grandma elsie. "the two anglo-saxon nations are good friends now, and i trust always will be." "i hope so indeed," said max. "we must be prepared for war, but i hope may be long able to maintain peace with all other nations." "a hope in which we can all join, i think," said mrs. travilla, glancing around upon the circle of interested faces; for all the _dolphin's_ passengers had by this time gathered about them. "you were talking of the war of , were you, mother?" asked captain raymond. "yes; i was telling the children of the fight between the _boxer_ and the _enterprise_," replied mrs. travilla. "and oh, won't you tell us some more, grandma?" entreated ned. "i think your father could do it better," she said, looking persuasively at the captain. "i am not at all sure of that," he said; "but if you wish it i will tell what i can remember of such occurrences at the points along the coast which we are about to visit. but first let me beg that every one will feel free to leave the vicinity should my story seem to them dull and prosy," he added, with a smiling glance about upon the little company. there was a moment's pause; then violet said laughingly, "that was very kind and thoughtful my dear, and i for one shall not hesitate to go should i feel inclined." the captain responded with a bow and smile; then, after a moment's pause, began upon the chosen theme. chapter ii. "eastport--which we will presently visit," began captain raymond, "is on moose island, in passamaquoddy bay. at the time of our last war with them the english claimed it as belonging to new brunswick, under the treaty of . early in july, , sir thomas hardy sailed secretly from halifax for that place, with quite a force of men for land and sea service. on the th the squadron entered passamaquoddy bay and anchored off fort sullivan, at eastport. major perley putnam was in command of the fort, with a garrison of fifty men and six pieces of artillery. hardy demanded an instant surrender, and gave only five minutes' time for consideration. putnam promptly refused to surrender--but the inhabitants of the island were greatly alarmed and not disposed to resist, so entreated him to yield, which he did on condition that private property should be respected. "when the agreement was signed, the british took possession of the fort, the town of eastport, and all the islands and villages in and around passamaquoddy bay, landing a thousand armed men, with women and children, fifty or sixty pieces of cannon, and a battalion of artillery." "and did they stay there, papa?" asked elsie. "oh, i hope they are not there now!" "i have no doubt that nearly, if not all of them, are in their graves by this time, daughter," replied the captain; then went on: "the british made declaration that these islands were in their permanent possession, and ordered all the inhabitants to take an oath of allegiance within seven days, or leave the territory." "allegiance to the king of england, papa?" asked elsie; "and did any of them do it?" "yes, that is what was meant, and about two-thirds of the people took it. they, the english, took all the public property from the custom-house, and tried to force the collector to sign unfinished treasury notes to the value of nine thousand dollars. but he refused, saying, 'hanging will be no compulsion.'" "did that mean that he wouldn't do it even if he knew they would hang him if he refused?" asked elsie. "yes, that was just it," said her father. "having accomplished what he wished to do at eastport--securing it to his country, as he thought--leaving eight hundred troops to hold it, hardy sailed away along the coast of maine and massachusetts, spreading alarm as he went. but the people prepared to meet his expected attack--manning their forts and arming them. when sherbrook and griffith sailed, they intended to stop at machias and take possession of it; but falling in with the brig _rifleman_, and being told by its commander that the united states corvette _john adams_ had gone up the penobscot, they made haste to the mouth of that river to blockade her. they passed up the green island channel and entered the fine harbor of castine on the morning of the st of september. on the edge of the water south of the village was the half moon redoubt called fort porter, armed with four twenty-pounders and two fieldpieces, and manned by about forty men under lieutenant lewis, of the united states army. at sunrise lewis was called upon to surrender. he saw that resistance would be impossible, so resolved to flee. he gave the enemy a volley from his twenty-pounders, then spiked them, blew up the redoubt, and with the fieldpieces he and the garrison fled over the high peninsula to its neck and escaped up the penobscot. then the british took possession of the town and control of the bay. "the _john adams_ had just come home from a successful cruise, and coming into penobscot bay in a thick fog had struck a rock and received so much injury that it was found necessary to lay her up for repairs. they did their best to take her out of harm's way, but it was with difficulty they could keep her afloat until she reached hampden, a few miles below bangor. some of her crew were disabled by sickness, and so she was almost helpless. "sherbrook, the commanding officer of the british vessels, was told all this as soon as he landed at castine, and he and griffith, commander of the fleet, at once sent a land and naval force to seize and destroy the _john adams_. the expedition sailed in the afternoon of the day of the arrival at castine. the people along the penobscot were not at all inclined to submit to the british if they could possibly escape doing so. on the day the british sailed up the river word was sent by express to captain morris, and he at once communicated with brigadier-general john blake, at his home in brower, opposite bangor, asking him to call out the militia immediately. blake lost no time in assembling the tenth massachusetts division, of which he was commander. that evening he rode down to hampden, where he found captain morris busy with his preparations for defence. he had taken the heavy guns of his ship to the high right bank of the soadabscook, fifty rods from the wharf, and placed them in battery there so as to command the river approaches from below. "the next morning he and blake held a consultation on the best methods of defence, citizens of bangor and hampden taking part in it. captain morris had little confidence in the militia, but expressed his intention to meet the enemy at their landing-place, wherever that might be, and also his resolution to destroy the _adams_ rather than allow it to fall into their hands. "belfast was taken the next morning by general gosselin, at the head of six hundred troops. at the same time another detachment marched up the western side of the penobscot unmolested, and reached bald hill cove at five o'clock in the evening. the troops and eighty marines bivouacked there that night in a drenching rain. during that day about six hundred raw militia, who had never seen anything more like war than their own annual parade, had gathered at hampden and been posted by general blake in an admirable position on the brow of a hill. lieutenant lewis and the forty men who had fled from castine had joined him. the artillery company of blake's brigade was there also, with two brass three-pounders, and an iron eighteen-pound carronade from the _adams_ was placed in battery in the road near the meeting-house in charge of mr. bent of the artillery. many of the militia were without weapons or ammunition, but captain morris supplied them as far as he could. "while these arrangements were being made captain morris had mounted nine short eighteen-pounders from the _adams_ upon the high bank over crosby's wharf, and placed them in charge of his first lieutenant, assisted by the other two. with the rest of his guns he took his position on the wharf, with about two hundred seamen and marines and twenty invalids, ready to defend his crippled ship to the last extremity. "the next morning all that region was covered by a dense fog. the different british detachments joined together, and by five o'clock were moving on toward hampden--moving cautiously in the mist, with a vanguard of riflemen, and on the flanks detachments of sailors and marines with a six-pound cannon, a six and a half inch howitzer, and a rocket apparatus. the british vessels at the same time moved slowly up the river within supporting distance. "blake had sent out two flank companies to watch and annoy the approaching foe, and between seven and eight o'clock they reported them as coming up the hill to attack the americans. the fog was so thick that they could not be seen, but blake pointed his eighteen-pounder in that direction, his fieldpieces also, and fired away with a good deal of effect, as he learned afterward; but the fog was too thick for him to see it at the time. his plan was to reserve his musket firing until the enemy should be near enough to be seriously hurt; but his men, being raw militia and without the protection of a breastwork in front, lost courage while standing there awaiting the approach of the enemy, and when it came suddenly into view, marching at double-quick and firing volleys in rapid succession, they were panic-stricken, broke ranks, and fled in every direction, leaving blake and his officers alone. lieutenant wadsworth saw it all from the upper battery where he was, and sent word immediately to morris, who was on the wharf. "the flight of the militia had left morris' rear and flank exposed, and he saw that it would be impossible to defend himself against such a force as was about to attack him. he therefore ordered wadsworth to spike his guns and retreat with his men across the bridge over the soadabscook, while it was yet open, for the stream was fordable only at low water, and the tide was rising. "wadsworth obeyed, his rear gallantly covered by lieutenant watson with some marines. at the same time the guns on the wharf were spiked, the _john adams_ was set on fire, and morris' men retreated across the soadabscook, he being the last man to leave the wharf. before he reached the bridge the british were on the bank above him; but he dashed across the stream, armpit deep in the water, and under a galling fire from their muskets, unhurt, joined his friends on the other side--blake and his officers and a mere remnant of his command among them--and all retreated to bangor. morris did not stay there, however, but soon made his way overland to portland." "did the british harm the people in that town, papa?" asked elsie. "they took possession, and there was no further resistance," replied the captain. "then they sent some vessels, with about five hundred men, to bangor. a mile from the town they were met by a flag of truce from the magistrates, who asked terms of capitulation. the answer was that private property would be respected. it was about ten o'clock when they reached the town, and commodore barrie gave notice that if the people would cheerfully send in the required supplies they should not be harmed in person or property. but he had hardly done so before he gave his sailors to understand that they might plunder as much as they pleased." "and did they, papa?" asked elsie. "yes," he said, "history tells us that almost every store on the western side of the creek, which there empties into the penobscot, was robbed of all valuable property. colonel john, however, did all he could to protect the inhabitants. the british forced the people to surrender all their arms, military stores, and public property of every kind, and to report themselves prisoners of war for parole, with a promise that they would not take up arms against the british. "having robbed the people of property worth twenty-three thousand dollars, destroyed, by burning, fourteen vessels, and stolen six, which they carried away with them, they left bangor for hampden, which they treated in the same way. there they desolated the church--tearing up the bible and psalm-books, and demolishing the pulpit and pews. lossing tells us that the total loss of property at hampden, exclusive of the cargo of the _commodore decatur_, was estimated at forty-four thousand dollars. and in a note he adds that williamson's 'history of maine' says, 'in the midst of the rapine a committee waited on barrie, and told him that the people expected at his hands the common safeguards of humanity, if nothing more; to which the brutal officer replied, "i have none for you. my business is to burn, sink, and destroy. your town is taken by storm, and by the rules of war we ought to both lay your village in ashes and put its inhabitants to the sword. but i will spare your lives, though i don't mean to spare your houses."'" "oh, what a cruel wretch!" said evelyn. "a perfect savage, i should call him!" exclaimed lucilla hotly. "i entirely agree with you, ladies," said mr. lilburn, "and am sorry indeed to have to own him as a countryman of mine." "well, cousin ronald," returned mrs. travilla pleasantly, "there are plenty of americans of such character that i should be loth indeed to own them as relatives." "and there were plenty such in the days of our two wars with england, as any one must acknowledge, remembering the lawless bands of marauders called cowboys and skinners," said violet; "they were more detestable than the british themselves--even such as that barrie, tarleton, and others too numerous to mention." "will they ever come here again, papa?" asked ned. "i think not, son," replied the captain; "most, if not all of them, are now dead." "yes, it must have been a long, long while ago," remarked the little lad reflectively. "we are going now to passamaquoddy bay, aren't we, papa?" asked elsie. "yes," he said, "and hope to reach there early this afternoon." "and i hope we will see all that lossing tells about," said grace. "i think you may feel reasonably certain of that," her father responded, in his kindly, pleasant tones. "we pass machias on the way to passamaquoddy bay, don't we, father?" asked grace. "yes," he replied, "we are nearing it now." "oh, i remember something about what occurred there in the revolution; but won't you please tell us the story again?" she exclaimed. "i will," he said. "we had then an exposed coast many miles in extent, and not a single armed vessel to protect it, while britain was the first naval power of the world. a few of our planters and merchants had been trained in the royal navy, and so had a good many american seamen, to some extent, in helping england in her wars with the french in the twenty years preceding our revolution; but our wise men who were directing public affairs could see no material for organizing a marine force, so devoted themselves to the business of raising an army. immediately after the battle of lexington the british began depredations along the new england coast, and soon private vessels were gotten out by patriot volunteers, who armed them as well as they could, and did their best to defend the coast. "you know news did not fly so fast in those days as it does now, but when at length the people of machias heard of the affair at lexington it of course caused great excitement, and a desire to defend their country against the foe. there in their own harbor lay a british armed schooner called the _margaretta_. she had two sloops with her, and the three were busied in getting lumber for the british army in boston. a party of the young men of the town determined to try to capture her while her officers were at church on shore. they seized one of the sloops, chased the schooner out of the harbor, and after a severe fight compelled her to surrender. "it was the first naval engagement of the revolution. there were forty of the americans, commanded by jeremiah o'brien, and about twenty of them, and as many of the british, were killed in the fight. the captain of the cutter was one of the mortally wounded. soon afterward o'brien captured two small english cruisers, making their crews prisoners, and carrying them to watertown, where the provincial congress of massachusetts was in session. that body then took measures to establish a coast marine to intercept english transports bringing supplies for the british troops, and gave o'brien employment in that service, with a captain's commission. "the british force under sherwood and griffiths, after their raid up the penobscot, went back to machias. they landed at buck's harbor, three miles below the town, and marched against the fort, which the garrison deserted and blew up." "are we going to machias now, papa?" asked ned. "no," said his father, "we are nearing passamaquoddy bay now. we will spend a little time there, then turn and go back to the penobscot, to visit historical scenes along its course. you perhaps remember that the british went there shortly after having taken eastport and fort sullivan on moose island in passamaquoddy bay. they were taken on the th of july, ; castine on september of the same year." "and about a year after came the fight between the _enterprise_ and the _boxer_, which occurred september , ," observed max. "yes," said his father, with a smile, "and of course you remember the notable victory vouchsafed us by providence five days later on lake erie?" "perry's victory, sir? yes, indeed! also macdonough's on lake champlain, which was given him on the th of the next september, ." but they were now entering the bay, and historical reminiscence gave place to talk of the beauty of the scenery, captain raymond, who had been there before, pointing out and naming the different islands and villages. they did not land, but steamed slowly about the bay, finding so much to interest them that they lingered there until nightfall. they then steamed out into the ocean, taking a westward course. it was a beautiful moonlight evening, and all gathering together on deck, passed the time in cheerful chat concerning the scenes just visited and those they expected to visit in the near future. at length there was a pause in the conversation, presently broken by little ned. "oh, dear!" he sighed, "i'm just hungry for a little fun. i don't see what's the use of having ventriloquists along, if they don't make some fun for us once in a while." "now, master ned, do you call that a polite speech?" asked a strange voice that seemed to come from a short distance in his rear. ned sprang to his feet and turned toward it. "i--i didn't mean to be rude, cousin ronald or brother max, whichever you are; but i am ever so hungry for a bit of fun." "and you consider that a healthful appetite, do you?" queried the voice. "yes, sir; for 'laugh and grow fat' is an old saying, so i've heard." "well, well, well! i have understood that you rather objected to being considered fat," laughed the invisible speaker. "oh, well, i don't believe a bit of fun once in a while would do much harm in that way," returned the little fellow. "at any rate, i'm more than willing to try it." "well, suppose we try it with the understanding that if you get too fat you are to be reduced to your present suitable size by a low and spare diet?" "no, indeed!" cried ned. "i won't consent to that. don't you know that boys need to eat plenty, if they are to grow up into big, strong men?" "enough, but not too much, neddie," laughed his cousin, dr. percival, sitting near. "uncle harold, you know all about it, for you're a good doctor," said ned, appealing to dr. travilla; "oughtn't little boys to have plenty to eat?" "yes, ned; plenty, but not too much." "well, that's just what i want," laughed ned. "oh, what was that?" as a cry, "help! help, or i shall drown!" came from the water not far from the side of the vessel. cousin ronald and max exchanged inquiring glances, and the latter rose hastily to his feet. "throw him a rope, my men!" he called to a group of sailors at the farther end of the vessel. the words had hardly left his lips ere the order was obeyed, and the next moment the dripping figure of a young lad in a bathing suit was drawn up and landed upon the deck. "thanks, thanks, gentlemen," he panted; "you've helped me to a narrow escape from a watery grave. i ventured out too far--alone in the moonlight and----" "don't try to talk, my man; you are too much exhausted," interrupted dr. travilla, for he, captain raymond, max, mr. lilburn, chester, and dr. percival had all hurried to the spot to see and assist the rescued stranger. "thanks! i'll do," he said, "if you'll kindly help me to rub down, and lend me some things till these can be made dry." "certainly," replied captain raymond, and at once gave directions that the stranger be taken to a comfortably warm stateroom, provided with everything needful, and his wet garments dried and returned to him as quickly as possible. then turning to his brother-in-law, "i leave the rest to your care, harold," he said. "oh, brother max," cried ned, as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies and children, "i thought it was you or cousin ronald calling for help just for fun, and it was a real drowning man, after all." "a mere lad, ned, and i am very glad we were able to give him help in season." the incident had created quite a little excitement, and all eagerly awaited harold's report. he rejoined them in a few minutes, looking so undisturbed that they at once felt that his new patient was in no danger. "he will be all right presently," he said, in answer to their eagerly inquiring looks and questions. "when we heard his cry for help he had hardly more than just realized his danger. he is somewhat ashamed of his venturesomeness, and anxious to get back to his friends without letting them know of the peril he was in." turning to captain raymond, "he will be very glad and grateful if you will go a little out of your way and land him at the spot where he entered the water, so that he may be able to steal up to the house of his friends without arousing their suspicions concerning the danger he has been in." "i think we may do that," the captain said, in his kindly tones. "it will probably not delay us more than an hour or so, and we are not so hurried for time that we need decline to submit to that." max at once gave the necessary orders, the course of the vessel was changed, and ere long the young stranger was landed at the spot where he had entered the water. then the _dolphin_ proceeded on her westward way, and when her passengers awoke in the morning they were nearing penobscot bay. chapter iii. all were eager to visit the historical places immediately upon their arrival. as they entered the harbor of castine mrs. travilla remarked that it was quite as picturesque as she expected from lossing's description. "ah, i entirely agree with you, cousin elsie," responded mr. lilburn; "it is so bonny a place that i do not wonder it was coveted by the enemy." the whole party presently landed, a guide was found who promised to conduct them to all the points of historical interest, and they set out upon their search. they very much admired the situation of the town, and the view from it of the bay, with its picturesque islands. they visited old fort george, built by the british in , in the centre of the peninsula, and repaired, fraised, and armed by them in . it was only a ruin now, but interesting because of what it had been in those earlier days. the view from its banks, which were about eighteen feet high from the bottom of the six feet deep ditch, was very interesting. looking northwestward from the fort they could see on the right the entrance to the canal cut by the british across castine neck, turning the peninsula into an island. it was about eighty rods long and twelve feet deep, and now had a bridge across it. between the promontory and an island could be seen the mouth of the penobscot river. on the extreme left they could see the town of belfast, thirteen miles distant. leaving that point they visited the remains of several other forts built by the british, after which they returned to the yacht for the evening meal and the night's rest. the _dolphin_ was allowed to remain stationary until all her passengers were on deck again the next morning; then the anchor was lifted, and she steamed up the river. favored with delightful weather they greatly enjoyed the trip up the beautiful, winding stream. they had taken on board a man well acquainted with the river and every point of interest upon its banks, and who pointed out each one as they neared it. as they entered marsh bay the young people were told that the british squadron lay there one night on their way toward hampden. elsie and ned showed keen interest when told of it, and in hearing from their father of the cannon-ball of the british that lodged in a storehouse there in . "do you remember the story lossing tells about a norway pine somewhere in this region?" asked mrs. travilla, addressing captain raymond. "something of it," he said, with an amused smile, and the children at once begged to hear it. "will you gratify them, mother?" asked the captain. "you probably have a better recollection of his story than i." "i will do my best," she said, and began at once. "lossing says the tree was about a mile above here, and the only one of its kind in that region--a round, compact tree, its short trunk looking as if composed of a group of smaller ones, and the limbs growing so near the ground that it was difficult to get under it. at the time that the british landed at frankford some man who had a large quantity of bacon, being afraid they would rob him of it, carried it to that tree and hung the pieces in among the branches to hide them from the foe; and though the british passed along the road only a short distance from the tree, they did not notice its peculiar fruit, so did not meddle with it, and his bacon was saved; always afterward that norway pine was called the bacon tree." "thank you, grandma; that was a nice story," said elsie. "haven't you another little story for us, grandma?" asked ned, in coaxing tones. "i do always like your stories ever so much." at that grandma elsie laughed a pleasant little laugh, then went on: "lossing tells us quite an interesting little story of a remarkable black man whom he visited somewhere near here. his name was henry van meter, and he was then ninety-five years old. during the revolution he was a slave to governor nelson of virginia. after that he became a seaman, and was one of the crew of the privateer _lawrence_, which sailed from baltimore in . i suppose lossing questioned him about his long life, and heard his story of it. he remembered having seen washington many times. the estate of governor nelson, his first master, was sold after the war, to pay his debts, and henry was bought by a planter beyond the blue ridge. the new master wanted him to marry one of his slave girls, and told him if he did he would order in his will that he should be made a free man at his (the master's) death. in telling of it henry said, 'i didn't like the gals, and didn't want to wait for dead men's shoes. so master sold me to a man near lexington, kentucky, and there was only one log house in that town when i went there.' "he was soon sold to another man, who treated him shamefully, and one night he mounted one of his master's horses and fled to the kentucky river, where he turned the horse loose, and told him to go home if he had a mind to, as he didn't want to steal him. some kind white people helped henry over the river into ohio, and at cincinnati he then took the name of van meter--the family name of some of the shenandoah valley people who had been kind to him. "afterward henry became the servant of an officer in the army of general st. clair, and served with our troops in the northwest under general wayne. after that he lived in chillicothe, then came east to philadelphia. there some quaker sent him to school, and he learned to read and write. he became a sailor, went to europe several times in that capacity, and when the war broke out he shipped as such on board the privateer _lawrence_. it was taken by the british, and he was thrown into dartmoor prison, and saw the massacre there in ." "oh, what was that, grandma?" asked ned, in tones of excitement. "i didn't think i ever heard about it." "lossing tells us," replied his grandmother, "that dartmoor was a depot for prisoners in england; that it was situated in a desolate region, was built in for a place in which to confine french prisoners. at the time the treaty of peace was made with us there were six thousand american prisoners in it--two thousand five hundred of them american seamen, put there for refusing to fight in the british navy against their countrymen. they were there when the war began in . for some unknown reason there was great delay in setting those prisoners free after the treaty of peace was made. it was nearly three months before they were allowed to know that the treaty had been signed. from the time they first heard of it they were every day expecting to be set at liberty, and naturally grew very impatient over the delay. on the th of april they demanded bread instead of hard biscuit, which they refused to eat. on the evening of the th they showed great unwillingness to obey the order to retire to their quarters, and some of them not only refused to do that, but went beyond their prescribed limits. then captain shortland, who had charge of the military guard, ordered them to fire on the americans, which they did. the soldiers, i believe, fired a second time. five prisoners were killed and thirty-three wounded." "why, that was just murder, wasn't it, grandma?" asked ned. "and didn't they hang those soldiers for doing it?" "no; the british authorities called it 'justifiable homicide,' which meant it was all right enough." "in which decision i, for one, am far from agreeing," remarked mr. lilburn emphatically. "it created intense indignation in this country at the time," said the captain; "but is now seldom remembered, and the two nations are, and i hope always will be, good friends." the _dolphin_ ascended the river only as far as bangor, and returned by moonlight to castine, where they anchored for some hours; then at an early hour in the morning they steamed out into the ocean again, and pursued a westward course until they reached portland. there they landed and paid a visit to the cemetery where lay the remains of the brave captains of the _enterprise_ and the _boxer_; also those of midshipman kervin waters. "they are buried side by side, as if they were brothers, instead of enemies who were killed fighting each other," said little elsie softly. "but perhaps they were good christian men, each fighting for what he thought was the right of his own country. papa, can you tell us about the funeral? i suppose they had one?" "yes, daughter, a solemn and imposing one. the two battered vessels were lying at the end of union wharf. a civil and military procession had been formed at the court-house at nine in the morning of the th of september. the coffins were brought from the vessels in barges of ten oars each, rowed by minute strokes of ship-masters and mates, most of the barges and boats in the harbor accompanying them. when the barges began to move, and while the procession was passing through the streets to the church, minute guns were fired by artillery companies. also while the procession marched from the church to the cemetery here, which is about a mile distant from the church. "the chief mourners who followed the corpse of captain burrows were dr. washington, captain hull, and officers of the _enterprise_. those who followed captain blyth's were the officers of the _boxer_, on parole. both were followed by naval and military officers in the united states service, the crews of the two vessels, civil officers of the state and city, military companies, and a large concourse of citizens. only a few weeks before captain blyth was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of our lawrence, the gallant commander of the _chesapeake_, at halifax." "that dear brave man that said, 'don't give up the ship,' papa?" asked elsie. "yes, daughter. now let us read the inscription on his tombstone: 'in memory of captain samuel blyth, late commander of his britannic majesty's brig _boxer_. he nobly fell on the th day of september, , in action with the united states brig _enterprise_. in life honorable; in death glorious. his country will long deplore one of her bravest sons, his friends long lament one of the best of men. Ã�. . the surviving officers of his crew offer this feeble tribute of admiration and respect.'" "it sounds as though they had respected and loved him," said the little girl. "that next grave is where burrows lies, isn't it, papa? and won't you please read its inscription?" they drew nearer and the captain read aloud: "'beneath this stone moulders the body of william burrows, late commander of the united states brig _enterprise_, who was mortally wounded on the th of september, , in an action which contributed to increase the fame of american valor, by capturing his britannic majesty's brig _boxer_, after a severe contest of forty-five minutes. Ã�. . a passing stranger has erected this memento of respect to the manes of a patriot, who, in the hour of peril, obeyed the loud summons of an injured country, and who gallantly met, fought, and conquered the foeman.'" "and that one on the pillars, papa--whose is it?" elsie asked, as her father paused with a slight sigh. "that is the tomb of midshipman waters," he said. "we will go nearer and read its inscription: 'beneath this marble, by the side of his gallant commander, rest the remains of lieutenant kervin waters, a native of georgetown, district of columbia, who received a mortal wound, september , , while a midshipman on board the united states brig _enterprise_, in an action with his britannic majesty's brig _boxer_, which terminated in the capture of the latter. he languished in severe pain, which he endured with fortitude, until september , , when he died with christian calmness and resignation, aged eighteen. the young men of portland erect this stone as a testimony of their respect for his valor and virtues.'" "twenty days to suffer so," sighed elsie. "oh, it was dreadful!" max and evelyn stood near, side by side. "dreadful indeed!" evelyn sighed, in low quivering tones as they turned away. "oh, max! i wish you did not belong to the navy!" "why, dearest?" he asked in tender tones. "it is not only in the navy that men die suddenly and of injuries; and many a naval officer has lived to old age and died at home in his bed. and we are under the same protecting care on the sea as on the land." "yes, that is a cheering thought," she said, "and since you love the sea, it is wrong and selfish in me to regret your choice of a profession. and i could not be induced to resign my sailor lover for any landsman," she added, with a charming blush and smile. that evening, joining her father, as she so often did, in his quiet promenade of the deck before retiring for the night, lucilla spoke of their visit to the cemetery, and said, "i have always been so glad that you left the navy, papa, so that we could have you always at home with us, and i am gladder still when i think that if we should have another war you will not be in danger of such a fate as that which befell burrows and blyth." "unless i am needed, volunteer my services, and am accepted," he returned, in a slightly playful tone. "oh, papa, don't, please don't!" she exclaimed, clinging more closely to him. "it will be dreadful enough to have max in such danger, but to have you, too, in it would be heart-breaking." "well, dear child, we won't be so foolish as to trouble ourselves about what may never happen. and if it ever should happen, we must just put our trust in the lord, believing that he doeth all things well, and trusting his promise, 'as thy days, so shall thy strength be.' and you can rejoice in the fact that chester is neither sailor nor soldier," he added, with a smile, and softly patting the hand resting upon his arm. "yes, father dear, that is no small comfort," she said; "especially as i know he is patriotic enough to do all in his power for his country." "ah, no doubt of that! i think chester would be as ready as any one else to take up arms in her defence if he saw that his services were needed. and i don't believe this daughter of mine would say a word to prevent him." "i think not, papa; but i hope i may never be tried in that way." "a hope in which i heartily join you, daughter. i should be glad indeed to know that we were done with wars. but that is so uncertain that we, as a nation, must be ever prepared to repel attack--on land or sea. 'eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.'" "and liberty is worth that price, isn't it, father?" she said, with a bright smile up into his face. "yes; so we think; we could never be content without it." they paced silently back and forth for a few moments, then lucilla asked, "how long are we going to lie quietly here in portland harbor, papa?" "that will depend upon the wishes of the majority of our company," he answered; "which i think we will learn at the breakfast table to-morrow morning." chapter iv. it was a bright and cheerful party that gathered about the _dolphin's_ breakfast table the next morning. greetings were exchanged, a blessing asked upon the food, and captain raymond began helping his guests. "i notice we are still lying quietly in portland harbor," remarked dr. percival. "do we remain here another day, captain?" "that must be as the majority decide," was the pleasant-toned rejoinder. "please, friends, express your wishes freely." no one spoke for a moment--each waiting for the others. then violet said, in her lively pleasant way, "cousin ronald, you are the eldest, and should feel entitled to speak first." "thanks, cousin," he returned, "but i really have no choice; am perfectly willing to go or stay, as may best please the majority of my friends here." "do you think of returning directly to bar harbor, captain?" asked mrs. travilla. "if that is what you would all prefer, mother. but how would you all like to take a short sea voyage--sailing eastwardly from here, at some distance from the coast, and perhaps going on up the coast of new brunswick?" every one, from mr. lilburn down to little ned, seemed charmed with the idea, and as the weather was all that could be desired, it was decided that they would start as soon as the anchor could be lifted and sufficient steam gotten up. they carried out their plan, and had a delightful voyage lasting several days. it was on saturday that they left portland; the sabbath found them far from land, and, as at former times, services were conducted on board the yacht with the singing of hymns, the offering up of prayers, the reading of the scriptures, and of a sermon by captain raymond. after that they formed themselves into a bible class, and mr. lilburn was persuaded to take the lead, choosing the subject while the others sat about him, bibles in hand. opening his, the dear old gentleman began: "let us take for our theme jesus christ our lord, and what it is so to know him that we shall have eternal life. here in the seventeenth chapter of john's gospel in his--the master's--wonderful prayer we read, 'and this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true god, and jesus christ, whom thou hast sent.' paul tells us in his letter to the philippians, 'i count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of christ jesus my lord.' his acquaintance was not with the christ of galilee, whom he had not known, but with the ascended christ; he who said to the apostle john on patmos, 'i am he that liveth and was dead, and behold i am alive again forever more.' in the tenth verse of the first chapter of his gospel john tells us, 'he was in the world and the world was made by him and the world knew him not.' in first john third chapter and last clause of the first verse, 'therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not.' a self-seeking, worldly-minded man does not know christ, and cannot understand him who is aiming day by day to live above the world and get the christ view of life. captain, can you tell us why it is that the worldly-minded do not know jesus?" "because," replied the captain, "the cares and pleasures of this world are crowding him out of their hearts, as he himself tells us in the parable of the sower. but some of those who loved him failed for a time to recognize him when he was close to them. in the last chapter of his gospel john tells us, 'but when the morning was now come, jesus stood on the shore; but the disciples knew not that it was jesus.' mary also had failed at first to recognize him when he spoke to her as she stood weeping beside his sepulchre. and how long he talked with those two on the way to emmaus, and they did not recognize him until he sat down to eat with them, took bread, and blessed and brake it, and then vanished out of their sight! ah, jesus is often near us and we know him not." "and he is our master," said mrs. travilla, in her low, sweet tones. "in john thirteen, thirteenth, talking with his disciples jesus says, 'ye call me master and lord; and ye say well, for so i am.' and paul tells the ephesians that their master is in heaven. 'and ye masters do the same things unto them, forbearing, threatening, knowing that your master also is in heaven.'" "there are five greek words translated master," continued the captain; "one meaning overseer, another teacher, still another signifying absolute ownership; another, leader--one who goes before us; still another, one exercising supreme authority or power. oh, that to-day each one of us may know christ as our supreme lord and master who alone has absolute ownership of our lives and all our powers." "let us look for other texts bearing upon this subject," said mr. lilburn. "have not you one for us, harold?" "yes," replied harold, "here in first john, second chapter, is given a test of our knowledge of christ. 'hereby do we know that we know him if we keep his commandments. he that saith i know him and keepeth not his commandments is a liar and the truth is not in him.'" "and here in john's gospel," said mrs. lilburn, "where jesus is talking with his disciples, that same night in which he was betrayed, he says: 'a new commandment i give unto you, that ye love one another; as i have loved you, that ye also love one another. by this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.'" "and again," said evelyn, "in the fifteenth chapter and twelfth verse, 'this is my commandment, that ye love one another, as i have loved you. greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'" "what wonderful love--oh, what wonderful love was his!" exclaimed mrs. travilla, in low moved tones. "and how sweet are those words: 'i have loved thee with an everlasting love.' 'for a small moment have i forsaken thee; but with great mercies will i gather thee.'" "let us sing to his praise," suggested mr. lilburn, and violet, seating herself at the instrument, struck a few chords, then started the hymn: "oh, for a thousand tongues to sing, my dear redeemer's praise," the others joining in with a will--evidently singing with spirit and understanding, for the sweet words were familiar to all. the short service over, they scattered in groups here and there, chatting quietly with each other. for a few moments mrs. travilla and her cousin and old-time intimate friend, annis--now mrs. lilburn--were together a little apart from the others, talking low and confidentially. they talked of the past, the present, and the future, as regarded life in both this world and the next. "how sweet is that bible lesson which we have just had," said annis, at length. "how i love those words of jesus--'ye call me master and lord; and ye say well; for so i am.'" "yes," returned elsie; "they are very dear to me. oh, how sweet to know that he is ever with us--always close at hand, full of love, infinite in power and willingness to bless; to help in every trouble, to give 'the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.' oh, how true are the words: 'the joy of the lord is your strength.' if we only have that we can bear all troubles and trials. it makes one happy in the present, and takes away all dread of the future; so sweet and sustaining is it to know that he who has all power in heaven and on earth is your friend, loving you with an everlasting, infinite love; caring for you at all times and in all places." "yes, yes," said annis softly. "'sing, o daughter of zion; shout, o israel; be glad and rejoice with all thy heart, o daughter of jerusalem' ... 'the lord thy god in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.' are they not sweet words, elsie?" "indeed they are! these others too--'god commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, christ died for us.'" there was a moment of silence; then annis said, "you seem to me a very happy christian, elsie. is it not because the joy of the lord is indeed your strength?" "oh, annis, who could be otherwise than happy in the consciousness of that love; and in the thought of how soon one will be with the master, and like him; and with all the dear ones gone before, never, never to be separated from them again?" "yes, dear cousin, and how blest are we in the knowledge that our dear ones gone before were his, and are with him now, and will be ready to greet us with great joy when we too shall reach that blessed shore." "'the joy of the lord is your strength,'" again quoted mrs. travilla, in her low, sweet tones. "don't you think, annis, that the covenanters and puritans,--good, devoted christians as most of them were,--in opposing the lightness, worldly-mindedness, and frivolity of their foes, went too far to the other extreme, leaving out from their teachings the joy of the lord? do you not remember that the jews were told by nehemiah, ezra, and the others, 'this day is holy unto the lord your god; mourn not nor weep. go your way, eat the fat and drink the sweet; and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our lord; neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the lord is your strength. so the levites stilled all the people, saying, hold your peace, for the day is holy; neither be ye grieved. and all the people went their way, to eat, and to drink, and to send portions, and to make great mirth, because they had understood the words that were declared unto them.'" "yes," said annis, "it seems to be human nature to go to extremes, and i think much harm is often done in that way. for instance, the covenanters and puritans of old times were so disgusted with the errors and selfish indulgences of the papists--their turning the sabbath into a holiday, which might rightly be spent in merrymaking and sport--that they themselves robbed it of all enjoyment, and made it a dull, gloomy time to their young people, with little or no hint in it of the strengthening joy of the lord." "i think you are right," returned mrs. travilla, in a musing tone. "the sabbath is not a day for frivolity, but it is one for joy and gladness--the joy of the lord strengthening us for duty, trial, and temptation. what but that sustained the martyrs when called upon to lay down their lives for the sake of him who died to redeem them? and oh, how that gracious, precious promise, 'as thy days, so shall thy strength be,' relieves one of the dread of what the future may have in store for us; what bereavements, losses, sufferings, mental or physical! how often and sweetly he bids us fear not. 'o israel, fear not: for i have redeemed thee, i have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. when thou passest through the waters, i will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flames kindle upon thee. for i am the lord, thy god, the holy one of israel, thy saviour.'" "yes," said annis, "oh, how often, how tenderly he bids us fear not. it is like a mother hushing her frightened child. 'say to them that are of a fearful heart, fear not.... fear thou not, for i am with thee.... for i the lord thy god will hold thy right hand, saying to thee, fear not, i will help thee. fear not, i have redeemed thee, thou art mine.... fear not, o jacob my servant, and jeshurun whom i have chosen.'" "'whom i have chosen,'" repeated elsie. "how those words bring to mind what jesus our dear master said to his disciples in that last talk with them in the room where they had eaten the passover--'ye have not chosen me, but i have chosen you.' oh, what love and condescension to choose us sinful creatures for his own!" "'and ordained you that ye should go and bring forth fruit,'" said annis, going on with the quotation, "'and that your fruit should remain; that whatsoever ye shall ask the father in my name, he will give it you.' i remember," she went on musingly, "that when i was a little girl i used to think i should like to be a christian, and would be if only i knew how. the way seems very easy now--just to listen to the dear saviour's gracious invitation, 'come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest,' accept it, and give myself to him." "yes," said elsie, "his promise joined to that--'and ye shall find rest unto your souls'--is sure; it never fails." chapter v. before the next sabbath our friends had returned to bar harbor. for some weeks longer they remained in that vicinity; then, cooler weather making a more southerly climate desirable, they sailed for home. dr. percival was so far recovered that he felt in haste to get back to torriswood and at work among his patients again. he and his maude paid a flying visit to old friends and relatives at the oaks and ion, then hastened to louisiana by rail. max raymond, to the great satisfaction of himself, his _fiancée_, and his friends, was favored with a lengthening of his furlough, which enabled him to spend some weeks at home in his father's house. lucilla persuaded evelyn to be her guest at the same time, chester was there every evening, and so the courting went merrily on. there was much talk about the new house the captain proposed building, much discussion of the question whether the one building should be made suitable and sufficiently large for two families,--half of it for max and eva,--or whether a separate house should be put up for them in another part of the grounds. the decision was finally left to the brides-elect, and as they were very strongly attached, and max was likely to be often away on the sea for months and years together, they thought it best the two dwellings should be under the same roof, and their decision was highly approved by the captain and all their relatives and friends. then followed consultations in regard to the exact spot upon which it should stand, and the studying and comparing of plans to make it as commodious, convenient, and beautiful as possible. the captain was evidently ready to go to any reasonable amount of expense in order to give them an ideal home, his means being ample and his love for his children very great. but all the time was not spent in that way, for other relatives claimed a share in max's prized companionship; invitations were given and visits paid to the oaks, ion, fairview, the laurels, roselands, pinegrove, ashlands, and riverside. sometimes the invitation was for dinner or tea, sometimes for the whole day--or longer for the young folks, if not for the older ones and the children. it was on the last day of october they dined at riverside, nearly all the connection meeting them there, and at rosie's earnest solicitation evelyn and lucilla, max and chester accepted an invitation to stay until the next morning, captain raymond giving a rather unwilling consent to let lucilla do so. "it is hallowe'en, you know, and i'm just pining for a bit of fun," rosie said privately to the girls, after seeing the older guests depart. "you two are engaged, to be sure, but 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,'" she added, with a laugh and a twinkle of fun in her eye. "but we are not wanting slips," laughed lucilla. "nor much afraid we will get them," added evelyn merrily. "still we might have a little fun." "provided we take it early enough to get to bed in good season," added lucilla, in a mirthful tone. "my father, you know, is very particular about that--so kindly anxious is he to keep me in good health." "which is altogether right, wise, and kind, i am sure," returned rosie; "and i don't intend to tempt you to go contrary to his wishes. i'm obliged to him for granting my request for permission to keep you here all night, and i shall not urge you to stay up later than he would allow you to if you were at home. if we try some old-fashioned games we can suit ourselves as to the hour for the experiments." "yes," laughed evelyn, "i shall be quite as sure of the fulfilment of the augury if we get it some hours earlier than people of old times used to look for it." "then we will just wait till our old folks get to bed--which they always do in good season," said rosie. "your husband approves, i suppose?" remarked lucilla inquiringly. "oh, yes!" laughed rosie; "he sees no harm in it, and approves of his wife having all the pleasure she can. i wish we could have had grace stay and share the fun, but her father vetoed that almost before i had fairly given the invitation." "yes," said lucilla, "poor gracie is so feeble that father has to be very careful of her." "yes; i know," said rosie, "but i thought he might have left her for once, considering that my two doctor brothers are here for the night--unless called out by some inconveniently sick person." "which we will hope they won't be, for even doctors should have a little amusement once in a while," said evelyn. "yes," said rosie, "and they enjoyed the golf this afternoon, and appear to be having a pleasant time with max, chester, and the others out on the river bank there now." the girls were on the veranda overlooking the river, and just at that moment were joined by rosie's mother-in-law, the older mrs. croly. she sat down and chatted with them for a few moments, then bade them good-night, and went to her own apartments. it was growing dusk then, the young men came in, and presently they all repaired to the drawing-room, where for the next hour or two they entertained each other with music and conversation. max had some interesting adventures to narrate, to which both young men and maidens were eager listeners. in the pause that followed the conclusion of the second tale the clock in the hall was heard to strike. "eleven!" exclaimed lucilla, in a tone of surprise and dismay. "father would say i ought to have gone to my room and my bed more than an hour ago." "oh, no! not on hallowe'en," laughed rosie; and just then a servant brought in a basket filled with ears of corn, and set it down in their midst. "what's that for, rosie?" asked harold. "you can hardly ask your guests to eat raw corn, especially at this late hour? as a physician i must most emphatically enter my protest." "perhaps rosie is benevolently trying to bring practice into her brothers' hands," remarked herbert facetiously. "but we are not looking for that at present, but for fun--pure fun, that will bring damage to nobody." "yes, my dear brothers, that's what i am endeavoring to do," she returned in sprightly tones. "perhaps you have not heard of the new game with ears of corn? you folks are all invited to be blindfolded, each in turn, and in that condition to draw out an ear of corn by which to foretell your future fate. a tasselled ear will promise you great joy, a big, full one good luck for a year. a short one will mean a gift is coming, a red or yellow one no luck at all." "quite a new idea," said herbert, "and as there is nothing said about love or marriage, i suppose even engaged folks may try it; married ones also." "oh, yes!" replied rosie, producing a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief. "eva, will you kindly consent to take the first turn?" "if you wish it," returned evelyn, and the handkerchief was bound about her head and she was led to the basket. "i suppose i am not to choose by feeling, either, but just to take the first one i happen to touch?" she said inquiringly. the others assented, and she drew out an ear. "oh, good luck for you!" exclaimed rosie. "it is as big and full a one as the basket holds." lucilla was told it was her turn, the handkerchief was bound about her eyes, and she stooped over the basket and drew out quite a short ear. "ah, you see i am not so lucky as you were, eva," she exclaimed, passing her fingers from end to end. "but it isn't bad," said rosie. "that means a gift is coming to you soon." "a good or a bad one?" laughed lucilla. "perhaps papa would say i deserved a bad one for staying up so late." "oh, no! i think he expected something of the kind--he declined to let grace stay, you know," said rosie, "and i did want her badly. well, gentlemen, which of you will take his turn now?" at that they all insisted that she should take hers first, which she did, bringing out a tasselled ear. "oh, i am fortunate!" she cried, with a merry peal of laughter, "for a tasselled ear is said to mean great joy." after that the young men took their turns. chester got a big, full ear, max a short one, herbert a tasselled one, harold a yellow one, which rosie told him with sighs and groans meant no luck at all. "but don't be discouraged, brother dear," she said, patting him affectionately on the shoulder, "though older than myself, you are young enough to have lots of good luck after this year is out." "many thanks for the assurance, sister mine," he laughed, "and though older than yourself, i believe i am young enough to wait a year for any special good luck." "and i hope you will have enough afterward to reward you for the patient waiting, uncle harold," said lucilla. "if he gets all he deserves it will be a great deal," added evelyn. "you are good, kind comforters--both; accept my warmest thanks," laughed harold. there was a little more lively chat, then the young girls said good-night and went to their rooms--two on the second floor with a communicating door between. rosie accompanied them, leaving her husband to attend to the gentlemen guests. "see here, girls," she said, pointing to a basket of rosy-cheeked apples on a stand; "these were put here to induce you to try another hallowe'en experiment. if you want to see what your future husbands will look like, eat one of these standing before the mirror, brushing your hair all the time, and now and then--when you can get up courage enough--look over your left shoulder." "oh, that won't require any courage, rosie," laughed evelyn. "i am not in the least afraid of max--brave officer though he is." "and i stand in quite as little fear of chester," said lucilla. "so that really it seems that your good apples will be almost thrown away." "ah, you two forget the 'many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,'" laughed rosie. "and it cannot possibly do your lovers any harm, or alienate their affections from you." "no, we are not at all afraid of that," said lucilla, "and as your apples look very tempting, i believe i shall run the risk of eating one presently. i suppose i must first don a dressing gown and take down my hair." "yes," said rosie; "you are to stand before the mirror brushing it diligently while eating the apple. and you will try it too, won't you, eva?" "well, yes," returned evelyn, "just for fun; and if anybody but max comes to me i shall be sure it is not a truthful augury." "max is a fine fellow and has always been one of my favorites," said rosie, "but there are others in the world that might do just as well, in case you and max should have a falling out. or you may live long enough to marry several times." evelyn laughed at that, saying she was quite sure once would be enough for her. "i know you girls did not come prepared to stay all night," said rosie, "so i have laid out a night-dress and dressing-gown for each of you. get into them, and you will look nice and pretty enough for an interview with your future husbands." they thanked her, and, examining the garments which she took from a wardrobe in eva's room, pronounced them really pretty enough to wear to the breakfast table. they made haste with their toilets, and in a few minutes each was standing before a mirror, eating an apple and brushing out her hair. then rosie left them with a promise to be back again before very long to learn of their success. she artfully left ajar both doors leading into the hall. they opened noiselessly, and presently each had admitted a young man, who, wearing slippers, moved with noiseless tread, and as the girls looked over their left shoulders eva caught sight of harold standing a few feet in her rear, gazing steadily at her, a kindly smile upon his features; while at the same moment lucilla perceived herbert at a similar distance from her, gazing intently and admiringly upon her. "oh, uncle herbert," she laughed, "this cannot be a true sign, for i know well enough that neither of us has any loverlike feeling toward the other." almost before she finished her sentence he had vanished, and she heard evelyn saying in mirthful tones, "ah, uncle harold, this is the no luck at all--prophesied by that yellow ear of corn; for, as you know, i am already pledged to another." at that harold sighed deeply and withdrew. but scarcely had he and his brother disappeared when max silently took his place, chester at the same time coming up behind lucilla so that she saw him in the mirror, to which she had again turned, brush in hand. "oh, is it you, chester? you are the right man in the right place," she laughed. "i hope so, darling," he returned. "what lovely hair!" passing his hand caressingly over it; "so long and thick too. i never before saw it to such advantage." max was standing silently behind evelyn, and just at that moment she caught sight of him in the glass. she turned quickly, and he caught her in his arms, giving her a rapturous kiss. "don't be disappointed that i am your future mate," he said. "certainly not, since you were already my own free choice," she returned, looking up into his face with one of her sweetest smiles. just then lucilla's voice was heard coming from the next room, "is that you, max?" and in a moment the four were together, gayly laughing and chatting, both young men insisting that that style of wearing the hair--streaming over the shoulders--was extremely becoming. then rosie and her will joined them for a moment, after which they all bade good-night, and the girls were left alone to seek repose. chapter vi. the young people had a merry time over their breakfast the next morning, rehearsing all they had gone through in their celebration of hallowe'en, each one seeming to have enjoyed his or her part in it. they lingered over the meal, but soon after leaving the table scattered to their homes, excepting eva, who returned to woodburn with max and lucilla. on arriving there lucilla hastened to the library, where she found her father examining some business letters. "good-morning, papa!" she said. "here is your amanuensis, and haven't you something for her to do?" "yes," he replied, looking up at her with a smile, as she stood close at his side, "and the first thing is to give her father a kiss; that is, if she will not find it a disagreeable task." "anything else than that, father dear," she returned, bending down to give and receive a caress. "and won't you let me help, as usual, with your correspondence?" "i shall be very glad to do so," he returned, rising to take the cover from her typewriter, and put the paper in place. then she seated herself and he began dictating. when they had finished, "did you miss me last night and this morning, father?" she asked. "i did indeed," he said; "but that is something i will have to get used to, when chester takes you from me." he ended with a sigh. "oh, papa, don't sigh so over it!" she exclaimed. "you know it isn't as if i had to go away to a distance from you. i shall be close at hand, and you can call me to your side whenever you will." "which will be pretty often, i think," he said, with a smile, drawing her closer to him, and caressing her hair and cheek with his hand. "had you a pleasant time last evening? and did you go to bed in season, as your father would have seen that you did had you been at home?" "no, i did not get to bed early, papa," she replied. "i thought you would excuse me for staying up, for once, to try my fortune. for you see, we all wanted to know who were to be our future life partners, rosie telling us that there was 'many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' so that our engagements didn't make us safe." she concluded with a light laugh and look that seemed to say she felt no fear that he would be seriously displeased with her. "you stayed up to try your fortune, did you?" he returned, with a look of amusement. "why, my child, i thought you considered it already made." "so i do, papa, and last night's experience only confirmed my belief." then she went on to tell him the whole story, he seeming to enjoy the tale as she told it. "you are not vexed with me, papa, for staying up so late, just for once?" she asked, when her tale was told. "no," he replied, "though i should be far from willing to have you make a practice of it. "'early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' the old saying is, and i want you to be all three." "as you are, father; and i am the first, at all events," she returned, with a happy little laugh. "you have never had to pay a big doctor's bill for me." "no; but to escape that is the least of my reasons for wanting to keep you healthy." just then max came in with eva, bringing a book on architecture. "here are some plans for houses, father," he said, laying the book open before the captain. "please look at this, and tell me what you think of it, as in some respects it is what would suit us. you too, lu. eva and i like the most of it very much." the captain and lucilla examined it with interest, and were as well pleased as were max and evelyn. it was a matter in which they and chester also were deeply interested, and they were taking time and trouble to make sure of having their future home all that could be desired. it was not to be built in haste. they had agreed to take plenty of time and thought in regard to all the interior arrangements, making everything as convenient as possible, as well as to the exterior, which they were resolved should be such as to cause the building to be recognized as an ornament to its neighborhood. chester was the one most anxious to get the house built and to secure his bride; the other three seemed well content to defer their marriage until the captain should give full and hearty consent. the exact spot on which the building should stand had been selected, and the plans for it almost matured, when there came an order for max to join a naval vessel about to sail for a distant foreign port. there was a tender and sorrowful leave-taking, and max was absent from the home circle for many months. for a time those left behind seemed to have lost much of their interest in the building of the new home. then came the fall rains, after that the winter storms, and it was decided that the actual work should not be begun until spring. then grace had a serious illness, which kept her in bed for several weeks, and she had hardly recovered when the little ones at fairview were taken down with measles. they all passed through that trouble safely, but the