The Project Gutenberg eBook of Girls together

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Title: Girls together

Author: Amy Ella Blanchard

Illustrator: Ida Waugh

Release date: June 7, 2026 [eBook #78824]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1900

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78824

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIRLS TOGETHER ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"As if I cared," returned Theo, turning her back to

her cousin.

GIRLS TOGETHER

BY AMY E. BLANCHARD

AUTHOR OF

"TWO GIRLS," "TWENTY LITTLE MAIDENS," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY IDA WAUGH

PHILADELPHIA

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

1900

COPYRIGHT, 1895

BY

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.

TO

MY GIRLHOOD'S BELOVED COMPANION,

JENNIE E. S.,

THE GENTLE MISTRESS OF "POSIE-COSSIE,"

I Dedicate

THIS LITTLE BOOK, WITH A LOVE THAT

GROWS FROM YEAR TO YEAR.

CONTENTS.

—————

CHAPTER

I.—GROWN UP

II.—UPS AND DOWNS

III.—A FLAVOR OF BOHEMIA

IV.—SETTLED DOWN

V.—JACK'S SEND-OFF

VI.—A PRIVATE VIEW

VII.—HOW ELDORADO ANN WAS SCARED

VIII.—AN OLD SONG

IX.—WHAT JACK DID

X.—A CHRISTMAS STOCKING

XI.—ARCHIE DECIDES

XII.—"UNDER GREEN APPLE-BOUGHS"

XIII.—SEPARATIONS

XIV.—ARCHIE'S CLIENT

XV.—BEFORE THE FEAST

XVI.—THE WEDDING

XVII.—AT PRESTON

XVIII.—"AS LIKE AS A HAND TO ANOTHER HAND"

XIX.—WHAT BECAME OF VAL'S PORTRAIT

XX.—AND SO—

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

———————

"As if I cared," returned Theo, turning her back to her cousin Frontispiece.

She came in one afternoon, when all were sitting on the porch

Then, with a leap, she sprang away

Then she turned towards home

"The idea of chickens at this time of year," said Val

And the work proceeded with great briskness

GIRLS TOGETHER

———————

CHAPTER I.

GROWN UP.

THE sleepy old university town had been for some days alive with the excitement attending class-day and the yearly commencement at the university.

Theo Nelson and her cousin Val Le Moyne were among the interested participants in the festivities, and none of the town's guests were having a better time; for Theo's brother, Archie, was one of the graduates, and his friends, who were all well known to the girls, were assiduous in their attentions, while in Jack Allen, Archie's special chum and classmate, the cousins felt nearly as much interest as in Archie himself, taking great pride in the honors Jack was bearing off. Even Aunt Janet Nelson was as enthusiastic as the others on this occasion; but Miss Janet was as a mother to the little group, and the interests of her "children" had been closely hers during all the years they had lived with her.

Val was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her cousin.

"Theo, hurry!" she cried. "The boys are coming."

"Boys!" answered Theo, in a tone of scorn, as she made her appearance, drawing on her gloves. "Young men, you mean; you forget that they have received their degrees, and that they know all there is to know. They are 'sumptuously informed,' as I heard some one say yesterday."

"Yes," replied Val, laughing, "and the 'young men' are quite aware of it. Anything more lordly than Archie's tread as he walks up the street I have never seen. Do come and look, Theo: isn't he majestic?"

"Yes," answered Theo, coming to the door; "but he is a lord among lords. They all do that way at first. Come, it is late; we might as well go and meet them."

"Where is auntie?" asked Archie of his sister.

"She has gone with Mrs. Talcott and Nannie," replied Theo; "she will meet us at the house. We are quite late."

Archie consulted his watch. "Not so very," he returned; "and it is only to drink tea that we are going. It was very good of the professor to ask us; but, for my part, I should rather do something else."

Val raised her eyebrows significantly.

"Now what?" said Archie, testily. "You are so ready to pounce on a fellow, Val. What have I done?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Val, airily; "only I supposed from your general demeanor that anything less than a professor's society you could not tolerate."

"Humph!" and Archie gave vent to the exclamation in an exceedingly disgusted manner.

"Stop your squabbling, children," put in Jack Allen. "Give us a little rope, Val. We'll come down from our lofty perches soon enough; we shall forget how much we know before many months have passed."

And the party proceeded in an amiable spirit towards the university grounds.

Just before the professor's house was reached, they all stopped to look across the valley at the beautiful view spread out before them.

"I hate to leave it," said Jack, suddenly.

"I shall come back every year," declared Archie. "You'll come too, Jack?"

"I don't know," was the doubtful response.

And then the little group turned aside into the long corridor, to be greeted at one of the doorways by their hostess.

"Ah, Mr. Nelson," she said, "your aunt came long ago. We began to fear that you had at last succumbed to the pressure of all the duties that have been thrust upon you during the past week. On how many committees have you served, pray?"

"I always told Arch he was entirely too popular," remarked Jack Allen. "He will suffer for it yet, Mrs. Marshall. Are we so very late?"

"Not too late," she replied, with a smile.

And she led them in-doors to where the murmur of voices gave evidence that a company was gathered.

Miss Janet Nelson, with Nannie Talcott on one side, Gilbert Rogers on the other, and Teddy Forester leaning on the back of her chair, was laughing at the nonsensical run of talk carried on by the young people.

"Ah! There they come," announced Gilbert, catching sight of the new-comers. "The late Mr. Nelson and his party have at last arrived."

The girls made their way over to Miss Nelson, and were soon followed by Archie and Jack.

"Who do you think is here?" whispered Nannie to Theo.

"I can't imagine."

"Fly Crawford, Val's ancient enemy."

"Really? Yes; see Val's color and her haughty look. Why, Nannie, Gilbert is talking to her!"

"Yes, I know; but I believe he quite likes her. She is stopping with very nice people, you know, friends of Gilbert's, and he has had to show her some attention."

Theo looked grave, but her attention was just then turned aside, and the subject was dropped for the time being.

"Such a grown up set as I shall have about me," Miss Nelson was saying to Mrs. Marshall. "Theo and Archie have graduated this year, and Jack, too: he seems like one of us, you know. Val is my only baby: she has another year before her, at least. She rather resents being my baby, though."

Val looked up quickly. "No, not that exactly," she interposed; "but I always feel as though I were running very hard and couldn't keep up with the others. I seem to remind myself of those little children who are always tagging behind the older ones, especially when Archie is so superior," glancing mischievously at her cousin.

"And you will have them all with you again?" said Mrs. Marshall, addressing Miss Nelson.

"Yes; that is what comforts me in losing my children. I shall have a young man to attend to business for me, and a young woman to take some of my home responsibilities from my shoulders," replied Miss Janet.

"And you go back to Roseville to-morrow?"

"Yes; Archie thinks of reading law with an old friend of his father's, and Theo—"

"What will Theo do?" asked Mrs. Marshall.

Miss Nelson did not see the quick glances exchanged by Nannie and Theo as she replied:

"Oh, Theo will have to be a young lady, I suppose, though I should wish her to have some central interest; too many girls spend such useless lives. Roseville does not offer a very broad field, but I think Theo need not be idle, nor even uselessly busy."

Though the next day did indeed see them all returned to Roseville, it saw all Miss Janet's plans overturned by a letter which awaited their arrival. This letter was addressed to Archie by Colonel Smith, Val's guardian, who had formed a warm attachment for the young man, and who now offered him the opportunity of studying law in New York, under Colonel Smith himself. Archie read the communication very slowly and thoughtfully, put the letter in his pocket, then, picking up his hat, he said to his chum,—

"Come, Jack, let us go forth."

Jack's face was very grave as he also put a letter into his own pocket and joined his friend without saying a word.

When they were out of the house, Archie handed his letter to Jack, saying,—

"Give us your opinion of that."

"You ought to go," decided Jack. "It is the chance of a lifetime, Arch. With such a man as the Colonel, you could not have a better."

"I want to go," returned Archie, "but I do feel that I owe my aunt and my sister something; they have both made sacrifices for me. I have been at the university for four years, and I ought to be at home now."

"I'm afraid I'm not an impartial adviser," returned Jack, "for it would mean so much to me to have you still at hand. You can't know, old fellow, what it would cost me to cut loose from you all."

"I shall have to tell auntie sometime," said Archie; "so I might as well get it over first as last."

He found it very hard, however, to broach the subject of the letter to his aunt. The tender, motherly care given himself and his sister from their babyhood seemed worthy as great consideration as his own future, and the boy honestly strove to be unselfish in the matter.

"Give you up again, my boy!" said Miss Nelson. "That is a great tax on my generosity, but I know Colonel Smith means to give you the best of opportunities; and, indeed, it is not a surprise to me. The Colonel hinted at something of the kind long ago, but I did not count upon it. Go! Of course you will. There is no question about it. Your auntie still has her faculties," she laughingly continued; "she doesn't grow old as fast as she might." And so it was settled that way.

Archie's departure for New York was hastened by a piece of information given by Jack that evening, who stated that his own leave must soon be taken.

"I have just been notified of my uncle's marriage," he said.

"What!" exclaimed Archie. "Old pineknot married?"

Jack nodded.

"Oh, Jack!" said Theo.

"What a shame!" cried Val.

"It need not affect you, Jack," remarked Miss Nelson, consolingly.

"It need not, perhaps, but yet it may. You remember, two years ago—" turning to Archie—"I said then I wouldn't trust Uncle Silas around the corner; and the past two summers have not added to my confidence in him. So I think I ought to be on hand to watch matters."

"You will be one of the firm now, I suppose?" said Miss Nelson.

"Perhaps," was the reply. "I cannot really tell; that was my father's intention. He wanted me to spend the summers, during my college life, in the office, and when I had taken my degree, to assume my responsibilities as one of the house; but—" and Jack paused doubtfully.

"Well, I shall go on with you," Archie declared, "and we'll still be chums. Eh, Jack?" slapping his comrade's shoulder heartily. "When must you go?"

"I should not put it off," was the response. "I should say the first of next week."

"Oh!" exclaimed the girls. "That is mean, Jack, to take Archie away just as we have him home again."

"To say nothing of yourself," added Val.

Jack looked at Theo, who said nothing.

"Wait till the last of the week," pleaded Val.

"Can you not, Jack?" put in Miss Nelson.

"I might," said he, doubtfully, still looking at Theo.

But that young person got up and went out of the room, as if determining to have no voice in the matter. Still, Jack consented to lengthen his stay somewhat.

And again, as so often before, a merry little party rollicked through the June days.

They were joined, not only by Theo's friend, Nannie Talcott, but by Gilbert Rogers, whose presence, however, somewhat disturbed the others, for Fly Crawford's return to her home was an evident reason for Gilbert's lingering in the neighborhood.

"It seems too bad," said Theo, in distress, to her brother, "that Gilbert should be so strongly under the influence of a girl as utterly frivolous as Fly. I shouldn't care if she were only frivolous, but—" and Theo paused, not liking to say anything in further detriment. Then she went on, "There is such a difference between a girl's being bright and witty and being—I hate the word—fast. Now, Val is bright and lively as can be, but she never forgets her womanliness."

Archie nodded thoughtfully. "A good many fellows," he said, "haven't perspicacity enough to see the difference, but when a fellow has a sister and a cousin, he knows. There is some hope for a girl who is only silly, and who lacks judgment because she is young. Most girls have a little round of thoughts that they keep going over and over."

Theo laughed. "What are they?" she asked.

"Oh, they wonder how they look and who is looking at them; and if any fellow looks at them, what he thinks; and if he doesn't look, why doesn't he; and what can she do to made him look. But it doesn't do any harm; it is only silliness, and they get over it as they grow older,—that is, most of them do."

"Now, Archie," expostulated Theo, resenting this charge against her sex, "do you think I have no better thoughts to occupy my mind?"

"Well, maybe you don't keep in so small a circle."

"And Val?"

"Oh, well, Val inclines towards it, but she will get over it. There is hope for her. She is not a girl whose inclinations are toward unwomanly acts. If she does anything reprehensible, it is from thoughtlessness."

"She is the nicest girl 'I' know," replied Theo. "Now, let us go down to the others; they will think we have deserted them entirely. Do hear Val laughing. Hasn't she the merriest laugh?"

"Val is a nice child," observed Archie.

Theo smiled, thinking how Val would resent being called a child.

"Wait a minute," said Archie; "don't say anything about our conversation, not even to Jack. We can talk as we choose together, for we have had no secrets from each other."

"I will be discreet," replied Theo. Then, after a pause, and a little hesitatingly, she asked, "Do you think Jack is much concerned over his uncle's marriage?"

"Bless him! He would keep it to himself if he were. But I am afraid it will affect him more or less, though one cannot tell how much. We'll hope it may not be much the worse for him. There! Those children are getting too hilarious. I must go and put a stop to it."

As to putting a stop to the hilarity, Archie's presence seemed only to add fuel to the flames, and for the rest of the afternoon, the merriment ran high till Gilbert, pleading an engagement, left them, when they all sobered down.

She came in one afternoon,

when all were sitting on the porch.

CHAPTER II.

UPS AND DOWNS.

THEO, with her quick sympathies, was most anxiously concerned for her brother's friend, Gilbert Rogers. And when certain gossiping remarks came to her ears, she resented them with all the warmth of her youthful spirit, but only in Archie's hearing, for she did not think it wise to repeat the gossip to any one else.

It was Val who finally stirred up a more general indignation in the little household. She came in, one afternoon, when all were sitting on the porch, swept by Gilbert with the air of a tragedy queen, her blue eyes blazing, and her little head held up in the haughtiest manner. After she had passed into the house, silence fell upon the group, broken at last by Archie.

"Whew!" he ejaculated. "I feel as if a cyclone had passed us. What do you suppose has been disturbing my lady Le Moyne? She wears the most indignant expression I have seen for many a day. Has any one been 'sassing' her?" turning to the group.

All protested innocence, though Gilbert looked a trifle uneasy.

Miss Janet arose and followed Val to her room. The door was locked, but she caught the quick tread of the girl as she paced the floor. Auntie knocked. There was no answer.

"It is auntie, dear," she said, presently.

Against auntie's appeal there was never any protest, and Val immediately opened the door, the indignant tears standing in her eyes, as auntie said, "What has been angering my little girl? Something more than usual, I am sure."

"It is that horrid, horrid girl!" replied Val, with a quick stamp of her little foot.

"My darling child, don't be so vehement. What is it, now? You must not be influenced by silly school-girl tales."

"This isn't a school-girl tale; it is the truth. I heard it from a perfectly reliable source. I am eighteen, auntie, and I am old enough to have some sort of womanly rights. I will not have people say what is not true of me."

"There! There!" coaxingly said Miss Nelson. "Sit down here and tell me all about it. We can sift down your information, and see how much need there is for your righteous indignation."

Val established herself in a chair and rocked fiercely for a few moments. Then she broke out with, "It makes me ashamed even to tell you, auntie, but you shall know it. Fly Crawford has told Gilbert that I am in love with him. Did you ever hear of such a mean, contemptible thing?"

"How do you know she told him?"

"She boasted of it to one of the girls."

"It is a very mean act, one quite unworthy of a noble nature, but I am afraid Lee Crawford has not a noble nature. We all know it is not true, dear child."

"Yes, of course you do; and Theo does; so does Archie. But how do I know what Gilbert thinks?"

"Why, my dear, Gilbert surely is not so vain as all that. You have treated him just as you have Jack and Teddy Forester and the other boys, have you not?"

"Ye-s," replied Val, a little doubtfully; "except when we first knew the boys, auntie, I was a little flirty then. But I was only a little girl four years ago, and he cannot attach any importance to what I did then."

"I remember," returned auntie, smiling.

"Fly has never forgiven me for deserting her faction," continued Val, "and has shown her resentment in more ways than one; but this caps the climax, and I will not have it. Oh, auntie! I wish you would talk to him and let him know how utterly unworthy Fly is. I know you do not like to have us say unkind things of other girls, and I try not to, to outsiders, but Gilbert is too good a fellow to be thrown away on such a girl as that. I don't see how he can be so blind."

"Lee Crawford has very taking little ways: she is bright and pretty. Gilbert is probably the last one to hear the real truth, and if he does hear, he is apt to resent it. There is a very perverse side to human nature, and a man must be singularly strong to exercise level judgment in such matters. I am afraid it would do no good, Val."

"Oh, but, auntie, you—he surely knows you could have no other motive than his best good; he has such respect for your opinions. Won't you try? I cannot have such things said of me. If you cannot help me, I shall have to tell Archie, and then there will be a bigger fuss. Oh, dear! Why do such serpents have to exist? I have tried not to be down on Gilbert; but it does lower him in my opinion to have him countenance a girl who could be so contemptible; it makes me feel as if his own sense of honor were less than I thought."

"It is all his vanity, my child; that being appealed to makes him lose sight of the other things. I will try what I can do, Val, though I am opposed to any interference in such affairs, as a rule; it seldom does any good. If he is really very much interested, I am sure he will not listen; but if it is merely a fancy, a word of warning may be timely. I agree with you that Gilbert is entirely too good a boy to have his life ruined by an utterly unscrupulous girl.

"It is strange how girls of that character can so often dominate really good men. I suppose it is, as some one says, that we see in others the reflex of ourselves, and Gilbert's is an honest soul, which doubtless finds it hard to recognize duplicity in another. His vanity is his greatest weakness, and that, I hope, is a failing born of his youth, rather than a radical defect of character; but through his vanity, Lee, I fancy, has obtained her hold upon him. Now, don't let this trouble you, dear; had Lee been a friend of yours, she could not have done it. But since we know she is not, you must try to dismiss the whole matter."

"But I shall hate to see Gilbert again," said Val, in a troubled voice.

"You must try to treat him just as usual; and, dear girlie, let this help you in this way to learn that it 'is dangerous to strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons.'"

"Oh, I know, I know. I might have been a 'cheap person' myself, if I had not had you to warn me, auntie."

It was hard for Miss Nelson to give Gilbert the warning she desired to give which should not seem harsh and prejudiced, but which should open his eyes to the true character of Lee Crawford. But, fortunately, the young man's fancy was not very deep, and obstinacy was not a distinctive feature in his make-up. And then Miss Nelson was wise enough to be able to convince him that hers was only a loving interest. And since he knew her abhorrence of gossip, he attached more importance to her opinions than he would have done to those of the ordinary woman.

"I should be so glad," said Miss Janet, "to help Lee, to bring her into our own circle, but I am afraid it would do her little good and do my own girls harm. And I doubt if she would accept our advances in the right spirit; it is not as if she were a homeless, motherless girl. She has had good influences all her life; her parents, her teachers, her friends, have all interested themselves in her. She knows what is right; it is not through ignorance that she errs."

"I feel very sorry for her," said Gilbert.

"So do I," returned Miss Nelson; "but does it not occur to you, Gilbert, that if she really wanted to do well she would do it for her own sake as much as for yours? That she would scorn to use meretricious means to secure your interest? That by poisoning your mind against your friends, she proves herself less your friend than her own self-lover? Think it over. Can you be sure that vague hints, little flouting remarks, have not had their effect upon you? Have you not lately felt that we were old-fogyish and straitlaced, and that you were cultivating a very desirable breadth of charity for humanity in general and Lee Crawford in particular?"

Gilbert looked up quickly. "How could you tell that? But, Miss Nelson, she does not have a bad influence over me."

"Are you sure?"

"I really think not. How could she do me any harm?"

"In several ways. Persons might say that you are completely hoodwinked by a very clever girl. Do you like to know that? Is it pleasant for your friends to hear, 'Poor Gilbert Rogers! He is so simple, he cannot see what a fool that girl is making of him.' Or, to hear, 'If that is the kind of a girl Gilbert Rogers prefers, he must be of the same stamp. We would rather not invite him here.'"

"Oh, Miss Nelson, that is a little far-fetched."

"Do you think so? It might be in some circles, but we are perhaps a bit old-fashioned in our codes of morality, and I have heard it said more than once. Again, would you want for a wife a woman whom your best friends could not respect? Although marriage is probably very far from your present thought, an infatuation might result in such a thing before you are in a position for it."

Gilbert was silent a moment, then he said, "I believe I have a good influence over her. Suppose I should give her up, might I not have helped her to be better if she is all you say?"

"Dear boy, surely, if when she knows your standards, she cannot make an effort to reach them, if when she is anxious to obtain your best opinions, she still does the same audacious things as before, still talks as compromisingly, still maintains the same light behavior, still continues by her actions to forfeit the respect of your friends, do you think she would be better when she had actually won your affection? If now, when she should, by reason of her interest in you, be naturally striving to live above reproach, and is no better, do you think you can expect much later?"

"But I have promised to be her friend," said Gilbert, distressedly.

"So you may be, in moderation; but that does not mean that you must give the greater part of your spare time to her, that you must devote yourself to her in such a degree as to excite remark. I trust I am neither prejudiced nor uncharitable. I should open my arms to her if she cared for such a refuge, if I knew she desired to know the better things of life, but that way does not lie her inclination."

"But how do we know," persisted Gilbert, "that all we have heard is not gossip: mere idle tales from jealous girls?"

"Jealous! My dear boy. Why jealous? Are you such a desirable person that mothers and daughters must combine to attract you from any one? Why jealous of you more than others? There are numbers of other boys who are quite attentive to other girls we know, but we do not hear a word against the girls in consequence. Look at Jessie Meredith; there is no more popular girl in the town; she has attention enough to turn any one's head, but you do not hear anything said in her disfavor. No, my dear boy, a girl whom good mothers forbid as an associate for their daughters is not a safe companion for a young man, either."

Gilbert looked rather sheepish. "You think I am dreadfully conceited, don't you, Miss Janet?"

Miss Nelson smiled. "I think you are a little too fond of admiration, but I do not think it is a hopeless defect. Later on, I expect to see you develop into a very sound man. You know, my dear boy, there is no real friendship in which truth is not the first element, and you do believe me to be your friend."

"I do," replied Gilbert, warmly. "Miss Nelson, I know I shall thank you for all this, but just now I am a little sore over it."

And the interview ended, though Gilbert gave heed to the counsel. His weakness did not extend beyond a certain love of admiration; so he was not impervious to reason, but was strong enough to see that Miss Nelson could have no motive beyond helping him to escape a misfortune, as he began to think it really might be. And when Archie and Jack took their leave, Gilbert went too. Fly Crawford lost no time in turning her attention in a new direction, and that was the end of that matter.

After Archie and Jack departed, Theo seemed given to many brown studies, and to Val's plans for the coming winter appeared to enter with little heartiness. The cause of this was made apparent as the first of September approached, for Nannie Talcott wrote enthusiastically from New York, begging Theo to join her there.

"I have taken a room, and am going to study at the League," she announced; "could you not come on for a little while, anyhow?"

Theo did not look up as she read, for she knew there would be disfavor in her aunt's face.

"It is not to be thought of," said Miss Nelson, as Theo closed the letter. "Two girls there alone! I could not consent, Theo."

"But Archie is there."

"True; still, you would be alone all day. You want to go very much, don't you, dear?"

"Oh, I do, I do," replied Theo. "Nan and I have been talking of it for a year; and I could study music. And, oh, auntie, I should be near Archie."

"And Jack," put in Val, craftily.

"That would be sufficient reason for my remaining here," replied Theo, caustically.

"Mean girl!" exclaimed Val. "The idea of your wanting to leave auntie and me. You love Nannie better than anybody, I do believe."

Theo looked distressed.

"That isn't quite fair, Val," reproved auntie. "I understand how Theo feels. This is a very narrow field for her energies. She loves her home beyond anything,—that I know. But Nannie's plan is full of delightful possibilities; and if there were some older person to be with them, I should be inclined to think it a good thing. I trust my girls entirely, but I am not quite sure into what their inexperience might lead them. Let the question rest for a time, Theo, and I will think over all the pros and cons."

The result of Miss Nelson's cogitations was that a most attractive plan was unfolded to the delighted girls. It was nothing more nor less than that they should all go to New York, Val taking up her studies there, and Miss Nelson still overlooking them all.

"How perfectly, perfectly delightful!" cried Theo. "Oh, how pleased the boys will be!"

"And the Colonel," cried Val, "the dear old Colonel. Oh, Theo, I believe he will dance for joy."

The idea of the dignified Mr. Smith dancing for joy was too much for Theo, and she laughed heartily.

"I have counted the cost," Miss Janet informed them, "and I think we can manage very comfortably. I have an opportunity of renting the house furnished. I think that is what decided me; it seemed to answer the question. Mrs. Lewis has decided to give up boarding, and as there are only herself and her husband in the family, no one could be more desirable. I think, too, it will do me good to be shaken up a little. I am getting too well satisfied to sit down in the chimney-corner. I need a fresh infusion of spirit to keep me young."

"You darling, blessed auntie, you are always just right," exclaimed Theo; "and it is the most delicious plan I ever heard of. When can we go?"

"I propose that you go as soon as you can get ready, and I will follow with Val. I am not afraid but what you can get along for a week or two, and Nannie is so eager to have you. So you will have a little chance to try that 'unhampered existence' Nannie is so fond of expatiating upon; and it will also give you a chance of being glad to see me."

"As if I ever needed that!" reproached Theo. "Then you know Archie is right at hand, and I couldn't do anything very much out of the way," she added.

The idea of Theo's doing anything out of the way amused Val. "We shall have such larks, Theo," she exclaimed, "when I get there."

"Don't be too sure," interposed Miss Janet. "I shall have an eye on you; and you are not going just for fun, Miss Val; you are going for hard study. Mr. Smith quite approves of your finishing your studies at another school, and I want Theo to take up some other special work. What shall it be, Theo?"

"Oh, French or German. French, I think. I do so want to go on with that. We can all study together, maybe. I know Nannie will be glad to, and we can have a nice little class."

"Isn't it strange," remarked Val, "how it is the unexpected that always happens? Who could have dreamed that we all—the whole kit and crew of us—would up and start for New York? What shall you do, auntie, about Mammy and Eldorado Ann and Ishmael?"

"They can stay right here. Mrs. Lewis is only too glad to have that question settled; and she is devoted to cats, so Ishmael will fare well. We have nothing to do but to pack up and start. But, dear me! It is an undertaking for me, after all." And Miss Nelson looked around, as if half regretting her decision.

"Oh, no," expostulated Theo; "it will give you something pleasant to think about, auntie, and it will do you a world of good. You have not been away from home for years. I think it is going to be as well for you as for any of the rest of us."

For the next two weeks there was much consulting with dressmakers, many trips to the dry-goods shops, and the girls were absorbed in the topic of clothes.

"One would suppose we were the dressiest creatures in the world," said Theo, as she made the sewing-machine fly.

"And that there were no shops at all in New York," laughed Val. "Why do you suppose we are going to all this trouble?"

"Oh, so as not have to bother when we get there. We want to look halfway respectable, though no doubt we shall feel very 'meechin' when we get on Fifth Avenue," replied Theo. "Val, how do you want this trimming put on?"

"'I am not choicy,' as Mammy says."

"So?" inquired Theo. "That is more youthful?"

"Youthful!"

"Yes, old 'Miss Le Moyne,' youthful."

Val sniffed; but she gave her consent, and the sewing went on.

CHAPTER III.

A FLAVOR OF BOHEMIA.

THEO started for New York with high hopes. She was met by Nannie, and their glee knew no bounds at the prospect before them.

"We shall have to hunt up a boarding-place," said Nannie, "for I have only a little hall bedroom. And I thought it would be fun for us to go around together, and I waited before deciding upon another."

"I didn't let Archie know the day I should be here," informed Theo, "for I knew he would insist upon my coming to the house where he is; and, besides, I thought it would be nice to surprise him. We will send out cards when we are all settled. We want to be perfectly independent while we can."

"I have a list of places," and Nannie referred to a slip she had taken from her purse. "I thought if we could find two rooms, one that had a north light, which we could use for a studio, and one which would do for a bedroom, it would be very nice."

"Exactly the thing," agreed Theo. "Oh, Nan, isn't it the most delightful experience in the world? I can hardly believe it is not a dream; but wasn't auntie the dear, to let me come on first? She is so lovely in that way. She seems to enter right into one's feelings, and if there is a way to allow us our heart's desire, she finds out the way."

"I think it was good of her," replied Nannie; "and I think it will be delightful to have her here, and Val, later on. We must be sure to find just the right place."

But to find "just the right place" was not so easy a matter, and many were the disappointments. "We shall have to give it up for to-day," said Nannie, as evening overtook them, "and go to my boarding-house. My bed isn't a very narrow one; we can sleep there for one night. There isn't another room vacant, or we could take our time. I don't care about staying there any longer than I can help, however, the people are so very ordinary. I mean, those who keep the house; and they are so very pretentious. They are continually talking about their former grandeur, and deploring their fall from high places and their present unhappiness, while they use 'ambril' for umbrella, and 'remlet' for remnant, and all such unique expressions."

Theo laughed and declared she was glad of it. "It makes the whole thing much more interesting," she said. "I wouldn't have it all perfect, for anything."

The next morning, they set forth betimes, but one o'clock found two discouraged, tired girls.

"Do let us go somewhere for a luncheon," proposed Nannie. "I am half-starved, and we are away off from our boarding-house. I don't see why we came poking over here, anyhow. We said we wouldn't think of anything east of Fourth Avenue and south of Fortieth Street, and here we are right by the Cooper Institute: it is too far off, and all that."

"Did you believe there could be so many impossible places?" remarked Theo; "and aren't some of them funny, Nan? How many have we left? Oh, are we going in here?" for Nannie was turning towards a modest-looking restaurant.

"It looks clean and respectable," averred she; "and we are too hungry to care for anything else."

Theo's face was a study, as, after giving their order, the two weary girls sat looking around at the little tables scattered about the room. They were occupied by a motley set of people, most of them eating voraciously, as if time were the main consideration with them. In the front of the establishment was a bakery, from which orders were being rapidly filled for those desiring a piece of pie, a few buns, or some such. A door behind the girls slammed continually, and the rattle of dishes proclaimed the fact that the kitchen was not far off. Theo was much diverted, and her amusement increased as the orders given by the waiters, in a high key, reached her ears.

"Twice a cup of tea!" "Mince pie red hot!" and such peculiar expressions came to their hearing.

"Are they crazy? What sort of a place are we in?" asked Theo.

Nannie laughed. "It isn't very elegant," she acknowledged, "but it is quite respectable; and they will give us a very palatable little luncheon, no doubt, at a very small price. We are entering Bohemia, Theo, and we cannot be fastidious, though we may always be respectable. Many you see here are students from the Cooper, or clerks from shops near by. There comes our order, I am happy to see; let us join the company of eaters."

Theo's amusement did not prevent her from eating heartily a well-cooked, appetizing meal. And she declared, as they went out, that she wouldn't have missed it for anything.

"But did you ever see people eat so fast?" she observed. "I saw one man eat a whole pie and drink a glass of milk in less than two minutes, I am sure."

"That reminds me of a foreigner whom I met at the house of a friend. He said that when he first came to New York, he wondered why no one ever seemed to have any time to spend over a meal, until he saw a man devour a dinner in five minutes, and observed the same man spending the following half hour on the corner talking to an acquaintance. Rather a severe hit at our loquacity as a nation, wasn't it? But we must give our attention to our list or we shall never get settled."

"Yes," responded Theo. "I am beginning to want to see Archie, and my longing increases rapidly. But I will not humor it till I can say we have made all our arrangements, thank you. What comes next, Nan?"

"This," said Nannie, showing her list, and "this" chanced to be decided upon.

It was a house which had been newly papered and painted, and, although the rooms looked rather bare, the host, whose politeness was extreme, assured them that in a day or two each apartment should be resplendent.

"Is he French, do you think?" whispered Theo, as they were left alone for a moment.

"No, I think not; but he is certainly not an American."

They were finally shown two small rooms, communicating; these they decided might be made available.

"Can we have a folding-bed?" inquired Nannie.

"Sartainly, Mees," was the reply.

"Then I think we might venture to take them," and Nannie turned to Theo, who signified assent.

"Efrytheeng comb vair soon," avowed the man, ushering them into the parlor, which was singularly devoid of furniture. "Here comb a meeroir. Pairfickly mogneefcent," with a wave of the hand towards the wall. "Here comb a sofaw. Pairfickly mogneefcent;" another wave towards the corner of the room. "Here comb a keertain. Pairfickly mogneefcent;" a third wave indicated where the "portière" should hang. "Efrytheeng will be vair fine, vair good, vair nice, vair well," volubly explained the host.

"And we can come this evening? Will you have everything ready for us?" asked Nannie.

The man assured them he would have everything in readiness. "My vife is Frainch," he said. "She see the meal, vair fine, vair good, vair well. I myself to the house, also vair mogneefcent."

The girls could hardly restrain their mirth, but, as all seemed very neat and clean, and the house was one to which they had been recommended, they felt that they could do no better, and departed to return in time for a late dinner.

"We can make it look very habitable, I am sure," pronounced Theo. "We are pretty high up, to be sure; but that does not matter."

And they set to work with a will to give their rooms a homelike appearance.

Matters of adornment being the first considered by the girlish mind, the walls were soon decked with sketches, fans, and casts; draperies graced Nannie's easel; cushions were arranged in chairs.

"There are rather meagre accommodations for our clothes," mentioned Nannie, "but until the 'pairfickly mogneefcent' wardrobe comes, we shall have to do the best we can. It is long after bedtime, Theo; let us see what sort of an affair our folding-bed is."

This proved to be another subject for diversion, the bed being, as Nannie declared, "designed for discomfort."

"It is like two boxes hinged together," said Theo, as she established herself in her side. "How are you, Nannie? Can you turn over?"

"Not at all," replied Nannie, "unless we both get up and get in again. I feel as if I were in a coffin."

"So do I," responded Theo, "or as if I were boxed up to be sent off by express." Then, as if the subject were a very cheerful one, they broke into peals of laughter.

They slept but little that night, and the next morning decided that the folding-bed was not a success, but, as there was no other to be furnished them, they concluded to return to a bed of ordinary structure, and in consequence were more comfortable.

Archie and Jack were duly notified, and called promptly, berating them soundly for being so independent. But the girls only laughed and declared themselves quite able to look after themselves.

A few days' trial of their boarding-place, however, proved that they would be obliged to seek other quarters, for their host evidently labored under the delusion that his guests were guests indeed, and became quite incensed when the girls refused to join the family, or declined to make the acquaintance of other boarders whom he insisted upon presenting to them.

"As if we wanted to know them," said Theo, haughtily. "I like to choose my own acquaintances, I must confess; and auntie particularly charged me not to make cheap acquaintances. She never would have let me come alone, or with any other girl but you, Nan."

"And mamma, although she quite approves of my studying and of my independent ideas, does not approve of girls, no older than we are, going into a boarding-house alone. You can't think how delighted she is at the prospect of your auntie's coming to oversee us."

"Auntie says that the danger lies in a girl's ignorance of the world; and even with Archie here, she said, I must be very careful. So, Nan, we will take our leave as soon as we can find another place. I think we would best take rooms only, next time, and either go out to meals or have them served us from a caterer's. I am sure we shall enjoy it much more. You don't know how I hate to come in contact with some of the people we see three times a day at the table here."

"Yes," replied Nannie; "I quite agree with you. And sometimes we can cook our own meals, and that will be great fun. We must try, though, to find a place ourselves, and not let the boys know we are dissatisfied. We will not give them the triumph of thinking we made a muddle of it because we did not consult them."

Several days passed in which no attractive place presented itself.

"I really believe you are homesick," said Nan, one morning, to Theo; "you look quite down-hearted."

"I believe I am a little," confessed Theo. "I must say I do not like our dwelling-place."

"You are very sensitive to surroundings," criticised Nannie; "you always were."