weather had now grown warm enough to make a more northern climate desirable, and they--the whole fairview family, accompanied by their grandma and the raymonds--went aboard the captain's yacht and sailed up the coast and the hudson river to evelyn's pretty home, crag cottage. that became their headquarters for the summer, though occasional short trips were taken to one or another of the points of interest in new york and the adjoining states. they all enjoyed themselves, though chester and max were missed--especially by lucilla and evelyn. chester, however, joined the party late in the season, and was with them on the journey home. soon after their return, work was begun upon the proposed site of the new double dwelling, the cellars were dug, and the foundation was laid. but the work proceeded slowly. max was not likely to be at home again soon, and it was well to take time to have everything done in the best possible manner. evelyn and lucilla had fully decided upon a double wedding, which of course could not take place until max obtained a furlough, and came home for a visit of some weeks or months. chester felt the delay hard upon him, but had to content himself with being allowed to spend all his spare time with his betrothed. fall and winter passed quietly. there were the usual holiday festivities and exchange of gifts, then quiet home duties and pleasures filled up the days, and the weeks glided swiftly by. one morning in february the captain, looking over his daily paper, uttered an exclamation of mingled regret and indignation. "what is it, my dear?" asked violet. "something that troubles you, i perceive." "yes," he replied; "here is a piece of very bad news. the _maine_, one of our favorite battleships, lying at anchor in havana harbor, has been suddenly destroyed by a terrible explosion--wrecked and sent to the bottom with american seamen; only the captain and a few of his officers who were on shore escaping the awful fate of the others." "oh, that is dreadful, dreadful!" cried violet. "but how did it happen? what was the cause?" "that has yet to be discovered, my dear," replied captain raymond; "but i have little doubt that it was the work of some enemy among the spaniards. they have been angry at the presence of the vessel in their harbor--their newspapers calling it a taunt and a banter, for they know our people sympathize with the cubans. somebody has done this evil deed; it remains to be discovered who it was." "this is sigsbee's despatch to the government," he added, and read aloud: "_maine_ blown up in havana harbor at nine-forty to-night. many wounded and doubtless more killed or drowned. wounded and others on board spanish man-of-war and ward line steamers. send light-house tenders from key west for crew and the few pieces of equipment above water. none has clothing other than that upon him. public opinion should be suspended until further report. all officers believed to be saved. jenkins and merritt not yet accounted for. many spanish officers, including representatives of general blanco, now with me to express sympathy." "sigsbee." it was directly after breakfast and the family were all present. lucilla and grace seemed much excited, and little ned asked anxiously if "brother max" was on that ship. "no, my son," replied his father; "i am very glad to know certainly that he was not. have you forgotten that he is with commodore dewey on the coast of china?" "oh, yes, papa! i forgot where havana was. i remember now that it is not in china, but in cuba." "oh, that is a dreadful piece of news, papa!" said lucilla, in tones of excitement. "won't it be likely to bring on a war with spain--especially as we have been feeling so sorry for the poor cubans whom she has been abusing so terribly?" "i am really afraid it can hardly fail to cause war," replied the captain. "but that will depend very much upon the result of the investigation which will no doubt be made by our government." "oh, i hope we won't have war!" cried grace, shuddering at the thought. "war is a very dreadful thing," sighed her father, "but sometimes the right thing on one side--that of those who undertake it for the downtrodden and oppressed." "but we are not such folks, are we, papa?" asked ned. "no, son; but the poor cubans are, and the question is whether we should not undertake to win their freedom for them." "by fighting the spaniards who abuse them so, papa?" asked little elsie. "yes." "what have they been doing to them, papa?" asked ned. "oppressing, robbing, murdering them, burning down their houses, forcing them into the cities and towns and leaving them to starve to death there." "why, papa, how dreadful! i should think our folks ought to go and fight for them. i wish i was big enough to help." "my dear little son, i am glad you are not," said his mother, drawing him to her side and giving him a fond caress. "why, mamma?" "because you might be badly hurt or even killed, and that would break your mother's heart." "then, mamma, i'm glad i don't have to go, for i wouldn't like to hurt you so," said the little fellow, stroking and patting his mother's cheek, and gazing fondly into her eyes. "oh, i hope it won't come to war for us!" exclaimed grace; "though i should like to have the poor cubans helped. just think how dreadful, if max should be engaged in a naval battle." "well, my child, we won't borrow trouble about that," said her father soothingly. "and i hope there is not much danger, as he is away off in the china seas," said lucilla, trying to cheer grace, though she herself had little idea that he would escape taking part if there should be war. "in case of war, that will hardly excuse him from doing his duty," said their father; "nor would our dear brave boy wish to be excused. but we will all pray that he may be spared injury, if such be the lord's will." "indeed we will, in that case, pour out constant petitions for him--the dear fellow!" said violet, with emotion. "but, levis, do you think this will bring on war?" "it looks very likely to me," replied her husband, sadness perceptible in both his countenance and tones. "and, really, i think it is our duty to interfere for those poor, savagely treated cubans. i think it is high time that this powerful people undertook their cause." "and i suppose the spaniards are already angry with the americans for sympathizing with those poor, oppressed cubans," said lucilla. "yes," said her father, "and this awful deed--the blowing up of our grand battleship with its hundreds of sailors--is doubtless an expression of their ill-will." and that was not the thought of captain raymond alone, but of many others as well. the wrongs and sufferings of the cubans had so touched the hearts of thousands of the americans that they felt strongly impelled to make some effort to help them to win their freedom; and now this wanton destruction of one of our favorite battleships--and, what was far worse, the lives of nearly three hundred innocent men--so increased their anger and distrust that it could scarcely be restrained. through all the land of the americans there was a strong feeling of indignation over the treachery and cruelty of the blow that had destroyed that gallant ship and sacrificed so many innocent lives; but the people were sternly quiet while the court of inquiry was making its investigations. they were ready to punish the doers of that dastardly deed, but not without proof of their guilt. for forty days they and their congress silently awaited the report of the board of naval officers engaged in examining into the evidences of the cause of the destruction of the _maine_. their verdict came at length, but in rather vague form--that, according to the evidence obtainable, the vessel had been destroyed by an explosion against her side from without. so much was clearly proven, but they did not say by whom the evil deed was done. more than a week before that report came in, both congress and the people had been greatly moved by the speech of senator proctor, describing what he had witnessed in cuba, the scenes of starvation and horror; men, women, and children robbed of their homes, their cattle--all their earthly possessions--driven into the towns and left to starve to death in the streets. the senator's speech made a great impression, and there were others on the same subject and in a like strain, delivered by members of the commission sent to cuba by the new york _journal_. some days later--on the th--came the report of the court of inquiry into the _maine_ catastrophe, and put an end to the patience of congress, which had long been ready to undertake the cause of the oppressed and suffering cubans. it was not until noon of the th of april that the president's message reached congress. in that he turned over to it the whole policy of the government toward spain. congress did not make a formal declaration of war with spain until the th of april, but actual hostilities began on the th. indeed, four days before the declaration of war the united states navy began the blockade of cuba, and captured a vessel on the high seas. chapter vii. max raymond, buried in thought, was pacing the deck of the _olympia_. "hello, raymond, have you heard the news?" asked a fellow officer, hurrying toward him in evident excitement. "no; what is it? news from home?" asked max, pausing in his walk with a look of eager interest. "just that. the commodore has had a warning to leave hong-kong. war has been declared by our government, and great britain has issued a proclamation of neutrality. the official warning comes from the authorities here." "ah!" exclaimed max, "i knew--we all knew--that it would come soon. it is well the commodore has had all our vessels put in war paint, and every preparation made for departure upon short notice." "yes; commodore dewey is a wise man and officer. i'm glad he's at the head of affairs in this fleet. it looks as if we would have some fighting soon, raymond." "yes, dale, and it behooves us to be prepared for wounds or death. we are about to fight in a good cause, i think--for the freedom of the poor, oppressed, downtrodden cubans. but where are we to go now, do you know?" "only that it must be out of this harbor quite promptly. it can hardly be to travel the seven thousand miles back to san francisco." they were not kept long in suspense. presently, anchors were taken up, and with bands playing and flags flying the fleet of vessels steamed out of the harbor, while the british residents of the city crowded the quay and shipping, cheering and saluting the americans as the warships passed. that first voyage of the squadron was but a short one, a few miles up the coast to mirs bay, a chinese harbor, where they anchored and awaited orders from home, the _mcculloch_ having been left behind to bring them when they should arrive. the next day she came, bringing this message, dated washington, april : "dewey, asiatic squadron: war has commenced between the united states and spain. proceed at once to philippine islands. commence operations at once, particularly against the spanish fleet. you must capture the vessels or destroy. use utmost endeavors." "long." this message was what commodore dewey had been waiting for since his arrival at hong-kong in january. he had formed his plans, and was ready to carry them out without delay. his captains were called to a short conference, and about midnight the fleet sailed on its errand of battle. they turned south toward the philippine islands, miles away. the nearest united states port was san francisco, miles distant. no neutral power would permit him to take more than enough of coal to carry his vessels home by the most direct route, so that there was but one course open to dewey and his fleet--the capturing of a spanish harbor somewhere in asiatic waters, which he could make a naval base. one of dewey's ships--the _petrel_--was slow, and as the fleet of vessels must keep together, that delayed them. it was three days before they reached the line of coast of the island of luzon. it was reported that the enemy might be found in subig bay, so that was carefully reconnoitred, but the spanish were not there; the fishermen about the harbor said they had seen no spanish fleet, and though every nook and corner of the bay was examined, not so much as a gunboat could be found. so the american fleet passed on to manila, miles away. it seemed evident that the spaniards had chosen that station because there they would have the aid of shore batteries. it is said that their ships were comparatively antiquated, but not so much so as to make their defeat at all certain. their guns were as good as those of the american ships, and they had more of them: to dewey's six fighting ships admiral montojo had ten, and two torpedo boats besides. the spaniards had no vessel to rank with the _olympia_, but the numbers of their vessels, it might have been expected, would probably, in skilled hands, have more than made up for that. the americans had the advantage in batteries, but not overwhelmingly. the _mcculloch_ did not go into action at all, and the spanish torpedo boats were sunk before their guns would bear. the americans were greatly superior in everything that goes to win victory; but that they did not know until the fight had been going on for some time; and as commodore dewey led his fleet along the coast of luzon, toward the harbor where he knew the enemy lay in wait for them, he had nothing less than a desperate battle to expect. the americans were brave; we know of no cowardice among them, but to the thoughtful ones--max raymond among them--it was a solemn reflection that they might be nearing mutilation and sudden, painful death. the spanish ships were anchored in a harbor protected by shore batteries. to reach them the americans must pass down a channel sixteen miles long, guarded on each side by powerful forts armed with modern guns; and it was to be expected that it held many mines prepared to blow up our vessels. knowing all these things, commodore dewey, his officers, and his men must have been expecting a hard fight, with no certainty of winning the victory. there was probably but little sleep on board the vessel that night. about ten o'clock saturday night the men were sent to their stations for battle. max had spent some leisure time in writing to the dear ones in his home, and the still dearer one pledged to become his wife, telling just where he was and the prospect immediately before him, expressing his hope that all would go well with the americans--now championing the cause of the poor, oppressed cubans and of these downtrodden filipinos--and that he would be able to write further after the conflict ended, should he pass safely through it; but if he should be killed or seriously wounded, doubtless the news would reach them in due season, and they must think of him as having fallen in a good cause, hoping to meet them all in a better land. a little before that, the commodore was walking back and forth on the starboard side of the upper deck, when he noticed an old sailor who seemed to be trying to find something to do on the port side. he was a man who had been forty years in the service of the navy and army of the united states, and was a privileged character on the _olympia_. he seemed to be keeping a careful lookout on the commodore, who noticed it and perceived that he had something on his mind. "well, purdy, what is it?" he asked. purdy straightened up and saluted. "i hope, sir," he said, "ye don't intend to fight on the d of may." "and why not?" asked the commodore. "well, ye see, sir," purdy replied, in the most serious manner, "the last time i fought on the d of may i got licked--at the battle of chancellorsville, under fighting joe hooker." "all right, purdy, we won't fight on the d of may this time," said the commodore; "but when we do fight, purdy, you'll have a different kind of a may anniversary to think about. remember that, purdy." "ay, ay, sir," replied purdy, saluting, then hurrying away to rejoin his blue jacket comrades, whom he told, "we'll lick those spaniards if they was ten times as many as they are." the moon was in its first quarter, and though often veiled by clouds its light might enable the spaniards on the fortified points here and there to perceive the stealthy approach of their foe. max, on the watch with others, overheard the commodore say, as they neared the opening between mariveles and the island of corregidor, "we ought to hear from this battery about now." but its guns were silent. they went on two miles further without perceiving any evidence that the spaniards were awake and aware of their approach. "they seem far from alert and watchful," max presently remarked. but at that moment a bright light was thrown on the point, an answering one was seen on the island, as if they were signalling each other, then a rocket soared up from the centre of corregidor, and the commodore said, "it has taken them a long time to wake up, but probably they will make it all the hotter for us when they begin." day had not yet dawned when they reached the mouth of manila bay. they did not stop to reconnoitre, but pressed on at once, running the gantlet of batteries and concealed mines without waiting for daylight to make it easier. they waited a little for the setting of the moon, then went on in single file, the _olympia_ leading and the _mcculloch_ bringing up the rear, and with no lights except one lantern at the stern of each ship for the next to steer by. a great light marked the entrance to the harbor, gleaming in the darkness as though to welcome the gray ships stealing so quietly in, as if to come suddenly and unexpectedly upon their prey. the forts were as silent as though all their defenders were asleep or dead. that was a wonder to the americans, for the rush of their vessels through the water seemed to make a sound that might be heard by the enemy, and every moment they expected it to attract their attention; and so anxious were they to pass unnoticed, that they spoke to each other in whispers, and moved about with muffled tread. they were in momentary expectation of a cannon shot or the explosion of a mine that might rend the plates of some one of their ships; but nothing of either kind occurred, until the last ship in the procession--the _mcculloch_--gave the first alarm. coal was flung on her furnace, and a red flame flared up, lighting up the waters and the rigging of the ship itself and of those ahead. all the men on the fleet turned expectantly toward the batteries on the land, thinking that shots would certainly come now. but all was silence there. again and again the unlucky beacon flared, and after the third time it was noticed by the flash of a gun on a rock called el fraile. but the aim was not good, and the shot did not strike any of our vessels. the _concord_ fired in return, and cannon roared from the _boston_, the _mcculloch_, and again from the _concord_, but the _olympia_ and other big ships passed on in silent dignity. the commodore was standing on the bridge of the _olympia_, piloting his fleet, and the shot from el fraile had given him a clear idea of how the shore lay. and now, having passed that battery, all the defences of the harbor's mouth were left behind, and excepting mines that might lie concealed under the water there was no further danger to meet until they should reach the city with its forts at cavité. as the ship steamed on up the bay, max and dale standing together on deck fell into conversation. "what ails these spaniards?" queried dale. "i, for one, expected nothing less than a severe fight at the very mouth of this bay, but they have let us come in and on up toward their city almost unnoticed. the strait where we came in is only about five miles wide, and broken by three islands, all fortified, and armed with krupp guns. and on the mainland there are two forts--one on each side--which, as i have been told, are armed with steel rifled cannon." "yes," said max, "and we passed them all within easy range, and received only ineffective fire from one battery. but this is only the beginning; at any minute we may come in contact with a mine in the channel which will explode, or an electric mine may be discharged in a way to work us serious mischief." "true enough," said dale; "and it behooves us to be ready for the worst. there will probably be men killed and wounded on both sides." "yes," sighed max; "war is an awful thing; but in this instance right is on our side, because we have undertaken the cause of the oppressed. and," he added with an effort, "if we have made our peace with god--are believing in the lord jesus christ and trusting in his perfect righteousness--death will be no calamity to us; and if we are wounded, no matter how painfully, he will give us strength to bear it." "i do not doubt it," said dale; "nor that you are in that state of preparation, raymond. i hope i am also; and that being the case, we surely can go bravely on to meet whatever awaits us." "i hope so," said max, "and believing, as i do, that we are in the right, i have a strong hope that god will give us the victory." "ah, see!" cried a voice near them, "yonder are the spanish ships, lying at anchor under the batteries at cavité." "yes," said another, "and there is the old town of manila, with its low clustering roofs and towering cathedral." men crowded to the best points from which to obtain a good view, and stood in silence gazing upon it. max had a glass, and looking through it could see the roofs and quays of the city crowded with spectators. evidently the engagement with the battery at el fraile had been heard and had alarmed the city. dewey had planned for a prompt fight, but did not intend to have his men go into it hungry; and now some of his sailors were passing up and down distributing cups of hot coffee and biscuits. that duly attended to, signals fluttered from the gaff, black balls were run up to every peak on all the vessels, and, breaking out, displayed the great battle flags. at that, some nine-inch guns on fort lunette were fired--without doing any damage--and the american vessels suddenly moved on to closer quarters. "hold your fire!" was the order from the flagship, and two shots from the _concord_ was the only answer given to the forts. onward the fleet sped toward that of the spaniards, which was silent also. suddenly there was a muffled roar, and a great volume of mud and water was thrown into the air right before the flagship, showing that the dreaded mines were near. in an instant there was another explosion, but neither did any harm; and they were all our men saw of the spanish explosives of that sort. now the fleet was nearing the enemy. on the _olympia's_ bridge stood commodore dewey, with captain gridley and flag-captain lamberton at his side. the spanish ships now joined the forts in pouring their fire on the advancing foe, but still there was no response. presently the sun rose red and glaring with midsummer heat, and at that the commodore, turning to the officer at his side, said quietly, "you may fire now, gridley, when ready." gridley was ready, and the next instant an eight-inch shell was on its way toward the enemy, who was only about yards distant. presently a signal from the flagship gave the same permission to the other vessels, and the whole fleet was engaged. shortly before that, dewey had assembled the men of the _olympia_ and given them this final direction for their conduct during the fight: "keep perfectly cool, and pay attention to nothing but orders." such was the watchword through his whole fleet that morning, and the result was a deliberate and deadly fire. the ships steamed along in regular order--the _olympia_, the _baltimore_, the _raleigh_, _petrel_, _concord_, and _boston_--parallel to the spanish ships, working every gun that could be brought to bear, and receiving the fire of ships and forts in return. the fire of the spanish guns was a succession of brilliant misses--shots that came very near hitting, but did not quite do so. it was, as dewey put it in his report, "vigorous, but generally ineffective." but the aim was not always bad. one shell struck the gratings of the bridge of the _olympia_; one narrowly missed the commodore himself, and so hot did the fire become that he bade captain gridley go into the conning tower lest both of them might be killed or disabled at once. on the _boston_ a six-inch gun was disabled, and a box of ammunition exploded. also a shell burst in a stateroom, and set it on fire. our six vessels steamed along down past the spanish line, the port side of every ship a mass of flame and smoke, then circling around in a grand sweep--that made the spaniards think for a moment they were pulling out of action--the column returned again on its course, and the men of the starboard batteries had a chance to try their skill while their fellows rested. they had made this circuit but three times when three of the spanish ships were on fire. looking through glasses the shots could be seen striking the spanish hulls, which were thinly plated. admiral montojo, stung into fury by his losses, slipped the cables of his flagship, just as the americans were beginning their third round, and under full steam darted out as if intending to attack the _olympia_. but as his vessel--the _reina christina_--swung away from her fellows the fire of the whole american fleet was concentrated upon her. the storm of shot and shell came pouring down upon her, pierced her hull like paper, swept her decks and spread death and destruction on every side. her engines were pierced, her bridge shot away. she could hardly be controlled by her helm, and as she turned her stern to the american fire an eight-inch gun on the _olympia_ sent a projectile that struck her there, tore its way forward, exploding ammunition, shattering guns, killing men, piercing partitions, tearing up decks, and finally exploding in her after-boiler. agonized screams of wounded men were heard rising above the thunder of the battle, and the _reina christina_ staggered back with flames leaping from her hatches. while this was going on the two spanish torpedo boats slipped out and ran for the american fleet. one hastened toward the supply ships, but was caught by the _petrel_, driven ashore, and fired upon until she blew up. the other, running for the _olympia_, was struck by a shell, broke in two, and sank out of sight. five times the circuit was made by the american ships; then a signal fluttered from the yard of the _olympia_, and the fleet turned away to the other side of the harbor, where the _mcculloch_ and the colliers had been lying. at that the spaniards, supposing the americans were retreating, raised a resounding cheer. the men on the american ships were not so well pleased. they were asking what this move was for, and when told that it was in order to give them their breakfast, there was much grumbling. "breakfast!" exclaimed one of the gunners, "who wants any breakfast? why can't we finish off the dons, now we've got them going?" but breakfast was not what the delay was for. a misunderstood signal had made the commodore fear that the supply of ammunition for the five-inch guns on board of some of the vessels was running low, and he wished to replenish their stock. it was found, however, not to be necessary. but officers and sailors had their breakfast and a three hours' rest, during which guns and machinery that had been used in that morning's fight were examined and a supply of fresh ammunition was prepared. then the signals for a renewal of the battle were given, and the ships again bore down upon the enemy, revolving as before in a great circle of smoke and fire, but at closer range than at first. the spaniards seemed desperate, fired wildly, and in a half-hearted way. the _reina christina_ was blown up by the shells of the _baltimore_; quickly after the _don juan de austria_ was destroyed by the _raleigh_, and so on till all of the ten spanish ships had been destroyed or had surrendered. admiral montojo had transferred his flag to the _isla de cuba_, and fought till her guns were silenced and she was in flames; then leaving her to her fate, he escaped to the city. it is said that a great crowd of people had come out from that city that morning to see "the pigs of yankees" annihilated. the last ship left fighting was the _don antonio de ulloa_, and at length she sank, with her flag still nailed to her mast. one of the american shots entered the magazine at cavité, and that ended the resistance of the shore batteries. then from the _olympia_ was flung out the signal, "the enemy has surrendered," the hot, weary, smoke-begrimed men swarmed cheering out of turrets and up from the bowels of the ships, and the flagship's band broke out with the "star spangled banner," for the victory of manila was won, the first victory of the war with spain for the help of the sorely oppressed cubans. chapter viii. max had done bravely and well, and no one rejoiced more keenly in the victory than he, though his heart bled for the wounded and slain. he as well as others listened eagerly for the accounts of the captains of the other vessels of the fleet as they came on board to report to the commodore. "how many killed?" was demanded of each one, as he stepped on the deck, and great was the surprise and satisfaction on learning that none had been killed. "only eight wounded, none seriously," was the reply of captain dyer of the _baltimore_. "but six shells struck us, and two burst inboard without hurting any one." "not a dashed one," was the next captain's answer. "none killed and none wounded," said the third, "but i don't yet know how it happened. i suppose you fellows were all cut up." "my ship wasn't hit at all," was the next report. it was known that the _boston_ had been on fire, therefore it was expected that her captain would have to report a serious list of casualties, and when he announced that no one had been killed or wounded on his vessel the news spread quickly through the flagship, and the men cheered vociferously. the _baltimore_ had been struck by a sixty-pound projectile, fired from a land battery. it struck the ship about two feet above the upper deck, between two guns which were being served; pierced two plates of steel each one-quarter of an inch thick; then ploughed through the wooden deck, striking and breaking a heavy beam, by which it was turned upward; then it passed through a steel hatch-combing; disabled a six-inch gun; hurtled around the semicircular shield which surrounded the gun, missing the men at it; reversed its course and travelled back to a point almost opposite that at which it had entered the ship, and thus passed out. it had passed between men crowded at their quarters and had touched none, but it exploded some loose ammunition, by which eight were wounded. max listened to the accounts of the almost bloodless victory with a heart swelling with gratitude to god, and full of hope for the success of america's effort to free the victims of spanish cruelty and oppression. what glad tidings his next letter would carry to the dear ones at home. they would rejoice over the victory, and his safety too, though that might be again imperilled at any time. this naval battle had been fought on sunday. on monday morning captain lamberton went on shore to receive the formal surrender of the fort at cavité. they had hauled down their flag the day before, but now tried to prove that they had never done so. perceiving that, the captain drew out his watch. before leaving his ship he had directed that unless he returned in an hour those works should be bombarded. forty-five minutes of that hour were now gone, and he said to the spaniards: "unless you surrender unconditionally so soon that i can get back to my ship in fifteen minutes, the _petrel_ will open fire on your works." that had the desired effect; they surrendered at once, and priests and nuns came humbly to beg him to restrain his men from murdering all the wounded in the hospitals. they had been told that that was the invariable practice of the barbarous "yanquis." the next day the _raleigh_ and _baltimore_ went down to the mouth of the bay and, after a brief attack, captured the forts on corregidor and sangley point. the guns in these works were destroyed by wrapping them with gun cotton and exploding it with electricity. the officer in command at corregidor went aboard the _raleigh_ to surrender himself, and while there seemed greatly alarmed to find the ship drifting in the main channel, or boca grand, and demanded that he be at once put ashore. asked the reason of his alarm and haste to get away, he said the channel was full of contact mines, and though the americans might be satisfied to brave death by them he was not, and it was not fair to expose a prisoner to almost certain destruction. and that was the channel through which the american fleet had entered the harbor. four days after his victory dewey, having all the harbor defences at his command, sent off the _mcculloch_ to hong-kong with his first despatches to washington. so a week had passed after the rumors from madrid before the american people received definite information in regard to dewey's successes in the philippines. these are the despatches: manila, may .--squadron arrived at manila at daybreak this morning. immediately engaged the enemy and destroyed following spanish vessels: _reina cristina_, _castilla_, _don antonio de ulloa_, _isla de luzon_, _isla de cuba_, _general lezo_, _marques del duoro_, _el correo_, _velasco_, _isla de mindanao_, a transport, and water battery at cavité. the squadron is uninjured, and only a few men are slightly wounded. only means of telegraphing is to american consul at hong-kong. i shall communicate with him. dewey. manila, may .--i have taken possession of the naval station at cavité, philippine islands, and destroyed the fortifications. have destroyed fortifications at bay entrance, corregidor island, parolling the garrison. i control the bay completely, and can take the city at any time. the squadron is in excellent health and spirits. the spanish loss not fully known, but is very heavy. one hundred and fifty killed, including captain, on _reina cristina_ alone. i am assisting in protecting spanish sick and wounded. two hundred and fifty sick and wounded in hospital within our lines. much excitement in manila. will protect foreign residents. dewey. a message of congratulation from the president and people of the united states was the immediate response to dewey's despatches, and with it the information that the president had appointed the victorious commander a rear-admiral. doubtless a rumor concerning the nature of that despatch quickly reached all the vessels of the fleet, for the next morning watchful eyes on many of them turned to the flagship to see what flag would be run up to the mainmast, and when they saw that it was a blue flag as of yore, but had two stars instead of one, the guns of the squadron roared out a salute to the new admiral. no one there was more rejoiced than max, who both respected and loved his gallant commander; and no one in america felt happier over the good news in dewey's despatches than those to whom max was so dear. it was a blessed relief to their anxiety to learn that no one in the squadron had been killed, and none more than slightly wounded. chapter ix. the news of the destruction of the _maine_ was quite as exciting to our friends at ion as to those of woodburn. all saw that war between the united states and spain could not be long delayed, and when it was declared, both harold and herbert travilla volunteered their services as physicians and surgeons to the troops to be sent to cuba or puerto rico. their mother gave consent, though her heart bled at thought of the toils and dangers they would be called upon to endure, but she felt that they were right in their desire to help the poor cubans to such freedom as we enjoy. no one had felt a deeper sympathy for the despoiled and starving reconcentradoes than she. her sons were not going as soldiers, to be sure, but as greatly needed help to those who were to do the fighting. captain raymond was strongly inclined to offer his services to the government, but was deterred by the earnest, tearful entreaties of his wife and daughters. they urged him to refrain, for their sakes, as there seemed to be no lack of men who could be better spared--at least so it seemed to them. "oh, father," said grace, "don't think of such a thing! there are plenty of other men who are not so much loved and needed in their own homes; so that the poor cubans will be sure to get free without our risking the loss of the dearest father that anybody ever had." it was shortly after breakfast on a beautiful may morning, and the whole family were together on the front veranda, the captain occupying an easy chair, while looking over the morning paper. grace had come close to his side, and was standing there as she spoke. "is that your opinion of him?" he asked, smiling up into her eyes. "yes, sir; and always has been," she answered, accepting a silent invitation to a seat upon his knee, and putting an arm around his neck. "oh, father, i don't know how i could live without you!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears at the very thought. "nor i," said lucilla. "no greater calamity than the loss of our father could possibly befall us. and there are plenty of other people to look after the cubans." "so i think," said violet. "if our country was in peril it would be a different matter. and, my dear, as your eldest son is in the fight--such a dear fellow as he is too!--i am sure that ought to be considered your full share of giving and doing for the cuban cause." "i should think so indeed!" chimed in lucilla and grace in a breath. "and, oh, i can't bear to think that my dear brother max may get wounded!" exclaimed elsie; and ned added, "and if he does, i'd just like to shoot the fellow that shoots him." "we must try not to feel revengeful, my little son," said his father. "well, papa, please promise not to offer to go into the fight," pleaded grace, and the others all added their earnest solicitations to hers, till at length they won the desired pledge. they were too dear to the captain's heart to be denied what they pleaded for so earnestly and importunately. grace was feebler and oftener ailing that spring than she had been for several years before, and dr. arthur conly, or one or the other of his partners,--harold and herbert travilla,--was often there to give advice and see that it was followed. it had been harold oftener, of late, than any one else, and he had grown very fond of the sweet girl who always listened with such deference to his advice, and called him "uncle" in her sweet voice. the thought of leaving her gave him a keener pang than anything else, as he contemplated leaving his home for the labors and dangers of the seat of war. he was glad indeed when he learned that the captain would remain at home to take care of her and the rest of his family. grace noticed with pleasure that as the time of his leaving drew near his manner toward her grew more affectionate, till it seemed almost as tender as that of her father, and she thought it very nice that uncle harold should be so fond of her. she looked up to him as one who was very wise and good, and wondered that he should care particularly for her, as she was not really related to him at all. he was fond of lucilla also, but grace seemed to him the lovelier of the two. he had always been fond of her, but did not know until about to leave her for that dangerous field of usefulness that his affection was of the sort to make him long for her as the partner of his life. but so it was. yet could it be? would the captain ever consent to such a mixture of relationships? he feared not; and at all events it was quite certain that he would not be allowed to try to win his coveted prize for years to come--she being so young, and far from strong and well. then as he was about to risk his life on battlefields, it would be cruelty to her to try to win her love before he went. he resolved to go without revealing his secret to any one. but he had never had an important secret from his mother; all his life he had been used to talking freely with her, telling of his hopes, aims, and wishes, his doubts and perplexities, and almost before he knew it he had said enough of his feelings for grace to show to that mother's keen-sighted affection how the land lay. "grace is very lovely, and a dear child," she said low and gently; "but, as you know, she is not well or strong. also she is so young that her father would not hear of her marrying for years to come." "no, mother, nor would i advise it; unless," he added with a low, embarrassed laugh, "to a physician who would take special care of her health." "you refer to one physician in particular, i perceive," returned his mother, with a low, musical laugh, and laying her hand in his, for they were sitting side by side on the veranda. "well, my dear boy. i advise you to wait till your return home before you say anything to either her or her father. but have you thought what a mixture of relationships such a marriage would make? your brother-in-law would be also your father-in-law, and grace aunt to her half-brother and sister." "yes, mother, it would cause some awkward relationships; but as there is no tie of blood between us, perhaps that need not matter. but i shall say nothing till i come home, and not then without the captain's permission." "that is right. but do you think grace suspects?" "hardly, mother; i am only her 'uncle,' you know," harold answered, with a laugh in which there was little or no mirth. "although i am certainly very fond of grace," said his mother, "i cannot help regretting that your affections have not gone out to some one else rather than to her--because of her feeble health and the connection through your sister and her father." "yes, they are objections," he returned, with a sigh; "but mother dear, you will not consider them insuperable if i can persuade the captain not to do so?" "oh, no! not if you win, or have won, her heart. i should not think of raising the least objection, and surely the captain, who is a devoted father, would not, should he see that her affections are engaged." "that is my hope," said harold; "and, as i have said, i do not intend to offer myself without his knowledge and consent, though i had hard work to refrain to-day when grace and i were left alone together for a few minutes, and she expressed, with tears in her sweet blue eyes, such anxiety at the thought of my being in danger of wounds or death in the coming struggle in cuba. mother dear, herbert and i will not, of course, be in as great danger as will the fighting men of our army and navy, but there is a possibility that we may not return unharmed, and in case i should not i would not have grace know of my love and intention to--ask her to become my wife." "i think you are right, my son," his mother said, with emotion. "but, ah, i hope and shall pray constantly that my dear boys may come back to me unharmed." "and it will be a great help and comfort to them to know that their dear mother's prayers are following them," rejoined harold, tenderly pressing the hand she had laid in his. the next moment herbert joined them, and he too had a farewell talk with his mother, for the brothers were to leave for tampa the next morning to join the troops about to sail for cuba. chapter x. by the last of may there were sixteen thousand men at tampa under the command of general shafter, but it was not until the th of june that they set sail for cuba. on a clear, scorchingly hot morning, june d, they landed at daiquiri, twelve miles east of the entrance to santiago bay. from all accounts things seem to have been wofully mismanaged, so that our poor soldiers had no facilities for landing. those who loaded the ship, it would appear, must have been great bunglers--either exceedingly ignorant in regard to such work or most reprehensibly careless. in consequence, scarcely anything could be found when wanted. medical stores were scattered among twenty vessels; so that when fever broke out in the trenches before santiago it was almost impossible to get the needed remedies; probably--though there were never enough on the field--some medicines were left on the ships and carried back to the united states. all this made the work of the physicians doubly trying. besides, they were too few in number, the wounded many more than it had been expected they would be, and brought in faster than they could be attended to; the surgeons worked all night by the light of spluttering lamps, and there was not enough of even surgical instruments. but the poor wounded men were wonderfully brave and patient. harold and herbert travilla felt that they had not engaged in a cause which did not need them. after the fighting began their labors were exhausting; all the more so because of the drain upon their sympathies. on the morning of july d our troops were found safely intrenched on the ridge of the hill above santiago. the day before had been one of heavy losses to our army--many officers and men killed and wounded. and now, just as light began to show in the east, the spaniards opened a heavy fire on our works. our men made few replies, for ammunition was getting scarce; and so anxious for it were the soldiers that they hailed an ammunition train with great joy, though they were half starved and knew that no provisions could come while the road was crowded with such trains. the war artist, frederic remington, tells of the delight with which the poor hungry fellows hailed a pack-train loaded with ammunition, though they knew that no food would be brought them that night. "the wounded going to the rear cheered the ammunition, and when it was unpacked at the front the soldiers seized it like gold. they lifted a box in the air and dropped it on one corner, which smashed it open. "'now we can hold san juan hill against them garlics; hey, son?' yelled a happy cavalryman to a doughboy. "'you bet! until we starve to death.' "'starve nothin'--we'll eat them gun-teams.'" the soldiers refilled their cartridge belts, then crouched all day in trenches, watching for an assault, and firing just often enough to keep the enemy from advancing upon them. while doing so they could hear the thunder of the navy's guns far away in the southwest, where it was engaging a battery. at the same time, down in the harbor of santiago, cervera was getting ready to make his rush out of the harbor the next day. the spaniards made a dash at our men about half-past nine that night, and drove them back for a few minutes from several points on their line, but they soon returned and drove the spaniards back with heavy loss. * * * * * the next day, july d, was sunday, and on the great ships of the american squadron, floating heavily in a half-circle about the mouth of santiago harbor, the men were swarming on deck in fresh clean white clothes, ready for muster. about nine o'clock the flagship _new york_ showed the signal: "disregard flagship's movements," and steamed away toward the east. admiral sampson had gone in it for a conference with general shafter, whose troops were then resting after their dreadful fight on san juan hill and el caney. of our ships on watch outside of the harbor, the _brooklyn_ was to the southwest, the _texas_ directly south, while the three big battleships, _indiana_, _iowa_, and _oregon_, made a curve inshore east of the morro. the little picket boat _vixen_ was there also, and the _gloucester_ farthest east and nearest inshore. the _new york_, now absent, was the one ship supposed to be able to compete with the spaniards in speed, and her departure left a broad gap in the blockading line. the lookouts on the fleet had reported fires burning on the hills all the night before, and commodore schley, who was in command in admiral sampson's absence, signalled to the _texas_ the query: "what is your theory about the burning of the block-houses on the hill last night?" he sat on the deck waiting for an answer, and at the same time watching a cloud of smoke rising from the interior of the harbor behind the hills. it did not necessarily mean anything serious, for about that time in the morning a tug was apt to make a visit to the estrella battery. still, they watched it, and presently the quartermaster on the forward bridge said quietly to the navigating officer, "that smoke's moving, sir." that officer took a peep himself, and what he saw nearly made him drop the glass. "afterbridge there," he called loudly through a megaphone; "tell the commodore the enemy is coming out." his words were heard all over the ship, and commodore, officers, sailors, powder-boys were all rushing for their station. the cry rang out, "clear ship for action," and gongs and bugles which call to general quarters clanged and pealed on the quiet air. there were echoes of the same sounds from the other ships, and the signals, "the enemy is escaping," ran to the masthead of the _brooklyn_, the _texas_, and the _iowa_ at the same moment; for that suspicious smoke had been watched from all the ships. it seemed that all the vessels of the blockade had caught the alarm at the same time, and the flagship's signal was quickly changed for another--"clear ship for action!" but it was quite unnecessary. on every ship men were dropping off the white clothes which they had donned for general muster, and hurrying to their quarters without waiting for a command. every wooden thing was tumbled overboard, water-tight compartments were hastily shut, hose was coupled up and strung along the decks ready to fight fire, battle-hatches were lowered, and in less time than it takes to tell of it all this was accomplished. then at the sudden blast of a bugle the five hundred and more men to a ship stood at their posts, each one where he would be most needed in battle, and all perfectly silent. doubtless every eye was turned toward estrella point, where the spanish vessels, if indeed coming out, must first show themselves, and there presently a huge black hull appeared. it came out far enough to show a turret, and from that came a flash, and then the boom of a heavy shot, instantly answered by a six-pounder from the _iowa_. the battle had begun, and "fighting bob" evans had fired the first shot. that ship just coming out was the _maria teresa_, and she was followed by the _vizcaya_, the _cristobal colon_, and the _almirante oquendo_. all the american ships were standing in toward the harbor to meet them, firing rapidly from every gun that could be brought to bear. it was uncertain at first which way the spaniards would turn when they had passed the shoals that extend half a mile beyond the mouth of the harbor. if they turned eastward they would have to run into the midst of the most formidable ships of our squadron. if they went directly west they might outrun the battleships and escape. the _brooklyn_ was the fastest ship on the blockade, and was also in the best position to head off the spaniards should they take that course. but it was possible she might be lost, as she was no match for the number of the enemy that would be in a position to engage her when she came up to them. commodore schley says that the possibility of losing his ship in that way entered very clearly into his calculations, but also that in sinking the _brooklyn_ the spaniards would be delayed long enough for the battleships to come up to them and that then there would be no reason to fear their escape. the difficulty was that because the _brooklyn_ was on a parallel course with the spaniards, and going in a directly opposite direction, she would have to make a complete circle in order to chase them; and had they had the speed with which they were credited, that would have put the _brooklyn_ out of the fight, one of her engines being uncoupled, and in consequence her speed greatly reduced. but the spanish vessels fell far behind their estimated speed, so that the _brooklyn_ was able to circle about and still overhaul the fleetest of them, and the _texas_, the slowest of our battleships, held its own in the race. the _maria teresa_ passed the shoals and turned west. the little _vixen_, lying near the _brooklyn_, when she saw the _maria teresa_ turn toward her, fired off her six-pounders, then slipped away, while the rest of the american ships came rushing down toward the enemy with their funnels belching black smoke, and turrets, hulls, and tops spurting out red flames and yellow smoke. they steamed toward the foe as fast as possible, at the same time firing fiercely from every gun that could be brought to bear, and paying no attention to the shore batteries which were firing upon them. the _indiana_ was nearest the shore and nearest the _maria teresa_, the leading ship of the enemy, when the fight began. it is said that the water fairly boiled with the flood of projectiles from morro and the broadside with which the _maria teresa_ opened battle. as she turned toward the west the shot from the _indiana_ struck her more than once; but after that the _indiana_ gave her attention to the _vizcaya_. by this time all the american ships were engaged, but in the dense smoke it was almost impossible to make out how great was the success of any single one. but commodore eaton, who was watching the fight from the tug _resolute_, says: "as the _vizcaya_ came out i distinctly saw one of the _indiana's_ heavy shells strike her abaft the funnels, and the explosion of this shell was followed by a burst of flame, which for a time obscured the after part of the stricken ship." the _iowa_ and _oregon_, belching forth great clouds of smoke until they looked like huge yellow clouds on the water, steamed straight toward the fleeing enemy. says mr. abbott: "as the battleships closed in on their prey, they overlapped each other, and careless use of the guns or failure to make out accurately the target might have resulted in one of our ships firing into another. but so skilfully were they handled that at no time were they put in jeopardy from either the guns or the rams of each other, though at one time the _oregon_ was firing right across the deck of the _texas_." the end of the _maria teresa_, the first ship to leave the harbor, came upon her very swiftly, and was frightful. the shells and small projectiles searched out every part of her, spreading death and ruin, and soon setting her woodwork ablaze. the scarlet flames like snakes' tongues darted viciously from her sides; but her gunners stood manfully to their guns. little smoke hung about her, and her bold black hulk seen against the green background of the hills made her a perfect target. a shot from the _brooklyn_ cut her main water-pipe, and a shell--probably from the _oregon_--entered her hull and exploded in the engine room; a six-inch shell from the _iowa_ exploded in her forward turret, killing or wounding every man at the guns; while the storm of smaller projectiles swept her decks, and with the noise of their bursting made it impossible for the men to hear their officers' commands. admiral cervera was on that vessel. one of his officers, telling of it afterward, said: "he expected to lose most of his ships, but thought the _cristobal colon_ might escape; that is why he transferred his flag to the _maria teresa_, that he might perish with the less fortunate." and this is the story told an american journalist by another officer who stood by the admiral's side while that dreadful fight went on. of a shell from the _brooklyn_ he said: "it struck us in the bow, ploughing down amidships; then it exploded. it tore down the bulkheads, destroyed stanchions, crippled two rapid-fire guns, and killed fifteen or twenty men." of a shell from the _iowa_ he said: "it struck the eleven-inch gun in the forward turret of the cruiser, cutting a furrow as clean as a knife out of the gun. the shell exploded halfway in the turret, making the whole vessel stagger and shake in every plate. when the fumes and smoke had cleared away so that it was possible to enter the turret, the other gunners were sent there. the survivors tumbled the bodies which filled the wrecked turret through the ammunition hoist to the lower deck. even the machinery was clogged with corpses. all our rapid-fire guns aloft soon became silent, because every gunner had been either killed or crippled at his post and lay on the deck where he fell. there were so many wounded that the surgeons ceased trying to dress the wounds. shells had exploded inside the ship, and even the hospital was turned into a furnace. the first wounded who were sent there had to be abandoned by the surgeons, who fled for their lives from the intolerable heat." the _teresa_ came under the fire of our guns about . that morning. fifteen minutes later smoke was rising from her ports and hatches, showing that she had been set afire by the american shells. the shot from the _brooklyn_ that cut her water-main made it impossible to extinguish the flames, and the fire from the american ships grew more accurate and deadly every minute; so she was beached and her flag hauled down in token of surrender. the men on the _texas_ raised a shout of joy. but captain philip spoke from the bridge: "don't cheer, men; those poor fellows are dying." for less than forty minutes admiral cervera had been running a race for life, and now, clad in underclothes, he tried to escape to the shore on a raft, directed by his son, but was captured and taken to the _gloucester_, where he was received with the honors due his rank. his voyage from santiago had been just six miles and a half, but had cost the lives of nearly half his officers and crew. the _vizcaya_ had followed the _teresa_ at a distance of about eight hundred yards in coming out of santiago harbor. upon her decks, in havana harbor, cuba, spanish officers had looked down with careless indifference upon the sunken wreck of our gallant battleship, the _maine_, and it may be supposed that when she came ploughing out of the bay, wainwright, late of the _maine_, now on the little _gloucester_, aimed some shots at her with a special ill-will. but the _vizcaya_, under gathered headway, rushed on to the west, passing the heavier battleships _iowa_ and _indiana_, but receiving terrible punishment from their guns. a lieutenant of the _vizcaya_, taken prisoner to the united states, in an interview by a newspaper reporter, told of the murderous effect of the shells from the _indiana_. "they appeared to slide along the surface of the water and hunt for a seam in our armor," he said. "three of those monster projectiles penetrated the hull of the _vizcaya_, and exploded there before we started for the shore. the carnage inside the ship was something horrible and beyond description. fires were started up constantly. it seemed to me that the iron bulkheads were ablaze. our organization was perfect. we acted promptly and mastered all small outbreaks of flame, until the small ammunition magazine was exploded by a shell. from that moment the vessel became a furnace of fire. while we were walking the deck, headed shoreward, we could hear the roar of the flames under our feet above the voice of artillery. the _vizcaya's_ hull bellowed like a blast furnace. why, men sprang from the red-hot decks straight into the mouths of sharks." but the _vizcaya_ lasted longer than the _almirante oquendo_, which followed her out of the harbor. the _vizcaya_ turned at the mouth of the harbor and went west, the _brooklyn_, _oregon_, and _texas_ in hot pursuit, while the _indiana_ and _iowa_ attacked the _oquendo_. she had been credited with as great speed as that of her sister ships, but this day moved so slowly that she fared worse than any of her comrades. she stood the fire of her foes five minutes longer than had the _teresa_, then with flames pouring out of every opening in her hull, she ran for the beach, hauling down her flag as she went, in token of surrender, while at the same time men were dropping from her red-hot decks into the water. thus, in the first three-quarters of an hour two great spanish war vessels were destroyed, and the american fleet was concentrating its fire on the other two. the fighting men on the vessels were not the only ones who did noble work for their country that day. in the engine rooms and stoke-holes of the men-of-war, on that scorching hot july day, men worked naked in fiery heat. they could hear the thunder of the guns above them, and feel the ship tremble with the shock of the broadsides. how the battle was going they could not see. deep in their fiery prison, far below the lapping waves that rushed along the armored hull, they only knew that if disaster came they would suffer first and most cruelly. a successful torpedo stroke would mean death to them, every one. the clean blow of an enemy's ram would in all probability drown them like rats in a cage, even if it did not cause them to be parboiled by the explosion of their own boilers. a shot in the magazine would be their death warrant. all the perils which menaced the men who were fighting so bravely at the guns on deck threatened the sooty, sweating fellows who shovelled coal and fixed fires down in the hold, with the added certainty that for them escape was impossible, and the inspiration which comes from the very sight of battle was denied them. they did their duty nobly. if we had not the testimony of their commanders to that effect, we still should know it, for they got out of every ship not only the fullest speed with which she was credited under the most favorable circumstances, but even more--notably in the cases of the _texas_ and _oregon_, which, despite bottoms fouled from long service in tropical waters, actually exceeded their highest recorded speed in the chase. on the _oregon_, when she was silently pursuing the _colon_ at the end of the battle, lieutenant milligan, who had gone down into the furnace room to work by the side of the men on whom so much depended, came up to the captain to ask that a gun might be fired now and then. "my men were almost exhausted," said milligan, "when the last thirteen-inch gun was fired, and the sound of it restored their energy, and they fell to work with renewed vigor. if you will fire a gun occasionally it will keep their enthusiasm up." on most of the ships the great value of the work the men in engine rooms were doing was recognized by the captain's sending down every few minutes to them an account of how the fight progressed. each report was received with cheers and redoubled activity. on the _brooklyn_, when the _colon_ was making her final race for life, commodore schley sent orderlies down to the stoke-holes and engine room with this message: "now, boys, it all depends on you. everything is sunk except the _colon_, and she is trying to get away. we don't want her to, and everything depends on you." the _colon_ did not get away. the _vizcaya_ was still making a gallant running fight, and in some degree protecting the magnificent _cristobal colon_. while these fled, disaster fell upon the two torpedo-boat destroyers, _pluton_ and _furor_. instead of dashing at the nearest american ship--which would have been their wisest course--both followed the example of the cruisers, and turned along the shore to the westward. either of them would have been more than a match for the little _gloucester_, but her commander, richard wainwright, sped forward in a cloud of smoke from her own guns, receiving unnoticed shots from the batteries and the nearer spanish cruisers, though one six-inch shell would have destroyed her. the batteries of the _pluton_ and _furor_ were of twice the power of the _gloucester's_, and they had, besides, the engine of destruction which they could send out from their torpedo tubes. but in a few minutes wainwright was engaged with them both at short range and under the fire of the socapa battery. the other american battleships had been firing at them, but desisted when they perceived that the _gloucester_ alone was capable of managing them. in a very few minutes they both began to smoke ominously, and their fire became much less rapid. then the _furor_ moved as if her steering gear had been cut. wainwright and his men redoubled their efforts at the guns. suddenly, on the _furor_, amidships, there shot up a great cloud of smoke and flame, with a deafening roar and shock that could be felt across the water, even amid the thunders of the guns. a shell from one of the battleships had struck her fairly, and broken her in two, exploding either the magazine or the boilers, or both, and she sank like a stone. wainwright pursued the other torpedo boat, the _pluton_, more vigorously. she was already badly crippled, and tried hard to escape; but at last, fairly shot to pieces, she hauled down her flag, and ran for the line of breaking surf, where her men leaped overboard to escape the fierce flames that were sweeping relentlessly below from bow to stern. the sight of their danger and distress changed wainwright from a pitiless foe to a helping friend. he manned his boats and went to the rescue of those still alive on the burning ship. many were saved, and the americans had hardly left the smoking ship when it blew up with a resounding roar, and vanished as had its companion. just forty minutes they had lasted under the american fire, and without being at any time a serious menace to our ships. the battle had now lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. the _infanta maria teresa_ and the _oquendo_ were blazing on the beach with their colors struck. the battleship _indiana_ had been signalled to turn in toward the shore and give aid to the survivors on the burning ships. only two spanish vessels were left--the _vizcaya_, running and fighting bravely in a hopeless struggle for life, and the _cristobal colon_, which was rushing at great speed down the coast to the westward. in the chase of these two vessels the _brooklyn_ held the place of honor. her position on the blockade at the time that the enemy came out was a commanding one, and her speed kept her well to the front. at the beginning of the fight the _texas_ was next her. in this battle she developed marvellous speed, and fought with reckless gallantry. the _oregon_ was third at the start, but by a wonderful dash passed the _texas_ and actually caught up with the _brooklyn_, whose tars turned out on deck to cheer her--the wonderful fighter from the pacific coast dockyard. the _iowa_ was only a short distance in their rear, and the fire of the four was now concentrated upon the unhappy _vizcaya_, which had escaped serious injury while the attention of the entire american fleet was given to the _oquendo_ and the _teresa_, but now with four of the best fighting machines in the world devoting their entire attention to her, she began to go to pieces. the heavy shells and smaller projectiles that struck her made a great clangor, and caused her great frame to quiver. when an hour had passed the _brooklyn_, _oregon_, and _texas_ were the only ones still pursuing her. the _indiana_ had been left behind, and the _iowa_ had stopped to aid the burning and drowning men on the blazing warships. the fire of the three warships was concentrated on the _vizcaya_. word was passed to the turrets and tops of the _brooklyn_ to aim at the _vizcaya_ only. they were scarcely more than half a mile from her, and the effect of the shots began to tell. one of the _brooklyn_ gunners reported to the lieutenant who had charge of that turret that he didn't see any of the shots dropping