"I am more so regarding people," returned Theo; "and I hate to confront our fellow-boarders,—they take away my appetite."

"You shall not do it much longer," declared Nannie.

And, true to her word, she came in that very evening with an announcement, made with a beaming face.

"I have found the dearest spot," she informed Theo, "if we can only get it. As I was coming from the League this afternoon, I was walking down one of the cross-streets, looking about, when I saw a house with a big vine running over the front of it, which attracted me for some reason, and I went up and inquired for rooms. To my delight I was told that rooms could be had there; and, oh, Theo, on the top floor are two rooms which will suit us exactly. I believe I was directed to the spot, for the former owner of the house was an artist, and one of the rooms he used as a studio; it has a skylight, and the other will make such a delightful bedroom. There are immense closets, and it is just exactly what we want; there are not many persons in the house yet, and there will be rooms to be had for Miss Nelson and Val on the same floor. The only trouble is that one of our rooms is occupied now, but Mrs. Joy is going to see what arrangements she can make, and will let us know to-morrow. Oh, we must, we must get them."

"And shall we get our meals there?"

"We can or not, as we choose; there is a caterer in the basement. But I think we might try going out till your auntie comes, anyhow."

Fortunately, the arrangements were made to the girls' satisfaction, and they left the promised splendor for more sure comfort, and established themselves so agreeably that they did not regret their period of probation.

"We shall have to send for some dishes," said Nannie. "I will write to-night; meantime, we will make the best of what we can pick up."

"Let us have dinner here," eagerly proposed Theo.

"All right; and we will go out and forage before the boys come."

An hour later, the girls returned laden with packages, and followed by a boy bearing sundry parcels.

"Let me see; that is right," said Nannie, depositing her share of the burden on the table. "One, two, three, four. I haven't dropped any. Now, Theo,—Oh, how good that coffee smells; but, my goodness! there isn't a blessed thing to make it in."

"Yes, there is," and Theo triumphantly brandished a tin pint cup.

"That?"

"Certainly. Archie and I have often made picnic-coffee in a tin-cup or a tomato-can, and mighty good it was, too. Isn't that a darling of a gas-stove? And how good of Mrs. Joy to let us use it. She is kindness itself. Do spread out everything on the table, Nan, where I can see it."

"It is a funny collection, sure enough," stated Nannie, as she displayed coffee, eggs, butter, rolls, potatoes, and chops, a can of condensed milk, sugar, pie, and cheese.

Theo unrolled her parcels,—two cups and plates, two knives and two spoons, a saucepan and a frying-pan.

"Oh, Nan, we forgot the forks!" she exclaimed, in consternation. "Oh, no, we didn't: here they are. But what shall we boil the potatoes in? Why, in the saucepan; how stupid of me. We can boil the water for the coffee over the gas—no; we will boil the potatoes and then make the coffee."

While the potatoes were boiling, a rap was heard at the door, which being answered, Archie and Jack were admitted.

"Oh, we didn't expect you yet!" exclaimed Theo, in confusion.

"You didn't?" returned Archie. "That's a nice greeting, when we have come to take you out to dinner. Goodness gracious! What are you up to?"

"Why, we're cooking our dinner," replied Theo. "The water is boiling over, Nan; and," she continued, looking ruefully at the two plates, "we'd ask you to stay and dine with us, but our table appointments are insufficient."

"You'd better go out with us," interposed Jack; "much better."

"Oh, no. Stay, boys, and let us have our first dinner in the studio," put in Nannie. "Who cares if there aren't plates enough; we can eat out of the frying-pan or the saucepan lid."

Archie was only too ready to accept Nannie's suggestion, and Jack, finding that all were in favor of it, accepted the situation.

"Isn't it a fine, large studio?" said Nannie, delightedly. "See the skylight, just high enough, and the floor all inlaid wood. I feel as if we had stumbled upon the most wonderful discovery. If I had read it in a book, I couldn't believe it possible to have such luck," and Nannie paused in the operation of cooking the chops to point out the best features of the room. "We are going to get everything arranged right away, for we are sure we shall stay. Mrs. Joy is so nice, and everything is so clean and convenient. I never was so happy," and Nannie clattered a knife and fork together as if they were castanets. "Come, gentlemen, 'sit by,' as they say up in the country."

"This is a very dull knife," observed Archie, sawing away at his chop; "or else it has been many years since this was a little playful lamb."

"Oh, you mustn't use that!" exclaimed Nannie. "That is the spreader. We didn't think it worth while to buy two real sharp knives, for we have sent home for a whole table outfit; so we only bought one good knife, and the other is a five-center. Here is the cutter; use it, and pass it along: the spreader is for the bread and butter. You will have to get used to our novel way of entertaining, Archie."

"It is great fun," maintained he; "only we ought to have brought something to top off with."

"We'll go and get some ice-cream after dinner," suggested Jack; "or, better still, we'll bring some here to the girls. My, but this is fine coffee!"

"I knew it would be," returned Theo; "you know it always used to be good when we made it in a tin-cup, Archie."

"Always," he responded. "What are you going to do this evening, girls?"

"We are going to hang Nan's sketches, put up the hammock, and set things to rights generally. We know we are sure to stay, so we are not afraid to unpack everything this time," Theo replied.

"We might stay and help," suggested Archie.

"There is no 'compellion' about it," retorted Theo.

"We mean to stay and help," decided Archie. "Miss Fourth of July, you ought to be dressed up in stars and stripes, you are so everlastingly independent."

"She is a regular Liberty bell," put in Jack.

Theo made a little face, and gave her attention to clearing away the meal, while the boys went out for the ice-cream.

"It has been such a satisfactory meal," said Theo, as the last of her cream disappeared; "so much better than a boarding-house."

"So much better," agreed Nannie and the boys.

"You couldn't take us to board?" inquired Archie.

"No," from Nannie, in a tone of scorn; "you'd get tired of it in less than a week, and complain because we didn't have roast beef and soup and puddings. You'd better stick to your own ways; besides, we are only doing this till Miss Nelson and Val come, and then we shall have our meals served, except once in a while we'll get up something extra, just for the fun of it."

"Where do you want your hammock?" asked Archie.

"In that corner," directed Nannie; "here are the hooks. I think it can go from the framework of that door over to the chimney-piece; it goes nicely in that corner."

When the sketches were hung, the hammock put up, and Nannie's draperies arranged with studied carelessness, the effect was quite good, and Archie sat down in the hammock to admire. But in a few moments, without warning, came a creak and a crash, and down came the hammock, bringing with it the framework of the door.

Consternation fell upon the group as the four stood gazing upon the devastation. After the first "oh's!" and "ah's!" there was silence, broken by Archie's exclaiming,—

"'Oh, that I could know the end of this day's business!' Don't call, for your life; don't call any one, good people. If the lady of the house appears, do not let her in. Tell her something fell, and that it is no matter. I'll be back anon," and he fled.

He was not long gone. And on his return, he was accompanied by a carpenter, who soon put matters to rights, and suggested a more stable place for the hammock; so the accident was not so bad as it at first seemed.

"We insist that you go to dine with us to-morrow," notified Jack, as the boys took their leave. "We want you to eat some real Italian macaroni, and see how it is to dine 'table d'hôte' at a place we have found. You will be too tired to cook your own dinner, anyhow, and we shall come for you at half-past five."

The girls consented, and went to bed entirely satisfied with their new quarters and with the prospect the winter seemed to present.

CHAPTER IV.

SETTLED DOWN.

THE middle of October saw Miss Nelson and Val established in New York, and everything in good running order. Theo hired a piano and made diligent use of it; Val was much interested in her studies, and Nannie was an indefatigable student at the League. She had made much progress during the past season, which she had spent at a summer school, and was more than ever in love with her work. The boys came and went, bringing their trials, their hopes, and their fears to a sympathetic group of hearers. Mr. Smith, Val's guardian, appeared at odd times, frequently bearing off the whole party to the theatre or the opera, sometimes to dinner or to drive, and once or twice insisting upon every one's accompanying him to his country home, Lyndehurst. It was there that Thanksgiving was spent, and a merry day they made of it.

Theo and Jack alone felt troubled; the former from the fact that Jack showed evidences of not having outgrown his boyish fancy for his friend's sister, and it irked Theo to be made conscious of a devotion which she did not care to consider; and Jack, poor fellow, felt a growing uneasiness on account of his own business affairs. He anticipated that there was trouble in store for him, that his uncle's actions warranted such a suspicion he was positive, and he determined that the first of the year must decide how much or how little he would be affected. But these clouds did not more than appear above the horizon, and certainly did not affect the general sunniness of their daily life.

The studio made a delightful sitting-room, and here they all gathered in the evening, each bringing some recountal of the day's doings, some funny tale, or some pitiful one. Nannie's affairs excited the most interest, there being a certain halo of romance about her student life which gave the other girls great entertainment, and, as they were initiated into the mysteries of art, they became more and more interested in what Nannie had to say about her work. On the other hand, the counter influence of those not actual art students kept Nannie from narrowing her prejudices down to a stereotyped form of criticism, and she was not less amused than Theo and Val at the wholesale way in which some of her fellow-students condemned the work at the exhibitions.

"I think," said Theo, one day, as she and Nannie were returning from looking at some pictures, "that it is the funniest thing in the world to stand behind a group of art students; they are the most 'knowledgable' creatures I ever came across. Such unsparing condemnation I never heard, and their little set patter is so absurd."

"Don't be too hard on us," laughed Nannie.

"Oh, I don't mean you," returned Theo; "you have more sense than to say no artist can paint except the one you specially affect. Why, I heard one girl say, 'Dagnan-Bouveret can't paint,' and another declared, 'Bouguereau is no artist,' while a third criticised, in the loudest voice, the composition of one of Jules Breton's pictures; as for Meissonier and Gérome, they had no chance at all."

"Well," said Nannie, "that is because we should prefer to paint differently, ourselves."

Theo laughed mirthfully. "Take care, Nan, that savors of the clique."

"Well, I mean," expostulated Nannie, "that for my own part, I should rather paint like Zorn and Cazin and our own Sargent than like Bouguereau or Gérome."

"I like their work best, too," replied Theo; "but why say a man is no artist who is recognized as such by the best judges in the world?"

"It does sound rather conceited, I must confess," returned Nannie.

"Worse than that: I think it sounds pitifully ignorant."

"We are all looking for truth," responded Nannie; "and if the present school can see more color or more breadth of treatment, why may not that be a step beyond? But as for drawing, I am afraid many of us are very shallow there, and ought to look with utter humility upon the splendid knowledge which the older artists have shown in that direction."

"Now that sounds more like my honest Nan."

"The fact is, Theo," continued Nannie, "that there are extremes at first in any new methods; and we are extreme, perhaps, now. I don't agree with those cavilling girls. I must say, most of them do wretched work, and the worse their work, the louder they are in their censure of others. It is usually when they have only begun to study that they are so vociferous. A little knowledge proves itself a dangerous thing in their cases, for it only makes them ridiculous; and the poor things don't know it. However, they are not the only ones who flaunt their ignorance. I knew of a picture painted by a celebrated artist, no longer living; it was sent to a loan exhibition by a friend of mine,—a delightful picture it was, too,—but the chairman of the committee, in a fit of bombastic arrogance, refused it, because, forsooth, it was not cleaned and varnished. The tone was delicious: an idiot like that pretending to dictate! Oh, the Philistine!"

Theo laughed at Nannie's indignation. "You're great fun, Nan, when you get off on one of these harangues. Go on."

"You have dashed my inspiration," returned Nannie. "I forget what I was going to say next. Oh, yes, only this, that Hunt says it is much easier to condemn than to praise; it takes very little knowledge to pick flaws, but a great deal to commend judiciously."

"Good!" exclaimed Theo. "I like that. It is just what I should like to have said myself. Oh, Nan, weren't you amused at Val's school friend, Nettie Wayne, when you asked her to sit for you?"

Nannie smiled.

"She looked so conscious," continued Theo. "Why did you ask her? She isn't a bit pretty."

"No," answered Nannie; "but she has a certain paintable quality. I can hardly explain, but we have had very ugly models sometimes that were interesting in the extreme. We don't always ask people to sit for us because we think they are handsome, but they nearly always think that is it."

"I might have thought so myself, if you hadn't taught me better. We are lots of help to each other in more ways than one, Nan."

"Yes; but I am afraid we are all so content with one another that it makes us selfish about outsiders. I actually am getting to hate to see a stranger come into the studio."

"I don't wonder. Think of last Saturday, when Mrs. Ashton called. She hasn't a bit of mental property to exchange, but she thinks artists and such people are so amusing, and she wants to be amused; so she wastes your time by the hour. I was so provoked, for I knew your poor flowers would fade, and I knew you couldn't half attend to your painting with such a rasp at your elbow."

"A rasp at my elbow!" laughed Nannie. "What a figure of speech, Theo. Yes, I know she is a bore. I am always reminded of the drones in a hive when I meet such people. I do need all my time for my work, and to have some one come in and say, 'I'll not detain you a minute, I know you are busy; I just wanted to see what you were doing, it is so interesting.' And then they stay and stay, and you are fidgety, and the daylight is going, and you wish you were a bee and could sting them out of the hive. I feel actually vicious sometimes. It is a great strain on one's powers of endurance. Oh, Theo, I wonder if it is ourselves or they who are selfish?"

"Both, maybe," replied Theo.

"Well, girlies!" was Miss Nelson's greeting as they entered the room together. "We have been waiting for you. Val is full of a scheme, and I could hardly restrain her from going out to find you."

"Girls! Girls!" called Val from the next room. "Wait."

"We are waiting," responded Theo. "What did you think we were going to do?"

"I didn't know," answered Val, making her appearance; "you might be going to do most anything. Girls, I have found the dearest old lady to take our French class. She has white hair, and is so fat and so funny, and is so sentimental and ridiculous; no, I don't mean ridiculous, but she is so funny. I met her at Nettie Wayne's to-day. She came to inquire about possible pupils, and I told her to come here. If you girls and Archie and Jack would join, it would be quite a little class, and we could meet her. Don't you think it is just what we want?"

"Exactly," agreed Theo. "We will dilate upon the subject this evening when the boys come. And, auntie, you will be one of us, won't you?"

Miss Nelson shook her head. "I think not," she replied. "I have expended all my superfluous brain matter upon my Dante class, and cannot take up anything now. I am not going to fritter away my time with chits of girls."

"Now, auntie!" in a chorus.

"Auntie doesn't need to, she means," explained Theo. "She reads French perfectly now, and it would only be tiresome to her; but we shall have her to help us along, and that will be fine."

"Madame Ribeau is coming to see auntie," Val informed them; "though I know all about her from the Waynes."

The boys consenting to give certain hours during the week, the French class was formed without delay, and, as Miss Janet's engagements took her away on Friday, it was arranged that the young people should make that their lesson day, and great fun they had out of it.

In lieu of a blackboard, the back of a wardrobe, standing in one corner of the studio, was used, the boys laboriously turning it around each week, and to this very day, one may possibly see the remains of "J'aime, Tu aime, Il aime," chalked upon the wooden surface.

Archie's ingenuity knew no bounds, and with Val as an able abettor, some absurdity was introduced into each lesson, to the great delight of Madame Ribeau, who was entertained beyond measure by her lively pupils, and gave them an interest and affection she gave no others, for the boys were courteously attentive to her, and the girls generously interested in her pleasure.

"What is our fable to-day?" whispered Archie to Val, one afternoon.

"Don't you remember?" returned Val. "Une tortue lasse d'être toujours enfermée."

"Oh, yes," replied Archie, "I recollect," and, giving her a significant nod, he left the room.

"Ou est Monsieur Archie?" asked Madame, looking around before commencing the lesson. "And Mademoiselle Val, she has too departed, for why?" and Madame looked inquiringly at the others, who shook their heads.

"We do not know, Madame."

"Ah, it is nothing," said Madame, foreseeing some diversion; "we will proceed with the lesson. Vous, Mademoiselle Theo, commencez. Une tortue—"

"Une tortue lasse d'être toujours enfermée dans son écaille," read Theo, when the door opened, and in walked Val and Archie, bearing between them a stick, the ends of which were held between their teeth; from the middle dangled a marvellous presentment of a turtle, composed of a small pin-cushion with appended legs and head of paper. The two advanced into the middle of the room, and with all gravity stood before Madame.

"Ciel!" cried she, throwing up her hands. "Quel Niais! Comme le tortue est drôle," and she laughed till the tears ran down her fat cheeks.

At another time, when the fable was "Un navire charge d'un grand nombre des singes, etc.," Archie launched from some unperceived spot a boat-load of absurd little sponge monkeys.

But Madame was clever enough to turn the little episode into an object lesson for them all, and drilled them upon the different parts of a ship, till Jack declared himself ready to man a French cruiser.

But into the happy little company crept at last an intruder whose presence finally drove away Jack Allen, and who gave uneasiness in more or less measure to them all.

Theo announced, one day, that she had met an old acquaintance, Felix Parkhurst. "You remember him, Val?" she said.

Val nodded. "Of course I do; the young man with the sleepy eyes and the lazy way of talking. You rather liked him, didn't you? Oh, yes," as Nannie looked around, "I remember all about it now. Why, Nan, he is your cousin—and—" but Val stopped.

"He is my cousin," replied Nannie. "I wasn't laughing at that. I was laughing at the tender way my aunt referred to him in her conversation with Theo after she had discovered Theo had inherited Preston."

"Now, Theo, don't blush," laughed Val.

"I didn't let Felix know of my being here," continued Nannie, "because I knew he would be drifting in here any hour of the day and taking up our time; he has nothing on earth to do. I despise a useless man."

"Oh, and I told him where we were; I never thought," and Theo gave the information with some misgivings. "It never occurred to me, Nan, but what you would like to see him."

"I don't object to seeing him; he isn't a bad fellow," admitted Nan; "he is simply useless and uninteresting. Don't you think so?" and she turned suddenly to Theo.

Theo looked down. "I don't know;" she gave the answer hesitatingly. "I think maybe there is more in him than you imagine, Nan; anyhow, he is coming to see us."

"To see you, you mean," Val specified, teasingly.

Theo drew herself up to her full height, and looked down haughtily at the little figure nestling among the cushions of the divan.

"Don't, Theo, don't," expostulated Val, laughing saucily; "you appropriate all the pride of your ancestors when you put on that look. I'll tell you one thing,—Archie won't like him; neither will Jack."

"As if I cared," returned Theo, turning her back to her cousin.

And then Val formed a scheme in her mischievous little head, not meaning to do much harm. But, being rather a thoughtless little mortal, she loved her cousin absorbingly; but she could not resist following out a plan which she meant should benefit her, and which, perhaps, really did in the end, although the means employed were not praiseworthy.

The very next day Felix Parkhurst presented himself. He was a gentle-mannered young man, but, as Nannie said, "he was born weary;" and his little languid air amused her, though she felt a contempt for it. Theo, however, was rather impressed by it.

Theo was a girl of strong sentiment, but she was too young to distinguish between real feeling and a certain sentimentalism which young people are apt to esteem highly.

From the first, Felix Parkhurst attached himself to the girl, who was so sweetly sympathetic, and who told herself she felt "so sorry for him."

"It is not a happy existence I lead; there is nothing worth living for," he said once, lifting his head and looking gloomily at the girl.

Theo opened her eyes. "Oh, don't say that; there is so much to live for; it is a beautiful world."

"To some," replied Mr. Felix. And then he dropped a few romantic phrases about his lonely heart, about his being misunderstood, about the emptiness of all his pursuits, all of which Theo repeated in innocent confidence to Nannie.

"Why doesn't he go to work?" said Nannie, bluntly, standing off from her easel and viewing her canvas with half-closed eyes.

"Oh, Nan," answered Theo; "his father does not encourage him to do the things he likes, and he has no heart for mercantile life."

"What would he like to do?" asked Nan, stepping forward with loaded brush, and putting a dab of paint on her canvas.

"Oh, he would like to be a writer, or something of that sort."

Nannie again stepped back, viewing her work critically, but made no immediate reply. But presently, she turned and looked at Theo. "You goose!" was all she said.

Finding Nannie entirely unsympathetic, Theo gave no more confidences, but brooded over the matter in silence, gaining interest in Felix as she did so.

Theo had heretofore shown such a lofty disdain of any possible lover that it never occurred to Miss Janet that hers was anything more than the same friendly interest the girl had shown in Gilbert Rogers or other friends of her brother's. She could not guess that the dear child was weaving her first romance out of such very unsubstantial stuff.

Nannie gave a superb scorn to it; that any one could really fall in love with Felix seemed impossible to her. Archie saw nothing; for Theo, like the true woman she was, would rather have died than have confessed her liking to any one, even to her beloved Archie.

But little Val was wiser than any, and here came in her plan of operation. Felix's entrance into the French class was Val's signal for a series of coquetries which surprised Theo, amused Archie and Nannie, and flattered Felix. Only Jack sensitively felt the reflex of Theo's every emotion, saw her grow pale and red by turns, saw her charming, unconsciously gracious manner change to a disturbed silence, saw furtive, miserable glances cast at Val, whose little bewitching ways would have attracted a much less susceptible heart than that of Felix, who, however, possessed no real sentiment, knowing only a sort of surface sentimentality which pleased itself with romantic phrases and a theatrical display of emotion. While Theo counted his triflings as coming from his heart, Val recognized them at their counterfeit worth, and played with them accordingly, believing that she was doing Theo a real kindness.

Not so, poor Theo. Feeling that Nannie had no sympathy with her fancy, that auntie was blind to it, and that Val was determinedly putting a barrier between confidences by her apparent usurping of Theo's place, the girl was very miserable; the more so that difficulties having arisen made the object of her fancy the more attractive by reason of there appearing a possible loss.

"What is the matter with Theo?" asked Miss Janet. "She looks so dejected and pale; she says she is well, so she must be worrying over something. It cannot be Jack's affairs, do you think, Val? I sometimes wonder if Theo is not more interested in him than she is willing to confess."

Val laughed, a little wickedly.

"Does it seem so amusing?" inquired auntie.

Val came up and put her arms around her. "You dear blind auntie, I am not going to tell you, if you cannot see for yourself. Theo care for Jack! Not a bit of it."

Miss Nelson turned around and took the girl's face between her hands. "What are you up to, Val?" she asked, as Val's eyes shot out a mischievous glance.

"I wonder if I ought to tell you," said Val, settling herself at auntie's feet. "Yes, I will; you ought to know everything about us, auntie dear, for you always know how to get the right out of anything. My opinion is, that Theo is sort of, kind of interested in Felix, and I am doing my best to cut her out," and with this audacious speech, Val looked up, but looked down again very quickly as she encountered Miss Nelson's grave face.

"If that is so," said auntie, "you are doing a very wicked thing."

"Oh, auntie!"

"Yes, dear child; perhaps you do not mean to. I do not know your motive."

"Why, oh, auntie," put in Val, hastily, "I am doing it all for Theo. He is so unworthy of her; and if he didn't flirt with me, he would with her. He says the same things to us both, I know he does: he is that kind, and he doesn't mean a word of it; but Theo is so earnest, she doesn't see it at all, and in time, she might like him too much. Mind, I don't say she does, but she idealizes him, and he makes her think she is a comfort and a help to him, as if he needed either. He has everything in the world to make him happy; he is only 'blasé' and discontented, and Theo calls it sensitiveness, and all that."

"Who made you so worldly-wise, little girl?"

"I don't know; it is because I love Theo, I suppose, that I see it. Jack—" Then Val paused.

"What about Jack?"

"Nothing—only—Jack sees it, too. I am sure that is why he is going to give up the French class; he says it is because he cannot spare a whole afternoon from the office. Oh, dear! It is a muddle. Auntie dear, help me," and Val looked up so appealingly that auntie had to bend and kiss her.

"My darling, you are all wrong, I am afraid. It is true that if Felix Parkhurst has a shallow nature, he would make Theo very miserable. She is too fine and earnest herself, but you, no doubt, are only adding fuel to the flames. To make her jealous is not only the surest way to help on the matter, but it is disloyal. Suppose we say that Theo had something which she valued very much, perhaps only a little bird with a harsh note, but which had learned to eat from her hand, and sing its meaningless little song to her, and suppose you should coax it from her, and at last appropriate it entirely, saying 'Theo shall not have it; that is not a song it sings.'"

Val was listening attentively.

"I should say, better let her find out that there is no music there, and she will set it free of her own accord; but you have no right to steal it."

"Steal it!"

"Yes, dear; it is nothing more nor less than robbery, and unworthy of the really noble, loving heart I know yours to be."

The tears were in Val's eyes, and she took Miss Janet's hand, laying her cheek against it, then sighed.

"Auntie, the top of your ladder is so near the sky, I am afraid it is beyond poor humanity to reach it. I don't believe any one looks at things quite so loftily; at least, I know lots of girls who have done, and still do, and intend to keep on doing, as I have done from a very different motive."

"Even so; it does not follow that it is right. Poor humanity, indeed! Where would it be if anything less than the highest moral life were our goal? When we have that before us, if we still stumble and err so constantly, what could we hope for with less high aims?"

"Where is Theo?" asked Val, presently.

"In her room, I think."

"And Nannie has not come in yet?"

"Not yet."

In another moment, Val was at Theo's door. She knocked timidly, and then turned the knob and entered.

Theo had evidently just sprung to her feet from the bed where she had been lying; there was the imprint of her head on the pillow, and her eyes were red with crying.

Val sprang towards her. "Oh, darling, darling!" she cried. "I am a mean, wicked girl, but I didn't mean to be," and she poured forth her tale in Theo's ears.

"And he has talked that way to you?" said Theo, as Val concluded her recital.

"Yes," softly replied Val.

There were two burning spots in Theo's cheeks. She put out her hand and held Val's tightly.

"Thank you," she said.

Val's arm stole around her. "Don't you hate me?" she whispered.

"I was so disappointed in you," was Theo's low reply; "it hurt me so to feel that you were not true, Val. I felt as if I couldn't believe in friendship at all, if I couldn't trust yours."

From that time Val's coquetries with Felix Parkhurst ceased. And Theo's manner towards him, though slightly haughty, was as graciously polite as ever.

"Theo is really grown up," said Archie to his aunt, as he watched his sister at an evening gathering.

She was, indeed, across the threshold.

CHAPTER V.

JACK'S SEND-OFF.

IT took some time for Theo's eyes to be entirely opened; it was hard for her to give up her ideals, and she reproached herself with an inconstancy which she decried. It is often so with imaginative natures. While heretofore she had always confided in her aunt, Theo now felt it impossible to share her secret with any one.

The nearest approach to a confidence, strange to say, was in a conversation with Mr. Smith, whose feeling for Theo was very deep. He had watched her pass through her first trials, had learned to value the pure womanly nature which scorned artifice of any kind, and with his natural astuteness, he guessed that she was in danger of bestowing her affections where he dreaded their falling. He knew we are apt to judge persons from the stand-points of our own compositions, not realizing that they who are differently temperamented must act and feel differently. And so he believed that Theo was in danger of clothing her ideal in Felix Parkhurst's form, imagining he possessed the qualities she most admired. And he saw that Felix was clever enough to make her believe that he answered to her ideal, when all which was responsive in him was only surface deep; he was a mere trifler with the true and beautiful, a seeker of new emotions, and only a lover of himself. Young men of this type were most heartily despised by Mr. Smith.

"He hasn't a bit of force," was his criticism; "he is as weak as dishwater, conceited jackanapes!" he exclaimed.

This was in answer to Val's question of "What do you think of Felix Parkhurst, Colonel?"

Mr. Smith was standing in the studio, looking at one of Nannie's studies. He was waiting for Theo to go out to drive with him; and Val had been teasing him in her usual saucy way.

"I don't see why you don't take me?" she said, hanging on his arm. "You always ask Theo," she continued, pouting.

"Would you rather I asked you?" inquired he, sharply.

Val laughed. "You thought you would catch me, Colonel, but I am not to be taken in that way, for I don't want to go a bit. I have an engagement, if you please, good sir. You aren't near as snappish as you used to be," she added, going off and regarding him meditatively. "I don't know what would have become of you if papa had not asked to have you appointed my guardian. You would eventually have become like some of these new war explosives: one couldn't come within miles of you without being blown up," and, making an elaborate courtesy, she left the room just as Theo entered.

"I am not going to have you lose your bloom in this city air," was the Colonel's greeting.

Theo smiled, but rather wearily. "I remember you brought it back once before," she replied; "you always do me good, Mr. Smith. I think you are a wholesome tonic. I am in a doubting mood to-day; if you can find me some faith in myself on our way, I shall come home in much better spirits."

Mr. Smith made no reply just then, and they were fairly on their way, when he suddenly turned and said,—

"Don't doubt yourself because you haven't found your ideal. Take an old man's advice, Theo. I've been through the mill, and I cannot have you beginning to be bitter at your age."

"But I must be such a weakling, such a dreamer," returned Theo.

"No, child; it is like searching for truth. One may make many mistakes, but the endeavor is none the less true, nor is truth the less when it is found. It is not your limit, my girl, nor are you any the less constant to love as love."

"How did you know?" said Theo, softly, after a pause.

The Colonel turned, and saw that her eyes were cast down to hide the tears falling from them; for answer, he only whipped up his horse and changed the subject. But Theo felt that among her friends none read her heart so well or gave her closer sympathy than the gruff old Colonel.

During this period of Theo's self-abasement, nothing tended to restore her to a better state of mind than Jack's little unassuming attentions, although she did not realize what he was doing for her, so delicately did he offer comfort. A bunch of violets, a bright book, a turn of the talk from morbid subjects to something actively interesting, suggestions of all sorts to Miss Nelson for taking Theo out of herself, suggestions which auntie was wise enough to offer without accounting for the source.

One evening, Jack came in with something cuddled up under his overcoat. Theo was in the studio with her aunt.

"I have brought a suppliant for your favor," announced he, still holding his coat over the little creature he concealed.

Theo came nearer. "Oh, what is it, Jack? Let me see."

"Can you harbor a homeless waif?"

"That depends," remarked Miss Nelson.

"Is it a kitten?" inquired Theo, curiously.

Jack shook his head. "No; I wouldn't dream of bringing any one to share his majesty Lord Ishmael's reign. 'This is another story.' As I was coming up the street, a few days ago, I saw a little lost dog, which, when I spoke to him, followed me so persistently that he must have imagined I was his master. I took him home, not knowing what else to do, but I couldn't keep him long,—for I am going away in a short time,—and though Archie, dear old man, would be glad to see to him, the little chap would be lonely if left to himself all day. I have advertised, but no answer has come, and I haven't the heart to turn him loose," and Jack turned back his coat, displaying a little Yorkshire terrier, whose bright eyes looked out from under his scraggy hair.

"The darling!" exclaimed Theo, and down bounced doggie, running to her, wagging his stump of a tail, and putting suppliant paws on her lap. "You dear little fellow," giving utterance to the caressing words as she picked him up. "Oh, auntie!" appealing to Miss Janet. "We may keep him, mayn't we? We can as well as not."

Jack gave Miss Janet a quick glance.

"Will you be responsible for him?" she asked.

"Of course I will," vouched Theo. "I will see that he has plenty to eat, and will take him out airing every day; won't I, doggie? What do you call him, Jack?"

"Rags!" replied he.

"That just suits him," and Theo hugged up the little creature, showing such a lively interest in him that Jack was entirely satisfied with his policy in bringing him.

"You are going away?" said Miss Nelson, turning to Jack. "You will not be gone long, I hope."

"I don't know," he answered. "I may never come back: I cannot tell."

"Oh!" cried Theo, contritely. "And I never noticed what you said. I was so taken up with Rags. You really are not going, Jack?"

Jack set his lips firmly and looked at the girl regarding him with friendly eyes. "Yes," he said. "I have not spoken of it before, even to Arch. I only told him to-day. I have nothing in the world, Theo, but my own energy to depend upon. I am not rich any longer. My uncle has absorbed everything; he has failed, after making over everything to his wife."

"Oh, you poor boy!" exclaimed Theo, with real concern. "Tell us all about it," and she left her place to go to his side.

"There is nothing to tell," replied Jack, simply; "that is all. My uncle married, I think, with this end in view; he had put all my money in the business. I could not get it out, and he has failed for a million, at least; so I must go to work."

"But you have been working," asserted Miss Nelson; "you have never been an idler, Jack. Tell us your plans. I am just beginning to take in all you have said. It will be hard to lose one of my boys; and Archie—how he will miss you."

"I am going south," Jack told them; "there is a chance for me there; and when I make my fortune, I will come back," and he gave a smile full of sweetness and courage to Theo.

"We shall all miss you dreadfully," she assured him. "Oh, Jack, we shall indeed," as she suddenly remembered all his little thoughtful ways, his never-failing readiness to be of use to one and all, and her eyes filled. "It was cruel of your uncle."

"Never mind; it will be all right," he said, consolingly. "Don't mind, Theo: it will make a man of me, maybe," he added. "No doubt, it's just as well."

Miss Nelson understood, if Theo didn't; for she knew how hard it was for him to give them all up, Theo especially; and that nothing less than absolute compulsion could give him the courage to renounce the companionship so dear to him.

"I shall keep you well posted, young man," said Miss Janet, "as to all that concerns us, for I do not mean to have you give us up at all. And Archie, of course, will hear from you very often, so it is not an entire separation. When must you leave us?"

"About the first of the month; there is time for any number of farewells. Don't bother, Miss Nelson; it's all right, you know. I don't mind it much."

But auntie knew he did mind, auntie and Archie. Theo felt a little indignant that he should assume such indifference, and Nannie was genuinely sorry to have him go; Archie was inconsolable, and Val was loud in her lamentations and continually bewailed Jack's hard lot. She finally told Theo it was all her fault, and heaped such reproaches upon her that poor Theo began almost to believe that she had been party to an iniquitous proceeding.

The evening before Jack's departure, they agreed to have, as Archie said, "one glorious, old, idiotic time;" and the preparations for this somewhat modified the sharpness of the loss of their comrade.

By this time, Rags had a new sobriquet, it having been arrived at by a series of expressions, through Theo's endeavor to teach him the trick of sitting up on his hind legs and crossing his forepaws.

"Poor thing, cross his legs," in a coaxing tone, became "poor 'sing, c'oss he legs," then "po''sing, c'oss he," and finally "Posie-Cossie," and "Posie-Cossie" every one called him.

He was a most intelligent, sensitive, affectionate little fellow, and developed as many peculiar tastes as did Theo's cat, Ishmael.

The evening's jollifications were ushered in by a candy party, and great was the variety the girls managed to manufacture.

"Don't they look good?" said Val, as she daintily nibbled a cream chocolate. "I think these are the best. We will put them aside where it is cool, and eat some of those ragged-looking things first. Jack likes chocolate, and this is his send-off," and she took the buttered sheet of paper carefully into another room.

"I like the nutty ones best," declared Theo, "and so does Archie; so we will save a lot of those, too." And these were set aside with the chocolates.

But an hour later, when Theo went to get them, not one of the chocolates was left, and only a few of the nutty ones.

"Val, Val," she called, "where have you put the chocolates?"

"Why, in there," responded Val, pausing in her occupation of laying a table for a reception of the feast.

"They're not here."

"Not there!" And Val appeared at the door, then approached nearer to examine the place. She looked around, above and below, and, finally, discovered the paper on the floor. "I know!" she exclaimed. "Posie-Cossie has taken them. Where is he?"

Theo called him, and presently, with a very wagging tail and an exceedingly cordial manner, the little dog appeared from under the bed; but he approached slowly and with much fawning.

"Posie-Cossie," said Theo, in a severe tone, "who took the chocolates?"

Immediately Posie-Cossie fell over on his back and held up deprecating paws, while his tail from wagging kept up a slight wiggle, as if he meant to assure them that, no matter what their feelings towards him, he was entirely amiably disposed.

"You're a bad, naughty dog!" scolded Theo. "Poor Jack, to think it should be his favorite candy, too. It is a mean shame."

Posie-Cossie was plunged into utter misery by the continued reproaches, and Theo concluded he was punished enough when she refused to respond to his blandishments; for he was, by this time, trying to jump up and lick her hand. But when, failing of all other resources, he went off in the corner abjectly and crossed his paws, in the most approved manner, Theo had to laugh, and that ended the scolding.

With Miss Nelson and Mr. Smith as audience, Theo, Val, Nannie, Archie, and Jack as performers, the evening's entertainment began.

"I'm not going to be in it at all," decided Jack. "I think it is more fun to look on. Or, I'll tell you: give me my acts first, and let me join the audience."

"Oh, no," remonstrated Archie; "you're up to it, Jack. Come, join the gang."

"No," said the girls; "that isn't fair, Archie. We are all audience, you know, for each one enjoys the others' performances, and we can look on when we are not performing. Jack shall do just as he pleases; it is his last evening, and this is in his honor, so don't cross him."

"Don't cross him!" repeated Archie. "One would suppose he was a toddling infant just recovering from the whooping-cough."

"He is anything but an infant," retorted Val, smiling up into Jack's face, at such a height above her. "I declare, Jack, you are so nice and big, I could almost fall in love with you; it is a pity you are going away. Why didn't I think of it sooner?" And Val laughed saucily at Archie as he gave her a disappointing look. "Don't look upon me with such 'spurn,'" she besought him. "Jack doesn't care. Do you, Jack?"

"Not in the least," he assured her. "I know your capabilities, and am not afraid of what you can do."

"What a very subtle and obscure speech," remarked Val to Nannie. "What does he mean? That I am not capable of falling in love, or that he is proof against me?"

"Here, here," ordered Archie, "stop fooling. It is time we were getting into our rigs. You and Nannie come after Jack, Val, and you haven't begun to get ready. Hurry up now, while we go to our green-room and prepare."

"Don't forget you're to do the announcing," called Val after him.

Jack had precipitately fled before this, and was ready to return as Lamio the great snake-charmer. How he contrived to manipulate his paper snakes was a mystery to all; but they certainly did crawl out of a basket, coil themselves up at his bidding, dance, fight, and do so many strange things that one really doubted if they were not alive.

"I believe he has hypnotized us," said Nannie, "for I certainly never saw anything so uncanny. Oh, Theo!" For one of the snakes was slowly winding its way along towards them, but crept back at Nannie's exclamation.

"Doesn't he look handsome?" whispered Val. "Where did he get his turban?"

"My scrap-basket," informed Theo. "I wound it with a white mull scarf I had, and his costume is just odds and ends; but he does look well in it."

"These snakes," Jack's voice broke in, "are very dangerous and venomous. They are found in the wilds of Africa. Their names are Beard of the Prophet, Pride of the Desert, Plains of South Africa, and Brother of Princes. Here, Beard of the Prophet, you are getting sleepy; wake up," and the creature jumped from its coiled position. "The natives," continued Jack, "hunt them with tigers by watching for their footprints in the sands."

After this astounding statement, he paused for inspiration; then he went on. "They are very similar to the boa-constrictor, and their habits are much the same; only their habits are smaller," he added, gravely, much to the amusement of Val, who burst into such a peal of laughter as disconcerted Lamio, and he was not long in bringing his exhibition to a close.

Before long, Val and Nannie sent word that they were ready, and Archie announced to the audience "the first appearance on any stage of the infant prodigy, Baby Le Moyne," and Val, led by Nannie, came in. The latter's appearance, however, created such mirth—for Theo and Jack had joined the others till they should be called upon to appear—that the infant prodigy had no chance at first. Nannie was stuffed out to large proportions, her nose was held up by a thread of silk cunningly fastened to her hair, and her costume was strikingly unique, while her brogue was richness itself. Val carried a doll, and looked so like a little baby that it was impossible to believe her eighteen years old. Her voice, too, was pitched to exactness, and as she sang a little song and repeated a little poem, she was perfect, and retired amid great applause.

Then Theo appeared as Miss Argosa, a freak with three eyes,—the third one of glass, in the middle of her forehead,—upon which an eyebrow and eyelashes had been most artistically painted by Nannie. Miss Argosa professed to be able to see more than any one else; and Archie pretended to hide articles, but in the most obvious places, which Theo discovered immediately, of course.

Archie next bounded upon the scene in an astounding acrobatic costume, devised from some of Nannie's draperies. And he went through such performances as standing on his head, turning somersaults and handsprings, walking on his hands, till his agility evoked much applause.

Theo, as a professional singer, came out and sang a popular song in most approved concert style, receiving a market-basket of paper flowers.

Nannie painted a picture to music. She was dressed in the most fantastic garb, with a false nose and flowing ringlets, a scarf with fluttering ends about her shoulders. But her wax nose-fell off, and created such merriment that she couldn't get it back again, and was obliged to finish her sketch "with her own nose," as Val remarked.

Then Jack sang a rollicking song. But being encored vociferously, he began a ballad.

"The busy tide of time flows on

And bears our lives unto the main;

And you are there, but I am gone,

And we shall meet no more again,—"

the rich voice rang out, and into it crept such a pathos that presently Val was crying unmistakably. The tears were standing in Miss Nelson's eyes, and Nannie was shading her face with her hand.

Theo rebelliously bit her lip, and Archie cried out, "Let up, Jack; we can't stand that."

And Jack looked around to see them so sobered and saddened that he broke into the Toreador Song from Carmen, and in a few moments, the mood had changed.

Archie, meantime, had dressed up Posie-Cossie, and, bringing him in, tried to make him perform some tricks.

Then followed an Indian dance, the costumes bringing into requisition all the rugs, a striped Italian blanket, a pair of striped "portières," and such like articles, while a quantity of monkey-fur served for hair in the case of Archie, and Jack being surmounted by small feather-dusters. An absurdly solemn dance it was, and, when exhausted with the whirling, one after another stopped, and at last, the performance was declared at an end.

"We had a good time, didn't we?" said Val. "Wasn't it funny, Colonel? Did you ever laugh more?"

"I never in my life laughed more," declared Mr. Smith. "I don't see how you children manage to be so intensely amusing," which was a great compliment for the Colonel, who seldom praised, and the performers were correspondingly grateful.

"Posie-Cossie ate up all the chocolates," announced Nannie; "so, Jack, we will have to select some other 'dainty dish to set before a king.'"

"Never mind," replied Jack; "the display is tempting enough without them. I'll take a nutlet. I'm not much of a candy fiend, and you have enough left to supply an army."

"You will make yourselves ill, children," warned Miss Nelson; "do eat something besides sweets. How do they manage to do it?" she said to Mr. Smith.

"Try a bon-bon, Colonel," said Val, persuasively.

"Not for the world," he replied, with a wry face; "but you may give me some of that salad: it looks passable."

"Passable!" was Val's indignant response. "It is equal to Delmonico's. Theo and I made it, drop by drop, just as the recipe says."

"A remarkable way," concluded Mr. Smith, smiling. "It isn't bad," pronounced he, "but you might improve it."

"I wonder if we left out anything," said Val, in an aside to Theo.

"No," she replied, "of course we didn't; he is only teasing."

"Time is flying," Jack proclaimed. "I must be off."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Val. "Jack, I just hate to say good-by. Please come back soon. You are so like the rest of us, it is a shame to lose you out of the crowd. You are so appreciative of our own special form of wit, and are so responsive."

"You are giving him a fine load to carry away with him, Val," said Archie; "he will not be able to travel with all those compliments."

"Never mind," retorted she. "Jack has strength enough to carry them; now you—"

"Stop, stop; no personalities," interrupted Jack. "Really, it is high time we were going, for I must put some things in my trunk to-night, and, do you know, it is to-morrow already. Midnight, actually," and he began his adieux, to Miss Nelson first, to Theo last.

For a moment he stood in the doorway, his eyes resting on the girl whose face showed a lingering regret as he turned away. Then he darted back again, and caught her hand in both his.

"God bless you!" he said, huskily; then, without another word, he was gone, and Archie followed.

"There goes one of the truest, noblest men I know," said Mr. Smith, breaking in upon the silence which had fallen upon the group.

"Who?" asked Theo, flippantly, to hide some real emotion. "Archie?"

"No, Miss," returned Mr. Smith, taking up his hat; "Jack Allen."

CHAPTER VI.

A PRIVATE VIEW.

AFTER Jack left, "the flock," as they were called by Mr. Smith, settled down quietly. Each turned to the work at hand, and, though Jack was sadly missed, the winter months flew by very rapidly and, on the whole, happily. Miss Nelson, whose opportunities for lectures and concerts had never been very great, now was able to indulge herself in many directions hitherto denied her. Theo worked away resolutely at her music, her voice losing none of its sweetness by good training. Perhaps nothing could have given her more comfort at this time than her power to sing. Val, whose chief charm had always been her little engaging ways, was now adding to them some of Theo's graciousness. She was also gaining a thoughtfulness and an appreciative spirit which heretofore had been somewhat lacking.

Archie spoke out one day, when Miss Nelson had completed some little service for which Val expressed her thanks,—

"You are getting to be an awfully nice girl, Val," he exclaimed.

Val blushed, then retorted, "As if I were not always an awfully nice girl."

"Well, so you were, compared to some; but you used to take everything as a matter of course. Miss Le Moyne used to come first, and now she doesn't. You used to accept anything done for you as if it were your right."

"I was a little spoiled, I believe," replied Val. "I did use to think just that way, Archie, but now I see that no favor, no kindness is too small to appreciate; and not only that, but to appreciate by expressing thanks for it. That is auntie's teaching and Theo's example, and it is due to one of our teachers, too, a little. It is awfully good of you to say I have improved."

"Humph!" responded Archie. "I might take a few lessons myself. I've been pretty mean to you sometimes, Val, but I believe I tried to take you down a peg or two, so I didn't praise you too much."

"I shouldn't think you did," and Val laughed. "Miss Butler didn't either, till she thought I deserved a little encouragement. She told us one day of her grandmother, who was one of the most lovable old ladies in the world. We were all saying what we most dreaded, and one of the girls said she dreaded old age more than anything. Then Miss Butler gave us these little maxims of her grandmother's," and Val drew a little note-book from her pocket. "Do you want to hear them?" she asked.

"Certainly; 'what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.' Fire away!"

And Val read,—

"'She who feeds upon admiration may one day starve upon neglect.'

"'She who worships self, worships at an empty shrine.'

"'She who sees no beauty save in her mirror will not have much to admire in the evening of life.'

"'She who in youth seeks nothing but pleasure will find old age a dreary time.'

"For she read he," said Val, in conclusion, putting back the book into her pocket.

"They're pretty good," said Archie, thoughtfully. "What do you most dread, Val?"

"Oh, being shut up in a place where I can't stand upright," she replied; "that is my horror. One of the girls said she dreaded obscurity,—it is funny how the characteristics of each one came out that day,—and we all smiled, for she is so exactly that way, and is always saying she is so very proud. But it isn't real pride at all: it is a love of importance. She would rather be important than happy."

"What an occult way of putting it," remarked Archie. "Just what do you mean?"

"I mean that she loves adulation. She enjoys the sweet taste of praise. She would rather wear herself out for the sake of a word of praise than be at peace without it. Oh, Archie, we do have larks sometimes; there are some such witty girls at this school. Not long ago, we had great trouble in keeping any soap in the lavatory. The girls would take it out and forget to return it, till one of the girls put up on the door, 'Who enters here, leave soap behind.' And it struck every one's sense of humor, so that we have had no trouble since."

"Shall you only go this year?"

"I don't know. I sometimes think I should like to go to college, if you all were to be near me. I like auntie's idea of a woman's taking up certain studies, even if she makes no practical use of them. Auntie thinks women need breadth of mind and concentration, and for that reason should study mathematics and science. She thinks we allow ourselves to be drawn away by little details too much, and do not see things in a large way. But I don't want to go away off by myself."

"Are you afraid of getting into mischief?" asked Archie, teasingly.

"No," replied Val, scornfully. "I used to get into mischief and do indiscreet things, but I hope I have more respect for myself now. If I do not go to college, we can study at home, Theo and I; there are plenty of studies we could keep up without masters."

"Do you remember the summer we tried to study literature?" said Archie to Theo, who had just come in.

"Yes," answered Theo, smiling. "Archie was so funny, Val; he used to ask the most ridiculous questions. I remember once, when Hawthorne was our subject, and auntie said, 'And then they went to live at the old Manse,' that Archie burst out with, 'He couldn't have had much pride, auntie. Why did he go to live at the old man's? Couldn't he support his wife?' How auntie did laugh!"

"You didn't know any better yourself," retorted Archie, "till auntie told us what the old Manse was. I was a very little chap, anyhow, only about ten or twelve."

"Where is Nan?" asked Val.

"She has gone to see one of her artist friends."

"Isn't she working too hard?" asked Archie.

"She does work hard," was Theo's reply; "but it is her delight. I never saw any one more in love with her work. She says she loves her brushes better than anything else, and I almost believe her. I sometimes tell her that her friends are a minor consideration where her painting is concerned. But if she is happy, I shouldn't say a word. When I scold her about wearing herself out, she always answers me with:

"'Get leave to work

In this world,—'tis the best you get at all,—'

"And then I have nothing at all to say, since I have such great respect for Mrs. Browning; and then Nan believes in giving expression to whatever talent one may possess. She says, 'If you have anything to say, say it, through one medium or another; if you have anything to do, do it.'"

"If you have anything to eat, eat it," interrupted Archie, spying a dish of fruit on the table and reaching over to help himself to an apple.

"If you have anything to snatch, snatch it," interposed Val, suiting the action to the word and robbing Archie of his fruit.

Then began a wild flight of Val around the room, behind tables and chairs, with Archie after her, Theo remonstrating. "Don't, Archie! Stop, Val! The people on the floor below will think we are savages executing a war dance."

But in the midst of the tussle Nannie came in, and the two belligerents agreed to divide the apple, bite and bite about.

"What luck, Nan?" inquired Theo.

Nannie dropped into a chair. "I don't know," she answered; "but I sent it haphazard, and now I am so nervous and excited over it."

"Over what?" asked Archie, curiously.

The girls looked at each other.

"Shall we tell him?" said Theo.

"Oh, yes," decided Val; "tell him. Nan doesn't mind his knowing."

Nannie hesitated, but at Archie's reproachful look confessed the secret. "I have sent a picture to the exhibition," she admitted. "I didn't want any one to know, for, in case it should be rejected, I should feel so cut up about it. So don't tell, Archie."

"I'll be as silent as a clam," promised Archie; "but you'll get in, Nan. I prophesy that."

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Nannie, putting up her hand as if to ward off the prophecy. "Don't say anything to make me more excited than I am. I think it was very brazen of me to send it, at best; but I did so want to."

"It wasn't brazen!" exclaimed the other girls. "Oh, Archie, it is splendid."

"What is the subject?"

"Val sat for it," explained Nannie; "it is only a head."

"And, of course," put in Val, "if it is rejected, it will be on account of the subject."

"No! No!" expostulated Nan. "You were positively delightful with that yellow drapery."

"I'm sure you idealized it enough," asserted Val.

"Not a bit."

"There! There!" interposed Archie. "You two modest creatures quit your wrangling. When shall you know, Nan?"

"Not till the twenty-second."

"We are all going to the private view," said Theo; "and we are going, in sections, to stand before the picture and admire it. Then maybe somebody, hearing our ecstatic expressions of admiration, will buy it."

"Don't suggest such a possibility," begged Nannie. "You will drive me wild. Please, please, talk about something else, and let me recover my equilibrium."

"I believe you are more nervous than I ever saw you," declared Archie. "We'll turn the subject."

"We'll have to; there's some one at the door," notified Val.

"I was told to come right up," said a voice, and Val's friend, Nettie Wayne, made her appearance.

Archie, who was sitting in the hammock, attempted to rise, that he might be presented to the caller. But hammocks are not to be depended upon, and, just at the critical moment, it gave a flop, causing Archie to turn a back somersault, presenting his heels to the young lady in the most ludicrous manner. He recovered himself almost immediately, however, saying,—

"We do not always do those things, Miss Wayne; although you may have heard of our performances up here. You have been to studios before, no doubt?"

"I have been here before," laughingly replied Miss Wayne. "But I am glad you explained, Mr. Nelson, for Val has told me of her cousin Archie, and I might have expected some surprise."

"Val, Val, what have you been saying of me?" demanded Archie. "Did you tell Miss Wayne that I always greet callers in some unusual way,—that I turn somersaults, or stand on my head whenever a visitor appears? I assure you, Miss Wayne, it is not so. I really and truly behave quite like other men, usually. What are you laughing at, Nan? Don't I?"

Nannie shook her head in denial. "I never saw one quite like you," she replied, teasingly.

"Is that a compliment or not?" returned Archie, regarding her thoughtfully.

"I shall not tell you," responded Nannie, a little confused. Then, turning to Nettie, "Are you going to sit for me?"

"Not with all these people here," confessed Nettie.

"Go, people, go!" ordered Nannie.

"That's mean, Nan, to turn us out. Let me stay, anyhow," entreated Val. "I'll read aloud while you work," she added, with a sudden inspiration.

"Well, then, you may stay."

"She means she objects to us," remarked Archie to Theo. "Come, Theo, they don't know what they miss. I have something in my pocket that you and I will discuss together. Let us go to auntie's room," and Archie picked up his overcoat, drawing something from one of the pockets.

"What a 'moreish' looking package," cried Val. "Oh, Nan, don't turn them out! It is a box of Huyler's candy, I know, and they will eat it all up. They won't leave us a 'vestment' of it, as Mammy says."

"Aha!" exclaimed Archie. "Revenge is sweet; it is as sweet as the contents of this box," and he held the package aloft. "Come, Theo!" And he was out of the door before they could stop him.

With one accord they fell upon Theo. "We'll keep her as hostage," they cried. "Arch shall not have her till he divides the candy," maintained Val.

"Let me go!" cried Theo, trying to extricate herself.

But they held her fast, and in a few moments, finding Theo did not follow him, Archie returned.

"Help! Help! Your aid, Sir Knight!" implored Theo, struggling to get free.

"A maiden in distress!" exclaimed Archie, advancing upon the captors.

"Don't you dare to touch us," commanded Nan, with great dignity. "Archibald Nelson, if you step your foot one inch nearer, I'll—I'll—"

"What? Say your worst."

"I'll paint a hideous portrait of you. I'll exhibit it. I'll make it a perfect caricature. I'll sell it. I'll make you wish you had never been born."

During this parley, the girls had weakened their grasp upon Theo, who, watching her opportunity, freed herself, and darted into the arms of Archie, who was now put upon the defensive, and was obliged to dodge the shower of missiles thrown in his direction,—paint-brushes, wads of paper, pencils, and pieces of rubber went flying across the room.

"Such behavior!" Archie expostulated, dodging a brush.

"So undignified!" cried Theo, ducking her head under Archie's arm as a bit of rubber whizzed by.

"All the ammunition is used up," announced Nan, looking in vain for something to throw.

And Val darted forward to catch up the brush lying closest to her. But Archie was on the alert, and caught her by the wrist as she was in the act of picking up the brush.

"We'll compromise; we'll compromise," cried Nan.

"Done!" replied Archie. "What are your terms?"

"Pass around the candy once, and let Val go. You may keep Theo; we promise not to recapture her."

To this Archie agreed, and the girls, after helping themselves liberally, settled down to work, left unmolested by Archie and Theo.

The morning of the twenty-second, Nannie watched for her mail with fear and trembling. "I don't count on it at all," she kept repeating. "Really, I shall be very much surprised if I am hung."

"If you are hung? Is the picture as bad as that?" inquired Miss Nelson, with a smile.

"Oh, Miss Nelson, you know what I mean. I mean if I am accepted."

"There is the mail!" and Val sprang to her feet.

Nannie sat very still, the color coming and going in her face.

"What will you give?" cried Val, holding a large square envelope above her head.

"Don't tease, dear," reproved Miss Nelson. "Give Nannie her mail."

"Oh!" breathed Nannie, as she opened the envelope. "Oh, Miss Nelson!" and she turned to auntie, extending two cards with trembling hand.

"Why, my dear, I congratulate you!" was Miss Nelson's pleased response as she took into her hand not only a card of invitation to the private view, but an exhibition ticket as well. "Your picture is really hung. How very glad I am."

Nannie could scarcely speak, she was so overcome, and for the rest of the day felt as if she trod on air.

Saturday evening, the whole party, with Mr. Smith and Archie as escorts, proceeded to the Academy, where they found Nannie's picture, although "skyed," still looking quite well, and very proud did the young artist feel.

"I am ashamed to be seen looking at it," she whispered to Theo.

Theo laughed. "No one will know," she replied.

"Come, Nan, we want you," interposed Val. "You have a great deal to do this evening. First, you are to tell us who is who. You are to point out all the distinguished artists to us. You must know most of them by sight, anyhow; and then you are to tell us what pictures to admire. It would never do for us to stand before a bad picture, and say 'How beautiful!' with perhaps the biggest gun in the art world standing right behind us."

"Oh, dear! What responsibility," sighed Nannie. "I am afraid I shall never be able to meet it. You will have to do your own criticising, I am afraid; and if you show a hopeless lack of taste, I will try to point out your error. That is the best I can do. No, I will do better than that, Val. I see some one I know over there alone. I will bring him here and present him, and put you under his tutelage; he is one of the best critics I know."

And Nannie made her way across the room, returning with a serious-looking young man, whom she presented to Val as Mr. Egerton. And the two moved off together, while Nannie, being joined by Archie and Theo, made a tour of the galleries with much satisfaction.

"Nan thinks it a very good exhibition," announced Val, as they were about to take their leave, "and we have heard half a dozen people say the very opposite."

They all laughed, and Nannie, seeing their amusement, blushed furiously.

"I know just what you mean," she declared. "They say an artist is apt to consider that exhibition a good one in which his own pictures are hung, and a poor one when his work has been rejected; so I shall not allow you to consider me such a partial critic. We'll leave it to Mr. Egerton. Is it, or isn't it, a good exhibition?"

"It is a very good one," certified he. "You are quite correct, Miss Talcott. I have only heard one opinion from those really capable of judging."

And Nannie looked around triumphantly.

"Oh, we thought so," Val declared, airily. "We just wanted to guy you, Nan."

Mr. Egerton looked amused, and Nan was satisfied at having cleared herself of having exhibited undue partiality.

The next day she came home with a great piece of news.

"Girls! Girls! Where are you all?" she cried. "Miss Nelson, what do you think?" And she ran from one room to room till she found the three in Miss Nelson's room. "Oh, what do you think? I went to the Academy, to-day, and my picture is sold," she proclaimed. "Sold! Do you hear? Oh, that dear, nice little ticket did look so delightful. I could hardly believe my eyes. Sold! The very first night. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Oh, Nan! Why, Nan!" they exclaimed. "And who has bought it?"

"I don't know. I didn't charge a very big price; and the secretary told me the purchaser preferred not to have his name made public."

"I should like to know," said Val, "for it really looks so much like me. And it seems so funny for a stranger to be looking at my portrait day after day,—to be the actual owner of my likeness. I want to know who has bought it."

"Perhaps it was Mr. Smith," suggested Theo.

"Maybe it was. You ought to know, auntie. Did he specially admire it?" inquired Val.

"He liked it very well as a painting, but said he would rather have a portrait of Val without all those fal-lals."

"That sounds just like him, so probably it was not he, after all. We'll ask him," decided Val.

But Mr. Smith disclaimed any knowledge of the purchase, and the name of the owner remained unknown.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW ELDORADO ANN WAS SCARED.

THE beginning of summer found "the flock" making other plans than their usual ones; for Mrs. Lewis begged to retain the house in Roseville another year. And since Archie could not be with them, it was decided that they should all remain in or near New York till the very warm weather, and then take two months at the sea-shore. This arrangement pleased Mr. Smith mightily, and Archie, also; for Lyndehurst was easily reached, and thither they all repaired very often until July came in and drove them to a cooler place.

"We shall have to do something about Eldorado Ann," announced Miss Nelson, one morning. "Mrs. Lewis writes that the child is so disappointed at our failure to return that she is miserable, and cannot be made to take an interest in her work, so that she is utterly useless. What can we do?"

"She is your special 'protégée,' Theo," said Val; "lend auntie your wits."

"I should not like to bring her here," replied Theo; "it is no place for her; and we do not need her, living as we do. Help me out, Val."

Val looked thoughtfully out of the window; then she exclaimed, "I'll ask the Colonel; perhaps Mrs. Barton can find her of use!"

"The Colonel" was always Val's refuge when all else failed, and the old man repaid the confidence placed in him by always being equal to the emergency, and by professing an interest in matters heretofore entirely foreign to his taste. So, as often before, he now rose to the occasion and promised to place Eldorado Ann under Mrs. Barton's wing. Tommy Reed, Eldorado Ann's brother, was still in Mr. Smith's employ, and, from being an utterly wild, uncontrolled urchin, was developing energy and ability under the training of old David, the gardener.

"We will keep Eldorado Ann here for a few days and show her the city," said Theo. "We can take her up to Lyndehurst next Saturday when we go."

"Almost all the winter people have left the house," observed Val, one morning. "There are some new people in the rooms below. I saw the trunks going in as I came up-stairs yesterday."

"Doesn't it seem funny not to know your next-door neighbor?" said Theo. "In Roseville we know every one,—from the oldest inhabitant down to the newest baby. I think I like home best, auntie."

"Can't you see Eldorado Ann's round-eyed astonishment?" remarked Val. "When will she come?"

"To-day, probably," replied Miss Nelson. "Mrs. Lewis wrote that an opportunity would occur this week for sending her in old Mr. Collins's care, in that case she may come at any time. Mr. Collins will deliver her safely here. So we need not meet her; in fact, we could not very well, unless they sent a despatch, for it is a little uncertain when they will leave."

"And we are all going out to-day," said Theo.

"Never mind," returned Miss Nelson. "Mrs. Joy can let her into our rooms, and she will be quite safe till we return."

That afternoon Eldorado Ann did arrive, and was ushered into the studio to await the return of some of the family. The little girl, who was about fourteen and quite small for her age, had never before been out of her native village. The bustle and excitement of a big city had already filled her with awe and amazement, so she was ready for all sorts of surprises.

As the door of the studio closed behind her, she looked around, and, seeing a figure seated at a little distance, she went timidly towards it. Dropping a courtesy, she said "Howdy, ma'am?" but the figure did not stir.

Eldorado Ann approached nearer. "Maybe she's deef," she said to herself, and, raising her voice, she again said, "Howdy, ma'am?"

No response. Eldorado Ann stepped a little to one side to meet the bland smile and fixed eyes of a lay figure which Nannie had borrowed from an artist friend.

The little girl stood still for a moment, and then went off a step or two. "Ef she ain't deef, she's blind with them starey eyes," she said. "Lady, ma'am, where is Miss Theo?"

No answer reaching her, the little girl went up closer and laid a finger on the cheek turned towards her. Then with a leap, she sprang away and retreated to the farthest corner of the room, her astonished eyes gazing at the serenely smiling face still turned immovably in her direction.

"That beats me. I believe it's only a figgur," said Eldorado Ann, and she sat down as far away as possible from the object of her astonishment, not yet being quite sure whether it was alive or not.

At that moment, from the room below, came terrifying sounds, short gasps of "Oh! Oh! Oh!" then long-drawn groans, next a voice rapidly speaking, rising higher and higher till it reached a wail of agony. A moment's pause,—then a shriek.

Eldorado Ann, with dilated eyes, faced the lay figure with its unalterable regard fixed upon her.

Again from below came the agonized voice, and then Eldorado Ann could stand it no longer. Opening the door, she rushed precipitately out into the hall and down the stairs, crying, "Help! Help! Somebody's being murdered!"

Fortunately, Theo, just coming up, met the excited child.

"Why, Eldorado Ann!" she exclaimed. "What is the matter?"

With her dear Miss Theo at hand, Eldorado Ann felt safe; but she burst into tears.

"Oh, Miss Theo," she cried, "take me away. This is an awful place. There's crazy people here, or people getting murdered. And that lady up-stairs. I don't know whether she's dead or not. I've looked at her so steady, and oncet she looked like she winked."

Then, with a leap, she sprang away.

For a moment, Theo was puzzled. But as she entered the room, she caught sight of the lay figure, and partly understood the cause of the little maid's excitement. Then, as she recognized the sounds coming from the room below, she burst out laughing.

"I don't wonder you were scared, you poor child," she said. "I was mystified myself at first. That is only some one practising elocution."

"What's that?" asked Eldorado Ann, now recovering from her fright.

"Why, some one learning to 'speak a piece,'" explained Theo. "It is all right. You thought you had come to a dreadful place, didn't you, Eldorado Ann? Never mind: it is nothing at all. Come here and see this lady who has been staring at you." And Theo led the little girl up to the lay figure, explaining its use, and showing Nannie's study of the drapery worn by the "staring lady." "We call her ''Liza Jane,'" said Theo. "She is very amiable; so don't be afraid any more."

Eldorado Ann was much amused. And when, one day, Theo pointed out to her the gentle, meek-looking girl who had given such terrifying shrieks, she was no longer alarmed at anything that went on in that house, and enjoyed her stay hugely, while her remarks gave the girls much amusement, they were so naïve and spontaneous.

"This is a great experience for Eldorado Ann," said Archie. "I wonder what she will think of Tommy; he has grown so in the past four years."

Tommy proved himself to be an object of great admiration to Eldorado Ann, who viewed him with intense pride.

"He's mos' a gentleman, ain't he, Miss Theo?" she said. "An' he says some day me an' him'll keep house together."

That a member of her own family showed any real signs of respectability gave the little maid more self-respect than she had ever known; and that Tommy, the scapegrace, should give promise of amounting to something delighted her beyond measure.

"Ma wouldn't know him, an' pop 'ud be ashamed of hisself, settin' there doin' nothin'," she declared to Theo.

Theo had her own private views on the subject, and doubted if anything could make "pop" ashamed of himself; since almost everything that could have appealed to his lazy nature had come his way. As for poor Mrs. Reed, though her intentions were good, her fulfilment of them failed miserably, as the down-at-heel appearance of their dwelling indicated.

"I think we have the pick of the brood," said Archie, looking at Tommy and Eldorado Ann happily talking together. "There comes a carriage, Theo. Callers, do you suppose?"

"It is some of the Parkhursts," said Val, looking over his shoulder. "Fanny and Jamie, and—no, that is all. I thought I saw Felix."

"The flock" had arrived at Lyndehurst on Friday evening, and this was Saturday. The Parkhurst residence was not far away; it having been the scene of Theo's first independent effort was more or less interesting to them all, though the family was not a specially attractive one to "the flock."

Since Felix had discovered that neither Val nor Theo were disposed to regard him with distinct favor, he had turned his attention in other directions, and the girls had seen little of him in the past few months.

"I shall be very glad to see Jamie," said Theo, as she watched the carriage come up the drive; "and Fan, too, for that matter: naughty, elfish little creature though she was. I think no one quite understood her, and I believe she will yet develop into a fine woman.

"Why, bless you, Jamie, how you have grown," was her greeting to the curly-headed little fellow who ran up the steps to meet her; "and Fan, too," and she held out her hand to the tall, awkward girl. "I am so glad to see you both."

"We came near not coming," announced Fan, in her old gruff way. "Felix wanted the horses; he's a nasty, selfish wretch."

"Why, Fan!" and Theo felt herself blushing, just why she could not have told. "Come, suppose we sit here," she suggested; "it is so lovely out-of-doors these June days," and she drew the children to her side.

Jamie looked up fondly, and Fan allowed herself a caress.

"I told Felix I'd pay him back," Fan went on. "I told him, if he didn't let us come with the horses, that I'd walk over here and tell you all about him."

"Don't talk so," remonstrated Theo. "Since you did come with the horses, it isn't fair; and besides, when he is not here to defend himself, it is not nice of you."

"Oh, Miss Nelson," said Fan, "I believe I could be a good girl if I had you with me. Won't you come back?"

Theo shook her head. "I'm afraid you mustn't expect it," she replied. "Now, tell me all about everybody."

And the children launched forth into an account of their usual proceedings. Fan's pranks were evidently as pronounced as ever, and her wilfulness as decided a trait.

"I'm Miss Parkhurst, now that Leonore is married. You haven't seen Leonore, have you, Miss Nelson, since she became Mrs. Tucker? I don't see how she could marry such a sap-head. I don't like men, anyhow," Fan declared. "Albert Tucker is a fool, and Felix is a conceited, selfish pig. Eugene is going to be a dunderheaded yard-stick; he doesn't care for anything but dollars and cents. Jamie is the only one I care for. Pinkey is a stuck-up little minx, and—"

"Fan! Fan!" Theo kept interrupting, trying in vain to stop the tirade, and finally she placed her hand gently over Fan's lips. "I cannot allow myself to listen to you," she said.

"Oh, do let me," begged Fan, possessing herself of the hand. "I am kept so bottled up. I have to let out my feelings sometimes, and 'you' never thought I was wicked to want to run and romp, and 'you' never called fairy tales silly stuff."

Theo laid her hand softly on Fan's thick hair, for Fan had thrown aside her hat and was sitting on a lower step, leaning her head against Theo's knee.

"Shall I tell you a story?" asked Theo.

"Oh, please, just as you used to do: just a real, little old-fashioned fairy tale, the kind I used to love."

And Theo began,—

"Once there was a little princess who lived in a big castle. She was half blind and half dumb and half deaf, and had a hump on her back that made it very hard for her to get along; so she was very unhappy, and there seemed to be no way for her to be relieved from all this trouble. But one day there came a poor little fairy to her, not a very wise nor a powerful fairy, but just a plain little creature whom we will call Apple-Blossom."

Why did there come a little catch in Theo's voice as she remembered a Sabbath-day, years before, when she had stood looking up into the apple-trees, drifting their blossoms down upon her?

"Go on," came Jamie's voice, as Theo paused.

"Well," continued Theo, "the little apple-tree fairy said to the princess, 'You need not be always half blind and half deaf and half dumb, and you may one day be rid of that hump you wear, for there will come a little prince to help you; he is very near you now, only you do not see him nor hear him.'

"Then the fairy flew away and whispered to the little prince, who was not far off, 'Go and stand at the right side of the Princess Fancy, and show her how beautiful the world is. Teach her to look up instead of down, show her the sky and the trees and the flowers instead of the worms and the mud and the thorns, then her right eye will open, and she will be able to see so much that has been invisible to her. Then take this little book, and sing these songs into her right ear, and, after a while, instead of the discords she now imagines she hears, she will hear sweet sounds. Then kiss her softly on the right side of her mouth, and she will speak as she ought, not in stammering, broken words, but clearly, as a free creature. Then, when you have done all this, walk before her, so courageously, in such a straight, upright way, that she will gain strength from seeing you. Then put your shoulder under the hump she wears, and, after a while, it will fall off.'"

Theo stopped. Jamie was regarding her wistfully, and Fan was knitting her brows in an earnest endeavor to puzzle out the story.

"Do you understand, little prince?" whispered Theo, leaning down to the child at her side.

Jamie's arms clasped her neck, and he whispered back, "Am I the little prince? Am I, Miss Theo?"

"You can be," she returned, very softly; "and I will give you the little book to read to the princess."

"Fairy Apple-Blossom? I am beginning to understand," said Fan; "but he is a very little prince," she continued, whimsically, regarding her small brother.