into the water. "well, that's all right," replied the officer; "if they don't drop into the water they are hitting." and so they were. the beautiful woodwork inside of the vessel was all in a blaze. the hull was pierced below the water line, the turrets were full of dead and wounded men, and the machinery was shattered. captain eulate, her commander, was a brave officer and a gentleman, but he found himself compelled to abandon the fight, so turned his ship's prow toward that rocky shore on which lay the wrecks of the _oquendo_, the _teresa_, and the _furor_. as the _vizcaya_ swung about, a shell from the _oregon_ struck her fairly in the stern. an enormous mass of steel, charged with explosives of frightful power, it rushed through the steel framework of the ship, shattering everything in its course, crashed into the boiler, and exploded. words are powerless to describe the ruin that resulted. men, guns, projectiles, ragged bits of steel and iron, splinters, and indescribable _débris_ were hurled in every direction, while flames shot up from every part of the ship. a fierce fire raged between her decks, and those who were gazing at her from the decks of the american men-of-war could see what looked like a white line reaching from her bow to the water, which was in fact the naked men dropping one after another over the side to seek the cool relief of the ocean from the fiery torment they were enduring. the _colon_ was now left alone, and was doing her utmost to escape. the men on our foremost pursuing ships soon perceived that there could be no hope of escape for her. commodore schley saw it, and began to lighten the strain on his men. they were called out on the superstructure to see what had been done by the guns of the fleet and to watch the chase. they came pouring out from the turrets, up from the engine rooms and magazines--stalwart fellows, smoke-begrimed and sweaty. almost abeam they saw the _vizcaya_ with men dropping from every port. far astern were the smoking wrecks of the _teresa_ and _oquendo_, ahead on the right was the _colon_, fleeing for her life, while the _brooklyn_ rushed after her relentlessly. as the men crowded on along the decks and on the turret top, they suddenly and spontaneously sent up a cheer for admiral schley. the admiral, on the bridge above them, looked down upon them with moistened eyes. "they are the boys who did it," he said to one who stood beside him, and he spoke truly. then the men cheered the _oregon_, which was coming up gallantly, and her men returned the cheer. now all felt that even the last of cervera's vessels was sure to be soon taken, and signals of a social and jocular character were exchanged. one from the _brooklyn_ suggested to the _oregon_ that she try one of her thirteen-inch guns on the chase. the great cannon flashed and roared from the forward turret, and the shell, which rushed past the _brooklyn_ with a noise like a railway train, fell short. on they rushed, the _oregon_ visibly gaining on the fastest ship of the spanish navy; a battleship built for weight and solidity overhauling a cruiser built for speed! another shell was sent, and fell so near the _colon_ that the captain seemed to read in it the death-warrant of his ship. he turned her toward the shore and beached her, hauling down his flag as she struck. captain cook went in a boat to take possession of the prize, his crew being ordered not to cheer or exult over the vanquished. the _colon_ surrendered at . p.m., ending a naval battle that lasted less than four hours, and possessed many extraordinary and unique qualities. it completed the wreck of spanish naval power and dealt the decisive stroke that deprived spain of her last remnant of american colonies. it was of absorbing interest to naval experts in all parts of the world, and it was unique in that while the defeated fleet lost six ships, more than six hundred men killed and drowned, and eighteen hundred prisoners, many of them wounded, the victors had but one man killed and one wounded. no wonder that when the fight was over, the victory won--such a victory too--a christian man, such as captain philip of the _texas_, whose crew were cheering in a very delirium of joy, should call them about him, and, uncovering his head, say in a reverential tone: "i want to make public acknowledgment here that i believe in god the father. i want you all to lift your hats and from your hearts offer silent thanks to the almighty." and truly they had abundant reason for great thankfulness, having escaped with so few casualties, while the foe suffered so terribly, scores of them being literally roasted alive, for the whole interior of the ships, _vizcaya, oquendo_, and _teresa_ became like iron furnaces at white heat. even the decks were red hot, and the wounded burned where they lay. so crazed by the sight of the agony of men wounded and held fast by the jamming of gratings, were some of those otherwise unhurt, that they could hardly be induced to respond to efforts for their own rescue. they would cling to a ladder or the side of a scorching hot ship and have to be literally dragged away before they would loose their hold and drop into a boat below. our sailors worked hard on blistering decks, amid piles of ammunition that were continually being exploded by the heat, and under guns that might at any minute send out a withering blast, risking life and limbs in succoring their defeated foes; for it is not too much to say that in that work of mercy the bluejackets encountered dangers quite as deadly as those they had met in the fury of battle. the poor marksmanship of the spaniards saved our ships from being much damaged. a good many shots struck: the _brooklyn_ bore in all some forty scars of the fight, twenty-five of them having been shells; but she was so slightly injured that she could have begun all over again when the _colon_ turned over on the shore. the _iowa_ was hit twice, the _texas_ three times, one shell smashing her chart-house and another making a hole in her smokestack. the injuries to the other ships were of even less importance. chapter xi. that morning that cervera attempted his flight from santiago, general shafter sent into the spanish lines by a flag of truce a demand for the surrender of the city. "i have the honor to inform you," he said, "that unless you surrender i shall be compelled to shell santiago de cuba. please instruct the citizens of all foreign countries, and all women and children, that they should leave the city before a.m. to-morrow." that flag of truce had been gone only two or three hours when there came a sudden rumor that the spanish fleet had gone to destruction, depriving santiago of her chief defence. our soldiers were so sure of the prowess of our sailors that they hailed the rumor as fact,--as news of a victory,--and when later in the evening the actual intelligence of schley's glorious triumph reached them they went wild with joy; danced on the crest of the defences, in full view of the spaniards, venturing to do so because--as there was a truce--no jealous sharpshooter would dare fire on them. and the band played patriotic and popular airs, particularly "there'll be a hot time in the old town to-night." bonfires were made and salutes fired. drs. harold and herbert travilla, wearied with their labors for the sick and wounded, rejoiced as heartily as any one else over the good news, yet at the same time felt pity for the suffering of those of the foe who had perished so miserably by shot, shell, and fire. they would have been glad to aid the wounded prisoners, but their hands were already full, in giving needed attention to our own men so sorely injured by spanish shot and shell. so incessant and arduous had been their labors in that line, and so fierce and exhausting was the heat, that they were themselves well-nigh worn out. there had been hope that the city would surrender, but on the night of the d--the day of the naval battle--four thousand fresh spanish troops entered it, and the hoped-for surrender was not made. the americans in the trenches were hot, hungry, and water-soaked, and some of them grew very impatient. said one of the rough riders: "now that we've got those dagoes corralled, why don't we brand them?" on the th something happened that broke the monotony and gave great joy to the soldiers in the trenches. a cavalcade of men was seen coming from the beleaguered city, the first of whom was quickly recognized as lieutenant hobson, who with his seven comrades had gone out one night, weeks before, on a vessel, the _merrimac_, to sink her across the narrow entrance to the channel leading into santiago harbor, and so bottle up the spanish fleet. they failed, and were taken prisoners by the spaniards, and had been spending weeks shut up in morro castle, but now were exchanged for seven prisoners taken at san juan. at sight of them the american soldiers seemed to go mad with joy. they yelled, danced, laughed, and even wept for joy. then the band on the foremost line struck up "the star spangled banner," and all stood silent at a salute. but the moment the music ceased it seemed as if bedlam had broken loose. the regulars crowded about the heroes, cheering them, shaking them by the hand, while they from their ambulance yelled compliments and congratulations to the tattered and dirty soldiers. and when those returned sailors reached the fleet after dark, they found the ships' companies turned out as if to greet an admiral at least, coming to visit them, and as their launch was seen approaching from the shore the cheers of their brother tars made the hills of cuba ring almost as had the thundering fire of morro and estrella when levelled against them nearly six weeks before. the surrender of santiago took place on the th of july. by that time there was a great deal of sickness among our troops, and our friends harold and herbert travilla were kept very busy attending to the sick and wounded. so overworked were they, and so injuriously affected by the malarious climate, that both became ill; herbert so much so that he could scarcely keep about, and his brother began to question whether it were not his duty to take or send him home, or farther north, to join their mother and a number of the relatives and connections who were spending the summer on the hudson, or at some northern seaside resort, which he was at liberty to do, as they were serving as volunteer surgeons, and without pay. on the morning after the surrender herbert found himself entirely unfit for duty, and on his account harold felt much depressed as he went through the hospital examining and prescribing for his patients. presently he heard a quick, manly step, then a familiar voice saying in cheery tones: "good-morning, harold! how are you?" the young doctor turned quickly with the joyous exclamation: "why, brother levis! can it be possible that this is you?" holding out his hand in cordial greeting as he spoke. "not only possible, but an undeniable fact," returned captain raymond, with his pleasant smile, and giving the offered hand a warm, brotherly pressure. "and you came in your yacht? have some of the family come with you--my mother----" "oh, no!" returned the captain quickly; "at present it is much too warm for her--or any of our lady friends--in this locality. she and my family are at crag cottage, and by her request i have come to take you and herbert aboard the _dolphin_ and carry you to her. and i didn't come alone; your brothers edward and walter are with me, and your cousin chester also." "oh, what delightful news!" exclaimed harold, his eyes shining with joy. "and your yacht is here?" "lying down yonder in the harbor, just waiting for two additions to her list of passengers. but where is herbert?" looking about as if in search of him. "lying in our tent; on the sick list, poor dear fellow!" sighed harold. "can you wait five minutes for me to get through here for the present? then i will take you to him." "certainly; longer than that, if necessary. ah, i see it was time--high time for me to come for you boys." harold smiled in a rather melancholy way at that. "i have grown to feel quite old since we have been here in the midst of so much suffering, and obliged to take so heavy a load of care and responsibility--performing serious operations and the like," he said with a sigh. "i must find you a seat," he added, glancing about in search of one. "no, no," the captain hastened to say; "i should prefer walking around here and making acquaintance with some of these poor brave fellows--if you think it would not be unpleasant to them." "i think they would be pleased to have you do so," was harold's reply. a few minutes later he and the captain went into the tent where herbert lay in a burning fever. the very sight of the captain and the news that he had come to carry him and harold north to cooler climate, mother, and other dear ones seemed so greatly to revive him that he insisted upon being considered quite able to be taken immediately on board the yacht, and his brother and brother-in-law promptly set about preparations to carry out his wish. "you will go too, harold?" he said inquiringly to his brother. "to the _dolphin_? yes, certainly, old fellow; you are my patient now, and i must see to it that you are well accommodated and cared for," returned harold in a sprightly tone. "and you are going with me to see to that throughout the voyage?" "i don't know," harold returned in a tone of hesitation; "these poor, wounded, and sick fellows----" "you'll be down on your back as sick as any of them if you stay here another week," growled herbert. "and with nobody to take care of you you'll die, and that'll break mother's heart. and as you are working without pay, you've a right to go as soon as you will." "yes," said the captain, "and if you fall sick you'll be no service, but only in the way. better let me attend to the necessary arrangements for you, and carry you off along with your brother." after a little hesitation harold consented to that, saying that after seeing herbert on board the yacht he would return, make all necessary arrangements, bid good-bye to his patients, then board the _dolphin_ for the homeward voyage. "that's right, brother mine," herbert said, with a pleased smile; "i'd be very unwilling to go, leaving you here alone; and what would mother say?" it took but a few minutes to pick up their few belongings, and they were soon on the deck of the yacht receiving the warm greetings of their brothers and cousins, who, however, seemed greatly concerned over their weary and haggard looks. "you are worn out, lads," said edward, "and the best and kindest thing we can do will be to carry you up north to a cooler climate; and to mother and the others, who will, i hope, be able soon to nurse you back to health and strength." "so say i," said chester. "and i," added walter. "i have always found mother's nursing the best to be had anywhere or from anybody." "yes," said the captain, "and there are sisters and others to help with it at crag cottage, where i hope to land you a few days hence." in a brief time herbert was comfortably established in one of the neat staterooms, and left in edward's charge, while harold went ashore to make his farewell visit to his hospital patients, while chester and walter accompanied the captain in paying a visit to some of the men-of-war officered by old acquaintances and chums of the last-named when he belonged to the navy. it was most interesting to them all to see both the men and the vessels that had taken part in that remarkable battle, and to hear accounts of its scenes from the actors in them. in fact, so much interested were they that captain raymond said he could not have edward and harold miss it; they must visit the vessels later, leaving chester and walter in charge of herbert, since he was too ill to accompany them. that afternoon the plan was carried out, and that night the _dolphin_ started on her return voyage to the north. the change from the rough camps on cuban soil to the luxurious cabin of the _dolphin_ was very agreeable and refreshing to the young volunteer physicians, but they were too thoroughly worn out with their toils, anxieties, and privations for even so great and beneficial a change to work an immediate cure. they were still on the sick list when they reached crag cottage. chapter xii. crag cottage had been at evelyn's desire so added to in the past years that it could now accommodate a large number of guests. there were so many who were near and dear to her, and whom she loved to gather about her, that she could not be content till this was done. now the families of fairview, ion, and woodburn were all spending the summer there; also ronald lilburn and annis, his wife--though just now several of the gentlemen had gone to cuba to learn of the welfare of harold and herbert travilla, about whom their mother had grown very solicitous. they had been gone long enough for hopes to be entertained of their speedy return, but there was no certainty in regard to the time of their arrival at the cottage. it was late in the afternoon. the elder people were gathered on the front porch overlooking the river, most of the younger ones amusing themselves about the grounds. grandma elsie was gazing out upon the river, with a slightly anxious expression of countenance. "looking for the _dolphin_, mamma?" asked her daughter violet. "yes; though it is hardly time to expect her yet, i fear." "oh, yes, mamma, for there she is now!" exclaimed violet, springing to her feet in her delight, and pointing to a vessel passing up the river, which had just come into sight. many of those on the porch and the young folks in the grounds had also caught sight of her, and a joyous shout was raised: "the _dolphin!_ the _dolphin!_ there she is! the folks have come!" "oh, can we run down and get aboard of her, mamma?" asked elsie raymond. "i'm in such a hurry to see papa and get a kiss from him." "you won't have long to wait for that, i am sure," returned her mother, with a smile. "but it will be better to wait a few minutes and get it here. there are so many of us that if we should all go down to the landing we would be very much in the way." others thought the same, and the ladies and children waited where they were while mr. leland and edward, his eldest son, went down the winding path that led to the little landing-place at the foot of the hill, to greet the friends on board the yacht and give any assistance that might be needed. they found all well but the two doctors, harold able to walk up to the house with the help of a sustaining arm, herbert having to be borne on a litter. the mother's heart ached at sight of his wan cheeks and sunken eyes, but he told her the joy of her presence and loving care would soon work a change for the better. he was speedily carried to a comfortable bed, and everything done to cheer, strengthen, and relieve him. nor was harold's reception any less tenderly affectionate and sympathizing. his mother was very glad that he was not so ill as his brother, and hoped the pure air and cooler climate would soon restore him to his wonted health and strength. "i hope so, mother dear," he said, forcing a playful tone and a smile, "and that they will soon do as much for herbert also. he, poor fellow, is not fit to be up at all, and i think it will be well for me to retire early." "you must do just what you deem best for your health, my dear boy," said his mother. "but shall i not send for a physician, as i fear neither of you is well enough to manage the case of the other?" "no, no, mother, please don't!" exclaimed herbert; "harold is well enough to prescribe for me, and i prefer him to any other doctor." "as i should, if he were quite well," she said, regarding harold with a proud, fond smile, which he returned, saying in cheerful tones, "my trouble is more weariness than illness, mother, and i hope a few days of rest here in the pleasant society of relatives and friends will quite restore me to wonted health and vigor." "i hope so, indeed," she said, "and that herbert may not be far behind you in recovering his." in the meantime joyful greetings were being exchanged among the relatives and friends upon the porch, and the returned travellers were telling of what they had seen and heard in their absence, especially on the coast of cuba. it was all very interesting to the auditors, but the tale was not half told when the tea-bell summoned them to their evening meal. chester had a good deal more to tell lucilla as they wandered about the grounds together after leaving the table. and she was greatly interested. "i should like to get aboard a battleship," she said; "particularly the _oregon_. what a grand vessel it must be!" "it is," said chester, "and did grand work in that battle; a battle which will go down in history as a most remarkable one. i am proud of the brave tars who fought it, and not less so of the fine fellows who kept up the fires under the engines, which were as necessary to the gaining of the victory as was the firing of the guns." "but, oh, the terrible carnage!" exclaimed lucilla, with a shudder. "yes, that was awful; and what a wonder--what a cause for gratitude to god--that but one was killed and so few badly wounded on our ships." "yes, indeed! and truly i believe that was because we were fighting for the deliverance of the downtrodden and oppressed. don't you, chester?" "most assuredly i do," was his emphatic rejoinder. "has there been any news from manila?" he asked presently. "no," she said, "but we are looking every day for a letter from max. oh, i do hope he is still unharmed! that victory of dewey's seems to me to have been as great and wonderful as this later one at santiago." "so i think. ah, lu, darling, i wish max might be ordered home soon, both for his own sake and ours." "yes; but try to be patient," she returned, in a light and cheery tone. "i am sure we are having pleasant times as things are, and we are young enough to wait, as my father says. i am still almost three years younger than he thinks a girl ought to be to undertake the cares of married life." "i don't mean you shall have much care, and i am sure you are fully capable of all you would be called upon to do. my darling, if you don't have an easy life it shall be from no fault of mine." "i am sure of that, chester, and not in the least afraid to trust my happiness to your keeping. but i am willing to wait somewhat longer to please father and to have max present--especially as eva's bridegroom. oh, i think a double wedding will be just lovely!" "if one didn't have to wait for it," sighed chester. "yet it is a great consolation that we can be together pretty nearly every day in the year." "yes, you are a very attentive lover, and i appreciate it." later in the evening, when most of the guests had retired to their apartments for the night, the captain and his eldest daughter had a bit of private chat upon the porch, for she still retained her love for that, and it was hardly less enjoyable to him. "you don't know how i missed this bit of private talk with you, father, while you were away on your little trip," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes as she stood by his side with his arm about her waist. "probably not more than i did, daughter mine," he returned, stroking her hair caressingly, then pressing his lips to her forehead and cheek. "pacing the deck alone i missed my little girl more than i can tell her." "ah, didn't you almost wish you had granted my request to be allowed to go along with you?" she asked, with a pleased little laugh. "no, my child; you are too great a treasure for me willingly to expose you to the risks of such a voyage at such a time." "you dear father! you are so kindly careful of me, and of all your children." "it behooves a man to be careful of his treasures," he said. "i should have greatly enjoyed your companionship, daughter, if i could have had it without risk to you." "i should have liked to see the warships and the scene of the battle," she said. "what a terrible battle it was, father--for the spaniards, at least." "yes," he sighed. "may the time soon come when men shall learn war no more, but shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks." "it doesn't seem as though that time can be very near," she said. "papa, do you think max is in much danger there in manila?" "i hardly know, daughter; i hope we shall hear from him soon. i hardly think there will be much, if any more, fighting for him to do there at present. but his next letter will probably enable us to judge better about that." "oh, i hope it will come soon!" she exclaimed in a tone of ardent desire. "as i do," he sighed. "i cannot but feel anxious about my dear boy; though the worst seems to be over, there." the next morning's mail brought the desired letters to father, sisters, and ladylove. the captain's gave news of the doings of the army and navy, and after a private perusal he read the greater part of it aloud to the family and friends. it told of the irksomeness of their situation, the weariness of the watching and waiting for troops that did not come, the admiral's patience and forbearance in taking the delay so quietly, the troubles with the insurgents under aguinaldo, and the commanders of the warships of several european nations. "we know," he said, "that those fellows are looking out for the first sign of weakness on our part, or the first disaster that might befall us, intending to take advantage of it to intervene. i can tell you, father, that admiral dewey is a credit to his country and that country's navy. he is very kind-hearted, and takes excellent care of his men; he is gentle, kind to all, but thorough, determined, and energetic; everything under his control must be as perfect as possible. when it comes to the necessity for fighting he believes in being most thoroughly prepared, and striking quick, hard blows, soon putting the enemy in a condition where it cannot fight. he says little or nothing about what he expects, but seems to be always ready for whatever happens. the behavior of the foreign ships must be a constant worry to him, though he says little or nothing about it. the germans here seem to study methods of annoying us. their ships are constantly coming in or going out of manila bay at all hours, and on the most frivolous pretexts--sometimes at night, in a way that makes our lookouts think them spanish torpedo boats; and should we send a shot at one of them it might cause the gravest international complications. and the german navy officers make the spanish officers their chosen companions. "the other day our admiral learned that one of the german vessels had violated neutrality by landing provisions in manila. he summoned the flag lieutenant to his cabin and when the officer came--'oh, brumby,' he said, 'i wish you to take the barge and go over to the german flagship. give admiral von diederich my compliments, and say that i wish to call his attention to the fact that the vessels of his squadron have shown an extraordinary disregard of the usual courtesies of naval intercourse, and that finally one of them has committed a gross breach of neutrality in landing provisions in manila, a port which i am blockading.' the admiral spoke in a quiet, gently modulated voice, but as the lieutenant turned to go he called him back and added in a wrathful tone, 'and, brumby, tell admiral von diederich that if he wants a fight, he can have it right now.' "the message had the desired effect, and we have had much less annoyance from the germans since. "the english squadron here is equal to the german, and i am glad to be able to say that the british officers lose no opportunity to show their friendship for us. i am told that the german admiral asked captain chichester, the british commander, what the english would do in case the germans should protest against an american bombardment of manila, and that the messenger received the answer: 'say to admiral von diederich that he will have to call on admiral dewey to find out what the british ships will do in such an event. admiral dewey is the only man authorized to answer that question.' i cannot vouch for the exact truthfulness of this report," max went on, "but i can for the hostility of the germans and the friendliness of the english. and we hear reliable reports of sailors' fights in hong-kong, in which british and yankee bluejackets fight shoulder to shoulder against german seamen subjects of the kaiser." "oh, that is good!" exclaimed lucilla, as her father paused in his reading, "and i hope we and the british will always be friends after this. don't you think, father, that joining together we could rule the world?" "yes; and i hope, with you, that we may always be friends; though it is not necessary that we should always take part in each other's quarrels." "i hope max is well?" said violet inquiringly. "yes," said his father, "he tells me he is, and that he came through the battle without the slightest wound." "i hope the president will let dewey come home soon, and brother max with him," said little elsie. "doesn't he say anything about it, papa?" "no, my child, except that he fears it will be months, if not years, before we see each other again. but we won't despair; it may be that the war will be short, and peace return our dear boy to us sooner than now seems likely." the captain seemed to have finished reading the part of max's letter which he thought best for all to hear, and was folding it up. "mother," he said, turning to mrs. travilla, "the air out here is delightful this morning; don't you think it might do harold good to lie yonder in the hammock? and that he could come out with the assistance of my arm?" "i certainly do," she said, "and thank you for your kind offer. both he and herbert will be deeply interested in the contents of max's letter--if you are willing to let them see or hear it." "certainly, mother," the captain hastened to say. "i will carry it in and read it to them before we bring harold out." and so he did. they were both greatly interested, and upon the conclusion of the reading harold was glad to accept the offer of the captain to help him out to the porch and into a hammock, where he could lie at ease and enjoy the companionship of other members of the party, older and younger. they were all ready to wait upon him and to do whatever they could for his comfort and entertainment. none more so than grace, whose ministrations he seemed to prefer to any other. as the days went on they were often left alone together, while husbands and wives and lovers devoted themselves to each other; mrs. travilla herself to her sicker son, and evelyn to her housekeeping and correspondence, especially the letters to max, her affianced. grace was fond of harold, as she thought any one might be of so kind an uncle, whose medical skill had many times relieved suffering for her, and who had always shown kindly sympathy in her ailments. she wanted to make a suitable return for it all, so endeavored to amuse him with cheerful chat, music, and reading aloud anything that he seemed to care to hear. he fell more deeply in love with her day by day, and often found it difficult to refrain from telling the tale to her, and pleading for a return. his mother saw it all, and at length advised him to speak to grace's father, tell him the whole story, and crave permission to do and say what he could to win her heart. "i have thought it might be best to wait some years, mother," he said. "i fear he will be astonished, indignant, and deprive me of her sweet society." "astonished he probably will be," she said, "but surely not indignant; and when he has fully considered the matter, remembering that there is no tie of blood between you, i think he will not withhold his consent, provided you are willing to defer marriage till she is of suitable age." "i hope you are right, mother, but such a mixture of relationships as it would make--i fear he will think that an insurmountable difficulty." "but to rob his dearly loved daughter of a life of wedded happiness he will think still worse, if i am not greatly mistaken in him. and as for the mixture of relationships, you can still be brother to him and your sister violet, and grace remain his daughter." "you are the best of comforters and advisers, mother," he said, "and i will take your advice, and make a clean breast of it to the captain at the earliest opportunity." he did so before the day was over. seeing the captain in the grounds, he joined him with a request for a bit of private chat. "certainly," said the captain, leading the way to the summerhouse on the edge of the cliff. "if you want assistance in any way that i can give it, i need hardly tell you that it will be a pleasure to me to do so; especially as you are the brother of my dear wife." "thank you, brother levis, i do not doubt that in the least; and yet----" he stammered and paused, coloring deeply. "i think you need not hesitate to tell me," the captain said, with a look of surprise. "i feel very sure you would not ask anything wrong or unreasonable." "no; my request is neither, i think. it is that i may, if i can, win the heart and hand of your daughter grace." "surely, surely you must acknowledge that that is unreasonable!" exclaimed the captain, in a tone of astonishment not unmixed with indignation. "such a mixture of relationships--making you your sister's son-in-law, and my daughter my sister-in-law!" "my mother's idea is that we might keep to our own relationships as they are now; and she thinks as there is absolutely no tie of blood between us there could be nothing wrong in such a marriage." "no, perhaps not absolutely wrong, but very distasteful to me. besides, as you yourself must acknowledge, grace is entirely too young to marry." "but all the time growing older, as well as more and more beautiful, and i can wait. she is worth waiting for as long as jacob served for rachel. and would it not be wise to give her to a physician, who will make her health his constant care?" "perhaps so," returned the captain, with a rather perplexed and sad sort of smile; "and if you have won her heart and are willing to wait till she is of suitable age, i--don't forbid you to tell her--how dearly you love her--if you can." "a thousand thanks, brother levis!" exclaimed harold, seizing the captain's hand in a vise-like grasp, and giving it a hearty shake. "i don't know how to put my love into words--it seems to me they would be powerless to express it--but i shall try and hope to win a return by untiring devotion." "she has a loving heart, and her father finds it hard to be called upon to resign the first place in it," the captain said, with an involuntary sigh. "but let us hope that it will be for her happiness, captain; and i think we both love her well enough to resign a good deal for that." "her father certainly does," said the captain. "dear child! she has been a great comfort and blessing to me since my eyes first rested upon her dear little face. she has never caused me a pang, except by her ill-health and feebleness." "i have known her long enough and well enough to be sure of that," said harold. "she certainly has a lovely disposition, as well as a beautiful face and form. i feel that to win her for my own will be the greatest good fortune that could possibly come to me." "i am glad you appreciate the worth of my dear child," the captain said, with emotion, "and if you have won her heart i am not afraid to trust her happiness to your keeping. but, understand, i cannot let you take her at once." "yes, i understand, and shall not take any unfair advantage of your reluctantly granted permission, brother levis; but if i can win her consent, her heart, i shall be a very happy man, and wait contentedly--or at least ungrumblingly--until you grant us leave to become husband and wife." harold was not long in availing himself of the consent given. he was on the watch for an opportunity to tell his tale of love to the one most deeply concerned. he coaxed her out to that very spot where he and her father had had their private talk, there told her what she was to him, and asked if she could return his affection and willingly give herself to him. she was evidently much surprised, listened with an agitated air and face suffused with blushes, then said low and hesitatingly: "oh, uncle harold! how can you? you are so good and wise--so much older than i am--and--and father has often told me that i am only a little girl--not nearly old enough to think about--about such things--and so i am sure he wouldn't want you to talk to me as you did just now." "but i spoke to him first, and gained his permission to tell you of my love. he probably will not let us marry for some years to come, even if you care for me in that way; but he is willing that we should become engaged if we choose, and be lovers till he thinks you are old enough to marry. and oh, darling! if you care for me, and will promise to be mine at some future day, it will make me the happiest of men. oh, dearest! can't you love me in that way, even just a little?" he concluded imploringly, taking her hand in his and holding it in a tenderly affectionate pressure. "i can't help loving you, uncle harold, you are so, _so very_ good and kind to me. but i never thought of--of your being my lover; for i'm not wise and good enough for you." "i should put it just the other way, that i am not half wise and good enough for you, my darling, my fairy queen," he said, venturing to put an arm about her, draw her into a close embrace, and press an ardent kiss upon her lips. she made no resistance, and a few more words of love and whispered tenderness caused the sweet, blushing face to grow radiant with happiness. she did not deny that she returned his affection, but at length owned in a few low-breathed, hesitating words that she did. her face was beaming when they returned to the house, and when she came to her father for the usual good-night caress, he folded her close to his heart and gazing searchingly into the sweet, blushing face, said tenderly: "my darling little daughter looks very happy to-night. won't you let your father into the secret of it?" "yes, indeed, papa; i never meant to keep anything from you," she murmured, half under her breath, and hiding her blushing face on his breast. "i always mean to tell you every thing worth while, because we love each other so very, very dearly. i am happy because of what uncle harold has been telling me; and he says he told you first, so you know. and you are willing, papa?" "yes, daughter, when the right time comes, since it seems it will make you happy. but," he sighed, "it is a little hard for your father to find other men getting the love of his dear daughters away from him." "oh, papa, dear, dearest papa, don't think that!" she said, with tears in her voice. "i've always loved you dearly, and it seems to me that i love you better just now than i ever did before." "ah, is that so, daughter mine?" he said, giving her another tender caress; "it makes me happy to hear it, and to believe that my dear grace will never cease to love me, and will always feel sure of her father's loving sympathy in all her joys and sorrows." "it is very sweet to know that, papa dear," she said. "oh, i am just the happiest girl, with so many and such dear loved ones. but even with all the others, father, i couldn't do without your love." "i hope not, dear child. it would be hard indeed for me to doubt that, or to be deprived of yours. but now bid me good-night and go to your rest, for late hours have always been bad for you." "yes, sir, i know; and my dear, kind father is always so tenderly careful of me," she said, giving and receiving a close, loving embrace. it had been a sultry day, followed by a delightful evening, a cool, refreshing breeze coming from the river, and a full moon in a clear sky making it almost as light as day in the grounds, about which the elder members of the party were scattered. the captain left the porch where he and his daughter grace had had their little chat, and joined a group under the trees on the lawn. it consisted of mrs. travilla--or grandma elsie, as his first set of children had been accustomed to call her--her daughters, mrs. leland and mrs. raymond, and her sons harold, herbert, and walter. there was a slight flutter of excitement among them as he joined them and took possession of a vacant seat. "i am glad you have come, captain," said mrs. travilla. "harold has just been telling us of your great kindness to him, and i want to thank you for it." "ah! what was that?" he asked in a tone that seemed to express surprise. "there are few things i would not do for you or yours, mother." "i believe that, and you have given him the right to win, if he can, a precious treasure; and to give to me the dearest of little daughters." "ah, yes!" he said, as if just comprehending her meaning, "and to her father she is such a treasure as any man might covet and be rejoiced to win." "an opinion in which i am sure we will all agree," said violet. "i, who certainly know her well, think she is an inestimable treasure." "an opinion in which we can all join you, i am sure," added herbert, "and i think my brother a most fortunate man." "that is exactly what he thinks of himself," said harold, with a happy laugh. "though there has to be a long, long waiting spell before the full extent of that happiness can be realized." "how our young folks are pairing off!" remarked mrs. leland, with a slight sigh. "ah, yes," said violet, "but fortunately they don't pair off with strangers and leave us. that makes it much easier to bear, doesn't it, my dear?" "yes; except for the mixture of relationships," returned the captain a trifle ruefully. "is the thing to be kept a secret?" queried mrs. leland. "i am entirely willing it should be known in the connection," said captain raymond. chapter xiii. it was growing late, and evelyn's guests, accustomed to keeping early hours while at crag cottage, had nearly all retired to their rooms for the night. but chester dinsmore and lucilla raymond were just returning from a stroll down the river bank, and as they neared the house they could see the captain pacing the front porch. "there is papa now," said lucilla. "i am afraid he will think i have been out rather late." "are you afraid of a scolding?" asked chester. "no; i may get a gentle reproof, but nothing worse. papa never really scolds; but i can't bear to have him displeased with me. my dear, dear father! i believe i give him all the love that would have been divided between him and my mother had she lived." "i am not surprised at that," returned chester, "for he is certainly worthy of it. i have learned to love and honor him myself as if i were his own son." "oh, chester, how glad i am to hear you say that!" exclaimed lucilla. but that ended the talk, for they were at the foot of the porch steps, and the captain spoke, addressing them. "ah, so here you are at last, my dears. i was beginning to feel a trifle anxious lest something had befallen you." "oh, no, father! we are all right," exclaimed lucilla, in lively tones, "but the bewitching moonlight and pleasant breeze tempted us to linger longer than usual. i hope you are not vexed with us?" "not very seriously, daughter," he said, with a smile, "but it is high time now that you were getting ready for your night's rest. i want you to have plenty of that, and i know you like to be up early." "yes, indeed, father; for my early walks and talks with you are among my greatest pleasures." "your father in the morning, your lover at night," chester said, with a pleasant laugh. "i'm glad and thankful, captain, that you let me have her for something like half the time. good-night, now! and pleasant dreams to you both," he added, turning away and passing into the house, hardly waiting for their return of his parting good wishes. "now i suppose i must say good-night and go too," lucilla said, putting her arms about her father's neck and looking up lovingly into his face. "i shall take about five minutes of your society first," he returned, smiling and patting her cheek. "i have something to tell you; something that will, perhaps, be a little surprise to you." "nothing bad, i hope, father?" "no, not exactly bad--though i must own it is something of a trial to me. your sister grace has followed your bad example, and given the first place in her heart to another; my consent has been asked, given, and they are engaged, though not to marry for the next five years." "father!" exclaimed lucilla, in a tone of utter astonishment, "to whom? chester's brother frank?" "what a guess!" laughed her father. "no; try again." she reflected a moment, then--"it can't be uncle harold?" she ventured, in a tone that seemed to say that that was hardly possible. "he is surely much too old for her." "unfortunately i cannot make that objection, since there is some years' less difference in their ages than in your mamma vi's and mine." "oh, papa! and are they really lovers, and engaged?" "yes; though such a match is very distasteful to me--simply on account of the mixed-up relationship that their marriage would bring about; but when i found the fancy and affection were mutual, i could not withhold my consent." "you dear father! you are always so kindly considerate of other people's welfare and happiness," she said in tones tremulous with emotion. "i am sure nobody ever had a kinder, better father than ours." "it is most pleasant to have my daughter think so, whether i deserve it or not," he said low and tenderly, holding her close to his heart and pressing kisses on her forehead, cheek, and lips. "now go and make yourself ready for bed," he added, "and don't let this bit of surprising news keep you from sleeping. i want my dear eldest daughter fresh and bright for my entertainment in the morning." the house being so full, lucilla, grace, and evelyn shared the same room. grace was in bed, but not asleep as usual, eva preparing for rest, when lucilla came in from her talk with her father. she glanced at her sister, and seeing her eyes closed thought her sleeping. "oh, eva!" she whispered to her friend, "do you know--have you heard the news?" "news? no. i have been busy about household matters, and no one has told anything. what is it--war news?" "no, oh, no!" glancing smilingly toward grace; "something even more interesting, i think, unless max were concerned in it. it is that we have another pair of lovers in the house--gracie there and uncle harold. i'll have to quit calling him 'uncle,' though, since he is to be my brother one of these days." "is it possible! well, he has won a prize, i think." grace was not asleep now; her wide open eyes were fixed upon the two girls and her cheeks rosy with blushes. "no, it's i that have, eva," she said. "i don't know how anybody so good and wise and kind could take a fancy to poor silly little me!" at that lucilla ran to the bed, threw her arms about her sister, and showered kisses upon her lips and cheeks. "you dear, dear thing! you are neither poor nor silly," she said. "i think the only wonder is that all the men don't fall head over ears in love with you. they certainly would if they had good sense, taste, and discernment." at that grace indulged in a peal of low, soft laughter. "you funny girl!" she said. "i am glad indeed that they are not so silly, for what in the world could i do with so many lovers? one is quite a plentiful supply for me." "that's right, gracie," exclaimed evelyn. "i'm sure one such as mine should be quite enough for anybody." "well, i'm not going to say 'uncle harold' any more," laughed lucilla. "no, he doesn't want either of us to," said grace. "but now i suppose both he and papa would say i must try to go at once to sleep." "yes; so i'll stop hugging and kissing you, and be quiet as a mouse, getting ready for bed, so as not to keep you awake," said lucilla, giving her a final loving embrace, then gliding away from the bed to the toilet table. "do you think max will like it?" asked evelyn, in an undertone. "yes, i do. he and harold have always been good friends. but as papa says, it will make an unpleasant mixture of relationships. he will be brother-in-law to grace besides being her own father," she added, with a slight laugh; "yet i know very well she will always remember that he is her father--her dearly loved and honored father." "i am certain of it," said evelyn; "and that she would never make the match without her father's knowledge and consent." "no, indeed!" responded lucilla, turning a loving look upon the now sleeping grace. lucilla had scarcely left her father on the porch when violet joined him there. "i thought it possible, levis, that you might not object to your wife's company in your walk here," she said in a lively tone, and slipping her hand into his arm. "object, my darling, light of my eyes and joy of my heart!" he said in a loving, mirthful tone, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "yours is the sweetest companionship i know of. i should be glad to think mine was as delightful to you." "as i don't know how to measure either one, i can only say that it is the most delightful of all in the world to me," she returned with a happy laugh. then in a somewhat graver tone, "oh, my dear husband, you don't know how dearly i and all your children love you! neither elsie nor ned is ever willing to go to bed without your fatherly good-night caresses, and they always bewail the necessity for doing that when you are away from home." "probably not regretting it more than their father does," he said. "yes, the love of my children is a highly esteemed blessing to me, and, unfortunately, i cannot help feeling it something of a grief and disappointment when i learn that their tenderest affection has been transferred to another." "ah, you are thinking of grace and harold. but be comforted, my dear; i am certain that grace does not love her father less because harold has won a place in her heart. i do not love my dear mother any the less for loving you, my dear husband, or you any the less for loving her." "i am glad to hear it, my darling," he said, tenderly pressing the hand she had laid in his. "and surely we cannot blame my brother and your daughter for loving each other when they are both so worthy of affection that no one who knows them can help giving it to them." "you are a special pleader, my dear," he said with a smile; "and they hardly need one with me, for i am fond of them both--particularly of my frail young daughter." "ah, and does not that cause you to rejoice that she loves, and is beloved by, a good and successful physician?" "that is a cause for thankfulness, my dear," he returned pleasantly. "but shall we not go in now and retire to rest? it is growing late." "yes, if you have finished your evening promenade; i don't want to rob you of that." "i think i have taken sufficient exercise, and now prefer rest and sleep," he answered laughingly, as he drew her on toward the doorway. as lucilla came tripping down the stairway the next morning, harold was passing through the lower hall. "good-morning, lu," he said, looking up at her. "good-morning, dr. travilla," she returned demurely. "what!" he exclaimed, "what's that you are calling me?" "dr. travilla. that's your name, isn't it?" "yes--to strangers and people not related to me; but--you called me 'uncle' yesterday." "but you're not my uncle, and it seems you intend to become my brother-in-law, so----" "so harold without the 'uncle' would be the most appropriate name, wouldn't it?" "perhaps so, if--if you won't think it disrespectful." "not a bit of it. call me harold, or i'll be very apt to call you mrs. dinsmore one of these days." they ended with a laugh and cordial handshaking, just as the captain appeared in the outer doorway. then they joined him in a stroll about the grounds. "there is a dark cloud in the east," remarked lucilla, in a regretful tone; "we are likely to have a rainy day, are we not, papa?" "yes," he said, "but it need not necessarily be an unpleasant one. we may find plenty of indoor employment and recreations." "yes," said harold, "there have been many pleasant rainy days in my past experiences. and they are not so bad for a strong, healthy man, even if he must go out in the rain." "and when gardens and fields are needing rain, we long and pray for it," added lucilla. "how is grace this morning?" asked harold. "she was still sleeping when i left the room," replied lucilla; "but probably she is up and ready for the call to breakfast by this time." "and there it is," said the captain, as the sound of the ringing of a hand-bell came from the house; "so let us go in and not keep the others waiting." they met violet and grace in the hall as they entered, and it was pretty to see the latter's blush and smile as harold greeted her. the clouds were increasing and growing darker, and before they left the table the rain had begun to fall. so they talked of indoor occupations and amusements. "we might have a little fun, if everybody's willing," remarked ned raymond, giving mr. lilburn a significant look and smile. "yes; little boys--big ones too--can generally get up some fun among themselves when they try," was cousin ronald's answering remark, without the slightest indication that he took ned's hint. "and i know cousin ronald is very kind about helping in that," returned ned insinuatingly. "yes, he is fond of giving pleasure to his young friends," remarked mrs. lilburn, with a loving smile up into her husband's face. "i think, ned, he will help you to some before the day is over." they were on the porch, for there was no wind at the moment to drive the rain in upon them, and it was cooler there than within doors. as annis finished speaking there was a sudden cry of distress, seemingly coming from the river just below. "help! help! i shall drown! nobody will help me!" it was a man's voice and there was a foreign accent in the tones. it made quite a stir in the little assembly on the porch, the lads exclaiming: "oh, the poor fellow! can't we help him, grandma elsie? surely the men on the _dolphin_ will do what they can!" but hardly were the words spoken when another voice called out in reply to the first: "hould on there, me jewel, an' i'll give ye a lift. i'm the b'ye that kin do it." "oh, i hope he will get him out!" cried ned, in great excitement. "papa, you'll let them take him on board the yacht, won't you?" "certainly, if he wishes to be taken there," replied the captain, with a smiling glance at cousin ronald. just then the second voice called out, "here he is--the half drownded frenchman; an' now will the likes of yees aboord that craft take 'im in an' dry 'im off?" "of course; that's exactly what the captain would do if he were here," answered a third voice, which sounded exactly like that of the man at present in charge of the yacht. "oh, i'm glad he didn't drown!" exclaimed elsie raymond, with a sigh of relief. "i presume such people don't often drown, elsie dear," laughed her mother. "oh, mamma, i often hear of people drowning," said the little girl. "and, uncle harold, don't they need a doctor when they are nearly drowned?" "they are very apt to," he replied with a slight laugh. "do you want me to go down now and see about that man?" "if you could, without getting wet," she answered hesitatingly. "suppose i go," said her uncle herbert; "i'm pretty well now, and am perhaps almost as skilful a physician as my older brother." but now the captain interposed. "i can't have either of my young brothers expose himself to this rain, for the men on the yacht are quite competent to deal with that frenchman's case." "i should say so indeed," said mr. lilburn gravely, "for it is not likely that he was in the water many minutes. so, my wee bonny bairnie elsie, dinna fash yersel' ony mair aboot him," he concluded, with an affectionate look and smile into the face of the little girl. "oh, cousin ronald, did you do it all?" exclaimed ned. "dear me, how stupid i am! i might have known it was you." "i doubt if you really know it yet, laddie," laughed the old gentleman. ned turned to his father. "papa, may i take an umbrella and just run down to the _dolphin_ for a few minutes to ask about it?" "it is not worth while," replied the captain; "i am very sure you would make no discoveries." "then it was you, cousin ronald, wasn't it, now? please own up," exclaimed ned, with a laughing look into the old gentleman's face. "folk shouldna find fault with what they've asked for," was the old gentleman's non-committal rejoinder. "oh, no, sir! no indeed! but i was not meaning to find fault," laughed ned; "i think it was good fun, and hope you will give us more of it." just as he pronounced the last word a fierce bark, seemingly that of a very large dog, followed instantly by a scream as if a woman were in pain and terror, startled them all, and there were outcries of affright from the children, while several of the grown people started to their feet and looked anxiously in the direction of the sounds, which had seemed to come from the vicinity of the porch, but a little farther toward the rear of the house. another bark from the dog, then a woman's voice in tones of wild affright, "oh, somebody help, help! this dog will tear me to pieces." mr. leland and walter travilla stepped quickly to the end of the porch nearest the sounds and looked around the corner of the house, but instantly reported that neither woman nor dog was to be seen. "oh, another sell from cousin ronald!" laughed ned. "oh, there it is again!" for just then there was a sound as of a loud knock at a side door, and a man's coarse voice thundering, "let me in oot o' this rain, ye slowgoing, good-for-naught biddies. let me in, i say, and be quick about it." a woman's scream followed instantly, "oh, captain, or some o' you gentlemen, come here quick and save us from this drunken rascal." some of those on the porch were a little startled for an instant, but a laugh quickly followed, and the fun went on for some minutes--bees, mice, chickens, and puppies being heard, but not seen or felt. but the rainfall was growing heavier, and at length harold suggested that it might be well for grace, if not for all, to go within doors to escape the dampness. nearly all at once complied with the suggestion, and mrs. travilla, inviting grace to a seat by her side, said low and tenderly: "harold gave me a piece of news last night that has made me very happy. i hope one of these days to number you among my dear daughters, and shall feel most happy in doing so." "oh, grandma elsie, it is so kind in you to say that!" returned grace tremulously, but blushing with pleasure as she spoke; "it will be very sweet to have you for my mother, for i have loved you dearly ever since i first saw you." at that moment walter came and took a seat on the other side of her. "oh, gracie," he said in an undertone, "i am so glad of harold's news--that i am to have you for a sister at some future day. i'll try to be a good brother to you." "and i certainly intend to do my best to be a good sister to you, walter," she answered in the same low tone, and with a vivid blush and one of her sweetest smiles. "thanks," he said. "i wish the wedding was to take place directly; some time this fall, at least. couldn't we coax your father to allow it?" she laughed and shook her head. "papa would never allow it, and i--don't believe i could consent myself. really, the very thought of doing anything so important so suddenly more than half frightens me." "harold is a mild, good-natured kind of fellow; you needn't be afraid of him," laughed walter. "no, not of him exactly," returned grace, laughing a little also and blushing quite a good deal, "but of--of the sudden change in my way of life--leaving my father and all the rest of my family." but there the talk between them ended for the time, for harold's near relatives came up, one after another, to tell grace how welcome a new member of their near connection she would be. chester dinsmore was the only one who expressed any regret, and that not to grace, but to lucilla. "i am sorry for my brother frank," he said. "he has been desperately in love with her, but your father would not let him speak. and i thought it would be pleasant to be so closely and doubly connected--two sisters marrying brothers." "i am sorry, since it disappoints you," said lucilla. "but i hope frank will soon get over his disappointment and find some one who will suit him still better. besides, grace being so delicate, it is well for her to get into the hands of a good physician." "true enough," returned chester, "and we may as well look at it in that way, for there is no use in fretting over what can't be helped." september had come; the summer heat was over and business called the gentlemen of our party to their more southern homes. preparations began, and one little company after another departed, leaving the rest feeling somewhat lonely and dull without them. the captain and his family, grandma elsie, evelyn, and mr. and mrs. lilburn were to go in the yacht, which carried them away a few days later--down the hudson river and down the atlantic coast to the seaport near their southern homes. a joyous welcome from lovers, relatives, and friends awaited them there. then followed the fall, winter, and early spring months, filled up and made delightful by the accustomed round of study, needlework, social calls, and visits, interspersed with religious duties and charitable work, etc. evelyn was often at woodburn, and she and lucilla made many pretty things for the adornment of their future homes. the weddings were to be postponed till max came home, and to their disappointment that home-coming was deferred month after month till chester grew exceedingly weary of waiting. letters were received occasionally from max, but he knew no more than they when he would be able to rejoin them and claim his bonny bride. the waiting was doubtless harder for him than for chester or either of the girls. they indeed seemed to take it quietly and contentedly. grace was very happy with her lover close at hand and often visiting her professionally or otherwise. and with her this state of things seemed to be conducive to health; she grew rosier, stronger, gayer, and more lively in her speech and manner than she had ever been before. so great a joy was it to her father to perceive the change that he soon fully forgave harold for seeking her affection while she was still so young and feeble. harold seemed to be waiting very patiently, and when chester grumbled at his long enforced wait, lucilla sometimes playfully called his attention to the good example set him by harold. "but there isn't the same need of waiting in our case," he would reply, "for, i am thankful to say, you are as healthy a girl as any that i know of." "yes; but think of the disappointment to max and eva if we shouldn't wait for them, when we can be together almost as much as if we were married, and all the time doing things to make our new home as lovely as possible." the continuance of war in the philippines, a cause of more or less regret to everybody, was doubly so to max's friends and relatives, because it delayed his return month after month. they missed him particularly when christmas time came and he was not there to share in the pleasant exchange of gifts and greetings. they had sent gifts to him, hoping they would reach him in good season, and as usual they bestowed them upon each other. for weeks beforehand violet had spent a good deal of time in her studio, and the result was a handsome portrait of the captain for each of his older daughters. they were highly pleased with them, saying that nothing else could have given them so much pleasure. the captain's gifts to them and violet were valuable books and some fine paintings for their walls. "you see, chester," lucilla said, when exhibiting hers to him, "that we are getting more and more for the adornment of our home while we wait for it." "adornment which could go on just as well if we were already in it," he returned, with a rather rueful laugh. "well, for your consolation please remember that it is near enough to be looked at every day," replied lucilla, in a sprightly tone. "and see here what your _fiancée_ has prepared for you," drawing a small package from her pocket as she spoke. "thanks! some of her own work, i hope," he said, with a gratified look and smile. "yes, i would have you enjoy as much of my work as possible." he had it opened now, and found it a beaded purse. "oh, how handsome!" he cried. "many, many thanks, dearest! i have no need of a reminder of you, but if i had, this would be one every time i looked at it. now here is my gift to you," taking in his turn a little package from his pocket and putting it in her hand. it was a miniature of himself--a fine likeness--attached to a beautiful gold chain. "oh, it is excellent, and nothing could have pleased me better!" she exclaimed, as she examined it. harold had the same sort of gift for grace, and she had embroidered for him a set of fine linen cambric handkerchiefs, with which he seemed greatly pleased. every member of that family, and each of the others in the connection, had prepared some gift of more or less value for each of the others, for their servants and dependents, and for the neighbors poor enough to need assistance from those able to give it. as usual there was a grand dinner at ion, to which all the connection were invited; and pretty much the same thing was repeated at woodburn on new year's day. max was missed and talked of at both gatherings, always being mentioned as one of whom they were proud and fond, while to evelyn and the woodburn family his absence detracted much from the enjoyment of the festivities. yet they comforted themselves with the hope that the trouble in the philippines would soon be over, and he allowed to return to his home and dear ones, now so anxious to see him, and to claim his promised wife. chapter xiv. the winter passed away without any untoward event to our friends at woodburn, ion, fairview, and the vicinity; march and april succeeded, then early in may came the news that admiral watson was ordered to proceed to manila and relieve admiral dewey. he sailed from san francisco on the th. it was not until late in june that he reached his destination, but admiral dewey had left there for hong-kong on the d of may, and placed the _olympia_ in dry-dock for the ten days he thought best to stay at that point in order to recruit his own health and that of his men. he left hong-kong on june , and reached singapore june . on the d he was at colombo, on the island of ceylon. he touched at various points on his homeward route--port said, trieste, naples, leghorn--at every place being received with highest honors. on august he was in the neighborhood of nice and villefranche, enjoying the delightful climate and beautiful scenery of that part of the world. on the th of september he reached gibraltar. his vessel gave the usual salute, heartily acknowledged by the garrison, and the admiral was warmly welcomed by its commander-in-chief, general biddulph. he seems to have stayed there six days, as it was on the th he sailed for new york by way of the azores. on tuesday morning, september , he anchored inside sandy hook--three days earlier than he was expected. a reception committee in new york city had been busily making ready to give him a grand "welcome home," which they intended should eclipse in gorgeous pageantry everything that had preceded it in the way of public demonstration. they had written