"He has a big heart," answered Theo, "and he has found out many, many beautiful secrets. I discovered that long ago. I am sure he can help you to see what a fair world it is, and you can love each other and live for each other, so you will always be able to find sympathy and affection. Don't pity yourself too much Fan; you have so much to live for, and if you will try to do everything you can for Jamie, and if Jamie will try to do everything he can for you, I am sure you can be very happy in each other."

"There is one thing, Miss Fairy Apple-Blossom," said Fan; "one thing that I wish you would do. I wish you would see mamma, and tell her that it doesn't hurt me to play boys' plays, and to run and romp. I shall go raving crazy if I have to sit still the rest of my life. I will try very hard to be a lady in company; but, Miss Theo, it won't hurt me to play ball, and to skate, and to go about like the boys, will it?"

"I think it is just the thing for you. I will try to help you in that way, if you will try to help your mother by not being rude and boisterous in the house. I think I can, perhaps, make her understand."

"I'll promise, I will, indeed, Miss Theo; and if she will only let Jamie and me be 'pards,' instead of insisting upon Jamie and Eugene always playing together, I know I could be better. I don't care if Jamie is so little and I am so big; we can go off by ourselves, and I don't care who makes fun of it."

"And Jamie?" said Theo, smiling down at him.

"When Fan doesn't tease me, I love to be with her," he answered. "Eugene would rather play with Bobby Cole anyhow, and they never want me."

So Theo agreed to drive over and see Mrs. Parkhurst, and the result was that Fan and Jamie became "pards," and from that time Fan's improvement dated.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN OLD SONG.

AT first, Jack wrote very regularly, giving graphic accounts of his surroundings; he had taken charge of a plantation in Florida, and, though he made no complaint, his friends could detect his utter loneliness in the letters he sent.

In one of his early letters, written while it was yet cold weather, he said:

"You cannot imagine, Arch, old fellow, how quiet it seems here of nights, after the noisy, clattering streets of New York. You will think me a silly-billy when I tell you that I make a fire and set my kettle boiling just for company; there is something cosey about the singing of the kettle and the bubbling of the water. When it boils down, I fill it up again, and then I sit down and think of you all, wonder what you are doing, and when I shall see you all again."

But of late the letters came infrequently, and then they were short and unsatisfactory.

"It has been a long time since we heard from Jack," said Miss Janet to Mr. Smith, one evening, as they sat on the porch at Lyndehurst. "I am worried about him."

"I am more worried about Theo," returned Mr. Smith, nodding in the direction of the girl, who, with Felix Parkhurst, was sitting on a rustic seat, listening intently to something her companion was reading to her. The last beams of a setting sun touched her bright hair and lingered on her white gown. She was leaning slightly forward, her hands clasped, her lips gently parted.

Auntie looked fixedly in her direction. "I am not afraid for my girl," she said.

Mr. Smith shook himself impatiently. "Facts are facts," he declared. "You can't get rid of them by ignoring them. It is perfectly natural for young people to think on subjects which we older ones set aside as trifling and mawkish. Now, Miss Nelson, you know perfectly well that half the mothers, and fathers maybe, will say, if a girl begins to talk of lovers, 'You are too young for such things. I don't want to hear any such nonsense,' or else, with a wave of the hand, will put aside the subject with, 'You little goose, you don't know what you are talking about.'

"Of course she doesn't know what she is talking about, and, failing the proper advice and sympathy there, she takes her confidences to some one quite as inexperienced and romantic as herself, and between them, they build up some absurd fancy which, in the end, leads to an unhappy marriage, or to a season of sorrowful days and tearful nights."

"But Theo is in no such danger, I am sure," responded Miss Nelson, yet with some alarm. "She is not such a girl as you describe. She would not talk of such things in the way girls generally do."

"I am not so sure about there being no danger; and the young lady, if she doesn't talk about it, thinks about it, and gets her ideas from some sentimental companion or from some gushing novel."

"I don't know which of Theo's companions you could call sentimental."

Mr. Smith's glance fell significantly upon Felix.

"And," continued Miss Nelson, "she doesn't read 'gushing novels,' as you call them."

Mr. Smith smiled; he was in one of his sarcastically disagreeable moods. "She reads love stories, then," he said; "and, even if they be good ones, they appeal to her sentiment and her imagination. So, no doubt by this time she has woven a fine dream for herself about that young cad."

"You do not approve of Felix Parkhurst, I notice."

Mr. Smith compressed his lips. "I do approve of Theo, and I don't want her thrown away on a self-indulgent, indolent fellow like that. What sort of a prop would he be in time of trouble, I'd like to know, granting he has no special vices? He is the kind that would turn his back on a woman's tears because he 'hated a scene,' and would consider himself much abused if his wife failed to amuse him. He would tire of her in a month, and would hunt up some more entertaining company, neglecting her with a languid indifference which would be intolerable to a girl like Theo. I know just the sort of a butterfly he is. Girls don't see those things; how can they, when they have had no experience? A girl whose only brother is a courteous gentleman expects all men to be like him; and what does she know of the world of men who are different? And suppose he were to lose his money, what sort of support do you suppose he could give her?"

"You remember Theo lived under the same roof with Felix Parkhurst for three months," interposed Miss Nelson.

"And how much did she see him? At meal-time, maybe, and once in a while very casually; he was away half the time."

"I think you are a little severe, Colonel," said Miss Nelson; "and I still feel sure that Theo is in no danger."

The Colonel gave a gruff "Humph!" and walked away, leaving Miss Nelson somewhat disquieted.

"I will talk to Theo," she said to herself; "there is some truth in what he says. I ought not to set aside any subject which may be interesting to my girls. But Theo has always given me her entire confidence, and I may have been too sure that she had none to give."

A little before this, Felix Parkhurst had called. And, finding it convenient to drive over, had come every day, sometimes bringing a book in his pocket, from which he would read aloud to Theo, being entertained by her enjoyment of some new author, and finding it a pleasant diversion to bring the soft color to her cheeks when he emphasized some ardent passage by lifting his eyes and looking at her with tender reproach.

But Theo's blushes were not all for his sake; they were partly from a consciousness that she had been near to loving the man before her, and partly from a fear that he might imagine she still felt so disposed towards him.

"Theo grows good-looking," said Archie. "I never thought she would be so pretty. She has grown up to her nose, and her eyes have grown up to her."

"She was always pretty," insisted Val. "Her eyes always had that sweet, earnest look, and her mouth, nothing ever was lovelier than Theo's mouth and her smile. As for her nose, that was easily passed over."

"Of course," responded Archie; "it always had a bridge to it."

"Silly!" retorted Val, throwing a rose-bud at him. "You'll never grow up, whatever Theo's nose does. I declare, Archie, you ought to be in knickerbockers."

Archie suddenly jumped up and rushed into the house, appearing in a few minutes wearing his bicycle dress. He threw himself down on the grass by Val.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Nowhere."

"I thought you had a bicycle trip on hand, you went off so suddenly."

"You're dreadfully dense. Here, when I try to please you, you completely set aside my little efforts."

"What do you mean? I declare, Archie, you are an exceedingly foolish youth."

"Most sapient maiden, didn't you say I ought to be in knickerbockers? I tried to please you."

Val replied by whacking him over the head with his cap, while he laughed at her simulated rage.

"To return to Theo," said Val. "There, Archie, it's too hot to exercise so violently. I think it is too bad she is not going to the shore with us. But it's just like her. Because Fanny Parkhurst has set her heart on her going there for a visit, and because Jamie wants her, she'll go; and I 'know' she doesn't want to, but she's just that self-sacrificing. I wouldn't do it."

"No, 'you' wouldn't."

"You mean, horrid boy!" and Val again brought the cap into requisition. "You wouldn't, either."

"Of course I wouldn't. A pretty dance I would lead Miss Fan, and I would scare Jamie stiff before I'd been there twenty-four hours. I believe I should like to go, after all. I'd scandalize the whole band, from Papa Parkhurst down."

"We could make them have a lively time if we both went," said Val, falling into the spirit of the thing. "I should love to do it, but we are not invited, as good luck would have it. Some one told Mrs. Parkhurst the way we behaved at the Aldridges that time."

"What time?"

"Don't you know? We drove over from Roseville, you and Jack and Nan and Theo and I, and we tied the napkins together at table, and when one jerked, we all wiped our mouths. Before that, though, we started to go home because Mrs. Aldridge said she had not had time to make any cake, and Theo was so distressed at our actions. They were disgraceful."

"Of course they were. That was years ago; we were on a high horse that day. I remember you and Nan wouldn't let Mr. Aldridge drive his own horse, but insisted on his getting into the buggy with Jack and me. You ought to have been ashamed of yourselves."

"So we ought. You needn't talk, though; you were worse than any of us. No, I believe I was the worst, and I am ashamed of myself now. I wish we could see ahead when it occurs to us to do those things, then we wouldn't have half so much to blush for. School-girls are such silly, 'silly' things. Do you remember how I used to giggle?"

"Used to?"

"I don't near as much as I did. Do I?"

"I trust you will not continue at the present rate until you are fifty."

"I won't. I'll be as sedate as you please. I have less hope of you, though. I know, if you were holding court and anything funny should occur, that you would disgrace your title of judge by going off into a fit of undignified mirth. I just know it."

"Goodness knows I'll have time enough in which to improve before that day comes, Val," and Archie arose and went towards the house.

Fan's entreaties had gained a promise from Theo to pay a visit to her former pupils, and Miss Nelson rather encouraged the plan. Theo as a guest, she reflected, would have a better opportunity of judging of Felix, since she would see him more unrestrainedly.

"You will join us, dear, the last of the week," she said. "Mr. Smith will be coming down on Saturday with Archie, and you can come with them."

"I think it's mean of you," said Val. "I wouldn't desert you in that way."

"You'll have a good time, I promise," replied Theo. "Nan will be there," for Nannie had joined her mother's family a month earlier, and all had gone to the sea-shore together.

"Nan isn't you," pouted Val. "If you get tired, promise you'll come sooner."

Theo promised, and they parted,—Val and Miss Nelson to proceed to the sea-shore, and Theo to take up her abode for a week where three years previously she had gone to teach Mrs. Parkhurst's children.

The first few days passed very pleasantly. Theo kept with Jamie and Fan as much as possible, helping them to a better understanding of each other, and opening to them such out-door pleasures as both could enjoy.

Mr. Felix rather resented this, and reproached Theo for inconstancy.

"You used to be such a good friend," he complained, "and now, when I need you, you go off with those tiresome children; they cannot interest you."

"Can you?" asked Theo, quietly.

For a moment, Felix was disconcerted. "I used to once. I tried to," he said, recovering himself.

Theo felt the color come to her face in a most provoking way. "I came to visit Fan," she said shortly, and turned away.

Toward the latter part of the week, an arrangement was made for the young people of the family, with a few others invited, to drive to a famous spot, from which could be seen an exceptionally fine view, and which resort was a popular one for picnic parties. As it was Fan's idea, she and Jamie were to be of the party.

"We're going to take supper," explained Jamie. "You'll go in the carriage with us, won't you, Miss Theo?"

"If I may," Theo promised.

"We'll have a lovely time," declared Fan. "I love to scramble about those old rocks and explore. There will be so much to show you, Miss Theo. We'll have a fine time, for there will be lots of other girls, and Felix won't want you," she added, naïvely.

At the time of setting out, however, the children's plans were set aside by Felix, who insisted upon driving the buck-board, with Theo as companion.

"There is plenty of room for Jamie," said Theo, seeing his disappointment, and the little fellow's face brightened.

"We don't want to be bothered with the kid," said Felix, crossly, and he frowned threateningly at the child.

"Ah! Miss Nelson," said Mrs. Parkhurst, from the step, "you will spoil Jamie. He cannot expect a man like Felix to give up to him. Let Felix take you."

And Theo, overruled by her hostess, could say nothing, and the drive was begun.

But both Theo and her companion felt a little cross, and it was not long before a new cause of difference arose.

About a mile from the house was a narrow place in the road with a little gully at one side. As they approached this place, they saw a light spring wagon on its way towards them.

"We shall have to turn out," remarked Theo.

"We shall do nothing of the kind," replied Felix, whipping up his horses. "Let the wagon turn out for us," and he kept the middle of the road.

"But there isn't room," insisted Theo. "You will make the man overturn his wagon in that gully."

"That is his lookout," replied Felix. "I'm not going to get out of the way of a clodhopper. You're not afraid?" he asked, altering his tone to one of suavity. "You are perfectly safe with me."

"I'm not afraid. No," replied Theo, sitting up very straight, and feeling a rising resentment at his speech, "but I do not believe in placing a fellow-creature in danger."

Felix smiled with an air of superiority, and at this moment, the wagon came up to them.

"Why, it's Tommy!" exclaimed Theo.

"Who?" inquired Felix.

"Why, Tommy Reed, from Lyndehurst."

"Oh!" And Theo cried out as the wagon gave a lurch.

Then, looking behind her, she saw it had indeed, happened as she feared. The wagon had overturned, but the horse had scrambled to his feet, and was standing perfectly still, though Tommy was not to be seen.

"Stop!" cried Theo, imperiously.

At her tone, Felix checked his horses and looked back. "What is the matter?" he asked.

By this time, Tommy was seen standing by the horse.

"He's all right. Why wasn't he more careful? The awkward lubber! I could have passed easily," said Felix.

Theo gave him a quick look, and could not refrain from smiling scornfully. "I am not so sure it is all right," she returned. "I wish to go and see."

"Nonsense. Why, Miss Theo, you are too Quixotic. We shall be very late. Oh, of course, if you insist," and Felix turned his horses with the air of one giving in to a woman's whim.

Reaching the spot, Theo was out of the buck-board in a moment.

"Tommy! Tommy!" she cried. "I am so sorry. Tell me, are you hurt?"

Tommy was trying to raise the fallen wagon; he turned at the kind voice. "I was thrown out, but it is only a scratch, Miss," he replied.

But Theo saw his face was white and drawn with pain, and the sleeve of his coat badly torn. "He 'is' hurt," she declared, turning to Felix.

By this time, Tommy, by using all the strength he could muster with his left arm, had raised the wagon, which, strange to say, was not injured. But the great drops stood out on the boy's forehead, and he trembled painfully after the effort.

Theo turned determinedly to her companion. "I shall go back to Lyndehurst with Tommy," she announced; "he is not able to go alone."

"What do you mean? Why, Miss Theo, I could not allow that. The boy is all right. Aren't you, my good fellow? He doesn't seem to be much hurt; he couldn't have lifted the wagon if he had been. You can drive back alone, can't you, boy?"

"Yes, sir," said Tommy, bravely.

"And perhaps have him faint on the way," said Theo. "Pray, don't let me detain you, Mr. Parkhurst," and Theo threw up her head haughtily. "I intend to see Tommy safely at Lyndehurst, and, further, to see that he has medical attendance at once."

"Oh, if your determination is taken, allow me to drive you there."

"And Tommy?"

Mr. Felix looked perplexed. "The boy is perfectly able to drive," he repeated.

"I do not agree with you. No, do not trouble yourself further. I prefer to have you leave me," said Theo, now, thoroughly roused. "My intention is to drive the wagon myself."

"Miss Theo!" in accents of astonishment from both Tommy and Mr. Felix.

"You wouldn't be seen driving that wagon, I hope," from Felix.

But Theo gave a silencing wave of the hand, as if dismissing the subject, and without further argument clambered into the wagon. By this time, Tommy was quite faint, and made no further protest, but took his place in the back of the wagon, and Theo gathered up the lines.

"I am very sorry to disappoint the children," she said to Felix, "but Tommy is suffering."

"His suffering is not to be compared to my disappointment," was the response; "but you are not going to give up the trip altogether?" added Mr. Felix, with some chagrin. "We can stop at the first house and send assistance. Come, Miss Theo, consider how unnecessary this is. Do get out and come with me."

Theo looked at him coldly. "I have announced my intention," she said.

"Very well, then," returned Felix, now thoroughly out of patience. "If you prefer that lout's company to mine, I have nothing further to say."

Theo made no reply, but simply bowed and turned the horse towards Lyndehurst, which place was soon reached.

Great was Mrs. Barton's surprise at seeing Miss Theo drive up with Tommy.

"Why, bless my soul, Miss!" she cried, running out. "What's this? What would Mr. Smith say to your driving up here in his wagon?"

"Tommy is hurt," said Theo, cutting short Mrs. Barton's protests. "Please send one of the men for the doctor at once."

And Mrs. Barton bustled off, returning soon with Parsons, the butler, and old David, who took Tommy in charge.

In a short time, the doctor arrived, and pronounced Tommy's accident a dislocation of the shoulder, and a bad one. So the poor boy was put to bed, and Theo was satisfied that she had taken the right course.

"I feel anxious about Tommy, Mrs. Barton," she said. "The doctor said there might possibly be some internal injury, and I do not want to go back to Mrs. Parkhurst's."

"I don't think he's so bad, Miss. I'm sure he'll come all right; he's pretty badly bruised where he was thrown against a pile of stones, but I don't believe there is anything worse. But you stay right here, Miss, if you feel better satisfied; it is good to have you back again, the house seems so empty. Mr. Smith won't be home to-night, but we'll try to make you comfortable; and if you want to send any message to Mrs. Parkhurst, one of the men will be glad to take it. Maybe," she suggested further, "you'd like to have Miss Fanny and Mr. Jamie come over and stay with you."

"What would Mr. Smith say to that?"

"Oh, Miss, he'd be most pleased. I am sure he would; he always says to me that you and Miss Val are to have just what you want. I'm sure he'll be most pleased, Miss. It was so beautiful of you to do all you did for poor Tommy. I don't know another young lady would have done it, and you so proud, too. Oh, Miss, Tommy is so grateful, and Eldorado Ann just worships the ground you walk on. Yes, indeed, Miss, anything you want shall be done."

So Theo despatched the note to Mrs. Parkhurst, asking if Jamie and Fan might come the next day, to remain through the time set for her own visit to them. And then, having satisfied the old housekeeper that she wanted no further errands done, she sat down with her little dog in her arms.

The house did indeed seem lonely and deserted without Val's merry laugh or Archie's quick, springing tread. And Theo finally found vent for her feelings in talking to Posie-Cossie, whom she rocked as if he were a little baby, while he, once in a while, touched her hand with his little red tongue.

"Would I leave poor Tommy, dear?" said Theo. "No, indeed. You wouldn't have done it either, you dear, faithful, little bit. Did the naughty, selfish man want to leave poor Tommy all alone? Jack wouldn't have done it, would he? Why, he wouldn't even leave you all alone in the streets. Jack would have picked Tommy up, and have held him as gently and as tenderly as his own brother. He was so good to him when he came to New York, a little ragged boy. It was all Jack's doing his coming here. How well I remember. And he wouldn't have left us here alone for the world; he would have stayed and helped, wouldn't he, Posie-Cossie? We miss Jack. Oh, Posie-Cossie, we do miss him, and we are too hateful to let him think so; at least I am. Poor Jack! He was so lonely, too, and he hadn't any dear little doggie; he only had a tea-kettle—just think, how pathetic! Nothing but an old tin tea-kettle—to keep him company, and it has been so long since we heard from him."

Theo leaned her head against the back of the rocking-chair. The long summer twilight had begun; through the open window drifted the odor of such summer flowers as could open to a scorching sun and lose none of their sweetness thereby,—petunias and verbenas, clematis and mignonette. Across fields came the scent of new-mown hay, and the pine-trees in the garden lent a spicy quality to the perfume of the indrifting evening breeze.

Theo sat thinking, thinking. The room in which she was opened on the porch, and presently she heard a foot upon the step leading from the walk. Posie-Cossie pricked up his ears and gave a little sharp bark. Theo's hand stilled him, and he lay quiet again.

The door-bell rang, and Theo, listening, heard some one softly whistle an air that came back to her memory almost startlingly,—the air of a German song Jack used to sing, Greig's "Ich liebe dich."

"Jack! Could it be Jack?" she thought, with mixed emotions.

The door was opened, and, after a short parley, Parsons appeared, saying, "I beg your pardon, Miss Theo, but there is a man here would like to see you."

Theo put down Posie-Cossie and went out into the hall, where stood a rather rough-looking individual, who greeted her with,—

"Excuse me, Miss, but I thought you'd do to leave a message with. I'm just up from Texas, and I promised a pal of mine I'd hunt up his folks an' tell 'em why he's been so mum."

"Texas! A pal of yours!"

"Yes'm; Jack Allen, ye know."

A friend of Jack Allen's,—this rough, unshorn, uncouth person.

"Jack Allen!" exclaimed Theo. "Yes, he is our friend; but how—" Then she paused.

"Jack's been down on his luck; he got sickened out o' Floridy—didn't pay—an' he come over to Texas. Me an' him's had a ranch there, leastways he's been a helpin' me; but he took sick of a low kind of fever some months back, an' he ain't been able to write, Jack ain't, an' when I says,—

"'Jack,' I says, 'I'm a goin' up to Albany fur a spell on biz, my granddaddy's lef' me a little cash, an' I've got to go an' see about it.'

"Jack he says, 'I wisht ye'd stop in New York an' tell 'em I ain't been up to the notch, er else I'd writ 'em.'

"An' he give me yer brother's direction. I reckon it's yer brother, A. Nelson."

Theo nodded.

"But yer brother wasn't there, an' I ast 'em where the res' of the fambly was, an' they gimme this here place, right on my way, too, so I stopped to tell ye."

"Oh, do come in and tell me more," said Theo, eagerly.

"Sorry, Miss, I can't stop long. I've got a train to make. Jack's gittin' on right good; he'll be about soon. Says he, 'Tell 'em not to bother.' Strange, as I was a standin' there on them steps, how that tune of his'n kep' a runnin' through my head, and I ketched myself whistlin' it,—that there Dutch song of his'n that he sings so much. He kep' on a singin' it right along all the time he was down, flighty like."

"I heard you," answered Theo.

"And it 'minded ye of Jack, didn't it? Fust-rate fellow, he is. We're good pals, we are. I must be going."

"Wait, give me his address."

The man fumbled in his pocket. "He ain't very near to no pos'-office, but this'll find him when he does go," and he handed Theo an envelope, on which an address was written.

"And your address? Oh, thank you very much for coming to tell us. You were very kind to come out of your way."

"That ain't nothin' to do for a pal. Don't mention it; Jack 'ud do it. I'm a goin' back as soon as I kin, an' I'll stop an' take any word. This'll find me if ye want to let me know anythin'." And the man scratched another address on the envelope, then after a clumsy bow, departed.

CHAPTER IX.

WHAT JACK DID.

THEO returned to the library, where she had left Posie-Cossie, and again taking him in her lap, she resigned herself to a long, dreamy evening. Once or twice she sighed, "Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Oh, Posie-Cossie! Poor, dear old Jack!"

And Posie-Cossie would respond by thrusting his nose in her hand, or by giving a little half-whine, as if he understood.

"Oh, if Mr. Smith were only here!" thought Theo, as she went to her room for the night.

But Mr. Smith was not to be at home until the next evening, and meanwhile, Theo contented herself as best she could.

In the morning Fan and Jamie made their appearance, full of excitement over an account they had received of Theo's action of the day before.

"Oh, Miss Theo, a man saw you driving the wagon; it was just splendid!" exclaimed Fan. "How I should love to have done it! We heard all about it; one of the men from here told us. We asked him, and made him tell us all about it; and mamma said it was a little extreme, but a very generous deed. She had to say that, though I don't believe she wanted to; but I just looked at her and asked her if she were a Christian. I have to do that with mamma once in a while, especially after she has just been to see Leonore. We think it was magnificent, Jamie and I," and Fan tossed back her hair in her old way, and looked with admiring eyes at Theo.

"We missed you awfully," said Jamie. "We were so disappointed."

"And we didn't have a bit good time," continued Fan.

"Oh, yes, we had a bit," interrupted Jamie.

"Well, so we did. We found a fairy place, all so cunning, and mossy, and toadstoolly, and mysterious, we did so want to show it to you. And the supper was good. We were sorry you were not there then."

"I was very sorry, too," said Theo; "but I knew there would be quite a company, so I felt I should not be missed so very much."

"Felix didn't miss you," Fan informed her, bluntly, and a little triumphantly, since she resented her elder brother's efforts at appropriating Theo's society. "He sat and looked at Miss Wallace, so," giving a languishing and sidelong look in imitation of her brother's. "And she looked, so, at him," opening her eyes very wide, and then shutting them slowly as she turned her head. "Then they went off walking, and she screamed every time she saw a dead branch, and went teetering over the rocks, so Felix would have to help her. Oh, she is silly; and she kept saying, 'Oh, Mr. Parkhurst, isn't it perfect!' while she teetered, and then she'd slip a little bit, and he'd catch her hand, and then she'd scream a little. And that is the way they kept it up, till it made me fairly ill."

And Fan, with her usual vehemence, fanned herself with her hat till she seemed in danger of breaking it to pieces. "I hope I shall never be so utterly foolish. Do you believe I shall?" she asked.

Fan was irrepressible, and Theo had to laugh as she responded, "No, I do not; not that kind of foolish."

"Now, Miss Fairy Apple-Blossom, that's not kind of you. How do you think I will be foolish?"

"You will be much more apt to sulk and flout and flounce, if matters do not go to suit you, princess," replied Theo.

Fan scowled.

"Now, now," warned Theo, "you mustn't be half blind and half deaf, you know."

So Fan laughed and shook off her frown, and the day went peacefully by till evening brought the carriage for the return of Theo's little visitors, and also brought Mr. Smith.

"Well!" was his exclamation. "I didn't expect to see you till to-morrow. What brought you over? Did you get tired of Parkhurst Castle?"

Theo explained as well as she could that Tommy had been hurt, and that she felt it would be better for her to remain at Lyndehurst than to return to Mrs. Parkhurst's while there seemed any danger of a complication in Tommy's case. She made no mention of the active part she had taken in bringing Tommy home, nor did she speak of Mr. Felix, though later Mr. Smith heard the account from Mrs. Barton with much satisfaction.

"And, oh, Mr. Smith," exclaimed Theo, "I have had news of Jack. Did you know he was in Texas? Think of it,—a cowboy! I wish you could have seen the man who came here. And, oh, poor Jack is ill! And—isn't it dreadful? Did you know?"

"I heard something," Mr. Smith acknowledged. "I knew he had left Florida. A bad season finished his engagement there, and he started out to another place."

"And," said Theo, in distress, "that dreadful-looking man, smelling of whiskey, and wearing a bright green neck-tie and a glass pin with a chain to it, that dreadful man is Jack's partner,—his 'pal,' he said. Do you suppose Jack has become like that? Do you suppose he says, 'I done it,' and 'I seen it,' and 'I wouldn't have went,' and 'I would have came,' and those dreadful things? Do you suppose association could ever make him careless? And think of our Jack wearing such clothes. It makes me utterly disgusted."

Just then, Mr. Smith caught sight of Felix Parkhurst coming up the walk, limitlessly attired in clothes of the latest make, and the old man turned and went into the house, leaving Theo to meet her guest.

Mr. Felix had thought better of it, and had come over, since there was nothing better to do. He offered a perfunctory sympathy, and entreated Theo to return and finish her visit. But Theo could not be persuaded, and at the end of half an hour, her visitor took his leave, when Theo flew back to the Colonel.

"So you're utterly disgusted, are you?" he said, looking her over. "I grant you John Allen and Felix Parkhurst don't resemble each other much," he continued, with a sarcastic smile.

Theo threw up her head haughtily. "We will not discuss Mr. Parkhurst, if you please," she returned.

"We'll discuss John Allen, then," replied Mr. Smith, looking very fierce. "How old is Jack?"

"He is—let me see—he is about a year older than Archie. He must be about twenty-four."

"And you are—nineteen?"

"Twenty, last month. Please don't be disagreeable, Colonel."

"Because I ask how old you are? Like a woman."

"Now, now, that is the way you used to talk when I first knew you. Don't be cross and snappish, Colonel. I do want to discuss Jack."

"Well, miss, I am going to tell you something. Jack is not quite a pauper. Before his father died, he placed in my hands twenty thousand dollars, with the understanding that it was to go to Jack when he was twenty-five, provided every summer during his college life he entered his uncle's counting-room and gave his attention to business."

Theo was listening attentively.

"For every summer that he refused to work there," continued Mr. Smith, "he forfeited five thousand dollars."

"Oh!" exclaimed Theo.

"Yes," nodded Mr. Smith. Then he went on: "Jack only knew of the terms upon which he inherited the amount I mentioned, which, compared to the rest of his fortune, seemed small, but he did not know I held it in trust for him. He thought his uncle had control of that as well as of his other affairs. I think his father wanted to provide against any contingency, and felt that a little attention given to business would be good for Jack, and that in case of events turning out as they have done, the boy would have something—"

"And—oh, Colonel," interrupted Theo, "wait a minute. It was for Archie he gave up that summer. Did you know? Oh, how wicked of me never to have seen it!"

"How could you see it?"

"I ought to have known there was something. Indeed, I did suspect, so did Archie, but we could never get a word from Jack that would explain it. Archie wanted so much to finish his college course, and so Jack gave up his own position to him and never hinted at it. Oh, how noble he is!"

The Colonel smiled a grim smile.

"And we have robbed him of five thousand dollars, and he is sick and needy. Oh, Colonel!"

"You forget he does not get the money till he is twenty-five."

"I know; but it is just the same, and part of it went to pay Archie's salary that summer, no doubt. Oh, Colonel!"

"There! Don't get so excited, child. Not a word to Archie, do you hear? Respect Jack's secret for his sake. It gave him the greatest pleasure in the world, and his money has been turned over so it will amount to nearly twenty thousand dollars when he gets it. That is our secret, Theo. I trust you, girl, but I wanted you to know."

"I will keep it faithfully, Colonel. Thank you for trusting me. But what are you going to do about Jack now?" she added, wistfully, her lips trembling.

"A little knocking about will not hurt him; he has always had too much money. He'll never go wrong."

"But," said Theo, in distress, returning to a picture presented to her mental vision of Jack, the cowboy, "suppose he should come back and eat with his knife, and do horrid things of that kind?"

"He'll soon get over that, if he does. Archie will cure him of any bad habits. But that is all sheer nonsense; a gentleman is not going to forget his gentlemanly instincts in a year, and I am not afraid of any lack of principle in John Allen. His faults are only skin deep."

"Then you will let him stay where he is?"

"For the present. I shall write to him immediately; so don't worry. He'd better stay awhile."

And Mr. Smith shot a swift look at Theo's troubled face.

"But he is ill and miserable."

"He is better, and the out-door life is good for him; he'd better be there. I am not heartless, Theo," he added, more gently. "I am thinking of Jack's best good."

"Couldn't you—couldn't you find something for him here?" questioned Theo.

"Perhaps I could. But I have a plan in view, when it is developed, I shall send for Jack. Meanwhile, there is no use in his spending his time in some small position. He'll do better, eventually, for having to fight his way a little longer."

And Theo could say no more on that subject. But before she left the room, she paused a moment, and then she went up to the Colonel.

"I will tell you something, too," she whispered: "I despise Felix Parkhurst."

And then she fled, without looking to see how the Colonel took this communication.

"Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack!" said the girl, as she sat by her window that night. "I have been so horrid to you, so stubborn and perverse, and you have been so good to me! I knew it all the time, but I wouldn't give in, just because I knew I ought to. Oh, I didn't half appreciate you, Jack, and now I can't forgive myself."

The sense of having wronged any one was bitter indeed to Theo, whose inclinations were all towards kindliness and gentleness, and who shrank from inflicting the smallest injury upon any one, even an enemy. And now her self-reproach was very keen.

"Dear, good, thoughtful Jack!" she repeated. "And Jack's song, 'Ich liebe dich,' he sang it all the time, that man said, and I never gave him a thought while he was suffering. Oh, poor Jack! Dear, constant Jack! Oh, Jack, I want to see you, I do, I do." So her thoughts ran.

And then she arose from her place by the window, turned up the light, and deliberately looking in the glass, made a most contemptuous and scornful face at herself.

"The idea of Jack being in Texas," said Archie, when he was told of Jack's whereabouts. "The dear old proud chap! I wish I could be there to nurse him. No wonder we didn't hear from him. Bless his dear old heart! Isn't that just like him? He was afraid we would worry if we knew he was ill, so he wouldn't send any word till he could say he was better. How I should like to have been able to see him through that illness. I knew he hadn't given us up. He is the last one to forget a friend, and we'll have him back with us yet. Mr. Smith promises that."

"Do you suppose he will have changed much?" asked Theo.

"Changed! No; what makes you think so? Jack could never be anything but Jack."

"I don't mean his character. I mean his looks, his appearance. Oh, you know what I mean. Do you suppose he will look trampy, like that dreadful man who brought us word of Jack?"

"Look here, Theo," responded Archie. "If that isn't just like you. You always were the most top-lofty person. Suppose he should look a trifle rough; it will only be 'clothes,' not the man. What's that Burns says?

"'What tho' on homely fare we dine,

Wear hodden gray and a' that,

Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.'

"I've no doubt—what's his name? Jim Downs? Isn't that the name of Jack's partner?—I've no doubt he's a good, honest soul, who would do more for a friend than many a 'fool in silk.'"

"Oh, I know," replied Theo; "but one doesn't like to notice a lack of polish in one's intimate friends."

"Just like you girls. Some diked out dudish insipidity takes for more than real solid worth."

"Now, Archie, that is not so. You know perfectly well no one is more particular than yourself about behavior, and if a man or a girl is even a little ill-bred, you are the first to notice it."

"Do you mean to insinuate that Jack is ill-bred? There never was a truer gentleman in the world, but you'd rather have some dancing dandy, some society jay, all show and no wit."

"You know better. No one despises a brainless fop more than I do, but I do like a man to know how to conduct himself in the drawing-room."

"And doesn't Jack?"

"I never said he didn't."

"Well, what are you pitching into dear old Jack for? You never would do him justice, and now he's ill and away off there among strangers. I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Archie was getting himself worked up into a fine rage.

"I suppose it would suit you exactly to go down there and live among bowie knives and lynch laws," retorted Theo. "You'd better go." And she left the room in a high dudgeon.

And it is quite likely her late gentle feelings towards Jack would have taken a backward turn, in consequence of Archie's berating, had she not come across Mrs. Tucker one day on the pier.

"Why," exclaimed this lady, catching sight of Theo, "are you down here? I haven't seen you for years, not since I was married. You knew I married Albert Tucker, didn't you? Oh, of course. Mamma wrote me that you were all at Lyndehurst. What you all can see in that disagreeable Mr. Smith I never could imagine; but, of course, we haven't all the same tastes."

Theo inwardly thought not, as she remembered Mr. Tucker.

"And what has become of your friend Jack Allen?" asked Mrs. Tucker.

"We have not seen him for some time," replied Theo.

"Oh, no, I suppose not. I remember now, he lost all his money."

"I cannot imagine why that should make any difference in our friendship," returned Theo, exasperated. "Jack—Mr. Allen has not been in this part of the country for some months."

"Is that so? Well, of course it would be very foolish for you to throw yourself away on a poor man. He was rather good-looking, as I remember. But as that is all he has now to recommend him, I think you were quite wise to send him off."

Theo could have shaken her. As Leonore Parkhurst, Mrs. Tucker had always aroused Theo's antagonism, and had ascribed motives to the girl's actions of which she had never dreamed, always assuming that Theo's standards were quite worldly, and her defence of high principles all for effect. So, although she was Jamie's sister, Theo did not care for a longer interview, but after a few commonplaces, left the spot where Mrs. Tucker was standing.