to admiral dewey to know when he would arrive in order that they might fix a date for the grand display, and he had written them from leghorn, more than a month before: "i shall, without fail, reach the lower bay on friday, september ." the glad news of his arrival quickly spread by telegraph, and cannon were fired and bells rung in many cities throughout the country. the new york reception committee hastened to welcome him as soon as they knew of the arrival of the _olympia_. rear-admirals philip and sampson came also; but first of all came sir thomas lipton, the british challenger for the cup which has been so long in our possession, his vessel lying near where the _olympia_ anchored. but presently another yacht came steaming rapidly down the river, and max recognized it with an exclamation of delight, for it was the _dolphin_, and in a few minutes more captain raymond was on the deck of the _olympia_, grasping his son's hand, while his eyes shone with fatherly pride and affection. "my boy, my dear boy!" he said, in tones tremulous with emotion; "thank god that we are permitted to meet again." "father, my dear, dear father, how i have longed for this meeting with you!" was max's answering exclamation. "oh, tell me, are all our dear ones alive and well?" "yes, my son, and waiting yonder in the yacht for you. surely the admiral will allow you to go aboard her with me for a little visit." the admiral and the captain were not strangers to each other. a cordial greeting passed between them, they chatted as old friends for a few minutes, then captain raymond carried his son off to the _dolphin_, where he was received most joyfully, and exchanged loving embraces with his affianced, his sisters, "mamma vi," "grandma elsie," and little brother. they told him they had spent the greater part of the summer at crag cottage--which they still considered their temporary home--but for the present were on board the yacht, as the best place from which to view the naval welcome to admiral dewey. time flew fast in the glad mutual intercourse they had lacked for so many months. max had many questions to ask in regard to friends and relatives and all that had been going on in the neighborhood of his home and theirs. but his short leave had soon expired, and his father conveyed him back to the _olympia_ and left him there with the warmly expressed hope that they would soon be able to be together constantly for a time. at the naval anchorage at tompkinsville a fleet was gathered to welcome dewey's return, and his vessel steamed thither on wednesday--the day after her arrival at sandy hook. as she swept up the bay the salute due to an admiral of the united states navy rang out over the harbor from the forts and the assembled fleet for the first time in many years. there were also the music of marine bands, the pealing of naval bugles, the shrill whistles of numerous small craft, the cheering of excursion parties, and the rapid dash of the steam launches, all combining to make the scene a very lively one. during that day and the next the admiral and his officers had little rest, for their time was devoted to receiving the hurried visits of state and city officials, of naval and military officers, and of thousands of private citizens. one of the calls was that of a committee from washington, to tell dewey of the arrangements for his reception and the sword presentation there, and of an invitation to dine with president mckinley on october d. on thursday, captain lamberton of the _olympia_ had a pleasant task--that of pinning upon the breast of each man of dewey's fleet who had taken part in the fight at manila the bronze medal of honor voted him by congress. that was followed by the presentation to admiral dewey of the first american admiral's flag ever flung to the breeze, the flag first hoisted to the mast-head of farragut's flagship, the _hartford_, before new orleans. another thing very pleasing to the admiral was the receipt of an order from washington granting special permission to the thirty-four chinamen on board of the _olympia_ who had taken part in the battle at manila to land and have a share in the great parade. the city was a blaze of flags and bunting by day, and of electric lights by night. on the brooklyn bridge over eight thousand electric bulbs were arranged to form the words "welcome dewey"; powerful searchlights flashed from the towers over city and bay, and red fire burned along shores on the vessels at night. the naval parade on friday was the most magnificent display of the kind ever seen in this country. the _olympia_ led the way, followed by battleships, cruisers, revenue cutters, torpedo boats, and innumerable craft of all descriptions. over three million people lined the river banks to see the magnificent pageant. at riverside--where grant is buried--a salute was fired in his honor. two beautiful allegorical floats were anchored there, representing "victory" and "peace." here the _olympia_ and her consorts dropped anchor, while the long fleet passed in review. in the evening there was a fine electric and pyrotechnic display throughout the city and along the river. the next day, saturday, september , came the land parade, which was as interesting as had been the naval one. at five o'clock the admiral was up, and personally inspected his men. a committee of gentlemen escorted him to the city hall, where he was met by admiral schley, captain walker, captain coghlan, captain dyer, governor roosevelt, and others who had won distinction in the war. it was observed that he greeted schley with marked cordiality. from there the party went to a stand in front of the hall, and dewey was presented by mayor van wyck, on behalf of the city of new york, with a handsome and costly loving cup of fine gold. the admiral and his party then hastened to the pier to take the boat to grant's tomb, where the procession formed. it was a great one, and every step of the way was an ovation. first came sousa's immense band of musicians, then the sailor boys of manila, the bluejackets of santiago, and the boys from fifteen states, who had taken part in the spanish-american war. the immense crowds along the sidewalks cheered them lustily; none more so than the "fighting tenth" of pennsylvania. but the part of the procession which attracted the most attention was the carriage drawn by four beautiful bay horses in which rode admiral dewey and mayor van wyck. dewey rode with uncovered head bowing right and left until he reached the reviewing stand. the triumphal arch with its marble-like colonnade made a beautiful picture. on its top was a heroic figure of farragut--who gave dewey his first lesson in sailing over hidden mines and destructive torpedoes--seeming to look down upon his brave and successful pupil with admiration and approval. the celebration was a great success, showing how heartily the american people appreciated their gallant hero. the next day, being the sabbath, was spent in rest and comparative quiet. on monday, october , dewey went by rail from new york to washington, his journey thither proving a continual ovation. it was in the early evening he reached that city, and as the train neared the station a battery boomed out the admiral's salute, announcing his arrival to the waiting multitudes. the third cavalry was there to receive him, and he was driven to the white house to pay his respects to the chief of the nation. he was warmly welcomed by the president and his cabinet and many naval officers. after that the entire party went to review the civic parade which had been planned in honor of the admiral. the next day admiral dewey was presented with the sword voted him by congress. a vast concourse of people assembled to witness the imposing and impressive ceremony, which took place in front of the capitol, in the presence of the president and his cabinet and the principal officers of the several departments of the government. general miles was grand marshal of the escort, attended by a large staff of officers of the army and navy, all in full dress uniform and superbly mounted. just as the meridian gun sounded high noon, admiral dewey, leaning upon the president's arm, walked upon the platform. following them were judges of the supreme court, governors of states, senators, and members of congress, and the general officers of the army and navy. congress had directed that the sword should be presented by the secretary of the navy, and he did so in most appropriate and eloquent language. "no captain," he said, "ever faced a more crucial test than when, that morning, bearing the fate and the honor of your country in your hand, thousands of miles from home, with every foreign port in the world shut to you, nothing between you and annihilation but the thin sheathing of your ships, your cannon, and your devoted officers and men, you moved upon the enemy's batteries on shore and on sea with unflinching faith and nerve, and before the sun was halfway up in the heavens had silenced the guns of the foe, sunk the hostile fleet, demonstrated the supremacy of the american sea power, and transferred to the united states an entire of the islands of the pacific." in closing his speech the secretary handed the sword to the president as commander-in chief of the army and navy, and the president, speaking a few appropriate words as he did so, handed it to the admiral, who took it, saving: "i thank you, mr. president, for this great honor you have conferred upon me. i thank the congress for what it has done. i thank the secretary of the navy for his gracious words. i thank my country for this beautiful gift, which shall be an heirloom in my family forever, as an evidence that republics are not ungrateful. and i thank you, mr. chairman and gentlemen of the committee, for the gracious, kindly, and cordial welcome which you have given me to my home." chapter xv. it was a lovely evening, and a pleasant company had gathered upon the deck of the _dolphin_, captain raymond's yacht, lying in new york harbor; there were mrs. travilla, or grandma elsie, as some of her loved ones called her, captain raymond himself, his wife and children, older and younger, evelyn leland, dr. harold travilla, and chester dinsmore. they were scattered in groups--the three pairs of lovers in one, and conversing in low, earnest tones, now and then varied by a ripple of laughter. "i should like it very, very much," said eva, "but doubt if the captain proves willing." "doubtless if he consulted only his own inclination he would not consent," said max; "but father is anything else but selfish, and loves you so dearly, eva, that i by no means despair of persuading him to give you your wish in regard to this." "i have hardly a doubt of that," said lucilla, "and i am highly in favor of the plan, though i was not at first." "it suits me exactly," remarked chester, in a gleeful tone. "i greatly like the idea of taking my wife home with me." "something that more than one of us would be glad to do," sighed harold, squeezing affectionately a little hand of which he had taken possession a moment before. "never mind, old fellow, your turn will come one of these days, i hope," said chester. "perhaps when you two have waited as long as lu and i have now." "ah, i'm afraid we have even a longer wait than that before us," returned harold. "but we can see each other every day--be together a good deal of the time," remarked grace, in low, soothing tones. "well, let us have the thing settled, by hearing what father has to say about it," said max, for at that moment the captain might be seen approaching their group. "about what, my son?" he asked, as he took a vacant seat close at hand, for he had overheard the last few words. "as to the place where our nuptials should be celebrated, sir," returned max, with a little, happy laugh. "where else but in your homes?" asked his father. "i should like to have both my children married in my house, but eva and you, i suppose, would prefer to have yours and hers in her home--fairview." "no, sir," said evelyn, "my very strong wish is to have mine celebrated in my own old home--the house my father built and owned--crag cottage." "ah, my dear child, that is natural!" returned the captain in a tone of mingled surprise and acquiescence, "and i should be loath to stand in the way of such a wish. but i thought you and lucilla were planning to have but one ceremony for the two couples of you?" "yes, sir; and since talking it over we have concluded that crag cottage would be a suitable place for it, if you do not object." "it seems to me that there are reasons both for and against it," he said thoughtfully, "but since you four are the ones most nearly concerned, i think it will be only right and kind to let you decide the question among yourselves. but it is growing late in the season, and if the ceremony is to be performed here at the north, it should take place quite soon. can you make needed preparations in a few days?" "i think we can," both girls answered to that question. "very well, then, so far as i am concerned you shall do just as you please. for that matter, you are all of legal age to do so whether you have my permission or not." at that all four instantly disclaimed any intention or desire to go contrary to his wishes, and eva added: "i shall of course write at once to my uncle and aunt asking their consent and approval; for, though of legal age, i owe to them more than that for the great kindness they have shown me ever since the death of my dear father." "that is a right feeling you have toward them," remarked captain raymond, in a tone of commendation, "but i have no idea that they will oppose your wishes in the least in this matter." "no, i am almost sure they will not," she said; "but i shall write them to-night, and hope for a prompt reply. there will be some necessary shopping to do, and new york city will be the best place for that." "decidedly," assented the captain, "and you could have no better helpers in that than my wife and her mother." "and yourself, papa," laughed lucilla. "as purse-bearer?" he asked, with a smile. "i shall certainly be that, and ready to exercise my taste as regards the choice of the goods." "and i may be the housekeeper here on the _dolphin_ while you are away on your pleasant errands, i suppose," said grace. "yes, if you like, daughter," returned the captain; and harold added, "and i as your assistant, if you are willing to make use of me." "to see to it that she does not overwork herself," said the captain. "and what may chester and i be allowed to do?" queried max. "to keep them company,--if they desire it,--manage the vessel, and keep the children out of mischief, especially from falling overboard, and entertained in harmless ways." "i think we can do all that," said max; "but how long do you expect to be absent, father? are we to lie still in the harbor here till you return?" "just as you please," said his father. "if you choose to steam along the shores, out into the ocean or up the river, you have full liberty to do so. all i ask is that you take good care of the children and the vessel." "well, sir, i think that with chester's and harold's help i can engage to do all that," laughed max. "don't you think so, lads?" turning first to one, then to the other of the young men. both returned an affirmative reply, then they all joined the group of older ladies, told of their plans and purposes, and asked for advice, and whether the assistance they wanted in their shopping might be confidently expected. at first both ladies were surprised that the young people should think of having their weddings before returning home, but, after a little discussion, highly approved of the plan, and expressed themselves as willing as possible to assist in the shopping and all needful preparations. then they discussed the question what it would be needful or advisable to purchase, what dresses should be made and where the work could be done in the speediest and most approved manner, as it was wisest and best to consider and decide upon these matters before setting out to do their errands. evelyn wrote her letter to her uncle and aunt before retiring for the night, and had it posted early the next morning. shortly after breakfast the shopping party went into the city on their pleasant errand, and a little later the _dolphin_ weighed anchor and steamed out of harbor, going seaward. the party on its deck was a cheerful, even merry one, max and chester rejoicing in the near approach of their long looked-for nuptials; harold happy in having full possession for the time of his affianced, and elsie and ned raymond in gay, youthful spirits, for they loved to be on the yacht and with brother max, uncle harold, and also chester, with whom they had become almost as free and affectionate as if he were an own brother. "where are we going now, brother max?" asked ned. "i think we will put it to vote," replied max. "my idea is that it might be very pleasant to steam along near the shore of the sound on one side going out, and on the other returning; so getting a view of the country on both. grace, as you are the only lady present, i think you should have the first vote. shall we do as i have proposed, or something different?" "it sounds very pleasant, max," replied grace, "but i don't wish to decide the question, for i shall enjoy going anywhere in the _dolphin_, and with such pleasant company." "rather non-committal," laughed max. "well, chester and harold, what do you say?" both answered that they approved his plan, and would like nothing better, and elsie and ned exclaimed with enthusiasm that _they_ would like nothing better. "a unanimous vote in favor," commented max, "so the thing is settled." "and we can settle to something," remarked elsie, in a tone of satisfaction; "uncle harold, don't you want to tell us about some of the poor wounded or sick fellows you attended in cuba?" "i fear i have not much to tell of them--seeing i have already told so much--except that they were wonderfully brave and patient, full of love for their country and compassion for the downtrodden, inhumanly treated cubans," replied dr. travilla. "i think our soldiers were very brave, patient, and uncomplaining," said elsie. "i am very proud of them, especially because they didn't do cruel deeds such as i have read of soldiers of other nations doing in time of war." "yes, i think they deserved that commendation," said harold. "and the attempt of hobson and his men to block the entrance to santiago harbor by sinking the _merrimac_ there was brave as brave could be. we have indeed cause to be proud of our soldiers." "and so we are!" cried ned enthusiastically, "and," turning toward his brother, "just as proud of the brave fellows that were at manila as of those in cuba." "thank you, young man," returned max, with a bow and a smile. "we certainly have every reason to believe that our doings there have been appreciated by our kind countrymen." "brother max, could you help feeling a little bit afraid when your ship went into that long channel with its many forts and torpedoes?" "i certainly cannot say that i was entirely free from fear," acknowledged max; "but i had no desire to escape the danger by giving up my part in the coming fight, for i felt that we were on the right side of it--undertaken for the oppressed--and that my heavenly father was able to protect me, and all of us." "and he did," exclaimed elsie, in joyful tones; "it was just wonderful how you all escaped being killed, and only a few were slightly wounded." "it was indeed," assented max, "and a great cause for thankfulness." "do you like admiral dewey, brother max?" asked ned. "yes, yes indeed!" was the earnest, smiling reply. "he is determined with his men, but very kind-hearted. the man who has been guilty of a fault may be pretty sure of pardon if he confesses it, but not if he tells a falsehood to escape his deserts. lying is a thing which dewey utterly detests." "i wish i could get acquainted with him," said elsie; "though i suppose he wouldn't like to be bothered with talking to a little girl of my age." "i don't know about that," laughed max; "he is said to be very fond of children." "has he any of his own?" she asked, with a look of interest. "one son; but he is grown up and is in business." "oh, do tell me what sort of folks the filipinos are?" "i will do my best," replied max. "the men are not tall, but have good forms and well-shaped heads. their looks are boyish, and they seem never to grow old. they have black, glossy hair that seldom grows gray. the women are graceful and rather good-looking. they usually wear their hair loose, and no hat or bonnet on their heads. their dress is a satin skirt handsomely embroidered, and a waist of pina cloth, having flowing sleeves. they wear a scarf of the finest quality, and beautifully embroidered, about their neck and shoulders. an american lady there told me that they often spend years on the embroidery of a single garment, and that she and others of our ladies had gone into raptures over that work, but could seldom secure a specimen. they are very cleanly people--bathe a great deal, and keep their clothing very clean; their houses also are kept clean, neat, and tidy. the women sew, spin, weave, and gather thatch to keep the hut in repair. they also catch fish for the family to eat, and are skilful at that business. they carry burdens on their heads, and that makes them erect and graceful. a good many of both spaniards and chinamen have married filipino women, and the children, called mestizoes, make good citizens, seeming to inherit the patient industry of the chinese father and the gentle disposition and dignified self-possession of the filipino mother. but now i think i have done my share of talking for the present, and must leave the rest of you to do yours while i see if all is going right with our vessel," added max, rising and leaving the group as he spoke. "uncle harold, do you know the captain they call 'fighting bob'?" asked ned. "slightly," returned his uncle, "and a brave, noble man he is--a naval officer to be proud of; perfectly fearless and cool in battle, kind and helpful to conquered foes. he was commander of the _iowa_, to which the spanish ship _vizcaya_ surrendered. her captain, in a speech in spain, had said that he would tow back the _iowa_ to his king; but he was not able to do so. the _iowa_ drove shell after shell into his vessel, till she was a mass of flames, and struck her flag. "then 'fighting bob' sent out his boats to rescue the prisoners on the ship and in the water, and took back to the _iowa_ several officers and two hundred and forty men, her captain, eulate, among them. it is said to have been a horrible scene--so many dead and wounded men, and captain eulate, limping, and with his head bound up. he saluted as he stepped upon the deck of the _iowa_, and so did captain evans. "'you are captain evans? this is the _iowa_?' asked captain eulate. 'yes,' said captain evans, and took eulate's hand in both of his, shaking it warmly. eulate stepped back, unbuckled his sword, kissed it, and with the most elegant grace, handed it, hilt forward, to captain evans. but he refused to take it, turning the palm of his hand outward and waving it back, at the same time shaking his head--a very emphatic refusal. "the spaniards, officers and men, looked on in astonishment. captain eulate pressed captain evans' hand, and the crew gave eulate three cheers, for he had fought well, and only gave up when his ship was in flames and sinking. "just then a terrific explosion was heard on the _vizcaya_, which was only a short distance off, and a solid column of smoke went up nearly four thousand feet, it is said, taking the form of a gigantic mushroom. at that captain eulate turned around, pointing with one hand to his ruined ship, with the other toward his officers and men, '_veeski! veeski!_' he cried at the top of his voice, while tears rolled down his cheeks. his men sprang toward him, and many of them kissed his hand. he said in spanish, 'my brave marines!' and looked away." "that was a very interesting story, uncle," said elsie, as dr. travilla paused. "i hope there's more of it." "oh, yes, please go on, uncle harold," said ned. "our ships took all the spanish ones, didn't they?" "yes; the _maria teresa_ was now a wreck also, and the _iowa_ went to the relief of her drowning and burning men. admiral cervera was taken prisoner and brought on board the _iowa_. when he stepped aboard, with his staff, captain evans stood with uncovered head, and the marine guard presented arms. captain eulate stepped toward him, touched his sword with his hand and pressed it to his breast, crying out in spanish, pointing toward captain evans, evidently extolling his bravery and generosity. the admiral made a courtly bow to captain evans, and shook hands with him. the rest of the spanish officers kissed the hand of the spanish admiral four times, and embraced and kissed captain eulate. the men of the crew, too, would now and then see a comrade whom they had supposed dead, and they would fall to embracing and kissing." "did captain evans thank god for his victory, as captain philip did, uncle?" asked elsie. "no; but when some one blamed him for not having done so, he said that while preparations were being made for it he found that he was surrounded by boats carrying dying and wounded prisoners, and others of the crew of the _vizcaya_, to the number of two hundred and fifty. 'to leave these men to suffer for want of food and clothing, while i called my men aft to offer prayers, was not my idea of either christianity or religion,' he wrote in reply. 'i preferred to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and succor the sick, and i am strongly of the opinion that almighty god has not put a black mark against me on account of it. i do not know whether i shall stand with captain philip among the first chosen in the hereafter, but i have this to say in conclusion, that every drop of blood in my body on the afternoon of july d, was singing thanks and praise to almighty god for the victory we had won.'" "they call captain evans 'fighting bob,' don't they, uncle?" asked ned. "yes; but it is said that he does not like it, and insists that he is no more of a fighter than very many of his brother officers. but it is really used as an honor to one whom his countrymen admire. but probably he will do no more fighting, as, by his own request, he has been detached from the command of the _iowa_, and made a member of the board of inspection and survey--a change he was entitled to, having already served more than his term of sea duty." "oh, uncle!" said elsie, in a tone of entreaty, "can't you tell us something more about captain philip? i do like him so, because of his being such a good christian man." "he is that," said dr. travilla emphatically, "and one of the bravest and most modest of men. when asked for his photograph he replied that he had never had one taken; and on being urgently invited to be present at a reception to lieutenant hobson, given in new york, he shook his head, saying the trial would be too much for him. but i dare say his real reason was a fear that his presence might deprive the young officer of some of the attention and honor due to him." "have you ever seen him, uncle?" asked elsie. "yes, once, for a few minutes, and i have heard him described as mild-mannered, full of fun, with gray mustache, a kindly face, and mild blue eyes, and it is said that he is fond of his men as they are of him. he said to some one, 'i have a stout ship and a crew of americans. so had the other captains. that was why we won.' he fairly earned his promotion, first to the rank of commodore, then to that of admiral. "now you two have taken in a good deal of information; don't you think it might be well for you to take some exercise in running about the deck?" concluded uncle harold, in a kindly tone, to which elsie and ned responded with a cheerful, "yes, sir! thank you for the stories," then ran away to carry out his suggestions, grace calling after them to be very careful not to go into any dangerous place. "we won't," ned called back. "we want to live to go to that double wedding." "yes, ned," said elsie, in a much lower tone, "and we want to buy some handsome presents for the brides. i spoke to mamma about that, and she said she and papa and grandma would give us our turn at the business of shopping; maybe day after to-morrow, for they expect to come back to the _dolphin_ to-morrow evening, and if the weather is suitable we can go into the city directly after breakfast the next morning." "oh, good!" cried ned. "won't it be fun? i hope papa has plenty of money for us to spend, so that we can get something very handsome--jewelry, perhaps. that will be the most suitable and acceptable, i suppose." "probably," returned elsie. "grandma, papa, and mamma will be the ones to decide." "of course," said her brother; "but they'll let us have some say about it too." max and chester were at the same moment standing together at some little distance in a friendly discussion of a similar topic--what gifts they should procure for their brides. "jewelry of some sort would, i suppose, be considered the most appropriate," remarked chester half inquiringly. "that is my idea," returned max. "i believe the majority of ladies can hardly have too much of it--though i have never noticed eva cared very much about it. i think, however, that lu does; i know that some years ago she had a strong desire for more than father deemed best for her." "tastes differ," sagely remarked chester, "and i wish to give her whatever she would prefer." "certainly," said max; "that is right and kind, and just my feeling in regard to the gift to eva." "well," said chester, "fortunately we do not need to decide the question until we see what the jewellers and other merchants have to offer." "shall we go together to make our selections?" asked max. "i should like to do so, if it suits you; and to have your father along--cousins elsie and violet also, if they feel inclined to go." "yes, indeed!" said max; "for they both have excellent taste and judgment. i don't know any one whose opinion on the subject i should consider more valuable." "nor do i," responded chester. "we are very fortunate in our lady friends, and i may well add in gentlemen also, max--your father in especial." "thank you," returned max, with a smile of gratification; "i think there is not a more perfect man and gentleman anywhere to be found; but that may be because i am his son." "oh, no! not altogether, at any rate," said chester; "for you are by no means alone in your favorable opinion." "no, i flatter myself that i am not. ah! do you see how earnestly harold and grace are talking together? i shouldn't wonder if they are upon the very same subject we have just been discussing." "quite likely. it seems to be the most important subject for older and younger of our party at present." "yes. by the way, chester, we are hurrying matters so that we can hardly hope or expect to have very many of our southern relatives and friends to witness the ceremony." "no, i suppose we can't. but we might invite them to visit us in our own house as soon after we get there as they please," laughed chester. "true enough!" exclaimed max, looking highly pleased at the thought, "and how delightful it would be to entertain them there." "so i think, and you don't know how i have wanted a home for that, as well as for my own private enjoyment." "i have had some very severe attacks of homesickness since i left my father's house for the naval academy, so that i think i can understand your feelings," max said, with a smile. "and i expect to be somewhat envious of you and lu some months hence, when i have to leave wife and home to go--perhaps to the other side of the world." "yes, max, when i think of that i am sorry for you, and for ourselves that we must be so often deprived of your pleasant society." they were steaming along within sight of the shore, and just at that moment the children came running to ask max some question about what could be seen there. he listened and replied very kindly, chester now and then taking part in the talk. the day and evening passed pleasantly to all on board; the children retired at their accustomed early hour, grace helping elsie in preparing for her couch, lest the dear little sister should miss mamma too sorely, and wet her pillow with tears. ned considered himself almost a man now, and quite fit to do without any attention in that line. "i do miss mamma," elsie said, as she laid herself down in the berth, "but it is very nice to share this stateroom with you for once, gracie dear." "and i am very glad to have you do so," replied grace; "for i shall not miss lu half so much with you in her place." "it's nice and kind in you to say that," returned elsie, with a loving look and smile. "but don't feel as if you must come to bed as early as i do, but go back and enjoy brother max, uncle harold, and chester a little longer, for i am sure they want you." "well, then i'll kiss you good-night, you darling little sister, and go back to them for perhaps another hour," grace said, accompanying her words with a tender caress. she found the gentlemen still on deck, where she had left them, and they gave her no reason to doubt that her society was welcome to them. an hour was spent in cheerful chat, and some singing of appropriate songs and hymns, then they bade good-night, and all retired to their staterooms, max having first attended to all his duties as captain of the vessel. the night passed quietly, and the next morning all woke rested and refreshed, ready to enjoy their breakfast, and after that the walks and talks upon deck, varied by resting in steamer chairs while chatting and gazing out upon the water and the land, out of sight of which they seldom were. the weather was all that could be desired, and they rejoiced in that fact for both themselves and their friends, the shoppers. the latter came on board soon after the yacht had come to anchor again in new york harbor. their bright, cheerful faces told at once of success with what had been undertaken and of satisfaction with their purchases, and their tongues speedily repeated the pleasant story of beautiful silks, satins, laces and other trimmings, for in the family circle they did not care to make a secret of their needful, or desirable, preparations for the approaching ceremony. all passed the night on the vessel, violet remarking that one night at the best of hotels was quite enough for her; she felt so much more at home on their own delightful yacht. but shortly after breakfast the children were taken into the city to select their bridal gifts, their father and mother going along with them. grace, in compliance with a suggestion from her father, was quite willing to entrust the selection of her gifts to him and mamma, shopping being always wearisome work for her. grandma elsie, evelyn, and lucilla remained on the vessel, with grace, to take a good rest, while the young men went in search of their gifts for the brides that were to be. "how many dresses did you have fitted?" asked grace. "two apiece," replied her sister; "our wedding gowns and one other for each of us. the others were expressed home at once, to be made up by our own dressmakers, who, as you know, have our measures, so that they may be ready to wear by the time we return, or very soon after." "a very good plan, i think," said grace. "eva, have you heard from your uncle and aunt in reply to your note the other day?" "yes," evelyn replied, with a smile, "and i am happy to say that they highly approve of our plans and purposes--not bidding me beware of the truth of the old saying, 'marry in haste and repent at leisure,' but promising to have everything in readiness for us and our ceremony. isn't it good of them?" "very nice and kind, i think," said grace. "how favorably everything seems to go with you! i am very glad for you both." "thank you," said eva. "we might make a triple wedding of it if your father would only consent." "oh, no! i don't wish it. father is right, i know; he always is; and i don't want to leave him yet for anybody." "and you are entirely right in that, my dear," said grandma elsie. "i can see that, although i should dearly love to gain possession of my new little daughter at once." "it is very nice and kind in you, grandma elsie, to be so ready to claim me for your own," grace returned, happy tears shining in her eyes. "ah, i fear your father might see that in a different light," returned grandma elsie, with one of her sweet smiles. "i think he would prefer to keep you all his own, and i cannot blame him. now, girls," turning to the others, "suppose we make out a list of the relatives and friends who should be invited to your wedding, so that that matter can be promptly attended to." the girls gave a ready assent and the list was presently prepared. "now i have been thinking," eva said, as they finished, "that as october is so delightful a month, even up here on the hudson, we might as well take a little more time for our preparations, spending it at crag cottage; and that would make it possible for our friends to attend the ceremony, should they choose to come. you could spare that much more time from your home, couldn't you, grandma elsie?" "easily; and i think it a very good idea. if anything like the entire number of our friends should come, you would not have sleeping accommodations for nearly all of them, and the hotels in the neighborhood are, i think, closed, or will be by that time; but a noon wedding would enable guests to come in the morning and leave before night." "oh, that's a capital idea, grandma elsie!" exclaimed lucilla. "don't you think so, eva?" "i do, and think every one else will," returned evelyn joyously. "then our wedding gifts can be shown at the cottage, packed, and sent home afterward in time to get there before we do--as we are to take a trip to niagara falls before going home." when the shoppers returned and were told of this plan, they one and all highly approved; so it was decided upon, and the necessary preparations were promptly made. the children were in high spirits, delighted with the purchases they had made; the older people seemed equally satisfied with theirs, though their report was given in quieter fashion. some of the smaller gifts the purchasers brought with them, but the others were to be sent first to crag cottage, and after the wedding from there to the brides' homes. after some little discussion of the plan, an immediate return to crag cottage was decided upon, and presently the yacht was steaming up the river. chapter xvi. it was a pleasant, happy party that gathered round the breakfast table at crag cottage the next morning, and a bountiful and excellent meal which they found spread before them. mrs. elsie leland--acting mistress of the house for the present--was highly pleased with the new arrangements planned for the double wedding. "the extension of the time allotted for the preparations would make it much easier to carry them out," she said, "while invited guests would have more time for the carrying out of theirs; though i doubt if many of them would think it paid to take so long and expensive a journey even to see that interesting sight--a double wedding." "i dare say not," said her husband. "chester, do you expect your brother and sisters to be here?" "hardly; the time being so short and the journey so long. and frank, i hear, has found a ladylove down there--which will be likely to keep him away. each of my sisters, as you probably know, has a young child,--maud, indeed, has two, sidney one,--and they would probably want neither to bring them along nor leave them behind." "no, i suppose they will hardly want to journey so far for a short visit, and will think it too late in the season for a long one," remarked grandma elsie. "yes; i fear that will keep uncle horace and aunt rose from joining us, though they are no farther away than philadelphia," said chester. "and, as grandpa sometimes says, they are now not so young as they once were," said mrs. leland. "we would be delighted to have them with us, but can scarcely hope for it." "no," said violet, "and most of our relatives and friends, having had their summer outings, returned home, and settled down again, can hardly be expected to start out on so long a journey for so short a bit of entertainment." "especially as there are a number of somebodies getting married every day," laughed lucilla. "yes," said harold, with a smile, "it is a very common occurrence." the two weeks passed quickly and happily away, the older ones attending to necessary preparations, the younger filling up much of the time with pleasant little excursions up and down the river in the yacht, or walks, rides, and drives on land. the wedding presents began to come in. the captain's principal gift they knew was their joint home on his estate, woodburn, but there were a number of minor ones--in the way of silver for their tables, sèvres china, and napery, cut-glass and bric-a-brac. the gifts of elsie and ned consisted of similar articles. gracie's gift, chosen by her father and "mamma vi," was a gold bracelet for each, ornamented with precious stones. each lover had visited tiffany's and bought for his bride a very handsome ornament called a sunburst--a star of diamonds to be worn as locket or brooch. they were presented on the morning of the wedding, and the girls were delighted with them, as they were with harold's gift--a very beautiful opal ring to each. it was nearing ten o'clock the night before the wedding, and captain raymond was taking his usual stroll back and forth upon the porch before retiring, when lucilla came to him for the usual bit of good-night chat so pleasant to them both. he put his arm about her and held her close to his heart, as he had so often done before. for a moment neither spoke, then she said sobbingly: "oh, father, my dear father, this is the last time! how can i bear it! oh, how can i bear it! how can i leave you, even for chester, whom i do love dearly." "no, dear child," he said in tones tremulous with emotion, "it need not be the last time. we shall be near enough to see and embrace each other very often while god spares our lives; and we will not love each other less because we are not living all the time under the same roof." "no, papa, no, indeed! oh, i could never bear it if it wasn't for knowing that! you have been such a good, kind, wise, and loving father to me. oh, i wish i had always been the good, obedient biddable child i ought to have been." "yes, daughter dear, i know it; i know you do; while i often wish i had been more patient and gentle--less stern with you. but let us forgive and forget, and each try in the future to be all to the other that could be desired. my own dear, dear child! 'the lord bless thee: the lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" "thank you, my dear, dear father," she said. "that is such a sweet blessing, and i do so love to hear it from your lips. oh, i can never be thankful enough that i have a christian father!" "nor i for the good hope that my dear eldest daughter is a true servant, with me, of the same blessed master. now let us say good-night, for it is time you were preparing for your rest." most of the invited guests except a few who would arrive in the morning had come, but, by sending the young gentlemen and lads to sleep in the yacht, room had been made for all. the ceremony took place the next day at high noon--the brides, the gifts, the house bedecked with flowers, all looking very lovely. a grand wedding breakfast followed, then bridal dresses were exchanged for travelling suits, handsome and becoming, and the newly married couples, accompanied by grace and harold, went aboard the _dolphin_, which carried them to the city, where they would take the cars for niagara. harold and grace saw them on the train, waved them good-bye as it started, then returned on the yacht to crag cottage. a few days later the _dolphin_ was again speeding southward, carrying her owner and his family--including mrs. travilla and her son harold, also the lelands, to their homes. they had a delightful voyage, and arrived at their destination in fine health and spirits. but that was not the last trip made by the yacht for that season; within a fortnight she was again steaming up the hudson, and in the harbor of the city where the bridal party had left her they found her lying at anchor one day, when the train bearing them on their return from the west came rushing into the station. "oh, it really seems something like getting home!" lucilla exclaimed as she stepped upon the deck. "but father did not come!" she added, with a slight sigh of disappointment, glancing about in the vain hope of catching sight of the manly form and face she loved so well. "no, mrs. dinsmore, but you'll be sure to get sight of the captain when you reach the other end of the voyage," said mr. bailey, temporary skipper, coming forward with a bow and smile. "and the voyage will be but a short one if the weather continues good," remarked max, offering a hand to bailey in cordial greeting, then introducing his bride. "yes," said bailey, taking in his the hand she offered, and looking at her with admiring eyes, "i used to know her pretty well as miss leland. i wish you both a great deal of happiness and prosperity. and you and your bride the same, mr. dinsmore," shaking hands with chester in his turn. "i think, ladies and gentlemen, you will find everything shipshape in the saloon and staterooms; the captain was very particular about all that." "yes," said evelyn, "and now that we are here on the dear old yacht i feel that the discomforts of travel by rail are happily gotten rid of; everything is so clean, quiet, and homelike here." "i think it is delightful," said lucilla; "only i am disappointed that father did not come." "no doubt it was having too many other things to attend to that prevented him," said max. "and doubtless he will meet us at the wharf when we land." the weather was all that could be desired, the yacht in fine condition, and in due time they anchored in the harbor of their own city, and presently landed, to find a number of the dear ones waiting for them. captain raymond was there with his entire family, and lucilla had scarcely stepped ashore ere she found herself in his arms, his kiss of fatherly love upon her lips. "how glad i am to have you here again, my darling," he said in tender tones. "i hope you have enjoyed your trip, and come back to me feeling well and strong?" "oh, yes, father dear, yes indeed! and so, so glad to be with you again! i could never, never live without my father." "that is pretty much as i feel about my eldest daughter," he returned with a smile, and repeating his caresses. then eva must take her turn, and the son and son-in-law each received a cordial grasp and shake of the hand. then joyous greetings were exchanged with the lelands, violet, elsie, and ned. the woodburn and fairview carriages were there, and nearby stood another--a two-seated, very handsome vehicle, with a pair of fine, spirited-looking grays attached. greetings over, the captain led the way to the equipage, and turning with a kind, fatherly smile toward the bridal party, "here, my children," he said, "is a gift from your father to be held and used--enjoyed, too, i trust--by the four of you in common." "father, i'm afraid you are doing too much for us!" exclaimed max, with emotion. "a grand good gift, sir, for which i heartily thank you," said chester warmly. "dear father, don't ruin yourself by heaping so many, many gifts upon us," cried lucilla, turning, and putting her hand in his, while evelyn said, with starting tears "that it was really too much." "no, i am perfectly able to afford it, my dears, and shall be very glad if it adds to your enjoyment of your new home," said the generous giver. "get in now, drive over to your new home, and see if everything about house and grounds has been arranged to suit your taste." they obeyed, and found the carriage, as they afterward said, the easiest, most comfortable one they had ever ridden in, and the horses the finest of thoroughbreds. "these are grand fellows, max; i'll warrant your father has spent no trifle on their purchase," remarked chester as they sped onward with easy, graceful motion. "just what i think," said max. "no more generous man than he ever lived." "i only hope he won't ruin himself by heaping expensive gifts and favors upon us," said evelyn. "i hope not, indeed!" sighed lucilla, with a slight tremble in her tones. "don't be anxious and troubled about it, sister mine," said max very kindly. "i happen to know that father has abundant means. and being so generous of nature it is a delight to him to give--especially to his wife and children." "what a dear, good father he is! it is just a delight to me that i may call him that now," said evelyn. their carriage reached its destination some minutes ahead of the captain's, and they immediately alighted and gazed about them with wondering and delighted eyes--so many improvements had been made since last they saw the place, trees and flowers, lovely and fragrant, having been transplanted from other places to adorn this. they wandered here and there, expressing in looks and joyous exclamations admiration, gratitude, and delight. they had hardly made acquaintance with all the beauties of the place when the other carriage drove up and the rest of the family joined them. then, as the captain afterward said, they well-nigh overwhelmed him with the extravagant outpouring of their admiration, gratitude, and delight. "i am very glad that you are all so well pleased," he said, in return. "my wife and i have greatly enjoyed this labor of love,--the overseeing and directing of these improvements,--and that they find such favor with you all more than repays us. but, come, let us go inside and see how well you are satisfied with things there." he led the way as he spoke, and they found themselves in a wide hall with a broad and easy stairway leading to the rooms above, and on either side, on that floor, large, elegantly furnished rooms,--parlors, libraries, dining rooms, a set for each little family,--beautiful lace curtains at the windows, handsome paintings handsomely framed, on the walls, many of them presents from grandma elsie and others of the ion family and violet's relatives on the neighboring estates, and other gifts and adornments too numerous to mention. the young folks had decided to call their place sunnyside, and so lovely was it that the name seemed very appropriate. the upper rooms were found scarcely less attractive in themselves or their furnishings than the lower ones. a grand dinner was in course of preparation in lucilla's kitchen, and presently all sat down to it, served in her dining-room. after that the whole party went over to woodburn, no one of them feeling satisfied without a peep at it--the dear old home all loved so well. the end. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. [illustration: elsie's cabin.] elsie's winter trip. by martha finley, author of "elsie dinsmore," "elsie's girlhood," "mildred keith," etc., etc. new york: dodd, mead & company, . copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. _first edition published october, ._ elsie's winter trip. chapter i. "lu, dear, can you give me an early breakfast to-morrow morning?" asked chester, as they made their preparations for retiring that first night in their new home. "i think so," she returned, giving him an affectionate look and smile. "how early would you like to have it?" "about seven, i think. i have told our coachman, jack, that i want the carriage at eight. he will drive me into town and then return, so that carriage and horses will be ready at a reasonably early hour for the other three owners--our brother and sister and yourself." "it was certainly very kind and thoughtful in you to give such an order," she said with a smile, "but we would much prefer to have your company in all our drives and visits." "and i should very much like to give it to you; but there is business that should have been attended to some time ago, and must not be longer delayed." "if it is, it shall not be your wife's fault," she replied. "the cook is still in the kitchen, and i will go and give my order for a seven-o'clock breakfast." "lu, dear," chester said, on her return, "it will not be at all necessary for you to rise in time for so early a breakfast, i can pour my own coffee and eat alone." "no, you can't have that privilege while i'm your wife;" she responded, with a saucy look and smile. "i intend to pour your coffee, and see that you have an appetizing breakfast and do justice to it." "your presence will make it doubly enjoyable, dearest," he returned, putting an arm about her, and giving her a look of loving admiration, "but you must not be robbed of needed rest and sleep." "thank you, my dear husband," she replied; "but i am accustomed to early rising and it agrees with me. oh, i think i shall greatly enjoy taking early breakfast with you. isn't it delightful to begin our married life in so lovely a home of our very own?" "it is, indeed! and we owe it to your good, kind, and most generous father." "he is that, most emphatically," responded lucilla. "the dearest, best, and kindest father in the world." seven o'clock the next morning found them cosily seated at a little round table in their pretty dining-room, enjoying a delicious breakfast of fresh fruits, broiled fowl, hot muffins and coffee. these, added to good health, cheerful spirits, and a fondness for each other's society, made them a happy couple. the meal was enlivened with cheerful chat. "i am sorry you have to hurry so," lucilla said, as she filled her husband's cup for the second time. "i really think you ought to have at least a little longer holiday." "i expect to take it piecemeal, nights and mornings, in the society of my wife," returned chester, with affectionate look and smile. "i was very glad to get this case," he added, "for if i succeed with it it will bring me in some thousands." "i shall be glad of that for your sake," said lucilla; "but don't work too hard. you know you are not very strong; therefore you need to take good care of yourself." "ah, my dear, be careful how you encourage me in self-indulgence," laughed chester. "i am too much inclined that way as it is." "are you?" she exclaimed with mirthful look and tone. "i really had not found it out, but thought you one of the foolishly industrious people who will even throw away health in order to get on rapidly with their work." "and i," laughed chester, "took you for a woman of such discernment that you must have found out before this what a lazy, incompetent fellow you have thrown yourself away upon." "no; with all my discernment i have yet to make that discovery. i did not marry the fellow yon describe--but a bright, talented, industrious young man. and i wont have him slandered." at that moment a servant came in with the announcement that the carriage was at the door. "ah! jack is quite punctual, and i am just ready," said chester, pushing back his chair, getting up and going round to his wife's side of the table. "i will now take away the slanderer of your bright, talented, industrious young man," he remarked in sportive tone; "you shall be relieved of his presence until perhaps five o'clock this afternoon." before he had finished, lucilla was standing by his side, her hand in his. "oh, dear! i wish you didn't have to go," she sighed. "we have been together all the time for weeks past and now i hardly know how i can do without you." "suppose you come along then. there is plenty of room in the carriage, and in the office, and i could find you something to read, or some work on the typewriter, if you prefer that." "any time that i am needed there i shall be ready to go," she returned with merry look and tone; "but to-day i have matters to attend to about the house, and perhaps father and mamma vi may want some little assistance from me in their preparations for to-night." "yes, i daresay. what a round of parties we are likely to have to go through as part of the penalty for venturing into the state of matrimony." "yes," laughed lucilla, "but i hope you think it pays." "most assuredly. but now good-bye, dearest, for some hours--when we shall have the pleasure of meeting to atone to us for the present pain of parting." lucilla followed him to the veranda, where they exchanged a parting caress, then watched as he entered the carriage and it drove swiftly through the grounds and out into the highway. her eyes were still following it when a pleasant, manly voice near at hand said "good morning mrs. dinsmore." she turned quickly and sprang down the steps to meet the speaker. "father, dear father!" she cried, springing into his outstretched arms, and putting hers about his neck, "oh, how glad i am to see you! how good in you to come! chester has just done eating his breakfast and gone off to his business, and i haven't quite finished my meal. wont you come in and eat with me?" "ah, that would hardly do, daughter," was the smiling reply. "you know i am expected to take that meal with wife and children at woodburn. but i will go in with you and we will have a chat while you finish your breakfast." "and you can take a cup of coffee and a little fruit, can't you, father?" "yes, thank you, daughter. that would hardly interfere with the woodburn breakfast. and shall we not take a little stroll about your grounds when we leave the breakfast-room?" "i should greatly enjoy doing so along with my dear father," she answered with a smiling look up into his face, as they took their places at the inviting-looking table. she poured his coffee, then they ate and chatted pleasantly the while about family matters and the entertainment to be given at woodburn that evening. "how are max and eva this morning?" the captain asked at length. "i don't know whether they are up yet or not," replied lucilla. "you know, papa, they had not the same occasion for early rising that chester and i had." "true enough and max is fully entitled to take his ease for the present. don't you think so?" "yes, indeed, papa. i am very glad the dear fellow is having a good holiday after all he has gone through. oh, i wish he had chosen some business that would allow him to stay at home with us!" "that would be pleasanter for us, but our country must have a navy and officers to command it." "yes, sir; and so it is well that some men fancy that kind of life and employment." "and no doubt max inherits the taste for a seafaring life from me and my forebears." "father," said lulu, "you will let me be your amanuensis again, will you not?" "thank you for your willingness to serve me in that, daughter," the captain returned pleasantly, "but you will find quite enough to do here in your own house, and both your mamma vi and your sister grace have taken up your work in that line--sometimes one and sometimes the other following my dictation upon the typewriter." "oh, i am glad that they can and will, for your sake, father, but i hope i shall be permitted to do a little of my old work for you once in a while." "that is altogether likely," he said. "but now as we have finished eating and drinking shall we not take our stroll about the grounds?" they did so, chatting pleasantly as was their wont; then returning to the veranda they found max and evelyn there. morning greetings were exchanged, then evelyn, saying that their breakfast was just ready, invited the captain to come in and share it. but he declined, giving the same reason as before to lucilla's invitation. "i am going home now to breakfast with wife and children," he said, "and i hope you older ones of my flock will join us a little later." "we will all be glad to do that, father," said max. "at least i can speak for myself and think i can for these two daughters of yours. woodburn is to me a dear old home where some of the happiest hours of my life have been spent." "and you can't love it much better than lu and i do," added evelyn. "no, he can't," assented lucilla. "lovely as is this sunnyside of ours, its chief attraction to me is its near neighborhood to woodburn--the home where i have passed such happy years under my father's loving care." the bright, dark eyes she lifted to his face as she spoke were full of daughterly love and reverence. "i am very glad you can look back upon them as happy years, daughter," he said, his eyes shining with pleasure and parental affection; "and that max is with you in that. i am glad, too, that you all appreciate this new home that i have taken so much pleasure in preparing for you." "we'd be the basest of ingrates, if we didn't, father dear!" exclaimed lucilla. "i for one, feel that you have done, and are doing far more for me than i deserve." "which is nothing new for our father," remarked max with a smile and look into his father's face that spoke volumes of filial regard, respect and devotion. "and i am fortunate indeed in having children so dutiful, affectionate and appreciative," returned the captain feelingly. he then took leave and went back to woodburn, lucilla accompanying him part of the way, then returning to sunnyside to give her orders for the day. that attended to, she joined max and eva upon the veranda. "the carriage is coming, lu," said eva; "are you ready for a drive? and have you decided where you wish to go?" "yes," was the reply, "i want to go over to woodburn for a bit of a chat with mamma vi about the preparations for this evening, in which i suppose you and max will join me; and then wouldn't you like to drive over to fairview for a call upon aunt elsie?" "yes, indeed! i think she and uncle are entitled to the first call from me, much as i want to see all the near and dear ones." "i perfectly agree with you in that, eva," said max. "they have filled the place of parents to you, and i for one," he added with a very loverlike smile, "am grateful to them for it." "as i am with still more reason," added evelyn. a few moments later found them on their way to woodburn. there was a glad welcome there followed by a few minutes' lively chat, principally in regard to the coming event of the evening--the expected gathering of invited guests, relatives, neighbours and friends to welcome the return of the newly-married couples from their bridal trip. "is there anything i can do to help with your preparations, mamma vi?" asked lucilla. "thank you, lu, but they are almost all made now, except what the servants will do," returned violet, adding laughingly. "and if they were not, it would surely hardly be the correct thing to let one of our brides be at the trouble of assisting with them." "both of them would be very glad to give their help, if it were desired or needed," said evelyn. "we feel privileged to offer assistance, because it is our father's house," she concluded with a smiling, affectionate look at the captain. "that is right, daughter," he said, both his tone and the expression of his countenance showing that he was pleased with her remark. "oh, lu, i have been making some changes in the rooms that were yours, but are mine now," said grace. "papa has provided some new pieces of furniture both there and in our little sitting-room and i want to show them to you, eva and max." she rose as she spoke, the others following her example. "are the rest of us invited, gracie?" asked violet, in an amused tone. "oh, yes, indeed!" was the gay rejoinder, "father and you, elsie and ned. company that is always acceptable to me wherever i go." "and to all of us," added lucilla. "most especially so to one who has often sighed in vain for it," said max. "have you wanted us sometimes when you were far away on the sea, brother max?" asked ned with a look of loving sympathy up into his brother's face. "yes, indeed, ned; and expect to do so again before very long." they were passing through the hall and up the stairway as they talked. "oh, the dear old rooms look lovely, lovely!" exclaimed lucilla, as they passed into the little sitting-room she had formerly shared with her sister grace, glanced around it and through the open doors into the two bedrooms. "it almost makes me homesick to be living in them again." "well, daughter, you may come back whenever you choose," her father said, with a look of mingled amusement and affection. "why, lu, i thought you loved that pretty new home papa has taken such pains to make ready for you and eva and max and chester," exclaimed elsie. "yes, so i do; but this old home has the added charm of being papa's also." "yes; but the other is so near that you can see him every day, and oftener, if you choose." "and talk to him at any moment through the telephone, if she prefers that to coming over here," said the captain. "oh, yes! how nice it is that our houses are all connected by telephone," exclaimed evelyn. "father, if i may, i think i'll go to yours and speak to aunt elsie now." "certainly, daughter," he returned, promptly leading the way. "i do so like that name from you, father dear," she said softly and smiling up into his face as they reached the instrument. "and i am glad my boy max has given me the right," he returned, bending down to kiss the ruby lips and smooth the shining hair. "shall i ring and call for you?" he asked. "if you please." it was mrs. leland who answered it. "hello, what is it?" "it is i, aunt elsie," returned evelyn. "i just called to know if you were in; because if you are, we are coming over directly to make you a call." "i think i shall be by the time you can get here," was the reply in a tone of amusement. "but please don't delay, as we were about to start for sunnyside in a few minutes." "oh, were you! then we will drive over at once and accompany you on the trip." "thank you; that will be most pleasant." eva stepped aside and lucilla took her place. "yes, aunt elsie, you will be a most welcome visitor in both divisions of sunnyside. please don't neglect mine." "i certainly do not intend to," was the cheerily-spoken response, "for your half of the dwelling is doubtless quite as well worth seeing as the other, and its occupants seem very near and dear." "thank you. good-bye now till we arrive at fairview." "we would better start for that place presently," said max. "we can view the beauties of this any day. wont you go with us, grace? there is a vacant seat in the carriage." "yes, do; we'd be glad to have you," urged both eva and lucilla, the latter adding, "you have hardly yet taken a look at our new homes with us in them." "yes, go, daughter; i think you will enjoy it," her father said in reply to a questioning glance from her beautiful blue eyes, directed to him. "thank you all three," she said. "i will go if i may have ten minutes in which to get ready." "fifteen, if necessary," replied max, in sportive tone. "even that great loss of time will be well paid for by the pleasure of your good company." "a well-turned compliment, brother mine," returned grace, as she tripped away in search of hat and wrap; for the air was cool in driving. "why shouldn't elsie go too? there is plenty of room for her; and ned can ride alongside on his pony, which i see is down yonder ready saddled and bridled," said max, putting an arm round his little sister, as she stood by his side, and looking smilingly at her, then at ned. "can't they go, father and mamma vi?" both parents gave a ready consent, the children were delighted with the invitation, and presently the party set out on their way to fairview. it was a short and pleasant drive, and they were greeted with a joyous welcome on their arrival at evelyn's old home, mr. and mrs. leland and their four children meeting them on the veranda with smiles, pleasant words and caresses for grace, eva, lucilla and elsie. then they were taken within and to the dining-room, where a delicate and appetizing lunch was awaiting them. "it is a little early for lunch," said mrs. leland, "but we knew you would be wanting to get back to sunnyside soon, in order not to miss the numerous calls about to be made you by friends and connections who are all anxious to see the pretty new home and its loved occupants." "we will be glad to see them, aunt elsie," said evelyn, "and to show our lovely homes; and i can assure you that no one can be more welcome there than you and uncle and these dear cousins of mine." "and please understand that eva has expressed my sentiments as fully as her own," added lucilla in a sprightly tone. "mine also," said max. "but don't any one of you feel that this meal is to be taken in haste," said mr. leland, hospitably, "that is very bad for digestion and we may take plenty of time, even at the risk of having some of your callers get to sunnyside ahead of us." his advice was taken and much pleasant chat indulged in while they ate. "you and uncle, of course, expect to be at woodburn to-night, aunt elsie?" said evelyn. "oh, yes; and expect to have you all here to-morrow night. there is to be quite a round of parties--as doubtless you know--to celebrate the great event of your and lu's entrance into the bonds of matrimony. there will be none saturday night, but the round will begin again monday evening by a party at ion given by mamma, edward and zoe. tuesday evening we are all to go to the oaks; then after that will be the laurel's, roselands, beechwood, pinegrove, ashlands and others." "don't forget aunt rosie's at riverside, mamma," prompted allie, her nine-year-old daughter. "no," returned her mother, "that would be quite too bad, for there is no one more ready to do honor to these dear friends of ours; especially now when they have just begun married life." "ah, aunt elsie, that sounds as though you considered it something to one's credit to have left a life of single blessedness for one in the married state," laughed lucilla. "a state which i have found so pleasant that i think no one deserves any credit for entering it," was mrs. leland's smiling rejoinder. "and i have noticed," said max, "that as a rule those who have tried it once are very ready to try it again--widows and widowers seem in more haste to marry than bachelors and maids." "'marry in haste and repent at leisure,'" quoted grace, laughingly. "father takes care that his children don't do the first, perhaps to secure them from the second." "and we all have great confidence in our father's wisdom; as well as his strong affection for us, his children," remarked max. a sentiment which the others--his wife and sisters--promptly and cordially endorsed. chapter ii. immediately on leaving the table, they all--entertainers and entertained--set out on the short drive to sunnyside, where, on arriving, they found their relatives and friends from beechwood and the oaks waiting to offer their congratulations and wish them happiness and prosperity in their married life. being all acquaintances and friends of so long standing, they were shown over the whole house by the happy owners, and cordial congratulations were freely bestowed. "in view of the comforts, conveniences and beauties of the establishment, i should like to see chester and offer my congratulations on his success in winning a lovely wife, and having so delightful a home to share with her," remarked mrs. horace dinsmore, as she was about leaving. "but i can't stay longer if i am to make due preparation for attending the party at woodburn to-night," she added. "and you wouldn't miss that for something, would you?" laughed mrs. hugh lilburn. "i am sure i wouldn't." "no; for i daresay we will have a delightful time. i know no better entertainers than the captain and vi." "nor do i," said mrs. leland; "and this being so extra an occasion they will doubtless do their best." "i think they will, and i hope no invited guest will stay away or be disappointed," said grace, with a merry look and smile. "no danger of either calamity, gracie," said mrs. dinsmore. "ah, there's our carriage at the door," and with a hasty good-bye and a cordial invitation to all present to make frequent visits at the oaks, she and her husband and daughter departed. the beechwood friends lingered a little longer, as did those from fairview and woodburn. but at length grace said she thought it time to go home for, of course, there were some matters she ought to attend to in preparation for the evening. "shall i send you in the carriage?" asked lucilla. "oh, no, thank you, sister dear; the short walk will be good for me," returned grace gaily, "for elsie, too, i think, and for ned; though he, i suppose, will prefer to ride his pony." "yes, of course i will," said ned. "he needs to be taken home, anyway." they made their adieus and passed out on the veranda. a servant brought the pony up, and ned was about to mount when the little steed remarked, "i think a young gentleman might feel ashamed to ride while his lady sisters must go afoot." "you do!" exclaimed ned, drawing back with a look of mingled surprise and chagrin. "well, they said they wanted to walk--preferred it to riding; and--and besides they couldn't both ride on your back at once." "two do ride the same horse at once sometimes," seemed to come very distinctly from the pony's lips. "who is making you talk, i wonder?" cried ned, turning to look about him. "oh, brother max, it was you, wasn't it?" as he caught sight of his brother and sisters standing near. "what was?" asked max quietly. "the person making the pony talk. i almost thought for a minute it really was the pony; though, of course, ponies can't talk. and i didn't mean to be selfish. gracie won't you ride him home? elsie and i can walk just as well as not." "yes, of course we can; it's a very short and very pleasant walk," returned elsie, with prompt cheerfulness. "so gracie dear, you ride the pony." "thank you both," said grace, "but i really prefer to walk, as i have had very little exercise to-day." "there, you silly little pony, see what a mistake you made!" cried ned gleefully, as he mounted his steed. "well, little master, didn't you make a mistake, too?" the pony seemed to ask. "oh, brother max, i know it's you, so only good fun," laughed ned. "good-bye all. i'll get home first and tell papa and mamma you are coming, gracie and elsie." with the last words, he galloped down the avenue, leaving max and his sisters standing on the veranda looking after him. "doesn't he ride well?" exclaimed grace, in a tone that spoke much sisterly pride and affection. the others gave a hearty assent, max adding, "he is a dear little, bright little chap. i am decidedly proud of my only brother." "as i am of my little one; but still more so of my older one," said lucilla. "but i must go back to my remaining guests. good-bye, my two dear sisters. i shall expect and hope to see you both over here every day." "it is very likely you will see us here at least that often," laughed grace, "and we will expect an honest return of each and every visit." "we'll get it, too," cried elsie; "lu could never stay away a whole day from papa." "it would certainly take very strong compulsion to make me do so," said lucilla. "good-bye again. i hope to see you both in my old home a few hours hence, and here some time to-morrow." with that she passed into the house while her sisters hastened away in the direction of woodburn. "it will soon be time to send the carriage for chester," said max, accompanying her, "suppose i give the order now." "yes, do," she replied, "i'd like to have him here as soon as possible; and if he should not be quite ready, jack and the carriage can be kept waiting." "certainly. i'll go and give the order, then rejoin you and our guests in the drawing-room." as max stepped out upon the veranda again two carriages came driving up the avenue--one bringing mr. and mrs. lacey from the laurels, the other mr. and mrs. croly from riverside. "oh, max, how glad i am to see you again!" exclaimed rosie, as he assisted her to alight. "it seems an age since you went away, and you have been exposed to such perils i hope i shall have a chance to hear the story of your experiences in that fight at manila. such a chance as i couldn't get at any of the late parties." "thank you, i hope we will have time and opportunity for a number of talks," he replied, releasing the hand she had put into his and turning to greet mrs. lacey, whom he addressed as aunt rose, and whose greeting was quite as cordial as her niece's had been. "you have the fairview and beechwood folks here now i see," remarked mrs. croly, glancing toward their waiting vehicles. "yes; walk in and let us have you all together," returned max. "we will make a small party in anticipation of the large one to be held at woodburn some hours hence." "yes," assented rosie, "we are all relatives and friends, and i for one can never see too much of sister elsie or cousin ronald, to speak of only one of each family." hearty greetings were exchanged, a short time spent in cheerful chat, then one set of visitors after another took their departure till at length max, evelyn and lucilla were left alone, though looking almost momentarily for chester's homecoming. "it has probably been a hard day with him. i fear he will be too weary for much enjoyment to-night," sighed lucilla. "i hope not," said max. "the meeting with so many relatives and friends will probably be restful. ah, there's the carriage now, just coming up the driveway." it brought chester, and he showed himself to be in excellent spirits, though somewhat weary with the labors of the day. he reported that all seemed to be going right with the business in hand, and he had little doubt that he should gain his hoped-for reward. his audience of three listened with keen interest to all he had to say. when he had finished eva rose saying, "i must go now and attend to housekeeping matters so that max and i may be ready in good season for our woodburn festivities." "stay, eva," said lucilla, "i have ordered an early light tea for the four of us. we wont want a very hearty meal to spoil our appetites for the refreshments to be served at woodburn." "no, certainly not; it is very kind in you to provide for us as well as for yourselves," returned evelyn; max adding, "it is, indeed, sister mine." "well, really," laughed lucilla, "it was for my own pleasure quite as much as for yours." and tears came into the eyes gazing with sisterly affection into those of max. "i want to entertain you while i can," she added, "for there is no knowing when uncle sam may be ordering you quite out of reach." "oh, don't let us talk of that!" exclaimed eva. "let us banish it from our thoughts for the present." "that is good advice," said max, his voice a trifle husky; "it's what i'm trying to do for the present; for however much a man may love the service--a little wife such as mine must be far nearer and dearer." "yes," said chester; "if you had only chosen the law, we might now be partners in my office, as well as in this house." "and i perhaps might ruin the business by my stupidity," returned max, with playful look and tone. "hark! there's the tea-bell," said lucilla. "i invite you all out to the dining-room." after a pleasant social half hour spent at the tea-table, each couple retired to their own apartments to dress for the evening entertainment at woodburn. "this is one of the occasions for the wearing of the wedding-gown, is it not?" max said inquiringly to evelyn, as they passed into her dressing-room. "yes," she said lightly. "you will not mind seeing me in it for the second time, will you?" "i shall be very glad to. it is both beautiful and becoming," he returned, with a fond look and smile. "ah, my eva, i think no one ever had a sweeter bride than mine," he added, passing his arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "they say love is blind and it must be that which makes me look so lovely in your eyes; for my features are by no means so good and regular as those of some others--your sisters lu and grace, for instance," returned evelyn, with a pleased little laugh. "those sisters of mine are both beautiful in my eyes, but there is something--to me--still sweeter in this dear face," he answered to that, giving her a fond caress as he spoke. "and your love is so sweet to me, i am so glad to belong to you," she returned low and feelingly, laying her head on his breast while glad tears shone in her eyes. "i have only one cause for grief left," she went on presently--"that we cannot live together all the time, as lu and chester may; yet spite of that i would not change with her or anybody else." "i hope not, darling," he said, laughingly. "nor would i any more than you. i think we were made for each other." "so do i; and when compelled to part for a season we will console ourselves by looking forward to the joy of the reunion." "so we will, dear one; and in the meantime we will have the pleasure of correspondence." "yes, indeed! a letter from my husband will be a great treasure and delight to me." "not more than will be one from my wife to me," he returned, giving her a gleeful caress. meantime, chester and his lucilla were similarly engaged. chester was very proud and fond of his bride and anxious to show her to neighbours and friends in her wedding dress; so expressed his satisfaction when he saw it laid out in readiness for the occasion. "i am glad it pleases you," said lucilla, "and i own to liking it right well myself. eva is going to wear hers, too. so it will seem something like a repetition of our wedding day." "which makes it very suitable for your father's house. it was a disappointment to him, i know, not to have his daughter and son married in his own house." "yes, i suppose so; but dear father is so unselfish that he preferred to let us have our own way, especially on eva's account." "i know it, and mean to try to copy his example in that--seeking to please others rather than myself." "as i do; i should like to resemble him in character and conduct as much as some persons tell me i do in features and expression." "yes; you are very like him in both," chester said, with an affectionate and admiring look and smile; "in character and conduct also, if your admiring husband be any judge." the sunnyside couples were the first of the guests to reach woodburn--though, in fact, they hardly considered themselves guests, or were deemed such by the family there; it was but going home to their father's house, where they had an hour of keen enjoyment before other relatives and guests began to arrive. everything went smoothly; the company was made up of congenial spirits, the entertainment was fine and evidently enjoyed, and when they bade good-night and scattered to their homes it was with the expectation of meeting again the next evening at fairview. the dinsmores of the oaks had planned to give the second entertainment, but mr. and mrs. leland claimed it as their right, because of their near relationship to evelyn, and the fact that fairview had been her home for so many years. they were now nearing the end of the week; this was thursday, the fairview party would be held on friday evening and saturday all preferred to spend quietly in their own homes or with the nearest and dearest. and that was the plan carried out. the fairview party passed off as successfully as had the woodburn one, and saturday and sunday brought a rest from festivities which was welcome to all. chapter iii. lucilla could never stay long away from her old home in her father's house; she was there every day and often two or three times a day. "father," she said, on that first saturday after taking possession of the new home, "mayn't we sunnyside folks come over here and join your bible class to-morrow evening?" "my dear child, it is just what i would have you do," he returned, with a gratified and loving smile. "don't forget that woodburn is still your home--one of your homes at least--and that you are always welcome and more than welcome to join us when you will. you are my own daughter as truly as ever you were." "and just as glad to be as ever i was," she exclaimed, with a bright, loving look and smile. "and to do your bidding at all times, father dear," she added. "provided it does not interfere with chester's," max, who happened to be present, suggested a little mischievously. "hardly any danger of that, i think," remarked his father, with a slightly amused look; "chester is a reasonable fellow, and i have no intention of interfering with his rights." "and he thinks almost as highly of my father's wisdom as i do," said lucilla. "but not more than max and i do," said evelyn, giving the captain a very filial and admiring look; "and you will take us in as members of your class, too, wont you father?" "it is just what i desire to do," was the pleased reply. "max has always been a member when at home; and you, you know, are now his better half." eva shook her head and with a merry, laughing look at max, said, "not just that, father; i should say the smaller partner in the firm." "that will do, too," smiled the captain, "since the most costly goods are apt to be done up in the smallest packages." "ah, eva, my dear, you are answered," laughed max. "what is to be the subject of to-morrow's lesson, captain?" asked mrs. elsie travilla, sitting near. "i have not decided that question yet, mother, and should be glad of a suggestion from you," he replied in a kindly, respectful tone. "i have been thinking a good deal lately of the signs of the times," she said, "and whether they do not show that we are nearing the end of this dispensation. that might perhaps be a profitable and interesting question to take up and endeavor to solve." "no doubt it would be," he replied, "and i hope you will come prepared to give us some information as to what the scriptures say on the subject, and what are the views of biblical scholars who have been giving it particular attention." "i will do what i can in that line, and hope you, captain, and others will come prepared to take part in considering the subject." "certainly a most interesting one," said violet. "and one which must lead to great searching of the scriptures as the only infallible source of information," added the captain. "yes," said grandma elsie, "they are the only authority on that subject. and how thankful we should be that we have them." sabbath afternoon proved bright and clear, and brought to woodburn quite a gathering of the relatives and friends; for all loved the bible studies they had for years taken together. mr. lilburn, as the eldest, was persuaded to take the lead. "i understand," he said, "that to-day we are to take up the question whether the second coming of our lord jesus christ may, or may not, be near. the scriptures are our sole authority, and you are all invited to bring forward anything from them which may seem to you to have a bearing on the subject." then turning to mrs. travilla, "cousin elsie," he said, "you are, probably, the one among us the most thoroughly prepared to do so; please let us hear from you." "i doubt if i am better prepared than some of the rest of you," she replied, "but i have been very much interested in the subject; particularly of late, and have searched the bible for texts bearing upon it, some of which i will read. here in the first chapter of acts we read that the disciples asked, 'lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the kingdom to israel? and he said unto them, it is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the father hath put in his own power. but ye shall receive power, after that the holy ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in jerusalem and in all judea, and in samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth. and when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, he was taken up and the clouds received him out of their sight. and while they looked steadfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel; which also said, ye men of gallilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? this same jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.' and," continued grandma elsie, "the apostle john gives us the same promise here in the first chapter of the revelation," turning to the passage as she spoke, then reading it aloud, "'behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him.'" "i have heard the idea advanced that death is the coming of christ to the dying one," remarked chester, in a tone of inquiry. "but we are told," said mrs. travilla, "that 'as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the son of man be.' that description certainly could not apply to the death hour of any christian, nor to the conversion of any sinner." "and his second coming is spoken of in the same way in a number of places in the different gospels," said evelyn. "here, in luke, we have christ's own words, 'whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the son of man be ashamed, when he shall come in his glory, and in his father's, and of the holy angels.' and again in matthew : , 'for the son of man shall come in the glory of his father with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works.'" "the disciples wanted to know when that second coming would be," remarked violet; "here in matthew : , we are told, 'and as he sat upon the mount of olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, "tell us when shall these things be and what shall be the sign of thy coming and of the end of the world?" and jesus answered and said unto them, "take heed that no man deceive you."' "i shall not read the whole chapter, for i know it is familiar to you all; but in the th verse he says, 'for as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the son of man be. for wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together. immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken: and then shall appear the sign of the son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. and he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.'" "many persons," remarked grandma elsie, "tell us it is not worth while to consider at all the question of the time when christ will come again; quoting the text, 'but of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels in heaven, but my father only.' but again and again our saviour repeated his warning, 'watch, therefore; for ye know not what hour your lord doth come.... therefore be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not the son of man cometh.'" "i do not quite understand this," said grace. "luke says, here in the st chapter, th verse--quoting the words of the master--'and when ye shall see jerusalem compassed with armies, then know that the desolation thereof is nigh. then let them which are in judea flee to the mountains; and let them which are in the midst of it depart out.' how could they depart out of the city while it was compassed with armies?" "there is a satisfactory explanation," replied her father, "in the twelfth year of nero, cestius gallus, the president of syria, came against jerusalem with a powerful army. josephus says of him: 'he might have assaulted and taken the city, and thereby put an end to the war; but without any just reason, and contrary to the expectation of all, he raised the siege and departed.' the historians, epiphanius and eusebius, tell us that immediately after the departure of the armies of cestius gallus, and while vespasian was approaching with his army, all who believed in christ left jerusalem and fled to pella and other places beyond the river jordan." "every one of them, papa?" asked ned. "yes; dr. adam clarke says 'it is very remarkable that not a single christian perished in the destruction of jerusalem, though there were many there when cestius gallus invested the city.'" "papa," asked elsie, "don't you think god put it in the heart of that cestius gallus to go away with his troops before vespasian got there; so that the christians had an opportunity to escape?" "i certainly do, daughter," was the captain's emphatic reply. "had not the earlier prophets foretold the destruction of jerusalem?" asked lucilla. "yes," said mr. lilburn; "even as early a one as moses. here in the th chapter of deuteronomy he says 'the lord shall bring a nation against thee from far, from the east of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand.'" "the romans?" elsie said, inquiringly. "yes; their ensign was an eagle and their language the latin, which the jews did not understand. the prophesy of moses continues. in the d verse he says, 'and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates, until thy high and fenced walls come down; wherein thou trustedst, throughout all thy land: and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates throughout thy land, which the lord thy god hath given thee. and thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the lord thy god hath given thee, in the siege and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee.'" "oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed elsie. "and did all that happen at the siege of jerusalem?" "yes; it lasted so long that famine was added to all the other sufferings of the besieged. so dreadful was it that mothers would snatch the food from their children in their distress, and many houses were found full of women and children who had died of starvation. josephus tells of human flesh being eaten; particularly of a lady of rank who killed, roasted and ate her own son. and so the prophecy of moses was fulfilled." "oh, how dreadful, how dreadful!" sighed elsie. "yes," said mr. lilburn, "it was the fulfillment of our saviour's prophecy as he beheld jerusalem and wept over it, saying, 'if thou hadst known, even thou at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. for the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation.' that is told us in the th chapter of luke. in the st we read, 'and they shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led away captive into all nations: and jerusalem shall be trodden down of the gentiles, until the times of the gentiles be fulfilled.'" "have those times been fulfilled yet?" asked ned. "no, not yet," replied mr. lilburn; "the turks still have possession of jerusalem, though the jews have begun to return to palestine and the turkish power grows weaker. but the time of the gentiles will not be fulfilled until the work of the gospel is finished." "and when will that be, cousin ronald?" asked ned. "i cannot say exactly," answered the old gentleman, "but the trend of events does seem to show that we are nearing that time--such a feeling of unrest all over the world, some men--comparatively a few--accumulating enormous quantities of wealth by paying their laborers a mere pittance for their work, while the cost of living goes higher and higher. this is a land of plenty, and but for the grasping selfishness of some, none need lack for abundance of the necessaries of life." "i wish nobody did lack for plenty to eat and drink, and wear," said elsie, "and i want to do all i can to help those who haven't enough." "i hope you will, daughter," the captain said, in a tone of pleased approval. "and now the important thing for us to consider is what is our duty, in view of the very possible nearness of christ's second coming." "he has told us again and again to watch and be ready," said grandma elsie; "yet we are not to be idle, but to work while it is called to-day; to occupy till he comes; to be not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the lord." chapter iv. for the next week or two, family parties for the honor and entertainment of the newly-married ones were frequent. life seemed to them bright and joyous, except when they remembered that max would probably soon be ordered away, perhaps to some distant quarter of the globe. an unwelcome anticipation not to them only, but to his father and the others at woodburn, and in a slighter degree to all the connection. but orders had not come yet, and they still hoped they might be delayed for weeks, giving opportunity for many quiet home pleasures. yet there were drawbacks to even those, in the fact that several of the near connection were ailing from colds caught during their round of festivities--grandma elsie and chester dinsmore being of those most seriously affected. chester was confined to the house for several days, under the doctor's care, and it was against medical advice that he then returned to his labors at his office. lucilla was troubled and anxious, and, as usual, went to her father for sympathy and advice. they had a chat together in the library at woodburn. "i feel for you, daughter," captain raymond said, "but keep up your courage; 'all is not lost that is in danger.' i have been thinking that a southerly trip in the yacht might prove of benefit to both grandma elsie and chester, and quite agreeable to the members of my family and other friends for whom we could find room." "oh, father, that would be delightful!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "and i hope you will persuade harold to make one of the company, for grace's sake, and so that we will not be without a physician." "yes, that is a part of my plan, and i have little doubt of its acceptance, grace's companionship being a great attraction to my young brother-in-law." "'speak of angels and you will hear the flutter of their wings,'" laughed lucilla, as at that moment harold appeared in the doorway. "am i the angel, and may i fly in?" he asked, joining in the laugh. "certainly, you are just in the nick of time to advise us in a matter of importance which we were discussing," replied the captain, inviting him by a gesture to an easy chair near at hand, then repeating to him the substance of what he had been saying to lucilla, finishing with a request for his opinion in regard to the plan. "i like it extremely," harold said. "i think nothing could be better for either mother or chester, and the sooner we make ready and start the better for both, if they will be persuaded to go; of which i have little doubt." "i am somewhat afraid chester may refuse for business reasons," sighed lucilla. "i think we can persuade him of the folly of that," said her father. "it would be far wiser and better to give up business for a time for the gaining of health, than to so wreck that by overtaxing strength of body and mind as to shorten his days or make himself an invalid for life." "it certainly would," said harold, "and i hope that among us we can convince him that duty, as well as pleasure, calls him to make one of our party." "duty to his wife as well as to himself," said lucilla, in a lively tone; "for i should neither willingly go without him or stay behind with him." "where are vi, grace and the children?" asked harold. "i have not seen or heard anything of them since i came in." "max and eva have taken them driving in our fine new carriage--father's wedding gift," replied lucilla, with a smiling glance into her father's eyes. "that is, all but ned who rides his pony alongside." "ah, and here they come now!" exclaimed harold, glancing from the window, "the carriage has just turned in at the gates." and with that the three arose and hastened out to the veranda, to greet and assist them to alight. but the moment the carriage drew up before the entrance the door was thrown open and max, then chester, sprang out and turned to hand out the ladies--grandma elsie, eva, violet, grace and her sister elsie, while at the same time ned was dismounting from his pony. warm greetings were exchanged, and as the weather was now too cool for comfortable sitting upon the veranda the captain led the way to the library--a favorite resort with them all. "your call is an agreeable surprise, mother," he said to grandma elsie, as he drew forward an easy chair for her; "harold had just been telling us that you were almost ill with a cold." "i have a rather bad one, but thought a drive through the bracing air, and in such pleasant company, might prove beneficial rather than otherwise," she answered in cheery tones, adding "and i knew harold was here and could take me home in his conveyance." "certainly, mother, and will be very glad of your good company," said harold, while at the same time violet exclaimed, "but why go at all to-night, mother? why not stay here with us?" "thank you, daughter," was the smiling reply; "that would be pleasant, but there are some things to be attended to at home." "and not being well, she would better have her doctor close at hand," remarked harold, in playful tone. "mother, we have been contriving a plan to help you and chester to get the better of your colds." "ah, what is that?" she asked, and harold, turning to the captain, said, "let mother hear it from you, brother levis, if you please." "we are thinking of taking a southward trip in the 'dolphin,' mother--visiting the bermudas, bahamas and other of the west indies and the coast of brazil." "why, that would be a lovely trip!" she exclaimed. "many thanks to you, captain, for including me among your invited guests." "many thanks to you, mother, if you consent to make one of our party," he returned, looking greatly pleased to find her so ready to approve of and share their plans. eager, excited remarks and queries now followed in rapid succession from the others present--"when was the start to be made? who besides grandma elsie and the captain were to compose the party?" "all who are here now are invited and expected to go; some others of our friends also," replied the captain, "and i hope no one will refuse." "thanks, warm thanks," said chester. "i should be delighted to go, but fear business will prevent." "as your physician, ches, i strongly advise you not to let it," said harold. "a good rest now in a warm climate may restore you to vigorous health, while if you stay at home and stick to business you are likely to either cut your life short or make yourself a confirmed invalid for the rest of it." "do you really think so, cousin doctor?" was chester's rejoinder in a troubled voice. "i do most emphatically," returned harold. "you may be very thankful, cousin, that this good opportunity offers." "i am," said chester. then turning to the captain. "thank you very much, sir, for the invitation, which i accept, if my wife will go with me." "you needn't doubt that," laughed lucilla. "there is nothing i like better than a trip on my father's yacht, with him and all my dear ones about me." "and it's just the same with all the rest of us," said grace. "and how is it with max and eva?" asked the captain. "i know of nothing more enjoyable than that--a trip on the 'dolphin' taken in the company of one's dear ones," replied evelyn with a loving look into the eyes of her young husband. "just my opinion," he said, with a smile; "the only question with me is, will uncle sam allow me a sufficiently long leave of absence." "your leave of absence has nearly expired?" his father said, inquiringly. "yes, sir; so nearly that i should hardly feel surprised to receive orders any day." "well, i hope, instead, you may get another leave, allowing you time to make one of our party." "it would be a very great pleasure to me, sir," said max. "but i have had so long a one already that i can hardly hope for another very soon." "oh, max!" exclaimed grace, "do write at once asking to have it extended; it would double our pleasure to have you along." "yes, max, do," said lucilla. "i can hardly bear the thought of going without you." evelyn, sitting close at his side, looked her entreaties, while violet said, "yes, max, do; it will double our enjoyment to have you and eva along." then chester, grandma elsie, harold and the children added their entreaties, expressing their desire for his company on the trip and ned exclaimed, "yes, brother max, do get leave to go along; we'll want you to make fun for us with your ventriloquism." "is that all you want me for, neddie boy?" laughed max. "if so, cousin ronald will answer your purpose quite as well, if not better." "but two can make more fun than one; and i want you besides, because i am really fond of you--the only brother i've got." "ah, that sounds better," said max; "but i really can't go without uncle sam's permission." "then please do ask him to give it." "yes, do, max," said grace; "i really think he might give it, considering what good service you did at manila." "it was not very much that i accomplished personally," returned max modestly, "and the two months' rest i have had is probably quite as much as i may be supposed to have earned. especially as it gave me the opportunity to secure my wife," he added, with a very affectionate look at evelyn. "i wish you might be able to go with us, max, my son," said the captain, "for leaving ventriloquism entirely out of the account, i should be very glad to have your company. but the service, of course, has the first claim on you." "so i think, sir; and as for the ventriloquism, my little brother is so hungry for, cousin ronald can supply it should you take him as one of your passengers." "and that we will, if he and his wife can be persuaded to go," returned the captain, heartily. "oh, good, papa!" cried ned, clapping his hands in glee, "then we'll have at least one ventriloquist, if we can't have two." "and, after all, the ventriloquism was really all you wanted me for, eh?" said max, assuming a tone and look of chagrin. "oh, no! no! brother max," cried ned, with a look of distress. "i didn't mean that! you know you're the only brother i have and i'm really fond of you." "as i am of you, little brother, and have been ever since you were born," said max, regarding the little fellow with an affectionate smile. "oh, max, i wish you hadn't gone into the navy," sighed lucilla. "i don't," he returned, cheerfully, "though i acknowledge that it is hard parting with home and dear ones." "that is bad, as i know by experience," said their father, "but then we have the compensating joy of the many reunions." "yes, sir; and a great joy it is," responded max. "how soon, father, do you think of starting on your southward trip?" "just as soon as all necessary arrangements can be made, which, i suppose, will not be more than a week from this, at farthest. i can have the yacht made ready in less time than that, and for the sake of our invalids it would be well to go as promptly as possible." "couldn't you make use of the telephone now, to give your invitations, my dear?" queried violet. "why, yes; that is a wise suggestion. i will do so at once," he replied, and hastily left the room, promising to return presently with the reply from beechwood to which he would call first. the invitation was accepted promptly and with evident pleasure, as the captain presently reported in the library. "now, mother, shall i give my invitation in the same way to our own friends?" he asked, turning to grandma elsie. "perhaps it would be as well to send it by harold and me," she said, "as that will delay it very little, and i can perhaps help them to perceive what a delightful trip it is likely to prove." "and then, mamma, you can give us their view by the 'phone," said violet. "i, or some one of the family will," she said. "and now, harold, we will go and attend to the matter at once." chapter v. captain raymond's invitation proved scarcely less agreeable to mr. and mrs. dinsmore than to their younger friends and relatives, and their acceptance was telephoned to woodburn before the sunnyside party had left for their homes. all heard it with satisfaction, for grandpa and grandma dinsmore were pleasant traveling companions. some lively chat followed, in regard to needed preparations for the trip, and in the midst of it a servant came in with the afternoon mail. the captain distributed it and among max's portion was a document of official appearance. evelyn noted it with a look of apprehension, and drew nearer to her young husband's side. "orders, my son?" asked the captain, when max had opened it and glanced over the contents. "yes, sir; i am to go immediately to washington, upon the expiration of my leave which will be about the time the rest of you set sail in the 'dolphin.'" the announcement seemed quite a damper upon the previous high spirits of the little company, and there were many expressions of disappointment and regret. "well," said chester, getting on his feet as he spoke, "i must go home now; there is a little matter in regard to one of my cases that must be attended to at once, since i am likely to leave the neighborhood so soon." "and if my husband goes, i must go, too," said lucilla, in a lively tone, rising and taking up the wrap she had thrown off on coming into the warm room. "it is near the dinner hour; you would better stay, all of you, and dine with us," said the captain. all thanked him, but declined, each having some special reason for wishing to go home at that particular time. "well, come in and share a meal with us whenever you will," said the captain. "i think you know, one and all, that you are heartily welcome." "yes, father, we do," said max, "and we are always glad when you care to breakfast, dine, or sup with us." "any of us but papa?" asked ned. "yes, indeed; all of you from mamma vi down," laughed max, giving the little fellow an affectionate clap on the shoulder as he passed him on his way out to the hall. "yes, ned, each one of you will always be a most welcome visitor," said chester. "indeed you will, you may be very sure of that," added lucilla and eva. "so sure are we of that, that you need not be surprised to see any of us at any time," laughed violet. "nor will we be surprised or grieved to see any or all of you at any time." "no, indeed! i want my daughters--and sons also--all to feel entirely at home always in their father's house," the captain said, with his genial smile. "thank you, father dear, and don't forget that sunnyside is one of your homes, and we are always ever so glad to open its doors to you," said lucilla, going to him and holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with warmth of affection. "and not lu's side only, but ours as well," added evelyn, holding out her hand and looking up lovingly into his face. he took the hand, drew her closer to him and gave her a caress as affectionate as that he had just bestowed upon lucilla. the rest of the good-byes were quickly said, and both young couples were wending their homeward way. they were all in thoughtful mood, and the short walk was taken in almost unbroken silence. eva's heart was full at thought of the approaching separation from her young husband. how could she bear it? he seemed almost all the world to her, now that they had been for weeks such close companions, and life without his presence would be lonely and desolate indeed. she passed up the stairway to their bedroom, while he paused in the hall below to remove his overcoat and hat. her eyes were full of tears, as she disposed of her wraps, then crossed the room to her mirror to see that dress and hair were in perfect order. "no improvement needed, my own love, my darling," max said, coming up behind her and passing an arm about her waist. at that she turned and hid her face upon his breast. "oh, max, my husband, my dear, dear husband," she sobbed, "how can i live away from you? you are now more than all the world to me." "as you are to me, dear love. it is hard to part, but we will hope to meet again soon; and in the meantime let us write to each other every day. and as there is no war now you need not feel that your husband is in any special danger." "yes, thank god for that," she said, "and that we may know that we are both in his kind care and keeping wherever we are." "and surely you will be less lonely than you were before our marriage--father claims you as his daughter, chester and little ned are your brothers, lu and grace your sisters." "yes, oh yes; i have a great deal to be thankful for, but you are to me a greater blessing than all the world." "as you are to me, dearest," was his response, as he held her close to his heart, pressing warm kisses on cheek and brow and lip. meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, chester and lucilla were chatting about the captain's plan for a winter trip. "i think it will be just delightful, chester," she said, "since i am to have you along. i am so glad you are going, sorry as i am that ill-health makes it necessary." "yes, my dear," he returned with a smile, "i am fortunate, indeed, in having so loving a wife and so kind and able a father-in-law. i am truly sorry that i must leave some important business matters to which i should like to give attention promptly and in person, but i intend to put that care aside and enjoy our holiday as fully as possible. i heartily wish max could go with us. i think it would almost double the pleasure of the trip." "as i do," responded lucilla, with a sigh; "but it seems one can never have all one wants in this world. i doubt if it would be good for us if we could." "no, it assuredly would not. now, my dear, i am going down to the library to look at some papers connected with one of my cases, and shall probably be busy over them until the call to dinner." the next few days were busy ones with those who were to have a part in the southern trip of the "dolphin." woodburn and sunnyside were to be left in the care of christine and alma, with a sufficient number of servants under them to keep everything in order. max went with the others to the yacht, spent a half hour there, then bade good-bye, went ashore and took a train for washington. it was eva's first parting from her husband, and she shut herself into her stateroom for a cry to relieve her pent-up feelings of grief and loneliness. but presently there was a gentle little tap at the door and elsie raymond's sweet voice asked, "sister eva, dear, don't you want to come on deck with me and see them lift the anchor and start the 'dolphin' on her way?" "yes, dear little sister; thank you for coming for me," replied evelyn, opening the door. "all the rest of us were there and i thought you would like to be there, too," continued the little girl, as they passed through the saloon and on up the stairway. "yes, little sister, it was very kind in you to think of me." "but i wasn't the only one; everybody seemed to be thinking of you and looking round for you. so i asked papa if i should come for you, and he said yes." "it was very kind in both him and you, little sister elsie," eva said, with a smile. "our dear father is always kind, and i am very glad to be his daughter." "so am i," returned elsie, with a happy little laugh. "i think he's the dearest, kindest father that ever was made." they had just reached the deck at that moment, and as they stepped upon it they caught sight of harold and grace standing near, looking smilingly at them, pleased with elsie's tribute to her father, which they had accidentally overheard. "oh, uncle harold, you'll take sister eva to a good place to see everything from, wont you?" exclaimed elsie. "yes, little niece, the everything you mean," he returned, laughingly. "there is room for us all. come this way," he added, and led them to that part of the deck where the other passengers were grouped. there they were greeted with kindness and given a good place for seeing all the preparations for starting the vessel on her way to the bermudas. she was soon moving swiftly in that direction, and, a cool breeze having sprung up, her passengers left the deck for the warmer and more comfortable saloon. "elsie and ned wouldn't you like your grandma to tell you something about the islands we are going to?" asked mrs. travilla; the two little ones being, as usual, quite near her. "yes, indeed! grandma," both answered, in eager tones, seating themselves one on each side of her. "i heard papa say it wouldn't be a very long voyage we would take at the start, because the bermudas were only about six hundred miles away from our coast," said elsie. "they belong to england, don't they, grandma?" "yes; but they were named for a spaniard, bermudez, who first sighted them in ; they are also called somers's isles from sir george somers, an englishman, who was shipwrecked there in . that was what led to their colonization from virginia--two years later when it was itself only four years old. "are they big islands, grandma? and are there many of them?" asked ned. "no, there are perhaps five hundred of them, but the whole group measures only about twelve thousand acres in all. they occupy a space only about twenty miles long by six broad." "then the group isn't worth very much, i suppose." "yes, because its situation makes it a natural fortress which can hardly be overrated. they form a bond of union between two great divisions of british america; on each side of them is a highway between the gulf of mexico and the north atlantic. there are many picturesque creeks and bays, large and deep, the water so clear as to reveal, even to its lowest depths, the many varieties of fish sporting among the coral rocks, and the beautifully variegated shells." "and it has a warm climate, hasn't it, grandma?" asked elsie. "i think that is why we are going there." "yes, the climate is said to be like that of persia, with the addition of a constant sea-breeze." "i shall like that," responded the little girl with satisfaction. "but what kind of people live there, grandma?" "a good many whites and still more colored people." "slaves, grandma?" asked ned. "no; the islands belong to england, and years ago she abolished slavery in all her dominions." "what are the names of some of them, grandma? the islands, i mean." "the largest, which is fifteen miles long, is called bermuda; st. george is three and a half miles long and is the military station of the colony; it commands the entrance of the only passage for large vessels. its land-locked haven and the narrow and intricate channel leading into it are defended by strong batteries." "you have been there, haven't you, grandma?" "yes; years ago," she said, with a sigh, thinking of the loved partner of her life who had been with her then and there. "and your grandpa dinsmore and i were there at the same time," remarked grandma dinsmore, sitting near; and she went on to give a graphic account of scenes they had witnessed there, mr. dinsmore presently joining in a way to make it very interesting to the children. chapter vi. grandpa dinsmore had hardly finished relating his reminiscences of his former visits to the bermudas when a sailor-lad came down the companionway with a message from the captain--an invitation to any or all his passengers to come up on deck, as there was something he wished to show them. it was promptly and eagerly accepted by the young folks,--somewhat more slowly and sedately by the older ones. "what is it, papa? have you something to show us?" queried ned, as he gained his father's side. "something lying yonder in the sea, my son, the like of which you have never seen before," replied the captain, pointing to a large object in the water at some little distance. "ah, a whale!" exclaimed dr. travilla, who had come up on ned's other side. "to what genus does he belong, captain?" "he is a bottlenose; a migratory species, confined to the north atlantic. it ranges far northward in the summer, southward in the winter. in the early spring they may be found around iceland and greenland, western spitzbergen, in davis strait and probably about novaia zemlia." "oh, do they like to live right in among the icebergs, papa?" asked elsie. "no, they do not venture in among the ice itself, but frequent open bays along its margin, as in that way they are sheltered from the open sea." "the group gathered about the captain on the deck now comprised all his cabin passengers, not one of whom failed to be interested in the whale, or to have some remark to make or question to ask. "this one seems to be alone," remarked lucilla. "do they usually go alone, papa?" "no; they are generally found in herds of from four to ten; and many different herds may be found in sight at the same time. the old males, however, are frequently solitary; though sometimes one of them may be seen leading a herd. these whales don't seem to be afraid of ships, swimming around them and underneath the boats till their curiosity is satisfied." "i suppose they take them--the ships--for a kind of big fish," laughed ned. "why is this kind of whale called bottlenosed, papa?" asked elsie. "that name is given it because of the elevation of the upper surface of the head above the rather short beak and in front of the blow hole into a rounded abrupt prominence." "blow hole," repeated ned, wonderingly; "what's that, papa?" "the blow holes are their nostrils through which they blow out the water collected in them while they are down below the waves. they cannot breath under the water, but must come up frequently to take in a fresh supply of air. but first they must expel the air remaining in their lungs, before taking in a fresh supply. they send that air out with great force, so that it rises to a considerable height above the water, and as it is saturated with water-vapor at a high temperature, the contact with the cold outside air condenses the vapor which forms a column of steam or spray. often, however, a whale begins to blow before its nostrils are quite above the surface, and then some sea-water is forced up with the column of air." they were watching the whale while they talked; for it followed the yacht with seeming curiosity. at this moment it rolled over nearly on its side, then threw its ponderous tail high into the air, so that for an instant it was perpendicular to the water, then vanished from sight beneath the waves. "oh, dear," cried ned, "he's gone! i wish he'd stayed longer." "perhaps he will come back and give us the pleasure of seeing him spout," said the captain. "do you mean throw the water up out of its nostrils, papa?" asked ned. "oh, i'd like that!" "ah, there's the call to supper," said his father, as the summons came at that moment. "you wouldn't like to miss that?" "no, sir," returned ned, in a dubious tone. "but couldn't we let the supper wait till the whale comes up and gets done spouting?" "perhaps some of the older people may be too hungry to wait comfortably," returned his father; "and the supper might be spoiled by waiting. but cheer up, my son; the whale is not likely to come up to the surface again before we can finish our meal and come back to witness his performance." that assurance was quite a relief to ned's mind, so that he went very cheerfully to the table with the others, and there did full justice to the viands. no one hurried with the meal, but when they left the table it was to go upon deck again and watch for the reappearance of the whale. they had been there for but a moment when, to the delight of all, it came up, not too far away to be distinctly seen, and at once began spouting--or blowing; discharging the air from its lungs in preparation for taking in a fresh supply; the air was sent out with great force, making a sound that could be heard at quite a distance, while the water-vapor accompanying the air was so condensed as to form a column of spray. it made five or six respirations, then swam away and was soon lost to sight. then the company returned to the cabin as the more comfortable place, the evening air being decidedly cool. ned seated himself close to his father, and, in coaxing tones, asked for something more about whales. "are there many kinds, papa?" he queried. "yes, my son, a good many; more than you could remember. would you like me to tell you about some of the more interesting ones?" "oh, yes, indeed, papa!" was the emphatic and pleased response, and the captain began at once. "there are the whalebone or true whales, which constitute a single family. they have no teeth, but, instead, horny plates of baleen or whalebone, which strain from the water the small animals upon which the whale feeds." "oh, yes, i know about whalebones," said ned. "mamma and sisters have it in their dresses. and it comes out of the whale's mouth, does it, papa?" "yes; it is composed of many flattened, horny plates placed crosswise on either side of the palate, and separated from one another by an open space in the middle line. they are smooth on the outer side, but the inner edge of each plate is frayed out into a kind of fringe, giving a hairy appearance to the whole of the inside of the mouth when viewed from below." "whalebone or baleen is black, isn't it, papa?" asked ned. "not always; the color may vary from black to creamy white; and sometimes it is striped dark and light." "is there much of it in one whale, papa?" "yes, a great deal on each side of the jaw; there are more than three hundred of the plates, which, in a fine specimen, are about ten or twelve feet long and eleven inches wide at their base; and so much as a ton's weight has been taken from a large whale." "and is the baleen all they kill the whales for, papa?" "oh, no, my son! the oil is very valuable, and there is a great deal of it in a large whale. one has been told of which yielded eighty-five barrels of oil." "oh, my! that's a great deal," cried ned. "what a big fellow he must have been to hold so much as that." "the whale is very valuable to the people of the polar regions," continued the captain. "they eat the flesh, and drink the oil." "oh, papa! drink oil!" cried little elsie, with a shudder of disgust. "it seems very disgusting to us," he said, with a smile, "but in that very cold climate it is an absolute necessity--needful, in order to keep up the heat of the body by a bountiful supply of carbon." "whales are so big and strong it must be very dangerous to go near them, i suppose," said elsie, with an inquiring look at her father. "that is the case with some of the species," he said, "but not with all. the greenland whale, for instance, is inoffensive and timorous, and will always flee from the presence of man, unless roused by the pain of a wound or the sight of its offspring in danger. in that case, it will sometimes turn fiercely upon the boat in which the harpooners are who launched the weapon, and, with its enormous tail, strike it a blow that will shatter it and drive men, ropes and oars high into the air. that greenland whale shows great affection for both its mate and its young. when this whale is undisturbed, it usually remains at the surface of the water for ten minutes and spouts eight or nine times; then it goes down for from five to twenty minutes, then comes back to the surface to breathe again. but when harpooned, it dives to a great depth and does not come up again for half an hour. by noticing the direction of the line attached to the harpoon, the whalers judge of the spot in which it will rise and generally contrive to be so near it when it shows itself again, that they can insert another harpoon, or strike it with a lance before it can go down again." "poor thing!" sighed little elsie, "i don't know how men can have the heart to be so cruel to animals that are not dangerous." "it is because the oil, whalebone and so forth, are so valuable," said her father. "it sometimes happens that a stray whale blunders into the shallow waters of the bermudas, and not being able to find the passage through which it entered, cannot get out again; so is caught like a mouse in a trap. it is soon discovered by the people, and there is a great excitement; full of delight, they quickly launch their boats filled with men armed with guns, lances and other weapons which would be of little use in the open sea, but answer their purpose in these shoal waters. "as soon as the whale feels the sharp lance in its body it dives as it would in the open sea; but the water is so shallow that it strikes its head against the rocky bed of the sea with such force that it rises to the surface again half stunned. "the hunters then take advantage of its bewildered condition to come close and use their deadly weapons till they have killed it. the fat and ivory are divided among the hunters who took part in the killing, but the flesh is given to any one who asks for it." "is it really good to eat, papa?" asked ned. "those who are judges of whale flesh say there are three qualities of meat in every whale, the best resembling mutton, the second similar to pork, and the third resembling beef." "the whales are so big and strong; don't they ever fight back when men try to kill them, papa?" asked elsie. "yes," he replied, "sometimes a large whale will become belligerent, and is then a fearful antagonist, using its immense tail and huge jaws with fearful effect. i have heard of one driving its lower jaw entirely through the plankings of a stout whaling boat, and of another that destroyed nine boats in succession. not only boats, but even ships have been sunk by the attack of an infuriated old bull cachalot. and an american ship, the 'essex' was destroyed by the vengeful fury of a cachalot, which accidentally struck itself against the keel. probably it thought the ship was a rival whale; it retired to a short distance, then charged full at the vessel, striking it one side of the bows, and crushing beams and planks like straws. there were only a few men on board at the time, most of the crew being in the boats engaged in chasing whales; and when they returned to their ship they found her fast sinking, so that they had barely time to secure a scanty stock of provisions and water. using these provisions as economically as they could, they made for the coast of peru, but only three lived to reach there, and they were found lying senseless in their boat, which was drifting at large in the ocean." "i wonder any one is willing to go whaling when they may meet with such dreadful accidents," said evelyn. "i suppose it must be very profitable to tempt them to take such risks," remarked chester. "it is quite profitable," said the captain; "a single whale often yields whalebone and blubber to the value of thirty-five hundred or four thousand dollars." "i should think that might pay very well, particularly if they took a number." "our whale fishing is done mostly by the new englanders, isn't it, papa?" asked grace. "yes," he said, "they went into it largely at a very early date; at first on their own coasts, but they were deserted by the whales before the middle of the eighteenth century; then ships were fitted out for the northern seas. but for a number of years the american whale-fishery has been declining, because of the scarcity of whales and the substitutes for whale oil and whalebone that have been found. however, new bedford, massachusetts, is the greatest whaling port in the world. "now it is nearing your bedtime, my boy, and i think you have had enough about the whale and his habits for one lesson." "yes, papa; and i thank you very much for telling it all to me," replied ned, with a loving, grateful look up into his father's face. chapter vii. some two hours later the captain was taking his usual evening walk upon the deck, when lucilla and evelyn joined him. "we feel like taking a little stroll, father, and hope you will not object to our company," remarked evelyn, as they reached his side. "i could not, with truth, say it was unpleasant to me, daughter," he returned, with a smile, and passing a hand caressingly over her hair, as she stood close at his side. "the fact is, i am very glad of the companionship of you both." "and we are both thankful to hear you say it, i am sure," returned lucilla, in a sprightly tone, and with a bright, loving look up into his eyes. "i'd be heart-broken if i thought my father didn't love me enough to care to have me near him." "and i should be much distressed if i had reason to believe my daughter didn't care to be near me. if grace were as strong and healthy as you are, it would double the pleasure to have her with us. she has gone to her stateroom, i suppose." "yes, papa, and most of the others have retired to their rooms, too. dr. harold and chester are playing a game of chess, and so will hardly miss eva and me." "perhaps not; so we will take our promenade undisturbed by anxiety about them," laughed the captain, offering an arm to each. it was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining in a clear sky and making a silvery pathway upon the waters. "where do you suppose max is now, father?" asked evelyn, with a slight sigh. "probably in washington; though it is possible he may have received his orders and gone aboard his vessel." "and doubtless he is thinking of you, eva, as you are of him," said lucilla, speaking in low, tender tones. "no doubt of it," said their father, "for he is very fond of his sweet, young wife. as we all are, daughter dear," he added, softly patting the small, white hand resting upon his arm. "dear father," she said, with emotion, "it is so kind in you to give me the fatherly affection i have so missed and longed for in years past." "and daughterly affection from you is an adequate return," he said pleasantly. "i expect to enjoy that in all this winter's wanderings by sea and land." "wanderings which i am very glad to be allowed to share," she said; and then they talked of the various places they expected to visit while on this winter trip. at length evelyn, saying it was high time for her to join grace in the stateroom they shared together, said good-night and returned to the cabin, but lucilla delayed her departure a little longer--it was so pleasant to have her father all to herself for a bit of private chat before retiring for the night. they paced the deck silently for a few moments, then she said: "father, i have thought a good deal of that talk we had in our bible lesson some time ago, about the second coming of christ. do you think it--his coming--is very near?" "it may be, daughter. the signs of the times seem to indicate its approach. jesus said, 'of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my father only.' he has given us signs, however, by which we may know that it is near; and judging by them we may, i think, know that it is not very far off now." "then, papa, doesn't it seem as if we ought to be busied with religious duties all the time?" "i think whatever duties the lord gives us in his providence may, in some sense, be called religious duties--for me, for instance, the care of wife, children and dependents. we are to go on with household and family duties, those to the poor and needy in our neighborhood; also to take such part as we can in the work of the church at home and for foreign missions, and so forth; all this, remembering his command, 'occupy till i come,' and endeavoring to be ready to meet him with joy when he comes." "and isn't it a very important part trying to win souls to christ?" "it is, indeed, and 'he that winneth souls is wise.' leading a truly christlike life may often win them to join us in being his disciples, even though we refrain from any word of exhortation; though there are times when we should not refrain from giving that also." "as you did to me, father," she said, with a loving look up into his face. "oh, i shall try to be a winner of souls. the bible makes the way clear, again and again, in a very few words. you know it tells us jesus said to nicodemus, 'god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" "yes; and peter said to cornelius and his kinsmen and friends, after telling them of jesus, 'to him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of sins.' and paul and silas, when asked by the jailor, 'sirs, what must i do to be saved?' replied, 'believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved.' salvation is god's free gift, without money and without price. one must believe in his divinity, his ability and willingness to save, taking salvation at his hands as a free, unmerited gift. but now, dear child," he added, taking her in his arms, with a fond caress, "it is time for you and that not very strong husband of yours to be seeking your nest for the night. 