"Dear old Jack!" thought Theo, indignantly, as she took her way to the place where she had left Nannie standing. "Only your good looks to recommend you, indeed! As if there were ever a nobler, sweeter, truer nature in all the world!"

And Theo set her teeth together then and there, coming to a determination which neither time nor circumstance could alter.

CHAPTER X.

A CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

THE summer sped away without further excitement, and October found "the flock" again established under Mrs. Joy's roof. Val had concluded to take up special studies, and was talking of a possible trip to Europe the next year. Nannie, too, was looking forward eagerly to going to Paris for study; but Theo clung to auntie, and declared that nothing should separate them.

"We'll go back to Roseville, to the old quiet life, auntie dear," she said. "Won't it be nice to have Mammy at hand, with her queer old homely ways, and to look out and always see trees and sky? I am getting tired,—tired of brick walls and pavements," and Theo gave a quick little sigh.

"And you wanted so much to come," returned her aunt.

"I know," and Theo took Miss Nelson's hand, softly laying her cheek against it, "but I don't like the world, auntie. I want to be a little girl again," and two bright drops fell on auntie's hand.

"Why, my blessed child, aren't you happy?"

"I shall be twenty-one next summer," replied Theo, regretfully. "Then I shall have to think about Preston, and I shall have responsibilities,—responsibilities are such wearing things."

"I know they are, dear, but we must not be cowards and shirk them. Duty is a wonderful strengthener. My girl would not choose to live a life of absolute ease, of mere animal enjoyment."

"Oh, no, no. I don't mean that. I love to work, but somehow here I have come face to face with forces of whose existence I never knew. We lived an ideal life in Roseville, I think, auntie."

"But you were the first to fly, my birdie."

"I know it, and that is why I am the first to tire, maybe."

"You are disappointed, then."

"Not exactly. I am only tired of jar and fret. I love my music. I enjoy ever so many things that I should not have elsewhere. And if I had to live here always, I should try to find a way to put my powers to the best passible use. I should try to fit my life to its surroundings. But now home seems dearer than anything. And sometimes, when I think of the apple-trees and the robins, the garden whose every bush and shrub I know by heart, our little town, in which every face is a familiar one, my dear little room haunted by my girlhood's dreams, dear old Mammy so devoted to us, and,—oh, everything,—I long for it all, and I feel as if I should rather stand up in our little church and sing than to be applauded in any concert-room here or anywhere else."

"I do not know that I am sorry, dear heart, that you feel so, and I think this is likely to be our last winter here. I think Val would best go to Europe with Mrs. Westerly, and Nannie's heart is bound up in her work. Archie will have to decide soon about his own career, and then—we can go home."

There was silence for a moment between the two. Then auntie bent over the bright head leaning against her.

"Dear girlie," she said, "it is hard to give up our illusions, isn't it?"

Theo nodded. Then she replied, softly,—

"That was one of the things I meant, you know, auntie, dear." And she added, smiling, "Do you remember, auntie?

"'There was a young lady of Baddow,

Who, becoming enraged with a shadow,

In both hands she took it,

And to fragments she shook it.'

"That was what I did. It was only a shadow, nothing else. I found that out very soon."

"I knew you would," replied Miss Janet. "I trusted you, sweetheart. I knew that every good and true woman, with her feminine share of ideality, must dream that the man she fancies approaches at least nearly to her ideal."

"But," interrupted Theo, suddenly raising her head, "if life means one thing to him and another to her—if love in its highest, noblest, purest sense has never been revealed to him; if he cannot comprehend a love from which self is eliminated; if he does not understand that a human being is a human individual, and that she who is 'her'self to-day cannot be 'him'self to-morrow, and that a life is not an apology, but a life—what then?"

"Then fortunate is she who discovers it before it is too late. Large natures allow to others large liberties. A weak, self-indulgent man is apt to exercise a petty tyranny which must, in the end, win a noble woman's contempt."

"I know that, and the same rule must apply where noble men are concerned, and where the woman is narrow and petty."

"Yes, quite as well. If men, and women too, could only be true to their highest natures, only willing to marry such as would respond to the best within them, who would draw forth all their nobility and truth, then there would be perfect faith, perfect confidence; there could be no question of freedom, for there would be no question of bondage; it would take the life of one to complete the life of the other, each retaining his or her individuality, not the destroying of one that it might be lost in the other, but the joining of two symmetrical parts, the notes that make the music of one life finding the answering ones in the other to complete the chord."

"I understand," replied Theo. "Better the simplest melody carried by a single voice perfectly than an attempted concerto jarred and out of tune."

"Hand me that green book, Theo," directed auntie. "I want to read you what our friend Thoreau says." And Miss Janet turned over a few pages, then read:

"'Is your friend such a one that an increase of worth on your part will rarely make her more your friend? Is she retained, is she attracted by more nobleness in you, by more of that virtue which is peculiarly yours, or is she indifferent and blind to that? Is she to be flattered and won by your meeting her on any other than the ascending path? Then duty requires that you separate from her.'"

Theo held out her hand for the book, and for some time sat absorbed in it. Then she lifted up her head, saying,—

"Auntie, dear, you have done me so much good. I have felt too far away from you since we came to New York. Somehow, I don't know how it happened, but I have had to lock myself up. It is very nice to get out again and back to you, safe and sound. Oh, auntie, keep me very close: I am so much happier so." And then, with arms close about auntie, she whispered something in her ear, hiding her face on auntie's shoulder.

"My dear, my darling!" Miss Janet whispered back.

"Are you sorry?" asked Theo, again in a whisper.

"No, darling, no; very, very glad."

"Don't tell," again whispered Theo.

Auntie satisfied her on that point.

Then as the girl drew a long, quivering breath, she gathered her more closely to her, and the two sat for a long time in silence, till Val's energetic little rap gave notice of her approach.

"What are you doing here in the dark?" asked Val, feeling her way into the room.

"It gets dark so early," explained Theo, lifting her head. "Where have you been, Val? Archie would be highly indignant if he knew you were out alone after dark."

"Oh, Archie is too particular," replied Val. "Anyhow, I have just left him, 'a martyr going to the stake,' he said."

"Why, what did he mean?"

"His nonsense, of course. He was hard up, and was going to a cheap restaurant for dinner. I begged him to take me, and offered to foot the bill, but he said,—

"'No, that would be putting a premium on extravagance, that he needed the discipline; maybe it would make him more saving in the future.'"

"I am afraid Archie is extravagant," was Theo's comment. "I wish he could be more economical, for his own sake."

"He is so generous," explained auntie, "and has such a horror of penuriousness, that he errs in the other direction. But I think he is improving somewhat."

"Yes," replied Val; "he told me he could get through this month by eating twenty-five-cent dinners for a week. Dear old Arch!" she said, reflectively.

"Oh, by the way, Theo, what do you think we have been talking about?"

"I cannot imagine. It is difficult to guess the theme of conversation when you two are together."

"So it is; but this has a flavor of sense in it, this plan. We think it would be sort of cheery and nice to send Jack a Christmas stocking. Maybe you think it is too soon to be talking of Christmas, but really it isn't. We'll have to send it early, so as it will get to him in time; and then we want to think up a lot of absurdities to put in it. Don't you think it is a nice plan, auntie?"

"I do, indeed, and I'll venture to say Jack will enjoy it immeasurably."

As the time approached for the stocking to be sent, the ideas came thick and fast, and finally, Nannie, Val, Theo, and Archie spent one entire evening in preparation.

"Oh, Archie, do see!" "Oh, Archie, do look!" greeted his appearance as the girls held up their various contributions.

"Come over here, Archie. There, now you can take them in properly." And Val made room at the table, where a lighted lamp stood. "These are Nan's," and she displayed three supposed handkerchiefs, made from an old pillow-case. They were notched out with scissors, and decorated by the use of colored crayons. Each bore such legends as "Merry Christmas," "Happy New Year," "Good luck," "The rose is red," "The violet blue," with appropriate designs.

"I think they are magnificent. What next?" Archie asked, as he put them aside. "What in the world is this?" And he turned over a remarkably constructed something, looking at it with a puzzled countenance. "What on earth do you call it?" he inquired.

A broken wine-glass had been inverted, and surmounted with a rag doll-head and body without arms. The glass served as a skirt; the expression of the doll's face, rudely drawn in ink, was ludicrous indeed, and gave Val a fit of mirth every time she looked at it. The inscription read, "The Venus of Milo, as discovered by Miss Talcott."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw," said Archie. "Jack will enjoy it. Anything more original is not likely to come his way."

"It certainly will bring to his mind our own special kind of nonsense," said Val.

"It is in his mind pretty often, anyhow, I imagine," returned Archie.

Then Theo displayed a neck-tie made from an old silk handkerchief; into it was stuck a common pin of large size, with a knob of red sealing-wax on the end, for ornament.

Val next handed out a trumpery medal fastened to a bit of ribbon, which she had marked "Fool dres fob." Another medal was described as having been presented to a great-great-uncle in the War of the Roses by Billy the Kangaroo, "alias" William the Conqueror, such decidedly mixed historical data being considered very witty.

"We are silly," remarked Theo, as she read this last label. "That is worthy of a ten-year-old country school-boy's wit."

"Never mind," returned Val. "We want to be as silly as we know how to be on this occasion. Nothing is too insignificant. Jack will appreciate the effort."

"Effort?" repeated Theo, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, spontaneous jocosity, if you prefer a longer term. Don't throw cold water on our innocent pleasantry. Theo, come, hand over the next thing."

A small brass curtain-ring, carefully packed in jewellers' cotton, was next shown, and then Theo produced a five-cent watch lying in a fine velvet case.

"How elegant it looks!" commented Nannie. "The velvet case looks so important. Where are your donations, Archie?"

And a very much bent and battered stick-pin, an eye-glass with glass missing were added, and then an eye-glass hook was invented from a curtain-hook and a safety-pin.

"The stocking isn't near full," announced Val, who had been doing the packing, "and I thought we had so much. We'll have to rack our brains for more."

Archie searched around and found two small bits of soap, which were wrapped in a paper on which was written, "Good-morning, sir. Do you use Bear's soap?" A horn collar-button and set of studs constituted the next gift, and still there was room.

"I can't think of anything but relics," declared Archie. "Here is a little corkscrew that I found over there in an ink-bottle."

"Just think of a good inscription," returned Nannie, "and that will make it all right."

So Archie scribbled on the paper, "The corkscrew with which Columbus screwed up his courage when he set forth to discover America."

That gave a new impetus, and each one produced something similar.

Nannie handed over an old pen, labelled "The pen that settled Philadelphia."

Val added a small key, described as "The key to the broken heart of an old Colonial dame from Virginia;" and Theo, seeking among odds and ends, found one of the five-cent pewter spoons which she and Nannie had bought during their first days in New York. This she marked as having "seen stirring times during the Revolution."

And then for a short space of time, ideas failed.

But Val's wits were ready with the suggestion that they should in someway illustrate the familiar French fables, and a small wooden whistle went as "Le cor des Alpes," small photographs of Val and Archie as "Le singe et la guenon," Nannie with a bit of wax, modelled "Une tortne," and then the stocking was pronounced full.

"I had no idea it would hold so much," remarked Val. "Isn't it nice and fat? We must tie it securely at the top and pack it in a box."

"Suppose you paint 'Merry Christmas from the flock' on the outside," suggested Archie to Nannie.

So she brought her colors and marked it in red letters according to the suggestion.

"We ought to have sent him something really nice," said Nannie, as she made a final flourish with her brush.

"No, no," interposed Theo, earnestly; "that would have spoiled it all. Jack has always been so generous, and it would hurt him very much if he could not return our gifts. These will show him that we forget nothing in which he took part, and they will be more to him than anything we could buy."

"That is so," responded Archie, heartily, seeming much pleased that Theo had read Jack so well.

And truly, no Christmas stocking ever found its way to a lonelier hearth. Long and lovingly Jack dwelt on its contents, and blessed them all for the nonsense that gave him more cheer than any costly gifts could have bestowed. And when a letter from Mr. Smith told him of the legacy awaiting his twenty-fifth birthday, Jack felt as if the world were not such a dreary place after all, and he went about softly whistling, with the great hope in his heart of rejoining his friends in a near future.

CHAPTER XI.

ARCHIE DECIDES.

"ANOTHER disturbing time," said Val, curling her feet under her as she tucked her small self away in a big chair. "I hate these making up your mind spots to come. Don't you, Theo?"

"Yes," replied Theo; "although I must say, my own decisions were reached some time ago."

"Oh, you old Mother Bunch. Of course you want to go home. So do I, for that matter. But I do love New York, and I wish we could just keep on this way for years and years. It's all very well for people to say, 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead.' It isn't the going ahead that's hard, it's the being sure you're right. Now, if you and auntie could go to Europe with me, I should like it of all things. But when auntie leaves it all to me, I don't want quite so much to go."

"Auntie thinks we are old enough to exercise some judgment in such matters."

"Well, so we are."

"You will like the excitement of travelling and meeting people. You know you will, Val. I don't believe you would care to settle down quietly anywhere."

"Now, Theo."

"Oh, I don't mean that you would be unhappy with us, but that you are just the one to go about and be in a stir."

"I must confess I do like excitement," admitted Val, "but I wish you would go. You could, Theo. Don't you believe you could?"

"I wouldn't leave auntie alone; and if Archie decided to stay here, auntie would be alone. And if he decides to go back to Roseville, it would be deserting him, in a measure. So you see, that is the way of it. I should enjoy immensely a trip to Europe. Of course I should; but just now it seems better for me to stay here."

"And Nannie is going, too," observed Val.

"I shall miss you both," said Theo, a little sadly.

"And if Archie should not stay here, Mr. Smith will be disappointed, though he will not advise him to stay. How hard it is to suit everybody in this world, and how queer that we should all be in this uncertain state of mind just at the same time. What do you suppose Archie will conclude to do?"

"That will depend upon several things," replied Theo, thoughtfully.

"If it depends upon one thing, I should be willing to prophesy that he will not stay here," remarked Val.

"Don't prophesy," Theo warned. "Archie will do what he believes to be right, I am sure, no matter what may influence him."

"I know that. I wonder if I shall like travelling with Mrs. Westerly. She is a dear woman. But when one has to be day in and day out with a person, it is a pretty severe strain. I'd better say, no doubt, how will she like travelling with me. I think it is very good of her to be willing to do it."

"Why don't you try to persuade the Colonel to go, too?" asked Theo. "That would make it so pleasant for Mrs. Westerly: She is about as fond of her brother as I am of mine."

"That would be a scheme," agreed Val. "I'll begin to coax the Colonel to-night. I don't believe he will consent to stay two years, though he might as well as not. Think of it, Theo. Two whole years to stay away! Don't it seem an age?"

"It does, certainly; and yet we have been in New York nearly that long."

"I wonder what will happen before I get back," said Val, thoughtfully. "So much might, you know; it makes me dread going so far away."

"I wouldn't take a gloomy view of it. We shall all probably live along in a jog-trot sort of a way while you are flying about acquiring information. I believe I do envy you a little bit, Val."

"But not enough to make up your mind to go with us; and it would be such an advantage to you, Theo."

"No more tempting, if you please," returned Theo, shaking her head determinedly. "'I'se 'bleedged to stay,' as Mammy would say."

"I know one thing that I think will happen before I get back," said Val, suddenly. "Jack will come back. I was talking to the Colonel yesterday, and he said he did not think Jack would stay away much longer. Why, Theo, do you know anything? You look so—so funny."

"Do I look funny?" And Theo turned her head so Val could see only the tips of two very pink little ears.

But that did not satisfy Val, who got up and went around directly in front of Theo, looking at her searchingly. But Theo would not give her so much as a glance.

"Look at me," ordered Val, peremptorily.

And Theo raised her eyes with a look in them half proud, half deprecating.

"Theo, you're a fraud," was Val's only comment. Then she walked away, and for some time stood looking out of the window in silence.

Theo did not follow her, nor did she in any way contradict Val's assertion.

And presently Nannie came in, full of her own plans for the next year.

"Just think, girls," she said. "I have been to see Miss Van Arsdale, and she has given me a lot of points about Paris. She was there for three years, you know, and knows all about it,—all the cheap places and everything,—and if I can get another girl to go with me, we can live so economically. Oh, if you all could go, it would be so nice; but I suppose there is no use hoping for it. I have exhausted all my eloquence on you, Theo, so I shall have to give up that idea. Miss Van Arsdale told me of a cunning apartment that she thinks I can get. Some friends of hers are occupying it now, but they are going to leave very soon; and I'm going to write about it right away. I'll have to furnish it with trunk-trays and things; but I can manage, I know."

"Trunk-trays!" exclaimed Val.

"Yes; don't you know? I can make tops of tables and all sorts of things that way. I know how. To-morrow I am going to see Katherine Armistead. She half thought she would go over; and if she finds how much we can save by going together, I believe she will join me. She is such a nice girl; I am sure we could get along together. Oh, girls! Just think—my dream is to be fulfilled, my dream of going to Paris! It is so good of mamma not to object. She said if I could live there as cheaply as here, and if I could find some nice somebody to go with me, she would give her consent. I have saved enough for my passage; so, of course, if I can induce Katherine to go, there will be nothing at all in the way. And, oh, Val! I shall see you over there. You have decided to go, haven't you?"

"I am deciding," replied Val. "If the Colonel will go, I will; it would be so nice to have him to squabble with. I should never feel like squabbling with Mrs. Westerly. I couldn't 'get a rise out of her,' as Archie says. She would smile me down in that gently tolerant way she has, and there would be no fun in trying to tease her. But the Colonel,—I love to 'sass' the Colonel. He never gets used to it, and it would be so exciting, especially when he didn't know the language and I did. We could have such spats, and I could put him down so nicely with my superior knowledge. Oh, I do hope he will go. When shall you sail, Nan?"

"Oh, I don't know; as soon as I can. I am poring over sailing lists and getting cheap rates and comparing different routes now; so I shall come to a conclusion before long. I wish we could go over together, but you will probably be taking some steamer whose rates would ruin me. And then I shall probably be sailing before you are ready to go."

"What a breaking up it will be," said Theo. "Auntie and I will have to console each other and Archie."

"Oh, Archie would be happy anywhere," remarked Nannie, lightly. "I don't believe he would care much where he went; he would always manage to have a good time."

But Archie did care, for when that evening Nannie told him of her plans, he listened a little impatiently. "How long shall you be away?" he asked.

"How can I tell?" answered Nannie, smiling. "As long as I can get needful study, but not too long to stamp me as a foreigner. I believe too much in the future of American art to content myself with a whole life spent in exile."

"Then you don't want to go?" he said, brightening up.

"Oh, yes, I do, above all things; it has been my dream for years. I shall not even be content if I am fortunate enough to exhibit once in the Salon. I shall work and work till I can stand entirely alone wherever I may be."

"But maybe you will not always want to stand alone," suggested Archie.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"You might marry; women do sometimes."

"I shall not."

"I wouldn't be too sure."

"But I don't want to. I think there are some women who are happier single. I love my work better than I could any man; or, at least, I should never be willing to give it up for any other life."

"Perhaps you would not be called upon to do that."

"Oh, well, maybe, if I could meet some great artist who could be generous enough to allow me to work side by side with him, I might think of it. But there is hardly the remotest possibility of that."

"And no one else could ever persuade you?"

"No, indeed," laughed Nannie, looking at him with clear eyes. "I am quite sure. How you men do love to argue a woman into giving up a career. You cannot convince me that I do not know myself. I do, and am delighted at my prospect of a free, unhampered life. I want to paint, and I don't want to keep house, and go to market, and bother about servants and shirt-buttons and gas-bills. I don't want to be held responsible for my misdemeanors or mistakes to any one but Nannie Talcott, spinster."

"A woman need not be hampered because she is married."

"She needn't be always, but she generally is, anyhow. Oh, Archie, what is the use of keeping up the argument? This is not a case at law. Go to, good barrister, tell me your plans. This has been a great week for decisions. We each seem to have come to some Rubicon."

"I am going back to Virginia," said Archie, slowly.

"Oh, are you? I felt sure you would stay here."

"Why?"

"I don't know. A big city seems to offer more opportunities. Mr. Smith is so fond of you, and would, no doubt, be able to send you many a client."

"No doubt."

"How laconic you are. And then, oh, I don't know, but I should think you would like it here. You will find it stupid to go back to a little place after being here, I'm afraid."

Archie did not reply.

"Don't you think you will find it stupid?" asked Nannie, finding her remarks met no response.

"I don't know whether I shall or not."

"What is the matter, Archie?" inquired Nannie, looking at him curiously. "You don't seem like yourself."

"Oh, nothing," and Archie roused himself. "I was just lost in thought. To tell you the truth, Nannie, I was meditating most seriously upon your remarks. Yes, I shall be stupid. I am stupid. I was stupid."

"Goose! I didn't say you were stupid. I said you would find a small place stupid after New York. You were not listening at all."

"Yes, I was; but nevertheless I am. I was stupid. I reckon I'd best go back and stay with auntie and Theo. I'd spend too much money here, and I'd be on my uppers before long."

"Oh, nonsense!"

"It's a fact. I seem to be given over to wastefulness."

"I thought you were improving. Theo said you were. That's all talk, Archie. You have more strength of mind than to be utterly spendthrifty."

"No, I haven't. You don't know me. Why, I can't pass a shop-window without being seized with an inordinate desire to go in and buy everything displayed. The other day I was on the point of purchasing eight different kinds of pie, they presented such a tempting array in quarter-sections all along in a row in a window. But, fortunately, as I was trying to decide which I would eat first, I realized that I could not possibly consume them all, and the fact confronted me that some would have to be left, and that alone saved me from buying the whole lot. No, I shall go back to Roseville, where they do not exhibit pie in the windows, and then I shall be able to save up all my pennies, hiding them away in a stocking, between rafters or mattresses or some such place. So when your Salon picture is offered for sale, I shall be able to buy it."

Archie had recovered himself, and was running on in his usual style.

"How nice!" declared Nannie. "It will be such an incentive to me. I suppose you will not mind what subject I choose?"

"No; as long as it isn't the heathen mothers throwing their infants to the crocodiles, or the car of Juggernaut, or any of those unpleasant things."

Nannie laughed. "I can safely promise it will be none of those. I don't see why you chose law as a profession, if you are so tender-hearted. I suppose you'll always let the villains go scot free."

"Not a bit of it. In my judicial capacity, I am inflexible; it is only gory subjects in pictures to which I object."

"Seriously, though," continued Nannie, "shall you really go back to Virginia?"

"Seriously—very seriously."

"Oh, you know what I mean, silly."

"I know what you mean; yes."

"Well, then, talk about it like a rational being. Speaking of your being admitted to the bar, how do you do?"

"I am quite well, I thank you. How are you?"

Nannie laughed. "Archie, you are the most utterly incorrigible person I ever saw. Now, I forget what I was going to ask you. Oh, yes; now do be sensible and tell me. After you have been admitted somewhere, you can practise anywhere, can't you?"

"Is that a riddle? It sounds like it. After I have—no—after you have been admitted anywhere, you can practise somewhere. Was that it? Ask it over again, Nannie?"

"Archie Nelson, you can be the most absurd person I ever saw. I shall not ask you anything."

"All right," said Archie, briskly. "I didn't know the answer to that, anyhow."

Then, as Nannie kept silence, he went on, "I'll be good, Nan. Yes, I have decided to go back to Virginia. I think my chances there are as good as anywhere. An old friend of my father's, Squire Meredith, made me an offer before I came here, and the offer still holds good."

"That is Jessie Meredith's father?"

"Yes; the Squire has no sons, and will, in time, give up his practice to me. I shall go in with him, win my laurels, take my native State by storm, conduct some famous suit, be called Squire, run for Judge, be elected, grow wise and old on the bench, and die full of years and honors. There you have it. You could not ask a fuller account."

"I am so glad to know," laughed Nannie. "What a comfort it must be to have one's future so positively arranged."

"It is," acquiesced Archie. "You see if it doesn't turn out just as I say."

"And you'll buy my first Salon picture?"

"Provisionally."

"That is, if the subject is not gory?"

"Exactly."

"Very well; I depend upon you."

And then, an interruption came in their talk,—Val and Theo entered excitedly.

"Where have you two been?" asked Nannie. "Archie has been here ever so long waiting for you."

"I wasn't waiting, especially," remarked he.

"Well, you've been here a long time; ever since Miss Nelson and I came in from dinner. Where were you, girls?"

"Why, we went to dinner with the Colonel," explained Theo, "and Val has actually persuaded him to go to Europe with her and Mrs. Westerly."

"Really?"

"Yes; so that is one thing settled."

"From what Archie says, there is another thing settled; he says he has decided to return to his native heath," Nan informed them.

"Oh, Archie!" from both the girls.

Archie nodded, confirming Nannie's statement.

"Have you really made up your mind?" said Theo, going over and sitting down by him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Archie turned, and gave her a little faint, reassuring smile. "That is about it," he answered.

Theo made no comment, but slipped her hand in his arm, giving it a little squeeze.

"I thought you would be delighted, and you look half disappointed," averred Nannie.

Theo looked at her steadily, but there was not a shadow of consciousness in the honest eyes which met hers. "I am very, very glad Archie is not going to desert us," replied Theo, "if it is best for him."

"It is best for me," said Archie, quietly.

"And auntie will be overjoyed," declared Val. "I can imagine just how delighted she will be. I think it has given her a great pang every time she considered the possibility of losing you, Archie. Have you told her?"

"Not yet. I will go now and tell her."

Later Archie took his leave, but it was not to go directly to his rooms.

Long past midnight he was walking the streets, but whatever conflict went on, he never told of it, and was as sweet and sunny as ever the next time the girls saw him; so that even Theo did not suspect what hope her brother had buried that spring midnight.

CHAPTER XII.

"UNDER GREEN APPLE-BOUGHS."

A LIGHT breeze blew softly through the open doorway of the old home at Roseville. Busy brown bees were making a drowsy hum among the blossoms overhanging the porch; upon the garden slope, apple-trees sent with every little gust of perfume-laden air a shower of rose-touched petals to the ground; birds sang blithely in the as yet delicately clad trees near the house, a flash of blue across the gray-green foliage denoting the presence of a blue-bird, or a burnished orange redbreast showing vividly against the grass of the lawn, telling that a robin had returned to his May-time haunts.

Instead of Eldorado Ann, a little colored girl was cleaning knives by the kitchen-door, once in a while joining in soft accord with Mammy, whose singing came in snatches through the window as she worked away.

"When Eve eat de apple,

When Eve eat de apple,

When Eve eat de apple,

Oh, what a tryin' time!"

sang Mammy.

"When she gib de co' to Adam,

When she gib de co' to Adam,

When she gib de co' to Adam,

Oh, what a tryin' time!"

came in response from Tatty, energetically applying her piece of raw potato to a knife-blade.

"Hyar, you Tatty! What you 'bout?" inquired Mammy, coming to the door. "Don' yuh know Miss Theo done tell yuh ter come ter her ez soon as dem knives is done? How long yuh reckon she gwine ter wait?"

"'Deed, Aunt Jane, I mos' done," Tatty replied, viewing a blade critically. "Dese yer little spotty places ter'ble hard to git off'n de knives. I hu'yin' all I kin."

"Den don' was'e yo' bref on Adam, er dey'll be tryin' times fer yuh sho' 'nough," replied Mammy, returning to her work, her own voice in a few moments rising shrilly to,—

"Air dey writin', air dey writin', air dey writin' on de wall?"

"How good it does sound to hear Mammy!" said Theo, coming into her aunt's room. "And oh, auntie, how good it is altogether! Aren't you glad we came home first? Much as I love Archie and Val, somehow or other I can get hold of everything better when just you and I are here alone. I mean just at first. I feel as if I could put my arms around everything, and hug the whole place with everything on it, up close to me, I love it so. Did you ever see any one so happy as Mammy is to have us back again? And Tatty is as pleased as Punch to be here. She grins all the time. Why, the blessed boy! Did he come to find Mitty?"

And Theo stooped to pick up her cat, Ishmael, who had followed her up-stairs.

Posie-Cossie, who was lying at Miss Nelson's feet, raised his head and regarded Ishmael fixedly. The two pets had not come to strictly amicable terms as yet, though they behaved with great propriety. Ishmael assumed an air of supreme indifference, while Posie-Cossie once in a while made playful overtures, by leaping forward with a short bark, and then hastily retreating if Ishmael turned his eyes upon him.

"Mrs. Lewis says that Ishmael would never go near my room all the time we were away," said Theo, "and the very first evening I was at home, he came up and established himself on the window-seat. The idea of saying cats have no love for persons, only for places! I think I shall find it very interesting to study the two, and note the difference between feline and canine qualities. There, I must go. I hear Tatty. I told her to come up and help me with Val's room when Mammy could spare her. Isn't it a satisfaction to know Eldorado Ann is so contented at Lyndehurst? I had no idea she would be."

"It is the very place for her," returned Miss Nelson. "Mammy could never quite conceal her contempt for 'po' white trash,' and Eldorado Ann could not be expected to brook Mammy's control. But with Mrs. Barton it will be different, and Eldorado Ann will doubtless develop into a good, honest woman, with wholesome ideas."

"Then, too, it is a good thing for Tommy," said Theo; "so Eldorado Ann's discontent turned out to very good advantage after all, and Mammy is having a fine time training Tatty."

"Mammy is nothing if not dictatorial," rejoined auntie. "She quite resented my modernizing my dress. That I should go on the street without a wrap quite scandalized her. I wish you could have heard the severe tone in which she said, 'Law, Miss Janet, yuh ain't gwine out in yo' figgur, is yuh?'"

Theo laughed. "That is so like Mammy," she said. Then she turned to the window, saying, "What a beautiful May-day it is! I can hardly keep in-doors. I am so glad they are all coming home to such loveliness. And to think this afternoon, we will all be together, just as we used to be. You don't know how much has rolled off since I came home. I believe I felt all the burdens of humanity pressing upon me three months ago, and here I forget so many disagreeable things. I can't forget everything," she added, after a pause.

"That would be unwise," laughed Miss Nelson. "We are no lotus-eaters, dear; we have work to do in this world which we must take up with stout, brave hearts. I should be sorry to have you lapse into a life of dreamy idleness."

"No danger," replied Theo, smiling. "There are too many things to interest me. I have a dozen schemes on foot already, and am puzzling over the best way of carrying them out. Now I really must go. I cannot spend any more time here, pleasant as it is to chatter. I want to find more violets for Val's room, and I must put some apple-blossoms in the blue pitcher for Archie."

"Mr. Smith thought he might come, you know. What can you find for the guest-room?"

"I'll find something," responded Theo. "There is no lack of blossoms, and the wild-flowers are crowding the hill-sides. Can't you come with me, auntie?"

"No, I am afraid not. I have a number of things on hand. You'll have to do the decorative part, and I'll attend to the substantials."

Theo went into Val's room, where Tatty was wiping up the hearth. "Get some fresh water for all the rooms, Tatty," she directed, "and ask Miss Nelson for towels. Don't shut the window; we want all the out-doors we can get. Did you shake the table-cover well? Now I think Miss Janet has something for you to do. I am going to the woods. Oh, yes, Tatty, find the old blue pitcher and put it in Mr. Archie's room."

And then, picking up her hat, Theo went out into the spring sunshine, through the garden and down the little path that led to the nearest piece of woods.

The whole world seemed to be pulsating with expectancy. Slender twigs bore bursting buds; the curling fronds of tall ferns were gradually unrolling to the genial warmth; tufts of green at first attracted the eye to sunny spots which showed upon closer observation young buds pushing soft pink tips through downy sheaths; an advance guard of little buff butterflies hovered over a muddy place in the path where a small stream crossed, which, tinkling on, lost itself under boughs of low willows swinging pendulous streamers across the little flecks of foam which every now and then leaped over the pebbles.

Then she turned towards home.

But Theo did not stop for anemone or iris, nor even for a saucy Jack-in-the-pulpit. She was looking for violets, and she knew her ground; for, turning towards a sunny slope rising from the little stream, "Blue ran the flash across," and in a few moments, she had her hands full.

Then she turned towards home, stopping on the way for a branch of dogwood, and gathering from a favorite tree apple-blossoms which showed a livelier pink than any others in the garden.

"What a happy-looking girlie!" was Miss Janet's greeting as she entered. "You look the very embodiment of spring with your blossoms."

"Aren't they lovely!" said Theo. "I thought this was such a pretty branch of dogwood. Shall I put it in the guest-room?"

"Wouldn't it look better in the hall? You can find something sweeter for Mr. Smith, I am sure."

"Bless his dear old heart! Of course I can. There, those go nicely in this big vase. Now I'll arrange the others, and it will be nearly time for the train. Would you go to meet them, auntie?"

"I hardly think it worth while. Take a little rest. You have been so energetic to-day, I should think you would be tired out."

"I hadn't thought of it before, but I believe I am. I'll take this magazine up-stairs and look it over between whiles. Lie down yourself, auntie. There's a lot of time, for the train is always late."

But this time, for a wonder, the train arrived on time.

And Theo, deep in her magazine, was surprised by Tatty's voice announcing, "Hyar dey come, Miss Theo; hyar dey come, bag an' baggage."

"Oh, Val, where are you?" cried Theo, as she sped down-stairs.

But it was not upon Val that her eyes rested as she entered the room; it was upon a tall, manly figure which at that moment seemed to shut out everything else from her vision. And she sprang past the others, all her soul in her eyes, and her pulses flying fast, as she exclaimed, "Oh, Jack!"

And poor, dear, obtuse Jack would never have seen at all, would never have fathomed the gladness, the tenderness in Theo's tone, if sly little Val had not said, teasingly, "When you have done feasting your eyes upon Jack, Theo, perhaps you will have a word to say to me."

And then Theo, too, realized what it meant, and she flushed and was so confused that, after all, she did not even shake hands with the dear boy, but hid her confusion in the effusive greeting she bestowed upon Val, while Jack's face wore such a look of gladness as it had not shown for many a long day.

And after a little while, Val slipped out. Then her guardian, with a twinkle in his eye, responded to Val's mute little gesture, and the two were left together; for when Theo attempted to follow the others, Jack stopped her, and, looking down at the drooping head, said, "Theo, Theo, is it true?"

"Is what true?" was Theo's response, almost in a whisper.

"That you are glad to see me," was Jack's rather lame reply.

But to Theo, the sentence was full of meaning, and she did not realize that this was their first word together for many months. She only felt that it was enough to have Jack back again, and that to lose him would be more than she could bear. So she looked up, with her sweet eyes revealing all that was in her heart, though she said again only "Oh, Jack!"

But that was quite sufficient. They both knew the rest; and Jack felt that all the blessings of heaven and earth had been promised him in that one little exclamation.

And then auntie, who had been detained by Val, came in, and was so glad to see the boy that she gave him as loving a greeting as she could have bestowed upon Archie.

"Where is Archie?" asked Theo, just realizing that some one was missing.

And Val, who had followed auntie, with a little mirthful laugh at Theo's expense, explained that Archie had discovered that some mistake had been made about the baggage, and had stopped to have the matter inquired into.

"Do tell us all about yourself, Jack. What a surprise you have given us, to be sure," said Miss Nelson.

"Well," replied Jack, "there isn't much to tell. Things didn't turn out very well in Florida. The man of whose plantation I had charge had not had much experience, and insisted upon trying all sorts of experiments. We had a snapping frost just at the wrong time, and that finished him up; so I wandered over to Texas, and there I fell in with Jim Downs. I was pretty blue and miserable, and Jim offered me a living, so I took his offer; but that wretched fever got hold of me and nearly finished me. It didn't seem wise for me to stay down there another season and risk my health."

"I should think not," interposed Miss Nelson.

"So," continued Jack, "when Mr. Smith wrote, telling me I was not quite a pauper, I was ready enough to pull up stakes, I can tell you."

"You can imagine how I felt when the old fellow walked into the office one day," said Archie, who had come in. "I don't think I was ever so glad to see anybody in my life. But he hasn't told you half. Such tales and such adventures! You ought to hear them. I have managed to extract a few facts from him, but I'll venture to say he has a lot more to tell. You would suppose from what he has told you that he had been sitting around in an aimless sort of a way, or else driving up a few sheep; but, my goodness! If you can get him in the mood—I always knew Jack wouldn't stay in the background. If you can only get him warmed up to tell how he saved Jim Downs's life, and how he got on the track of a mail-robber, and how he saved a man from being lynched—my goodness! People, you don't know what a hero you are entertaining."

"Now, Arch! Now, Arch!" Jack kept expostulating. "What do you bring up those things for?" he said, as Archie concluded. "I just told you because you were so persistent, and I thought you would be amused by my cowboy exploits. Don't go and blow about them."

That evening, Jack disclosed to Theo his plans. "I have been talking to Mr. Smith," he said. "You don't know what a brick he is. We are going to look at a piece of property down this way that Mr. Smith thinks will make a good manufacturing site. He proposes to start the concern, and I am to manage it, if the matter is consummated."

"Then you will not have to go away again."

"Are you sorry?" asked Jack, smiling. But before she could answer, he said, repentantly, "That wasn't a fair question. I know you are glad. You are too true, too sincere, dear, for any pretence."

"I shall not pretend, and, after the abominable way I have treated you, you deserve to know that I am more than glad."

"I have so little to offer you now," said Jack. "My little fortune is very small, Theo, but I shall work faithfully, and perhaps it need not be hard for you."

"We will work together," replied Theo, "and we shall be ever so much happier for having to make a few sacrifices for each other. I am very glad you haven't all that money. You are twice as valuable to me without it. Come, Jack, let us go down to the apple-trees. I want you to see how full they are of blossoms this year."

"And we will stay here together, Theo, always," said Jack, looking around at the fair scene.

"Always, together," repeated Theo.

And then they both looked up at the wreaths of bloom, and smiled.

"Dear, good Mr. Smith!" said Theo to Archie, a few days later, as they talked over Jack's prospects. "Imagine his ever being called 'that disagreeable Mr. Smith.'"

Archie laughed. "He isn't always honey," he replied. "At times, he is the most irritable man I ever saw. I've had the opportunity of becoming pretty well acquainted with his moods. But he has a heart of gold, though he doesn't show it to everybody."

"No. I realize that his 'seamy side' appears to be the best known, but we know what he is, no matter what the rest of the world think."

"I am glad he is going to give himself a rest; it will do him a world of good to take a long trip, and Val has a way of mellowing him up that no one else has."

"I'm sure you have," said Theo.

"Sometimes; but he never can withstand Val. Where is Jack?" Archie asked, suddenly.

"He is talking to auntie," said Theo, a little confusedly. "There is the Colonel now, Arch. I want to speak to him," and running down the steps, Theo met Mr. Smith, who was coming up the walk.

"I want to thank you, Colonel," she said, "for all your kindness to Archie, and to—to Jack," she added.

Mr. Smith looked at her quizzically, as he answered, "I have done very little, not enough to merit any very great depth of gratitude."

Then he continued, very seriously, "Nothing could gratify me more than what you have done for Jack."

Theo looked up shyly, but with a happy smile. "You helped me there more than any one. You showed me Jack's goodness better than any one else did. I wonder at my blindness now."

Just then, Jack came out of the house, and seeing Archie on the porch alone, sat down on the step by him. Archie regarded him with satisfaction. "You're the happiest-looking fellow I ever saw," he said.

"I have reason to be," replied Jack, his eyes seeking Theo, who was walking slowly towards the house with Mr. Smith.

"Well, you do seem mighty glad to get back to us," remarked Archie.

Then, following Jack's glance towards Theo, he caught the gentle smile with which she answered his look, and he turned to Jack suddenly.

"I believe I am as blind as a mole," he said. "You old duplicitous rascal! I've a mind to pound you."

Jack laughed. Jack's laugh was always good to hear, but this time it was the embodiment of happiness. "Pound away," he said.

But, instead, Archie held out his hand and gave Jack's such a grip as left no doubt of his feelings.

CHAPTER XIII.

SEPARATIONS.

"THIS is the day Nan sails," announced Val at the breakfast-table a few days later.

"And to think we are none of us there to see her off," said Theo, regretfully.

"Oh, she'll not want for friends," responded Val. "Her own family will be there, the Parkhursts and all, and a lot of the League students. Katherine Armistead is going too, you know, and there will be any number of people to wish her 'bon voyage.'"

"Yes, I know; but I'll venture to say she will miss us."

"Just to think of it! I'll be the next one to go," said Val. "It makes me feel creepy whenever the thought comes to me. Now, Colonel, don't look at me with that judicial expression of yours. I don't doubt there are cold crims going down your own back this blessed minute."

"What are crims?" asked Jack.

"Oh," replied Val, nothing abashed, "they are something between chills and creeps."

"And creeps?"

"Find out for yourself," retorted Val. "If your imagination cannot supply a meaning, you aren't very inventive. We know, don't we, Archie?" nodding in the direction of her cousin.

"H'm. What? I wasn't listening," responded Archie. And rising with some muttered excuse, he left the table abruptly.

For the rest of the day, no one of them saw him, though in the evening he appeared, calm and unruffled, but nobody asked him to account for his absence.

"Is Jack anywhere about?" asked Mr. Smith, coming into the sitting-room where Miss Nelson was.

"He and Theo have gone to Preston," Miss Nelson informed him. "Come in, Colonel; I want to talk to you. I feel very happy about those two, but they must not think of marrying yet. Shouldn't you say so?"

Mr. Smith was thoughtful.

"Theo is too young," continued Miss Nelson. "At least, in my opinion, a girl should be fully developed, mentally, morally, and physically, before she takes the responsibilities of married life upon her."

"And a man should be equally so, and furthermore, should be fully established in business," asserted Mr. Smith. "It won't hurt them to wait a couple of years. You have heard Jack's plans?"

"Yes. I suppose any more thanks would burden you, Mr. Smith, but you know what I think."

Mr. Smith waived aside any continuance of that special subject, and went on, saying, "The site I have selected for our enterprise is between here and Preston, you know."

"And you think they could live at Preston?"

"Could they not?"

"I should think very easily. I should be glad to have it so, for Cousin Betty's sake. In leaving the place to Theo, I think she hoped it might eventually be Theo's home."

"Jack is not rich, you know."

"No, but the present manager of Preston is quite capable of making the most out of the place, and it need not be kept up expensively. We are not worldly-minded, as you know, Colonel, yet I must confess to having had a small regret for the vanished wealth, though I have tried to repress it. I should like to feel that Theo had an abundance."

"She is not the girl to care," returned Mr. Smith; "and they will always have enough; there is little doubt of that. Jack has the elements of a successful man in him,—force, perseverance, and energy; otherwise I should not, from purely selfish motives, care to consider this scheme."

"Tell me just when you expect to consummate your plans."

"I shall probably complete the sale in a few days, and the ground will be broken at once for the building, which I shall hope may be carried on as speedily as possible. Jack will remain here to see that it is. I do not say to Val how long I shall remain with her and my sister, but certainly not more than six months. One of my objects in going to England is to attend to business there connected with this very enterprise. I should like to interest some foreign capitalists in my project, and then I can believe our success is assured."

"How glad I am we are not to lose Jack from our midst. He can find a pleasant boarding-place, I am sure, and everybody will be happy."

"And—yes, it is better for those two to wait. I quite agree with you, Miss Nelson, for many reasons. Too many young people plunge into matrimony with nothing ahead for a rainy day. Then comes illness and trouble, and with trouble often discontent, recrimination on one side, bitterness on the other, and finally a breach which can never be healed. A little foresight and patience might have saved the victim of many an unhappy marriage from much misery. The trouble is, it all seems smooth sailing, and youth forgets to look out for breakers ahead."

"It would be too much to expect a perfectly peaceful voyage for our young people. Theo is a little obstinate, and Jack is determined and has something of a temper; so I have no doubt those qualities will give rise to some disquieting moments. But they are only flaws in otherwise admirable characters, or rather they are faults of disposition rather than of character."

"We cannot expect to meet angels walking the earth," remarked Mr. Smith.

"No. Jack and Theo are quite human, but their future happiness lies in the entire respect they have for each other. Neither has anything to withhold from the other. They are both very truthful, honorable, and sincere, so what may disturb them will likely be a very small tempest. I do not believe my children are phenomenal, though I have been criticised for thinking them incapable of many little defects too often very palpable in young people."

"They are not, perhaps, phenomenal, but they represent examples of a fine order. I should be sorry if there were not more such," responded Mr. Smith.

"I should be sorry, indeed. What would become of our standards, if no one nearly approached them?"

"The trouble is that the majority of young people are very 'heady' nowadays. We are old-fashioned, Miss Janet, and we believe that the majority of young people are not as fine as 'the flock.' I am quite sure, too, that there are many persons who have never come across such really fine types; so they are very incredulous when told that such boys and girls can and do exist."

"And what of Archie? I sometimes feel very anxious for my boy."

"Don't worry about Archie; there is good stuff in him. He is sure to make his way. I don't say he will ever win great distinction, but he will win friends. And I believe he is better suited to this locality than to New York, where a certain keenness and wiliness are needful. Yes, I think Archie has decided wisely: his people know him and he knows his people. There is a great deal in that. Then, too, Archie's temptations will be fewer here."

"I think he recognizes that," replied Miss Nelson, "and believes his only chance of saving is to be where there is little temptation to spend. That is the lion in Archie's path; but you relieve me immensely, Colonel. These have been anxious days for most of us, and to feel that the way is made straight is a great comfort."

Miss Nelson was silent for a few moments, and then she turned again to her friend.

"And Val," she said, "our little Val, she is such a bright, merry little soul, we shall miss her sadly. I hope her travels may not spoil her. My last little child leaves me with Val." And auntie sighed.

Then she continued: "Since we seem to be criticising them all, I must say how gratified I am at Val's improvement. She has overcome much that I once feared would mar her. She has not as deep, as intense a nature as Theo, but she is, perhaps, better balanced in consequence. Impulsive and demonstrative as she seems, she really has good judgment; she is losing her love of admiration in some degree, or rather she desires now to be admired more for any real merit she may possess than for her looks or her coquetries. And yet I dread her going from me, even into as good hands as your sister's."

"Val will be immensely improved by travel," Mr. Smith assured her, "and though she may come back a full-fledged young lady, she will be a very charming one, I'll guarantee. I have promised the child to go with her to some impossible place," he said, rising. "She has no regard for my old bones, and I am to climb rocks and slide down banks for her amusement this afternoon."

Which meant that Val had insisted upon her guardian going to the woods with her, saying, pathetically, that Theo had Jack, and Archie had gone off by his "loney." So she had no one, for auntie was busy, and there was no one left, and she was lonesome; so wouldn't the Colonel take her to the woods? She was afraid to go alone, and she was blue, so nothing but the woods would cure her. And there was such an irresistible expression in her big blue eyes that the Colonel consented, though he knew she would lead him a dance.

The place was very quiet after they had all gone out. Auntie was taking her nap. Mammy had finished her work and was sitting, clumsily mending an apron. Tatty, down in the garden, was amusing herself with Posie-Cossie, who had been sent home by each outgoing party, and was inconsolable till Tatty came to his rescue.

Presently Mammy felt two soft hands over her eyes. Theo had returned from her drive, and had come to consult Mammy on some domestic question.

"I knows dem han's," said Mammy. "I'se knowed 'em uvver sence dey was little teenchy bits o' baby han's. Yuh cyarnt fool yo' old Mammy."

Theo laughed and came around in front of the old woman.

"What are you doing, Mammy?" she asked.

"I'se tryin' ter patch up dis yer ole ap'on, honey; hit's good 'nuff fur was'in' water on, an' meal, an' dat kin' er truck. Somehow er, 'nuther, my ole eyes isn't es good es dey was, an' hit tek me a pow'ful time," and Mammy wiped her glasses and laid them aside.

Theo took them up and examined them.

"Why, Mammy, what glasses are these?"

"Dey de ones my ole mammy wo', honey. Dey's jis' es good es dey uvver was."

Theo turned over the big spectacles with their broad steel rims. "Why, Mammy, you can't see with them, don't you know? Why, ever so long ago you were using them. I got you another pair, didn't I?"

"Yuh sutt'nly did, chile. I rickleck jes' es easy how yuh come an' say,—

"'Mammy, what yuh tryin' 'er do?'

"An' I say, 'I th'eadin' a needle, but hit mus' hev a cu'ious little eye.'

"An' yuh takin' hit outen my han' an' th'ead it jes es easy; an' I say, 'My, my!'"

"Yes; and I found that these glasses did not suit you at all."

"Den," continued Mammy, "yuh goes down street, an' comes home with a whole mess o' specs, an' I tries 'em on, fust one, then t'other, till I sees mos' like I hed new eyes." Mammy dwelt upon this with much satisfaction.

"But what has become of those glasses? Are they broken?"

"Naw, indeedy, dey isn't. Dey is brandy-spandy, jes' es bright es dey wus dat day."

"Then what is the matter with them? Why don't you wear them?"

"Law, honey," exclaimed Mammy, "yuh reckon I gwine ter 'hack' 'em? Uh, uh! I w'ars 'em to church an' Sundays, but dese yer is whole es dey uvver was, an' I 'bleedged to w'ar 'em out. What good 'nough fur my ole mammy, good 'nough fur me."

Theo laughed till Mammy was really offended and cast injured looks at her "baby," as she still continued to call Theo.

But no amount of persuasion on Theo's part could convince the old woman that it would not be a wilful extravagance to put aside her old spectacles, and she continued to wear them "week-days."

Mammy's delight in Theo's plans was very great. She greatly approved of "Mars' Jack," and she talked of the "weddin'" whenever Theo would allow her an opportunity, expatiating upon the glories of the cake she would bake, and feeling quite indignant that Theo would not promise to invite half the county.

"Dat ain't no way ter hev' a weddin'," she would say when Theo explained her modest plans. "Why, honey, when my ole mistis' got ma'ied dey wasn't scasely room to step roun' de house, an' de ca'ages blocked up de whole place outside. What yuh reckon yo' grandma say ter dat sorter little no-'count weddin' yuh 'scribe? I say, Miss Val do better 'n dat. She mek mo' show. Yuh better look out, Miss Theo; Miss Val be finer 'n yuh."

"I don't care; I hope she will," was Theo's reply. "I should love to have her be as fine as she likes."

And Mammy had no further argument to bring, though again and again she recurred to the subject.

Mr. Smith returned to New York a few days after this, having completed the arrangements for his business projects. And Jack forthwith was plunged into the preliminary management.

Val was all excitement over her proposed trip, and the preparations for this occupied the minds of Miss Nelson and Theo as much as of Val herself. Finally, she started off in company with Mr. Smith, who had come down for a final consultation with Jack.

And now it was Val who was to see the world, while Theo remained quietly at home, to watch the twittering birds coming and going under the eaves of the old house, to see the seasons change the familiar trees from green to russet, and to dream away the hours contentedly in her little corner of the universe for the three years that lay ahead of this parting.

CHAPTER XIV.

ARCHIE'S CLIENT.

AS time went on, the lives of those of "the flock" remaining at Roseville settled into a quiet routine, the main excitement coming from the letters received from Val and Nannie.

Val was enjoying herself hugely, and wrote spirited, graphic descriptions of her travels, of the people she met, and of her own little experiences. Once in a while, there crept in a small word of longing for home and auntie, for Theo and the old quiet days, but that was when the little traveller was tired or not feeling well. As a rule, she wrote in a rollicking strain, and they all felt that she was enjoying herself greatly.

Nannie, too, gave entertaining accounts of her life, adorning her letters with funny little illustrations of places and people.

"I cannot make up my mind," she wrote, "whether this is Bohemia or not. I have such respect for certain traditions, that some of my fellow-students count me a very Philistine; but again, when I emerge from Boulevard Mont Parnasse, and leave the Luxembourg gardens behind me, I sometimes encounter an acquaintance in whose face lurks a certain disapproval when I give my address, and there is an implied reproach in the exclamation, 'Oh, you Bohemian!' I think, however, that I shall come to the conclusion that Bohemia can be respectable, just as much as New York or Paris can be, though they may also be quite the opposite. I remember my old grandmother used to have a horror of New York, imagining that those who entered its streets at night went forth 'carousing and ransacking the town,' as she used to express it. So, Miss Theo, if you please, don't imagine me quite demoralized by the Latin quarter, nor consider me under a ban because my next-door neighbor is 'une petite bourgeoise.'"

Nannie added that her work was improving, but that it had taken some time for her to adjust herself to her surroundings, and to get used to being "such a tiny frog in such a very big puddle," but that now she rather enjoyed the absolute immunity from regard, that she felt freer than air, and whether she carried her own wash home, or sat on the top of an omnibus, side by side with a blouse or a bare-headed blanchisseuse, no one noticed or cared, and she was quite happy.

"That is Nan, all over," commented Theo, refolding the letter she had been reading aloud. "The one thing above another that irks her is being in any way fettered. She has often longed to be an 'untutored savage.'"

Theo herself, shut away from all these novel experiences, wondered at her own utter content. She was, however, far from leading an idle life. Every day brought its duty, its interest in some affair concerning the small community in which she lived. Perhaps there was to be an entertainment for the church fund. Theo must sing, and Jack must be persuaded to add his name to the programme. Or it might be some case of distress, requiring gentle ministry; again, a meeting of the little literary club, formed since Theo's school days, demanded an afternoon; or it was to respond hurriedly to a call from a neighboring cousin for help in a case of illness; or perhaps the more pleasurable duty of a drive to Preston to look after some needed repairs or arrangement, and so the days each brought enough to fill the hours busily and profitably.

Archie's first case was an absorbing theme; all the ins and outs were discussed, and followed closely by the whole family, and when he won the suit, there was as much rejoicing as if he had been made governor of the State.

Jack's affairs progressed satisfactorily. There were the usual delays and difficulties to be met, but Jack was the man to meet them. He had at first obtained board in the small town adjoining the property on which the new buildings were in course of erection. But later, he found it more convenient to go back and forth by train, and took up his abode at the little hotel in Roseville.

It was a very happy time for them all. Their mutual love of music gave Theo and Jack a never-failing source of interest, and each worked for the other's enjoyment. Theo was very proud of Jack's beautiful baritone, and Jack was equally happy when Theo's singing won her praise. So they practised faithfully together, sang in the choir of the little church, discussed new music, criticised each other's tones and methods, all the time learning a deeper, truer harmony.

At the end of two years, the manufactory was in full operation, and Jack was busier than ever. Val was talking of her return; Nannie was writing of her hopes and fears regarding the picture she had sent to the Salon,—would it or would it not be accepted? Archie was fast becoming the prosperous successor of his father's old friend, "Squire" Meredith, who was gradually giving up his practice to the younger man.

Mr. Smith, after his return from abroad, was so pleased with his holiday that he retired from his profession, and after seeing his project in Virginia fairly established, and satisfying himself that Jack's management of it was all that could be desired, rejoined Val and Mrs. Westerly, remaining with them till they should complete their trip.

Later, Nannie wrote that her picture had been accepted and hung as well as could be expected. Later still, she gave the information that at the close of the Salon Exhibition it had been sent to New York, and had actually been sold. Then followed a merry little tirade against Archie for not having fulfilled his promise of being the purchaser, when she had so scrupulously avoided a gory subject.

But the end of Nannie's picture was not yet, as a curious combination of circumstances proved.

"Who is that with Archie?" asked Theo, one day, turning to her aunt, as the two stood by the sitting-room window.

Auntie looked out. "I do not know," she replied; "it is no one I ever saw before, probably some stranger in town."

"I wonder if he is bringing him to dinner," said Theo, with housewifely interest.

"No doubt," replied Miss Nelson. "Run down, Theo, and tell Tatty to lay another place at table, and here are the keys; get out anything you may find necessary."

And Theo left the room to be met halfway down-stairs by her brother.

"Who is your friend?" she asked.

"A new client. I asked him to dine with us because I wanted to talk to him, and my time is very full to-day."

This was not an unusual occurrence, and as guests were always welcomed with ready hospitality. Then made no further comment than to say, "Oh, very well. Auntie is in the sitting-room, Archie."

Archie's acquaintance, Mr. Veers, was an odd-looking individual, with strange, round, staring eyes, and a mass of light hair brushed straight up. He had, it seemed, come to the neighborhood for the purpose of looking after some property about which there was a question of possession. His stay lasted several days, during which time he and Archie drove down to the place in dispute, and when he finally took his leave, Archie had agreed to take the case.

"What an exceedingly odd person Mr. Veers is," observed Miss Nelson, when their guest had departed; "he is such a mixture of acuteness and unworldliness one hardly knows what to make of him."

"He is the oddest fish I have encountered for many a long day," answered Archie; "he interests me in spite of myself: He has travelled nearly all over the world, and must, from all accounts, have a collection of rare and beautiful things; he tells me of bric-à-brac he has picked up, of pictures he has bought, and yet he does not seem ever to have any money."

"He must have had," remarked Theo. "Why, how could he get along without? What is his business?"

"I don't know; he lives by his wits, I reckon."

"It is a pretty poor outlook for you then," laughed Theo.

"Oh, I shall come out all right," returned Archie. "I can come down on him for all his articles of 'bigotry and virtue.' Think what an addition to our small stock," and Archie looked around the room with the air of one who already saw important accessions in the way of ornament.

"Oh, you wouldn't do that, would you?"

Archie laughed. "I don't know what I would do. At any rate, I shall do my best to win him his suit, for his is the rightful claim."

"I am sorry for the other people," said Theo, sympathetically.

"One has always to be sorry for somebody," replied Archie. "That is the trouble in this confounded profession of mine; my sympathies are continually on the rack."

"But you do try for justice," returned Theo, "and that is the main thing."

"I try for it; whether I always succeed is something else. Anyhow, I think our friend Veers is pretty sure of winning his case."

And as events proved, it so happened, although for some months nothing was heard of Mr. Veers, and Archie found it necessary to make a trip to Washington, from which place his client had last written.

In a funny, old tumble-down house, perched high above the grade of the street, he at last found him. Archie climbed the two flights of steps leading to the front door. There was no bell, so he knocked simply with his knuckles, and, after waiting for some time, the door was opened by a slatternly woman, who said Mr. Veers was out, but would probably be in shortly. So Archie concluded to wait for him, and was shown in to a room which presented quite a remarkable appearance.

"Had the man been an artist," Archie afterwards said, in describing the place, "it would not have seemed unusual, but that any one else should care for such a jumble appeared very peculiar."

Suits of armor lay in heaps in one corner; rich Oriental stuffs were collecting dust where they were thrown in careless profusion over inlaid tables or Chippendale chairs; bits of antique pottery crowded the mantel; rare brazen vessels, some most delicately wrought, stood side by side with Venetian glass vases or Belleek bowls.

The walls were covered with pictures, old and new, and these Archie proceeded to scrutinize, the more inclined to do so that every seat in the room was already occupied by piles of books, vellum bound and silver clasped, portfolios of engravings, heaps of jingling ornaments or fragile casts.

Since Mr. Veers's return was evidently a question of uncertainty, and the time was lengthened from half an hour to an hour, Archie had an opportunity of carefully observing all the pictures. He passed from one to another, and, while standing at one end of the room, he suddenly made an exclamation, then bending closer, read upon the canvas before him Nannie's name.

A long time he stood before it, so long, in fact, that he did not notice when the door opened and Mr. Veers came in.

"You like that, do you?" was his greeting. "So do I. It was in New York, and I took a fancy to it, and bought it."

"Yes, I like it," replied Archie; "the more so, that a friend of mine painted it."

Mr. Veers's interest was at once aroused, and he asked question after question: Who was the artist? Where did she live? How long had she studied? And so on.

In the meantime, Archie had leisure to observe the man's appearance, which was that of one not possessed of riches; for his clothes were shabby and worn, his boots the worse for wear, his linen frayed and creased.

While they were standing discussing the picture, the slovenly-looking woman again appeared.

"Are ye coming to dinner?" she asked, putting her head in the door.

Mr. Veers turned to Archie as if it were a matter of course that he should dine with him, and Archie could but follow him to the next room. Here, again, everything betokened poverty; the woman, who was evidently the only retainer, served a frugal, ill-cooked meal upon heavy stone ware, while in the next room Sèvres china and Cloisonné gathered the dust. Such incongruities existed that Archie was fairly bewildered, and found himself wondering more and more where the man had found the means to invest in the beautiful things he hoarded.

When the repast was over, and they were still discussing the law-suit, Mr. Veers suddenly said, "But I don't know how I can pay you; I haven't a penny."

"You will have the property, if we win our case," replied Archie.

"Oh, but I shall make that over to my wife and child," returned Mr. Veers.

Archie looked up surprised, for this was the first reference Mr. Veers had ever made to his family.

"Your wife and child, did I understand you to say?" he queried.

Mr. Veers nodded. "I am such a rambler," he returned, half apologetically, "and they have been living with my father-in-law for some years."

"But," broke out Archie, rapidly following out a train of thought, "your collection in the other room is very valuable, surely."

"Yes; but the truth is, I can't bring myself to part with any piece of it. I—" and he paused; "however—my wife—my child—" Then, as if the remembrance of them helped him, he continued, "If—if there is anything there you fancy, anything that will pay you, take it; but," he added, with a quaint smile, "you'd better tuck it under your arm and take it along to-night, for I promise you, I'll repent it before morning."

Here was an odd situation, but Archie took the man at his word, and said, "There is one thing I should like above all others. I will give you a receipted bill for my services in exchange for the picture painted by my friend, Miss Talcott."

Mr. Veers meditated upon the proposal, and then, placing upon the table pen, ink, and paper, he said, "Hurry up, then; now's your chance."

And before he could change his mind, Archie went away with Nannie's Salon picture—divested of its frame, however—in his possession, and in his hotel that evening, he viewed his new acquisition with amused satisfaction.

"I have it, after all, Miss Nan," he soliloquized; "and it's your turn to be gibed at. What a piece of luck! How Val would enjoy hearing about it. Well, Mr. Veers, this will never get back to you; I promise you I shall guard against that."

True to his word, Mr. Veers did call to protest against the removal of the picture. But Archie was on his way to Virginia. And when the picture was fairly out of reach, Mr. Veers wrote congratulating Archie on his possession, and endorsing the ownership.

Shortly after this, the law-suit was settled, and the property made over to Mrs. Veers and her daughter. Mr. Veers appeared once more in Roseville, but refused absolutely to enter Archie's home again, giving as his reason that if he once saw that picture again, he should be tempted to carry it away bodily.

And though Archie offered to hide it, Mr. Veers said, laughingly, "No, that would only make his desire for it keener, and he might hunt for it." And then he seriously assured Archie of his perfect willingness to give it up, adding, it would be well if he could settle all his debts so easily.

A few months later, the family read of the death of the whimsical collector, the facts given being that he had been killed in a railroad accident somewhere in Europe, that he had run through two or three fortunes, and that his valuable collection was to be sold to pay his debts.

Then Archie congratulated himself upon having become possessed of Nannie's picture, which straightway adorned the wall of his office, and was a source of immense pleasure to its owner.

CHAPTER XV.

BEFORE THE FEAST.

THEO'S garden was brave with chrysanthemums, great yellow blooms swung from their stalks, or shot out rays from glowing centres like golden suns. Atop the branches, little buttons showed what might be expected later on; here a mass of snowy white fringes, springing from a whorl of incurled petals, invited the eye; there, red and yellow splendor flaunted, or in ragged pink disorder some splendid beauty held its own as biggest of them all.

Theo, walking among this late blossoming, fingered the buds lovingly, while Posie-Cossie, close at her heels, watched her with bright eyes.

"I declare, Posie-Cossie, this chrysanthemum looks just like you," and Theo shook a big, wild-looking blossom at the little dog.

And truly, there was a resemblance to the fly-away hair of the little fellow, which now made a dart forward, to snap in play at the temptation offered.

"No! No!" reproved Theo. "You can't have it. Every one will be needed. Every one, do you hear, Posie-Cossie? It does seem rather mean, too," she continued, "to strip the garden just for me. No, for Jack and me. But after all, they wouldn't last always, and auntie wants me to have them."

Then, kneeling down, she took the little dog's head between her hands. "Who do you think is coming home to-day?" she said. "Who? Why, Posie-Cossie, Val,—dear little, funny little, cunning little Val. Shall you know her in all her young lady-hood? She is grown up, you know, as much as she will ever be. She is a real righty woman, twenty-three years old. Think of that. Oh, how old we are all getting to be. Even you, Posie-Cossie, have outgrown your puppyish, babyish ways; and Ishmael,—think of Ishmael,—here he comes now. Why, he is quite a middle-aged gentleman. No, no, you are entirely too frisky this morning, but you cannot impose upon me, who have known you since you were a baby: that is not dignified behavior. Ishmael doesn't want to play," for Posie-Cossie had made a sudden spring forward towards Theo's cat, which was approaching them with deliberate tread.

Theo took Ishmael up in her arms and began to stroke the sleek, furry coat. "Dear little fellow," she said, caressingly. "How will Mitty's boy like his new home? I say you will be just as contented as you are here, and Jack says you will turn about and trot home. I don't believe that. But we didn't quarrel about it, for that would have been very foolish until one of us was proved wrong; in a very little while we will know. Oh, how strange it seems!" And Theo gave a little quick sigh, half from regret, half from emotion, and turned to go into the house.

"Jes' slip in hyar, honey," said Mammy, coming to the kitchen-door with anxious countenance. "I boun' ter hav' dis yer cake fus' class, an' hit 'pears like hit want jes' a drap mo' sugar; but, law, honey, I done tas' an' tas' so much, I cyarnt tell ef hit do er no; jes' yuh gimme yo druthers on de subjick."

A spicy odor pervaded the kitchen, with it mixed the scent of burning wood and hot pans. Mammy was in her element. She had officiated at no such important event since the days of Miss Nelson's girlhood. "Miss Theo's weddin' cake" was the all-absorbing theme; that it should fail of absolute perfection would be a catastrophe too dreadful to contemplate. And so Mammy mixed and stirred, offering Theo tastes from the end of a spoon, while Tatty stood by with some of Mammy's anxiety reflected upon her own countenance.

Theo, with critical air, expressed her "druthers," and Mammy, having her own decisions thus reinforced, was quite content to proceed with the baking.

"Yuh know dis yer kin' o' black cake 'bleedged to stan' a couple o' weeks 'fore it tas'es jes' 'zac'ly right," she explained. "But de rale white bride-cake dat diff'unt; de whites of de aigs dey dries up fas', an' dat bride-cake 'bleedged to be fresher."

"What do you think of my taking Tatty away from you?" asked Theo, sitting down by the table to watch Mammy put the cake in the pans.

Mammy cast a sidelong glance at Tatty, being divided between her real appreciation of Tatty's usefulness and her fear of adding to that young person's self-esteem; so she parried the question by saying: "Tatty done been promuss ter yuh long ago, Miss Theo. Aun' Pris she tell me dat huse'f, dem days fo' Miss Betty 'ceasted." When referring to any of the family connection, Mammy always rose to a certain elegance of speech.

"Dat so," spoke up Tatty. "My Mammy tell me so when I ain't no bigger'n a grasshopper, an' I allus say I gwine ter live with Miss Theo; ain't I, Miss Theo?"

"Yes," responded Theo; "and you will go back to Preston. We didn't expect that."

"'Deed den I respected it," declared Mammy. "I allus mek dis demark to Aun' Pris, Miss Theo; she gwine ter be mist'es' hyar yet, sho's yuh bo'n. An' Aun' Pris she tell me huccome I think so, an' I tell her, 'bleeged to think so long o' Miss Betty, she set such sto' by Miss Theo. I say, Aun' Pris, yuh see, hit'll be acco'din' to de kes." And Mammy gave a final swing of the spoon around the bowl to emphasize her concluding sentence.

"Acco'din' to de kes" was one of Mammy's favorite phrases, borrowed from a letter she had once received, beginning, "According to request, I take my pen in hand." And this form of expression impressed Mammy so forcibly, that she insisted upon Theo's using it invariably whenever Mammy herself wanted a letter written; and it was also used by the old woman very variously and uniquely upon other occasions.

"Never mind," resumed Theo; "if I do rob you of Tatty, you are going to have Ary in her place. How old is Ary, Tatty?"

"'Deed, Miss, I 'clar I forgits; she come nex ter me, dat all I kin tell."

"Then she is fifteen or sixteen, and will be ever so much help to you, Mammy. How nice that looks. I am almost tempted to scrape the pan, just as I used to do when I was a little bit of a girl."

But after seeing the cake safely in the oven, Theo left the kitchen and proceeded to hunt up auntie.

She found her among the old chests and trunks in the packing-room. "What are you doing here, auntie?" she asked.

Miss Nelson looked up at the tall, slender figure of the girl before her, and her lips trembled slightly. Theo saw the emotion, and was beside her in a moment.

"My dear blessed!" she exclaimed. "Don't: please leave these musty old boxes and come down-stairs into the sunshine with me. I have been watching Mammy make my wedding-cake,—my wedding-cake! Doesn't that sound funny? There, I shouldn't have said that, either. Oh, auntie, dear, it isn't going away altogether. You'll come to me some day when Archie marries. Oh, dear, there I go again. I am very obtuse this morning, I know. Oh, yes, I know that this has always been home to you; it is hard. Oh, dear! Nothing can make it easy for my darling auntie; and yet you have done more than the whole world for me." And Theo put her head against auntie's shoulder, while two little tears trickled down and dropped on her dress.

And this turned the tide of auntie's thoughts. "There, dear child," she said; "you mustn't grieve, for you know I am so very happy and content when I think how it has all turned out. I feel as if I had been considered and comforted more than I could ever have expected. If Jack had remained a wealthy man, for example, and you had married and gone to New York to live, how forlorn I should have been; or if you had married some one else and have gone far away, to Europe, perhaps—"

"Don't suggest nay marrying that 'somebody else;' it makes me jealous for Jack," said Theo, putting her hand softly on her aunt's lips. "But it is Jack, my Jack. I'm afraid I'm a little wicked in being glad that Jack has no family to claim him; he belongs so much the more to me—to us. As I was saying, it is Jack, and we are going to live at Preston; and any time you can see us, and we can see you and Archie, too. And Archie, he has chosen the old home. And Val, oh, yes, Val is coming! Aren't you crazy to see her? I can scarcely wait. Come, come, auntie, leave these cobwebs. You will take cold up here."

"I wanted to look over these boxes belonging to your father and mother," returned auntie.

"Oh, never mind, now. Why, auntie, dear, we can do that any time. Don't make such a business of this. It is just that Jack and I are going to Preston to live, and you'll have us always, just the same; and you'll have Val back again; and Jack will be another nephew to love you, and think for you; so come, come, it isn't so dreadful. You'll be richer than ever."

So auntie put back the boxes, and suffered herself to be led down-stairs and out into the October sunshine to see the chrysanthemums, while nearer and nearer them the train was bringing the little figure, who sat eagerly looking out at the landscape whose landmarks grew more and more familiar to her.

Val was very quiet after the train left Washington; so much so, that her companion, Colonel Smith, to whom she had been chattering, watched her interestedly as they sped along.