'the lord bless thee, and keep thee; the lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" he added in solemn tones, laying a hand tenderly upon her head as he spoke. "thank you, dear father," she said, in tones half tremulous with emotion, "i do so love that blessing from your lips. and chester and i both think i have the best father in the world." "it is pleasant to have you think that," he returned, with a smile and another caress, "but no doubt there are many fathers in the world quite as good, kind and affectionate as yours; perhaps if my daughters were less affectionate and obedient than they are, they might find their father more stern and severe. now, good-night--and may you have peaceful sleep undisturbed by troubled dreams." chapter viii. the next morning was bright and clear, the air so much warmer than that which had been left behind on their own shores, that one and all repaired to the deck after breakfast, and preferred to remain there during the greater part of the day. mr. horace dinsmore, his wife and daughter were sitting near together, the ladies occupied with some crocheting, and mr. dinsmore with a book in hand, which he did not seem to be reading, when elsie and ned raymond, who had been gamboling about the deck, came dancing up to them with a request for "more about bermuda." "you don't want to be surprised by the pretty things you will see there, eh?" queried their grandpa. "no, sir; we want to hear about them first and see them afterward; if it isn't troubling you too much," said elsie, with a coaxing look up into his face. "well, considering that you are my great-grandchildren, i think i must search my memory for something interesting on the subject. there are many picturesque creeks and bays. there are four pretty large islands--bermuda, the largest, being fifteen miles long. the strange shapes of the islands and the number of spacious lagoons make it necessary to travel about them almost entirely in boats; which is very pleasant, as you glide along under a beautiful blue sky and through waters so clear that you can see even to their lowest depths, where the fish sport among the coral rocks, and exquisitely variegated shells abound." "oh, i shall like that!" exclaimed elsie. "are the fish handsome, too, grandpa?" "some of them are strikingly so," he replied. "one called the parrot-fish is of a green color as brilliant as that of his bird namesake. his scales are as green as the fresh grass of spring-time, and each one is bordered by a pale brown line. his tail is banded with nearly every color of the rainbow, and his fins are pink." "is he good to eat, grandpa?" asked ned. "no, his flesh is bitter and poisonous to man and probably to other fishes. so they let him well alone." "well, i suppose he's glad of that," laughed ned. "the more i hear about bermuda, grandpa, the gladder i am that we are going there." "yes; and you may well be thankful that you have so good and kind a father, and that he owns this fine yacht." "yes, sir, i am that; but i'd rather be his son than anybody else's if he didn't own anything but me." "and i'm just as pleased to be his daughter," said elsie. "and i to be his grandfather-in-law," added mr. dinsmore, with comically grave look and tone. "yes, sir; grandpa travilla would have been his--papa's--father-in-law if he had lived, wouldn't he?" "yes; and almost as old as i am. he was my dear, good friend, and i gave him my daughter to be his wife." "that was you, grandma, wasn't it?" asked ned, turning to mrs. travilla. "yes, dear," she said, with a smile and a sigh, "and if he had stayed with us until now you would have loved him as you do grandpa dinsmore." "yes, indeed, grandma," came softly and sweetly from the lips of both children. there was a moment of subdued silence, then grandpa dinsmore went on. "there are many pretty creatures to be seen in the waters about bermuda. there is a kind of fish called angels, that look very bright and pretty. they have a beautiful blue stripe along the back, and long streamers of golden yellow, and they swim very gracefully about. but they are not so good as they are pretty. they pester the other fishes by nibbling at them, and so, often, get into a quarrel, fighting with a long, sharp spine which they have on each gill-cover, making ugly wounds with it on those they are fighting. "among the outer reefs we will, perhaps, see a speckled moray. he looks like a common eel, except that his body is dark-green flecked with bright yellow spots, which makes him quite a handsome fellow. there is a fish the bermuda fishermen call the 'spanish hogfish,' and when asked why they give it that name they say, 'why, sir, you see it lazes around just like a hog, and carries the spanish colors.'" "spanish colors? what are they, grandpa?" queried ned. "the fish," said mr. dinsmore, "is brownish red from his head to the middle of his body, and from there to the end of his tail a bright yellow; and those are the colors of the spanish flag." "i'm glad we are going to bermuda," remarked elsie, with a happy little sigh, "for i'm sure there must be a great deal there worth seeing." "and your father is just the kind of man to help you to a sight of all such things," responded mr. dinsmore. "yes, sir," said elsie, "papa never seems to think it too much trouble to do anything to give us pleasure." "ah, what father would, if he had such a dear little girl and boy as mine?" queried a manly voice just behind them, while a gentle hand was laid caressingly on elsie's head. "oh, papa, i didn't know you were so near," she exclaimed, with a laugh and a blush. "wont you sit down with us? grandpa dinsmore has been telling us very interesting things about bermuda." "and papa can probably tell some that will be more interesting," remarked mr. dinsmore, as the captain took possession of elsie's seat and drew her to one upon his knee. that suited the little maid exactly; in her opinion no seat was more desirable than "papa's knee." "now, papa, we're ready to hear all you know about bermuda," said ned, with a look of eager interest. "perhaps you are more ready to hear than i to tell," the captain answered, with an amused smile. "at any rate, i want, first, to hear what you have been told, lest i should waste my time and strength in repeating it." the children eagerly repeated what had been told them, the captain added a few more facts about the beautiful things to be seen in the clear bermuda waters--the coral reefs and the plants and animals that cover them; then the call to dinner came, and all left the deck for the dining-saloon. almost the whole party were on deck again immediately upon leaving the table. the older ones were scattered here and there in couples or groups, but elsie and ned sauntered along together chatting in low tones, as if not wanting to be overheard by the older people. "yes, i am sorry," sighed elsie, in reply to something her brother had said; "christmas is such a delightful time at home, and, of course, we can't expect to have one here on the yacht." "no," said ned, brightening, "but, of course, we can give christmas gifts to each other, if--if we get to bermuda in time to buy things. i s'pose there must be stores there." "surely, i should think. i'll ask mamma or papa about it." "have you any money?" "yes; i have two dollars i've been saving up to buy christmas gifts. how much have you?" "fifty cents. it isn't much, but it will buy some little things, i guess." "yes, of course it will. but, oh, ned, christmas comes monday. to-morrow is sunday; so we couldn't do any shopping, even if we were on the land; and we may as well give it up." "yes, but we are having a very good time here on the 'dolphin,' aren't we, elsie?" "yes, indeed! and it would be really shameful for us to fret and worry over missing the usual christmas gifts and pleasures." the two had been so absorbed in the subject they were discussing that they had not noticed an approaching step, but now a hand was laid on a shoulder of each, and their father's loved voice asked, in tender tones: "what is troubling my little son and daughter? tell papa, and perhaps he may find a way out of the woods." "yes, papa; they are not very thick woods," laughed elsie. "it is only that we are sorry we can't have any christmas times this winter, or remember anybody with gifts, because we can't go to any stores to buy anything." "are you quite sure of all that, daughter?" he asked, with a smile, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "i thought i was, but perhaps my father knows better," she answered, with a pleased little laugh. "well, i think a man of my age ought to know more than a little girl of yours. don't you?" "oh, yes, indeed! and i know my father knows many, many times more than i do. is there any way for us to get gifts for all these dear folks on the yacht with us, or for any of them, papa?" "yes, i remembered christmas when we were getting ready to leave home, and provided such gifts as seemed desirable for each one of my family to give to others. i will give you each your share to-night before you go to your berths, and you can decide how you will distribute them--to whom you will give each one." "but, papa, i----" elsie paused, blushing and confused. "well, dear child, what is it?" asked her father, in gentle, affectionate tones. "i was thinking, papa, that they could hardly be our gifts when you bought them and with your own money, not ours." "but i give them to you, daughter, and you may keep or give them away, just as you like. that makes them your gift quite as truly as if they had been bought with your own pocket money. does it not?" "oh, yes, papa, so it seems to me, and i know it does since you say so," exclaimed elsie joyously; ned joining in with, "oh, that's just splendid, papa! you are the best father in the world! elsie and i both think so." "well, it is very pleasant to have my children think so, however mistaken they may be," his father said, with a smile and an affectionate pat on the little boy's shoulder. "well, my dears, suppose we go down at once and attend to these matters. it will be better now than later, i think, and not so likely to keep you from getting to sleep in good season to-night." the children gave an eager, joyful assent, and their father led them down to the stateroom occupied by violet and himself, and opening a trunk there, brought to light a quantity of pretty things--ribbons, laces, jewelry, books and pictures; also cards with the names of the intended recipients to be attached to the gifts, as the young givers might see fit. that work was undertaken at once, their father helping them in their selection and attaching the cards for them. it did not take very long, and they returned to the deck in gay spirits. "for what purpose did you two children take papa down below? or was it he who took you?" asked lucilla, laughingly. "i think it was papa who took us," said elsie, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "wasn't it, papa?" "yes," he said, "and whoever asks about it may be told it was father's secret conference." "oh," cried lucilla, "it is a secret then, is it? i don't want to pry into other people's affairs; so i withdraw my question." "perhaps papa intends to take his other children--you and me, lu--down in their turn," remarked grace, laughingly, for she was sitting near her father, and had overheard the bit of chat. "i really had not thought of doing so," said the captain, "but it is a good idea. come, now, both of you," he added, leading the way. "i suppose you two have not forgotten that to-morrow will be sunday and the next day christmas?" he said, inquiringly, as they reached the saloon. "oh, no, papa; you know you helped us, before we left home, in selecting gifts for mamma vi and the children and others," said grace. "but how are we going to keep christmas here on the yacht?" "pretty much as if we were at home on the land," he answered, with a smile. "there is a christmas tree lying down in the hold. i intend having it set up here early monday morning, and some of the early risers will perhaps trim it before the late ones are out of bed. then it can be viewed, and the gifts distributed when all are ready to take part in the work and fun. now, if you wish i will show you the gifts i have prepared for my family--not including yourselves," he interpolated, with a smile. "our guests and servants here and the crew of the vessel." the offer was gladly accepted, the gifts viewed with great interest and pleasure, the girls chatting meanwhile with affectionate and respectful familiarity with their loved father. "i like your plan, father, very much indeed," said lucilla; "and as it is easy and natural for me to wake and rise early, i should like to help with the trimming of the tree, if you are willing." "certainly, daughter, i shall be glad to have you help--and to put the gifts intended for you on afterward," he added, with a smile. "yes, sir; and perhaps your daughters may treat you in the same way," she returned demurely. "i suppose you would hardly blame them for following your example?" "i ought not to, since example is said to be better than precept. we will put these things away now, go back to our friends on deck, and try to forget gifts until christmas morning." chapter ix. as on former voyages on the "dolphin," sabbath day was kept religiously by all on board the vessel. religious services--prayer, praise and the reading of a sermon--were held on deck, for the benefit of all, after which there was a bible lesson led by mr. milburn, the subject being the birth of jesus and the visits of the wise men from the east; also the story of bethlehem's shepherds and their angel visitants followed by their visit to the infant saviour. the children went to bed early that night that--as they said--christmas might come the sooner. then the captain, his older daughters, chester, and harold, had a little chat about what should be done in the morning. the young men were urgent that their assistance should be accepted in the matter of setting up and trimming the tree; the girls also put in a petition for the privilege of helping with the work. to lucilla their father answered, "you may, as i have said, for you are naturally an early bird, so that i think it cannot hurt you." then turning to grace, "i hardly think it would do for you, daughter dear; but we will let your doctor decide it," turning inquiringly to harold. "if her doctor is to decide it, he says emphatically no," said harold, with a very loverlike look down into the sweet face of his betrothed; "she will enjoy the rest of the day much better for taking her usual morning nap." "you and papa are very kind; almost too kind," returned grace, between a smile and a sigh. "but i think you are a good doctor, so i will follow your advice and papa's wishes." "that is right, my darling," responded her father, "and i hope you will have your reward in feeling well through the day." "if she doesn't, she can discharge her doctor," said lucilla in a mirthful tone. "you seem inclined to be hard upon doctors, lu," remarked harold, gravely; "but one of these days you may be glad of the services of even such an one as i." "yes, that is quite possible; and even now i am right glad to have my husband under your care; and i'm free to say that if your patients don't improve, i don't think it will be fair to blame it--their failure--on the doctor." "thank you," he said; "should you need doctoring on this trip of ours, just call upon me and i'll do the best for you that i can." "i have no doubt you would," laughed lucilla, "but i'll do my best to keep out of your hands." "that being your intention, let me advise you to go at once to your bed," returned harold, glancing at his watch. then all said good-night and dispersed to their rooms. at early dawn the three gentlemen were again in the saloon overseeing the setting up of the christmas tree, then arranging upon it a multitude of gifts from one to another of the "dolphin's" passengers, and some token of remembrance for each one of the crew; for it was not in the kind heart of the captain ever to forget or neglect any one in his employ. the other passengers, older and younger, except lucilla, who was with them in time to help with the trimming of the tree, did not emerge from their staterooms until the sun was up, shining gloriously upon the sea, in which the waves were gently rising and falling. all were fond of gazing upon the sea, but this morning their first attention was given to the tree, which seemed to have grown up in a night in the saloon, where they were used to congregate mornings, evenings and stormy days. all gathered round it and viewed its treasures with appreciative remarks; then the captain, with chester's and harold's assistance, distributed the gifts. every one had several and seemed well pleased with them. the one that gave eva the greatest pleasure had been left for her by her young husband; it was an excellent miniature likeness of himself set in gold and diamonds. she appreciated the beautiful setting, but the correct and speaking likeness was far more to her. near the tree stood a table loaded with fruits and confections of various kinds, very tempting in appearance. ned hailed it with an expression of pleasure, but his father bade him let the sweets alone until after he had eaten his breakfast. the words had scarcely left the captain's lips when a voice was heard, apparently coming from the skylight overhead: "say, pete, d'ye see them goodies piled up on that thar table down thar? my, but they looks temptin'." "yes," seemed to come from another voice, "wouldn't i like to git in thar and help myself? it's odd and real mean how some folks has all the good things and other folks none." "course it is. but, oh, i'll tell you. they'll be goin' out to breakfast presently, then let's go down thar where the goodies is, and help, ourselves." "yes, let's." everybody in the saloon had stopped talking and seemed to be listening in surprise to the colloquy of the two stowaways--for such they apparently were--but now ned broke the silence: "why, how did they get on board? must be stowaways and have been in the hold all this time. oh, i guess they are hungry enough by this time; so no wonder they want the candies and things." "perhaps cousin ronald can tell us something about them," laughed lucilla. "acquaintances of mine, you think, lassie?" sniffed the old gentleman. "truly, you are most complimentary. but i have no more fancy for such trash than have you." "ah, well, now, cousin, i really don't imagine those remarks were made by any very bad or objectionable fellows," remarked captain raymond, in a tone of amusement. "no," said mr. dinsmore, "we certainly should not be hard on them if they are poor and hungry." "which they must be if they have been living in the hold ever since we left our native shores," laughed violet. "oh, now, i know, it was just cousin ronald, and not any real person," cried ned, dancing about in delight. "and so i'm not a real person?" said mr. lilburn, in a deeply hurt tone. "oh, cousin ronald, i didn't mean that," said ned, penitently, "only that you weren't two boys, but just pretending to be." at that everybody laughed, and mr. lilburn said: "very true; i never was two boys and am no longer even one. well, i think you and all of us may feel safe in leaving the good things on the table there when we are called to breakfast, for i am sure those fellows will not meddle with them." the summons to the table had just sounded, and now was obeyed by all with cheerful alacrity. everybody was in fine spirits, the meal an excellent one, and all partook of it with appetite, while the flow of conversation was steady, bright and mirthful. they had their morning service directly after the meal, then went upon deck and to their surprise found they were in sight of bermuda. they were glad to see it, though the voyage had been a pleasant one to all and really beneficial to the ailing ones, for whose benefit it was undertaken more particularly than for the enjoyment of the others. also it was hoped and expected that their sojourn in and about the islands would be still more helpful and delightful; and so indeed it proved. they tarried in that neighborhood several weeks, spending most of their time on the vessel, or in her small boats--many of the water-ways being too narrow and shallow to be traversed by the yacht, but going from place to place on the land in a way to see all that was interesting there. chapter x. it was a lovely moonlight evening; the "dolphin's" captain and all his family and passengers were gathered together upon the deck. it had been a day of sight-seeing and wandering from place to place about the islands, and they were weary enough to fully enjoy the rest and quiet now vouchsafed them. captain raymond broke a momentary silence by saying: "i hope, my friends, that you can all feel that you have had a pleasant sojourn in and about these islands?" "indeed we have," replied several voices. "i am glad to hear it," returned the captain, heartily; "and now the question is, shall we tarry here longer or go on our southward way to visit other places, where we will escape the rigors of winter in our more northern homes?" no one spoke for a moment; then mr. dinsmore said: "let the majority decide. i am perfectly satisfied to go on or to stay here, as you, captain, and they may wish." "and i echo my husband's sentiments and feelings," remarked mrs. rose dinsmore, pleasantly. "and you, mother?" asked the captain, turning to mrs. travilla. "i, too, am entirely willing to go or stay, as others may wish," she replied, in her own sweet voice. "and you, evelyn?" asked the captain, turning to her. "i feel that it would be delightful either to go or stay, father," she answered, with a smile and a blush. the others were quite as non-committal, but after some further chat on the subject it was decided that they would leave bermuda the next morning, and, taking a southerly course, probably make porto rico their next halting place. as usual, lucilla woke at an early hour. evidently the vessel was still stationary, and anxious to see it start she rose and made her toilet very quietly, lest she should disturb her still sleeping husband, then left the room and stole noiselessly through the saloon up to the deck, where she found her father overseeing the lifting of the anchor. "ah, good-morning, daughter," he said, with a smile, as she reached his side. "you are an early bird as usual," ending his sentence with a clasp of his arm about her waist and a kiss upon her lips. "yes, papa," she laughed, "who wouldn't be an early bird to get such a token of love from such a father as mine?" "and what father wouldn't be ready and glad to bestow it upon such a daughter as mine?" he responded, repeating his loving caress. "you have enjoyed your trip thus far, daughter, have you not?" "yes, indeed, papa. we are bound for porto rico now, are we not?" "yes, i think that will be our first stopping place; though perhaps we may not land at all, but merely sail round it, viewing it from the sea." "and perhaps you may treat cuba in the same way?" "very possibly. i shall act in regard to both as the majority of my passengers may wish." the anchor was now up, and the vessel gliding through the water. the captain and lucilla paced the deck to and fro, taking a farewell look at the receding islands and talking of the pleasure they had found in visiting them, particularly in exploring the many creeks and bays, with their clear waters so full of beautiful shells and fish, so different from those to be found in their land. "i shall always look back with pleasure upon this visit to bermuda, father," lucilla said, with a grateful smile up into his eyes. "i am very glad you have enjoyed it, daughter," he replied; "as i think every one of our party has. and i am hoping that our wanderings further to the south may prove not less interesting and enjoyable." "yes, sir, i hope so. i shall feel great interest in looking upon cuba and porto rico--particularly the first--because of what our men did and endured there in the late war with spain. how pleasant it was that the porto ricans were so ready and glad to be freed from the domination of spain and taken into our union." just then harold joined them, and with him came little ned. pleasant good-mornings were exchanged. then others of their party followed, two or three at a time, till all were on deck enjoying the sweet morning air and the view of the fast-receding islands. then came the call to breakfast, followed by the morning service of prayer and praise, and after that they returned to the deck. as usual, the children were soon beside their loved grandmother, mrs. elsie travilla. "well, dears, we have had a very good time at bermuda, haven't we?" she said, smiling lovingly upon them. "yes, ma'am," said elsie. "do you think we will have as good a time where we are going now?" "i hope so, my dear. i believe porto rico is to be the first land we touch at. would you like me to tell you something of its beauties and its history?" "yes, indeed, grandma," both children answered, in a tone of eager assent, and she began at once. "the name--porto rico--was given it by the spaniards, and means 'the gateway of wealth.' it was discovered by columbus in . it is about half as large as new jersey. through its center is a range of mountains called the luquillo. the highest peak, yunque, can be seen from a distance of sixty-eight miles. porto rico is a beautiful island. the higher parts of the hills are covered by forests; immense herds of cattle are pastured on the plains. the land is fertile and they raise cotton, corn, rice and almost every kind of tropical fruit." "are there any rivers, grandma?" asked ned. "nine small ones," she answered. "are there any towns?" "oh yes, quite a good many; large ones. ponce, the capital, has a good many thousands of inhabitants, and some fine buildings. san juan, too, is quite a large place; it stands on morro island, which forms the north side of the harbor and is separated from the mainland by a narrow creek called the channel of san antonio. at the entrance to san juan's harbors is a lighthouse on morro point. it is one hundred and seventy-one feet above the sea, and its fixed light is visible for eighteen miles over the waters." "oh," cried ned, "let's watch out for it when we are coming that near." "it will be very well for you to do so," his grandma said, with a smile; then went on with her account of porto rico. "the island has much to recommend it; the climate is salubrious, and there are no snakes or reptiles. it has valuable minerals, too--gold, copper, lead; also coal. san juan is lighted by both gas and electricity. "the spaniards were very cruel to the poor indians who inhabited porto rico when columbus discovered it. it is said that in a hundred years they had killed five hundred thousand of men, women and children." "oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed elsie. "and they killed so, _so_ many of the poor natives in peru and in mexico. i don't wonder that god has let their nation grow so poor and weak." "the porto ricans were tired of being governed by them when we began our war with spain to help the poor cubans to get free," continued grandma elsie. "our government and people did not know that, but thought porto rico should be taken from spain, as well as cuba. so as soon as santiago was taken, a strong force was sent against ponce. "the 'wasp' was the first vessel to arrive. it had been expected that they would have to shell the city, but as the 'wasp' steamed close to the shore a great crowd of citizens could be seen gathered there. they were not behaving like enemies, and the troops on the 'wasp' were at a loss to understand what it meant; therefore, the gunners stood ready to fire at an instant's warning, when ensign rowland curtin was sent ashore bearing a flag of truce, four men with him. "the citizens were cheering as if frantic with joy over their coming, and as soon as they landed overwhelmed them with gifts of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes, bananas, and other good things." "oh, wasn't that nice!" exclaimed elsie. "i think they showed their good sense in preferring to be ruled by our people rather than by the spaniards." "as soon as the people could be calm enough to listen," continued grandma elsie, "ensign curtin announced that he had come to demand the surrender of the city and port, and asked to see the civil or military authorities. "some of the civil officials were there, but they could not surrender the city, as that must be the act of the military powers. there was a telephone at hand, and the ensign ordered a message sent to colonel san martin, the commandant, telling him that if he did not come forward and surrender the city in the course of half an hour, it would be bombarded. "the garrison had been, and still were, debating among themselves what they should do, but as soon as they heard of this message they began looting the stores and shops, cramming underwear and clothing upon their backs and in their trousers, to check and hold the bullets which they were certain the americans would send after them, as they scampered off. "ensign curtin went back to his vessel, and, soon after, commander c. h. davis, of the 'dixie,' was rowed ashore. there a note was handed him from colonel san martin, asking on what terms he demanded the surrender of the city. he answered that it must be unconditional. at the request of the commandant, however, he made the terms a little different. then the padded men of the garrison waddled out of town, leaving one hundred and fifty rifles and fourteen thousand rounds of ammunition behind. "lieutenant haines, commanding the marines of the 'dixie,' landed and hoisted the stars and stripes over the custom-house at the port of ponce, the onlookers cheering most heartily. after that, lieutenant murdoch and surgeon heiskell rode to the city, three miles distant, where the people fairly went wild with joy, dancing and shouting, '_viva los americanos. viva puerto rico libre._'" "sensible folks i think they were to be so glad to get away from spain and into the united states," remarked ned, with a pleased smile. "yes, i think they were," said grandma elsie, "for it was gaining liberty--freedom from most oppressive tyranny." she had begun her talk to the two children alone, but now quite a group had gathered about them--dr. harold travilla and grace raymond, chester and lucilla dinsmore and mrs. evelyn raymond. "i am very desirous to see porto rico," said harold. "it must be a garden spot--fertile and beautiful. as we draw near it i mean to be on the lookout for el yunque." "what's that, uncle?" asked ned. "the highest point of land on the island, nearly four thousand feet high. the meaning of the name is the anvil." "porto rico being in the torrid zone, it must have a very hot climate. the weather must have been very oppressive for our troops--taking it in the height of summer," remarked grace. "yes," said grandma elsie; "but the climate is more agreeable than that of cuba or of many places farther north, because of the land breezes that prevail, coming from both north and south." "it is a beautiful and delightful island," remarked harold. "i have often thought i should, some day, pay it a visit." "are we likely to land there?" asked his mother. "i do not know, mother," he answered; "but i presume the captain will say that shall be just as his passengers wish." "yes, i am sure father will say we may all do exactly as we please," said lucilla; "go ashore, or stay quietly on the yacht while others go and return." "it cannot be now the delightful place to visit that it was before the hurricane of last august," remarked chester. "no," said grandma elsie, "and i think i, for one, do not care to land on the island until they have had more time to recover from the fearful effects of that terrible storm." "what mischief did it do, grandma?" asked ned; "were there houses destroyed and people killed?" "yes; a great many," she answered, with a sigh. "i have read that in one district it was estimated that the damage done to houses and crops would reach nine hundred thousand in gold, and that in the valley of the rio de grande over a thousand persons disappeared, and were supposed to have been drowned by the sudden rise and overflow of the river." "and you, mother, i know gave liberally to help repair the damages," said harold. "i was better able than many others who may have been quite as willing," she responded, "and i think i can do still more, if i find the need is still urgent." "yes, mother dear, you seem always ready and glad to help any one who needs it," said harold, giving her a look full of proud, loving admiration. captain raymond had drawn near the group just in time to hear harold's last remark. "quite true, harold," he said, "but who is to be the happy recipient of mother's bounty this time?" "we were talking of the losses of the unfortunate porto ricans in last august's fearful storm," replied harold. "mother, as you know, has already given help, and expresses herself as ready to do more if it is needed." "and will do it, i know," said the captain. "i hope, though, that my dear grandma wont give everything away and have nothing left for herself," said elsie raymond, with a loving look up into grandma elsie's face. "i should not like to have her do that either," the captain said, with a smile. "but the bible tells us, 'he that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth unto the lord, and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'" "a promise that none of us need be afraid to trust," said grandma elsie, with a happy look and smile. "do you think of visiting any part of the island, captain?" "that shall be as my passengers wish," he replied; "we can consider the matter and talk it over while on our way there. my present plan is to go directly to san juan. we may stay some hours or days there, those going ashore who wish, the others remaining on the vessel. we may make the circuit of the island, entirely or in part, keeping near enough to the land to get a pretty good view of its beauties." "will this be your first visit to porto rico, captain?" queried chester. "no, i paid it a flying visit some years ago; and then went up the mountains to caguas and visited the dark cave of aguas buenas." "did it pay?" asked chester. "hardly. the outside journey, though difficult, did pay, but the darkness of the cave, the multitudes of bats flying in your face, and the danger of the guides' torches going out, leaving you unable to find your way to the opening, make the expedition anything but safe or pleasant. i shall never venture in there again or advise any friend to do so." "are you going to take us to cuba, too, papa?" asked elsie. "if my passengers wish to go there." "oh, i think they will; this one does, anyhow," laughed the little girl. "don't you think it would be pleasanter to visit it after it has had time to recover from the war?" asked lucilla. "perhaps papa will bring us a second time after that?" elsie said, with a smile up into his face. "that is quite possible," he answered, returning the smile. "please, papa, tell us something about cuba now, won't you?" pleaded ned. "very willingly, if you all care to hear it," returned the captain, and a general assent being given, he went on: "i think much of it you will all understand better, if told you while looking upon the scenes where it occurred. however, since you wish it, i shall tell at least a part of the story now. "doubtless, you all know that cuba was discovered by columbus on october , . he said of it at one time: 'it is the most beautiful land that eyes ever beheld'; at another: 'its waters are filled with excellent ports, its rivers are magnificent and profound'; and yet again, 'as far as the day surpasses night in brightness and splendor, it surpasses all other countries.' "he found it beautiful not only along the shore where he first landed, but in the interior also; flowers, fruits, maize and cotton in their abundance showed the fertility of the soil. and it was inhabited by a peaceful people who gave him and his men a glad welcome, imagining them to be superior beings, and little dreaming how they were to suffer at their hands. columbus describes them as tall and straight, like the natives of north america, of tawny complexion, and gentle disposition, being easy to influence by their masters. they were a naturally indolent race, which was not strange, considering how easy it was for them to have a comfortable living with very little exertion; there were abundance of wild fruits, and corn and cotton could be raised with little exertion; abundance of fish could be easily obtained from the waters, and if they wanted meat, a little animal resembling a rat in appearance, but tasting like a rabbit, could be had for the hunting. so it would seem they lived easy, contented and peaceful lives; and why should the spaniards think they had a right to rob and enslave them." "why indeed," exclaimed lucilla. "the indians--if able to do so--would have had just as good a right to go over to spain and enslave them." "but with the spaniards might made right," said chester. "but there were only a few spaniards with columbus and a very great many natives on these islands," remarked little elsie, in a puzzled tone. "i wonder they didn't kill the spaniards as soon as they began trying to make slaves of them." "at first," said her father, "they took the spaniards to be a race of superior beings, and gladly welcomed them to their shores. it would, doubtless, have been easy for them to crush that handful of worn-out men, and no doubt they would if they could have foreseen what their conduct toward them would be; but they mistook them for friends, and treated them as such. one cazique gave them a grand reception and feasted them amid songs and their rude music. games, dancing and singing followed, then they were conducted to separate lodges and each provided with a cotton hammock, that proved a delightful couch to pass the night upon." "and the spaniards took all that kindness at the hands of those poor things and repaid them with the basest robbery and cruelty," exclaimed elsie. "yes," said her father; "they even repaid that most generous hospitality by seizing some of the youngest, strongest and most beautiful of their entertainers and carrying them to spain, where they were paraded before the vulgar gaze of the jeering crowd, then sold into slavery. "one of their venerable caziques gave to columbus, when he came the second time to the island, a basket of luscious fruit, saying to him, as he did so: 'whether you are divinities or mortal men, we know not. you have come into these countries with a force, against which, were we inclined to resist, it would be folly. we are all, therefore, at your mercy; but if you are men, subject to morality, like ourselves, you cannot be unapprised that after this life there is another, wherein a very different portion is allotted to good and bad men. if, then, you expect to die, and believe, with us, that every one is to be rewarded in a future state according to his conduct in the present, you will do no hurt to those who do none to you.'" "that old chief was certainly a very wise man for a heathen," remarked chester. "and how strange that the spaniards could treat so shamefully such innocent and friendly people," said evelyn. "yes," exclaimed lucilla, "i think we may all be thankful that there is no spanish blood in us." "which fact makes us the more to be blamed if we indulge in oppression and cruelty," said her father. "papa, did that old king live long enough to see how very cruel the spaniards were to his people?" asked elsie. "that i cannot tell," replied the captain, "but by the time another ten years had passed by, the natives of cuba had learned that the love of the spaniards for gold was too great ever to be satisfied, and that they themselves could not be safe with the spaniards there; they were so alarmed that when diego columbus sent an armed force of three hundred men to begin to colonize cuba, they resisted their landing. but they, the indians, were only naked savages with frail spears and wooden swords, while the invading foes were old-world warriors who had been trained on many a hard-fought battlefield, armed with deadly weapons, protected by plate armor, and having bloodhounds to help in their cruel attempt to rob and subjugate the rightful owners of the soil. so they succeeded in their wicked designs; hundreds of those poor indians were killed in cold blood, others spared to slavery worse than death. from being free men they became slaves to one of the most cruel and tyrannical races of the world. and they were not only abused there on their own island, but hundreds of them were taken to europe and sold for slaves in the markets of seville. that was to raise money to pay the expenses of their captors." "why," exclaimed ned, "the spaniards treated them as if they were just animals, instead of people." "papa, were they--the indians--heathen?" asked elsie. "they had no images or altars, no temples, but they believed in a future existence and in a god living above the blue-domed sky," replied the captain. "but they knew nothing of jesus and the way of salvation, and it seems the spaniards did not tell them of him or give them the bible." "no," said grandma elsie, "rome did not allow them the bible for themselves." "are there a good many wild flowers in cuba, papa?" asked elsie. "yes; a great many, and of every color and tint imaginable--flowers growing wild in the woods. the foliage of the trees is scarcely less beautiful, and their tops are alive with birds of gayly-colored plumage. i have been speaking of wild, uncultivated land. the scene is even more inviting where man has been at work transforming the wildwood into cultivated fields; he has fenced them off with stone walls, which have warm russet-brown tints and are covered here and there with vines and creepers bearing bright flowers. the walks and avenues are bordered with orange-trees in blossom and fruit at the same time, both looking lovely in their setting of deep green leaves. but you have seen such in louisiana." "yes, papa, and they are beautiful," said elsie. "there must be a great deal worth seeing in cuba, but i'll not care to land on it if you older people don't want to." "well, we will leave that question to be decided in the future," the captain said, smiling down into the bright little face. "i think i have read," said evelyn, "that columbus at first thought cuba not an island but a part of the mainland?" "yes," replied the captain, "but the natives assured him that it was an island; on his second trip, however, in , he reiterated his previous belief and called the land juana, after juan, the son of ferdinand and isabella. afterward he changed it to fernandina, in honor of ferdinand; still later to santiago, the name of the patron saint of spain, after that to ave maria. but the name cuba clung to the island and was never lost. "the indians there were a peaceable race. they called themselves ciboneyes. they had nine independent caciques, and, as i believe i have already told you, they believed in a supreme being and the immortality of the soul." "really, they seem to me to have been more christian than the spaniards who came and robbed them of their lands and their liberty," said evelyn. chapter xi. the "dolphin" and her passengers and crew reached porto rico in safety, having made the voyage without detention or mishap. the yacht lay in the harbor of san juan for nearly a week, while its passengers made various little excursions here and there to points of interest upon the island. then the yacht made its circuit, keeping near enough to the shore for a good view of the land, in which all were greatly interested--especially in those parts where there had been some fighting with the spaniards in the late war. "now, father, you are going to take us to santiago next, are you not?" asked lucilla, as they steamed away from the porto rican coast. "yes," he replied, "i am satisfied that you all take a particular interest in that place, feeling that you would like to see the scene of the naval battle and perhaps to look from a distance upon some of the places where there was fighting on land." "it will be interesting," said little elsie, "but, oh, how glad i am that the fighting is all over!" "as i am," said her father; "but if it wasn't, i should not think of taking my family and friends to the scene." "that was a big battle," said ned. "i'm glad i'm going to see the place of the fight; though i'd rather see manila and its bay, because brother max had a share in that fight. uncle harold, you came pretty near having a share in the santiago one, didn't you?" "i was near enough to be in sight of some of it," said harold; "though not so near as to some of the fighting on the land." "that must have been a very exciting time for you and your fellows," remarked mr. lilburn. "it was, indeed; there was slaughter enough on land," said harold; "and though we were pretty confident that victory would perch upon our banners in the sea fight, we could not hope it would prove so nearly bloodless for our side." "the sea fight?" "yes; that on the land was harder on our fellows, particularly because our unreasonable congressmen had failed to furnish for them the smokeless powder and mauser bullets that gave so great an advantage to the spaniards." "yes, indeed," said the captain, "that absolute freedom from smoke made it impossible to tell exactly whence came those stinging darts that struck men down, and the great penetrating power of the mauser bullet made them doubly deadly. they would cut through a palm-tree without losing anything of their force, and, in several instances, two or more men were struck down by one and the same missile." "it was very sad that that gallant young soldier, captain capron, was killed by that first volley," remarked violet. "yes," said her mother, "i remember reading the account of his death, and that he came of a family of soldiers; that his father, engaged with his battery before the spanish lines, left it for a brief time and came over to where the body of his son lay on the rank grass, and, looking for a moment on the still features, stooped and kissed the dead face, saying, 'well done, boy, well done.' that was all, and he went back to the battle." "yes, mother," said harold, in moved tones, "my heart aches yet when i think of that poor, bereaved but brave father. ah, war is a dreadful thing, even when undertaken from the good motive which influenced our people, who felt so much sympathy for the poor, abused cubans." "the americans are, as a rule, kind-hearted folk," remarked mr. lilburn, "and i doubt if there are any troops in the world superior to them in action; not even those of my own land." "no," said the captain, "they were brave fellows and good fighters, having seen service in our northwest and southwest, on the prairies, among the mountains and on the mexican frontier, so that war was no new thing to them, and they went about it calmly even in so unaccustomed a place as a tropical forest." "papa, that captain capron wasn't instantly killed by that mauser bullet, was he?" asked grace. "no; he was struck down early in the action and knew that his wound was mortal, but he called to a man near him to give him the rifle that lay by the side of a dead soldier; then, propped up against a tree, he fired at the enemy with it until his strength failed, when he fell forward to die." "what a brave fellow! it is dreadful to have such men killed," said grace, her voice trembling with emotion. "another man, private heffener, also fought leaning against a tree until he bled to death," said harold. "then there was trooper rowland, a cowboy from new mexico, who was shot through the lungs early in that fight. he said nothing about it, but kept his place on the firing-line till roosevelt noticed the blood on his shirt and sent him to the hospital. he was soon back again and seeing him colonel roosevelt said, 'i thought i sent you to the hospital.' 'yes, sir; you did,' replied rowland, 'but i didn't see that they could do much for me there, so i came back.' he stayed there until the fight ended. then he went again to the hospital. upon examining him the doctors decided that he must be sent back to the states, with which decision he was greatly disgusted. that night he got possession of his rifle and pack, slipped out of the hospital, made his way back to his command and stayed there." "perhaps," said grandma elsie, "you have not all read marshall's experiences then and there. it happens that i have just been re-reading an extract which has interested me greatly. let me read it aloud that you may all have the benefit of it. it is a description of the scene in the field hospital where badly wounded men lay crowded together awaiting their turns under the surgeon's knife. shall i read it?" there was a universal note of assent from her hearers, and she began. "there is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory above all others now, as i lie in a new york hospital, writing. it occurred at the field hospital. about a dozen of us were lying there. a continual chorus of moans rose through the tree-branches overhead. the surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes literally saturated, with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare the wounded for the journey down to siboney. behind me lay captain mcclintock, with his lower leg-bones literally ground to powder. he bore his pain as gallantly as he had led his men, and that is saying much. i think major brodie was also there. it was a doleful group. amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces. "suddenly, a voice started softly: 'my country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee i sing.' "other voices took it up: 'land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrims' pride----' "the quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded americans in the midst of the cuban solitude--the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. there was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. it was so weak that i did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line: 'let freedom ring.' "then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly: 'land--of--the--pilgrims'--pride, let freedom----' "the last word was a woeful cry. one more son had died as died the fathers." there was a moment's pause when grandma elsie had finished reading, and there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers. it was harold who broke the silence. "that battle of guasimas was a complete victory for our forces, but dearly paid for," he said; "of the nine hundred and sixty-four men engaged, sixteen were killed and fifty-two wounded; thirty-four of the wounded and eight of the killed were rough riders." "and a scarcity of doctors seems to have caused great suffering to our wounded men," grandma elsie said, with a sigh. "yes; there were too few of us," said harold, "and, through somebody's blundering, needed supplies were also scarce. i think our men were wonderfully patient, and it is hard to forgive those whose carelessness and inefficiency caused them so much unnecessary suffering." "yes, it is," said his mother; "war is a dreadful thing. how the people of beleaguered santiago suffered during the siege, and especially when they were sent out of it that they might escape the bombardment. think of eighteen to twenty thousand having to take refuge in that little town, el caney, foul with the effluvium from unburied mules and horses, and even human victims of the battle; houses so crowded that they could not even lie down on the floors, but had to pass their nights sitting on them; and food so scarce that one small biscuit sold for two dollars, and seven dollars was refused for a chicken." "it was dreadful, dreadful indeed!" said mrs. lilburn. "yet not so bad as it would have been to let spain continue her outrageous cruelty to the poor cubans," said evelyn. "no," said lucilla, "i should be sorry, indeed, to have to render up the account that weyler and the rest of them will in the judgment day." "i think he is worse than a savage," sighed mrs. lilburn. "i should think if he had any heart or conscience he would never be able to enjoy a morsel of food for thinking of the multitude of poor creatures--men, women and children--he has starved to death." chapter xii. our friends were favored with pleasant weather on their voyage from porto rico to cuba. all were gathered upon deck when they came in sight of "the pearl (or queen) of the antillies," "the ever-faithful isle," as the spaniards were wont to call it, and they gazed upon it with keen interest; an interest that deepened as they drew near the scene of schley's victory over the spanish fleet. captain raymond and dr. harold travilla, being the only ones of their number who had visited the locality before, explained the whereabouts of each american vessel, when, on that sunday morning of july third, that cloud of smoke told the watchers on the american ships that the enemy was coming out. every one in the little company had heard the battle described; therefore, a very brief account, accompanying the pointing out of the progress of different vessels during the fight, and where each of the spanish ones came to her end, was all that was needed. while they looked and talked, the "dolphin" moved slowly along that they might get a view of every part of the scene of action on that day of naval victory in the cause of the down-trodden and oppressed cubans. that accomplished, they returned to the neighborhood of santiago, and entering the narrow channel which gives entrance to its bay, passed on into and around that, gazing on the steep hills that come down to the water's edge, on morro and the remains of earthworks and batteries. they did not care to go into the city, but steamed out into the sea again and made the circuit of the island, keeping near enough to the shore to get a pretty good view of most of the places they cared to see--traveling by day and anchoring at night. "having completed the circuit of cuba, where do we go next, captain?" asked mr. dinsmore, as the party sat on deck in the evening of the day on which they had completed their trip around the island. "if it suits the wishes of all my passengers, we will go down to jamaica, pay a little visit there, pass on in a southeasterly direction to trinidad, then perhaps to brazil," captain raymond said, in reply, then asked to hear what each one present thought of the plan. every one seemed well pleased, and it was decided that they should start the next morning for jamaica. the vessel was moving the next morning before many of her passengers were out of their berths. elsie raymond noticed it as soon as she woke, and hastened with her toilet that she might join her father on deck. she was always glad to be with him, and she wanted to see whatever they might pass on their way across the sea to jamaica. the sun was shining, but it was still early when she reached the deck, where she found both her father and eldest sister. both greeted her with smiles and caresses. "almost as early a bird as your sister lu," the captain said, patting the rosy cheek and smiling down into the bright eyes looking up so lovingly into his. "yes, papa, i want to see all i can on the way to jamaica. will we get there to-day?" "i think we will if the 'dolphin' does her work according to her usual fashion. but what do you know about jamaica, the island we are bound for?" "not so very much, papa--only--she belongs to england, doesn't she, papa?" "yes. her name means 'land of wood and water,' and she lies about ninety miles to the south of cuba." "is she a very big island, papa?" "nearly as large as our state of tennessee. crossing it from east to west is a heavily-timbered ridge called the blue mountains, and there are many streams of water which flow from them down to the shores. none of them is navigable, however, except the black river, which affords a passage for small craft for thirty miles into the interior." "shall we find a good harbor for our 'dolphin,' father?" asked lucilla. "yes, indeed! excellent harbors are everywhere to be found. the best is a deep, capacious basin in the southeast quarter of the island. it washes the most spacious and fertile of the plains between the hill country and the coast. around this inlet and within a few miles of each other are all the towns of any considerable size--spanish town, port royal, and kingston." "is it a very hot place, papa?" asked the little girl. "on the coast; but much cooler up on those mountains i spoke of. the climate is said to be very healthful, and many invalids go there from our united states." "they have earthquakes there sometimes, have they not, father?" asked lucilla. "they are not quite unheard of," he replied; "in there was one which almost overwhelmed port royal; but that being more than two hundred years ago, need not, i think, add much to our anxieties in visiting the island." "that's a long, long time," said elsie, thoughtfully, "so i hope they won't have one while we are there. is it a fertile island, papa? i hope they have plenty of good fruits." "they have fruits of both tropical and temperate climates; they have spices, vanilla and many kinds of food plants; they have sugar and coffee; they export sugar, rum, pineapples and other fruits; also cocoa, ginger, pimento and logwood and cochineal." "it does seem to be very fruitful," said elsie. "have they railroads and telegraphs, papa?" "two hundred miles of railroad and seven hundred of telegraph. there are coast batteries, a volunteer force and a british garrison; and there are churches and schools." "oh, all that seems very nice! i hope we will have as good a time there as we had at bermuda." "i hope so, daughter," he said. "ah, here come the rest of our little family and your uncle harold." affectionate good-mornings were exchanged; then the talk ran on the subject uppermost in all their minds--jamaica, and what its attractions were likely to be for them. "i have been thinking," said harold, "that some spot on the central heights may prove a pleasant and beneficial place for some weeks' sojourn for all of us, the ailing ones in particular." at that moment his mother joined them and he broached the same idea to her. "if we find a pleasant and comfortable lodging place i am willing to try it," she replied, in her usual cheery tones. at that moment came the call to breakfast; speedily responded to by all the passengers. appetites and viands were alike good and the chat was cheerful and lively. the weather was clear and warm enough to make the deck, where a gentle breeze could be felt, the most agreeable lounging-place, as well as the best, for enjoying the view of the sea and any passing vessel. as usual, the children presently found their way to their grandma elsie's side and asked for a story or some information concerning the island toward which they were journeying. "you know something about it, i suppose?" she said, inquiringly. "yes, ma'am; papa was telling me this morning about the mountains and towns, and harbors, and fruits and other things that they raise," said elsie; "but there wasn't time for him to tell everything; so won't you please tell us something of its history?" "yes, dear; grandma is always glad to give you both pleasure and information. jamaica was discovered by columbus during his second voyage, in . the spaniards took possession of it in ." "had they any right to, grandma?" asked ned. "no, no more than the indians would have had to cross the ocean to europe and take possession of their country. and the spaniards not only robbed the indians of their lands but abused them so cruelly that it is said that in fifty years the native population had entirely disappeared. in the british took the island from spain, and some years later it was ceded to england by the treaty of madrid in ." "and does england own it yet, grandma?" asked elsie. "yes; there has been some fighting on the island--trouble between the whites and the negroes--but things are going smoothly now." "so that we may hope to have a good time there, i suppose," said ned. "yes, i think we may," replied his grandma. "but haven't we had a good time in all our journeying about old ocean and her islands?" to that question both children answered with a hearty, "yes indeed, grandma." chapter xiii. the next morning found the "dolphin" lying quietly at anchor in the harbor in the inlet around which are the principal towns of the island--spanish town, port royal and kingston. all were well enough to enjoy little excursions about the island, in carriages or cars, and some weeks were spent by them in the mountains, all finding the air there very pleasant and the invalids evidently gaining in health and strength. the change had been a rest to them all, but early in march they were glad to return to the yacht and set sail for trinidad, which they had decided should be their next halting place. it was a pleasant morning and, as usual, old and young were gathered upon the deck, the two children near their grandmother. "grandma," said elsie, "i suppose you know all about trinidad, where papa is taking us now, and if it won't trouble you to do so, i'd like very much to have you tell ned and me about it." "i shall not feel it any trouble to do so, little granddaughter," was the smiling rejoinder, "and if you and ned grow weary of the subject before i am through, you have only to say so and i will stop. "trinidad is the most southerly of the west india islands and belongs to great britain. it was first discovered by columbus in and given the name of trinidad by him, because three mountain summits were first seen from the masthead. but it was not until that a permanent settlement was made there. in its chief town, san josede oruha, was burned by sir walter raleigh; but the island continued in spain's possession till , when it fell into the hands of the british and it was made theirs by treaty in ." "how large is it, grandma?" asked ned. "about fifty miles long and from thirty to thirty-five wide. it is very near to venezuela, separated from it by the gulf of paria, and the extreme points on the west coast are only the one thirteen and the other nine miles from it. the channel to the north is called the dragon's mouth; it is the deepest; the southern channel is shallow, owing to the deposits brought down by the orinoco, and the gulf, too, is growing more shallow from the same cause." "are there mountains, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; mountains not so high as those on some of the other caribbean islands; they extend along the northern coast from east to west; they have forests of stately trees and along their lower edges overhanging mangroves, dipping into the sea. there is a double-peaked mountain called tamana, and from it one can look down upon the lovely and fertile valleys and plains of the other part of the island. there are some tolerably large rivers and several good harbors." "are there towns on it, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; the chief one, called port of spain, is one of the finest towns in the west indies. it was first built of wood, and was burned down in , but has since been rebuilt of stone found in the neighborhood. the streets are long, wide, clean, well paved and shaded with trees. "san fernando is the name of another town, and there are, besides, two or three pretty villages. near one of them, called la brea, is a pitch lake composed of bituminous matter floating on fresh water." "i don't think i'd want to take a sail on it," said elsie. "trinidad is a warm place, isn't it, grandma?" "yes; the climate is hot and moist; it is said to be the hottest of the west india islands." "then i'm glad it is winter now when we are going there." "yes; i think winter is the best season for paying a visit there," said her grandma. "i suppose we are going to one of the towns," said ned. "aren't we, papa?" as his father drew near. "yes, to the capital, called port of spain. i was there some years ago. shall i tell you about it?" "oh, yes sir! please do," answered both children, and a number of the grown people drew near to listen. "it is a rather large place, having some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. outside of the town is a large park, where there are villas belonging to people in good circumstances. they are pleasant, comfortable-looking dwellings with porches and porticoes, gardens in front or lawns with many varieties of trees--bread-fruit, oranges, mangoes, pawpaws--making a pleasant shade and bearing delightful fruits; and there is a great abundance of flowers." "all that sounds very pleasant, captain," said mr. lilburn, "but i fear there must be some unpleasant things to encounter." "mosquitoes, for instance?" queried the captain. "yes, i remember froude's description of one that he says he killed and examined through a glass. bewick, with the inspiration of genius, had drawn his exact likeness as the devil--a long black stroke for a body, a nick for a neck, horns on the head, and a beak for a mouth, spindle arms, and longer spindle legs, two pointed wings and a tail. he goes on to say that he had been warned to be on the lookout for scorpions, centipedes, jiggers, and land crabs, which would bite him if he walked slipperless over the floor in the dark. of those he met none; but the mosquito of trinidad was enough by himself, being, for malice, mockery, and venom of tooth and trumpet, without a match in the world." "dear me, papa, how can anybody live there?" exclaimed grace. "froude speaks of seeking safety in tobacco-smoke," replied her father, with a quizzical smile. "you might do that; or try the only other means of safety mentioned by him--hiding behind the lace curtains with which every bed is provided." "but we can't stay in bed all the time, papa," exclaimed elsie. "no, but most of the time when you are out of bed you keep off the mosquitoes with a fan." "and if we find them quite unendurable we can sail away from trinidad," said violet. "perhaps we are coming to the island at a better time of the year than froude did, as regards the mosquito plague," remarked grandma elsie. "ah, mother, i am afraid they are bad and troublesome all the year round in these warm regions," said harold. "but we can take refuge behind nets a great deal of the time while we are in the mosquito country, and hurry home when we tire of that," remarked violet. "ah, that is a comfortable thought," said mr. lilburn. "and we are fortunate people in having such homes as ours to return to." "yes, we can all say amen to that," said chester, and lucilla started the singing of "home, sweet home," all the others joining in with feeling. the next morning found the "dolphin" lying quietly in the harbor of the port of spain in the great shallow lake known as the gulf of paria, and soon after breakfast all went ashore to visit the city. they enjoyed walking about the wide, shaded streets, and park, gazing with great interest upon the strange and beautiful trees, shrubs and flowers; there were bread-fruit trees, pawpaws, mangoes and oranges, and large and beautiful flowers of many colors. some of our friends had read froude's account of the place and wanted to visit it. from there they went to the botanical gardens and were delighted with the variety of trees and plants entirely new to them. before entering the place, the young people were warned not to taste any of the strange fruits, and grandma elsie and the captain kept watch over them lest the warning should be forgotten or unheeded; though elsie was never known to disobey father or mother, and it was a rare thing, indeed, for ned to do so. they were much interested in all they saw, the glen full of nutmeg trees among the rest; they were from thirty to forty feet high, with leaves of brilliant green, something like the leaves of an orange, folded one over the other, and their lowest branches swept the ground. there were so many strange and beautiful trees, plants and flowers to be seen and admired that our friends spent more than an hour in those gardens. then they hired conveyances and drove about wherever they thought the most attractive scenes were to be found. they were interested in the cabins of the negroes spread along the road on either side and overhung with trees--tamarinds, bread-fruit, orange, limes, citrons, plantains and calabash trees; out of the last named they make their cups and water-jugs. there were cocoa-bushes, too, loaded with purple or yellow pods; there were yams in the garden, cows in the paddocks also; so that it was evident that abundance of good, nourishing, appetizing food was provided them with very little exertion on their part. captain raymond and his party spent some weeks in trinidad and its harbor--usually passing the night aboard the "dolphin"--traveling about the island in cars or carriages, visiting all the interesting spots, going up into the mountains and enjoying the view from thence of the lovely, fertile valleys and plains. then they sailed around the island and anchored again in the harbor of port of spain for the night and to consider and decide upon their next movement. "shall we go up the orinoco?" asked the captain, addressing the company, as all sat together on the deck. there was a moment of silence, each waiting for the others to speak, then mr. dinsmore said: "give us your views on the subject, captain. is there much to attract us there? to interest and instruct? i am really afraid that is a part of my geography in which i am rather rusty." "it is one of the great rivers of south america," said the captain. "it rises in one of the chief mountain chains of guiana. it is a crooked stream--flowing west-south-west, then south-west, then north-west, then north-north-east and after that in an eastward direction to its mouth. the head of uninterrupted navigation is seven hundred and seventy-seven miles from its mouth. above that point there are cataracts. "it has a great many branches, being joined, it is said, by four hundred and thirty-six rivers and upward of two thousand streams; so it drains an area of from two hundred and fifty thousand to six hundred and fifty thousand square miles, as variously estimated. it begins to form its delta one hundred and thirty miles from its mouth, by throwing off a branch which flows northward into the atlantic. it has several navigable mouths, and the main stream is divided by a line of islands, into two channels, each two miles wide. the river is four miles wide at bolivar, a town more than two hundred and fifty miles from the mouth of the river, which is there three hundred and ninety feet deep." "why, it's a grand, big river," said chester. "much obliged for the information, captain. i had forgotten, if i ever knew, that it was so large, and with its many tributaries drained so large a territory." "and do you wish to visit it--or a part of it?" queried the captain. "how is it with you, cousins annis and ronald?" "i am willing--indeed, should prefer--to leave the decision to other members of our party," replied mrs. lilburn, and her husband expressed the same wish to let others decide the question. "what do you say, grandma dinsmore?" asked violet. "i think you look as if you would rather not go." "and that is how i feel--thinking of the mosquitoes," returned the old lady, with a slight laugh. "they certainly are very objectionable," said the captain. "i can't say that i am at all desirous to try them myself. and i doubt if they are more scarce on the amazon than on the orinoco. one traveler there tells us, 'at night it was quite impossible to sleep for mosquitoes; they fell upon us by myriads, and without much piping came straight to our faces as thick as raindrops in a shower. the men crowded into the cabins and tried to expel them by smoke from burnt rags, but it was of little avail, though we were half suffocated by the operation.'" "that certainly does not sound very encouraging, my dear," said violet. "the amazon is a grand river, i know," said harold, "but it would not pay to visit it under so great a drawback to one's comfort; and i am very sure encountering such pests would be by no means beneficial to any one of my patients." "and this one of your patients would not be willing to encounter them, even if such were the prescription of her physician," remarked grace, in a lively tone. "nor would this older one," added grandma elsie, in playful tones. "then we will consider the orinoco as tabooed," said the captain; "and i suppose we shall have to treat the amazon in the same way, as it was at a place upon its banks that one of the writers i just quoted had his most unpleasant experience with the mosquitoes." "well, my dear, if there is a difference of opinion and choice among us--some preferring scenery even with mosquitoes, others no scenery unless it could be had without mosquitoes--suppose we divide our forces--one set land and the other remain on board and journey on up the river." "ah! and which set will you join, little wife?" he asked, with playful look and tone. "whichever one my husband belongs to," she answered. "man and wife are not to be separated." "suppose we take a vote on the question and settle it at once," said lucilla. "a good plan, i think," said harold. "yes," assented the captain. "cousins annis and ronald, please give us your wishes in regard to rivers and mosquitoes." "i admire the rivers, but not the mosquitoes, and would rather do without both than have both," laughed annis, and her husband added, "and my sentiments on the subject coincide exactly with those of my wife." then the question went round the circle, and it appeared that every one thought a sight of the great rivers and the scenery on their banks would be too dearly purchased by venturing in among the clouds of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. "i'm glad," exclaimed ned; "for i'm not a bit fond of mosquitoes; especially not of having them take their meals off me. but i'd like to see those big rivers. papa, won't you tell us something about the amazon?" "yes," said the captain; "it has two other names--maranon and orellana. it is a very large river and has a big mouth--one hundred and fifty miles wide, and the tide enters there and goes up the stream five hundred miles. "from the wide mouth of the amazon, where it empties into the ocean, its water can be distinguished from the other--that of the ocean--for fifty leagues. the amazon is so large and has so many tributaries that it drains two million, five hundred square miles of country. the amazon is the king of rivers. it rises in the western range of the andes, and is little better than a mountain torrent till it has burst through the gorges of the eastern range of the chain, where it is overhung by peaks that tower thousands of feet above its bed. but within three hundred miles from the pacific is a branch, huallagais, large enough and deep enough for steamers, and a few miles farther down the amazon is navigable for vessels drawing five feet; and it grows deeper and deeper and more and more available for large vessels as it rolls on toward the ocean. the outlet of this mighty river is a feeder of the gulf stream. it is only since that the navigation of the amazon has been open, but now regular lines of steamers ply between its mouth and yurimaguas on the huallaga." "are there not many and important exports sent down the amazon?" asked mr. dinsmore. "there are, indeed," replied the captain, "and the fauna of the waters have proved wonderful. agassiz found there, in five months, thirteen hundred species of fish, nearly a thousand of them new, and about twenty new genera. the vacca marina, the largest fish inhabiting fresh waters, and the acara, which carries its young in its mouth, when there is danger, are the denizens of the amazon." "oh," exclaimed elsie, "i'd like to see that fish with its babies in its mouth." "and i should be very sorry to have to carry my children in that way--even if the relative sizes of my mouth and children made it possible," said her mother. "brazil's a big country, isn't it, papa?" asked ned. "yes," said his father; "about as large as the united states would be without alaska." "did columbus discover it, and the spaniards settle it, papa?" he asked. "in the year a companion of columbus landed at cape augustine, near pernambuco, and from there sailed along the coast as far as the orinoco," replied the captain. "in the same year another portuguese commander, driven to the brazilian coast by adverse winds, landed, and taking possession in the name of his monarch named the country terra da vera crux. the first permanent settlement was made by the portuguese in on the island of st. vincent. many settlements were made and abandoned, because of the hostility of the natives and the lack of means, and a huguenot colony, established on the bay of rio de janeiro, in , was broken up by the portuguese in when they founded the present capital, rio de janeiro. "but it is hardly worth while to rehearse all the history of the various attempts to take possession of brazil--attempts made by dutch, portuguese and spanish. french invasion of portugal, in , caused the royal family to flee to brazil, and it became the royal seat of government until , when dom john vi. went back to portugal, leaving his eldest son, dom pedro, as prince regent. "the independence of brazil was proclaimed september , ; and on october th, he was crowned emperor as dom pedro i. he was arbitrary, and that made him so unpopular that he found it best to abdicate, which he did in in favor of his son, then only a child. that boy was crowned in , at the age of fifteen, as dom pedro ii." "gold is to be found in brazil, is it not, papa?" asked grace. "yes," he said, "that country is rich in minerals and precious stones. gold, always accompanied with silver, is found in many of the provinces, and in minas-geraes is especially abundant, and in that and two other of the provinces, diamonds are found; and the opal, amethyst, emerald, ruby, sapphire, tourmaline, topaz and other precious stones are more or less common." "petroleum also is obtained in one or two of the provinces, and there are valuable phosphate deposits on some of the islands," remarked mr. dinsmore, as the captain paused, as if he had finished what he had to say in reply to grace's question. "papa," asked ned, "are there lions and tigers and monkeys in the woods?" "there are dangerous wild beasts--the jaguar being the most common and formidable. and there are other wild, some of them dangerous, beasts--the tiger cat, red wolf, tapir, wild hog, brazilian dog, or wild fox, capybara or water hog, paca, three species of deer, armadillos, sloths, ant-eaters, oppossums, coatis, water-rats, otters and porcupines. squirrels, hares and rabbits are plentiful. there are many species of monkeys, too, and several kinds of bats--vampires among them. on the southern plains, large herds of wild horses are to be found. indeed, brazil can boast a long list of animals. one writer says that he found five hundred species of birds in the amazon valley alone, about thirty distinct species of parrots and twenty varieties of humming-birds. the largest birds are the ouira, a large eagle; the rhea, or american ostrich; and the cariama. along the coasts or in the forest are to be found frigate birds, snowy herons, toucans, ducks, wild peacocks, turkeys, geese and pigeons. among the smaller birds are the oriole, whippoorwill and the uraponga, or bell bird." "those would be pleasant enough to meet," said violet, "but there are plenty of most unpleasant creatures--snakes, for instance." "yes," assented the captain; "there are many serpents; the most venomous are the jararaca and the rattlesnake. the boa-constrictor and anaconda grow very large, and there are at least three species of cobra noted as dangerous. there are many alligators, turtles and lizards. the rivers, lakes and coast-waters literally swarm with fish. agassiz found nearly two thousand species, many of them such as are highly esteemed for food." "and they have big mosquitoes, too, you have told us, papa," said elsie. "many other bugs, too, i suppose?" "yes; big beetles, scorpions and spiders, many kinds of bees, sand-flies and musical crickets, destructive ants, the cochineal insect and the pium, a tiny insect whose bite is poisonous and sometimes dangerous." "please tell us about the woods, papa," said ned. "yes; the forests of the amazon valley are said to be the largest in the world, having fully four hundred species of trees. in marshy places and along streams reeds, grasses and water plants grow in tangled masses, and in the forests the trees crowd each other and are draped with parasitic vines. along the coasts mangroves, mangoes, cocoas, dwarf palms, and the brazil-wood are noticeable. in one of the southern provinces more than forty different kinds of trees are valuable for timber. on the amazon and its branches there are an almost innumerable variety of valuable trees; among them the itauba or stonewood, so named for its durability; the cassia, the cinnamon-tree, the banana, the lime, the myrtle, the guava, the jacaranda or rosewood, the brazilian bread-fruit, whose large seeds are used for food, and many others too numerous to mention; among them the large and lofty cotton-tree, the tall white-trunked seringa or rubber-tree, which furnishes the gum of commerce, and the three or four hundred species of palms. one of those is called the carnaubu palm; it is probably the most valuable, for every part of it is useful, from the wax of its leaves to its edible pith. another is the piassaba palm, whose bark is clothed with a loose fiber used for coarse textile fabrics and for brooms." "why, papa, that's a very useful tree," was little elsie's comment upon that bit of information. "are there fruits and flowers in those forests, papa?" she asked. "yes; those i have already mentioned, with figs, custard-apples and oranges. some european fruits--olives, grapes and water-melons of fine flavor are cultivated in brazil." "if it wasn't for the fierce wild animals and snakes, it would be a nice country to live in, i think," she said; "but taking everything into consideration i very much prefer our own country." "ah, is that so? who shall say that you won't change your mind after a few weeks spent in brazil?" returned her father, with an amused look. "you wouldn't want me to, i know, papa," she returned, with a pleasant little laugh, "for i am very sure you want your children to love their own country better than any other in the world." "yes, my child, i do," he said. then turning to his older passengers and addressing them in general, "i think," he said, "if it is agreeable to you all, we will make a little stop at pará, the maritime emporium of the amazon. i presume you would all like to see that city?" all seemed pleased with the idea, and it was presently settled that that should be their next stopping-place. they all enjoyed their life upon the yacht, but an occasional halt and visit to the shore made an agreeable variety. chapter xiv. their sail about the mouth of the amazon was very interesting to them all, and that up the pará river to the city of the same name, not less so. they found the city evidently a busy and thriving place; its harbor, formed by a curve of the river pará, here twenty miles wide, had at anchor in it a number of large vessels of various nationalities. the "dolphin" anchored among them, and after a little her passengers went ashore for a drive about the city. they found the streets paved and macadamized, the houses with white walls and red-tiled roofs. there were some large and imposing buildings--a cathedral, churches and the president's palace were the principal ones. they visited the public square and beautiful botanic garden. it was not very late in the day when they returned to their yacht, but they--especially dr. harold's patients--were weary enough to enjoy the quiet rest to be found in their ocean home. "what a busy place it is," remarked grandma elsie, as they sat together upon the deck, gazing out upon the city and its harbor. "yes," said the captain, "pará is the mart through which passes the whole commerce of the amazon and its affluents." "and that must, of course, make it a place of importance," said violet. "it was the seat of revolution in ," remarked her grandfather; "houses were destroyed, lives lost--a great many of them--and grass grew in streets which before that had been the center of business." "papa," exclaimed ned, "there's a little boat coming, and a man in it with some little animals." "ah, yes; small monkeys, i think they are," captain raymond said, taking a view over the side of the vessel. then he called to a sailor that he wanted the man allowed to come aboard with whatever he had for sale. in a few moments he was at hand carrying two little monkeys in his arms. he approached the captain and bowing low, hat in hand, addressed him in portuguese, first saying, "good-evening," then going on to tell that these were fine little monkeys--tee-tees--which he had brought for sale, and he went on to talk fluently in praise of the little creatures, which were about the size of a squirrel, of a greyish-olive as to the hair of body and limbs, a rich golden hue on the latter; on the under surface of the body a whitish grey, and the tip of the tail black. "oh, how pretty, how very pretty!" exclaimed little elsie. "papa, won't you buy me one?" "yes, daughter, if you want it," returned the captain, "for i know you will be kind to it and that it will be a safe and pretty pet for you." "and oh, papa, i'd like to have the other one, if i may!" cried ned, fairly dancing with delight at the thought of owning the pretty little creature. the captain smiled and said something to the man, speaking in portuguese, a language spoken and understood by themselves only of all on board the vessel. the man answered, saying, as the captain afterward told the others, that he was very glad to sell both to one person, because the little fellows were brothers and would be company for each other. then a tee-tee was handed to each of the children, the captain gave the man some money, which seemed to please him, and he went away, while elsie and ned rejoiced over and exhibited their pets, fed them and gave them a comfortable sleeping-place for the night. "what lovely, engaging little things they are!" said grandma elsie, as the children carried them away, "the very prettiest monkeys i ever saw." "yes," said the captain, "they are of a very pretty and engaging genus of monkeys; we all noticed the beauty of their fur, from which they are called callithrix or 'beautiful hair.' sometimes they are called squirrel monkeys, partly on account of their shape and size, and partly from their squirrel-like activity. they are light, graceful little creatures. i am hoping my children will have great pleasure with theirs. they are said to attach themselves very strongly to their possessors, and behave with a gentle intelligence that lifts them far above the greater part of the monkey race." "i think i have read that they are good-tempered," said grandma elsie. "yes; they are said to be very amiable, anger seeming to be almost unknown to them. did you not notice the almost infantile innocence in the expression of their countenances?" "yes, i did," she replied; "it was very touching, and made me feel an affection for them at once." "i have read," said evelyn, "that that is very strong when the little creatures are alarmed. that sudden tears will come into their clear hazel eyes, and that they will make a little imploring, shrinking gesture quite irresistible to kind-hearted, sympathetic people." "i was reading about the tee-tees not long ago," said mrs. lilburn; "and one thing i learned was that they had a curious habit of watching the lips of those who speak to them, just as if they could understand the words spoken, and that when they become quite familiar, they are fond of sitting on their friend's shoulder, and laying their tiny fingers on his lips; as if they thought in that way they might discover the mysteries of speech." "poor little darlings! i wish they could talk," exclaimed grace. "i daresay they would make quite as good use of the power of speech as parrots do." "possibly even better," said her father. "they seem to be more affectionate." "do they live in flocks in their own forests, papa?" grace asked. "yes," he replied, "so the traveler, mr. bates, tells us, and that when on the move they take flying leaps from tree to tree." "i am very glad you bought those, papa," she said. "i think they will be a pleasure and amusement to us all." "so do i," said lucilla, "they are so pretty and graceful that i think we will all be inclined to pet them." "so i think," said her father, "they seem to me decidedly the prettiest and most interesting species of monkey i have ever met with." "and it is really pleasant to see how delighted the children are with their new pets," said grandma elsie. "yes," the captain responded, with a pleased smile, "and i have no fear that they will ill-use them." "i am sure they will be kind to them," said violet. "they were much interested in the monkeys we saw in going about the city. i saw quite a number of various species--some pretty large, but most of them small; some at the doors or windows of houses, some in canoes on the river." "yes, i think we all noticed them," said her mother. "yes," said the captain, "i saw several of the _midas ursulus_, a small monkey which i have read is often to be found here in pará. it is, when full grown, only about nine inches long, exclusive of the tail, which is fifteen inches. it has thick black fur with a reddish brown streak down the middle of the back. it is said to be a timid little thing, but when treated kindly becomes very tame and familiar." "what do monkeys eat, papa?" asked grace. "i have been told the little fellows are generally fed on sweet fruits, such as the banana, and that they are also fond of grasshoppers and soft-bodied spiders." "they have some very large and busy ants in this country, haven't they, father?" asked evelyn. "yes," replied the captain. "bates tells of some an inch and a quarter long and stout in proportion, marching in single file through the thickets. they, however, have nothing peculiar or attractive in their habits, though they are giants among ants. but he speaks of another and far more interesting species. it is a great scourge to the brazilians, from its habit of despoiling the most valuable of their cultivated trees of their foliage. in some districts it is such a pest that agriculture is almost impossible. he goes on to say that in their first walks they were puzzled to account for mounds of earth of a different color from the surrounding soil; mounds, some of them very extensive, some forty yards in circumference, but not more than two feet high. but on making inquiries they learned that those mounds were the work of the saubas--the outworks and domes which overlie and protect the entrances to their vast subterranean galleries. on close examination, bates found the earth of which they were made to consist of very minute granules heaped together with cement so as to form many rows of little ridges and turrets. and he learned that the difference in color from the earth around was because of the undersoil having been brought up from a considerable depth to form these mounds." "i should like to see the ants at work upon them," said grace. "it is very rarely that one has the opportunity to do so," said her father. "mr. bates tells us that the entrances are generally closed galleries, opened only now and then when some particular work is going on. he says he succeeded in removing portions of the dome in smaller hillocks, and found that the minor entrances converged, at the depth of about two feet, to one broad, elaborately-worked gallery or mine, which was four or five inches in diameter." "isn't it the ant that clips and carries away leaves?" asked evelyn. "yes, bates speaks of that; says it has long been recorded in books on natural history, and that when employed on that work their procession looks like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. in some places he found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces about the size of sixpence, lying on the pathway, no ants near it, and at some distance from the colony. 'such heaps,' he says, 'are always found to have been removed when the place is revisited the next day. the ants mount the trees in multitudes. each one is a working miner, places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp, scissors-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the leaf piece. sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried away by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off with the piece he has detached. all take the same road to their colony and the path they follow becomes, in a short time, smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage.'" "i am sorry the children have missed all this interesting information," said violet. "never mind, my dear," said her husband, "it can be repeated to them to-morrow. i think there is a storm gathering, and that we are likely to have to stay at home here for a day or two." "should it prove a storm of any violence we may be thankful that we are in this good, safe harbor," remarked mr. dinsmore. "and that we have abundance of good company and good reading matter," added grandma elsie. "yes," responded her father, "those are truly additional causes for thankfulness." "the little monkeys are another," laughed lucilla. "i think we will have some fun with them; and certainly the children are delighted with their new pets." "they certainly are engaging little creatures--very different from those we are accustomed to see going about our streets with organ-grinders," said grandma dinsmore. the children were on deck unusually early the next morning, their pets with them. they found their father, mother, eva and lucilla there. the usual affectionate morning greetings were exchanged; then, smiling down upon elsie and her pet, the captain said, "i think you have not yet tired of your new pet, daughter?" "no, indeed, papa," was the quick, earnest rejoinder, "i'm growing fonder of him every hour. oh, he's just the dearest little fellow!" "and so is mine," added ned. "i think i'll name him tee-tee; and as elsie's is a little smaller than this, she is going to call him tiny." "if papa approves," added elsie. "i am well satisfied," returned their father. "you have begun your day rather earlier than usual," captain raymond went on, addressing the two children, "and i am well pleased that it is so, because now you can take some exercise about the deck, which may be prevented later by a storm," and he glanced up at the sky, where black clouds were gathering. "yes, papa, we will," they answered, and set off at once upon a race round the deck, carrying their pets with them. the storm had begun when the summons to breakfast came, but the faces that gathered about the table were cheerful and bright, the talk also. all agreed that it would be no hardship to have to remain on board for some days with plenty of books and periodicals to read, the pleasant company which they were to each other, and the abundance of fruits and other dainties which the captain always provided. when they were done eating, they repaired to the saloon, held their usual morning service, then sat about singly or in groups, talking, reading, writing, or, if a lady, busied with some fancy work. the children were much taken up with their new pets, fondling them and letting them climb about their shoulders. cousin ronald watched them with interest and pleasure. elsie was standing near, her tiny on her shoulder, gazing into her eyes with a look that seemed to say, "you are so kind to me that i love you already." elsie stroked and patted him, saying, "you dear little pet! i love you already, and mean to take the very best care of you." "thanks, dear little mistress. i am glad to belong to you and mean to be always the best little tee-tee that ever was seen." the words seemed to come from the tee-tee's lips, and its pretty eyes were looking right into elsie's own. "why, you little dear!" she said, with a pleased little laugh, stroking and patting him, then glancing round at cousin ronald, "how well you talk. in english, too, though i don't believe you ever heard the language before you came aboard the 'dolphin.'" "no, we didn't, though we can speak it now as well as any other," ned's pet seemed to say, lifting its head from his shoulder and glancing around at its brother. that brought a merry laugh from its little master. "speak it as much as you please, tee-tee," he said, fondling his pet, "or talk portuguese or any other language you're acquainted with." "i'm afraid they will never be able to talk unless cousin ronald is in the company," said elsie; "or brother max," she added, as an after-thought. "yes, brother max could make them talk just as well," said ned. "oh, here come the letters and papers!" as a sailor came in carrying the mailbag. its contents gave employment to every one for a time, but, after a little, violet, having finished the perusal of her share, called the children to her and gave them an interesting account of the talk of the night before about the strange doings of south american ants. they were much interested, and asked a good many questions. when that subject was exhausted, elsie asked to be told something about rio de janeiro. "there is a maritime province of that name in the south-east part of brazil," her mother said. "i have read that in the southern part of it the scenery is very beautiful. the middle of the province is mountainous. about the city i will read you from the "new international encyclopedia," which your father keeps on board whenever we are using the yacht." she took down the book, opened and read: "'rio de janeiro, generally called rio, the capital of the brazilian empire, and the largest and most important commercial emporium of south america, stands on a magnificent harbor, seventy-five miles west of cape frio. the harbor or bay of rio de janeiro, said, and apparently with justice, to be the most beautiful, secure, and spacious bay in the world, is land-locked, being entered from the south by a passage about a mile in width. it extends inland seventeen miles, and has an extreme breadth of about twelve miles. of its numerous islands, the largest, governor's island, is six miles long. the entrance of the bay, guarded on either side by granite mountains, is deep, and is so safe that the harbor is made without the aid of pilots. on the left of the entrance rises the peak called, from its peculiar shape, sugarloaf mountain; and all round the bay the blue waters are girdled with mountains and lofty hills of every variety of picturesque and fantastic outline. the harbor is protected by a number of fortresses. the city stands on the west shore of the bay, about four miles from its mouth. seven green and mound-like hills diversify its site; and the white-walled and vermillion-roofed houses cluster in the intervening valleys, and climb the eminences in long lines. from the central portion of the city, lines of houses extend four miles in three principal directions. the old town, nearest the bay, is laid out in squares; the streets cross at right angles, are narrow, and are paved and flagged; and the houses, often built of granite, are commonly two stories high. west of it is the elegantly-built new town; and the two districts are separated by the campo de santa anna, an immense square or park, on different parts of which stand an extensive garrison, the town-hall, the national museum, the palace of the senate, the foreign office, a large opera house, etc. from a number of springs which rise on and around mount corcovado (three thousand feet high, and situated three and a half miles southwest of the city) water is conveyed to rio de janeiro by a splendid aqueduct, and supplies the fountains with which the numerous squares are furnished. great municipal improvements have, within recent years, been introduced; most of the streets are now as well paved as those of the finest european capitals; the city is abundantly lighted with gas; and commodious wharfs and quays are built along the water edge. rio de janeiro contains several excellent hospitals and infirmaries, asylums for foundlings and female orphans, and other charitable institutions, some richly endowed; about fifty chapels and churches, generally costly and imposing structures, with rich internal decorations, and several convents and nunneries. in the college of pedro ii., founded in , the various branches of a liberal education are efficiently taught by a staff of eight or nine professors; the imperial academy of medicine, with a full corps of professors, is attended by upward of three hundred students; there is also a theological seminary. the national library contains one hundred thousand volumes.' "there, my dears, i think that is all that will interest you," concluded violet, closing the book. chapter xv. the storm continued for some days, during which the "dolphin" lay quietly at anchor in the bay of pará. it was a quiet, uneventful time for her passengers, but they enjoyed themselves well in each other's society and waited patiently for a change of weather. finally it came; the sun shone, the waves had quieted down and a gentle breeze taken the place of the boisterous wind of the last few days. just as the sun rose, the anchor was lifted and, to the joy of all on board, the yacht went on her way, steaming out of the harbor and then down the coast of brazil; a long voyage, but, under the circumstances, by no means unpleasant to the "dolphin's" passengers, so fond as they were of each other's society. at length they arrived at rio de janeiro. they stayed there long enough to acquaint themselves with its beauties and all that might interest a stranger. all that accomplished, they left for the north, as it was getting near the time when even the invalids might safely return to the cooler climate of that region. it was evening; the children had retired for the night, and all the older ones were together on the deck. a silence that had lasted for some moments was broken by lucilla. "you are taking us home now, i suppose, father?" "i don't remember to have said so," replied the captain, pleasantly, "though very likely i may do so if you all wish it." then violet spoke up in her quick, lively way, "mamma, if you would give us all an invitation to visit viamede, i think it would be just delightful to go there for a week or two; and then chester could see his sisters and their children." "i should be glad to help him to do so; and very glad to have you all my guests at viamede," was the reply, in grandma elsie's own sweet tones. then came a chorus of thanks for her invitation; all seeming much pleased with the idea. "it will be quite a journey," remarked lucilla, in a tone of satisfaction. "you are not weary of life on shipboard, daughter?" her father queried, with a pleased little laugh. "no, indeed, father; i am very fond of life on the 'dolphin.' i suppose that's because of the sailor-blood in me inherited from you." "some of which i have also," said grace; "for i dearly love a voyage in the 'dolphin.'" "which some of the rest of us do without having the excuse of inherited sailor-blood," said harold. "no; that inheritance isn't at all necessary to the enjoyment of life on the 'dolphin,'" remarked chester. "indeed, it is not," said evelyn. "i am a landsman's daughter, but life on this vessel with the dear friends always to be found on it is delightful to me." "and the rest of us can give a like testimony," said mrs. lilburn, and those who had not already spoken gave a hearty assent. "up this south american coast, through the caribbean sea and the gulf of mexico--it will be quite a voyage," remarked lucilla, reflectively. "it is well, indeed, that we are all fond of life on the 'dolphin.'" "yes; you will have had a good deal of it by the time we get home," said her father. "to-morrow is sunday," remarked grandma elsie. "i am very glad we can have services on board. i often find them quite as helpful as those i attend on shore." "yes; i don't know why we shouldn't have services, though there is no licensed preacher among us," said the captain. "certainly, we may all read god's word, talk of it to others, and address to him both prayers and praises." the next morning after breakfast all assembled upon deck, united in prayer and praise, the captain read a sermon, and then mr. lilburn, by request of the others, led them in their bible lesson. "let us take parts of the th and th chapters of numbers for our lesson to-day," he said, reading the passages aloud, then asked, "can you tell me, cousin elsie, where the children of israel were encamped just at that time?" "at kadesh, in what was called the wilderness of paran. it was at a little distance to the southwest of the southern end of the dead sea." "they went and searched the land, as moses directed, and cut down and brought back with them a cluster of grapes, a very large one, it must have been, for they bare it between two upon a staff; also they brought pomegranates and figs. do you know, neddie, what eshcol means?" asked cousin ronald. "no, sir; papa hasn't taught me that yet," replied the little boy. "it means a bunch of grapes," said cousin ronald, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "grace, do you think the spies were truthful?" "they seem to have been, so far as the facts about the country they had just visited were concerned," grace answered, then read, "and they told him, and said, 'we came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. nevertheless, the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled, and very great; and, moreover, we saw the children of anak there. the amalekites dwell in the land of the south: and the hittites, and the jebusites, and the amorites, dwell in the mountains: and the canaanites dwell by the sea, and by the coast of jordan.'" "truly, a very discouraging report," said mr. lilburn; "for though they described the land as very good and desirable, they evidently considered its inhabitants too strong to be overcome." he then read, "and they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of israel, saying, 'the land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. and there we saw the giants, the sons of anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.' and what effect had their report upon the people, cousin violet?" he asked. in reply, violet read, "and all the congregation lifted up their voice, and cried; and the people wept that night. and all the children of israel murmured against moses and against aaron: and the whole congregation said unto them, 'would god that we had died in the land of egypt! or would god we had died in this wilderness! and wherefore hath the lord brought us unto this land, to fall by the sword, that our wives and our children should be a prey? were it not better for us to return into egypt?' and they said, one to another, 'let us make a captain, and let us return into egypt.'" it seemed to be mr. dinsmore's turn, and he read, "and joshua, the son of nun; and caleb, the son of jephunneh, which were of them that searched the land, rent their clothes: and they spake unto all the company of the children of israel, saying, 'the land, which we passed through to search it, is exceeding good land. if the lord delight in us, then he will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey. only rebel not ye against the lord, neither fear ye the people of the land; for they are bread for us: their defense is departed from them, and the lord is with us: fear them not.'" then mrs. dinsmore read, "but all the congregation bade stone them with stones. and the glory of the lord appeared in the tabernacle of the congregation before all the children of israel. and the lord said unto moses, 'how long will this people provoke me? and how long will it be ere they believe me, for all the signs which i have showed among them? i will smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and will make of thee a greater nation and mightier than they.'" "how very childish they were," remarked violet. "why should they wish they had died in the land of egypt, or in the wilderness? that would have been no better than dying where they were. and it does seem strange they could not trust in god when he had given them such wonderful deliverances." "and they said, one to another, 'let us make a captain, and let us return into egypt,'" read harold, adding, "it does seem as though they felt that moses would not do anything so wicked and foolish as going back into egypt." "and they might well feel so," said the captain. "moses was not the man to be discouraged by such difficulties after all the wonders god had shown him and them in egypt and the wilderness." "that is true," said mr. lilburn. "but let us go on to the end of the story. we have read that the lord threatened to smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and make of moses a greater nation and mightier than they. chester, what did moses say in reply?" "and moses said unto the lord, 'then the egyptians shall hear it (for thou broughtest up this people in thy might from among them); and they will tell it to the inhabitants of this land; for they have heard that thou, lord, art among this people, that thou, lord, art seen face to face, and that thy cloud standeth over them, and that thou goest before them, by daytime in the pillar of cloud, and in a pillar of fire by night. now if thou shalt kill all this people as one man, then the nations which have heard the fame of thee will speak, saying, because the lord was not able to bring this people into the land which he sware unto them, therefore he hath slain them in the wilderness. and now, i beseech thee, let the power of my lord be great, according as thou hast spoken, saying, the lord is long-suffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. pardon, i beseech thee, the iniquity of this people according unto the greatness of thy mercy, and as thou hast forgiven this people, from egypt even until now.'" chester paused, and mrs. dinsmore took up the story where he dropped it, reading from her bible, "and the lord said, 'i have pardoned according to thy word: but as truly as i live, all the earth shall be filled with the glory of the lord. because all those men which have seen my glory and my miracles, which i did in egypt and in the wilderness, and have tempted me now these ten times, and have not hearkened to my voice. surely they shall not see the land which i sware unto their fathers, neither shall any of them that provoked me see it: but my servant caleb, because he had another spirit with him, and hath followed me fully, him will i bring into the land whereinto he went; and his seed shall possess it. (now the amalekites and the canaanites dwelt in the valley). to-morrow, turn you, and get you into the wilderness by the red sea.'" "papa, did all those people lose their souls?" asked elsie. "i hope not," he replied. "if they repented and turned to the lord, they were forgiven and reached heaven at last. jesus says, 'come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest. take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for i am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" chapter xvi. "are we going to stop at any of these south american countries, papa?" asked elsie the next day, standing by her father's side on the deck. "i hardly think so," he replied. "it is rather too nearly time to go home." "oh, papa, i'd like ever so much to see our other home, viamede--grandma lets me call it one of my homes--if there is time, and it isn't too far away." "well, daughter," her father said, with a smile, "i think there is time, and the place not too far away--the 'dolphin' being a good-natured yacht that never complains of her long journeys." "oh, papa, are we really going there?" cried the little girl, fairly dancing with delight. "i'll be so glad to see the keith cousins at the cottage, and those at magnolia hall, and the others at torriswood. and i'll show tiny to them, and they'll be sure to be pleased to see him," she added, hugging her pet, which, as usual, she had in her arms. "probably they will," said her father. "do you think of giving him to any one of them?" "give my little pet tiny away? why, papa! no indeed! i couldn't think of such a thing!" she cried, hugging her pet still closer. "i'm fond of him, papa, and i'm pretty sure he's fond of me; he seems to want to snuggle up close to me all the time." "yes; i think he is fond of you and won't want to leave you, except for a little while now and then to run up and down the trees and round the grounds. that will be his play; and when he gets hungry he will go back to you for something to eat." ned, with his pet in his arms, had joined them just in time to hear his father's last sentence. "are you talking about elsie's tiny, papa?" he asked. "yes, my son, and what i said will apply to your tee-tee just as well. i think if my children are good and kind to the little fellows they will not want to run away." "i have been good to him so far," said ned, patting and stroking his pet as he spoke, "and i mean to keep on. papa, where are we going now? elsie and i were talking about it a while ago, and we wondered if we were now on the way home." "would you like to be?" asked his father. "yes, papa; or to go somewhere else first; just as pleases you." "what would you say as to visiting viamede?" "oh, papa, that i'd like it ever so much!" "well, your grandma has given us all an invitation to go there, and we are very likely to accept it. it will make us a little later in getting home than i had intended, but it will be so great a pleasure that i think we will all feel paid." "yes, indeed!" cried ned, dancing up and down in delight, "i think it's just splendid that we can go there. i don't know any lovelier or more delightful place to go to; do you, papa?" "and i'm as glad as you are, ned," said elsie. "let's go and thank grandma. yonder she is in her usual seat under the awning." "yes," said their father, "you owe her thanks, and it would be well to give them at once," and they hastened to do his bidding. grandma elsie was seated with the other ladies of their party in that pleasant spot under the awning, where there were plenty of comfortable seats, and they were protected from sun and shower. the gentlemen were there, too. some were reading and some--the younger ones--chatting and laughing merrily among themselves. into this group the children came rushing, full of excitement and glee. "oh grandma," they cried, talking both at once, "we're so glad we're going to viamede, so much obliged to you for inviting us, because it's such a dear, beautiful place and seems to be one of our homes." "yes, you must consider it so, my dears; because it is mine, and i consider my dear grandchildren as mine, too," was grandma's smiling, affectionate rejoinder. "as i do, mamma," said violet, "and i am sure no children ever had a better, kinder grandmother." "no, indeed," said elsie. "and i think tiny and tee-tee will enjoy being at viamede, too, and climbing up the beautiful trees. papa says they will, but will be glad to come back to us when they get hungry; because we feed them with such things as they like to eat." "it will be a long journey before we get to viamede, won't it, mamma?" asked ned. "yes; a good many miles up this coast of south america, then through the caribbean sea and the gulf of mexico to new orleans, then through teche bayou to viamede. i think it will be a long, pleasant journey. don't you?" "yes, mamma, it is very pleasant to be on our yacht with you and papa and grandma and so many other kind friends." just then the captain joined them. "how long will it take us to get to viamede, papa?" asked ned. "about as long as it would to cross the ocean from our country to europe. and should storms compel us to seek refuge for a time in some harbor, it will, of course, take longer." "will we go back to trinidad?" "hardly, i think; though we will probably pass in sight of the island." "and we are on the coast of brazil now?" "yes; and will be for a week or more." "we are trying life in the 'dolphin' for a good while this winter," said violet. "you are not wearying of it, i hope, my dear?" asked the captain, giving her a rather anxious and troubled look. "oh, no, not at all!" she replied, giving him an affectionate smile, "this winter trip has been a real enjoyment to me thus far." "as it has to all of us, i think," said her mother; and all within hearing joined in with their expressions of pleasure in all they had experienced on the sea or on the land since sailing away from their homes in the "dolphin." "i am half afraid that you gentlemen will find your homes but dull places when you get back to them," remarked lucilla, in a tone of feigned melancholy, sighing deeply as she spoke. "well, for business reasons i shall be glad to get back to my office," said chester. "so it will not be altogether a trying thing to return, even if my home is to be but dull and wearisome." "i don't believe it will be," laughed grace. "lu is never half so hard and disagreeable as she pretends. she has always been the nicest of sisters to me, and i have an idea that she is quite as good a wife." "so have i," said chester. "i know i wouldn't swap wives with any man." "nor i husbands with any woman," laughed lucilla. "i took this man for better or for worse, but there's no worse about it." a merry laugh from little elsie turned all eyes upon her. tiny was curled up on her shoulder, his hazel eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face and one of his fingers gently laid upon her lips. "i think your tiny is wanting to learn to talk," her father said. "he seems to be trying to see how you do it." "oh, do you think he can learn, papa?" she asked, in eager tones. "i don't see why monkeys shouldn't talk as well as parrots." "i do not, either, my child; i only know that they do not." at that instant tiny lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the captain, and some words seemed to come rapidly and in rather an indignant tone from his lips. "i can talk and i will when i want to. my little mistress is very kind and good to me, and i'm growing very fond of her." everybody laughed and elsie said, "i wish it were really his talk. but i know it was cousin ronald who spoke." "ah, little cousin, how much fun you miss by knowing too much," laughed mr. lilburn. then ned's tee-tee seemed to speak. "you needn't make a fuss over my brother. i can talk quite as well as he can." "why, so you can!" exclaimed ned, stroking and patting him. "and i'm glad to have you talk just as much as you will." "thank you, little master; you're very good to me," was the reply. "now, tiny, it is your turn," said elsie to her pet. "i hope you think you are having a good time here on this yacht?" "yes, indeed i do," was the reply. "but where are we going?" "to viamede; a beautiful place in louisiana. and you shall run about over the velvety, flower-spangled lawn, and climb the trees, if you want to, and pick some oranges and bananas for yourself, and have ever such a good time." "that's nice! shall my brother tee-tee have a good time with me, too?" "yes, if you both promise not to run away and leave us." "we'd be very foolish tee-tees if we did." "so i think," laughed elsie, affectionately stroking and patting tiny. "come, tee-tee; it's your turn to talk a little," said ned, patting and stroking his pet. "am i going to that good place tiny's mistress tells about, where they have fine trees to climb and oranges and bananas and other good things to eat?" tee-tee seemed to ask. "yes," replied ned, "if you keep on being a good little fellow you shall go there and have a good time playing about and feasting on the fruits, nuts and other nice things." "then i mean to be good--as good as i know how." "cousin ronald, you do make them talk very nicely," remarked elsie, with satisfaction, adding, "but i do wish they could do it themselves." "i presume they would be glad if they could," said lucilla. "yours watches the movements of your lips, as if he wanted very much to imitate them with his." "and i believe he does," said elsie. "it makes me feel more thankful for the gift of speech than i ever did before." "then it has a good effect," said her father. "so they are useful little creatures, after all," said grace, "though i had thought them only playthings." "i think tiny is the very best plaything that ever i had," said elsie, again stroking and patting the little fellow. "cousin ronald, won't you please make him talk a little more?" "why do you want me to talk so much, little mistress?" tiny seemed to ask. "oh, because i like to hear you and you really mean what you seem to say. do you like to be with us on this nice big yacht?" "pretty well, though i'd rather be among the big trees in the woods where i was born." "i think that must be because you are not quite civilized," laughed elsie. "i'd rather be in those woods, too," tee-tee seemed to say. "let's run away to the woods, tiny, when we get a chance." "ho, ho!" cried ned, "if that's the way you talk you shan't have a chance." "now, ned, you surely wouldn't be so cruel as to keep him if he wants to go back to his native woods," said lucilla. "how would you like to be carried off to a strange place, away from papa and mamma?" "but i ain't a monkey," said ned. "and i don't believe he cares about his father and mother as i do about mine. do you care very much about them, tee-tee?" "not so very much; and i think they've been caught or killed." the words seemed to come from tee-tee's lips and ned exclaimed, triumphantly: "there; he doesn't care a bit." "but it wasn't he that answered; it was cousin ronald." "well, maybe cousin ronald knows how he feels. don't you, cousin ronald?" "ah, i must acknowledge that it is all guess-work, sonny boy," laughed the old gentleman. "well," said ned, reflectively, "i've heard there are some folks who are good at guessing, and i believe you are one of them, cousin ronald." "but i'm not a yankee, you know, and i've heard that they are the folks who are good at guessing," laughed cousin ronald. "but i don't believe they do all the guessing; i think other folks must do some of it," said ned. "quite likely," said cousin ronald; "most folks like to engage in that business once in awhile." "tee-tee," said ned, "i wish you and tiny would talk a little more." "what about little master?" seemed to come in quick response from tiny's lips. "oh, anything you please. all i want is the fun of hearing you talk," said ned. "it wouldn't be polite for us to do all the talking," he seemed to respond; and ned returned, "you needn't mind about the politeness of it. we folks all want to hear you talk, whatever you may say." "but i don't want to talk unless i have something to say," was tiny's answer. "that's right, tiny; you seem to be a sensible fellow," laughed lucilla. "papa, are monkeys mischievous?" asked elsie. "they have that reputation, and certainly some have shown themselves so; therefore, you would better not put temptation in the way of tiny or tee-tee." "and better not trust them too far," said violet. "i'd be sorry to have any of your clothes torn up while we are so far from home." "oh mamma, do you think they would do that?" cried elsie. "i don't know; but i have heard of monkeys meddling with their mistress's clothes, and perhaps tiny doesn't know how much too large even yours would be for her--no for him." "well, mamma, i'll try to keep things out of his way, and i hope he'll realize that a girl's garments are not suitable for a boy monkey," laughed elsie. "do you hear that? and will you remember?" she asked, giving him a little shake and tap which he seemed to take very unconcernedly. "and i'll try to keep my clothes out of tee-tee's way; for i shouldn't like to make trouble for you, mamma, or to wear either holey or patched clothes," said ned. "no," said his father; "so we will hope the little fellows will be honest enough to refrain from meddling with your clothes; at least till we get home." "and i think you will find these pretty little fellows honest, and not meddlesome," said mr. dinsmore. "i have read that they are most engaging little creatures, and from what i have seen of these, i think that is true; they seem to behave with gentle intelligence quite superior to that of any other monkey i ever saw; to have amiable tempers, too, and there is an innocent expression in their countenances, which is very pleasing. i do not think they have as yet had anything to frighten them here, but i have read that when alarmed, sudden tears fill their clear hazel eyes, and they make little imploring, shrinking gestures that excite the sympathy of those to whom they are appealing for protection." "yes, grandpa, i think they do look good, enough better and pleasanter than any other monkey that ever i saw," said ned. "yes," said his father, "it is certainly the most engaging specimen of the monkey family that ever i came across." "children," said violet, "the call to dinner will come in about five minutes. so put away your pets for the present and make yourselves neat for the table." chapter xvii. the "dolphin" sped on her way, and her passengers enjoyed their voyage whether the sun shone or the decks were swept by wind and rain; for the saloon was always a comfortable place of refuge in stormy weather, and by no means an unpleasant one at any time. they were all gathered on the deck one bright, breezy morning, chatting cheerily, the children amusing themselves with their tee-tee pets. "father," said lucilla, "are we not nearing the caribbean sea?" "yes; if all goes well we will be in it by this time to-morrow," was captain raymond's reply. "it is a body of water worth seeing; separated from the gulf of mexico by yucatan, and from the atlantic ocean by the great arch of the antilles, between cuba and trinidad. it forms the turning point in the vast cycle of waters known as the gulf stream that wheels round regularly from southern africa to northern europe. the caribbean sea pours its waters into the gulf of mexico on the west, which shoots forth on the east the florida stream with the computed volume of three thousand mississippis." "but, papa, where does it get so much water to pour out?" asked elsie. "i wonder it didn't get empty long ago." "ah, that is prevented by its taking in as well as pouring out. it gathers water from the atlantic ocean and the amazon and orinoco rivers." "papa, why do they call it by that name--caribbean sea?" asked ned. "it takes its name from the caribs, the people who were living there when columbus discovered the islands," said the captain. "the gulf stream is very important, isn't it, papa?" asked elsie. "the most important and best known of the great ocean currents," he replied. "it flows out of the gulf of mexico, between the coast of florida on one side and the cuba and bahama islands and shoals on the other." "the stream is very broad, isn't it, papa?" asked grace. "about fifty miles in the narrowest portion, and it has a velocity of five miles an hour; pouring along like an immense torrent." "but where does it run to, papa?" asked ned. "first in a northeasterly direction, along the american coast, the current gradually growing wider and less swift, until it reaches the island and banks of newfoundland; then it sweeps across the atlantic, and divides into two portions, one turning eastward toward the azores and coast of morocco, while the other laves the shores of the british islands and norway, also the southern borders of iceland and spitsbergen, nearly as far east as nova zembla." "but how can they tell where it goes when it mixes in with other waters, papa?" asked elsie. "its waters are of a deep indigo blue, while those of the sea are light green," replied her father. "and as it pours out of the gulf of mexico its waters are very warm and full of fish and seaweed in great masses. its waters are so warm that in mid-winter, off the cold coasts of america between cape hatteras and newfoundland, ships beaten back from their harbors by fierce northwesters until loaded down with ice and in danger of foundering, turn their prows to the east and seek relief and comfort in the gulf stream." "don't they have some difficulty in finding it, father?" asked lucilla. "a bank of fog rising like a wall, caused by the condensation of warm vapors meeting a colder atmosphere, marks the edge of the stream," replied the captain. "also the water suddenly changes from green to blue, the climate from winter to summer, and this change is so sudden that when a ship is crossing the line, a difference of thirty degrees of temperature has been marked between the bow and the stern." "papa, i know there used to be pirates in the west indies; was it there that kidd committed his crimes?" "i think not," replied her father. "in his day, piracy on the high seas prevailed to an alarming extent, especially in the indian ocean. it was said that many of the freebooters came from america, and that they found a ready market here for their stolen goods. the king of england--then king of this country, also--wished to put an end to piracy, and instructed the governors of new york and massachusetts to put down these abuses. "it was soon known in new york that the new governor was bent on suppressing piracy. then some men of influence, who knew of kidd as a successful, bold and skilful captain, who had fought against the french and performed some daring exploits, recommended him as commander of the expedition against the pirates. they said he had all the requisite qualifications--skill, courage, large and widely-extended naval experience, and thorough knowledge of the haunts of the pirates 'who prowled between the cape of good hope and the straits of malacca.' "a private company was organized, a vessel bought, called the 'adventure,' equipped with thirty guns, and kidd given command. he sailed to new york, and on his way captured a french ship off the coast of newfoundland. he sailed from the hudson river in january, , crossed the ocean and reached the coast of madagascar, then the great rendezvous of the buccaneers." "and how soon did he begin his piracy, papa?" "i can't tell you exactly, but it soon began to be reported that he was doing so, and in november, , orders were sent to all the governors of english colonies to apprehend him if he came within their jurisdiction. "in april, , he arrived in the west indies in a vessel called 'quidah merchant,' secured her in a lagoon on the island of samoa, southeast of hayti, and then, in a sloop called 'san antonio,' sailed for the north, up the coast into delaware bay, afterward to long island sound, and into oyster bay. he was soon arrested, charged with piracy, sent to england, tried, found guilty and hung." "there were other charges, were there not, captain?" asked mr. dinsmore. "yes, sir; burning houses, massacring peasantry, brutally treating prisoners, and particularly with murdering one of his men, william moore. he had called moore a dog, to which moore replied, 'yes, i am a dog, but it is you that have made me so.' at that, kidd, in a fury of rage, struck him down with a bucket, killing him instantly. it was found impossible to prove piracy against kidd, but he was found guilty of the murder of moore, and on the twenty-fourth of may, , he was hanged with nine of his accomplices." "did he own that he was guilty, papa?" asked grace. "no," replied the captain, "he protested his innocence to the last; said he had been coerced by his men, and that moore was mutinous when he struck him; and there are many who think his trial was high-handed and unfair." "then i hope he didn't deserve quite all that has been said against him," said grace. "i hope not," said her father. chapter xviii. elsie and ned were on deck with their pet tee-tees, which seemed to be in even more than usually playful mood, running round and round the deck and up and down the masts. ned chased after them, trying to catch them, but failing again and again. he grew more and more excited and less careful to avoid mishap in the struggle to capture the little runaways. elsie called after him to "let them have their fun for awhile, and then they would come back to be petted and fed," but he paid no attention to her. he called and whistled to tee-tee, who was high up on a mast. the little fellow stood still for a time, regarding his young master as if he would say, "i'll come when i please, but you can't make me come sooner." so ned read the look, and called up to him, "come down this minute, you little rascal, or i'll be apt to make you sorry you didn't." that did not seem to have any effect, and ned looked about for some one to send up after the little runaway. "have patience, master ned, he'll come down after a bit," said a sailor standing near. "ah, do you see? there he comes now," and turning quickly, ned saw his tee-tee running swiftly down the mast, then along the top of the gunwale, then down on the outside. he rushed to catch him, leaned too far over, and, with a cry of terror, felt himself falling down, down into the sea. a scream from elsie echoed his cry. the sailor who had spoken to ned a moment before, instantly tore off his coat and plunged in after the child, caught him as he rose to the surface, held him with his head out of water, and called for a boat which was already being launched by the other sailors. neither the captain nor any of his older passengers were on deck at the moment; but the cries of the children, the sailor's plunge into the water, and the hurrying of the others to launch the boat were heard in the saloon. "something is wrong!" exclaimed the captain, hurrying to the deck, closely followed by violet, whose cry was, "oh, my children! what has happened to them?" the other members of the party came hurrying after all in great excitement. "don't be alarmed, my dear," said the captain, soothingly, "whatever is wrong can doubtless be set right in a few moments." then, catching sight of his little girl as he gained the deck, and seeing that she was crying bitterly, "elsie daughter, what is it?" he asked. "oh, papa," sobbed the child, "neddie has fallen into the sea, and i'm afraid he's drowned!" before her father could answer, a sailor approached and, bowing respectfully, said: "i think it will be all right, sir, in a few minutes. master ned fell into the water, but tom jones happened to be close at hand, and sprang in right after him and caught him as he came up the first time. then he called to us to lower the boat, and you see it's in the water already, and they're starting after master ned and tom--left considerable behind now by the forward movement of the yacht." "ah, yes; i see them," returned the captain; "the boat, too. violet, my dear, neddie seems to be quite safe, and we will have him on board again in a few minutes." all on the deck watched, in almost breathless suspense, the progress of the small boat through the water, saw it reach and pick up the half-drowning man and boy, and then return to the yacht. in a few moments more ned was in his mother's arms, her tears falling on his face, as she clasped him to her bosom, kissing him over and over again with passionate fondness. "there, vi, dear, you would better give him into my care for a little," said harold. "he wants a good rubbing, dry garments, a dose of something hot and then a good nap." "there, go with uncle harold, dear," said his mother, releasing him. "and papa," said ned, looking up at his father, entreatingly. "yes, little son, papa will go with you," returned the captain, in moved tones. "oh, is my tee-tee drowned?" exclaimed the little fellow, with sudden recollection, and glancing around as he spoke. "no," said harold; "i see him now running around the deck. he's all right." and with that the two gentlemen hurried down into the cabin, taking ned with them. "well, it is a very good plan to always take a doctor along when we go sailing about the world," remarked lucilla, looking after them as they passed down the stairway. "yes; especially when you can find one as skilful, kind and agreeable as our doctor harold," said evelyn. "thank you, my dear," said mrs. travilla, regarding evelyn with a pleased smile, "he seems to me both an excellent physician and a polished gentleman; but mothers are apt to be partial judges; so i am glad to find that your opinion is much the same as mine." grace looked gratified, and violet said: "it seems to be the opinion of all on board." "mine as well as the rest," added lucilla. "chester has improved wonderfully since we set sail on the 'dolphin.'" "quite true," said chester's voice close at hand, he having just returned from a talk with the sailors who had picked up the half-drowning man and boy, "quite true; and i give credit to my doctor, cousin harold; for his advice at least, which i have endeavored to follow carefully. he's a fine, competent physician, if it is a relative who says it. violet, you need have no fear that he won't bring your boy through this thing all right." "i am not at all afraid to trust him--my dear, skilful brother and physician--and i believe he will be able to bring my little son through this trouble," said violet. "no doubt of it," returned chester; "by to-morrow morning little ned will be in usual health and spirits; none the worse for his sudden sea bath." "i can never be thankful enough to tom jones," said violet, with emotion. "he saved the life of my darling boy; for he surely would have drowned before any one else could have got to him." "yes," said chester; "i think he deserves all the praise you can give him." "and something more than praise," said violet and her mother, both speaking at once. "he is not, by any means, a rich man," added violet, "and my husband will certainly find a way to help him into better circumstances." "something in which i shall be glad to assist," added her mother. "neddie is your son, but he is my dear little grandson." "and my great-grandson," added mr. dinsmore, joining the group. "i am truly thankful that tom jones was so near when he fell, and so ready to go to the rescue." "and the engineer to slacken the speed of the vessel, the other sailors to lower and man the boat and go to the rescue," said violet. "yes; they must all be rewarded," said her mother. "it will be a pleasure to me to give them a substantial evidence of the gratitude i feel." "that is just like you, mamma," said violet, with emotion; "but i am sure his father is able, and will be more than willing to do all that is necessary." "yes, indeed!" exclaimed lucilla, "there is no more just or generous person than my father! and he is abundantly able to do all that can be desired to reward any or all who took any part in the saving of my dear little brother." "my dear girl," said grandma elsie, "no one who knows your father can have the least doubt of his generosity and kindness of heart; i am very sure that all the men we were speaking of will have abundant proof of it." "as we all are," said mr. dinsmore. "i'm sure papa will do just what is right; he always does," said little elsie. "and oh, mamma, don't you think that he and uncle harold will soon get dear neddie well of his dreadful dip in the sea?" "i do, daughter," answered violet; "and oh, here come your papa and uncle now!" for at that moment the two gentlemen stepped upon the deck and came swiftly toward them. "oh? how is he--my darling little son?" cried violet, almost breathless with excitement and anxiety. "doing as well as possible," answered her brother, in cheery tone. "he has had a good rubbing down, a hot, soothing potion, been covered up in his berth, and fallen into a sound sleep." "yes," said the captain, "i think he is doing as well as possible, and to-morrow will show himself no worse for his involuntary dip in the sea." "oh, i am so glad, so thankful!" exclaimed violet, tears of joy filling her eyes. "as i am," said his father, his voice trembling with emotion; "we have great cause for thankfulness to the giver of all good. i am very glad your mind is relieved, dearest. but i must go now and thank the men, whose prompt action saved us from a heavy loss and bitter sorrow." he had seated himself by violet's side and put his arm about her, but he rose with those last words, and went forward to where a group of sailors were talking over the episode and rejoicing that it had ended so satisfactorily. they lifted their hats and saluted the captain respectfully as he neared them. "how is the little lad, sir?" asked jones, as he neared them. "no worse for his ducking, i hope." "thank you, jones. i think he will not be any the worse by to-morrow morning," replied the captain. "he is sleeping now, which, i think, is the best thing he could do. jones, he owes his life to you, and i can never cease to be grateful to you for your prompt action in springing instantly to his rescue when he fell into the water." "oh, sir," stammered jones, looking both pleased and embarrassed, "it--it wasn't a bit more than almost any other fellow would have done in my place. and i'm mighty glad i did it, for he's one o' the likeliest little chaps ever i saw!" "he is a very dear one to his father and mother, brother and sisters, and i should like to give to each of you fellows who helped in this thing, some little token of my appreciation of your kindly efforts. i will think it over and have a talk with you again, and you may consider what return i could make that would be the most agreeable and helpful to you." "about how much do you suppose that means?" asked one man of his mates, when the captain had walked away. "perhaps five dollars apiece," chuckled one of the others, "for the captain is pretty generous; and likely jones's share will be twice as much." "nonsense! who wants to be paid for saving that cute little chap from drowning?" growled jones. "i'd have been a coward if i'd indulged in a minute's hesitation." "i s'pose so," returned one of the others, "but you risked your life to save his, so deserve a big reward, and i hope and believe you'll get it." on leaving the group of sailors, the captain went to the pilot-house and gave warm thanks there for the prompt slowing of the "dolphin's" speed the instant the alarm of ned's fall was given. "it was no more than any other man would have done in my place, captain," replied the pilot, with a smile of gratification. "no," returned captain raymond, "some men would have been less prompt and the probable consequence, the loss of my little son's life, which would have been a great loss to his mother and me," he added, with emotion. "i think you are worthy of an increase of pay, mr. clark, and you won't object to it, i suppose?" "no, sir; seeing i have a family to support, i won't refuse your kindness, and i thank you very much for the kind offer." at that moment violet drew near and stood at her husband's side. she spoke in tones trembling with emotion. "i have come to thank you, clark, for the saving of my darling boy's life; for i know that but for the slowing of the engine both jones and he might have lost their lives--sinking before help could reach them." "you are very kind to look at it in that way, mrs. raymond," returned clark, in tones that spoke his appreciation of her grateful feeling, "but it was very little that i did--cost hardly any exertion and no risk. jones is, i think, the only one deserving much, if any, credit for the rescue of the little lad." he paused a moment, then added, "but the captain here has most generously offered me an increase of pay; for which i thank him most heartily." "oh, my dear, i am very glad to hear that!" exclaimed violet, addressing her husband. with the last word, her hand was slipped into his arm, and, with a parting nod to clark, they turned and went back to the family group still gathered upon the deck under the awning. they found elsie with tiny on her shoulder and tee-tee on her lap. "i must take care of them both now for awhile till ned gets over that dreadful sea bath," she said, looking up smilingly at her parents as they drew near. "yes, daughter, that is right," replied her father, "it was no fault of little tee-tee that his young master fell into the sea." that evening violet and the captain had a quiet promenade on the deck together, in which they talked of those who had any share in the rescue of their little ned, and what reward might be appropriate for each one. "i have heard there is a mortgage on the farm which is the home of tom jones and his mother," said the captain. "i will pay that off as my gift to tom, in recognition of his bravery and kindness in risking his own life in the effort to save that of our little son." "do," said violet, joyfully; "he certainly deserves it, and probably there is nothing he would like better." "he is certainly entitled to the largest reward i give," said the captain, "though i daresay almost any of the others would have acted just as he did, if they had had the same opportunity." ned slept well under his uncle's care that night, and the next morning appeared at the breakfast table looking much as usual, and saying, in answer to loving inquiries, that he felt as if nothing had happened to him; not a bit the worse for his bath in the sea. nor was he disposed to blame tee-tee for his involuntary plunge into the water; the two were evidently as fast friends as ever. after breakfast the captain had a talk, first with jones, then with the other men, in which each learned what his reward was to be. jones was almost too much moved for speech when told of his, but expressed his gratitude more fully afterward, saying, "it is a blessed thing to have a home of one's own; especially when it can be shared with one's mother. dear me, but won't she be glad!" and the others were highly pleased with the ten dollars apiece which fell to their shares. chapter xix. the yacht had now passed from the caribbean sea into the gulf of mexico and was headed for new orleans, where they arrived safely and in due season. they did not care to visit the city--most of them having been there several times, and all wanting to spend at viamede the few days they could spare for rest and pleasure before returning to their more northern homes. so they tarried but a few hours at the crescent city, then pursued their way along the gulf, up the bay into teche bayou and beyond through lake and lakelet, past plantation and swamp, plain and forest; enjoying the scenery as of old--the beautiful velvety green lawns, shaded by their magnificent oaks and magnolias, cool shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; tall white sugar-houses and long rows of cabins for the laborers; and lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees. a pleasant surprise awaited them as they rounded at the wharf--at viamede; a great gathering of friends and relatives--not only from the immediate neighborhood, but from that of their more northern homes--edward travilla and his family, elsie leland and hers, rose croly with her little one. it was a glad surprise to violet, for her mother had not told her they had all been invited to spend the winter at viamede, and had accepted the invitation. the cousins from magnolia hall, torriswood and the cottage were all there. it seemed a joyful meeting to all; to none more so than to chester and his sisters. it was their first meeting since his marriage, and they seemed glad to call lucilla sister. "you must be our guest at torriswood, lu; you and brother chester," said maud, when greetings were over, and the new arrivals were removing their hats in one of the dressing-rooms. "thank you, maud, of course we will spend a part--probably most of our time with you," replied lucilla. "i expect to have a delightful time both there and here." "you shall there, if i can bring it about," laughed maud. "i want you also, young mrs. raymond," she added, in playful tones, turning to evelyn. "you will come, won't you?" "thank you, i think i shall," was eva's pleased reply. "you are wanted, too, gracie," continued maud. "and dr. harold is to be invited, and i hope will accept, for he is a great favorite with us ever since he saved dick's life." "i think it entirely right that he should be," returned grace, demurely, "and his presence will be no serious objection to me; in fact, as he is my physician, it might be very well to have him close at hand, in case i should be taken suddenly ill." "very true," said maud, bridling playfully, "though if he were not there, dr. percival might possibly prove an efficient substitute." there was a general laugh at that, and all hastened to join the rest of the company who were gathered upon the front veranda. elsie and ned were there with their new pets, which seemed to be attracting a good deal of attention. elsie was sitting by her mother's side, with tiny on her shoulder, and ned stood near them with tee-tee in his arms, stroking and patting him while he told how the little fellow had frightened him in his gambols about the yacht till, in trying to save him from falling into the sea, he had tumbled in himself. "very foolish in you to risk your life for me, little master," tee-tee seemed to say, as ned reached that part of his story. ned laughed, saying, "so you think, do you?" "oh, it can talk! it can talk!" cried several of the children in astonishment and delight, while their elders turned with amused, inquiring looks to cousin ronald, the known ventriloquist of the family. "yes, little master, so don't you do it ever again," seemed to come from tee-tee's lips. "no, indeed, i think i won't," laughed ned. "i can talk, too; quite as well as my brother can," seemed to come from tiny's lips. "yes, so you can, my pretty pet," laughed elsie, giving him an approving pat. "oh, oh! they can both talk!" exclaimed several of the children. "and speak good english, too, though they come from a land where it is not commonly spoken," laughed chester. "but we heard english on the yacht, and we can learn fast," was tee-tee's answering remark. "especially when you can get cousin ronald to help you," laughed ned. "there, ned, i'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag," laughed lucilla. "i don't see either cat or bag," sniffed ned, after an inquiring look around. "your sister means that you are letting out a secret," said his father. "oh, was i? i hope not," exclaimed the little fellow, looking rather crestfallen. "how does cousin ronald help him?" asked one of the little cousins. "i don't know," said ned; "i couldn't do it." the call to the supper-table just at that moment saved cousin ronald the trouble of answering the inquiring looks directed at him. after the meal, all resorted again to the veranda, and the little tee-tees, having had their supper in the kitchen, were again a source of amusement, especially to the children. "did the folks give you plenty to eat, tee-tee?" asked ned. "all we wanted, and very nice, too," the little fellow seemed to say in reply. "and he ate like--like a hungry bear; a great deal more than i did," tiny seemed to say. "well, i'm bigger than you," was tee-tee's answering remark. "and both of you are very, very little; too little to eat much, i should think," laughed one of the children. "i've heard that they put the best goods in the smallest packages," tee-tee seemed to say; then suddenly he sprang out of ned's arms, jumped over the veranda railing, ran swiftly across the lawn and up an orange tree, tiny leaving elsie and racing after him. "oh, dear, dear! what shall we do? will they ever come back?" cried elsie, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. "i think they will, daughter," said the captain, soothingly. "do you forget that i told you they would run up the trees? you and ned have been so kind to them, petted them and fed them so well that they'll be glad, i think, to continue in your care, but now, like children, they want a little fun, such as they have been accustomed to in their forest life." that assurance comforted the young owners somewhat, and they chatted pleasantly with the other children until it was time for them to leave, but kept watching the tee-tees frisking about in that tree and others on the lawn, hoping they would weary of their fun and come back to them. but they had not done so when the guests took leave, nor when bedtime came, but the captain comforted the children again with the hope that the tee-tees would finish their frolic and return the next day; which they did, to the great joy of their young master and mistress. maud's invitation was accepted by all to whom she or dick had given it. magnolia hall and the parsonage claimed several of the others, and the rest were easily and well accommodated at viamede. all felt themselves heartily welcome, and greatly enjoyed their sojourn of some weeks in that hospitable neighborhood and among near and dear relatives. fortunately for ned, his remark about cousin ronald helping the tee-tees with their talk, did not have the bad effect that he feared, and the older friends did not explain; so there was more fun of the same kind when the children were together and the kind old gentleman with them. as the stay of grandma elsie and her party was to be short, there was a constant interchange of visits between them and the relatives resident in the neighborhood, and much to the delight of the children, the little tee-tees were on constant exhibition. sometimes they were to be seen darting here and there over the lawn, running up and down the trees or springing from one to another; but often, to the greater pleasure of the young folks, they were on the veranda, chasing each other round and round, or sitting on the shoulder of elsie or ned. then if cousin ronald happened to be present, they seemed to be in the mood for conversation. "i like this place, tiny, don't you?" tee-tee seemed to ask one day, when they had just returned from a scamper over the lawn and up and down the trees. "yes, indeed!" was the reply. "it's nicer than that vessel we came in. let's stay here." "oh, we can't. i heard the captain talking about going back, and they'll certainly want to take us along." "but don't let us go. we can hide in the woods where they can't find us." "i think not," laughed elsie; "we value you too much not to hunt you up before we go." "dear me! i'd take good care they didn't get a chance to play that game," exclaimed one of the little cousins. "i think the best plan will be to pet them so much that they won't be willing to be left behind," said elsie. "and that's what we'll do," said ned. just then there was an arrival from torriswood and that put a stop, for the time, to the chatter of the tee-tees. dr. percival and his maud, with their guests from the north, were of the party, and all remained until near bedtime that night, when they went away with the pleasant assurance that the whole connection at that time in that neighborhood would spend the following day with them in their lovely torriswood home, should nothing occur to prevent. nothing did; the day was bright and beautiful, and not one of the relatives was missing from the pleasant gathering. to the joy of elsie and ned raymond, not even the tee-tees were neglected in the invitation, and with some assistance from cousin ronald they made a good deal of fun, for at least the younger part of the company. the next day was spent by the same company at magnolia hall, and a few days later most of them gathered at the pretty parsonage, where dwelt cyril and isadore keith. cyril was a much-loved and successful pastor, an excellent preacher, whose sermons were greatly enjoyed by those of the "dolphin" party who were old enough to appreciate them. the parsonage and its grounds made a lovely home for the pastor, his wife and the children with which providence had blessed them, and the family party held there, the last of the series, was found by all quite as enjoyable as any that had preceded it. after that the old pastimes--rides, drives, boating and fishing excursions--were resumed, also the quiet home pleasures and rambles through the woods and fields; for they found they could not tear themselves away as quickly as they had intended when they planned to end their winter trip--leaving the return journey out of the calculation--with a short visit to viamede. that neighborhood, with its pleasant companionship, was too delightful to be left until the increasing heat of the advancing spring should make it less comfortable and healthful for them than their more northern homes. so there let us leave them for the present. the end. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. cosmic yo-yo by ross rocklynne "want an asteroid in your backyard? we supply 'em cheap. trouble also handled without charge." interplanetary hauling company. (advt.) [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories summer . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] bob parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. not in his wildest imaginings had he thought they would actually find what they were looking for. "cut the drive!" he yelled at queazy. "i've got it, right on the nose. queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? we're in the dough. not only that, we're rich! come here!" queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate as the asteroid below-- . miles per second. he came slogging back excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. he gasped, and his big body shook with joyful ejaculations. "she checks down to the last dimension," bob chortled, working with slide-rule and logarithm tables. "now all we have to do is find out if she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! but there couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the belt, so this has to be it!" he jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out, and thumbed his nose at the signature. "whee! mr. andrew s. burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty thousand dollars!" queazy straightened. a slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face. "better take it easy," he advised, "until i land the ship and we use the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the asteroid." "have it your way," bob parker sang, happily. he threw the ethergram to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. while queazy--so called because his full name was quentin zuyler--dropped the ship straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it tight with magnetic grapples, bob flung open the lazarette, brought out two space-suits. moments later, they were outside the ship, with star-powdered infinity spread to all sides. in the ship, the ethergram from andrew s. burnside, of philadelphia, one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. it was addressed to: mr. robert parker, president interplanetary hauling & moving co., main street, satterfield city, fontanaland, mars. the ethergram read: _received your advertising literature a week ago. would like to state that yes i would like an asteroid in my back yard. must meet following specifications: feet length, long enough for wedding procession; feet at base, tapering to feet at apex; - feet thick; topside smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten, quartz crystals, and cinnabar. must be in my back yard before : a.m. my time, for important wedding june , else order is void. will pay $ . per ton._ * * * * * bob parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. and if the interplanetary hauling & moving co., hadn't been about to go on the rocks (chiefly due to the activities of saylor & saylor, a rival firm) neither bob nor queazy would have thought of sending an answering ethergram to burnside stating that they would fill the order. it was, plainly, a hair-brained request. and yet, if by some chance there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries would be over. that they had actually discovered the asteroid, using their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like an incredible stroke of luck. for there are literally millions of asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only three weeks. the "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been bob parker's originally. now it was a fad that was sweeping earth, and burnside wasn't the first rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid. unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the saylor brothers--which persons bob parker intended to punch in the nose some day. and would have before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants. now that he and queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to get it to its destination, for fear that the saylor brothers might get wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits. which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of saylor & saylor made no pretense of being scrupulous. now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. they came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and "down" the twelve-foot thickness. here they squatted, and bob parker happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface. by the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar, but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't use it. he satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. the beams crossed, tore atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. the radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to the atomic-whirl spectroscope. bob watched a pointer which moved slowly up and up--past tungsten, past iridium, past gold-- bob parker said, in astonishment, "hell! there's something screwy about this business. look at that point--" neither he nor queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any further. a cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, "may i ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?" bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and the lights in its interior died. bob twisted his head around as far as he could inside the "aquarium"--the glass helmet, and found himself looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the asteroid "below." "ma'am," said bob, blinking, "did you say something?" queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. he automatically reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. "i said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid. and quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. i've already taken a reading. cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. goodbye." * * * * * bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even inside his suit. he couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. he knew that he was slowly working up a blush. mildly speaking, the girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was visible--cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown hair, wilful lips and chin--bob suspected the rest of her compared nicely. her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "now you two boys go and play somewhere else! else i'll let the interplanetary commission know you've infringed the law. g'bye!" she turned and disappeared. bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "hey! wait! _you!_" he and queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they hadn't yet examined. it was a rough plane, completing the rigid qualifications burnside had set down. "wait a minute," bob parker begged nervously. "i want to make some conversation, lady. i'm sure you don't understand the conditions--" the girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. it was a spasticizer, and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. "i understand conditions better than you do," she said. "you want to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to earth. unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. come back in a month. i don't expect to be here then." "a month!" parker burst the word out. he started to sweat, then his face became grim. he took two slow steps toward the girl. she blinked and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. about twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved surface. a rich girl's ship, bob parker thought angrily. a month would be too late! he said grimly, "don't worry. i don't intend to pull any rough stuff. i just want you to listen to reason. you've taken a whim to stay on an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. but to us--to me and queazy here--it means our business. we got an order for this asteroid. some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard wedding see? we get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it! if we don't take this asteroid to earth before june , we go back to satterfield city and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories. don't we, queazy?" queazy said simply, "that's right, miss. we're in a spot. i assure you we didn't expect to find someone living here." the girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable expression did not change. she put her hands on the bulging hips of her space-suit. "okay," she said. "now i understand the conditions. now we both understand each other. g'bye again. i'm staying here and--" she smiled sweetly "--it may interest you to know that if i let you have the asteroid you'll save your business, but i'll meet a fate worse than death! so that's that." bob recognized finality when he saw it. "come on, queazy," he said fuming. "let this brat have her way. but if i ever run across her without a space-suit on i'm going to give her the licking of her life, right where it'll do the most good!" he turned angrily, but queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open. he pointed off into space, beyond the girl. "what's that?" he whispered. "what's wha--_oh!_" bob parker's stomach caved in. a few hundred feet away, floating gently toward the asteroid, came another ship--a ship a trifle bigger than their own. the girl turned, too. they heard her gasp. in another second, bob was standing next to her. he turned the audio-switch to his headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. "listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw away. "don't talk by radio. that ship belongs to the saylor brothers! oh, lord, that this should happen! somewhere along the line, we've been double-crossed. those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't hesitate to pull any rough stuff. we're in this together, understand? we got to back each other up." the girl nodded dumbly. suddenly she seemed to be frightened. "it's--it's very important that this--this asteroid stay right where it is," she said huskily. "what--what will they do?" * * * * * bob parker didn't answer. the big ship had landed, and little blue sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic clamps took hold. a few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood surveying the three who faced them. the two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. "a pleasure," drawled wally saylor, looking at the girl. "what do you think of this situation billy?" "it's obvious," drawled billy saylor, rocking back and forth on his heels, "that bob parker and company have double-crossed us. we'll have to take steps." the three men behind the saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling laughter. bob parker's gorge rose. "scram," he said coldly. "we've got an ethergram direct from andrew s. burnside ordering this asteroid." "so have we," wally saylor smiled--and his smile remained fixed, dangerous. he started moving forward, and the three men in back came abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. bob parker gave back a step, as he saw their intentions. "we got here first," he snapped harshly. "try any funny stuff and we'll report you to the interplanetary commission!" it was bob parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. each of these men carried one or more, plainly visible. but he was thinking of the girl's spasticizer--a paralyzing weapon. he took a hair-brained chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at queazy. queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. he hurled straight at billy saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid and threw him away, into space. he yelled with triumph. at the same time, the spasticizer bob held was shot cleanly out of his hand by wally saylor. bob roared, started toward wally saylor, knocked the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. then something crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar plexus. he doubled up, gurgling with agony. he fell over on his back, and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. vaguely, before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage--then a scream of pain. what had happened to queazy he didn't know. he felt so horribly sick, he didn't care. then--lights out. * * * * * bob parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. he opened his eyes. he was slowly revolving on an axis. sometimes the sun swept across his line of vision. a cold hammering began at the base of his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. there was no asteroid, no girl, no queazy. he was alone in the vastness of space. alone in a space-suit. "queazy!" he whispered. "queazy! i'm running out of air!" there was no answer from queazy. with sick eyes, bob studied the oxygen indicator. there was only five pounds pressure. five pounds! that meant he had been floating around out here--how long? days at least--maybe weeks! it was evident that somebody had given him a dose of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation that his oxygen needs were small. he closed his eyes, trying to fight against panic. he was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. he was probably scrawny. and he was hungry! "i'll starve," he thought. "or suffocate to death first!" he couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. minutes, then hours passed. he was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough air in the first place. he pleaded continually for queazy, hoping that somehow queazy could help, when probably queazy was in the same condition. he ripped out wild curses directed at the saylor brothers. murderers, both of them! up until this time, he had merely thought of them as business rivals. if he ever got out of this-- he groaned. he never would get out of it! after another hour, he was gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. he called queazy's name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength to call it. and this time the headset spoke back! bob parker made a gurgling sound. a voice came again, washed with static, far away, burbling, but excited. bob made a rattling sound in his throat. then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against the backdrop of the milky way. he relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his ears. he did not lose consciousness. he heard voices, queazy's and the girl's, whoever she was. somebody grabbed hold of his foot. his "aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face. the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. then he was lying on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his clearing eyes and he knew he was alive--and going to stay that way, for awhile anyway. "thanks, queazy," he said huskily. queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his suddenly brightening face. "don't thank me," he whispered. "we'd have both been goners if it hadn't been for her. the saylor brothers left her paralyzed like us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship. she unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave her enough reaction to reach the ship. she got inside and used the direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. the saylors scattered us far and wide." queazy's broad, normally good-humored face twisted blackly. "the so and so's didn't care if we lived or died." bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind queazy, looking down at him curiously, but unhappily. her space-suit was off. she was wearing lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper flower in her hair. something in bob's stomach caved in as his eyes widened on her. the girl said glumly, "i guess you men won't much care for me when you find out who i am and what i've done. i'm starre lowenthal--andrew s. burnside's granddaughter!" * * * * * bob came slowly to his feet, and matched queazy's slowly growing anger. "say that again?" he snapped. "this is some kind of dirty trick you and your grandfather cooked up?" "no!" she exclaimed. "no. my grandfather didn't even know there was an asteroid like this. but i did, long before he ordered it from you--or from the saylor brothers. you see--well, my granddad's about the stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! he's always had his way, and when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. he's been badgering me for years to marry mac, and so has mac--" "who's mac?" queazy demanded. "my fiancé, i guess," she said helplessly. "he's one of my granddad's protégés. granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving him a start in life. mac has become pretty famous for his mercurian water-colors--he's an artist. well, i couldn't hold out any longer. if you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely _impossible_ it is to go against him when he's got his mind set! i was just a mass of nerves. so i decided to trick him and i came out to the asteroid belt and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take place on it. i took the measurements and the composition, then i told my grandfather i'd marry mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten, and so forth. he agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure that if somebody _did_ find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able to get it back to earth, i came out here and decided to live here. asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them, by common law.... so i had everything figured out--except," she added bitterly, "the saylor brothers! i guess granddad wanted to make sure the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies." bob swore under his breath. he went reeling across to a port, and was gratified to see his and queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating only a few hundred feet away. he swung around, looked at queazy. "how long were we floating around out there?" "three weeks, according to the chronometer. the saylor boys gave us a stiff shot." "_ouch!_" bob groaned. then he looked at starre lowenthal with determination. "miss, pardon me if i say that this deal you and your granddad cooked up is plain screwy! with us on the butt end. but i'm going to put this to you plainly. we can catch up with the saylor brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. the saylor ship and ours both travel on the hh drive--inertia-less. but the asteroid has plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to earth by a long, spiraling orbit. we can go direct and probably catch up with them a few hundred thousand miles this side of earth. and we can have a fling at getting the asteroid back!" her eyes sparkled. "you mean--" she cried. then her attractive face fell. "oh," she said. "_oh!_ and when you get it back, you'll land it." "that's right," bob said grimly. "we're in business. for us, it's a matter of survival. if the by-product of delivering the asteroid is your marriage--sorry! but until we do get the asteroid back, we three can work as a team if you're willing. we'll fight the other problem out later. okay?" she smiled tremulously. "okay, i guess." queazy looked from one to another of them. he waved his hand scornfully at bob. "you're plain nuts," he complained. "how do you propose to go about convincing the saylor brothers they ought to let us have the asteroid back? remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry long-range weapons. and we couldn't ram the saylor brothers' ship--not without damaging our own ship just as much. go ahead and answer that." bob looked at queazy dismally. "the old balance-wheel," he groaned at starre. "he's always pulling me up short when i go off half-cocked. all i know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. in the meantime, starre--ahem--none of us has eaten in three weeks...?" starre got the idea. she smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the galley. * * * * * bob parker was in love with starre lowenthal. he knew that after five days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward earth; probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't attach any significance to starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed astern, attached by a long cable. starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth day bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. "even _i_ know that isn't the control to the holloway vacuum-feeder, bob. that switch is for the--ah--the anathern tube, you told me. right?" "right," he said unsteadily. "anyway, starre, as i was saying, this ship operates according to the reverse fitzgerald contraction formula. all moving bodies contract in the line of motion. what holloway and hammond did was to reverse that universal law. they caused the contraction first--motion had to follow! the gravitonic field affects every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. we could go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just like that!" he snapped his fingers. "no acceleration effects. this type of ship, necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion at--oh, hell!" bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him shake. he took her hand. "starre," he said desperately, "i've got to tell you something--" she jerked her hand away. "no," she exclaimed in an almost frightened voice. "you can't tell me. there's--there's mac," she finished, faltering. "the asteroid--" "you _have_ to marry him?" her eyes filled with tears. "i have to live up to the bargain." "and ruin your whole life," he ground out. suddenly, he turned back to the control board, quartered the vision plate. he pointed savagely to the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship trailing astern. "there's your ship, starre." he jabbed his finger at it. "i've got a feeling--and i can't put the thought into concrete words--that somehow the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies there. but how? _how?_" starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was attached around her ship's narrow midsection. she shook her head helplessly. "it just looks like a big yo-yo to me." "a yo-yo?" "yes, a yo-yo. that's all." she was belligerent. "a _yo-yo_!" bob parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he got out of the chair so fast. "can you imagine it! a yo-yo!" he disappeared from the room. "queazy!" he shouted. "_queazy, i've got it!_" * * * * * it was queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job, fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's narrow midsection. into these eyes cables which trailed back to two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and reinforced. the nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. bob parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of cosmic dimensions, while starre and queazy stood over him bursting into strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. queazy snapped his fingers. "it'll work!" his gray eyes showed satisfaction. "now, if only the saylor brothers are where we calculated!" they weren't where bob and queazy had calculated, as they had discovered the next day. they had expected to pick up the asteroid on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the moon's orbit. but now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to the still bigger asteroid--inside the moon's orbit! a mere two hundred thousand miles from earth! "we have to work fast," bob stammered, sweating. he got within naked-eye distance of the saylor brothers' ship. below, earth was spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the eastern hemisphere vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. the enemy ship was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant sky. it was moving along a down-spiraling path toward earth. queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "go to it, bob!" bob nodded grimly. he backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then sent it forward again, directly toward the saylor brothers' ship at ten miles per second. and resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the "yo-yo." there was little doubt the saylors' saw their approach. but, scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. there was no possible harm the oncoming ship could wreak. or at least that was what they thought, for bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero--and starre lowenthal's little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! it spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a fantastic spinning cannon ball. "it's going to hit!" the excited cry came from starre. but bob swore. the dumbbell ship reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of completing its mission. it didn't stop spinning, but came winding back up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. * * * * * bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. it was ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. bob used exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in his glove--namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost exactly at the moment of impact. and now bob's hours of practice paid dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released again. all this had happened in such a short space of time that the saylor brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on. but by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid between them and the deadly missile. but it was clumsy evasion, for the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing it, and its inertia was great. and as soon as the little ship came spinning back to rest, bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and again the "yo-yo" snapped out. and this time--collision! bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the hand. the dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. it had received a mere dent in its starboard half. starre was chortling with glee. queazy whispered, "attaboy, bob! this time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!" the "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly. bob knew what that meant. the saylor brothers were trying to establish communication. queazy was across the room in two running strides. he threw in the telaudio and almost immediately, wally saylor's big body built up in the plate. wally saylor's face was quivering with wrath. "what do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared. "you've crushed in our stern section. you've sliced away half of our stern jets. air is rushing out! you'll kill us!" "now," bob drawled, "you're getting the idea." "i'll inform the interplanetary commission!" screamed saylor. "_if_ you're alive," bob snarled wrathfully. "and you won't be unless you release the asteroid." "i'll see you in hades first!" "hades," remarked bob coldly, "here you come!" he snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at zero. and the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie. for a fraction of a second wally saylor exhibited the countenance of a doomed man. in the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size with a strangled yell. the "yo-yo" struck again, but bob parker maneuvered its speed in such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling precision. and even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was apparent that the saylor brothers had given up. like a wounded terrier, their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from its still-intact jets. the battle was won! * * * * * as soon as the hauler had grappled itself onto the prized asteroid, bob parker jumped to his feet with a grin on his face as wide as the void. queazy grabbed his arm and pounded his shoulder. bob shook him off, losing his elation. "cut it," he snapped. "it's too early for the glad-hand business. we've solved one problem, but we've run into another, as we knew we would." he crossed determinedly to starre, tipped up her downcast face. "starre," he said, "i guess you know i love you. if i asked you to marry me--" she quivered. "_are_ you asking me, bob?" she breathed. "no! couldn't ask you to marry me unless i had money. starre, if it was up to me i'd drop the asteroid on the moon, and you wouldn't have to take a chance on marrying a man you don't love. but i'm in partnership with queazy and queazy has his due--" queazy intervened, his grey eyes troubled. "no," he said quietly. "hold on. i'll willingly forego any interest in the asteroid, bob." bob laughed. "nuts to you, queazy! don't get gallant. we'll be so deep in debt we'll never be independent again the rest of our lives if we don't land the asteroid. thanks, anyway." he took a deep breath. "starre, you'll have to trust me. today's the last of may. we've got two more days before we have to fill the order. in those two days, i think i can evolve a procedure to put all of us in the clear--with the exception of your fiancé and your grandfather. which, i think, is as it should be, because these days people pick out their own husbands and wives. in other words, a few minutes before your wedding, the asteroid will be delivered--on schedule!" "i'll trust you, bob," starre said huskily, after a moment of quiet. "but whatever you've got in mind, to put one over on my grandfather, it better be good...." * * * * * for a day and a half, ship and attached asteroid pursued a slow, unpowered orbit around earth. for a day and a half, bob parker hardly slept. he gave queazy charge of the ship entirely, had him send an ethergram to andrew s. burnside announcing that his asteroid would show up in time for the wedding, and that the bride would be there too. most of bob's time was spent on the surface of the asteroid. he took spectroscopic readings from every possible angle, made endless notations on a pad. sometimes, he worked in his cabin, and queazy, ambling puzzledly into bob's presence, could make nothing of the countless pages of calculation strewn about the room--figures which dealt with melting points, refractive indices, atmospheric velocities. and finally, when bob tore the ship and prisoned asteroid from their orbit, sent them into earth's atmosphere, queazy could make nothing of that either. for bob parker apparently had a rigid schedule to follow in reference to the hour set for starre's wedding. he hit the atmosphere at a certain second, at a certain speed. he followed a definite route through the atmosphere, slowly moving downward as he crossed the great asiatic continents. he passed as slowly over the atlantic, passed above new york city scarcely a dozen miles, and hovered over philadelphia at last, a mile up. then he called starre into the control room. she looked distracted, pale. she was wearing slacks and was as completely unprepared for her marriage as she could manage. bob grinned, took her cold hand affectionately. "we're over philadelphia, starre. you can point out the general section of the city of your granddad's home and estate for me. we'll be landing at : a.m. that's in about a half-hour. whatever you do, make certain you aren't--ah--married before o'clock. okay?" she extracted her hand from his, nodding dumbly. she sat down at the photo-amplifiers, and for the next fifteen minutes studied the streets below and guided him south. then bob dropped the ship until it was only a few hundred feet from the ground. around them pleasure craft circled, and on the streets and fields below people ran excitedly, pointing upward at the largest asteroid ever to be brought to the planet. the ship labored over the fields with its tremendous burden, finally hovered over a clearing bordered by leafy oak and sycamore trees, part of burnside's tremendous "back yard." there was a man with a red flag down there. bob followed his directions, slowly brought the asteroid, rough side down, onto the carefully tended lawn. then he lifted the hauler, placed it firmly on the opposite side of the clearing. bob relaxed, wiped his sweating face, and felt a cool breeze as queazy opened the airlock. minutes later, starre lowenthal was the center of an excited, mystified group of wedding guests. among them was her grandfather, a wrinkled, well-preserved old gentleman who alternately kissed her and flew into rages. another man, handsome, blond, came rushing up, sweeping everybody out of his way. he took starre in his arms, fervently. bob parker hated him at sight. * * * * * burnside cornered starre and some sort of an argument ensued. starre was insisting that she dress for the wedding, and finally her grandfather gave in. starre flung a final, pleading look at bob, and then disappeared toward the great white house with the georgian pillars. most of the guests trailed after her, and burnside came stomping up to bob. he thrust a slip of green paper into his hands. "there's your check, young man!" he puffed. "now you can get your greasy ship out of here. what do you mean by waiting until the last minute to bring the asteroid?" bob didn't answer. he said politely, "i'd like very much to stay for the wedding, sir." the old man looked distastefully at his dirty coveralls. "you may," he said testily. "but please view it from a distance." he started away, then suddenly turned back. "would you mind telling me, young man, how it is that my granddaughter was in your ship?" "i'll be glad to, sir," bob said politely, "after the wedding. it's a long story." "i've no doubt, i've no doubt," burnside said, glaring. "but if it's anything scandalous, i don't want to hear it. this is an important wedding." he stomped away, limping. bob whirled toward queazy, tensely, thrust the check into his hands. he jerked it back, hastily endorsed it and thrust it at queazy again. "cash it! quick! i'll meet you in the somers hotel." queazy asked no questions, but lifted the ship, and left. at twenty minutes of twelve, somebody having rushed starre into a hurried preparation for the wedding, the minister climbed a ladder to the apex of the asteroid, and the wedding march sounded out. bob saw starre, walking slowly on her grandfather's arm, her eyes looking straight ahead. "now!" bob prayed. "_now!_" he groaned inwardly. it wasn't going to happen! he'd been a fool to think-- then a yell, completely uninhibited, escaped his lips. the asteroid was quivering, precisely like gelatine dessert. pieces of iron ore, tungsten, quartz and cinnabar began to fall from its sides. little rivulets of a silvery-white liquid gushed outward in streams. the wedding guests leapt to their feet with startled cries, starting running back toward higher ground. the wedding march ended in a clatter of discords. and bob reached the asteroid as it went to pieces completely. he found himself ankle-deep in rivulets of liquid metal. he was swept off his feet, came up hanging onto a jagged boulder of floating iron ore. he looked around on a mad scene. screams, yells, tangled legs. "_bob!_" starre's voice. bob plunged toward her, yelling above the general tumult. for a radius of several hundred feet, there was a sluggishly moving liquid. people were floating on it, or standing in it ankle-deep, dumbfounded. bob reached starre, swept her up in his arms, went slushing off to the edge of the pool. starre was laughing uncontrollably. "there's a helicopter on the other side of the house," she cried. "we can get away before they get organized." * * * * * they found queazy in a room at the somers hotel. he opened the door, and the worry on his face dissipated as he saw them. behind him on a table were stacks of five-thousand-dollar bills. before he could say anything, starre demanded of him, "i couldn't get married on an asteroid if the asteroid wasn't there any more, could i, queazy? one minute the asteroid was there and the next minute i was wading in a metal lake." "quicksilver," bob parker agreed happily. "the asteroid was almost entirely frozen mercury, except for an outer solid layer of iron ore, tungsten, quartz, cinnabar." "i just took exterior readings," starre explained, sheepishly. "so i figured," continued bob, "that if i took a lot of spectroscopic readings of the interior i could determine exactly how big a mass of frozen quicksilver there was. and how long it would take to thaw out once it was inside earth's atmosphere! "that's the reason i had things scheduled to the dot, queazy. i coaxed the asteroid along until the mercury was almost thawed out. when the wedding started, it melted all at once, being the same temperature all the way through. satisfied?" queazy looked grave. as gravely, he moved back to the table, gestured to the money. "i hate to spoil your fun, bob," he said slowly. "we'll have to give this back to burnside. he didn't ask for quicksilver, you know." "didn't he?" bob grinned smugly. "but he asked for cinnabar, didn't he? wherever you find quicksilver you find cinnabar. cinnabar is a source of quicksilver. and vice versa. cinnabar is a sulphide of quicksilver! nope, we earned that money, queazy, my boy. it's ours legally. hands off!" he put starre's shoe on her foot after emptying it of some more quicksilver. she stood up then, moved very close. "you can ask me now, can't you, bob?" she whispered. she kissed him. "and if you do, that's my answer." which, of course, made the question totally unnecessary. by winston marks wedding day _some folks say a good wife is a composite of many things. and sometimes a girl finds it tough. but with the ratio of the sexes drastically changed...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, january . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] at breakfast polly and june had an argument over the coffee. polly had brewed it. june thought it was too strong. doris and sue stayed out of the argument at first. polly defended, "sure, it's a little stronger, but men like it strong. you might as well get used to it." june said, "see here, he's got to make some concessions. after all, why should four of us suffer--" "suffer? you call being married to hollis jamison suffering?" "don't be so impressed. he's not doing badly marrying us, either. he could do a lot worse." "why, you vain witch! just because you play a fair game of chess--" "oh, i'm not taking all the credit. you're a fine cook, doris is witty and sue's body would make any man's mouth water--but that's just the point! look what he's getting! why should we have to change all our habits and tastes to conform with his?" now doris entered the argument. "you know darn well why! it's still a man's world and a man's choice. back when there was a man for practically every woman, it was different. but it's five women to one man right now--don't ever forget that--five to one, and so far the law only requires a quadracell. just be grateful you aren't the one who's left out. you and your chess-playing! how far would you get attracting a man, all by yourself?" "shhh, now, all of you," sue broke into the telepathic conversation. "let's clear the dishes and get the apartment straightened up. hollis did make one concession--moving in with us, instead of making us live in that dismal bachelor's hole of his. let's not make him regret it." they heeded sue and got busy. sue was the arbiter. she ruled the quartet with a gentle but confident mind. all four knew that her lithe, athletic body with its soft curves and golden hair was the greatest asset in this transaction of matrimony. there had been no dissension on this point, nor could there have been. the bureau would never have allowed them to be together and form a marriage cell had there been the slightest dispute. many differences of opinion were allowable, but the four had been carefully screened in certain matters of basic tastes. they liked the same colors, foods, styles of clothing, video programs, sports and vacation activities. all were carefully schooled ambiverts of roughly equal education. instead of conflicting, their differences of skills, talents and personality traits complemented each other. even with all this care in selecting and matching, however, the big test was the culmination of the marriage, itself--the whole purpose of this banding together. the unpredictable quality of the most stable feminine emotions made the choice of a mate most difficult of all. this awareness was in all their minds this day, and it made them a little nervous. even the argument that had started over the coffee had been faintly alarming to sue. they were a team, welded together by the wonderful gift of telepathy, which was only possible through formation of a marriage cell. the most complete intimacy of thought and feeling had been nurtured for a whole year before marriage was permissible. sympathy, tolerance and sharing a common experience with mutual enjoyment and happiness was the keystone of the polygamous unions. nothing must spoil it now. the delivery vault thumped, and the signal light flicked on. sue rushed to slide up the door. "orchids!" they chorused mentally, and sue noticed with satisfaction that june's thought was as strong as the others. the lovely flowers were put in the cooler, the apartment was tidied and they turned to the exciting task of becoming beautiful for their handsome husband. the tiff over the coffee was forgotten as they became immersed in sprays, powders, tints, cosmetics, body ornaments and the precious nuptial perfume. this latter, issued to them only yesterday when they signed the register and received the license, was now as traditionally exclusive to weddings as trousseaus had been centuries ago. feminine clothing, of course, had long since been eliminated from the occasion, along with other redundancies such as waggish and mischievous guests, old shoes, rice and hectic honeymoon trips. the official and religious arrangements had been completed yesterday at the registry and the chapel, the union to become legal and effective at noon on this day. when hollis jamison walked through their door at twelve o'clock he would bring four gold rings, and the moment the rings were placed on the proper fingers the ceremony was complete. doris said, "let's steal just a tiny whiff of the perfume. i'm too curious to wait." june and polly were game, but sue cut them off. "not on your life! i used to know a chemist at the hormone labs where they compound this stuff, and he told me about it. we have things to do, and if what he told me is true--well, it's very distracting." polly backed her up, "i hear it is terribly volatile. i guess we wouldn't want it to wear off before hollis came." "hollis!" the thought was june's, and it came thin and quavery. "what--do you suppose it's like to be married?" no one answered, for there was no experience among them. each had her own romantic idea, so cherished, so private that even within the intimacy of their clique it was too sacred to discuss. suddenly june said, "i'm scared." the thought had come sharply and unexpectedly. it was contagious. polly said, "me, too." "of what?" doris asked, "of drinking strong coffee the rest of your lives?" it was a weak, nervous stab at humor, and sue knew that doris was as jumpy as the rest of them. "steady, gals," she said sympathetically. "it'll be worth it. we want a baby, don't we?" it was the right thought at the right time. sue felt their minds relax, and the thought even did her some good. a sweet, little, round, pink baby-- she let the mental picture flow out to the others, and the little crisis passed. the minutes flew, and soon it was five minutes to twelve. "have we forgotten anything?" sue asked. "the perfume!" polly and june said together. "hurry!" doris said. "i think he's coming." the seal on the tiny vial was broken, one drop on each breast, and the rich, exotic fumes exuded a gentle, warm excitement that was entirely different from the innocent scents they had known. the door was unlocked, and now it opened. hollis stepped in, bronzed body bared to the waist. "the flowers!" polly wailed inwardly. "we forgot the orchids--" but hollis jamison didn't notice the discrepancy. he advanced smiling from his gray eyes and strong mouth. sue opened her lips and her fine, white teeth showed a welcoming smile. she was proud of her lovely body, and june, polly and doris shared in that pride. sue held out her left hand with fingers outstretched. her man came forward jingling the four rings in his right hand. he paused before her, drew her left hand to his lips, kissed the little finger and slid the proper ring on it, then, in order he kissed sue's other three fingers and banded them with the remaining rings, symbolic of the four separate feminine entities who dwelt in this one magnificent body. and with each ring he said a name: "june, polly, doris, sue--" he straightened and gazed into the two blue eyes. "i thee wed," he said simply.