Val's thoughts were travelling at as fast a rate as the train. She was thinking of her first going to Roseville a little foolish school-girl, with false ideas of life and its duties; of her first meeting with Theo, whose loving loyalty had shielded her from her first careless, imprudent follies; of dear auntie, who had always dealt so fairly and tenderly with her faults. Then her thoughts wandered from city to city,—to New York, to Paris, to London, to Florence; how much she had seen, how many places she had visited: it would really be a relief to rest at home, she thought, to settle down quietly under auntie's wing.

"But, oh, I shall miss Theo," she said, half aloud.

"Eh? Did you speak to me, Val?" came from Mr. Smith, nearly asleep in his place by her side.

"No," replied Val; "but I think I would better speak or you will be sound asleep, and I could never reach up to the rack for our luggage, and we are nearly there, Colonel. Oh, do you see? Why, there,—yes, those must be the buildings of the factory; and there is Jack—he sees us—he is coming aboard the train. Oh, Colonel, we are at home!"

"Next station, Roseville."

"Oh, I know it, I know it," Val half protested, as the brakeman's voice made the announcement.

"Oh, Jack, it is really you!"—as Jack reached them, and Val put out her little gloved hand eagerly. "You were watching for us, weren't you? It was so nice of you. Do I look much older, Jack?" she asked, with concern. "It has been three years, remember."

"You have aged fearfully," replied Jack, with good-humored irony. "We'll have to call you old Miss Le Moyne, sure enough."

"Now, Jack. However, I don't care. That makes me feel at home at once, it does sound so natural. How is dear old Archie? And they are all well, aren't they? Wasn't it funny that Archie should get Nan's picture, after all? Theo wrote me about it. And, Jack,—oh, Jack, are you really going to be married this month?"

Jack smiled exultantly. "Really and truly," he replied; "the wedding-cake is made."

"Oh, bless your heart!" said Val, fervently. "I am just as glad as I can be, though you are going to rob me of Theo."

"Not rob you; just share, you know."

"That is very nice for you to say. I believe you're a pretty good fellow, Jack."

"And this after your travels. How flattered I feel. Come, here we are. I'll look after the luggage. Colonel, just see that Miss Le Moyne is able to make that step."

"Now you aren't nice," objected Val. "I wouldn't be as tall as you for anything."

"I should think not," laughed Jack. "There is Archie, looking everywhere but in the right place. Here, Arch."

And Archie sprang forward to help his cousin, while Mr. Smith and Jack followed. Such a daintily small woman met Archie's eye, with a pretty little dignity of her own, and a charming ease of manner. Archie stood off and regarded her with pleased surprise.

"Why, Val, you actually look tall," he exclaimed,—"that is, for you."

"Now, don't spoil it," laughed Val. "Leave off the last clause. Do I really, Archie? Should you have known me?"

"Known you! In Africa. You haven't changed a bit. Yes, you have, too. There is something, I don't know what. There little Val comes back again. You're just grown up, I suppose, but your little tricks of manner and speech prove you are Val."

"Well, you were grown up before I went away," said Val. "You're a trifle stouter, though," viewing him critically, "but you haven't changed otherwise. Oh; there is Theo!" as a figure came flying towards the gate. And the two girls were in each other's arms in an instant.

"Now we'll not be able to get in a word edgewise," remarked Archie, filling behind with Jack and Mr. Smith. "How those girls will talk! I'll venture to say they'll keep it up half the night."

"You'd do the same thing," sharply broke in Mr. Smith. "I'd like to know how long you and Jack talked when he came back from the South. 'All' night, I'll warrant."

"I believe we did, come to think of it," admitted Archie.

It is entirely true that the girls did talk half the night, and then "didn't begin to get through," Val declared.

"You're such a dear, stylish-looking thing," complimented Theo. "Oh, Val, you don't know how nice you look. You always did, of course; but I mean, somehow there is an air about you that is entirely new."

"Travel, my dear; travel has done it," replied Val, settling back in her chair.

They were in Theo's room, and were discussing the wedding-garments.

"I did want to bring you everything from Paris," said Val, "but I couldn't, of course, though I did get some little things. But it would be so nice if you could have had all your gowns from there, and your hats."

Theo laughed. "Imagine me in a Paris gown feeding my chickens, or in a French hat weeding my flower-beds."

"That is true. I suppose they wouldn't be very appropriate."

"I'll show you my things to-morrow," said Theo. "Things" being a pleasantly general term usually employed upon such occasions. "I haven't made elaborate preparations, for I think it is silly to get dozens and dozens, and to have to wear out-of-date costumes for years after one is married, just because they are too good to cast aside. I've learned that from seeing so many trying to eke out a style dating five years earlier with something that didn't match, and producing only a failure; so I shall not do it."

"And your wedding-gown, tell me of that, Theo."

"I'm going to wear my great-grandmother's wedding-gown. Do you remember the time I put it on at Preston? Jack wants me to wear it."

"And of course that is quite reason enough."

"Quite enough; and I have some beautiful lace Cousin Betty gave me, and mamma's veil, so I shall be very fine. And I like the feeling of wearing those dear old familiar things instead of something new."

"And oh, tell me, is it all arranged,—everything?"

"Not quite. We are now in a great state of uncertainty as to who shall give me away: Jack is so anxious that Archie shall be best man. He is nearer to him than any one else in the world,—except me," she added; "and if Archie is best man, he cannot give me away. And then comes the question whom to ask, Uncle Tom Nelson or Cousin Ned Preston. Cousin Ned is the nearest neighbor and was a dear friend of papa's, but Uncle Tom is a great-uncle and his years should give him precedence, so we are in a quandary. Each will be offended if the other is asked. That is the only point to be settled."

Val was thoughtful for a few moments. Then she said, "Why don't you ask the Colonel? He will be your guest; he stands in very close relation to us all. Then that will settle the whole matter."

"So it will. I never thought of it. I will speak to auntie. I should like it of all things, and so would Jack."

"You know you might never have married Jack if it hadn't been for the Colonel," continued Val.

"Don't say that; you don't know anything about it," was Theo's reply.

And Val laughed at having so easily teased her cousin.

Then she contritely put her arms around Theo. "You darling!" she said. "How glad I am to have you again! You don't half know how I love you, Theo."

Theo returned the little loving caress, and Val continued: "The thought of you has kept me up many a time. I am a little sinner, Theo, and it has been awfully hard sometimes to do just what I knew was right. But somehow, when I felt inclined to be very naughty, I could see that steadfast, searching look of yours. A hurt, disappointed expression you always had, as if you wondered how I could do so, and how sorry you were that I should want to; and I'd brace up and turn my back on—on—oh, things—and people, you know—just people."

"What kind of things? What kind of people?"

"Why—oh, I don't know," returned Val, then, a little irrelevantly. "I tell you, Theo, there is one thing I have discovered: you cannot always judge the individual by the type. It is ridiculous to say a man must be so or so because he is a Frenchman, or an Englishman, or an Italian. Of course, I don't mean there are not national traits; but to make a cast-iron character and pour all of a certain nationality into the mould is ridiculous. You can only judge the individual by himself. This wholesale way of criticising a person according to the country in which he happens to be born is all nonsense. I made a number of mistakes before I found that out."

"And you turned your back on—what then?"

"Why, men, some men. I couldn't help having a little attention, you know."

Theo knew there had been a great deal of attention from a great many men.

"But," continued Val, sitting up very straight and looking unflinchingly at Theo, "I can solemnly assure you, Theo, I have never been so dishonorable as to try to attract from another girl a man of whom I thought she was fond, nor have I ever allowed, if I could help it, a man to offer himself to me if I foresaw I must refuse him. You made me do so, and you do love me as much as ever, don't you, Theo?"

"Of course I do. I love you very dearly," answered Theo, putting out her hand. "But oh, Val, you mustn't pretend that I am so good. I am not; I am not."

"But you have never done the horrid things other girls so often do,—real vulgar things, I call them. Why, I met a girl somewhere, who had a belt from which quantities of little silver hearts were hanging. And what do you suppose they were supposed to mean? Each was engraved with the initials of some probable victim of the young woman's charms."

"Val! I can scarcely believe it. How unrefined! How unwomanly!"

"Yes, really. She quite gloated over it, and counted them as an Indian does his scalps."

"With just as little real glory in it," returned Theo. "Such things make me sorry I am a woman. Don't let's talk of them."

"I just want to say this," said Val: "that a girl never knows how far her influence may extend, nor how many her behavior may affect; for that girl had her followers. Of course, there are girls to be found, always, who are silly enough to follow anything original, no matter how reprehensible it may be. And so you see, you dear, that if you helped me, I might have helped some one else, and so your influence widens and widens. There! It is striking one o'clock. Let us go to bed, and to-morrow we will talk to our hearts' content."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WEDDING.

VAL threw herself heart and soul into the preparations for Theo's wedding, bringing forward so many ideas and innovations that Theo's original plan of having a quiet affair seemed in danger of being overruled. But Val insisted that, though it might be quiet, it need not be plain, and so Theo consented to some elaborations.

"I don't care how few people you choose to have present," said Val, "if you will only let me arrange the effect. A chrysanthemum wedding it must be, and I can have it such a lovely one. I do wish you'd consent to having six bridesmaids."

But Theo stoutly refused to have more than two.

"And a maid of honor," persisted Val.

"Well," agreed Theo, reluctantly; "but you must be the maid of honor."

"Oh, yes. I shall not allow any one to usurp my place, and you'll let me manage the rest, decorations and all. Do, please."

"But I will not have more than two bridesmaids."

"No; I promise you. But you give me leave to do as I choose about the rest."

And Theo consented.

So for the next few days, Val's small figure was seen darting in and out of the gate, on business intent. And when her arrangements were all complete, she made them known to Theo.

"It is going to be perfectly lovely," she said. "The chancel will be a mass of yellow chrysanthemums. I have scoured the town and country for them, and every one is saving them for us."

"Oh, Val!"

"Well, there wasn't any other way; and if you could see how delighted they all are to do you honor, you blessed darling!"—giving her a rapturous hug. "You are so good and sweet to every one, of course they are glad. Even Mrs. Reed had a little measly plant, and she was tickled to death when I asked her to loan it. Do you want to hear the rest, sweetness?"

"Oh, Val, how you do run on! You are the most outrageous flatterer I ever knew."

"Oh, do let me get excited and forget my elegant diction once in a while, I haven't had a chance for so long. I couldn't bubble over to Mrs. Westerly. She is a dear woman, but not the kind to excite ardent expressions. I can even do better with the Colonel. Oh, Theo, you will be like a tall white lily among—but let me tell the rest, or I'll spoil the effect. Well, as I said, yellow entirely about the chancel, and the church will be dressed with garlands of autumn leaves. First of the bridal party will come two little pages in yellow breeches, dark red velvet coats, and white waistcoats—"

"Oh, Val, I said only two bridesmaids, and you promised me faithfully."

Val threw back her head and laughed merrily. "Of course, but the pages aren't bridesmaids; they are your little cousins, Tom Preston and Nelson Carter. I think it was the greatest stroke of diplomacy on my part, asking them; for we had left out nearly the whole faction on both sides of the house. But now the Nelsons, the Prestons, and the Carters are all delighted. I have been wearing out my very soul getting up those costumes, Miss Ingratitude; and if I say it, as shouldn't, the youngsters look like pictures. Now, Theo, don't look so serious. Do you really care? It won't make a bit of difference. The church is so small, anyhow, that it will not more than hold a gathering of the clans and those you must ask—so—do you care? It will be so pretty."

Theo relaxed somewhat, only saying, "Jack and I always said we did want a quiet wedding; it will be such a solemn time, anyhow, and we didn't want to make just a show of it."

"Well-beloved bride-elect, it will be so quiet, you can hear a dew drop."

Theo frowned down the absurdity, and Val went on:

"Well, the pages come in first, carrying each an end of a garland of chrysanthemums, red, yellow, and white; then come the two bridesmaids in pink, carrying pink chrysanthemums; then come I in pale yellow, with a basket of the same flowers; and then the lovely white bride, with her white chrysanthemums, the only white spot in the mass of color. I consider that arrangement the crowning success of my life. Every one says it is the most artistic thing ever conceived by mortal brain. I have lain awake nights thinking it out.

"And oh, Theo, the Colonel is perfectly lovely; he has been so interested, and has let me drag him 'hether and yen,' as Mrs. Barton says. I think he was pleased as Punch to be asked to give you away. And Archie, the dear soul, has, I am sure, lost a year's practice by rushing around the country hunting up yellow chrysanthemums with me. Now do say it will be lovely."

And Theo was forced to confess that it would be, and that she would be entirely satisfied if Jack would.

"Oh, Jack's all right," Val assured her. "You are such a sentimental pair, you two."

Theo blushed as she protested, "Oh, no, we are not."

"I don't mean that you are silly and romantic, but you have such ideas about solemnity, and seriousness, and responsibilities, and all that."

"I think we should have," returned Theo. "I believe ever so many girls when they marry think no further than their trousseau and their elaborate wedding, and of course it is fascinating in a certain way; that is why I didn't want to have anything showy. I knew it might absorb me too much. But you, dear monkey, have taken all that off my shoulders, so my responsibilities and seriousness can have full play. Oh, I forgot to say," Theo continued, "I had a letter from Fan Parkhurst this morning; and she will be here, and Jamie, too. Fan is perfectly delighted at the idea of being my bridesmaid. I really believe Fan is going to turn out well, hers is such a strong character. I should like to have Jamie for one of the ushers. Would you believe he could ever grow to be such a great tall boy?"

"If Gilbert Rogers cannot come, Jamie could take his place."

"So he could. I wonder if Gilbert will come. Just think: we shall all be together again, all but dear old Nan. You saw her letter, didn't you? Oh, no; there it is on the table. Read it, if you like."

Val interested herself in the letter, smiling once in a while.

"That is a very Nan-like epistle," she remarked at the close. "Did you notice this?" and Val read:

"'At first, I rather resented your marriage. It seemed something away off in the dim future, but that it is really at hand overcomes me and yet, after all, Theo, you are one who should marry. You will be happier so, and I altogether approve of Jack; but at the same time, incredible as it no doubt appears to you, I look around my little studio and say, 'I am very thankful it is Theo, and not I;' and then I laugh and say, 'It is well to be satisfied with what one cannot help;' and I was very wise, or, rather, very fortunate, to find such an interest in life as my work, which keeps me content.'"

"Dear old Nan!" responded Theo. "Yes, that sounds very much like her. She would be one of my bridesmaids if she were here; but no doubt she is glad to be out of it all."

"What a contrast Fan will be to your cousin Dolly," said Val; "Fan is so dark and Dolly so fair. I think it is rather nice it should be that way."

"So do I," agreed Theo. "There is Jack's whistle. I must see what he wants," and she flew down to meet him.

"I have a letter from Gilbert, and he is coming," announced Jack. "Isn't that great?"

"And I have one from Fan, promising to be with us. So that is all settled. What do you think of Val's arrangements, Jack?"

"I think they are quite artistic."

"But just a little pretentious, don't you think?"

"They might be if they were carried out by hired service, but it will all be done for love's sake."

"Yes, I know. Every flower there will represent some one's good will; and dear little Val never worked so hard in her life. It makes me very humble to receive so much tender consideration."

"You never were troubled with egotism," said Jack, smiling at her, "haughty as my lady sometimes is."

"Don't remind me, please. I want to be all humility. Where every one is thinking first of me, I should be the last to think of myself. I can't do anything for anybody these days. Isn't there something I can do for you, Jack?"

"You have done more for me than any one in the world," was Jack's reply, made just as Archie burst into the room with,—

"I might have known I should find you here, old man. Why didn't I come here first, instead of racing to the hotel? You can't dawdle away your time here. Don't you know there are a thousand things to be done? We don't want to leave everything till to-morrow. Come along, Theo. Go try on your wedding-gown, or your gloves, or something. You'll have enough of Jack after a while," and Archie dragged him off.

"To tell you the truth," Archie confessed, linking his arm in his friend's, "I have to keep moving. I'm such a confounded idiotic beggar that I get all used up when I sit down and take time to think. If it were any one but you, old man, I couldn't stand it. I get into a perfect rage whenever the idea merely suggests itself to me. Indeed, once in a while I am strongly inclined to pitch into you. I'd like to know what business you have coming here and carrying off my sister, anyhow. Confound you!"

Jack laughed. "You're pretty late in the day, old chap. Why didn't you raise this serious obstacle sooner?"

"Much good it would have done, hastened the disaster, most likely. Confound it, Jack, I don't want to see you, after all. Go where you please." And Archie, having reached his office door, rushed in and slammed it after him, leaving Jack standing outside, half angry.

He waited a few minutes, however, and then knocked, when Archie admitted him, with his agitation somewhat calmed down.

"I'm all right now; you're safe," he exclaimed. "Come in, and I'll guarantee you shall not be assassinated. Seriously, Jack, I'm all broken up; but don't mind it."

Jack respected his chum's condition of mind, and they proceeded to discuss the business for which Archie had sought him.

Though no one suffered more than auntie at this time, no one was more cheerful. Only once did she really break-down, and that was when Theo, in her bridal array, came for a last kiss.

There had been much flutter and excitement going on, and no one had taken time for anything but the business just at hand.

First, Fan's arrival with Jamie caused some flurry, and seemed to be the signal for much whisking about from room to room of pink skirts or yellow skirts, and much racing up and down-stairs, with inquiries for this one's bouquet or that one's gloves. Then came Dolly Preston with an army of relations to be settled; next the little pages appeared, to be put through their paces and instructed to act just so; then the music had to be thought of; and in the midst of a conference with Professor Rheinstein as to what would be most desirable, in walked Gilbert, so glad to see them all, and so delighted to talk of what he called Jack's luck, that when Archie at last bore him away, he was still talking to Val about it over his shoulder.

Then the arrival of presents by express, by mail, by hand, was a source of excitement, so that Miss Nelson had little time for a contemplation of her loss. But it was very real when Theo at last stood before her, just as Val had said, "like a tall white lily." And when auntie turned from her mirror, before which she had been completing her own toilet, it was to hear the dear girl say,—

"Kiss me, auntie."

And then auntie dropped into the nearest chair, her hands trembling and her face quivering. But Theo was beside her in a moment, gathering the dear head close to her own, the bridal veil falling over both.

"I am not going to leave you, auntie; don't make it hard for me," she implored. "I am your own little girl just the same. Oh, auntie, please don't cry, for then I shall cry too, and I have been trying not to all day."

So auntie forced back the tears, and the hard moment was over for them both.

At the last hour, one of the ushers failed them, so Jamie proudly took his place, and Theo was married, with those she loved best about her, with those who best loved her guiding her first steps into her new life.

"Hit sutt'nly was a pretty weddin'," commented Mammy, whom nothing could detain from the church. "Miss Theo sholy look gran'. I keep a sayin' to mahse'f all de time, 'Yuh a angel, honey; yuh a angel. B'ar me away on yo' snowy white wings.' I sings dat to mahse'f when dat music start up so sof' an' low, 'Oh, come, angel ban'.' I sholy dues, Miss Val. I know yuh git hol' o' things yuh make 'em hum. 'Deed, miss, hit hu't mah pride to hear talk 'bout dat little no-'count weddin'."

"How well Fan looks!" whispered Val to Archie, amid a buzz of conversation, when, after the ceremony, the bridal party had returned to the house.

"Yes," responded Archie; "and doesn't Gilbert think so?"

Then, after looking in that direction, they turned to each other and smiled.

"That's an idea, isn't it?" said Val.

"Yes. I rather like it," returned Archie.

"So do I," replied Val. "Weddings always encourage such things. Come, let us be a pair of old match-makers. Help me dispose of Jamie; he looks at Fan as if he wanted to grab her, and I never saw Fan look so happy as she does."

And the two made their way across the room, and soon had Jamie occupied, so that he forgot Fan and her companion.

"What a change in Theo's little friend, Fan Parkhurst!" remarked Mr. Smith. "She was the most untamed youngster I ever saw, a few years ago,—as wild as a deer."

"She has certainly improved. I fancy her wildness consisted in her not being trained; it wasn't skittishness," replied Miss Nelson.

"Exactly. She could romp, and run, and climb trees, and all that, in sheer exuberance and childishness, but there wasn't a bit of harm in it. And I think her worst pranks at home came from a desperate feeling that no one understood her, and the hedging about her of conventionalities resulted in a frantic effort to break through the barriers."

"She has a straightforward, brusque way yet, but she is less rude than many who profess more polish. How pretty our little cousin Dolly Preston looks, and did you ever see a more exalted countenance than Jack's? The contemplation of his complete happiness has done more to bear me up than anything else these trying times. Bless the dear, good boy! I do believe he does deserve my lovely child. You are laughing at me, Colonel. Just why?"

"At your enthusiasm over your crows."

"Do you think they are not whiter than most?"

"Honestly, I think they are. Perhaps, though, there are others who doubt it, who believe you overrate them."

Miss Nelson shook her head, smiling. "I know their frailties; but I know, also, that they aim very high. Look at Val, Colonel; isn't she a picture in that yellow gown? You were right. Travel has been an immense advantage to Val. But there goes our bride. I must leave you."

And Miss Nelson followed Theo, who had left the room to change her bridal robe for her travelling-dress.

Really going away from home forever! Theo had asked to have just a few last moments all alone in her own little room; and she stood there, her hands clasped over her heart, looking around her. Going away to Preston! Going away from auntie, from Archie! For a moment, she bit her lip almost in hopeless rebellion. Then the thought of Jack came over her, and she sank on her knees.

Half an hour later, she appeared, ready for her journey.

"Am I really Mrs. Allen?" she said, as the good-byes crowded upon her.

Her foot was on the step of the carriage, when she turned to Val and whispered, "Oh, Val, think of auntie every minute; don't forget that she needs you."

And Val did not forget. But running back to the house, put her arms around the shaking figure; for when the rest trooped forth with showers of rice and old shoes, auntie alone remained behind. Val remembered.

"Oh, auntie, I need you. Don't forget me," she said. "I have been away from you so long, and I love you, I love you."

And this was comfort for auntie and Val.

But Archie! No one followed him when he went up to Theo's room and shut the door; for Gilbert was absorbed in Fan; Mr. Smith, Val, and Miss Nelson were busy with the last departing guests. No one followed Archie? Oh, yes. Posie-Cossie pattered up behind him, whined, and scratched at the door, and upon being let in, looked inquiringly around, then went up, putting beseeching paws on Archie's knee, and gave a little pitiful bark, then jumped up in Archie's lap. For a long time, they stayed there, finding help in each other,—the man's hand resting on the small creature's scraggy head, and the little dog looking up once in a while for assurance that one friend at least was left.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT PRESTON.

"HERE, Tatty, are you sure there is a good fire in the south room? And, Tatty, tell Uncle Cephas to have plenty of wood on hand, it is going to be a cold night; we shall have to look to the plants. And, Tatty, see if Ishmael is all right; he doesn't seem homesick, does he? There, Posie-Cossie, you mustn't try to get off that pretty ribbon—you are dressed up for your mistress, do you hear, naughty doggie; stop pawing at your collar. Oh, yes, just run down-stairs, Tatty, and tell Manchild to come up here for his white apron." And Val ran into the next room, opening a closet energetically, and the next moment was darting across the hall, her red dress making a flash of color in the shadowy place, like the plumage of a scarlet tanager against a sombre wood.

Manchild, a speck of a boy for ten years of age, looked so funny, and assumed such an air of importance in his clean white apron that Val, sitting on the floor to regard him, burst into a fit of mirth. "Go along now, Manchild," she said; "you'll do. Now, don't forget; always go to the left side of the people. Which is your left hand?"

Manchild looked dubiously at his two hands, and finally selected the one which appeared to him the most important and stretched it out. "Dis yer, Miss?"

"No," was the emphatic response. "Still, I shall never teach you that way," and Val arose from her sitting posture. "I'll have to train you in the dining-room; come along." And she ran down to seat herself at the table.

After repeated practice in passing a plate, Manchild was pronounced as sufficiently drilled, and Val arose to turn her attention to something else.

But just then, Aunt Pris appeared to put an amused interrogation: "Miss Val, is I 'bleedged to w'ar one o' dem things?" ducking her head sideways towards Tatty, who stood in all the glory of a housemaid's cap and apron.

"What things?" asked Val.

"Why, dem kin' er night-caps. I ain't nuver been used to nothen' but my ole haid hankcher; an' Cephas he 'clar I look lak a ole cluckin' hen dress up in goose feathers in one o' dem."

There had evidently been a trial of Tatty's cap upon her mother, and a family discussion as to its appropriateness upon so settled a person as Aunt Pris.

"No," replied Val, laughing, "your bandanna suits you much better. You don't need to give Miss Theo such a shock. Miss Janet and Mr. Archie will be here very soon, Aunt Pris; tell Uncle Cephas to look out for them, and let Manchild run down to open the gates. He'd better take off his apron first, but be sure he has it on when he waits on the table."

Aunt Pris gave her head another duck, shutting her eyes as she did so, then went out, chuckling over Manchild's appearance.

"How nice and comfortable it looks," said Val, looking around. "Oh, I forgot the ferns for the middle of the table; I must get them. Oh, there they come; go open the door, Tatty," and Val, following, was upon the porch in a moment to receive Miss Nelson and Archie.

"What a snapping good fire," said Archie, pulling off his gloves, and stretching out his hands over the cheerful blaze; "what a brisk body you are, Val. I declare the place looks fine."

"Oh, I do hope so," responded Val, sitting down and stretching out her red slippers to the fire. "I have tried for an even balance of familiarness and cheerfulness,—just familiar enough not to seem strange, and cheerful enough to take away the sad old memories, that is at what I aimed."

"Well, you have struck it just about right. Hasn't she, auntie? It was a little gloomy in Cousin Betty's day, and although the old furniture and pictures are here, these warm-looking curtains, and pretty draperies add so much; then all these little odds and ends give an air of lightness to it that this room never had before."

"I am so glad," replied Val, well pleased. "Now, if you are thoroughly warmed, I want you to see the other rooms before the master and mistress arrive."

"I nearly fell out of the carriage when I saw Manchild's brass buttons," said Archie.

"And Tatty's cap gives her quite a style," added Miss Janet. "What innovations, to be sure."

"My innovations stop there," said Val; "I could not impose any upon Aunt Prissy and Uncle Cephas. Oh, auntie, Dolly and I have had such fun getting everything ready. I'm so glad you let us do it all our selves, for it has given you a chance to have a good rest, and we have enjoyed the fussing and fixing so much. Dolly only went home this morning."

"Why didn't she stay?" asked auntie.

"Oh, she couldn't; she had some sort of a dining out or something on hand. Will Theo like her room, do you think?" And Val threw open the door of a large room in which the heavy mahogany furniture had been polished up to the last degree, and now caught the reflection of the dancing flames upon the hearth.

"She couldn't help it," said Archie, looking over his aunt's shoulder.

"It is charming," pronounced Miss Janet, and then the other rooms were viewed and pronounced each as attractive in its way.

After the tour of inspection was over, they went down-stairs again to sit around the fire and wait till the crunching of the wheels on the gravel should announce the approach of Theo and Jack.

"It will be a real Thanksgiving Day for Jack," remarked Archie. "We who have always known a home cannot realize what this will mean to the dear old chap. I'll tell you what let's do, Val," he exclaimed, impatient from waiting, "let's go up and light all the rooms facing the road. It will look fine when they turn in from the first gate."

And the two sped up-stairs to follow out this plan.

The last candle was hardly lighted before Manchild arrived, breathless with the news that they were coming. Uncle Cephas had gone to meet them with the carriage, and Manchild having opened the gates, had fairly outrun the horses, in his excitement, though to tell the truth, Uncle Cephas had driven leisurely up the hill. But how the youngster's little short legs accomplished the feat always remained a mystery to the family, for he certainly was the first to gain the house.

Aunt Pris came running from the kitchen, Tatty following. Manchild's brass buttons continued to rise and fall rapidly from his out-of-breath condition, but he stoutly held his place in line, and kept up a series of remarkable bows in time with the bobbing curtseys of Aunt Prissy and Tatty, begun before Theo had stepped from the carriage.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Allen," cried Val, with Ishmael in her arms and Posie-Cossie at her heels. "Come right in, Theo; it is really you, isn't it? What kind of a trip did you have? How did you find New York? How do you like the looks of your home? Could you see the light? There, I am not giving auntie a chance at all, and Jack, oh, Jack, how cold your hands are. Come into this corner; it is lovely and warm. I've been saving it for some one. Now, Archie, I'm not going to say another word; I'll subside."

And Val, drawing up a low seat, cuddled close to Theo, while Posie-Cossie danced about in a perfect frenzy of delight, and Ishmael, after sniffing around, jumped up into Theo's lap, contentedly settling himself.

"Oh, Val, what a dear cosey place you have made of it," said Theo, looking around the room. "Isn't it perfectly charming and homelike, Jack, with my beautiful new piano open, and the lamp, and all the pretty things? I am wild to try the piano. It was just like the dear old Colonel to think of giving us that, instead of anything else. I told him I should think of him every day, for I should have to have music that often. Isn't everything lovely, Jack?"

And Jack agreed that nothing could be more so.

Supper was a very merry meal. Theo absently took her place where she had always been accustomed to sit, and was immediately cried out upon by Archie and Val, who demanded that she should take her proper seat as mistress of the mansion.

"And Jack will have to carve," laughed Theo. "Fancy him to-morrow with the turkey. You'll have to do it, Jack. Our butler," glancing at Manchild, "will hardly be able to manage it yet. Oh, Val, you are a most executive young person. I was completely overcome by the appearance of my household. Tatty's cap and Manchild's buttons," she said, as Manchild left the room for hot biscuits.

The small waiter kept them in a constant state of amusement during the meal, his air of solemn importance, combined with his confused efforts to tell right side from left, convulsed them all.

Being warmed and fed, the party proceeded to make a tour of the house, and each room was duly admired and praised. But nowhere did her family's loving thought display itself so well to Theo as in a little room high up under the eaves.

"See how you like this," said Val, throwing open the door.

Theo stepped forward. "Oh!" she cried. "It is my very own room. Who did it?"

"Archie thought of it," Val informed her.

"You can see Roseville very plainly from the window," said Miss Janet; "and we thought, since you loved your room so much, we would just transfer it here bodily."

Theo looked around. "Surely, it must be the same," she said; "why, even the window is in the same place, and there is the window-seat, and oh, Archie, the same paper; how did you manage it?"

"Mr. Little's stock does not go very fast," he replied, "and a century hence you will probably be able to match it."

"And my books, and everything. Oh, you dear, darling people, how good you are to me. Oh, Jack, aren't they the dearest in the world?"

"What a thanksgiving for us," replied Jack; "nowhere can there be such a thankful heart as mine to-night. Sister, brother, mother, wife, home, all mine," and he gathered them every one into his arms.

As the days went on, Theo could hardly believe that Preston had not long been her home. It was much easier for her to adjust herself to her surroundings there than it would have been in any other place.

She had spent many days there as a child, and every nook and corner was familiar to her. Uncle Cephas and Aunt Pris had occupied their little cabin ever since she could remember. She had watched their children from Tatty to Manchild tumble about the door-sill; she had a child's acquaintance with the trees and growing things about the place, and knew what she could expect to find in each fence corner, so that she at the very outset felt a keen interest in all that met her eye. To be sure, Aunt Prissy was a little difficult at times, and there were greater responsibilities presented than she had yet been called upon to take, but she was very happy and content, with auntie so near always ready to help her over hard places, with Jack, thoughtful and considerate, to depend upon. And even if once in a while he allowed his little rages to get the upper hand, he was so penitent afterwards and was so severe in his own self-condemnation that he was easily forgiven.

That first difficult strain which comes in all close relations was not wanting; it is never easy to feel equal to it, even in a simple friendship. It is that delicate subtle point at which one first discovers that reserve has fled, and that there is no longer a mystery surrounding the person with whom one is thrown in every-day contact; it is just where two persons must either drift apart or must come closer together, and must realize that little frailties, oddities, idiosyncrasies exist, which will either annoy greatly or will provoke nothing more than an easy tolerance. Where there is no forced effort at responsiveness, and where the two fall into true and natural accord, the critical moment passes safely, and the readjustment is founded upon a new respect, which is closer and more lasting.

Fortunately, it was so with Theo and Jack. Auntie, watching them with a wistful eagerness, felt that when this first agitation had passed, they were left more closely united than ever before. Auntie's wise philosophies had doubtless much to do with creating this harmony between the two, for Theo, feeling everything vividly, seeing everything with young, intense eyes, was inclined to overestimate, and was hurt beyond expression at the first sign of what, at the time, she called Jack's indifference, but which was really only a natural preoccupation, due to some absorbing business complication.

Theo dwelt upon the matter one entire day, working herself up into a very unhappy frame of mind. But while she was watching for Jack's homecoming that evening, the recollection of a talk with auntie some years before upon that very subject stopped the recriminations which rose to her lips before they were uttered.

And she met Jack's cheery, "Where are you, girl of mine? All alone in the dark?" with a glad welcome.

And then a little tact brought to light the real cause of Jack's abstractions.

So the result was that to Theo's sweet sympathy, Jack brought his difficulties, seeking hers in return, and together they talked them over, both gaining strength and succor thereby, with a new determination to spare each, the other any added worry or care.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"AS LIKE AS A HAND TO ANOTHER HAND."

IT was a few weeks after Theo's marriage that Val came to Miss Nelson's door, saying, "Oh, auntie, my boxes are here; don't you want to see me unpack them? I know you will be wild over some of my pretty things. Come, there is a dear."

"Where are they?" asked Miss Nelson.

"I had them taken to my room. They will clutter up the place dreadfully, I suppose,—all that straw and stuff,—but Ary and I will clear it all away. I declare," she said, after auntie was comfortably established, "it is almost as good as buying them all over again. Isn't that a dear of a plate? That came from a funny little shop in Paris. And oh, my precious Belleek! Isn't it exquisite? I was so afraid some of it would be broken, but it is all quite safe. There! I perfectly love these funny little Holland dishes; they are so cheap there, too; but aren't they cunning? I want you to have some of them, auntie, so take your choice. I have some other things for all of you in that other box." And chattering away, Val turned over bit after bit for auntie's examination,—queer, quaint pieces of pottery, choice porcelains, or delicately-hewn marbles.

Finally, she drew forth an exquisite marble hand. Taking it in her lap, she looked at it very thoughtfully, softly stroking the delicate lines with her finger-tips. She sat still so long that Miss Janet recalled her to herself by leaning over and touching her shoulder gently.

"How far away is that hand leading you?" she asked.

"It is leading me," said Val, dreamily, "to a little, musty, dusty shop in Florence. We were coming from the Uffizzi Gallery one day. I remember it so well: just how the streets looked, and especially the ones through which we went; such old, old houses, with all sorts of things hanging in the windows; such pretty things that made one wish to be a savage to deck one's self with rings and chains, and all sorts of gold and silver filigree. It was a perfect day, the air palpitating with Italian sunshine and softness. Ah, I do love Florence! We thought we would buy some mosaics, and we went into one and another of the funny little shops. While Mrs. Westerly was looking over some other things, I caught sight of a pair of marble hands."

Val continued to stroke softly the still marble in her lap, and, for a moment, stopped speaking.

"They were such beautiful, beautiful hands," she went on. "I poked them out from behind a pile of stuff, and was admiring them, when Mrs. Westerly said we must go. We had to be at some special place at some special time to meet the Colonel. But I went back the next day, and the little dried-up man of the shop—such a strange, leathery, dark eyed creature—told me that some one else had been admiring the beautiful hands; so I was seized with fear lest they should be grabbed up, and I bought this one. I meant to buy both, but I was so tempted to spend money, and had been so reckless in mosaics that day, that I only had enough with me to buy one. I thought I would go back and get the other some day, for I could not bear to part them. But something happened to keep me from going, and we left Florence a day or two after. It was getting too warm, and Mr. Smith was afraid we should all be ill. I remember that is what hurried us off." Val paused, the dreamy look still on her face. "It was so lovely," she presently sighed.

"You have a stock of incidents to tell me which will keep you busy all winter. What pleasant evenings we shall have."

Val looked with a little appealing expression. "That isn't all," she said.

"About the hands? Well, do tell the rest. It is very interesting, dear. I should like to hear all about it."

Val looked down again. "After we left Florence,—after that we went back to Geneva. We—we—auntie, do you remember Mr. Egerton?"

"Oh, yes; you spoke of him several times in your letters."

"Yes, I know; and we met him first, you know, that night when Nan's first picture was hung."

"Yes; I remember you said so. I cannot quite recall him, but you were going to tell me some more about the marble hands."

"Yes, I know it. Well, we met Mr. Egerton in Geneva; he had been to all the places which we had been visiting; he said he heard of us many times. We had always just left, or we should have met before. So after that, we were continually meeting, and finally we travelled in the same party. Mr. Smith liked him very much, and it made it very convenient to have four instead of three; and Mr. Egerton knew so much about all the beautiful things we wanted to see; he was a perfect treasure trove. Oh, it was such a happy time! Auntie, you cannot think.

"In Paris, we all went to see Nan, and Nan was so glad to see us; and she told us all about Mr. Egerton, whom she has known a long time. He seems a very serious person, and so he is; but he has an amount of appreciation you would never suspect, and we always saw the same funny things, and would get into such fits of laughter over things that Mr. Smith and Mrs. Westerly never saw at all. So we grew to know each other very well, and in Paris, Nan used to go about with us, and—and—but, never mind, I won't tell that yet. I will after a while. Nan and Mr. Egerton knew so much about art and all that, they made everything very interesting. And Nan says Mr. Egerton is a very fine man, and Mr. Smith says so, too. But, oh, I shall never get to the end. Aren't you tired, auntie?"

"No, indeed. I am acutely anxious to hear the rest."

"Well, after a while we went back to Florence, and I remembered about the hand which I had hardly thought of during this time. So I rushed off to the shop the very first thing, and the man said,—

"'Signorina, it has been gone a long time. An American Signor came in and bought it the day after you were here. I told you, did I not, of his admiration? He, too, was disappointed, but what could I do? You will not like to dispose of the one you have, perhaps? For the Signor was very anxious for it.'

"'The idea!' I said, and I was furious. 'No,' I said; 'let him give up his to me. But are there no more?'

"'Not any,' he said. 'A young sculptor modelled them from the hands of the woman he loved; he was a neighbor of mine. I knew him well; the lady was high-born and wealthy, and he was poor, and he loved her; and these beautiful hands were all in all to him. So he would never sell them, and it was after his death that they had to be taken. He died in this house,—the poor young man,—and for a long time, I, who knew his troubles—his love—could not offer for sale those hands which were so dear to him. But I am a poor man, Signorina, and must make a living, and the hands were left me by the sculptor, who wished his debts paid.'"

"I suspect," said Miss Janet, "the old man had taken care of the sculptor, and had no other pay than the latter's effects."

"I am sure of it," replied Val; "for the man said, 'There was very little left. All had gone, bit by bit, to keep the young sculptor alive, and the hands were all that were left when he died.'

"And then," Val continued, "I felt very sorry that they were parted. I felt as if those hands, which had been so much to the artist, should have been kept lovingly together by some one who knew, and I was more than ever angry that I did not have them both. So I gave the man my address, and told him if ever the purchaser of the other hand appeared, I should like to see him. I thought, perhaps, he would be willing to sell me the hand he had, after he knew the story." Val paused again.

"Go on," begged Miss Janet. "I am very anxious to hear the outcome."

"It was so beautiful there," Val went on, somewhat irrelevantly. "Oh, auntie, you can never know till you go there, the dream-like beauty of an Italian night. I shall never forget how it looked as I stood with the Val d'Arno stretched out before me; for while I was standing there, looking, and full of a half sadness for the poor young sculptor, Mr. Egerton came in, and—Oh, auntie! It was he who had bought the other hand," and Val turned suddenly and clasped Miss Janet's arm with a little convulsive pressure.

"And then—and then," she said. "Oh, auntie!"

"And then," repeated auntie.

"There was only one way," confessed Val, "to reunite those hands, and—and I just had to promise to marry him."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Val looked up wistfully, saying, "Oh, auntie, I should have told you long ago—and Theo. But I thought it would make Theo unhappy to think of our both leaving you, and I couldn't bear to make it harder for you. It is dreadfully selfish, isn't it?"

"My dear little child," responded auntie, "I am so taken by surprise. No, it isn't selfish at all; but I cannot grasp it all at once. I shall become accustomed to the thought in a little while. I might have foreseen, and, indeed, I have always known you would leave me some day. If you have chosen as wisely as Theo, I have no fears for you. Where is Mr. Egerton now?"

"He is still abroad, but he is coming back very soon; he had promised to join some friends and go up the Nile, and so he left us. The Colonel knows: we told him right away, and he is perfectly satisfied; and you will be, too, auntie. I am sure you will, for, oh, auntie dear! All your counsel and Theo's and Archie's' have been such a help to me. I know, when I was very young, I was dazzled by certain qualities that are so worthless. But later on—since I have been old enough to concentrate my friendships and affections—I hope I have been wiser in my selection of friends. In those very first days,—when I first came to you,—what froth I thought wit, what imitation sparkle I thought real brilliancy, but since then I have learned so much."

"Such a wise little old woman," returned auntie, smiling. "But yours is a common experience, dear; and if, as one matures, one is drawn towards worthier and purer friends, it indicates that they are the most congenial,—the one which answers most truly to something within one's self. So, my darling, you have been stepping up all the time, and for that reason, I am very glad that you have waited till now before choosing your nearest companion through life. I hope—I so truly hope—he may be worthy of my precious little girl."

"He is," returned Val, earnestly, and with all humility; "he is far better and wiser than I. Very soon you will see for yourself. The Colonel says he has very high principles, and so does Nan. Oh, auntie, I was so jealous of Nan."

"Of Nannie?"

"Yes; I tried to be good about it, but as I look back, I suspect I behaved in a very silly manner sometimes, and I wonder Nan stood it so sweetly. You see Nan and Fred had known each other so long, and were interested so often in the same things, and they used to hobnob till it made me wild."

Auntie had to smile; and Val proceeded to finish her unpacking. Then she said,—

"Now, auntie, I cannot rest till I have told Theo. I think I will take the train to Parktown, and drive up to Preston this evening with Jack."

But an opportunity occurred earlier, when Mr. Johnson, the man who occupied the tenant house at Preston, stopped with a message from Theo, and Val returned with him.

She found Theo in the kitchen coddling half a dozen newly-hatched little chickens which she was trying to keep warmly covered in a basket near the stove.

"Why, Val!" she exclaimed. "What a nice surprise. I was hoping some of you would come over. I have such a lot to talk about and to ask about. These ridiculous little chickens won't stay where I put them; they get so lively in this warm corner that they hop right out, and the first thing I know they are all over the kitchen."

"The idea of chickens at this time of year," said Val, stooping down to look at the little fluffy yellow balls. "Aren't they dear little things, though?"

"They are; but their old absurd mother has no idea of the fitness of things. She stole a nest in the lean-to of Aunt Prissy's house, in a barrel near the chimney, and Jack discovered her; so we have to do the best we can with them. There, now; they can't get out," And Theo tied a thin cloth over the top of the basket. "Posie-Cossie thinks they are playthings,—Christmas gifts, coming a little ahead of time, very likely,—and he races them all over the place; so they have to be protected.

"What is the news, Val? Come in, and let me get you a cup of tea, after your cold drive. Jack will not be home till late; it is a busy time with him, so you will starve before supper-time. We'll have tea in my room, and it will be much cosier than down here in the dining-room," and Theo led the way up-stairs.

"The idea of chickens at this time of year," said Val.

"I declare," she said, as they settled themselves in two big chairs before the fire, "we haven't had a good talk for ages. I have hardly seen you since we came to Preston."

"I have been over lots of times."

"Yes, I know; but there have been so many people around always,—the relations and all,—and we couldn't be confidential. Now, we'll have a nice long chat. Aunt Pris is inclined to treat me as if I were yet in leading-strings, so I have scarcely anything to look after. And the house was in such beautiful order,—you saw to that, my dear,—so it is very easy to keep it so, and I have a lot of time on my hands."

"But you're always busy at something."

"Oh, yes; one need not be idle. What have you been doing?"

"I have been unpacking my boxes this morning; they came up quite early."

"Oh, I wish I had been there. I do so enjoy seeing any one unpack."

"Auntie watched me, and we had a long talk. I'll tell you all about it," and Val proceeded with her story.

Theo listened with eager interest till Val made her final announcement.

"And you have never said a word about it all this time," she said, reproachfully, at the conclusion.

"No," and Val gave her reasons.

"It was very thoughtful, I admit. But all the same, I think it was as mean as could be. I wouldn't have thought you could keep it from me. I wouldn't have done you so," declared Theo.

"It was as much as I could do to keep it to myself," declared Val. "Oh, Theo, so many times I wanted to, but I was kept so busy over your affairs that my own were able to hide themselves away."

"And is he very nice? Of course he must be. Nobody could be as lovely as Jack, but I have no doubt he is quite nice."

"He is nicer than any one," protested Val.

Theo laughed. "Well, we won't fight over it. Aren't we like two babies? How did you come to like him, Val?"

"Oh, I don't know; he was different from any of the other men who are always tagging after one. I'll own several times I quite fancied one or another, but such little things turned the current of my affections, little trivial things would entirely disenchant me. There was one man, however, who for a time seemed quite to answer to my ideal; he was very companionable, and some friends of his were always telling me how honorable he was. 'A man to be trusted,' they said. And, yes, I quite fancied him for perhaps six weeks, and then I discovered that men who are honorable enough with men are not always so where women are concerned. I found out quite accidentally about an affair in which I think he acted abominably. He knew a girl was in love with him, and he kept on encouraging her interest in all sorts of ways when he did not care for her at all, and, as soon as I knew of it, I decided that he could not be sincere and noble all through and through, and after I made up my mind to that, his insincerity displayed itself in a dozen different ways. I could see by the way he regarded other transactions that he was not as honorable as his friends would have me suppose, and that was the end of my fancy."

"And the other girl?" said Theo.

"Oh, she will get over it in time, but I felt very sorry for her. I despise that kind of a man, and there are so many such. Oh, Theo, I think we are very fortunate,—you with your Jack, and I with my Fred, but don't tell Fred so. I don't want to spoil him."

Theo laughed. "I'll not tell him. I see you are the same old Val, and are bound to have your little imperious ways. Oh, Val, all you tell me of your travels makes me remember how I used to long to go over the face of the earth, and now it does not look as if I ever should go, and I am quite content. Isn't it strange? I wonder if you will feel so? When will Mr. Egerton be here?"

"He is coming in time for Christmas."

"Oh, that is something I want to talk to you about. I should so like to have you all over here, and yet I'm afraid auntie would rather we should all be with her at Roseville."

"We spent Thanksgiving with you."

"Yes, I know; but this is such a great big old place, and we could have such a nice old-fashioned time. Just sound auntie on the subject, won't you, Val? Now, tell me about Archie. I haven't seen him for a week."

"Archie is well, and seems to be a real settled down individual; he is so interested in his profession. We have good times together. We always did act like two idiots, you know. I am afraid it will be lonely for him when I leave. I wish Nan could take my place."

Theo shook her head. "Nan never will, and I think Archie sees now that it is better as it is. There are other happy lives for women beside a married one. Auntie proved that to me long ago. She has shown by example how sweet and full a life may be for a single woman, and even if I had not married, I hope I should not have been either useless or unhappy. If a woman cannot marry the man who will help her to the best use of her best powers, she would much better remain single, in my opinion."

"But we have found just such men," interposed Val. "We wear true heart's-ease, Theo."

"I hope so. I think so. I should never have been a shining light in the artistic, literary, or musical world, and I do not care for social success; so I think I have found my true place just here with Jack. Of course, I am fond of my friends, and think we all need outside influences to broaden us, but I shall see my friends quite often. I do not care for a great many, and so I am altogether satisfied. I wish my dear old Archie could be as happy; it is very mean of us all to desert him."

"Oh, but you haven't," returned Val. "You are so near, and he does take such comfort in having Jack that it takes away the sting; but with me—"

"When shall you leave us?" asked Theo, a little sadly.

"Not before next summer, and perhaps not then. I think we shall live in Washington, it will suit us both; and it is not so far away but what we can reach you often. You can spend winters with me, Theo."

"And leave Jack?"

"Oh, no; after a while, Jack will be able to take a little time, I am sure, and then you can all come,—auntie and all. I should like auntie to spend every winter with me, but I can hardly hope for that, though I really believe I can persuade the Colonel to do so."

"How you will like that? Dear old Colonel! I am always so glad to see him. It will just suit you in Washington, Val; it seems like you, somehow, and your living there suggests a decided appropriateness. But, oh, Val, though I know you love excitement and flutter and all that, I do not believe you will give yourself up to it entirely. One can do so much good in a large city."

"I hope I shall not forget," returned Val. "Fred would not be likely to let me; he has a 'heart for human woes,' and I think we can help some one to be happier and better. Oh, yes, Theo, I am sure you will like my Fred. We have talked over so many schemes together, and I do not think we shall make life nothing but a holiday."

"And you are happy?" said Theo, leaning forward and looking into the other's face, in which, of late, a new sweetness had come.

"I am very happy. Ah, Theo! It is only the separation that is hard." And then the two girls clasped each other's hands, and silently sat watching the glowing embers while the daylight slowly faded.

And not till Jack's voice broke in upon their reveries did they realize that he had come in, and that it was time for supper.

Of course, Jack had to be apprised of Val's news, and after teasing the girls by pretending that he had heard it long before from Mr. Smith, he acknowledged that it really was a surprise to him, and offered his good wishes in the heartiest way.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT BECAME OF VAL'S PORTRAIT.

THE result of a conference with Miss Nelson decided in favor of a Christmas at Preston rather than at Roseville. "It will give Theo and Jack so much pleasure to entertain us," said auntie. "Ary and Mammy will like to spend Christmas there, while, for my own part, I am getting very lazy in my old age, and it will relieve me of some care, besides to have you all here this year will make me miss, all the more, any who may be absent next year. Is Mr. Smith to be here, Val?"

"Yes, he promised to come with Fred; they hope to be here on the twentieth, at least if the steamer gets in promptly, they will, so Mr. Smith writes. Oh, auntie, we'll have such a good time. I hope there will be sleighing; I love a real good snowy Christmas. I shall go over with Fred to help Theo. Jack is going to try to give up Christmas Eve to us, and Archie has promised too, so we all can go off after Christmas greens. You and the Colonel can hobnob, and congratulate each other upon your immunity from responsibilities, while we are gone. The twentieth! Think, auntie, how soon it will be here. I must go at once and get my Christmas gifts settled, so as to have plenty of time then," and Val flew off with a gay little nod over her shoulder.

"How happy my children are," thought auntie, looking after her as she whisked out of the room; "my sunset is surely very bright, and my down-hill path made very easy for me." But auntie gave a little sigh as she looked out of the window at the December landscape.

A few days later, Archie came in with a grave look on his face. He held a paper in his hand, and by the serious countenance he wore, Miss Janet knew that something of unusual gravity had occurred.

"Where is Val?" he asked as he entered the sitting-room.

"Up-stairs, counting the days on her calendar, I have no doubt," replied auntie. "I never saw such a happy child; she is like a streak of sunshine in the house. Dear little girl."

Archie walked to the fire, and stood looking fixedly before him, in an abstracted way.

"What is wrong, my boy?" asked auntie. "Surely something more than usual disturbs you."

"Oh, Fate is hard! Cruel! Cruel!" exclaimed Archie. "Poor little Val! What can we do for her?"

"Why! What is it?" asked Miss Janet, in alarm. "Don't keep me in suspense. What has happened?"

Archie silently handed her the newspaper he held in his hand, pointing out one of its headings.

"The 'North Star' Lost! Terrible Disaster at Sea!"

"Why, Archie, what is the date? Why! Oh!" And Miss Janet cried out, dropping the paper and covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, auntie, I should have prepared you," said Archie; "it is too much for you."

"Oh, Archie, can it be true? Are you sure?"

"Let me look again. Yes, it is the vessel in which Mr. Egerton expected to sail. I am afraid it is too true. He wrote to Val saying he had taken passage on the 'North Star,' didn't he?"

Archie confirmed her fears.

"What shall we do? It may be only a rumor. We would best say nothing until we get further accounts. There is Val now."

"Oh, Archie, you are just the fellow," began Val. "Why, what is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost, and auntie, too. What is it? Tell me—quick—quick." And Val darted forward before any one could interfere and picked up the paper lying in Miss Nelson's lap, her quick eye detecting it as the cause of the agitation she saw upon their faces.

"Stop!" she cried, imperiously, as Archie tried to detain her, "I 'will' see!"

But as she read, the blue eyes grew wide with fear and dread, and she dropped the paper, shivering from head to foot. Then she stretched out imploring hands, as one suddenly stricken blind.

"Oh, where shall I go? What shall I do?" she cried, piteously.

Archie caught the little trembling hands in both his and held them close in a strong clasp. "Dear little Val—dear little cousin," he said, "what can I say to comfort you? Perhaps—perhaps it is an exaggerated report."

But Val looked at him with staring eyes, as if she but half understood.

"Don't, don't look so wild!" implored Archie. "Oh, auntie, speak to her," he said, beseechingly. "I don't know what to say."

Val was still shaking pitifully, but no sound came from her lips; there was only that imploring, hopeless look in her eyes, as if she could not understand how those who had always been able to shield her could not now spare her this blow.

By degrees, and under auntie's gentle caresses, the trembling ceased, and then Val moaned, "I want Theo—I want Theo."

"I will bring her as fast as I can," promised Archie. And then, glad to be of some active use, he rushed out.

"Dear little one," whispered auntie, as she held the girl closely, "no one in all the world knows better than I what you are suffering."

Val's hand sought auntie's and gave it a little squeeze.

"I was a little younger than you when the news of a battle was brought me, the news that my beloved—" and then auntie's voice broke.

And the tears that would not come for her own loss rose in Val's eyes as she whispered, "I know, I know. Oh, auntie, the long, long years; how have you lived through them?"

Auntie smiled, a sad, wan little smile. "The back is fitted to its burden, sweetheart, but at first, at first,—" And the two clung closely to each other, till Val whispered,—

"Dear auntie, let me be all alone a little while; I must face myself that way. I was cruel to him once, and my last letter was not kind."

And auntie understood, so she left the grief-stricken form lying on the couch and went to her own room, there to do battle, as many times before, with a pitiless memory.

It was towards dark that Theo arrived with Archie. She went directly to Val's door. Such a sad, drawn little face met her, and though Val bit her lip and gave one or two convulsive sobs, her tears were all shed, and it was Theo who wept as if she would never have done.

The sun went down on a saddened household. Theo would not leave Val, and all night kept awake with her arms around her cousin, who dropped into a fitful sleep from exhaustion, and who would wake up crying out nervously.

At last, the morning dawned upon them, pale and hollow-eyed.

"Let me take you home with me," said Theo, the next day. "It will be easier for you there, dear."

And Val consented, feeling that she could not stand that day to look out upon the path up which she expected to see her lover coming, and to gaze upon surroundings in which he was to have been the chief figure.

So they took their way to Preston, where Jack met them with every thoughtful attention he could manage to show. But the sight of Jack and Theo together was only a fresh reminder of her loss to Val, and she turned from them in a perfect abandonment of woe. By degrees, however, they managed to interest her somewhat in outside subjects, and she became quite calm.

It was not long before the news of the loss of the "North Star," was confirmed, and all hope fled from their hearts.

"There is just one chance," said Jack to Theo; "but it will be a little while before we can know, and I do not dare to raise Val's hopes. Mr. Egerton may not have sailed in that steamer."

"But he wrote that he had taken passage."

"I know; but somehow I have still a lingering hope, and I have telegraphed Mr. Smith to be on the lookout. Dear old Colonel, such a letter as he wrote; one could never imagine such a heart could beat under that brusque exterior."

"Oh, Jack, you make me hopeful too," said Theo, "and I half feel as if I might go on with my Christmas preparations. I have had no heart for anything, but it will, perhaps, do no harm."

"Of course, go on," replied Jack. "It will be much better to busy yourself over something and try to make every one as happy as possible. I am sure, Theo, when I leave this mortal sphere, I shall be grieved if you think it a duty never to smile."

"Don't, Jack, don't!" cried Theo, running up to him. "You scare me. I can't stand it."

Jack took her hands in his and looked down at her fondly. "Oh, Theo, if I had lost you!" he exclaimed.

"If I had lost you," returned Theo. "Oh, our poor little Val! Jack, we must not, we must not forget her; we must devote ourselves to her. Auntie and Archie will be here to-morrow night," continued she. "We thought it would be best to carry out our original intention. Do you suppose the Colonel will not come?"

"I cannot tell. He will wait till the next steamer is in, I am sure."

"And he will send a despatch if there should be good news."

"Assuredly."

The evening of the twenty-third brought auntie and Archie. The weather, instead of being frosty and snowy, was balmy and mild, and there was almost a spring-like softness in the air.

Aunt Prissy's family was congregated in their little house, Ary and Tatty vieing with one another in expatiating each upon the importance of her position in the family. Manchild's short legs carried him back and forth from his mother's cabin to the "gre't house," his interest being divided between what was going on in the two places.

Posie-Cossie, whose sympathies were most acute, followed Val from place to place. They had been out walking, and though Val's pale cheeks had not won any color from the outside air, she looked a little brighter, and sat down by the big fire in the drawing-room to listen to Theo's account of a discussion between Tatty and Ary which she had overheard.

"Tatty's cap had quite overawed Ary," Theo was saying, "and she came to me to know if I had one I would give her 'for Christmas, Miss Theo.' You see what you have done, Val, and I promised I would see what we could do."

Here Val started suddenly to her feet and bent forward as if listening, then she darted from the room.

"What has Val heard?" asked auntie and Theo of each other.

"Oh, I hear wheels," said Theo. "Jack must be coming; but why was Val so eager?" And they both hastened to discover the cause.

Val was tugging at the latch of the front door. "Fred! Fred! It is Fred!" she cried. "I heard his voice. Oh, let me go! Oh, Fred! Fred!"

But the door was opened from the outside, admitting first, Mr. Smith, and behind him, who but Fred, indeed.

"And you did not get my telegram?" he asked some time later, when the excitement had subsided.

"It is no doubt in Roseville now," explained Archie, "if you sent it there."

"Surely I did." But Mr. Smith telegraphed to Mr. Allen.

"And the despatch was handed me just as you all got off the train," remarked Jack.

"But for once tardiness was a virtue," said Mr. Egerton, "for I was just an hour too late for the unfortunate 'North Star,' and took the very next steamer. I knew nothing of the disaster till I landed in New York, so I had no idea of the perturbation I had caused. My sisters were distracted at my supposed loss, and greeted me as one arisen from the dead. Then I realized my escape."

"How in the world did you know, Val?" asked Theo. "I didn't hear anything."

"I don't know," said Val. "All of a sudden I seemed to—to possess super-acute hearing, and I heard Fred saying, quite distinctly, 'I wonder if they are expecting us.' Didn't you say it?"

"I believe I did," he answered, smiling; "but I cannot imagine how you heard."

However, Val insisted that she did, and no doubt her highly wrought condition had made her extremely sensitive to all influences, and that she felt rather than heard.

"If I had known my little girl was in such a state of mind," said Mr. Egerton, "I should have hurried on even sooner. The steamer was late getting in, yesterday, and we stopped over-night in Washington, to see my family."

"Yes," interrupted Mr. Smith, "and thereby hangs a tale. We came on together, as you know, and nothing would do for this young man," putting his hand on Mr. Egerton's shoulder, "but that I should stop all night at his brother's, and he gave up his apartments to me. I found—"

"Oh, they were not actually mine," interposed Mr. Egerton. "I had not occupied them for a couple of years."

"But his effects were all there," Mr. Smith informed the others. "I can prove it. No doubt, you think, young woman," he said, turning to Val, "this young man's fancy for a flibberty-gibbet, fly-away kitten like you is something of recent date, but when I tell you that I saw upon the wall of his room a certain portrait of a certain damsel, painted some years ago by Miss Talcott, you may know how long your image has been before him."

"Oh!" cried they all, to Mr. Egerton's discomfiture. "So that accounts for it; that is where Nan's picture went. We wondered and wondered."

Val looked up, having recovered some of her sauciness. "Oh, you fraud!" she said. "You never told me."

"I was afraid, at first, that you would think me presumptuous," he made answer, "and after, I was afraid—"

"Of what?" asked Val.

"That you would know how long I had been in your power," he confessed.

"She is a little tyrant, as you may perhaps have found out," he said, smilingly, to her friends.

"And you have no shipwreck of which to tell us, no exciting experiences to relate. How disappointing," observed Val. "When I saw you, I at least expected you had been washed ashore lashed to a board, or were picked up clinging to a spar, and you came over in a commonplace way like anybody else."

"She has recovered," said Archie, laughingly. "You couldn't have been so flippant yesterday, Val."

Val turned a serious face to her lover. "I was wrong," she said, "to jest about it. I have been taught many things these last few days, and, most of all, I have learned how an unkind, bitter word can haunt one. That I had taunted you for staying away a little longer from me, made it hard, oh, so hard," and Val, whose joy and sorrow had unnerved her, burst into tears.

"What under heaven does the girl want now!" said Mr. Smith, to alter her mood. "Is there anything you haven't, Val? If you had wanted something to cry for, we could have stayed away longer."

"Colonel," said Val, "you are as mean as can be. You understand, don't you, Fred? Don't you, Theo?" And she appealed to the two of whose sympathies she felt most sure.

"Of course we do," replied they.

"I shall never, never do so again," whispered Val.

CHAPTER XX.

AND SO—.

AND so, after all, the next morning found them ready to carry out their plan of going to the woods for Christmas greens.

"We will deck every place," announced Jack, "in honor of our doubly-welcome guests. There shall be mistletoe and holly, crowfoot and ground pine, white pine and laurel; it shall be an evergreen time, indeed. We will take the big wagon," he continued, "and all pile into it. I'll put a lot of straw in, and when we come back, we will have the boughs to sit on."

"This beats going up the hill all hollow," said Mr. Egerton, as they went bumping over the rough road. "I haven't laughed so much since we were in Paris, Val. What are you doing, Mr. Nelson?"

"Don't call him that," objected Val. "Just say Archie, and Jack, and Theo; and, please, everybody say Fred."

"Fred!" shouted Archie and Jack in so stentorian a manner as nearly to make Mr. Egerton roll out of the wagon.

"Geese!" exclaimed Val. "You know what I meant. But what are you doing, Archie?"

"What am I doing?" replied Archie. "I am building a nest where I can flock by myself. You are all paired off in such an exceedingly exasperating way, I wish I had gone over for Cousin Dolly this morning early."

"Oh, you shall not flock by yourself," said Theo. "There is always room with Jack and me. Come over to our nest, Arch. There, sit under the mistletoe, and Jack and I will kiss you."

This made a scramble, for Jack insisted upon following out Theo's suggestion, Archie declaring he would as soon kiss a horse as Jack, and there was a tussle and a scrimmage, resulting in Archie's getting the worst of it, being so weak from laughing, after Jack had him down, that he had to submit without further protest to Jack's caresses, given in the most bear-like manner.

"Did you ever know such nonsense?" said Val to her companion. "That is the way they 'cut up' and 'carry on' all the time. You never knew such an idiotic crowd in your life."

They jolted along comfortably after this; and presently Theo, who was leaning back against a pile of boughs, looking up into the sky, said, "I think the winter woods are as beautiful as the summer ones. See how exquisite those branches are in their delicate tracery, and look off yonder how under purple fades into upper purple; and look at those little wayside weeds, beautiful in their winter brownness. It is such a lovely world!"

"Theo is always discovering new Americas," remarked Archie. "She need never cross the seas."

Theo smiled. "I do discover a new world every time I go out upon voyaging intent. One's eyes can travel far, and can bring home new treasures very often."

Mr. Egerton looked at her thoughtfully. "You are a discovery in yourself," he said.

Theo looked up. "I? Why? Oh, you mean I am one of the natives, perhaps."

"He doesn't at all," interposed Val. "He means—I know what he means—that it is novel and refreshing to find one who has so much within herself; that every twig upon the trees, every little dried-up weed, can paint her a picture or sing her a song. He has been among a very conventional set, I fancy. I saw one of them once. Fred was with her. They were coming from the Salon, and as they passed me, she turned her head over her shoulder so, and drawled out, 'Isn't it tiresome?'"

They all laughed at Val's imitation, and Mr. Egerton admitted that Val was right, his friend on that occasion being what Nan called a "Philistine dyed in the wool."

"We shall never get world-weary," he said, "while we have these people to come to, Val."

"Here we are," exclaimed Jack. "Come, good folks, lend a hand, and let us get this stuff in-doors. That's right, Manchild, come along and carry in some of this. We'll earn our dinners to-day, my friends."

"B'ugh, how sticky some of this is, and that holly pricks me dreadfully!" said Val. "I wish I had a pair of your sheepskin mittens, Theo."

And the work proceeded with great briskness.

"Tatty will get you a pair," returned Theo, intent upon arranging a bunch of holly in the hall. "Here, some of you tall people, give that a poke. That's it, Jack. Now, who wants to do what? Archie, just tell Tatty to bring a pair of shears and a ball of twine. We want to make a long, long garland. Auntie will like to work at that."

"Suppose you set the tasks," proposed Fred, "and we'll do your bidding."

All agreed, and Theo proceeded to direct. "Auntie, you, Val, and Fred can work on the garland. Fred can cut off the proper bits and hand them to you and Val, while you twine and twist. Archie, you and Jack can help me attack the high places; and, Colonel—let me see, what shall you do? Oh, if you will just sort out the different kinds and put each sort together, we shall not have to pull them all over to find what we want. We'll have to have the step-ladder, Jack."

And the work proceeded with great briskness on the part of the assistants.

"Isn't it fine?" exclaimed Val, when their labors were ended. "It has the nicest, spiciest, piniest smell, and it is a perfect bower. This old hall is perfectly delightful. We ought to have a dance here to-night. Oh, no, I forgot. Fred must see the cake-walk; but we can see that first, and then we'll have the dance after. You'll bring Dolly over, won't you, Archie? Then we can just make up a set."

"You don't expect me to dance!" ejaculated the Colonel.

"Indeed, we do; you and auntie, too. One would suppose you were a Methuselah, Colonel, when you're getting younger every day. You are to dance, sir; do you hear? Miss Valentine Le Moyne shall be your partner. You and I will lead off;" and Val asserted herself so decidedly that the Colonel succumbed at once.

And so they went to the cake-walk, where Jack and Archie were appointed judges. And Archie distinguished himself in a speech which was so utterly absurd that his friends nearly disgraced themselves by laughing more immoderately than the occasion required. But the rest of the assemblage were mightily pleased, and were quite overpowered by the big words and flowery references.

This was preliminary. And when the cake-walk was about to begin, Archie insisted upon Manchild's taking part; and the way his little duck legs were thrust out in a strut not to be imitated convulsed them all.

Aunt Prissy was consumed with pride and amusement, and she said to Mammy, who was among the lookers-on, "Mars Arch sot Manchild up so he cyarnt see nothin' 'cep' dat cake. I lay Mars Arch gwine ter 'muse he se'f. Look yonder, Jane. Ain't he a sight?"

And Mammy bent double at the spectacle of Manchild and his "lady" bringing up the rear of the procession.

"Mars Arch giv' Manchild de cake. Yuh see," said she, "dat little yaller he walkin' with, walkin' fur all she wo'th."

And Mammy was right; for Archie declared that, though among such grace and dignity, it was hard to decide upon a fit recipient of the delectable comestible before them; that after due consultation with his distinguished associate in judicial arbitration, it was determined to bestow upon Miss Belladonna Truefit and her diminutive though valiant cavalier, Master Manchild Jackson, the aforesaid sacchariferous delicacy, in consideration of the superhuman efforts which they had exerted in their ambulation. They would therefore further exert their pedal extremities in locomotion, and "come take de cake."

None of which speech the couple understood except the last clause, when, amid much applause, they advanced, received the cake, having to endure another speech delivered in utterly obscure language, and filled with references to Antony and Cleopatra, lotus flowers and Ramesses the Great, delivered with much rhetorical flourish; and then the two retired, covered with glory and confusion.

"What yuh feed 'em on up dar at Preston?" asked a chagrined friend of Aunt Prissy's. "Dictionaries?"

"No," responded Aunt Prissy. "We's been a feedin' 'em on fus'-class tongue, but now we's gwine ter give 'em cake."

And the questioner retired disconcerted.

Such a ruddy glow came from the roaring fire that crackled in the old fireplace, warming up the big hall and extracting the pungent odor from the Christmas greens which draped doorway and arch; the brass andirons caught and held the light from the up-dancing flames; little flitting sparks shot through the wide chimney towards the peaceful stars, shining in the Christmas heavens; the polished floor showed the result of the lately applied energy to its waxed surface by reflecting sparkle and glow.

The portraits of sire and dame looked down from the walls upon the group standing in the centre of the floor. In the corner, the tall old clock droned out a deliberate "tick-tock," and presently, with the same deliberation, marked ten resonant strokes. At the same moment, an old darkey, Uncle Joe by name, struck up a merry tune upon his old violin, and the dancers stepped out. Such fun as they made of it. Uncle Joe, considering it a part of his duty, called out the figures vigorously:

"Swing yo' pardners!" "Rewerse corners!" "Gemmen to de right, ladies to de lef'!"

Sawing away, and keeping time with one long, flat, strangely shod foot, till, breathless, auntie and the Colonel begged for a respite. Then the younger ones floated off into a dreamy waltz, which Uncle Joe played with head thrown back and eyes shut.

But auntie and the Colonel were not long left in peace.

"No wall-flowers here," sang out Val, dragging them from their places. "It is Christmas Eve. Come, come, we want another set."

And again Miss Janet and Mr. Smith took their places.

With what vigor Val turned the Colonel, and how sedately he chasséed, while Archie and Jack nearly spun auntie off her feet in their rollicking humor. "More wood! Build up the fire!" was called once in a while, and then at it again.

At last, auntie protested that she could stand no more, and Archie executed a wonderful break-down. Then Val tried a fancy dance, all of her own designing, till, tired out, she stood, her blue eyes dancing, her dainty figure poised.

"Now, what next? A song! A song! Come, Jack! Come, Theo—"

But hark! From the corner sounds the striking of the old clock. Twelve is solemnly numbered;—midnight and Christmas morning.

And then the thought came to them all of that first Christmas of the earth's long ago, and Jack's voice broke in upon the stillness with the old hymn,—

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night."

First one, then another, joined in, till all were singing from their hearts.

And in the heavens, the same stars were shining as looked down upon the earth those centuries ago when upon Judea's plain the angels' song was heard,—

"Peace and good will! Peace and good will!"

The stars in their steadfast sereneness shone on over the old house. Peace and good will enclosed the hearts of its inmates, filling them with a blessed content as, with the touch of a solemn and beautiful thought upon them, they said, "Good-night."

THE END.

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Table of Contents

GIRLS TOGETHER

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE