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Highacres

by Jane Abbott · English · Gutenberg #29865 · 378,946 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Highacres

Author: Jane Abbott

Illustrator: Harriet Roosevelt Richards


        
Release date: August 30, 2009 [eBook #29865]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29865

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HIGHACRES

by

JANE D. ABBOTT

Author of "Keineth," "Larkspur" and "Happy House"

With Illustrations by Harriet Roosevelt Richards







Philadelphia and London J. B. Lippincott Company

Copyright, 1920, by J. B. Lippincott Company

Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
At the Washington Square Press
Philadelphia, U. S. A.




    TO
    THOSE DEAR CHUMS

    "WRITE A STORY ABOUT SCHOOL," YOU ASKED
    ME. "WRITE A STORY IN WHICH THE HEROINE
    HAS A MOTHER AND A FATHER--WE'RE SO
    TIRED OF POOR ORPHANS," YOU BEGGED. I
    HAVE TRIED TO DO IT, ASKING YOUR FORGIVENESS
    FOR ONE LITTLE STEP-FATHER. TO
    YOU I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THE STORY




[Illustration: AMID THE UNFORGETTABLE SHOUTS OF THE BOYS AND GIRLS SHE
SLID EASILY ON DOWN THE TRAIL]




CONTENTS


       I. KETTLE MOUNTAIN

      II. SUNNYSIDE

     III. ON THE ROAD TO COBBLE

      IV. THE WESTLEYS

       V. JERRY'S WISH COMES TRUE

      VI. NEW FACES

     VII. HIGHACRES

    VIII. SCHOOL

      IX. THE SECRET DOOR

       X. THE DEBATE

      XI. AUNT MARIA

     XII. THE PARTY

    XIII. HASKIN'S HILL

     XIV. THE PRIZE

      XV. CUPID AND COMPANY

     XVI. FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL

    XVII. DISGRACE

   XVIII. THE RAVENS CLEAN THE TOWER

     XIX. THE LETTER

      XX. THE FAMILY COUNCILS

     XXI. POOR ISOBEL

    XXII. JERRY WINS HER WAY

   XXIII. THE THIRD VIOLINIST

    XXIV. PLANS

     XXV. THE LINCOLN AWARD

    XXVI. COMMENCEMENT

   XXVII. CRAIG WINTON

  XXVIII. HER MOTHER'S STORY

    XXIX. THE WISHING-ROCK




ILLUSTRATIONS


Amid the unforgettable shouts of the boys and girls she slid easily on
down the trail

She pointed down to the winding road

One by one, quite breathless with excitement, they climbed to the tower
room

Gyp, Jerry, Tibby, even Graham, superintended Isobel's preparations for
the dress rehearsal




HIGHACRES




CHAPTER I

KETTLE MOUNTAIN


If John Westley had not deliberately run away from his guide that August
morning and lost himself on Kettle Mountain, he would never have found
the Wishing-rock, nor the Witches' Glade, nor Miss Jerauld Travis.

Even a man whose hair has begun to grow a little gray over his ears can
have moments of wildest rebellion against authority. John Westley had
had such; he had wakened very early that morning, had watched the sun
slant warmly across his very pleasant room at the Wayside Hotel and had
fiercely hated the doctor, back in the city, who had printed on a slip
of office paper definite rules for him, John Westley, aged thirty-five,
to follow; hated the milk and eggs that he knew awaited him in the
dining-room and hated, more than anything else, the smiling guide who
had been spending the evening before, just as he had spent every
evening, thinking out nice easy climbs that wouldn't tire a fellow who
was recuperating from a very long siege of typhoid fever!

It had been so easy that it was a little disappointing to slip out of
the door opening from the big sun room at the back of the hotel while
the guide waited for him at the imposing front entrance. There was a
little path that ran across the hotel golf links on around the lake,
shining like a bright gem in the morning sun, and off toward Kettle
Mountain; feeling very much like a truant schoolboy, John Westley had
followed this path. A sense of adventure stimulated him, a pleasant
little breeze whipping his face urged him on. He stopped at a cottage
nestled in a grove of fir trees and persuaded the housewife there to
wrap him a lunch to take with him up the trail. The good woman had
packed many a lunch for her husband, who was a guide (and a close friend
of the man who was cooling his heels at the hotel entrance), and she
knew just what a person wanted who was going to climb Kettle Mountain.
Three hours after, John Westley, very tired from his climb but not in
the least repentant of his disobedience, enjoyed immensely a long rest
with Mother Tilly's good things spread out on a rock at his elbow.

At three o'clock John Westley realized that the trail he had chosen was
not taking him back to the village; at four he admitted he was lost. All
his boyish exhilaration had quite left him; he would have hugged his
despised guide if he could have met him around one of the many turns of
the trail; he ached in every bone and could not get the thought out of
his head that a man could die on Kettle Mountain and no one would know
it for months!

He chose the trails that went _down_ simply because his weary legs could
not _climb_ one foot more! And he had gone down such steep inclines that
he was positive he had descended twice the height of the mountain and
must surely come into some valley or other--then suddenly his foot
slipped on the needles that cushioned the trail, he fell, just as one
does on the ice--only much more softly--and slid on, down and down,
deftly steering himself around a bend, and came to a stop against a dead
log just in time to escape bumping over a flight of rocky steps, neatly
built by Nature in the side of the mountain and which led to a grassy
terrace, open on one side to the wide sweep of valley and surrounding
mountains and closed in on the other by leaning, whispering birches.

It was not the amazing view off over the valley, nor the impact against
the old log that made his breath catch in his throat with a little
surprised sound--it was the sudden apparition of a slim creature
standing very straight on a huge rock! His first joyful thought was that
it was a boy--a boy who could lead him back to the Wayside Hotel, for
the youth wore soft leather breeches and a blouse, loosely belted at the
waist, woolen golf stockings and soft elkskin shoes, but when the head
turned, like a startled deer's, toward the unexpected sound, he saw,
with more interest than disappointment, that the boy was a girl!

"How do you do?" he said, because her eyes told him very plainly that he
was intruding upon some pleasant occupation. "I'm very glad to see you
because, I must admit, I'm lost."

The girl jumped down from her rock. She had an exceptionally pretty face
that seemed to smile all over.

"Won't you come down?" she said graciously, as though she was the
mistress of Kettle Mountain and all its glades.

Then John Westley did what in all his thirty-five years he had never
done before--he fainted. He made one little effort to rise and walk down
the rocky steps but instead he rolled in an unconscious heap right to
the girl's feet.

He wakened, some moments later, to a consciousness of cool water in his
face and a pair of anxious brown eyes close to his own. He felt very
much ashamed--and really better for having given way!

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes--or I will be in a moment. Just give me a hand."

He marveled at the dexterity with which she lifted him against her slim
shoulder.

"Little-Dad's gone over to Rocky Point, but I knew what to do," she said
proudly. "I s'pose you're from Wayside?"

He looked around. "Where _is_ Wayside?"

She laughed, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. "Well, the way
Little-Dad travels it's hours away so that Silverheels has to rest
between going and coming, and Mr. Toby Chubb gets there in an hour with
his new automobile when it'll _go_, but if you follow the Sunrise trail
and then turn by the Indian Head and turn again at the Kettle's Handle
you'll come into the Sleepy Hollow and the Devil's Pass and----"

John Westley clapped his hands to his head.

"Good gracious, no wonder I got lost! And just where am I now?"

"You're right on the other side of the mountain. Little-Dad says that if
a person could just bore right through Kettle you'd come out on the
sixth hole of the Wayside Golf course--only it'd be an awfully _long_
bore."

John Westley laughed hilariously. He had suddenly thought how carefully
his guide always planned _easy_ hikes for him.

The girl went on. "But it's just a little way down this trail to
Sunnyside--that's where I live. Little-Dad's my father," she explained.

"I'd rather believe that you're a woodland nymph and live in yonder
birch grove, but I suppose--your garments look so very man-made--that
you have a regular given-to-you-in-baptism name?"

"I should say I had!" the girl cried in undisguised disgust. "_Jerauld
Clay Travis._ I _hate_ it. Nearly every girl I know is named something
nice--Rose and Lily and Clementina. It was cruel to name any child
J-e-r-a-u-l-d."

"I think it's--nice! It's so--different." John Westley wanted to add
that it suited her because _she_ was different, but he hesitated; little
Miss Jerauld might misunderstand him. He thought, as he watched from the
corner of his eye, every movement of the slim, strong, boyish form, that
she was unlike any girl he had ever known, and, because he had three
nieces and they had ever so many friends, he really knew quite a bit
about girls.

"Yes, it's--different," she sighed, unconscious of the thoughts that
were running through the man's head. Then she brightened, for even the
discomfiture of having to bear the name Jerauld could not long shadow
her spirit, "only no one ever calls me Jerauld--I'm always just Jerry."

"Well, Miss Jerry, you can't ever know how glad I am that I met you! If
I hadn't, well, I guess I'd have perished on the face of Kettle
Mountain. I am plain John Westley, stopping over at Wayside, and I can
swear I never before did anything so silly as to faint, only I've just
had a rather tough siege of typhoid."

"Oh, you shouldn't have _tried_ to climb so far," she cried. "As soon as
you're rested you must go home with me. And you'll have to stay all
night 'cause Mr. Chubb's not back yet from Deertown and he won't drive
after dark."

If John Westley had not been so utterly fascinated by his surroundings
and his companion, he might have tried immediately to pull himself
together enough to go on to Sunnyside; he was quite content, however, to
lean against a huge rock and "rest."

"I'm trying to guess how old you are. And I thought you were a boy, too.
I'm glad you're not."

"I'm 'most fourteen." Miss Jerry squared her shoulders proudly. "I guess
I do look like a boy. I wear this sort of clothes most of the time,
'cept when I dress up or go to school. You see I've always gone with
Little-Dad on Silverheels when he went to see sick people until I grew
too heavy and--and Silverheels got too old." She said it with deep
regret. "But I live--like this!"

"And do you wander alone all over the mountain?"

"Oh, no--just on this side of Kettle. Once a guide and a man from the
Wayside disappeared there beyond Sleepy Hollow and that's why they call
it Devil's Hole. Little-Dad made me promise never to go beyond the turn
from Sunrise trail. I'd like to, too. But there are lots of jolly tramps
this side. This"--waving her hand--"is the Witches' Glade and
that"--nodding at the rock against which the man leaned--"is the
Wishing-rock."

John Westley, who back home manufactured cement-mixers, suddenly felt
that he had wakened into a world of make-believe.

He turned and looked at the rock--it was very much like a great many
other rocks all over the mountainside and yet--there _was_ something
different!

Jerry giggled and clasped her very brown hands around her leather-clad
knees.

"I name everything on this side--no one from Wayside ever comes
this way, you see. I've played here since I was ever so little. I've
always pretended that fairies lived in the mountains." She leveled
serious eyes upon him. "They _must_! You know it's _magic_ the way
things--_are_--here!"

John Westley nodded. "I understand--you climb and you think you're on
top and then there's lots higher up and you slide down and you think
you're in the valley and you come out on a spot--like this--with all the
world below you still."

"Mustn't it have been _fun_ to make it all?" Jerry's eyes gleamed. "And
such beautiful things grow everywhere and the colors are _so_ different!
And the woodsy glens and ravines--they're so mysterious. I've heard the
trees talk! And the brooks--why, they _can't_ be just nothing but
brooks, they're so--so--_alive_!"

"Oh, yes," John Westley was plainly convinced. "Fairies _must_ live in
the mountains!"

"Of course I know now--I'm fourteen--that there are no such things as
fairies but it's fun to pretend. But I still call this my Wishing-rock
and I come here and stand on it and wish--only there aren't so awfully
many things to wish for that you don't just ask Little-Dad for--big
things, you know."

"Miss Jerry, you were wishing when I--arrived!"

She colored. "I was. Little-Dad says I ought to be a very happy girl and
I am, but I guess everybody always has something real _big_ that they
think they want more than anything else."

John Westley inclined his head gravely. "I guess everybody does, Jerry.
I think that's what keeps us going on in the race. Does it spoil your
wish--to tell about it?"

"Oh, my, yes!" Then she laughed. "Only I suppose it couldn't because
there aren't really fairies."

"What _were_ you wishing?" He asked it coaxingly, in his eyes a deep
interest.

She hesitated, her dark eyes dreaming. "That I could just go on
along that shining white road--down there--around and around to--the
other side of the mountain!" She rose up on her knees and stretched
a bare arm down toward the valley. "I've always wished it since
the days when Little-Dad used to ride that way and leave me home
because it was too far. I know that everything that's the other
side of the mountain is--oh, lots _different_ from Miller's Notch
and--school--and--Sunnyside--and Kettle." Her voice was plaintively
wistful, her eyes shining. "I _know_ it's different. From up here I can
watch the automobiles come along and they always turn off and go around
the mountain and never come to Miller's Notch unless they get lost. And
the trains all go that way and--and it _must_ be different! It's like
the books I read. It's the _world_----" She sank back on her knees.
"Once I tried to walk and once I rode Silverheels, but I never seemed to
get to the real turn, it was so far and I was afraid. At sunset I look
at the colors and the little clouds in the sky and they look like
castles and I think it's the reflection of what's on the other side.
_That's_ what I was wishing." She turned serious eyes toward Westley.
"Is it dreadfully wicked? Little-Dad said I was discontented and
Sweetheart--that's mother--cried and hugged me as though she was
frightened. But some day I've just _got_ to go along that road."

[Illustration: SHE POINTED DOWN TO THE WINDING ROAD]

For some reason that was beyond even the analytical power of his trained
mind, John Westley was deeply stirred. Little Jerry, child of the
woods--he felt as her mother must have felt! There was a mystery about
the girl that held his curiosity; she could be no child of simple
mountain people. He rose from his position against the rock with
surprising agility.

"If you'll give me a hand I'll stand on your rock and wish that your
wish may come true, if you want it so very much! But, maybe, child,
you'll find that what you have right here is far better than anything on
the other side of the mountain. Now, suppose you lead the way to
Sunnyside."

Jerry sprang ahead eagerly. "And then you'll meet Sweetheart and
Little-Dad and Bigboy and Pepperpot!"




CHAPTER II

SUNNYSIDE


Jerry had led her new friend only a little way down the
sharply-descending trail when suddenly the trees, which had crowded
thickly on either side, opened on a clearing where roses and hollyhocks,
phlox, sweet-william, petunias and great purple-hearted asters bloomed
in riotous confusion along with gold-tasseled corn, squash, beets and
beans. A vine-covered gateway led from this into the grassy stretch that
surrounded the low-gabled house.

"_Hey-o!_ Sweetheart!" called Jerry in a clear voice.

In answer came a chorus of joyful yelping. Around the corner dashed a
Llewellyn setter and a wiry-haired terrier, tumbling over one another in
their eagerness to reach their mistress; at the same moment a door
leading from the house to the garden opened and a slender woman came
out.

John Westley knew at a glance that she was Jerry's mother, for she had
the same expression of sunniness on her lips; her hair, like Jerry's,
looked as though it had been burnished by the sun though, unlike Jerry's
clipped locks, it was softly coiled on the top of her finely-shaped
head.

"This is my mother," announced Jerry in a tone that really said: "This
is the wisest, kindest, most beautiful lady in the whole wide world!"

Though the dress that Mrs. Travis wore was faded and worn and of no
particular style, John Westley felt instinctively that she was an
unusual woman; in the graciousness of her greeting there was no
embarrassment. Only once, when John Westley introduced himself, was
there an almost imperceptible hesitation in her manner, then, just for
an instant, a startled look darkened her eyes.

While Jerry, with affectionate admonishing, silenced her dogs, Mrs.
Travis led their guest toward the little house. She was deeply concerned
at his plight; he must not dream of attempting to return to Wayside
until he had rested--he must spend the night at Sunnyside and then in
the morning Toby Chubb could drive him over. Dr. Travis would soon be
back and he would be delighted to find that she and Jerry had kept him.

"We do not meet many new people on this side of the mountain," she said,
smilingly. "You will be giving us a treat!"

So deeply interested was John Westley in the Travis family and their
unusual home, tucked away on the side of the mountain, to all
appearances miles away from anyone or anything (though Jerry had pointed
out to him the trail down the hillside that led to Miller's Notch and
the school and the little church and was a mile shorter than going by
the road), that he forgot completely the alarm that must be upsetting
the entire management of the Wayside Hotel over the disappearance of a
distinguished guest. Indeed, at the very moment that he stepped across
the threshold into the sunlit living room of the Travis cottage, a
worried hotel manager was summoning by telegraph some of the most expert
guides of the state for a thorough search of the neighborhood, and, at
the same time, a New York newspaperman, at the Wayside for a vacation,
was clicking off to his city editor, from the town telegraph station,
the most lurid details of the tragedy.

Sunnyside, John Westley knew at once, was a "hand-made" house; each foot
of it had been planned lovingly. Windows had been cut by no rule of
architecture but where the loveliest view could be had; doors seemed to
open just where one would want to go. The beams of the low ceiling and
the woodwork of the walls had been stained a mellow brown. There was a
piney smell everywhere, as though the fragrant odors of the mountainside
had crept into and clung to the little house. A great fireplace crowned
the room. Before it now stretched a huge Maltese cat. And most
surprising of all--there were books everywhere, on shelves built in
every conceivable nook and corner, on the big table, on the arm of the
great chair drawn close to the west window.

All of this John Westley took in, with increasing wonder, while Mrs.
Travis brought to him a glass of home-made wine. He drank it gratefully,
then settled back in his chair with a little contented laugh.

"I'm beginning to feel--like Jerry--that Kettle Mountain is inhabited by
fairies and that I am in their stronghold!"

But there was little suggestive of the fairy in Jerry as she tumbled
through the door at that moment, Pepperpot held high in her arms and
Bigboy leaping at her side. They rudely disturbed the Maltese--Dormouse,
Jerry called her--and then occupied in sprawling fashion the strip of
rug before the hearth.

"Be _still_, Pepper! Shake hands with the gentleman, Bigboy. They're as
offended as can _be_ because I ran away without them," she explained to
John Westley. "Do you feel better now?" she asked, a little proprietary
note in her voice.

"I do, indeed, and I'm glad, too, very glad, that I got lost."

"And here comes Little-Dad up the trail! I'll tell him you're here.
Anyway, he'll want me to put up Silverheels." She was off in a flash,
the dogs leaping behind her.

After having met Jerry and Jerry's mother, John Westley was not at all
surprised to find Dr. Travis a most unordinary man, also. He was small,
his clothes, country-cut, hung loosely on his spare frame, his hair
fringed over his collar in an untidy way, yet there was a kindliness, a
gentleness in his face that was winning on the instant; one did not need
to see his dusty, worn medicine case to know that his life was spent in
caring for others.

Widely traveled as John Westley was, never in his whole life had he met
with such an interesting experience as his night at Sunnyside. Most
amazing was the hospitality of these people who seemed not to care at
all who he might be--it was enough for them that chance had brought him,
in a moment's need, to their door. Everything seemed to prove that Mrs.
Travis, at least, was a woman educated beyond the ordinary, yet nothing
in their simple, pleasant conversation could let anyone think that they
had not both been born and brought up right there on Kettle. Everything
about the house had the mark of a cultured taste, yet the cushioned
chairs, the rugs, the soft-toned hangings were worn to shabbiness. And
most mystifying of all was Miss Jerry herself, who had appeared at the
supper table in a much faded but spotless gingham dress, black shoes and
cotton stockings replacing the elkskins and woolen socks, very much a
spirited little girl, with a fearlessness of expression that amused John
Westley while at the same time he wondered if it could possibly be the
training of the school at Miller's Notch.

He felt that Mrs. Travis must read in his face the curiosity that
consumed him. He did not know that deep in her heart was a poignant
regret that Jerry should have, in such friendly fashion, adopted this
stranger--Jerry, who was usually a little shy! Of course she could not
know that it was because he had admitted to Jerry that he, too, found
something in Kettle that approached the magic--that he had stood on the
Wishing-rock and had wished, very seriously, and if Mrs. Travis had
known what that wish was her regret would, indeed, have been real alarm!
After Jerry, with Pepper, had gone off to bed and Dr. Travis with Bigboy
had slipped out to the little barn, John Westley said involuntarily, as
though the words tumbled out in spite of anything he could do: "Of
course, you know that I'm completely amazed to find a spot like
this--off here on the mountain."

Mrs. Travis smiled, as though there were lots of things in her head that
she was not going to say.

"Does Sunnyside seem attractive? We haven't any wealth--as the world
reckons it, but the doctor and I love books and we've made our little
corner in the world rich with them."

"And you have Jerry."

"Yes!" The mother's smile flashed, though there was a wistful look in
her eyes. "But Jerry's growing into a big girl."

"You must have an unusually excellent school here." John Westley blushed
under the embarrassment of--as he plainly put it--"pumping" Jerry's
mother.

Her explanation was simple. "It's as good as mountain schools are. When
the snow is so deep that she cannot go over the trail I have taught her
at home. You see I have not always lived at Miller's Notch--I came
here--just before Jerry was born."

"Has she many playmates?" He remembered Jerry chattering about some Rose
and Clementina and a Jimmy Chubbs.

"A few--but there are only a few of her own age. And she is outgrowing
her school." A little frown wrinkled Mrs. Travis' pretty brow. "That is
the first real problem that has come to Sunnyside for--a very long time.
Life has always been so simple here. We have all we can want to eat and
the doctor's practice, though it isn't large, keeps us clothed,
but--Jerry's beginning to want something more than the school down
there--and these few chums and--even I--can give her!"

John Westley recalled Jerry's face when she told her wish: "I want to go
along that shining road--down there--around and around--to the other
side of the mountain." He nodded now as though he understood exactly
what Mrs. Travis meant by "her problem." He understood, too, though he
had no child of his own, just why her voice trembled ever so slightly.

"We can't keep little Jerry from growing into big Jerry nor from wanting
to stretch her wings a bit and yet--oh, the world's such a big, hard
place--there's so much cruelty and selfishness in it, so much
unhappiness! If I could only keep her here always, contented----" she
stopped abruptly, a little ashamed of her outburst.

John Westley knew, just as though she had told him in detail all about
herself, that life, sometime and somewhere away from the quiet of
Sunnyside, had hurt this little woman.

"Dr. Travis and I find company in our books," Mrs. Travis went on, "and
our neighbors, though we're quite far apart, are pleasant,
simple-hearted people. Jerry does all the things that young people like
to do; she swims down in Miller's Lake, and skates and skis and she
roams the year round all over the side of Kettle; she can call the birds
and wild squirrels to her as though she was a little wild creature
herself. She takes care of her own little garden. And I do everything
with her. Yet she is always talking as though some day she'd run away!
Of course I know she wouldn't do exactly _that_, but I sometimes wonder
if I have the right to try to hold her back. I haven't forgotten my own
dreams." She laughed. "I certainly never dreamed of _this_"--sweeping
her hand toward the shadowy room--"and yet this is better, I've found,
than the rosy picture my young fancy used to paint!"

John Westley wished that he had read more and worked less hard at making
cement-mixers; so much had been printed in books about this reaching out
of youth that he might repeat now, if he knew it all, to the little
mother. Instead he found himself telling her of his own three nieces.
Then quite casually Mrs. Travis remarked:

"Some very pleasant people have opened Cobble House over on Cobble
Mountain--Mr. and Mrs. Will Allan. I met her at church. She's--well, I
knew in an instant that I was going to like her and that she'd help me
about Jerry. I----"

"Allan--Will Allan? Why, bless my soul, that's Penelope Everett, the
finest woman I ever knew! They come from my town." He sprang to his feet
in delight. "I never dreamed I was anywhere near them! I'll get Mr.
Chubb to take me there to-morrow. Of _course_ you'll like her.
She's--well, she's just like _you_!"




CHAPTER III

ON THE ROAD TO COBBLE


The next day Mr. Toby Chubb's "Fly-by-day," as Dr. Travis called the one
automobile that Miller's Notch boasted, chugged busily over the mountain
roads. John Westley started out very early to find his friends at
Cobble; then he had to drive back to Wayside to appease a distraught
manager and half a dozen angry guides and also to pack his belongings;
for the Allans would not let him stay anywhere else but with them at
Cobble. Then, after he had been comfortably established in the freshly
painted and papered guest-room of the old stone house which the Allans
had been remodeling, he coaxed Mrs. Allan to drive back to Sunnyside
that she might, before the day passed, get better acquainted with Jerry
and Jerry's mother.

"I couldn't feel more excited if I'd found a gold mine there on the side
of Kettle!" John Westley had told his friends. Mrs. Allan, an attractive
young woman, who was accustomed to many congenial friends about her, had
been wondering, deep in her heart, if she was not going to find Cobble
just the least little bit lonely at times, so she listened with deep
interest to John Westley's account of Jerry and Sunnyside.

"I can't just describe why the girl seems so different--it's that she's
so confoundedly natural! There's a freshness about her that's like one
of these clean, cool mountain winds whipping through you."

Mrs. Allan laughed at his awkward attempt to explain Jerry. She was used
to girls--she loved them, she understood just what he was trying to say.
He went on: "And here she is growing up, tucked away on the side of that
mountain with a mother who's more like a sister, I guess--says she
skates and skis and does everything with the child. And the most curious
father--don't believe he's been further away from Kettle than Waytown
more'n three or four times in his life; sits there with his books when
he isn't jogging off on his horse to see some sick mountaineer, and the
kindest, gentlest soul that ever breathed. There's an atmosphere in that
house that _is_ different, upon my word--makes one think of the old
stories of kings and queens who disguised themselves as peasants--simple
meal, everything sort of shabby but you couldn't give all that a
thought, there was such a feeling of peace and happiness everywhere."
John Westley actually had to stop for breath. But he was too eager and
too much in earnest to mind the glint of amusement in Mrs. Allan's eyes.
"When I went to bed didn't that big, amber-eyed cat of Jerry's follow me
upstairs and into the room and stretch herself across my bed just as
though that was what I'd expect! I never in my life before slept with a
cat in the room, but I felt as though it would be the height of rudeness
to chuck her off the bed! And I haven't slept as soundly, since I've
been sick, as I did in that little room. I think it was the piney smell
about everything. Miss Jerry wakened me at an unearthly hour by throwing
a rose through my window. It hit me square in the nose. The little
rascal was standing down there in the sunshine, in her absurd trousers,
with a basket of berries in her hand--she'd been off up the trail after
them."

Although John Westley's glowing account had prepared her for what she
would find at Sunnyside, ten minutes after Penelope Allan had crossed
the threshold she could not resist nodding to him, as much as to say:
"You were quite right." In such places as Sunnyside little conventional
restraints were unknown and in a very few moments the two women were
chatting like old friends while Dr. Travis was explaining in his
drawling voice the advantages of certain theories of planting, to which
Will Allan listened intently, because he was planning a garden at
Cobble, while John Westley, only understanding a word now and then,
wished he hadn't devoted so much of his time to cement and knew more
about spinach.

Afterwards, as they drove down the rough trail back to Cobble, John
Westley demanded: "Honestly, Pen Allan, doesn't it strike you that there
_is_ a mystery about these Travis people?"

She hesitated a moment before answering, then laughed lightly as she
spoke. "You funny man--the magic of these mountains is getting in your
blood! Of course not--they are just a very happy family who know a
little more than most of us about what's really worth while in this
world. Now tell me about your own nieces--Isobel, and that madcap Gyp,
and little Tib." She knew well how fond John Westley was of these three
girls and to talk of them brought to her a breath of what she had known
at home before she had married Will Allan, the spring before.

"Oh, they're as bad as ever," he said in a tone that implied exactly the
opposite. "Isobel's growing more vain each day and Gyp more heedless,
and Tibby's going to spoil her digestion if her mother doesn't make her
eat less candy and more oatmeal. I haven't seen much of the youngsters
since I was sick."

"And Graham--poor boy, stuck in among those girls! He must be in long
trousers now."

"Graham can take care of himself," laughed the uncle. "Wish I had the
four of them here with me! I wanted to bring them along but Dr. Hewitt
said it'd be the surest way to the undertaker. They are a good sort
but--sometimes, I wonder----"

"You are an extraordinary uncle, to take the responsibility of your
nieces and nephew the way you do."

"I can't help it; I've lived with them since they were babies and it's
just as though they were my own. And their father's away so much that I
think their mother sort of depends on me. Sometimes I get a little
bothered--they're having the very best schooling and all the things
money can give young people and yet--there's a sort of shallowness
possessing them that makes them--well, not value the opportunities
they're having----"

"You talk like a veritable schoolmaster," laughed Mrs. Allan, teasingly.

"Have you forgotten that when Uncle Peter Westley left Highacres to the
Lincoln School it made me trustee of the school? That's almost as bad as
being the principal. And this year I'm going to take an active interest
in the school, too. The doctor says I must have a 'diversity' of
interests to offset the strain of making cement-mixers and I think to
rub up against two hundred boys and girls will fill the bill, don't you?
They've remodeled the building at Highacres this summer and completed
one addition. There are twenty acres of ground, too, for outdoor
athletics."

"What a wonderful gift," mused Mrs. Allan, recalling the pile of stone
and marble old Peter Westley had built in the outskirts of his city that
could never have been of any possible use to himself because he had been
a crusty old bachelor who hated to have anyone near him. Gossip had said
that he had built it just because he wanted his house to cost more than
any other house in the city; unworthy as his motive in building it might
have been, he had forever ennobled the place when he had bequeathed it
to the boys and girls of his city.

"There'll be a chance, with the school out there, of offsetting just
what's threatening Isobel and Gyp--a sort of grownupness they're putting
on--like a masquerade costume!"

"I love your very manlike way of describing things," laughed Mrs. Allan,
recalling certain experiences of her own when, for six months, she had
undertaken the care of her own niece, Patricia Everett. "It's
so--_vivid_! A masquerade make-up, too big and too long, and then when
you peep under the 'grown-up' costume, there's the little girl
still--really loving to frolic around in the delightful sports that
belong to youth and youth only."

John Westley rode on for a few moments in deep silence, his mind on the
young people he loved--then suddenly it veered to the little girl he had
found on the Wishing-rock, her eyes staring longingly out into a
dream-world that lay beyond valley and mountain top.

"I've an idea--a--_corker_!" he exclaimed, just as the Fly-by-day
bounced into the grass-grown drive of Cobble House.




CHAPTER IV

THE WESTLEYS


"Gyp Westley, get right down off from that chair! You _know_ mother
doesn't want you to stand on it!"

Miss Gyp, startled by her sister's sudden appearance at her door, fell
promptly from her perch on the dainty chintz-cushioned chair.

"I was only tacking up my new banner," she answered crossly. "Here, Tib,
put the hammer away. What are you going to do, Isobel?" Gyp's tone
asked, rather: "What in the world have you _found_ to do?"

Because Mrs. Hicks' mother had been so inconsiderate as to have a stroke
of apoplexy, much misery of spirit had fallen upon the young Westleys.
Mrs. Hicks was the Westley housekeeper and Mrs. Robert Westley, who,
with her four youngsters, was spending the month of August at Cape Cod,
had declared that she must return home at once, for Mrs. Hicks' going
would leave the house entirely alone with the two housemaids who were
very new and very inexperienced. There had been of course a great deal
of rebellion but Mrs. Westley, for once hardhearted, had turned deaf
ears upon her aggrieved children.

"Not a bit of silver packed away or anything, with that yellow-haired
Lizzie! And anyway, it'll only be two or three weeks before school
opens." Which was, of course, scant comfort!

"Oh, I thought I'd walk over and see if Ginny's home yet."

"Of course she isn't. Camp Fairview doesn't close until September
second. I wish _I'd_ gone there! Where's Graham?"

Isobel stretched her daintily-clad self in the chintz-cushioned chair
that Gyp had vacated.

"He went out to Highacres to see the changes. Won't it seem funny to go
to school in old Uncle Peter's house?"

For the moment Gyp and Tibby forgot to feel bored.

"It'll be like going to a new school. I know I shall be possessed to
slide down the banisters. I wish I'd known Graham was going out, I'd
have gone, too."

"Barbara Lee's going to take Capt. Ricky's place in the gym," Isobel
further informed her sisters. "You know she was on the crew and the
basketball team and the hockey team at college."

"Let's try for the school team this year, Isobel." Gyp sat up very
straight. "Don't you remember how Capt. Ricky talked to us last year
about doing things to build up the school spirit?"

Isobel yawned. "It's too hot to think of doing anything right now! Miss
Grimball's always talking about school spirit as though we ought to do
everything for that. This is my last year--I'm going to just see that
Isobel Westley has a very good time and the school spirit can go hang!"

Gyp looked enviously at her valiant sister. Isobel was everything that
poor, overgrown, dark-skinned Gyp longed to be--her face had the pink
and white of an apple blossom, her fair hair curled around her temples
and in her neck, her deep-blue eyes were fringed by long black lashes;
she had, after much practice, acquired a willowy slouch that would have
made a movie artist's fortune; she was the acknowledged beauty of the
whole Lincoln school and had attended one or two dances under the
chaperoned escort of older boys.

"Here comes Graham," cried Tibby from the window. She leaned out to hail
him.

Graham Westley, who had, through the necessity of defending, for fifteen
years, an unenviable position between Isobel and Gyp, developed an
unusual amount of assertiveness, was what his uncle fondly called "quite
a boy." But the dignity of his first long trousers, at one glance, fell
before the boyish mischievousness of his frank face.

His sisters deluged him now with questions.

"Why don't you go out there and look at it yourselves?" But he was too
enthusiastic about the new school to withhold his information. The
living room and the old library had been built into one big room for a
reference library; the classrooms were no end jolly; the billiard room
had been enlarged and was to be an assembly room. A wing had been added
for an indoor gymnasium. He and Stuart King had climbed way to the
tower, but the tower room was locked.

"I remember--mother and Uncle Johnny said that Uncle Peter's papers and
books had been put up there. Mother wouldn't have them here."

"Isn't it funny," mused Gyp as she balanced on the footboard of her bed.
"Everybody hated old Uncle Peter, he was such a cross old thing, and
nobody ever wanted to go to Highacres, and then he turns it into a
school and we'll all just love it and make songs about it----"

"And celebrate Uncle Peter's birthday with an entertainment or
something," broke in Graham. "Maybe they'll even give us a holiday--to
show respect to his memory. Hurrah for old Bones!"

"Graham--you're _dreadful_," giggled Gyp.

"I don't care. It's Uncle Peter's own fault. It's anyone's fault if
nobody in the world likes 'em--it's because they don't like anybody
else!"

Isobel ignored his philosophy. "You want to remember, Graham Westley,
that being Uncle Peter's grandnieces and nephew and having his money
gives us a certain----" she floundered, her mind frantically searching
for the word.

"Prestige," cried Gyp grandly. "I heard mother say that. And I looked it
up--it means authority and influence and power. But I don't see how just
happening to be Uncle Peter's nieces----"

At times Gyp's tendency to get at the very root of things annoyed her
older sister.

"I don't care about dictionaries. Now that the school's going to be at
Highacres we four want to always be very careful how we speak of Uncle
Peter and act sort of dignified out there----"

"_Rats!_" cut in Graham, with scorn. "I say, Gyp--that's _my_ banner!"
Thereupon ensued a lively squabble, in which Tibby, who adored Graham,
sided with him, and Isobel, in spite of Gyp's tearful pleading, refused
to take part, so that the banner came down from the wall and went into
Graham's pocket just as Mrs. Westley walked into the room.

"Why, my dears, all of you in the house this glorious afternoon?"

Mrs. Westley was a plump, bright-eyed woman who adored her four
children, and enjoyed them, with happy serenity, except at infrequent
intervals, when she worried herself "distracted" over them. At such
times she always turned to "Uncle Johnny."

Isobel and Gyp had almost managed to answer: "There's no place to go,"
when the mother's next words cut short their complaint.

"I have the most astonishing news from Uncle Johnny," and she held up a
fat envelope.

"Oh, when's he coming back?" cried Tibby.

"Very soon. But what do you think he wants to do--bring back with him a
little girl he found up there in the mountains--or rather, _she_ found
_him_--when he got lost on a wrong trail. Listen:

"'...She is a most unusual child. And she has outgrown the school
here. I'd like, as a sort of scholarship, to send her for a year or two
to Lincoln School. But there is the difficulty of finding a suitable
place for her to live--she's too young to put in a boarding house. Could
not you and the girls stretch your hearts and your rooms enough to let
in the youngster? I haven't said anything to her mother yet--I won't
until I hear from you. But I want to make this experiment and it will
help me immensely if you'll write and say my little girl can go straight
to you. I had a long talk with John Randolph, just before I came up
here--we feel that Lincoln School has grown a little away from the real
democratic spirit of fellowship that every American school should
maintain; he suggested certain scholarships and that's what came to my
mind when I found this girl. Isobel and Gyp and all their friends can
give my wild mountain lassie a good deal--and she can give Miss Gyp and
Isobel something, too----'"

"Humph," came a suspicion of a snort from Isobel and Gyp.

"Wish he'd found a boy," added Graham.

From the moment she had read the letter, Mrs. Westley's mind had been
working on ways and means of helping John Westley. She always liked to
do anything anyone wanted her to do--and especially Uncle Johnny.

"If Gyp would go back with Tibby or----"

"_Mother!_" Gyp's distress was sincere--the spring before she had
acquired this room of her own and she loved it dearly.

"And Gyp's things muss my room so," cried Tibby, plaintively.

"Then perhaps you'll all help me fix the nursery for her." Everyone in
the household, although the baby Tibby was twelve years old, still
called the pleasant room on the second floor at the back of the house,
the "nursery." Mrs. Westley liked to take her sewing or her reading
there--for her it had precious memories; the old bookcase was still
filled with toys and baby books; Tibby's dolls had a corner of their
own; Isobel's drawing tools were arranged on a table in the bay window
and, on some open shelves, were displayed Graham's precious "specimens,"
all neatly labeled and mixed with a collection of war trophies. To "fix
the nursery" would mean changes such as the Westley home had never
known! Each face was very serious.

"It wouldn't be much to do for Uncle Johnny!"

Isobel, Gyp, Graham and Tibby, each in her and his own way, adored Uncle
Johnny. Because their own father was away six months of every year,
Uncle Johnny often stood in the double rôle of paternal counsellor and
indulgent uncle.

"And he's been so sick," added Tibby.

"I can keep my stuff in my own room." Graham rather liked the idea.

"I suppose I can do my drawing in father's study--even if the light
isn't nearly as good." Isobel, who underneath all her little
affectations had an honest soul, knew in her heart that hers was not
much of a sacrifice, because she had not touched her drawing pencils for
weeks and weeks, but she purposely made her tone complaining.

"I s'pose we can play in there just the same?" asked Gyp.

"Of course we can," declared her mother. "We'll put up that little old
bed that's in the storeroom."

"What's her name?" Gyp's forehead was wrinkled in a scowl.

Mrs. Westley referred to the letter.

"Jerauld Travis. What a pretty name! And she's just your age, Gyp!"

But Gyp refused to be delighted at this fact.

Then Mrs. Westley, relieved that the children had consented, even though
ungraciously, to the change in their household, slipped the letter back
into its envelope. "I'll write to Uncle Johnny right away," and she
hurried from the room, a little fearful, perhaps, of the cloud that was
noticeably darkening Isobel's face.

"I think it's _horrid_," Isobel cried when she knew her mother was out
of hearing.

"What _you_ got to kick about? How'd you like it if you was _me_ with
another girl around?"

"If you was _I_," corrected Gyp, loftily. "I think maybe it'll be nice."

"You won't when she's here! And probably Uncle Johnny'll like her better
than any of us." Which added much to the flame of poor Isobel's
jealousy.

"Well, I shall just pay no more attention to her than's if she was a--a
_boarder_!" Isobel had a very vague idea as to how boarders were usually
treated. "And it's silly to think that Uncle Johnny will like her better
than us--she's just a poor child he feels sorry for."

"Do you suppose mountain people dress differently from us?" asked Tibby.

Graham promptly answered: "Yes, silly--she'll wear goatskin--and she'll
yodel."

"Anyway," Isobel rose languidly, "we don't want to forget about Uncle
Peter----"

"And our prestige," interrupted Gyp, tormentingly. "And we can't act
horrid to her 'cause _that'd_ hurt Uncle Johnny's feelings----"

Tibby suddenly saw a bright side of the cloud.

"Say, it'll be fun seeing how she can't do things!"

And, strangely enough, such is human nature in its early teens, little
Tibby's suggestion brought satisfying comfort to the three others. Gyp's
face cleared and she tossed her head as much as to say that _she_ was
not going to worry any more about it!

"Come on, Isobel, I'll treat down at Wood's."

"Let me go, too," implored Tibby.

Gyp hesitated. "I only have thirty cents----"

"You owe me ten, anyway," urged Tibby.

Graham, in a sudden burst of generosity, relieved the tension of their
high finance. "Oh, let's all go--I'll stand for the three of you!"




CHAPTER V

JERRY'S WISH COMES TRUE


Jerry would, of course, never know how very hard Mr. John had had to
work to make her "wish" come true. Ever afterwards she preferred to
think that it was just standing on the Wishing-rock and wishing and
wishing!

She had noticed, however, and had been a little curious, that every time
Mr. John had come to Sunnyside he and her mother had talked and talked
together in low tones so that, even when she was near them, she could
not hear one word of what they were saying, and that, after these talks,
her mother had been very pale and had, again and again, for no
particular reason, hugged her very close and kissed her with what Jerry
called a "sad" kiss.

Then one afternoon Mrs. Allan had come with John Westley, and her
mother, to her disgust, had sent her down to the Notch with a message
for old Mrs. Teed that had not seemed a _bit_ important. After her
return John Westley had invited her to take him and Bigboy and Pepperpot
to the Witches' Glade because, he said, he "had something to tell her!"

It was a glorious afternoon. August was painting with her vivid coloring
the mountain slopes and valleys; over everything was a soft glow. It was
reflected on Jerry's eager face.

John Westley pointed down into the valley where Jerry's "shining" road
ran off out of sight. They could see an automobile, like a speck, moving
swiftly along it.

"Your road, down there, goes off the other side of the mountain and on
and on and after a very long way--takes me back home. I'm going on
Thursday."

Jerry turned a disappointed face. Each day of John Westley's two weeks
near Miller's Notch had brought immeasurable pleasure and excitement
into her life.

"Mrs. Allan is going to drive back with me--she lived in my town, you
know. She hasn't been home for months and I shall enjoy her company."

Jerry was staring at the distant road. After awhile the specks that were
automobiles and that she liked to watch would become fewer and fewer;
the days would grow colder, school would begin, the snow would come and
choke the trails and she and Sweetheart and Little-Dad would be shut in
at Sunnyside for weeks and weeks. Her face clouded.

"And now listen very carefully, Jerry, and hold on to my arm so that you
won't fall off from the mountain! _You_ are going with us!"

Jerry _did_ hold on to his arm with a grip that hurt. She stared, with
round, wondering eyes.

He laughed at her unbelief. "Your wish is coming true! You're going to
ride along that road yonder, in my automobile, which ought to get here
to-morrow, straight around to the other side of the mountain, and on and
on--then you're going to stay all winter with my own nieces and go to
school with them----"

Jerry's breath came in an excited gasp.

"Oh, it _can't_--be--true! Mother'd _never_ let me."

"It _is_ true! Mothers are always willing to do the things that are
going to be best for their girls. Mrs. Allan and I have persuaded
her----"

But Jerry, with a "whoop," was racing down the trail, Bigboy and
Pepperpot at her heels. She vaulted the little gate leading into the
garden and swept like a small whirlwind upon her mother, sitting in the
willow rocker on the porch. With a violent hug she tried to express the
madness of her joy and so completely was her face hidden on her mother's
shoulder that she did not see the quick tears that blinded her mother's
eyes.

That was on Monday--there were only three days to get her small wardrobe
ready and packed and to ask the thousand questions concerning the
Westley girls (Graham was utterly forgotten) and the school. Then there
were wonderful, long talks with mother, sitting close by her side, one
hand tight in hers--solemn talks that were to linger in Jerry's heart
all her life.

"I don't ever want to do anything, Mumsey Sweetheart, that'd make you
the least little, _little_ bit unhappy!" Jerry had said after one of
these talks, suddenly pressing her mother's hand close to her cheek.

On Wednesday afternoon she declared to Mr. John, when he drove over from
Cobble, that she was "ready." She said it a little breathlessly--no
Crusader of old, starting forth upon his holy way, felt any more
exaltation of spirit than did Jerry!

"I've packed and I've mended my coat and I've finished mother's comfy
jacket that I began winter before last and I've said good-by to Rose and
poor old Jimmy Chubb, who's awfully envious, 'cause he wanted to go to
Troy to work in his uncle's store and he says it makes him mad to have a
girl see the world 'fore he does, but I told him he ought to keep on at
school, even if it was only Miller's Notch. And I've cleaned
Little-Dad's pipes. And I've promised Bigboy and Pepperpot and Dormouse
that they may all sleep on my bed to-night. I'm afraid Pepperpot--he's
so sensitive--is going to miss me dreadfully!" Jerry tried to frown away
the thought; she did not want it to intrude upon her joy.

That last evening she sat quietly on the porch with one hand in her
mother's and the other in Little-Dad's. Not one of them seemed to want
to talk; Jerry was too excited and her mother knew that she could not
keep a tremble from her voice. At nine o'clock Jerry declared that she'd
just _have_ to go to bed so that the morning would come quicker. She
kissed them both, kissed her mother again and again, then marched off
with her pets at her heels.

Far into the night her mother sat alone on the edge of the porch,
staring at the stars through a mist of tears and praying--first that the
Heavenly Father would protect her little Jerry always and always, and
then that He would give her strength to let the child go on the morrow.

When the parting came everyone tried to be very busy and very merry, to
cover the heartache that was under it all; John Westley fussed with the
covers and the cushions in the big car and had his chauffeur pack and
repack the bags. Mrs. Allan and Mrs. Travis discussed the lunch that had
been stowed away in the tonneau, as though the whole thing was only a
day's picnic. Jerry, a funny little figure in her coat that was too
small and a fall hat that Mrs. Chubb had made over from one of her
mother's, was, with careful impartiality, bestowing final caresses upon
Bigboy, Pepperpot, Silverheels, and her father and mother alike. Then,
at the last moment, she almost strangled her mother with a sweep of her
strong young arms.

"Mumsey Sweetheart, if you want me _dreadfully_--you'll send for me,"
she whispered, stricken for a moment by the realization that the parting
was for a very long time.

Then, though her heart was almost breaking within her, Mrs. Travis
managed to laugh lightly.

"Need you--of course we won't need you! Climb in, darling," and she
almost lifted the girl into the tonneau, where Mrs. Allan was already
comfortably fixed.

But at this moment Bigboy tried to leap into the car. When Dr. Travis
gripped his collar he let out a long, protesting howl.

"Oh, Bigboy--he _knows_! Let me say good-by again," cried Jerry, jumping
out and, to everyone's amusement, embracing the dog.

"You must be a good dog and take very good care of my Sweetheart and
Little-Dad," she whispered. Then, standing, she looked around.

"Where's Pepperpot?" she asked anxiously. The little dog had
disappeared.

"He'll think that I love Bigboy more than I do him," she explained, as
she climbed back in.

The car started down the rough road. Jerry turned to wave; as long as
she could see her mother and father she kept her little white
handkerchief fluttering. Then she faced resolutely forward.

"You know," she explained to John Westley, with shining eyes, "when
you've been wishing and wishing for something, you must enjoy it as hard
as you can."

Even the familiar buildings of the Notch seemed different now to Jerry,
as she flew past them, and she kept finding new things all along the
way. Then, as they turned from the rough country road into her "shining"
road, which was, of course, the macadam highway, she looked back and up
toward Kettle to see if she could catch a glimpse of Sunnyside or the
Witches' Glade and the Wishing-rock. They were lost in a blaze of green
and purple and brown.

"Isn't it _funny_? If I was up there watching I'd see you moving like a
speck! And in a moment you'd disappear around the corner. And now _I'm_
the speck and--I don't know when we reach the corner. But I'm--_going_,
anyway!"

Then upon her happy meditations came a sudden, startling interruption in
the shape of a small dog that leaped out from the dense undergrowth at
the side of the road and hailed the automobile with a sharp bark.

"_Pepperpot!_" cried Jerry, springing to her feet.

The chauffeur had brought the car to a sudden stop to avoid hitting the
dog. At the sound of Jerry's voice the little animal made a joyous leap
into the car.

"He came on _ahead_--through the Divide! _Oh_--the darling," and Jerry
hugged her pet proudly.

John Westley looked at Penelope Allan and she looked at him and the
chauffeur looked at them both--all with the same question. In Jerry's
mind, however, there was no doubt.

"He'll _have_ to go with us, Mr. John, because I know he'd just die of a
broken heart if I--took him back!"

Then, startled by John Westley's hesitation, she added convincingly,
"He's awfully good and never bothers anyone and keeps as still as can be
when I tell him to and I'll--I'll----"

No one could have resisted the appeal in her voice.

"Very well, Jerry--Pepperpot shall go, too."




CHAPTER VI

NEW FACES


"Ten miles more... three miles more ... five blocks more," Mr. John had
been saying at intervals as the big car rolled along, carrying Jerry
nearer and nearer to her new home.

For the two days of the trip Jerry had scarcely spoken; indeed, more
than once her breath had caught in her throat. Each moment brought
something new, more wonderful than anything her fancy had ever pictured.
She liked best the cities through which they passed, their life, the
bustle and confusion, the hurrying throngs, the rushing automobiles, the
gleaming railroad tracks like taut bands of silver, the smoke-screened
factories with their belching stacks, the rows upon rows of houses,
snuggling in friendly fashion close to one another.

John Westley had found himself fascinated in watching the eager
alertness of her observation. He longed to know just what was passing
back of those bright eyes; he tried to draw out some expression, but
Jerry had turned to him an appealing look that said more plainly than
words that she simply couldn't tell how wonderful everything seemed to
her, so he had to content himself with watching the rapture reflected in
her face and manner.

But when, after leaving Mrs. Allan at her brother's, Mr. John had said
"five blocks more," Jerry had clutched the side of the car in an ecstasy
of anticipation. From the deep store of her vivid imagination she had
drawn a mental picture of what the Westley home and Isobel, Gyp, Graham
and Tibby would be like. The house, in her fancy, resembled pictures of
turreted castles; however, when she saw that it was really square and
brick, with a little iron grille enclosing the tiniest scrap of a lawn,
she was too excited to be disappointed.

Two small carved stone lions guarded each side of the flight of steps
that led to the big front door; their stony, stoic stare drew a sharp
bark of challenge from Pepperpot, snuggled in Jerry's arms.

"Hush, Pepper," admonished Jerry. "You mustn't forget your manners."

As John Westley opened the door of the tonneau his eyes swept the front
of the house in a disappointed way. He had expected that great door to
open and his precious nieces and nephew to come tumbling out to welcome
him.

He could not know--because his glance could not penetrate the crisp
curtains at a certain window of the second floor--that from behind it
Gyp, Graham and Tibby had been watching the street for a half hour.
Isobel had resolutely affected utter indifference and had sat reading a
book, though more than once she had peeped covertly over Gyp's shoulder
down the broad avenue.

"_There_ they are!" Tibby had been the first to spy the big car.

"Isobel"--Gyp screamed--"_look_ at her hat!"

"I wish she was a boy," groaned Graham again. "Doesn't Uncle Johnny look
great? I say--come on, let's go down!"

It had been a prearranged pact among the young Westleys not to greet the
little stranger with any show of eagerness.

Tibby welcomed the suggestion. "Oh--_let's_!" she cried.

It was at that moment that Pepperpot had barked his disapproval of the
weather-worn lions. Graham and Gyp gave a shout of delight.

"Look! _Look_--a dog! Hurray!"

"Maybe now mother will have to let us keep him," Graham added. "Come on,
girls," he raced toward the stairs.

Their voices roused Mrs. Westley. She had not expected Uncle Johnny for
another hour. She flew with the children; there was nothing wanting in
_her_ welcome.

"John Westley--you look like a new man! And this is our little girl?
Welcome to our home, my dear. Did you have a nice trip? Did you leave
Pen Allan at the Everetts? How is she?" As she chattered away, with one
hand through John Westley's arm and the other holding Jerry's, she drew
them into the big hall and to the living-room beyond. Jerry's round,
shining eyes took in, with a lightning glance, the rich mahogany
woodwork, the soft rugs like dark pools on the shiny floor, the long
living-room with its amber-toned hangings, and the three curious faces
staring at her over Mr. John's shoulder.

"Gyp, my dear," John Westley untangled long arms from around his neck,
"here's a twin for you. Jerry, this boy is my nephew Graham--he's not
nearly as grown-up as he looks. And this is Tibby!"

Jerry flashed a smile. They seemed to her--this awkward, thin,
dark-skinned girl whom Uncle Johnny had called Gyp, the tall,
roguish-faced boy, and little Tibby, whose straight braids were black
like Gyp's and whose eyes were violet-blue--more wonderful than anything
she had seen along the way; they were, indeed, the "best of all."

"Oh," she stammered, in a laughing, excited way, "it's just wonderful
to--really--be--be here." Before her glowing enthusiasm the children's
prejudice melted in a twinkling. Gyp held out her hand with a friendly
gesture and Pepperpot, as though he understood everything that was
happening, stuck his head out from the shelter of Jerry's arm and thrust
his paw into Gyp's welcoming clasp.

Everyone laughed--Graham and Tibby uproariously.

"Goodness _me_--a _dog_!" Mrs. Westley cried, with a startled glance
toward John Westley.

"Let him down," commanded Graham, as though he and Jerry were old
friends. Jerry put Pepperpot down and the four children leaned over him.
Promptly Pepperpot stood on his hind legs and executed a merry dance.

"He cut through the woods and headed us off, miles away from the
Notch--we couldn't do anything else but bring him along," Uncle Johnny
whispered to Mrs. Westley under cover of the children's laughter. "For
Heaven's sake, Mary, let him stay."

There had been for years a very fixed rule in the Westley household that
dogs were "not allowed." "They bring their dirty feet and their greasy
bones and things on the rugs and the chairs," was the standing
complaint, though Mrs. Westley had never minded telltale marks from
muddy little shoes nor the imprint of sticky fingers on satin
upholstery; nor had she ever allowed painters to gloss over the initials
that Graham had carved with his first jackknife on one of the broad
window-sills of the library. "When he's a grown man and away from the
nest--I'll have _that_," she had explained.

"I don't know what Mrs. Hicks will say," she answered rather helplessly,
knowing, as she watched the young people, that she would not have the
heart to bar Pepper from their midst.

"I say, Jerry,"--Graham had Pepper's nose in his hand--"can I have him
for my dog? Nearly all the fellows have dogs, but mother----" he glanced
quickly in her direction.

Graham might just as well have asked Jerry to cut out a part of her
heart and hand it over; however, his face was so wistful that she
answered, impulsively: "He can belong to all of us!"

"Where's Isobel?" cried Uncle Johnny, looking around.

Isobel had been listening from the turn of the stairway. She had really
wanted, more than anything else, to race down the stairs and throw
herself in Uncle Johnny's arms. (He was certain to have some pretty gift
for her concealed in one of his pockets.) But she must show the others
that _she_ would stick to her word. So, in answer to his call, she
walked slowly down the stairway, with a smile that carefully included
only Uncle Johnny.

Jerry thought that she had never in her whole life seen anyone quite as
pretty as Isobel! She stared, fascinated. To Uncle Johnny's introduction
she answered awkwardly, uncomfortably conscious that Isobel's eyes were
unfriendly. She wished, with all her heart, that Isobel would say
something nice, but Isobel, after a little nod, turned back to her
uncle.

"Gyp, take Jerry to her room. Graham, carry her bags up," directed Mrs.
Westley.

"Pepper, too?" cried Tibby.

But Pepper had dashed up the stairs, and had turned at the landing and,
standing again on his hind legs, had barked. Even Mrs. Westley laughed.
"Pepper's answering that question himself," she replied. She turned to
Uncle Johnny. "If it comes to a choice between Mrs. Hicks and that dog I
plainly see Mrs. Hicks will have to go."

John Westley declared he had not known how "good" it would feel to get
"home" again. Though he really lived in an apartment a few blocks away,
he had always looked upon his brother's house as home and spent the
greater part of his leisure time there. Mrs. Westley ordered tea. Uncle
Johnny slipped Isobel's hand through his arm and followed Mrs. Westley
into the cheery library.

Above, Jerry was declaring that her room was just "wonderful." She ran
from one window to another to gaze rapturously out over the neighboring
housetops. The brick, wall-enclosed court below, with its iron gate
letting into an alleyway, was to her an enchanted battlement!

Graham's trophies, Tibby's dolls, Isobel's drawing tools had
disappeared; a little old-fashioned white wooden bed had been put up in
one corner; its snowy linen cover, with woven pink roses in orderly
clusters, gave it an inviting look; there was a pink pillow in the deep
chair in the bay-window; a round table stood near the chair; on it were
some of Gyp's books and a little work-basket. And the toys had been left
in the old bookcase, so that, Mrs. Westley had decided, the room would
look as if a little girl could really live in it! Little wonder that
Jerry thought it all "wonderful."

When Gyp heard the rattle of tea-cups below, they all tore downstairs
again, Pepper at their heels. They gathered around Uncle Johnny and
drank iced tea and ate little frosted cakes and demanded to be told how
he had felt when he knew he was lost on that "big mountain." They were
all so nice and jolly, Jerry thought, and, though Isobel ignored her,
she must be as nice as the others, because Uncle Johnny kept her next to
him and held her hand. The late afternoon sun slanted through the long
windows with a pleasant glow; the rows and rows of books on the open
shelves made Jerry feel at home; the great, deep-seated chairs gave her
a delicious sense of refuge.

It was Uncle Johnny who, after dinner, sent Jerry off to bed early;
though she declared she was not one little bit tired, he had noticed
that the brightness had gone from her face. Gyp and Tibby went upstairs
with her; Graham disappeared with Pepperpot.

"What do you think of my girl?" John Westley asked his sister-in-law.
They had gone back to the library. Isobel sat on a stool close to Uncle
Johnny's chair.

"She seems like an unusually nice, jolly child. But----" Mrs. Westley
looked a little distressed. "May she not be homesick here, John--so far
from her folks?" She hated to think of such a possibility.

"I thought of that," John Westley chuckled. "I said something about it
to her. What do you think she said? She waited a moment before she
answered me--as though she was carefully considering it. 'Well,' she
said, 'anyway, one wouldn't be homesick for very long, would one?' As
though it'd be like measles--or mumps. This is an Adventure to her;
she's been dreaming about it all her life!" He told, then, about the
Wishing-rock.

"I tell you, Mary, there's some sort of spirit about the girl that's
unusual! It must come from some fire of genius further back than her
hermit-parents. I'm as certain as anything that there's a mystery about
the child. I've knocked about among all sorts of people, but I never
found such a curious family before--in such a place. Dr. Travis is one
of those mortals whose feet touch the earth and whose head is in the
clouds; Mrs. Travis is a cultured, beautiful woman with a look in her
eyes as though she was always afraid of something--just behind. And then
Jerry--like them both and not a bit like 'em--her head in the clouds,
all right--a girl who sees beauty and a promise and a vision in
everything--a girl of dreams! You can imagine almost any sort of a story
about her."

As Mrs. Allan had done, Mrs. Westley laughed at her brother-in-law's
enthusiasm.

"She's probably just a healthy girl who has been brought up in a simple
way by very sensible parents." Her matter-of-fact tone made John Westley
feel a little foolish. "She's a dear, sunny child and I hope she will be
happy here."

"What got me was her utter lack of self-consciousness and her faith in
herself. Not an affectation about her--that's why I wanted her at
Lincoln school."

"No one'll _look_ at her there--she's so dowdy!" burst out Isobel.

Her uncle turned quickly, surprised and a little hurt at the pettishness
of her tone.

"Isobel, dear--" protested her mother.

Then Uncle Johnny laughed. "I rather guess, from my observation of the
vagaries of you young people, that sometimes one little thing can make
even a 'dowdy' girl popular--then, if she has the right stuff in her,
she can be a leader. What is it starts you all wearing these little
black belts round your waists, or this mousetrap," poking the puffs of
pretty silk hair that hid her ears; "it's a psychology that's beyond
most of us! Maybe my Jerry will set a new style in Lincoln."

Isobel blazed in her scorn.

"Well, I'd _die_ before _I'd_ look like her!" she cried. "I'm going to
bed." She felt very cross. She had wanted Uncle Johnny to tell her that
she looked well; she had on a new dress and her hair was combed in a
very new way; she had grown, too, in the summer. Instead he had talked
of nothing but Jerry, Jerry--and such silly talk about her eyes shining
as though they reflected golden visions within! She stalked away with a
bare good-night.

Uncle Johnny might have said something if Isobel's mother had not given
a long sigh.

"I can't--always--understand Isobel now," she said. "She has grown so
self-centered. I'll be glad when school begins." Mrs. Westley, like many
another perplexed parent, looked upon school as a cure for all evils.

Jerry and Gyp had been busily unpacking Jerry's belongings and putting
them away in the little white bureau.

"Where's Pepper?" asked Jerry, in sudden alarm. The children had been
warned to keep the little dog from "under Mrs. Hicks' feet." In a flash
Jerry had a horrible vision of some cruel fate befalling her pet.

"I'll just bet Graham has him," declared Gyp, indignantly.

They tiptoed down the hall and up the stairs to Graham's door. Graham
lay in bed, sound asleep; beside him lay Pepper, carefully tucked under
the bedclothes. One of Graham's arms was flung out over the dog.

Some instinct told Jerry that a long-felt yearning in this boy's heart
had at last been satisfied. And Pepper must have felt it, too, for,
though at the sight of his little mistress a distressed quiver shot
through him, he bravely pretended to be soundly sleeping.

"Let him have him," whispered Jerry.

But, for a long time, Jerry, under the pink and white cover, blinked at
the little circle of brightness reflected from the electric light
outside, trying hard not to wish she had Pepperpot with her "to keep
away the lonesomes." The night sounds of the city hummed in eerie
cadences in her ears. She resolutely counted one-two-three to one
hundred and back again to one to keep the thoughts of mother and
Sunnyside out of her head; then, just as she felt a great choking sob
rise in her throat, she heard a little scratch-scratch at her door.

"Oh, _Pepper_--I'm so _glad_ you came!" She caught the shaggy little
form to her. She could not let him lie on the pink-and-whiteness, so she
carefully spread it over the footboard and folded her own coat for him
to sleep on.

How magically everything changed--when a shaggy terrier snuggled against
her feet. The haunting shadows fled, the sob gave way to a contented
little sigh and Jerry fell asleep with the memory of Gyp's dark, roguish
face in her thoughts and a consuming eagerness to have the morning come
quickly.




CHAPTER VII

HIGHACRES


Old Peter Westley had made up his mind, so gossip said, to build
Highacres when he heard that Thomas Knowles, a business rival, had
bought a palatial home on the most beautiful avenue of the city.
"Pouf"--that was Uncle Peter's favorite expression and he had a way of
blowing it through his scraggly mustache that made it most impressive.
"Pouf! _I'll_ show him!" The next morning he drove around to a real
estate office, bundled the startled real estate broker into his car and
carried him off to the outskirts of the city, where lay a beautiful
tract of land advertised as "Highacre Terrace," and held (with an eye to
the growth of the city) at a startling figure. In the real estate office
it had been divided into building lots with "restrictions," which meant
that only separate houses could be built on the lots. Peter Westley
struck the ground with his heavy cane and said he'd take the whole
piece. The real estate man gasped. Uncle Peter said "pouf" again and the
deal was settled.

Then he summoned architects from all over the country who, to his
delight, spent hours in the office of the Westley Cement-Mixer
Manufacturing Company trying to outdo one another in finesse and
suavity. Fortunately he decided upon a man who had genius as well as
tact, who, without his knowing it, could quietly bend old Peter Westley
to his way of thinking. Under this man's planning the new home grew
until it stood in its finished perfection, a mass of stone and marble
surrounded by great trees and sloping lawns. Gossip said further that
Highacres so far surpassed the remodeled home of Thomas Knowles that
that poor gentleman had resigned from the Meadow Brook Country Club so
that he would not have to drive past it!

What sentiment had led Peter Westley to leave Highacres to the Lincoln
School no one would ever know; perhaps deep in his queer old heart was
an affection for his nephew Robert's children, who came dutifully to see
him once or twice a year, but made no effort to conceal the fact that
they thought it a dreadful bore.

"I think," Isobel said seriously to her family, as they were gathered
around the breakfast table, a few days after Jerry's arrival, "that it'd
be nice if Gyp and I put on black----"

"_Black_----" cried Gyp, spilling her cocoa in her astonishment.

"Yes, black. We should have worn it when Uncle Peter died and now, going
to school out there, it would show the others that we respected----"

Mrs. Westley laughed, then when she saw the color deepen on Isobel's
cheeks she added soothingly: "Your thought's all right, Isobel dear, but
it will be hardly necessary for you and Gyp to put on black now to show
your respect. I think every pupil of Lincoln can best do it by building
up a reputation for scholarship that will make Lincoln known all over
the country."

"Isobel just wants everybody to remember she's Uncle Peter's----"

"Hush, Graham." Mrs. Westley had a way of saying "hush" that cleared a
threatening atmosphere at once.

"Oh, isn't it going to be _fun_?" cried Gyp. "Mother, can't we take
Jerry out there this morning?"

"But I have to use the car----"

"If you girls were fellows, we could walk," broke in Graham.

"We can--we can! It's only two miles and a half. Simpson watched on the
speedometer the last time we drove out."

Graham looked questioningly at Jerry and Jerry, suddenly recalling the
miles of mountain trail over which she had climbed, laughed back her
answer.

Because a new world, that surpassed any fairy tale, had opened to Jerry
in these last few days, it seemed only fitting to go to school in a
building that was like a palace. She thrilled at the thought of the new
school life, the girls and boys who would be her classmates, the new
teachers, the new studies. For years and years, back at the Notch she
had always sat in front of Rose Smith and back of Jimmy Chubb; she had
progressed from fractions to measurements and then on to algebra and
from spelling to Latin with the outline of Jimmy's winglike ears so
fixed a part of her vision that she wondered if now she might not find
that she could not study without them. And there had always been, as far
back as she could remember, only little Miss Masten to teach
multiplication and geography and algebra alike; she and the other
children who made up the "advanced grade" of the school at Miller's
Notch always called her "Miss Sarah." Would there be anyone like Miss
Sarah at Lincoln?

As they walked along, Gyp bravely measuring her step to Jerry's freer
stride, Gyp explained to Jerry "all about" Uncle Peter.

"He's father's uncle. Father's father--that's my grandfather--was his
youngest brother. He died when he was just a young man and Uncle Peter
never got over it. Mother says my grandfather was the only person Uncle
Peter ever really liked. He always lived in the same funny little old
house even after he made lots of money, until he built Highacres. He was
terribly queer. I used to be dreadfully afraid of him because he always
carried a big cane and had the awfullest way of looking at you! His eyes
sort of bored holes right through you, so that you turned cold all over
and couldn't even cry. I'm glad he's dead. He was awfully old,
anyway--or at least he looked old. We used to just hate to have to go to
see him. The old stingy wouldn't ever even give us a stick of candy."

"The poor old man," Jerry said so feelingly that Gyp stared at her. "My
mother always said that such people are so unhappy that they punish
themselves. Maybe he really wanted to be nice and just didn't know how!
Anyway, he's given his home to the school."

If Peter Westley, looking down from another world, was reading that
thought in a hundred young hearts he must surely be finding his reward.

"There it is!" cried Graham, who was walking ahead.

School could not really seem a bit like school, Jerry thought, as she
followed the others through the spacious grounds into the building, when
one studied in such beautiful rooms where the sun, streaming through
long windows framed in richly-toned walnut, danced in slanting golden
bars across parqueted floors. Gyp's enthusiasm, though, made it all very
real.

"Here, Jerry, here's where the third form study room will be. Look,
here's the geom. classroom! Oh, I _hope_ we'll be put in the same class.
Let's go down to the Gym. Oh--look at the French room--isn't it
darling?" The trees outside were casting a shimmer of green through the
sunshine in the room. "Mademoiselle will say: 'Young ladies, it ees
beau-ti-ful!' Aren't these halls jolly, Jerry? Oh, I can't _wait_ for
school to begin."

On their way to the gymnasium, which was in the new wing of the
building, the girls met another group. One of these disentangled herself
from the arms that encircled her waist and threw herself into Gyp's
embrace. The extravagance of her demonstration startled Jerry, but when
Gyp introduced her, in an off-hand way: "This is Ginny Cox, Jerry,"
Jerry found herself fascinated by the dash and "_camaraderie_" in the
girl's manner.

There were other introductions and excited greetings; each tried to tell
how "scrumptious" and "gorgeous" and "spliffy" she thought the new
school. Like Gyp, none of them could wait until school opened. Then the
group passed on and Jerry, breathless at her first encounter with her
schoolmates-to-be, remembered only Ginny Cox.

"She's the funniest girl--she's a perfect circus," Gyp explained in
answer to Jerry's query. "Everybody likes her and she's the best forward
we ever had in Lincoln." All of which was strange tribute to Jerry's
ears, for, back at the Notch, poor Si Robie had always been dubbed the
"funniest" child in the school and _he_ had been "simple." Jerry did not
know exactly how valuable a good "forward" was to any school but, she
told herself, she knew she was going to like Ginny Cox.

In the gymnasium the girls found Graham with a group of boys. Gyp
greeted them boisterously. Jerry, watching shyly, thought them all very
jolly-looking boys.

"Do you see that tall boy down there?" Gyp nodded toward another group.
"That's Dana King. Isobel's got an awful crush on him. She won't admit
it but I _know_ it, and the other girls say so, too. He's a senior."

The boy turned at that moment. His pleasant face was aglow with
enthusiasm.

"Come on, fellows," he cried to the other boys, "let's give a yell for
old Peter Westley." And the yell was given with a will!

     "L-I-N-C-O-L-N! L-I-N-C-O-L-N!
     Lincoln! Lincoln!
     Rah! Rah! Rah!
     Peter Westley! Pe-ter! West-ley!"

Jerry tingled to her finger-tips. Gyp had yelled with the others, so had
Ginny Cox, who had come back into the room. What fun it was all going to
be. Dana King was leading the boys in a serpentine march through the
building; out in the hall the line broke to force in a laughing,
remonstrating carpenter. Jerry heard their boyish voices gradually die
away.

"Before we go back let's climb up to the tower room." That was the name
the children had always given to the largest of the turrets that crowned
Highacres' many-gabled roof. A stairway led directly to it from the
third floor. But the door of the room was locked.

"How tiresome," exclaimed Gyp, shaking the knob. Not that she did not
know just what the tower room was like, but she hated locked doors--they
always made her so curious.

"It's the nicest room--you can see way off over the city from its
windows." She gave the offending door a little kick. "They put all of
Uncle Peter's old books and papers and things up here--mother wouldn't
have them brought to our house, you see. I remember she told Graham the
key was down in the safety-deposit box at the bank. Well----"
disappointed, Gyp turned down the stairs. "I've always loved tower
rooms, don't you, Jerry? They're so romantic. Can't you just see the
poor princess who won't marry the lover her father has commanded her to
marry, languishing up there? Even chained to the wall!"

Jerry shuddered but loved the picture. She added to it: "She's got long
golden, hair hanging down over her shoulders and she's tearing it in her
wretchedness."

"And beating her breast and vowing over and over that she will _not_
marry the horrible wicked prince----"

"And refusing to eat the dry bread that the ugly old keeper of the
drawbridge slips through the door----"

At this point in the heartrending story the two laughing girls reached
the outer door. Gyp slipped an affectionate hand through Jerry's arm.
She forgot the languishing princess she had consigned to the prison
above in her joy of the bright sunshine, the inviting slopes of
Highacres, velvety green, and the new friend at her side.

"I'm so _glad_ Uncle Johnny found you!"




CHAPTER VIII

SCHOOL


In the Westley home each school day had always begun with a rite that
would some day be a sacred memory to Mrs. Westley, because it belonged
to the precious childhood of her girls and boy. Graham called it
"inspection." It had begun when the youngsters had first started school,
Isobel and Graham proudly in the "grades," Gyp in kindergarten. The
mother had, each morning, laughingly stood them in a row and looked them
over. More than once poor Graham had declared that it was because his
ears were so big that mother could always find dirt somewhere; sometimes
it was Isobel who was sent back to smooth her hair or Gyp to wash her
teeth or Tibby for her rubbers. But after the inspection there was
always a "good-luck" kiss for each and a carol of "good-by, mother" from
happy young throats.

So on this day that was to mark the opening of the Lincoln School at
Highacres, Jerry stood in line with the others and, though each young
person was faultlessly ready for this first day of school, Mrs. Westley
laughingly pulled Graham's ears, smiled reminiscently at Isobel's
primness, smoothed with a loving hand Gyp's rebellious black locks and
thought, as she looked at Jerry, of what Uncle Johnny had said about her
eyes reflecting golden dreams from within. And when she called Tibby
"littlest one" none of them could know that, as she looked at them and
realized that another year was beginning, it stirred a little heartache
deep within her.

"Aren't mothers funny?" reflected Gyp as she and Jerry swung down the
street. They had preferred to walk.

"Oh----" Jerry had to control her voice. "_I_ think they're grand!"

"I mean--they're so _fussy_. When I have children I'm just going to
leave them plumb alone. I don't care what they'll look like."

"You will, though," laughed Jerry. "Because you'll love them. If our
mothers didn't love us so much I suppose they'd leave us alone. That
would be dreadful!"

Jerry had slept very little the night before for anticipation. And now
that the great moment was approaching close she was obsessed by the fear
that she "wouldn't know what to do." The fear grew very acute when she
was swept by Gyp into a crowd of noisy girls, all rushing for space in
the dressing-rooms. Then, at the ringing of a bell, she was hurried with
the others up the wide stairway. She caught a glimpse of Gyp ahead,
surrounded by chums, all trying to exchange in a brief moment the entire
summer's experiences. She looked wildly around for a familiar face. She
caught one little glimpse of Ginny Cox, who smiled at her across a dozen
heads, then rushed away with the others.

In the Assembly room a spirit of gaiety prevailed. The eager faces of
the boys and girls smiled at the faculty, sitting in prim rows on the
stage; the faculty smiled back. There was stirring music until the last
pupil had found her place. Then, just as Dr. Caton, the dignified
principal, rose to his feet, a boy whom Jerry from her corner recognized
as Dana King, leaped to the front, threw both arms wildly in the air
with a gesture that plainly commanded: "Come on, fellows," and the
beamed ceiling rang with a lusty cheer.

Dr. Caton greeted the students with a few pleasant words. There were
more cheers, then everyone sang. Jerry thought it all very jolly. She
wondered if "assembly" was always like this. She recalled suddenly how
agitated poor Miss Sarah always became if there was the slightest noise
in that stuffy schoolroom, back at the Notch.

"Look--there's the new gym. teacher--on the end--Barbara Lee," whispered
Jerry's neighbor, excitedly.

Jerry looked with interest. In the entire faculty she had not found
anyone who resembled, even ever so slightly, poor Miss Sarah. Miller's
Notch, of course, had no gymnasium, therefore it had not needed any
gymnasium assistant. Jerry had imagined that a gym. teacher must,
necessarily, be a sort of young Amazon, with a strong, hard face. Miss
Lee was slender and looked like one of the schoolgirls.

It had always been the custom at Lincoln School, on the opening day, to
assign the new pupils to the care of the Seniors. These assignments were
posted on the bulletin boards. Jerry did not know this: she did not know
that Isobel Westley had been appointed her "guardian." Before assembly,
Isobel had read her name on the lists and had promptly declared: "I just
_won't_! Let her get along the best way she can." So, when assembly was
over, Jerry found herself drifting helplessly, forlornly elbowed here
and there, too shy to ask questions, valiantly trying to beat down the
desire to run away. She envied the assurance with which the others, even
the new girls, seemed to know just where they ought to go. She had not
laid eyes on Gyp after that one fleeting glimpse on the stairs.

Suddenly a hand touched her arm and, turning, she found Barbara Lee
beside her. The kind smile on Miss Lee's face brought a little
involuntary quiver to her lips.

"Lost, my dear?"

"I--I don't know--where----"

"You are a new girl? What is your name?"

"Jerauld Travis."

"Oh--yes. Where is your guardian?" As she spoke Miss Lee stepped to the
bulletin board that hung in the corridor. She read Isobel's name.

"You were assigned to Isobel Westley. It is strange that she has left
you alone. Come to the library with me, Jerauld."

Jerry realized now why it had been so easy for all the other "new girls"
to find their places--_they_ had had guardians. She tried to smother a
little feeling of hurt because Isobel had deserted her.

The library, gloriously sunlit on this golden morning, was empty. Miss
Lee pulled two chairs toward a long table.

"Sit here, Jerauld. Now tell me all about your other school--so we can
place you." And she patted Jerry's hand in a jolly encouraging way.

It was very easy for Jerry to talk to Miss Lee. She told of the work she
had covered back at the Notch. Miss Lee listened with interest and,
knowing nothing of Jerry's home life and Jerry's mother, some amazement.

"I believe you could go straight into the Junior class though
you're----"

"Oh, _can't_ I be in Gyp's room?" cried Jerry in dismay. "Gyp Westley, I
mean. You see she's the only girl I know real well."

Barbara Lee, for all that she was trying to look very grown-up and
dignified, as a teacher should, could remember well how much it meant in
school life to be near one's "chum." So she laughed, a laugh that warmed
Jerry's heart.

"I think--perhaps--that can be arranged," she said in a tone that
indicated that she would help. "We will go to see Dr. Caton."

Even after the long consultation with Dr. Caton, Miss Lee did not desert
Jerry. As they walked away from the office, she whispered assuringly to
Jerry: "Dr. Caton thinks you had better go into the Third Form room--for
a term, at least." Accordingly she led her into one of the smaller study
rooms. And there was Gyp smiling and beckoning her to an empty desk
beside her. But Miss Lee took Jerry to her classrooms; she introduced
her to Miss Briggs, the geometry teacher, then to Miss Gray of the
English department, and on to the French room and to the Ancient History
classroom. Bewildered, Jerry answered countless questions and registered
her name over and over.

"There, my dear, you're settled for this term, at least," declared Miss
Lee as they left the last classroom, "Now go back to your study-room and
take that desk that Gyp Westley's saving for you."

Assigned to classes and with a desk of her own--and with Gyp close at
hand--Jerry felt like a real Lincolnite and her unhappy shyness vanished
as though by magic. During the long recess that followed, the bad
half-hour forgotten, with a budding confidence born of her sense of
"belonging," she sought the other "new" girls. Among them was Patricia
Everett, who came directly to Jerry.

"I know you're Jerry Travis. I'm Aunt Pen Everett Allan's niece. I'm
crazy to go and visit Cobble Mountain. That's very near your home, isn't
it?" So sincere was her interest that Jerry felt as though she was
suddenly surrounded by a wealth of friendship. Patricia seemed to know
everyone else--they were nearly all Girl Scouts in her troop; she
introduced Jerry to so many girls that poor Jerry could not remember a
single name.

Ginny Cox, spying Jerry from across the room, bolted to her.

"You're going to sign up for basketball, aren't you? Of course you are.
Wait right here--I'll call Mary Starr." She rushed away and before Jerry
could catch her breath she returned with a tall, pleasant-faced girl who
carried a small leather-bound notebook in her hand.

She wrote Jerry's name in it and went away.

"Miss Travis, will you sign up for hockey?" Jerry, on familiar ground,
eagerly assented to this. Her name went into another book. Another girl
waylaid her. She signed for swimming. She noticed that the others around
her were doing the same thing. Patricia brought a girl to her whom she
introduced as Peggy Lee. Peggy carried a notebook, too.

"Will you sign up for the debating club, Miss Travis?" she asked with a
dignity that was belied by her roguish eyes.

Jerry was quite breathless; she had never debated in her life--but then
she had never played basketball either.

"Oh, do sign. We're all joining and it's awfully exciting," pleaded
Patricia. So Jerry signed for the debates.

"When_ever_ will I find time to study Latin and geometry? I know I'm
going to be dumb in that," cried Jerry, that evening, to the Westley
family. She spoke with such real conviction that everyone laughed.

Uncle Johnny had "dropped in." He was as eager as though he was a
schoolboy, himself, to hear the children's experiences of the day.
Though they all talked at once, he managed to understand nearly all that
they were telling.

"And you, Jerry-girl, what did you think of it all?"

Because she had felt like one little drop in a very big puddle, Jerry
simply couldn't tell. But her eyes were shining. Gyp broke in. "Jerry
could be a Junior if she wanted to, but she's going to stay in my
study-room for awhile. And they've signed her up for _every single
thing_!"

Jerry, ignorant of Lincoln traditions, did not know that this was a
tribute.

Then she had wondered when, with everything else, she would find time
for her Cicero and geometry.

"Who you got? Speck-eyes?"

"Graham----" cried Mrs. Westley. "I will _not_ have you speaking in that
way of your teachers!"

Graham colored; he knew that this was a point upon which his mother had
always been very firm.

"Oh, Miss Briggs is all _right_--I like her, but all the fellows call
her that."

"Do you suppose they'll nickname Miss Lee?"

To Jerry it seemed that _that_ would be sacrilege--she was too dear!
Uncle John had, then, to hear all about her. He was much interested, he
had not realized that she was grown-up enough to teach.

"But she really doesn't seem a bit so," Gyp explained.

Then quite suddenly Graham asked Jerry: "Say, Jerry, who was your
guardian?"

Jerry's face turned very red. She caught a defiant look from Isobel. She
did not want to answer; even the ethics of the little school at Miller's
Notch had had no tolerance for a telltale.

"A--a Senior. She couldn't find me."

Poor Jerry--Graham's careless inquiry had dimmed her enthusiasm. Why
hadn't Isobel found her? With the friendliness of spirit that was such a
part of the very atmosphere of Lincoln, why had Isobel, alone, stood
aloof? She looked at Isobel--she was so pretty now as she talked, with
animation, to Uncle Johnny. Jerry thought, as she watched her, that
she'd rather have Isobel love her than any of those other nice girls she
had met at Highacres--Patricia Everett, Ginny Cox, Peggy Lee, Keineth
Randolph----

"I'll just _make_ her," she vowed, gathering up her shiny new
school-books. And that solemn vow was to help Jerry over many a rough
spot in the schooldays to come.




CHAPTER IX

THE SECRET DOOR


The routine of Jerry's new life shaped into pleasant ways. She felt more
like Jerry Travis and less like a dream-creature living in a golden
world she had brought around her by wishing on a wishing-rock. She could
not have found a moment in which to be homesick; twice a week she wrote
back to Sweetheart and Little-Dad long scrawly letters that would have
disgraced her in the eyes of Miss Gray of the English department, but
expressed such utter happiness and contentment that Mrs. Travis, with a
little regret, dismissed the fear that Jerry would be lonely away from
her and Sunnyside.

After the first week of school the girls and boys settled down to what
Graham called "digging." Geometry looked less formidable to Jerry,
Cicero was like a beautiful old friend, Gyp was with her in English and
history, Ginny Cox was in one of her classes, too, and Jerry liked her
better each day. Patricia Everett was teaching her to play tennis until
basketball practice began.

There were the pleasant walks to and from school through the city
streets, whose teeming life never failed to fascinate Jerry; the jolly
recess, breaking the school session, when the girls gathered around the
long tables and ate their lunch; and then the afternoon's play on the
athletic field at Highacres.

Had old Peter Westley ever pictured, as he sat alone in his great empty
house, how Highacres would look after scores of young feet had trampled
over its velvety stretches? Perhaps he had liked that picture; perhaps,
to him, his halls were echoing even then to the hum of young voices;
perhaps he had felt that these young lives that would pass over the
threshold of the house he had built out into the world of men and women
would belong, in some way, to him who had never had a boy or girl.

One afternoon Gyp and Jerry lingered in the school building to prepare a
history lesson from references they had to find in the library. Gyp
hated to study; the drowsy stillness of the room was broken by the
pleasant shouting from the playground outside. She threw down her pencil
and stretched her long arms.

"Oh, goodness, Jerry--let's stop. We can ask mother all these things."

Jerry was quite willing to be tempted. She, too, had found it hard to
hold her attention to the Thirty-one Dynasties.

Gyp leaned toward her. "I'll tell you--let's go exploring. There are all
the rooms in the back we've never seen."

During the past six months workmen had been rebuilding the rear wing of
Highacres into laboratories. The changes had not been completed. Gyp and
Jerry climbed over materials and tools and little piles of rubbish,
poking inquisitive noses into every corner. Now and then Gyp stopped to
ask a workman a few questions. They stumbled around in the basement
where in a few weeks there would be a very complete machine-shop and
carpentry room. Then they found a stairway that led to the upper floors
and scampered up it.

"Oh, Jerry Travis, I _wish_ you could see yourself," laughed Gyp as they
paused on the third floor.

"Your face is dirty, too," Jerry retorted.

"Isn't this fun? It doesn't seem a bit like school, does it? I wonder if
they're ever going to use these rooms. Let's play hide-and-seek. I'll
blind and count twenty and you hide and we mustn't make a _sound_!"
which, you know, is a very hard thing to do when one is playing
hide-and-seek.

Gyp's charm--and there was much charm in this lanky girl--lay in her
irrepressible spirits. Gyp was certain--and every boy and girl of her
acquaintance knew it--to find an opportunity for "fun" in the most
unpromising circumstances. No one but Gyp could have known what fun it
would be to play hide-and-seek in the halls and rooms of the third floor
of Highacres--especially when one had to step very softly and bite one's
lips to keep back any sound!

It was Jerry's turn to blind. She leaned her arm against the narrow
frame of a panel painting of George Washington that was set in the wall
at a turn in the corridor. As she rested her face against her arm she
felt the picture move ever so slightly under her pressure. Startled, she
stepped back. Slowly, as though pushed by an invisible hand, the panel
swung out into the corridor.

"_Gyp_----" cried Jerry so sharply that Gyp appeared from her
hiding-place in a twinkling. "Look--what I did!" Jerry felt as though
the entire building might slowly and sedately collapse around her.

"For goodness' sake," cried Gyp, staring. She swung the panel out. "It's
a _door_! Jerry Travis, _it's a secret door_!" She put her head through
the narrow opening. "Jerry----" she reached back an eager hand.
"Look--it's a stairway--a secret stairway!"

Jerry put her head in. Enough light filtered through a crack above so
that the girls could make out the narrow winding steps. They were very
steep and only broad enough for one person to squeeze through.

"Come on, Jerry, let's----"

"Gyp, you don't know where it'll take you----" Jerry suddenly remembered
their poor princess in her dungeon.

"Silly--nothing could hurt us! Come on. Close the panel--there, like
that. I'll go first." She led the way, Jerry tiptoeing gingerly behind
her.

The door at the top gave under Gyp's push and to their amazement the
girls found themselves in the tower room.

It was a square room with a sloping ceiling and narrow windows; there
was nothing in the least unusual about it. Gyp and Jerry looked about
them, vaguely disappointed. It might have been, with its litter of old
furniture, chests of books, piles of magazines and papers, an attic room
in any house. The October sunshine filtered in thin bars through the
dust-stained windows, cobwebs festooned themselves fantastically
overhead. The opening that led to the secret stairway appeared, on the
inside of the room, to be a built-in bookcase on the shelves of which
were now piled an assortment of hideous bric-a-brac which Mrs. Robert
Westley had refused to take into her own home.

"Well, it's fun, anyway, just having the secret stairway," decided Gyp,
scowling at what she mentally called the "junk" about her. "_Why_ do you
suppose Uncle Peter had it built in?"

Jerry could offer no explanation.

"Hadn't we ought to tell someone?"

Gyp scorned the thought--part with their precious secret--let everybody
know that that imposing portrait of George Washington hid a _secret
door_? Why, even mother and Uncle Johnny couldn't know it--it was their
very own secret!

"I should say _not_. At least----" she added, "not for awhile. I guess
I'm a Westley and I have a right to come up here." Which argument
sounded very convincing to Jerry.

"Oh, I have the grandest idea," Gyp dragged Jerry to the faded
window-seat and plumped down upon it so hard that it sent a little cloud
of dust about them. "Let's get up a secret society--like the horrid old
Sphinxes."

Fraternities and sororities were not allowed in Lincoln School, but from
time to time there had sprung up secret bands of boys and girls, that
held together by irrevealable ties for a little while, then passed into
school history. One of these was the Sphinxes. They were annoyingly
mysterious and dark rumors were current that their antics, if known,
would not meet, in the least, the approval of the Lincoln faculty.
Isobel was a Sphinx, most faithful to her vows, so that all the teasing
and bribing that Graham's and Gyp's fertile brains could contrive,
failed to drag one tiny truth from her.

Of course Jerry had been at Lincoln long enough to know all about the
Sphinxes. And she knew, too, that Gyp meant to suggest a society that
would be like the Sphinxes only in that it was secret. She could not be
one of that Third Form study-room without sharing the general scorn of
the Sophomores for the Senior Sphinxes.

"We can meet up here, you see--once a week. And let's have it a secret
society that'll stand ready to serve Lincoln with their very lives--like
those secret bands of men in the South--after the Civil War."

Jerry declared, of course, that Gyp's suggestion was "wonderful."

"We'll have a real initiation when we'll all swear our allegiance to
Lincoln School forever and ever and we'll have spreads and it'll be such
fun making every one wonder where we meet. And we'll have terribly funny
signs."

"What'll we call it?" asked Jerry, ashamed that she could offer nothing
to the plan.

"Let's call it the Ravens and Serpents--that sounds so awful and we
won't be at all. And a crawly snake is such a dreadful symbol and it's
easy to draw." Gyp's brain worked at lightning pace in its initiative.

"What girls shall we ask?"

Gyp rattled off a number of names. They were all girls who were in the
Third Form study-room.

"Can't we ask Ginny Cox?"

Gyp considered. "No," she answered decidedly. "She'd be fun but she's
too chummy with Mary Starr and Mary Starr's a Sphinx. We can't ask her."

Gyp was right, of course, Jerry thought, but she wished Ginny Cox might
be invited to join.

"Let's go down now. Oh, won't it be fun? Swear, Jerauld Travis, that
burning irons won't drag our secret from you!"

"Nothing will make me tell," promised Jerry. They stole down the
stairway, moved George Washington carefully back into place, tiptoed to
the main floor and out into the sunshine.

Thus did the secret order of the "Ravens and Serpents" have its birth.
Gyp assembled various symbols, impressive in their terribleness, that,
during the study hours of the next day, conveyed, with the help of
whispered explanations and a violent exchange of notes, invitations to
six other girls to join the new order. And after the close of school
eight pupils elected to remain indoors, ostensibly to study; eight heads
bent diligently over the long oak table in the library until a safe
passage into the deserted halls above was assured. Then Gyp and Jerry
led the new Ravens to the secret door where, in a sepulchral whisper,
Gyp extracted a solemn promise from each that she would not divulge the
secret of the hidden stairway. One by one, quite breathless with
excitement, they climbed to the tower room where Gyp with ridiculous
solemnity called "to order" the first assembly of the Ravens and
Serpents of Lincoln School.

[Illustration: ONE BY ONE, QUITE BREATHLESS WITH EXCITEMENT, THEY
CLIMBED TO THE TOWER ROOM]

All the Ravens agreed with Gyp that their secret society must pledge
itself to protect and serve the spirit of Lincoln; then, having disposed
of that they fell, eagerly, to discussing plans for "spreads."

"Let's take turns bringing eats."

"How often shall we meet?"

"Let's meet every Wednesday. Melodia always makes tarts on Tuesday and
maybe I can coax her to make some extra ones," offered Patricia Everett.

"And the dancing class is in the gym. then and no one will notice us."

"We ought to have knives and forks and things like a regular club!"

"And a president and a secretary."

"I ought to be president." Gyp's tone was final.

The other Ravens assented amicably. "Of course you ought to be. And
Jerry can be secretary because she helped find this spliffy room."

"Girls, at the next meeting let's each bring a knife, fork, spoon, plate
and cup."

"Oh, _won't_ it be fun?" A Raven pirouetted on her toes in a most
unparliamentary and unbird-like fashion.

"Pat and I'll bring the eats next Wednesday," declared Peggy. "Some one
has to start."

"If we've decided everything we have to decide this meeting's
adjourned," and without further formal procedure Gyp summarily brought
to an end the first meeting of the Ravens. After a merry half-hour they
tiptoed down the secret stairway, George Washington went back into his
place on the wall and the eight girls scattered, each to her own home,
with hearts that were fairly bursting with excitement.

That evening at the dinner table Gyp, very obviously, made a secret sign
to Jerry. She brought one hand, with a little downward, spiral movement,
to rest upon the other hand, the first two fingers of each interlocked.

"Oh! Oh! That's a secret sign you made," cried Tibby.

"Well, maybe it is," answered Gyp, putting her spoon in her soup with
assumed indifference.

"Some silly girls' society, I'll bet," put in Graham with a tormenting
grin.

Gyp had passed beyond the age when Graham's teasing could disturb her.
She smiled to show how little she minded his words.

"You'll know, my dear brother, _sometime_, whether we're silly or not,"
she answered with beautiful dignity. "_We're_ not a society that's
organized just for _fun_!" Which was, of course, a slap at the Sphinxes.
Isobel roused suddenly to an active interest in the discussion.

"You're just copy-cats," she declared, with a withering scorn that
brought Graham to Gyp's defence.

No wonder Jerry never found a moment in the Westley home dull!

"_You_ needn't think," he shot across the table at Isobel, "that 'cause
you have waves in your hair you're the whole ocean!"

"Funny little boy," Isobel retorted, trying hard to hold back her anger.
"Mother, I should think you'd make Graham stop using his horrid slang!"

"That's not slang--that's _idiotmatic_ English," added Graham, smiling
mischievously at his mother. He chuckled. "You should have heard Don
Blacke in geom. class to-day. He got up and said: 'Two triangles are
equal if two sides and the included angle of one are equal
_respectfully_ to two sides,' and when we all laughed he got sore as a
cat!"




CHAPTER X

THE DEBATE


"Gyp--_what_ do you think has happened?" Jerry frantically clutched
Gyp's arm as they met outside of the study-room door. Jerry did not wait
for Gyp to "think." "My name's been drawn for the debate--this Friday
night! Miss Gray just told me. I'm taking Susan Martin's place."

"What _fun_----"

Jerry had wanted sympathy. "Not fun at all! I am scared to death."

A bell rang and Gyp scampered off to her classroom, leaving Jerry to go
to her desk, sit down and contemplate with a heavy heart the task that
lay before her. She had never so much as spoken a "piece" in her life;
since coming to Highacres she had listened, with fascination, to the
weekly discussion of current topics, envying the ease with which the
boys and girls of the room contributed to it. She had wondered whether
she could ever grow so accustomed to large groups of people as to be
able to talk before them. Now Miss Gray, waving in her face the little
pink slip that had done all the damage, was driving her to the test.

However, there had been a great deal in Jerry's simple childhood, spent
on the trails of Kettle Mountain, that had given to her an indomitable
courage for any challenge. Real fear--that horrible funk that turns the
staunchest heart cowardly, Jerry had never known--what she had sometimes
called fear had been only the little heartquake of expectation.

Once, when she was twelve years old, she had ventured to climb Rocky
Point, alone, in search of the first arbutus of the year. Spring had
come to the lower slopes of the mountain but its soft hand was just
breaking the upper crusts of ice and snow. As she climbed up the trail a
deep rumble warned her that a snowslide was approaching. She had only
the briefest moment to decide what to do--if she retraced her steps she
must surely be overtaken! Near her was a tall crag of rock that jutted
out from the wooded slope of the trail; on this she might be safe. With
desperate haste she climbed it and, as she clung to its rough surface,
tons of ice and snow thundered past her, shaking her stronghold,
uprooting the smaller trees, piling in fantastic shapes against the
sturdier. As Jerry watched it had been fascination, not terror, that had
caught the breath in her throat; she had not recognized the threat of
Death; she had glimpsed only the picture of her beloved Kettle angrily
shaking old Winter from his mighty shoulders.

So, as Jerry sat there in the study-room, her frowning eyes focussed on
a spot straight ahead of her, her spirit slowly rose to meet the
challenge of the debate. These others had all had to live through their
"first," ease had come to them only with practice, she reminded herself.

It was pleasantly exciting, too, to be surrounded, after school, by a
group of interested schoolmates, each with a suggestion.

"Just keep your hands tight behind your back," offered one.

"I 'most choked to death in one debate," recalled Peggy Lee, laughing.
"I had a cough-drop in my mouth to make my voice smooth and when it came
my turn I was so scared I couldn't swallow it and there I had to talk
with that thing in my cheek, and every minute or two it'd get out and
'most strangle me! Oh, it was dreadful. I don't believe that story about
Demosthenes and the pebble."

"I'd get some famous orator's speeches and practice 'em. It makes what
you say sound grand!"

"Don't _look_ at anybody--just keep your eyes way up," declared Pat
Everett, whose experience went no farther than reciting four French
verses before a room full of fond parents, at Miss Prindle's
boarding-school.

All of this advice Jerry took solemnly to heart. Gyp volunteered to help
her. Gyp was far more concerned that she should practice the arts of
oratory than that she should build up convincing arguments for her side
of the question. From the Westley library Gyp dug out a volume of
"Famous Speeches by Famous Men." Curled in the deep rocker in Jerry's
room she searched its pages.

"Listen, Jerry--isn't this grand? 'Let us pause, friends, let us feel
the fluttering of the heart that preceded the battle, let us hear the
order to advance, let us behold the wild charge, the glistening
bayonets, the rushing horses, the blinding----'"

"But, Gyp, that's nothing about the Philippine Islands!"

"Of course not--at least all that about the horses and the bayonets--but
you could say, 'Let us pause----' and wave your hand--like this! Here,
he's used it again," her finger traced another line, "it sounds
splendid; so--so sort of--calm."

Jerry pounced upon anything that might sound "calm." So, after she had
compiled arguments that must convince her listeners that the Philippine
Islands should be given their independence, she tried them out behind
carefully-closed doors, with Gyp as a stern and relentless critic.

"Wave your hand _out_ when you say: 'Let us pause and consider----' Oh,
that's splendid! Try it again Jerry--slower. You're going to be
_great_!" Gyp's loyal enthusiasm strengthened Jerry's confidence.

There was for her, too, an added inspiration in the fact that Uncle
Johnny was to be one of the judges. She wanted to do her "very best" for
him. As the school weeks had flown by, each full of joys that Jerry
could realize more than any of the other girls and boys, her gratitude
toward John Westley had grown to such proportions that she ached for
some splendid opportunity to serve him. She had told Gyp, one day, that
she wished she might save his life in some way (preferably, of course,
with the sacrifice of her own), but as Uncle Johnny seemed
extraordinarily careful in front of automobiles and street cars, as the
Westley home was too fireproof to admit of any great fire and there
could not be, in November, any likelihood of a flood, poor Jerry pined
vainly for her great opportunity. Once, when she had tried to tell Uncle
Johnny, shyly, something of how she felt, he had drawn her
affectionately to him.

"Jerry-girl, you're doing enough right here for my girls to pay me back
for anything I have done." Which Jerry could not understand at all. She
could not know that only the evening before Mrs. Westley had told Uncle
Johnny how Gyp and Tibby had both moved their desks into Jerry's room,
and had added:

"Gyp and Tibby never quarrel since Jerry came. She has a way of
smoothing everything over--it's her sunniness, I think. Gyp is less
hasty and headstrong and Tibby isn't the cry-baby she was."

The day before the debate Isobel asked Jerry to show her the arguments
she had prepared.

"Perhaps I can add some notes that will help you," she explained
condescendingly.

Poor Jerry went into a flutter of joy over Isobel's apparent interest.
She ran to her room and took from her desk the sheets of paper upon
which were neatly written each step of her argument. She hoped Isobel
would think them good.

"May I look over them in school?" Isobel asked as she took them.

Jerry would have consented to anything! All through that day her heart
warmed at the thought of Isobel's friendliness. Like a small cloud
across the happiness of her life at the Westleys had been the
consciousness that Isobel disliked her; Gyp was her shadow, Tibby her
adoring slave, between her and Graham was the knowledge that they two
shared Pepper's loyalty, Mrs. Westley gave her exactly the same
mothering she gave her own girls, but Isobel, through all the weeks, had
maintained a covert indifference and coldness that hurt more than sharp
words. Now--Jerry told herself--Isobel must like her a little bit!

Jerry discovered, when Friday night came, that the Lincoln debates were
popular events in the school life. Every girl and boy of Lincoln
attended; on the platform the faculty made an imposing background for
the three judges. Six empty chairs were placed, three on each side, for
the debaters who were to come up upon the stage at the finish of the
violin solo that opened the program.

In the back of the room Cora Stanton, a Senior, stood with Jerry and the
boy who made up the affirmative side of the debate. Cora was prettily
dressed in blue taffeta, with a yellow rose carelessly fastened in her
belt. Her hair had been crimped and Jerry caught a whiff of perfume.
Then she glimpsed a trim little foot thrust out the better to show a
patent leather pump and a blue silk stocking. For the first time since
she had come to Highacres, Jerry grew conscious of her own appearance.
Over her, in a hot wave of mortification, swept the realization of what
a ridiculous figure she would present, walking up before everybody in
her brown poplin that she knew now was different from any other dress
she had seen at school. And Jerry could not get that shiny pump out of
her mind! Her own feet, in their sturdy black, square-toed shoes,
commenced to assume such elephantine proportions that, when the signal
came for the debaters to go forward, she could scarcely drag them along!

How much more weighty could her arguments be if she only had on a pretty
dress--like Cora Stanton's; if she could only sit there in her chair
smiling--like Cora Stanton--down at the girls she knew instead of
crossing and uncrossing her dreadful feet!

After an interval that seemed endless to Jerry, Cora Stanton rose and
made a graceful little bow, first to the judges, then to the audience.
The speakers had agreed among themselves how much ground in the argument
each should cover; Cora Stanton was to outline the conditions in the
Philippine Islands before the United States had taken them over, Jerry
was to show what the United States had done and how qualified the
Islands were, now, to govern themselves, and Stephen Curtiss was to
conclude the argument for the affirmative by proving that, in order to
maintain a safe balance of power among the eastern nations of the world
it was necessary that the Philippine Islands should be self-governing.

A hush followed the burst of applause that greeted Cora. Jerry settled
back in her chair with something like relief--the thing had begun. She
caught a little smile from Uncle Johnny that gave her courage. She must
listen carefully to what Cora said.

But as Cora, prettily at ease, began speaking, in a clear voice, Jerry
grew rigid, paralyzed by the storm of amazement, unbelief and anger that
surged over her. For Cora Stanton was presenting, word for word, the
arguments _she had prepared and written on those sheets of paper_!

And in the very front row sat Isobel, with Amy Mathers, their
handkerchiefs wadded to their lips to keep back their laughter.

It was very easy for poor Jerry to recognize the treachery. She was too
angry to feel hurt. And, more than anything, she was too confused--for,
when it came her turn, what was _she_ going to say?

Wildly she searched her mind for something clear and coherent on the
hideous subject and all that would come was Gyp's "let us pause--let us
feel the fluttering of the heart that preceded the battle, let us hear
the order to advance--the wild charge----"

She did not hear one word that the first speaker on the negative side
uttered, but the clapping that followed brought her to a pitiful
consciousness.

She rose to her feet, somehow--those feet of hers still twice their
size--and stepped out toward the edge of the platform. A thousand spots
of black and white that were eyes and noses and hats danced before her;
she heard a suppressed titter from the front row. Then, out of it all
came Gyp's strained face. Gyp was leaning a little forward, anxiously.

Jerry gulped convulsively. From somewhere a voice, not in the least like
her own, began: "You have been shown what the United States has done--"
(no, no--Cora Stanton had said _that_!) "I mean we must go back (that
was quite new) to--I mean--the ideals of America have been transplanted
to----" (oh, Cora Stanton had said _that_)! Jerry choked. Out of the
horror strained Gyp's agonized face. She lifted her chin, she must say
_something_----

"Let us pause (ah, familiar ground at last)--let us pause----" There was
a dreadful silence. "Let us pause and--and--let us pause----"

With the last word all power of speech died in Jerry's throat! With a
convulsive movement she rushed back to her seat. If they'd only
laugh--that crowd out there in the room. But that silence----

Then, before anyone could stir, Dana King, the second speaker on the
negative side, leaped to his feet with a burst of oratory that was
obviously for the sole purpose of distracting attention from poor Jerry.
And something in the good nature of his act, in his reckless wandering
from the subject of the debate to gain his end, won everyone's
admiration. As one wakes from a consuming nightmare so poor Jerry roused
from her stupor of ignominy; she forgot Isobel, in the front row, and
clapped with the others when Dana King finished.

Then came a determination to redeem herself in the rebuttal! She had
caught something of the fire of Dana King's tone. She was conscious,
now, of only two persons in the room, Gyp and Uncle Johnny. She turned,
as she rose again to speak, so that she might look squarely at Uncle
Johnny. Now she had no clamor of words jingling in her brain; very
simply she set against the arguments of her opponent the full weight of
those she had herself prepared--Cora Stanton, who had learned them at
the last moment, parrot-fashion, had found herself, in rebuttal, left
floundering quite helplessly.

Dana King, speaking again, referred to the "convincing way Miss Travis
had cleverly upset the arguments of the negative side, leaving him only
one premise to fall back upon"--and Jerry had decided then, with
something akin to worship, that he was the very nicest boy she had ever,
ever known.

There was tumultuous applause when the judges announced that the
affirmative had won. And there was a little grumbling that Dana King had
"sold" his side.

Jerry, wanting to hide her ignominy, contrived to get away without
seeing Uncle Johnny. She could not, of course, escape Gyp, who declared
valiantly and defiantly that she had been "splendid."

Gyp had not closely followed Cora Stanton's address, so she had not
guessed the truth, and Jerry could not tell her--Jerry could not tell
anyone. For, if she did, it must be traced to Isobel, and Isobel was
Uncle Johnny's niece. At that very moment Uncle Johnny was talking, down
in the front of the Assembly room, to Isobel and Amy Mathers, and he
stood with one arm thrown over Isobel's shoulder.

But, alone in her own room, the pent-up passion that had been searing
poor Jerry's soul burst; with furious fingers she tore off the brown
poplin dress and threw it into a corner.

"Ugly--horrid--hideous--old--thing! I _hate_ it!" It was not, of course,
the brown poplin alone she hated! The offending shoes followed the brown
dress. "I hate _everything_ about me! I wish--I wish--to-morrow would
never come! I wish----" Jerry threw herself face downward upon her bed.
"I wish I--was--home!"




CHAPTER XI

AUNT MARIA


"A letter from Aunt Maria," announced Graham, appearing at the door of
his mother's little sitting room, a large, square lavender envelope in
his hand. He carried it gingerly between a thumb and finger, and as far
as he could from his upturned nose, "I'd suggest, mother, that you put
on my gas-mask before you open it!"

Gyp and Tibby laughed uproariously at his wit. Mrs. Westley reached for
the envelope.

"Poor Aunt Maria, she must be so glad that the war is over and she can
get her favorite French sachet."

Isobel perched herself upon the arm of her mother's chair.

"Hurry, read it, mother."

"I'll bet she's coming to visit us," groaned Gyp.

"Don't expect us to throw away money, sis! She never writes 'cept when
she _is_ coming. Break the news, mum; is it to be a little stay of a
year or more?"

Mrs. Westley lifted laughing eyes from the open letter.

"She says she will come next Wednesday to spend a few days with us. She
is very sorry that that must be all--she is on her way to New York to
consult a famous nerve specialist. She sends love to 'the beautiful
children.'"

Jerry was very curious--no one had ever mentioned an Aunt Maria! So Gyp
and Graham hastened to explain that Aunt Maria wasn't a _real_ aunt but
was "only" Isobel's godmother and something of a nuisance--to the
younger Westleys.

"She doesn't give us presents," Graham concluded.

"She's forgotten all the things she 'did promise and vow' when Isobel
was baptized. She had a fad, then, for godchildren; she used to go
around picking out the girl babies who had blue eyes. She was a friend
of Grandmother Duncan's and mother couldn't refuse her. She has nine
altogether and always gives them the same things."

"And every time you see her she has a new fad," added Graham. "Once she
was a suffragist but she switched because the suffs didn't serve tea at
their meetings and the antis did. One time she was building a home for
Friendless Females and another time she was organizing the poor
underpaid shop girls, and the next----"

"Mother, listen," broke in Isobel. She had taken the letter from her
mother and had been re-reading it. "She says she's going to France next
spring and she's thinking about taking one of her godchildren with her.
She's studying French and she wants us to talk French to her while she
is here----"

"Well, I guess _not_! _I'll_ eat in the kitchen," vowed Graham.

Gyp commenced to chuckle. "Let's say a whole lot of funny things in
French--like when Sue Perkins translated 'the false teeth of the young
man' and Mademoiselle sent her out of class."

"Mother!" Isobel's brain was working rapidly. "_I_ ought to be the
goddaughter she picks out." She did not consider it necessary to explain
to her family the process of reasoning by which the other eight were
eliminated. "Wouldn't it be wonderful?" But her beautiful vision was
threatened by the mischief written in every line of Gyp's and Graham's
faces. "Mother, _won't_ you make the children promise to behave?"

"_Children_----" snorted Graham.

"----if they act dreadful the way they always do when Aunt Maria's here,
they'll spoil all my chances!" Isobel was sincerely distressed.

"My dear," her mother laughed. "Don't build your castles in Spain--or
France--quite so fast. I am not sure I would _let_ you go over with Aunt
Maria. But Gyp and Graham must promise to be very nice to Aunt Maria
because she is an old lady----"

"But, mother, she's not exactly old; she's just--funny!"

"Anyway, Gyp, she will be our guest."

"_Make_ them promise, mother----"

"Oh, you're just thinking of yourself----" declared Graham.

"Children, let's not spoil this Saturday by worrying over Aunt Maria.
Even though, sometimes, she is very trying, I know each one of you will
help make her visit pleasant and we'll overlook her little oddities. Who
wants to drive down to the market with me?"

Gyp and Jerry begged eagerly to go; Tibby had to take a swimming lesson;
Graham was going out to Highacres to practice football; Isobel said she
preferred to stay home; "one of the girls" had promised to call up, she
explained, a little evasively.

Mrs. Westley smothered the tiniest of sighs behind a smile; Isobel was
living so apart from the rest of the family, she never seemed, now, to
want to share the activities of the others. Her mother had always
enjoyed, so much, taking her biggest girl everywhere with her; she had
not believed that the time could come when Isobel would refuse to go.

Driving through the city with Jerry and Gyp beside her, Mrs. Westley,
still thinking of Isobel, turned suddenly to Jerry.

"_How_ your mother must miss _you_, dear," she said. Jerry was startled.

"Oh, do you think so?" she answered, anxiously.

"I mean--I was just thinking--mother love is such a _hungry_ love,
dear."

"Well----" Jerry, very thoughtful, tried to recall the exact words her
mother had once used. "When I was little, mother used to tell me a
story. She said that her heart was a little garden with a very high wall
built of love and that I lived there, as happy as could be, for the sun
was always shining and everything was bright and the wall kept away all
the horrid things. But there was a gate in the wall with a latch-way
high up; I had to grow big before I could lift the latch and go through
the wall--and she made lovely flowers grow over the little gate, too, so
that perhaps I might not find it! I always liked the story, but once I
asked mother what she'd do if I found the gate and went out of the
garden for just a little while and she answered me that the garden would
be very quiet, but the sun would go on shining because our love was
there. Now I'm older I think I understand the story, and maybe coming
here was like going through the gate. But if it _is_ like the story,
then mother knows how much I love her, so she won't be _dreadfully_
lonely--only a little bit, maybe."

"What a beautiful story," Mrs. Westley's eyes glistened. "I would like
to hear her tell it! Some day I want to know your mother, Jerry."

That was such a pleasant thought--her dear mother meeting Mrs. Westley,
who was almost as nice as her mother--that Jerry's face grew bright
again. She answered the pressure of Mrs. Westley's fingers with an
affectionate squeeze.

Except for the first dreadful ordeal of facing her schoolmates and the
hurt of Isobel's unkindness, Jerry had suffered little from the ignominy
of the debate. And she had found that the girls, instead of laughing at
her, envied her because Dana King had so gallantly come to her rescue!

"You should have seen Isobel Westley's face--she was _furious_," Ginny
Cox had confided to her. And Jerry would not have been human if she had
not felt a momentary thrill of satisfied revenge.

The attention of the younger Westleys was centered, during the
intervening days, on Aunt Maria's approaching visit. Isobel was much
disturbed over the dire hints which Gyp and Graham dropped at different
times. One of Graham's friends had a pet snake and Graham had asked to
borrow it "just over Wednesday."

"It'll strengthen her nerves better'n any old doctor," Graham declared,
loftily.

"Mother, _do_ you hear them----" appealed Isobel, almost in tears.

Isobel had been building for herself a rosy dream; she had even,
casually, told a few of the girls at school that "in June I'm going
abroad with my godmother, Mrs. Cornelius Drinkwater--you know her mother
was a second cousin to the Marquis of Balencourt and the family has a
beautiful château near Nice. Of course we'll stay there part of the
time----" A very little fib like that, Isobel had decided, could hurt no
one! She had lain awake at night, staring into the half-darkness of her
room, picturing herself sauntering beside Aunt Maria through long hotel
corridors, to the Opera, to the little French shops, driving beside Aunt
Maria through the Bois de Boulogne and walking on the Champs Élysées,
admired everywhere, envied, too. And perhaps, through Aunt Maria's
relatives (it was very easy in the dark to pretend that there _was_ a
Marquis of Balencourt) she might meet a handsome, dashing young
Frenchman who would go quite crazy about her, and it would be such fun
writing home to the girls----

"Graham," and Mrs. Westley made her voice very stern. "You must not play
a single trick on Aunt Maria!"

"But, mother, she may stay on and on----"

"If you'll be very good," Mrs. Westley blushed a little, for she knew
she was "buying" her children, "while Aunt Maria's here I'll take you
all to see 'The Land o'Dreams.'"

"We promise! We promise!" came in an eager assent.

"I'll tell Joe I don't want his snake," said Graham.

"I won't laugh all the while she's here," declared Gyp.

"We'll be angelic, mother," they chorused, and they really meant it.

Aunt Maria's arrival, an hour before dinner, was nothing short of
majestic. The taxi-driver (by a slight effort of the imagination easily
transformed into a uniformed lackey) unloaded a half-dozen bags and
boxes; next there alighted from the taxi a trim little maid in black
with a rug over her arm, a hamper in one hand, a square leather box,
books and magazines in the other. Then, by degrees, Aunt Maria emerged,
first a purple hat, covered with nodding purple plumes, then a very red
face, turned haughtily away from the driver, whom she was calling
"robber"; yards and yards of purple velvet hung and swished about her,
while a wide ermine mantle, set about her shoulders, added the royal
touch without which the picture would have been spoiled!

"Isn't she _gor-ge-ous_?" whispered Gyp to Jerry as they peeped over
Mrs. Westley's shoulder.

Jerry thought Aunt Maria very grand--she was like the picture of the
Duchess in her old Alice in Wonderland, only much more regal. It seemed
to her that the entire Westley family should bow their heads to the
floor--instead Mrs. Westley was embracing the purple and ermine in the
most informal sort of a way!

"----_such_ a train--a _disgrace_ to the government, but then the
government is going _all_ to pieces, I believe! And that miserable
_robber_ of a taxi man! _Mon Dieu!_" She suddenly remembered her French,
"Ma chere amie Beaux Infants!" She sputtered her newly-acquired phrases
with little guttural accents. She beamed upon them all, graciousness (as
became a duchess) in every nod of the purple plumes. With the tips of
her fat, jeweled fingers she touched Isobel's cheek. "Plus jolie que
jamais, ma chere!"

"Nous sommes si heureux de vous avoir ici, chere Aunt Maria," answered
Isobel, falteringly.

"Aunt _Marie_, my dear. I have forsaken the good name that was given to
me in baptism. One _must_ keep apace with the times, and though Maria
might be good enough for my greatgrandmother, my parents did not foresee
that it was scarcely suitable for _me_!" The purple folds swelled
visibly. "Peregrine, carry my bags upstairs."

That was plainly more than one Peregrine could do. It was the welcome
signal for a general movement--none too soon; one glance at Gyp and
Graham told that a moment more must have broken their pretty manner!

Peregrine took one bag, Graham seized two, Gyp and Jerry tugged one
between them. The procession marched up the stairway to the guest-room.
Gyp and Jerry heard Aunt Maria, behind them, explaining that Peregrine's
name was really Sarah!

"I changed it--Peregrine is so much more 'chic.' I'm teaching her French
myself; in a little while she'll pass as a French maid and she will have
all the plain common-sense of her Hoosier bringing-up which those
fly-by-night French maids don't. A _very_ good arrangement--_I_ think."

Thereafter, Peregrine, to the girls, was always Peregrine-Sarah.

Mrs. Westley, at dinner, looking down the table at the prim, sober faces
of her youngsters, had an irresistible desire to laugh. Graham's solemn
eyes were glued to his plate, Gyp, spotlessly groomed, spoke only in
hoarse whispers, Jerry looked a little frightened--what would she do if
the Duchess should speak to _her_. (Not that there was much danger; Aunt
Maria, except for a "from the wilds of our mountains, how interesting,"
had scarcely noticed her.) Isobel sat next to Aunt Maria and was
nervously attentive.

Aunt Maria was more "duchessy" than ever in her dinner dress. Jewels
shone in the great puff of snowy hair that lay like a crown about her
head. (Graham had always wanted to poke his finger into this marvel to
see if it would burst and flatten like a toy balloon.) Jewels shone in
the laces of her dress and on her fingers. She sat very straight, as
even a make-believe duchess should, and led the conversation. To do so
was very easy, for everyone agreed with everything she said, remarked
Isobel with pathetic enthusiasm. Behind her smile Mrs. Westley was
thinking that Maria Drinkwater was a very silly woman!

Aunt Maria spent most of her time berating the "government." That was
why, she explained, she was going to France. The officials in Washington
were just sitting there letting everything go to the dogs! "_Look_ at
the prices! We're being _robbed_ by Labor--actually robbed, every moment
of our lives!" She clasped her hands and rolled her eyes tragically
upward. "A crêpe de chine chemise--hardly good enough for
Peregrine--_fifteen dollars_! And Congress just talking about the League
of Nations! Ah, mon Dieu!"

Graham, catching a fleeting glint of laughter in his mother's eyes,
slowly and solemnly winked, then dropped his glance back to his plate.

"Let's say we have to study," whispered Gyp to Jerry, when the family
moved toward the library. Even Graham welcomed the suggestion. As they
approached Aunt Maria to say good-night, she poked each in the cheek.

"Not going to wait to have coffee with us? _So_ sensible--it hurts the
complexion! _Nice_ children! Bon soir, Editha. Bon soir, Elizabeth.
What's _your_ name, child? Jerauld? A _nice_ name. Bon soir, Graham!"

"She's the only creature in the whole world that calls me Editha and
Tibby Elizabeth," cried Gyp disgustedly. "_That's_ why I just can't
endure her!"

Safe in Jerry's room, Gyp cast off her "company" manner by a series of
somersaults on the pink-and-white bed.

"Hurray, Jerry, we needn't see her again until to-morrow night! That
Peregrine-Sarah will take her breakfast up on a tray. Wasn't Isobel
funny, trying to be a nice little goddaughter? For goodness' sake,
what's _that_?"

For there was a wild rush through the hall, then sharp shrieks from the
library!

Out of consideration for Aunt Maria, Pepperpot had been shut on the
third floor. He would have found the separation from his beloved master
and mistress most irksome if he had not discovered, on Graham's table,
the box of white mice which Graham had brought from the garage during
the afternoon. To pass the time Pepper amused himself by tormenting the
imprisoned mice. When Graham startled him at his pleasant occupation he
jumped so hurriedly from the table that he sent the box tumbling to the
floor. The fall broke the box; the poor mice, mad to escape from their
persecutor, went scampering down the stairs and through the hall, Pepper
in pursuit and Graham frantically trying to catch them all. Of course
the chase led straight to the library!

Aunt Maria, at the startling interruption, dropped a precious vase she
had been examining to the floor, where it lay in a hundred pieces. With
a shriek and an amazing agility she climbed to the safety of the
davenport. The mice circled the room and fled through another door,
Pepper and Graham after them. In the pantry Graham caught Pepper; Mrs.
Hicks, aided by her broom, succeeded in capturing two of the mice, but
the third escaped. Gyp and Jerry listening from the banisters, their
hands clapped over their mouths to suppress their laughter, heard Isobel
and Mrs. Westley in the library, trying to quiet poor Aunt Maria!

"We didn't promise we'd make _Pep_ behave," grumbled Graham as they shut
Pepperpot, for punishment--and protection--in Jerry's clothes closet.

An hour later Jerry heard Isobel, outside of the guest-room door,
bidding Aunt Maria good-night. Jerry thought that she did not blame
Isobel for wanting to go abroad with Aunt Maria; it would be very
wonderful to travel with such a fine lady and with Peregrine! She hoped
Pepper had not spoiled everything!

Quiet settled over the Westley home. A door opened and shut and
uncertain footsteps came down the hall. Jerry, half asleep, thought it
must be the faithful and sensible Peregrine-Sarah, groping her way to
the third floor after having put the Duchess to bed. Then, across the
quiet pierced the wildest shrieking--a shrieking that brought back a
frightened Peregrine-Sarah, Graham, leaping in two bounds down the
stairway, Isobel, Mrs. Westley, Gyp and Jerry to the guest-room door!

In the middle of the room, her hands clasped tragically over her heart,
her mouth open for another shriek, stood Aunt Maria, trembling. Stripped
of her regal trappings she made an abject picture; the snowy puff lay on
her bureau and from under a nightcap, now sadly awry, straggled wisps of
yellow-gray hair. Her round body was warmly clad in a humble flannelette
nightdress, high-necked and long-sleeved. And, strangest of all, her
face was covered with squares and strips of courtplaster!

"Sarah!" (It was not Peregrine now.) "_Stupid_--standing there like an
_idiot_--my smelling salts! Won't _anyone_ call a doctor? My heart----"
She shrieked again. "This _miserable_ place! These--_brats_!"

"Maria Drinkwater, will you calm yourself enough to tell us what has
happened?" Mrs. Westley shook ever so slightly the flanneletted
shoulders.

"_Happened_----" snapped Aunt Maria. "Is it not _enough_ to have my
digestion spoiled by dogs and mice and boys but--oh, my poor heart, to
find a _mouse_ under my pillow----"

If the children had not been struck quite dumb by Aunt Maria's grotesque
face, with its wrinkles, they must surely have shouted aloud! The third
little mouse had sought refuge in Aunt Maria's bed!

Peregrine-Sarah and Mrs. Westley spent most of the night ministering
vainly to Aunt Maria's nerves. The next day, unforgiving, she departed,
bag and baggage.

Poor Isobel, thus burst the pretty bubble of her dreams! "I don't care,
they've spoiled my whole life," she wailed, tears reddening her eyes.

"_Who_ spoiled it--who did anything?" laughed Graham.

"What's this all about?" asked Uncle Johnny coming in at that moment.

Gyp told him what had happened. She talked too fast to permit of any
interruption; her story was Gyp-like.

"_You_ say, Uncle Johnny, _did_ we break our promise just 'cause a poor
little mouse hid under her pillow?"

"If it hadn't been for that miserable dog----" Isobel saw an opportunity
for sweet revenge. "Mother, why don't you send it away? You made Graham
give back that Airedale puppy Mr. Saunders sent him; I don't think it's
fair to keep this horrid old mongrel!"

Jerry's face darkened. Graham came hotly to Pepper's rescue.

"He's _not_ a mongrel--he's better'n _any_ old Airedale! He's got more
sense in his _tail_ than Aunt Maria's got in her whole body! If he goes
I'll--I'll--go, too!"

"Children," protested Mrs. Westley, giving way to the laughter that had
been consuming her from the first moment of Aunt Maria's arrival. "Let's
all feel grateful to Pepper. She's a poor, silly, selfish, vain old
woman, and if she ever comes here again I'm afraid that _I_ won't
promise to be good myself! Isobel Westley, dry your eyes--do you think
I'd let any girl of mine go to France with her? She can take her eight
other goddaughters, if they want to stand her quarreling with every
single person in authority--I won't let her have _my_ girl. Why," she
turned to John Westley and her face was very earnest, "she's such a
_waste_--of human energy, of brains--of just breath! How terrible to
grow old and be like--that."

Gyp was furtively feeling of her firm cheeks. "I'd rather be ugly,
mother, than wear those funny things. _Look_, mummy," she ran to her
mother's chair and touched her cheek. "_You've_ got a wrinkle! But--I
love it." With passionate tenderness she kissed the spot.

"I'll take you to France myself some day," laughed Uncle Johnny, patting
Isobel's hand.

"And can we go to see the 'Land o' Dreams'?" asked Graham, anxiously.

"Indeed we will--as a celebration," assented his mother.




CHAPTER XII

THE PARTY


The Christmas holidays brought a welcome respite from the steady grind
of school work. And there was every indication, in the Westley home,
that they were going to be very merry! Mrs. Westley had one fixed rule
for her youngsters: "Work while you work and play while you play." So
she and Uncle Johnny, behind carefully closed doors, planned all sorts
of jolly surprises for the holiday week.

But Jerry had a little secret, too, all of her own. She had written to
her mother begging to be allowed to go home "just for Christmas." She
had had to write two letters; the first, with its burst of longing, had
sounded so ungrateful that she had torn it up and had written another.
Then she waited eagerly, hopefully, for the answer.

It came a few days before Christmas, and with it a huge pasteboard box.
Something told Jerry, before she opened the envelope, what her mother
had written. Her lips quivered.

"...It will be hard for us both, dear child, not to be together on
Christmas, but it seems unwise for you to go to the trouble and expense
of coming home for such a short stay. We are snowed in and you would not
have the relaxation that you need after your long weeks of study. Then,
darling, it would be all the harder to let you go again. I want you to
have the jolliest sort of a holiday and I shall be happy thinking each
day what my little girl is doing. I have had such nice letters from Mrs.
Westley and Mr. John telling all about you--they have been a great
comfort to me. We are sending the box with a breath of Kettle in it. The
bitter-sweet we have been saving for you since last fall...."

When Jerry opened the box the room filled with the fragrant odor of
pine. In an ecstasy she leaned her face close to the branches and
sniffed delightedly; she wanted to cry and she wanted to laugh--it was
as though she suddenly had a bit of home right there with her. Her
disappointment was forgotten. She lifted out the pine and bitter-sweet
to put it in every corner of her room, then another thought seized her.
Except for Gyp, practicing in a half-hearted way downstairs, the house
was empty. On tiptoe she stole to the different rooms, leaving in each a
bit of her pine and a gay cluster of the bitter-sweet.

The postman's ring brought Gyp's practice, with one awful discord, to an
abrupt finish. In a moment she came bounding up the stairs, two little
white envelopes in her hand.

"Jerry--we're invited to a real party--Pat Everett's." She tossed one of
the small squares into Jerry's lap. "Hope to die invitations, just like
Isobel gets!"

Jerry stared at the bit of pasteboard. Gyp's delight was principally
because it was the first "real" evening party to which she had been
invited; it was a milestone in her life--it meant that she was very
grown-up.

"Jerauld Travis--you don't act a _bit_ excited! It will be heaps of fun
for Pat's father and mother are the jolliest people--and there'll be
dancing and boys--and spliffy eats."

"I never went to a party--like _that_." Jerry, with something like awe,
lifted the card.

"Oh, a party's a party, anywhere," declared Gyp loftily, speaking from
the wisdom of her newly-acquired dignity.

"And--I haven't anything to wear," added Jerry, putting the card down on
her desk with the tiniest sigh.

Gyp's face clouded; that was too true to be disputed. Her own clothes
would not fit Jerry but Isobel's----

"We'll ask Isobel to let you----"

"No--_no_!" cried Jerry vehemently. Her face flushed. "Don't you
_dare_!"

Gyp looked aggrieved. "I don't see why not, but if you feel like
that--only, it'll spoil the whole party. Oh----" she suddenly sniffed.
"_What's_ that woodsy smell? Where did you get it?"

And the pine and the berries made Gyp and Jerry forget, for the moment,
the Everett party.

The holiday frolics began with the appropriate ceremony of consigning
all the school books to the depths of a great, carved chest in the
library, turning the curious old key in the lock and handing it over to
Mrs. Westley. Jerry had demurred, but she recognized, behind all the
fun, a real firmness. "Every book, my dear! Not one of you children must
peep inside of the cover of even a--story, until I give back the key."
Mrs. Westley pinched Jerry's cheek. "I want to see red rosies again, my
dear girl."

Christmas eve brought a glad surprise to the family in the unexpected
arrival of Robert Westley. Jerry had wondered a little about Gyp's
father; it was very nice to find him so much like Uncle Johnny that one
liked him at the very first moment. He had, it seemed, resorted to all
sorts of expedients to get from Valparaiso to his own fireside in time
for Christmas, but everyone's delight had made it very worth while.

"That's one thing that makes up for father being away so much,"
explained Gyp. "He 'most always just walks in and surprises us and
brings the jolliest things from queer places."

On Christmas morning Jerry opened sleepy eyes to find soft flurries of
snow beating against her windows, a piney odor in her nostrils and Gyp
in a red dressing-gown by the side of her bed.

"Merry Christmas!" In her arms Gyp carried some of the contents of her
own Christmas stocking. "Wake up and see what Santa has brought you!"

On the bedpost hung a bulging stocking; queer-shaped packages, tied with
red ribbon, were piled close to it, and across the foot of Jerry's bed
lay a huge box.

"Open this first. What _is_ it? I don't know." Gyp was as excited as
though the box was for her. Jerry untied the cord and lifted the cover.
Within, beneath the folds of tissue paper, lay two pretty dresses, a
blue serge school dress and a fluffy, shimmery party frock; beneath them
a gay sweater and tam o'shanter. Upon a card, enclosed, had been
written, plainly in Uncle Johnny's handwriting: "From Santa Claus."

Jerry did not know that ever since the eventful debate there had been
much secret planning between Uncle Johnny and Mrs. Westley over her
wardrobe. He had realized that night, for the first time, that Jerry, in
her queer, country-made clothes, was at a disadvantage among the city
girls and boys. It was all very well to argue that fine feathers did not
make fine birds--Uncle Johnny knew the heart of a girl well enough to
realize how much a pretty ribbon or a neat new dress could help one hold
one's own! He had wanted to buy out almost an entire store, but Mrs.
Westley had held him in restraint. "You may offend her and spoil your
gift if you make it seem too much," she had warned him.

Jerry knew too little of the price of the materials that made up her
precious dresses to be distressed with the gift. In rapture she kissed
the shimmering blue folds. And Gyp executed a mad dance in the middle of
the room.

"_Now_ you've just got to go to the Everett party."

On Christmas afternoon Mrs. Allan walked into the Westley home. She and
her husband had come to the Everetts for the holidays. She brought a
little gift to Jerry from her mother. It was a daintily embroidered set
of collar and cuffs. Jerry pictured her mother in the lamplight of the
dear living-room at Sunnyside, working the shining needle in and out and
loving every stitch! Oh, it was _much_ nicer than the grandest gift the
stores could offer.

Christmas past, Gyp and Jerry thought of nothing but the Everett party.
Isobel, flitting here and there like a pretty butterfly, divided her
enthusiasm. She indulged in a patronizing attitude--she would go, of
course, to the Everetts', though it was a kids' party and _she'd_
probably be bored to death.

But within a few hours of the Great Event a horrible realization
overtook Gyp's and Jerry's golden anticipation. Santa Claus had
forgotten to put any dancing shoes in the Christmas box!

The two girls shook their heads dolefully over Jerry's three pairs of
square-toed shoes.

"I just can't wear _one_ of them," cried Jerry.

Gyp would not be disappointed. "Then you'll _have_ to squeeze your feet
into my last summer's pumps. They won't hurt very much, and anyway, when
the party begins you'll forget them!"

Jerry wanted so much to wear the new blue dress that she was persuaded.
Gyp helped her get them on and Jerry stumped about in them--"to get used
to them!"

"Now, _do_ they hurt awfully?" Gyp asked, in a tone that said, "Of
course they don't," and Jerry, fascinated by the strange girl she saw in
the mirror, answered absently: "Oh, they just feel queer!"

Anyway, going to a "real" party _was_ too exciting to permit of thinking
of one's feet. Jerry moved as though in a dream. Like Gyp, she felt
delightfully grown-up. The spacious, old-fashioned Everett home was gay
with holiday greens, in one corner an orchestra played, Patricia with
her mother and her older sister greeted each guest in such a jolly way
that one felt in a moment that one was going to have the best sort of a
time.

For awhile, very happily, Jerry trailed Gyp among the young people,
exchanging merry greetings. Then suddenly dreadful pains began to cut
sharply through her feet; they climbed higher and higher until they
quivered up and down her spine. Poor Jerry found it hard to keep the
tears from her eyes. She limped to a half-hidden corner near the
orchestra, and slipped off the offending pumps.

Isobel spied her in her hiding-place. Isobel did not know about the
pumps--she thought Jerry had retreated there from shyness. A disdainful
smile curled her pretty lips. She had had moments, since the debate,
when her conscience had bothered her, the more so because Jerry had not
told what had happened; but, as is sometimes the way, after such
moments, she had hardened her heart all the more toward Jerry. She was
savagely jealous, too, over Uncle Johnny's Christmas box to Jerry; she
had figured that the dresses had cost a great deal more than the
bracelet he had given her! So into her head flashed a plan that should
have found no place there, for Isobel was indisputably the prettiest
girl in the room and the most-sought-for dancing partner.

She beckoned gaily to Dana King. She would kill two birds with one
stone, she thought--though not in just those words; she would have the
pleasant satisfaction of seeing Jerry make a ridiculous figure of
herself trying to dance (for Jerry had told her she only knew the
"old-fashioned" dances) and she would see Dana King embarrassed before
all the others! Isobel had never forgiven him for championing Jerry the
night of the debate.

"Will you do me a favor, Dana?" she asked sweetly. "Dance with that poor
Jerry Travis over there. She's _perfectly_ miserable."

Dana hastened, politely, to do what Isobel asked. He had never exchanged
a word with Jerry; however, after the debate, no introduction seemed
necessary. When Jerry saw him approach a flood of color dyed her
cheeks--not from shyness, but because she did not know what to do with
her unshod feet!

"Will you dance this, Miss Travis?"

Jerry lifted eyes dark with laughter. She did not look in the least
"perfectly miserable." "I--I--can't!" She put out the tips of her
unstockinged toes. Then she told him how she had had to wear Gyp's
pumps. "And they hurt so dreadfully that I slipped them off and now
_nothing'll_ get them back on. I guess I've got to stay here the rest of
my life."

There was something so refreshing in Jerry's frankness and
unaffectedness that Dana King sat down eagerly beside her.

"Let me sit here and talk, then. Say, what on earth was the matter with
you the night of the debate? Was it your shoes--_then_? You _could_ have
talked--I know!"

He spoke with such conviction that Jerry's eyes shone.

"No, it wasn't--entirely--my shoes. Something _did_ happen--but I can't
tell. Isn't this the jolliest party? I never went to one before--like
this. There aren't this many people in all Miller's Notch."

Isobel, watching Jerry's corner, grew very angry when she saw that Dana
King lingered with Jerry. She wondered what on earth Jerry could be
saying that made him laugh so heartily; they were acting as though they
had known one another all their lives.

Just as Dana King was asking Jerry what she would do if the midnight
hour struck and found her slipperless, Mrs. Allan discovered them. _She_
had to hear about the pumps, too.

"You blessed child, I'll get a pair of Pat's--they'd fit anything!" She
returned in a few moments, two shiny, patent-leather toes protruding
from the folds of her spangled scarf. Pat's pumps slipped easily over
Jerry's poor swollen feet.

"There, now, Cinderella, let's go and get some ice cream." And Dana King
led Jerry through the dancers, past Isobel and a fat boy whose curly red
head only reached to her shoulder, to the dining-room where, around
small tables, boys and girls were devouring all sorts of goodies.

The party was spoiled for Isobel; not so for Gyp who, besides having had
the jolliest sort of a time herself, was bursting with satisfaction
because Jerry had "captured" the most popular boy in the room.

"He sat out _six_ dances with you--I counted! He took you to _supper_ I
heard him ask you, Jerry Travis, if you were going out to the school
Frolic. And why did he call you Cinderella?" asked Gyp as the young
people rode homeward.

Jerry had no intention of telling Isobel of the ignominy of the pumps,
so she answered evasively: "Because it was my first party, I guess,"
then, with a long, happy sigh, she cuddled back against Gyp's shoulder
and watched the street lamps flash past. Oh, surely the Wishing-rock had
opened a wonderful new world to little Jerry!

"Did you tell him it _was_ your first party?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh--nothing. _I_ wouldn't have been honest 'nough to--I'd have
pretended I'd gone to lots."

"_I'm_ not going to the Frolic," Isobel broke in. "I'm too old for such
things."

Gyp straightened indignantly.

"Too old to coast? Well, I hope _I_ never grow as old as _that_!" she
cried.

"_You_ never _will_!" was Isobel's withering answer.




CHAPTER XIII

HASKIN'S HILL


"Jerry--it's _perfect_! Come and look." Gyp, shivering in her pajamas,
was standing with her small nose flattened against Jerry's cold window.
Downstairs a clock had just chimed seven.

Jerry sprang from her bed with one bound. She peeped over Gyp's
shoulder. A thaw the day before had made the girls very anxious, but now
a sparkling crust covered the snow and the early sun struck coldly
across the housetops.

This was the day of the Lincoln Midwinter Frolic.

"Bring your clothes into my room and we'll dress in front of the fire.
Uh-h-h, isn't it cold? But won't it be _fun_? Don't you wish it was ten
o'clock now? It's going to be the very best part of the whole holiday!"

Jerry thought so, too, when, a few hours later, she and Gyp joined a
large group of the Lincoln girls and boys at the trolley station. A
special car, attached to the regular interurban trolley, was to take
them and their sleds and skis--and lunch--out to Haskin's Hill where the
Midwinter School Frolic was always held.

Jerry had not caught a glimpse of the country since arriving with Uncle
Johnny at the Westley home. As the car sped along she sat quiet amid the
merry uproar of her companions, but her eyes were very bright; these
wide, open stretches of fields, with the little clusters of buildings
and the hills just beyond, made her think of home.

The founders of Lincoln School had wanted to thoroughly establish the
principle of co-education. "These young people," one of them had said,
"will have to live and work and play in a world made up of both men and
women; let them learn, now, to work and play together." The records of
the school showed that they worked well together and one had only to
give the briefest glance at the merry horde that swarmed over Haskin's
Hill on that holiday morning to know that they played well together,
too.

"It's most like Kettle," cried Jerry, excitedly, for at Haskin's
station, where the picnickers left the trolley, the hills pressed about
so close that they, indeed, seemed to Jerry like her beloved mountains.
"But how horrid to call a lovely place like this Haskin's!"

"It's named after a funny little hermit who lived for years and
years--they say he was 'most one hundred and fifty when he died--in the
little cabin at the foot of the hill where we coast. He used to write
poetry about the wind and the trees and he'd wander around and sit in
his door playing a violin and singing the verses he'd written."

"Then his name could be any old thing," declared Jerry, delighted at the
picture Gyp had drawn, "if he did such lovely things! Let's _us_ call it
the Singing Hill."

The scent of pine on the frosty air and the knowledge that her new
sweater and tam-o'shanter were quite as pretty as the prettiest there,
transformed Jerry into a new Jerry. She felt, too, that out here in the
open she was in her element; a familiarity with these sports that had
been her winter pastime since she was a tiny youngster gave her an
assurance that added to her gay spirits.

Thanks to long hours of play with Jimmy Chubb she could steer the
bob-sled with a steadier hand than any of the others; Barbara Lee,
looking more like a schoolgirl than ever in a jaunty red scarf and cap,
declared she'd trust her precious bones to no one but Jerry!

The morning passed on swift wings; only the pangs of hunger persuaded
the girls and boys to leave their fun. They gathered in front of the
picturesque old cabin about a great bonfire over which two of the older
boys were grilling beefsteak for sandwiches. And from a huge steaming
kettle came a delicious odor of soup.

"Imagine Isobel saying she's too _old_ for all this fun," exclaimed Gyp
as she stood in the "chow line" with her mess tin ready in her hand.
"Why, a lot of these girls and boys are older than she is! The trouble
with Isobel is"--and her voice was edged with scornful pity--"she's
afraid of mussing her hair!"

Skiing was a comparatively new sport among the Lincoln boys and girls.
Only a few of the boys had become even fairly skillful at it, yet there
had been much talk of forming a team to defeat Lincoln's arch-enemy--the
South High. While the young people ate their lunch their conversation
turned to this.

"We haven't anyone that can touch Eric Hansen, though--he learned how to
ski, I guess, in the cradle," declared Dana King, frowning thoughtfully
at the long hill that stretched upward from where they were grouped.

During the morning Ginny Cox had borrowed Graham Westley's skis and had,
after many tumbles, succeeded in one thrilling descent. She declared now
to the others, between huge mouthfuls of sandwich, that it was the most
exciting thing she'd ever done--and Ginny, they all knew, had done many!
Jerry, next to her, had agreed, quietly, that skiing _was_--very
exciting. Ginny's head was a bit turned by that one moment of victory
when she had stood flushed--and upright--at the foot of the hill, trying
to appear indifferent as the boys showered laughing congratulations upon
her for her feat, so, now, she turned amused eyes upon Jerry.

"Can _you_ ski?" There was a ring of derision in her voice. Jerry
nodded. "Then I _dare_ you to try it from the _very top_!"

The face of Haskin's Hill was divided by a road that wound across it.
Because of the steep descent of the upper part and because the level
stretch of the road made a jump too high for anyone's liking, only one
or two of the boys had attempted to ski from the very top, and they had
met with humiliating disaster.

Jerry looked up to the top of the hill. Ginny's tone fired her. She was
conscious, too, that Ginny's dare had been followed by a hush--the
others were waiting for her answer.

"If someone will lend me their skis----" She tried to make her tone
careless.

"Jerry Travis, you never would!"

"Take Dana King's skis. They're the best."

"The _very_ top----" commanded Ginny.

"May I use your skis, Dana?"

"Let her use your skis, King."

"Jerry, _don't_----" implored Gyp.

Jerry put down her plate and cup. Miss Lee was in the little cabin, so
she did not know what was happening. The girls and boys pressed about
Jerry, watching her with laughing eyes. Not one of them believed that
she had the nerve to accept Ginny Cox's "dare."

But when, very calmly, she shouldered Dana King's skis and started off
up the hill alone, their amusement changed to wonder and again to alarm.
Jerry looked very small as she climbed on past the level made by the
road.

"Oh, she'll fall before she even _gets_ to the jump--that part's awfully
steep," consoled one boy, speaking the fear that was in each heart.

"If she kills herself you'll be her murderer," cried Gyp passionately to
Ginny Cox.

Ginny was wishing very much that she hadn't made that silly, boastful
dare--trying to make someone else do what she was afraid to try herself!
She was very fond of Jerry. The red faded from her face; she clenched
her hands tightly together.

Tibby commenced to cry hysterically. One of the older girls declared
they ought to call Jerry back. The boys shouted, but Jerry, catching the
sound faintly, only waved her hand in answer.

At the top of the hill Jerry turned and looked down the long stretch.
She had skied over many of the trails of Kettle, but none of them had
had "jumps" as difficult as this. Quite undaunted, however, she told
herself that she needed only to "keep her head." She adjusted her skis,
then tried the weight of her pole, carefully, to learn its balance. She
began to move forward slowly, her eyes fixed on the narrow tracks before
her, her knees bent ever so little, her slim body tilted forward. Only
for one fleeting moment did she see the group below, standing immovable,
transfixed by their concern--then their faces blurred. The sharp wind
against her face, the lightning speed sent a thrill through every fibre
of Jerry's being; her mind was intensely alert to only one thing--that
moment when she must make the jump! It came--instinctively she balanced
herself for the leap, her back straightened, her arms lifted, her head
went up--as though she was a bird in flight she curved twenty feet
through the air ... her skis struck the snow-crusted tracks, her body
doubled, tilted forward ... then, amid the unforgettable shouts of the
boys and girls she slid easily, gracefully, on down the trail.

Ginny Cox was the first to reach her. She threw her arms about her and
almost strangled her in a passionate hug.

"You _wonder_! Oh, if anything had happened to you----"

The boys were loud and generous in their praise.

"Now we've found someone that can put it all over Hansen," shouted one
of them. "Let's challenge South High right off!"

"Who'd ever believe a little _kid_ like you could do it," exclaimed Dana
King with laughable frankness, but he stared at Jerry with such open
admiration that any sting was quite taken from his words.

Jerry could not know, of course, that, all in a moment, she had become a
"person" in Lincoln School. Uncle Johnny, that afternoon in the Westley
library, had said very truly that it was usually some unexpected little
thing that set a style or made a leader. He had not, of course, foreseen
this episode of Haskin's Hill, but he had known that Jerry had
determination with her sunniness and a faith in herself that could never
be daunted.

"Come on, fellows, let's _us_ try it. We can't let little Miss Travis
beat us," challenged one of the boys.

There was general assent to this. Half a dozen picked up their skis. But
Jerry lifted an authoritative hand--Jerry, who, until this moment, had
been like a little mouse among them all!

"Oh, boys, _don't_ try it. Unless you can ski _very_ well, a jump like
that's awfully dangerous. I've skied all my life and I've jumped, too,
but never any jump as high as that and--and _I_ was a little
scared--too!" And, because Jerry was a "person" now, they listened. She
had spoken with appealing modesty, too, not at all with the arrogance
that comes often with success and can never be tolerated by
fellow-students.

"Miss Travis is right, fellows," broke in Dana King. "Let's learn to ski
a little better before we try that jump. This very minute we'll begin
practice for the everlasting defeat of South High! You can use my skis,
Jerry. Come on, Ginny--the All-Lincoln Ski Team!" He led the way up the
hill followed by a number of the boys and Ginny Cox and Jerry--Jerry
with a glow on her cheeks that did not come entirely from the wintry
air; she "belonged" now, she was not just a humble student, struggling
along the obscure paths--she was one of those elected ones, like Ginny
and Dana King, to whom is given the precious privilege of guarding the
laurels of the school at Highacres!




CHAPTER XIV

THE PRIZE


"Good-morning, Mr. Westley!"

Barbara Lee's demure voice halted John Westley in a headlong rush
through the school corridor.

"Oh--good-morning, Miss Lee." If a stray sunbeam had not slanted at just
that moment across Miss Lee's upturned face, turning the curly ends of
her fair hair to threads of sheen, John Westley might have passed right
on. Instead, he stopped abruptly and stared at Miss Lee.

"I declare--it's hard to believe you're grown-up! And a teacher! Why, I
could almost chuck you under the chin--the way I used to do. I suppose
I'd get into no end of trouble if I ever tried it----"

"Well," her face dimpled roguishly, "I don't think it's ever been done
to anyone in the faculty. I don't know what the punishment is. Anyway,
I'm trying so hard to always remember that I _am_ very much grown-up
that it is unkind of you to even hint that I am failing at
it--dismally."

"I think--from what my girls say--that you're succeeding rather
tremendously, here at Highacres."

"That is nice in you--and them! I wonder if I can live up to what they
think I am." Miss Lee's face was very serious; she was really grown-up
now.

"Miss Lee, can you give me half an hour? I was on my way to Dr. Caton's
office when----"

"You nearly knocked me over!"

"Yes--thinking you were one of the school children----"

"We can go into my library or--down in my office."

"Your office, by all means." John Westley was immensely curious to see
Miss Lee's "office."

It was as business-like in its appearance as his own. A flat-topped
desk, rows of files, a bookcase filled with books bearing formidable
titles, and three straight-backed chairs against the wall gave an
impression of severity. Two redeeming things caught John Westley's
eye--a bowl of blooming narcissi and a painting of Sir Galahad.

"I brought that from Paris," explained Barbara Lee. "I stood for hours
in the Louvre watching a shabby young artist paint it and--I _had_ to
have it. It seemed as if he'd put something more into it than was even
in the original--a sort of light in the eyes."

"Strange----" John Westley was staring reflectively at the picture.
"Those eyes are like--Jerry Travis!"

"Yes--yes! I had never noticed why, but something familiar in that
child's expression _has_ haunted me."

Though John Westley had come to Highacres that morning with an important
matter on his mind and had, on a sudden impulse, begged Miss Lee to give
him a half-hour that he might talk it over with her, he had to tell her,
now, of Jerry and how he had found her standing on the Wishing-rock,
visioning a wonderful world of promise that lay beyond her mountain.

"Her mother had made an iron-clad vow that she'd always keep the girl
there on Kettle. Why, nothing on earth could chain that spirit anywhere.
She's one of the world's crusaders."

Barbara Lee had not gone, herself, very far along life's pathway, yet
her tone was wistful.

"No, you can't hold that sort of a person back. They must always go on,
seeking all that life can give. But the stars are so very far off!
Sometimes even the bravest spirits get discouraged and are satisfied
with a nearer goal."

John Westley, sitting on the edge of the flat-topped desk, leaned
suddenly forward and gently tilted Miss Lee's face upward. There was
nothing in the impulsive movement to offend; his face was very serious.

"Child, have _you_ been discouraged? Have you started climbing to the
stars--and had to halt--on the way?"

The girl laughed a little shamefacedly. "Oh, I had very big dreams--I
have them still. And I had a wonderful opportunity and had to give it
up; mother wanted me at home. She isn't well--so I took this position."
She made her little story brief, but her eyes told more than her words
of the disappointment and self-sacrifice.

"Well, mothers always come first. And maybe there's a _different_ way to
the stars, Barbara."

There was a moment's silence between them. John Westley was the first to
break it.

"I want your advice, Miss Lee. I believe you're closer to the hearts of
these youngsters out here than anyone else. I've something in my mind
but I can't just shape it up. I want to build some sort of a scholarship
for Lincoln that isn't founded on books.

"The trouble is," he went on, "that every school turns out some real
scholars--boys and girls with their minds splendidly exercised and
stored--and what else? Generally always--broken bodies, physiques that
have been neglected and sacrificed in the struggle for learning. Of what
use to the world are their minds--then? I've found--and a good many men
and women come under my observation--that the well-trained mind is of no
earthly value to its owner or to the rest of the world unless it has a
well-trained body along with it."

"That's my present business," laughed Miss Lee. "I must agree with you."

"So I want to found some sort of a yearly award out here at Highacres
for the pupil who shows the best record in work--_and_ play."

"That will be splendid!" cried Miss Lee, enthusiastically.

"Will you help me?" John Westley asked with the diffidence of a
schoolboy. "Will you tell me if some of my notions are ridiculous--or
impossible?" He picked up one of the sharpened pencils from the desk and
drew up a chair. "Now, listen----" and he proceeded to outline the plan
he had had in mind for a long time.

One week later the Lincoln Award was announced to the pupils of the
school. So amazing and unusual was the competition that the school
literally buzzed with comments upon it; work for the day was abandoned.
Because the award was a substantial sum of money to be spent in an
educational way, most of the pupils considered it very seriously.

"Ginny Cox has the best chance 'cause she always has the highest marks
and she's on all the teams."

"It isn't just being on _teams_," contradicted another girl, studying
one of the slips of paper which had been distributed and upon which had
been printed the rules covering the competition. "It's the number of
hours spent in the gym, or in out-of-door exercise. And you get a point
for setting-up exercises and for walking a mile each day. And for
sleeping with your window open! _Easy!_"

"And for drinking five glasses of water a day," laughed another.

"And for eating a vegetable every day. And for drinking a glass of
milk."

"That lets _me_ out. I just loathe milk."

"Of course--so do I. But wouldn't you drink it for an award like
_that_?"

"Look, girls, you can't drink tea or coffee," chimed in another.

"And you get a point for nine hours' sleep each school night! That'll
catch Selma Rogers--she says she studies until half-past eleven every
night."

"I suppose that's why it's put in."

"And a point for personal appearance--and personal conduct in and out of
school! Say, I think the person who thought up _this_ award had
something against us all----"

Patricia Everett indignantly opposed this. "Not at all! Miss Lee, and
she's the chairman of the Award Committee, said that the purpose of the
award is to build up a Lincoln type of a pupil whose physical
development has kept pace with the mental development. _I_ think it will
be fun to try for it, though eating vegetables will be lots worse than
the bridge chapter in Cæsar!"

Jerry Travis, too, had made up her mind to work for the award. She had
read the rules of the competition with deep interest; here would be an
opportunity to make her mother and Little-Dad proud of their girl. And
it ought not to be very hard, either--if she could only bring up her
monthly mark in geometry! She had, much to her own surprise, lived
through the dreaded midwinter examinations, though in geometry only by
the "skin of her teeth," as Graham cheerfully described his own
scholastic achievements.

Jerry found that Gyp had been carefully studying the rules--Gyp who had
never dreamed of trying for any sort of an honor! But poor Gyp found
them a little terrifying; like Pat Everett she hated vegetables and she
despised milk; there was always something awry in her dress, a shoelace
dangling, a torn hem, a missing button. But if one could win a point for
correcting these little failings just the same as in chemistry or higher
math., was it not worth trying?

"Who_ever_ do you s'pose thought of it all?" Gyp asked Jerry and Graham.
The name of the Lincoln "friend" who was giving the award had been
carefully guarded.

Not one of the younger Westleys suspected Uncle Johnny who sat with them
and listened unblushingly and with considerable amusement to their
varied comments.

"Well, I'll _try_ for it," conceded Graham. "Who wouldn't? Even Fat
Sloane says he's goin' to and he just hates to move when he doesn't have
to! But _five hundred dollars_ for washing your teeth and walking a
mile----"

"And standing well in Cicero," added Uncle Johnny, mischievously.

"Do you s'pose Cora Stanton will be marked off in personal appearance
'cause she rouges and uses a lipstick?" asked Gyp, with a sly glance
toward Isobel, who turned fiery red. "I _know_ she does, 'cause Molly
Hastings went up and deliberately kissed her cheek and she said she
could taste it--awfully!"

"Cora's a very silly girl. Anyway, if she lives up to the rules of the
competition she won't need any artificial color--she'll have a bloom
that money couldn't buy!"

"Well, _I'm_ not going to bother about the silly award," declared
Isobel. "Grind myself to death--no, indeed! I don't even want to go to
college. If you're rich it's silly to bother with four whole years at a
deadly institution--some of the girls say you have to study awfully
hard. Amy Mathers is going to come out next year and I want to, too."
Isobel talked fast and defiantly, as she caught the sudden sternness
that flashed across Uncle Johnny's face.

Mrs. Westley started to speak, but Uncle Johnny made the slightest
gesture with his hand.

Into his mind had come the memory of that half-hour with Barbara Lee and
something she had said--"the stars are very far off!" _Her_ face had
been illumined by a yearning; he was startled now at the realization
that, in contrast, Isobel's showed only a self-centered, petty
vanity--his Isobel, who had been so pretty and promising, for whom he
had thought only the very noblest things possible.

But although he saw the dreams he had built for Isobel dangerously
threatened, he clung staunchly to his faith in the good he believed was
in the girl; that was why he lifted his hand to stay the impulsive words
that trembled on the mother's lips and made his own tone tolerant.

"Making plans without a word to mother--or Uncle Johnny? But you'll come
to us, my dear, and be grateful for our advice. I don't believe just a
lot of dances will satisfy my girl--even if they do Amy Mathers. And
after they're over--what then? Will you really be a bit different from
the other girl because you've 'come out'? What do you say to taking up
your drawing again and after a few years going over to Paris to study?"

The defiant gleam in Isobel's eyes changed slowly to incredulous
delight. Uncle Johnny went on:

"And even an interior decorator needs a college training."

"John Westley, you're a wonder," declared Mrs. Westley after the young
people had gone upstairs. "You ought to have a half-dozen youngsters of
your own!"

He stared into the fire, seeing visions, perhaps, in the dancing flames.
"I wish I did. I think they're the greatest thing in the world! To make
a good, useful man or woman out of a boy or girl is the best work given
us to do on this earth!"




CHAPTER XV

CUPID AND COMPANY


    "The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea----"

scanned Gyp in a singsong voice. Then she stopped abruptly; she realized
that Miss Gray was not hearing a word that she was saying!

Miss Gray had asked Gyp to come to her after school. It was a glorious
winter day and Gyp's friends were playing hockey on the little lake. Gyp
had faced Miss Gray resentfully.

"Please scan three pages, Miss Westley," Miss Gray had said, putting a
book into Gyp's hands. And now, in the middle of them, Miss Gray was
staring out across the snowy slopes of the school grounds, not hearing
one word, and blinking real tears from her pale-blue eyes!

Little Miss Gray, for years, had come and gone from Lincoln in such a
mouse-like fashion that no one ever paid much attention to her; upon her
changing classes, as an individual, she left scarcely any impression; as
a teacher she was never cross, never exacting, gave little praise and
less censure; she worked more like a noiseless, perfect machine than a
human being.

Gyp had never noticed, until that moment, that she had blue eyes--very
pretty blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. No one could see them
because she was nearsighted and wore big, round, shell-rimmed glasses,
but now she had removed these in order to wipe her tears away. Gyp,
fascinated by her discoveries, stared openly.

Gyp's heart never failed to go out to the downtrodden or oppressed,
beast or human. Now she suddenly saw Millicent Gray, erstwhile teacher
in Second-year English, as an appealing figure, very shabby, a pinched
look on her oval-shaped face that gave the impression of hunger. Her
hair would really be very pretty if she did not twist it back quite so
tight. She was not nearly as old as Gyp had thought she was. And her
tears were very pathetic; she was sniffing and searching in a pocket for
the handkerchief that was probably in her knitting bag.

"T-that will d-do, Miss Westley," she managed to say, still searching
and sniffing.

But Gyp stood rooted.

"I'm sorry you feel bad, Miss Gray. Will you take my handkerchief? It's
clean," and Gyp, from the pocket of her middy blouse, proudly produced a
folded square of linen.

"You wouldn't believe that just _that_ could open the flood-gates of a
broken heart," she exclaimed later to Jerry and Pat Everett, feeling
very important over her astonishing revelation.

"Who'd ever dream that Miss Gray could squeeze out the littlest tear,"
laughed Pat, at which Gyp shook her head rebukingly.

"Teachers are human and have hearts, Pat Everett, even if they _are_
teachers. And romance comes to them, too. Miss Gray is very pretty if
you look at her real close and she's quiet because her bosom carries a
broken heart."

Sympathetic Jerry thought Gyp's description very wonderful. Pat was less
moved.

"What did she tell you, Gyp?"

Gyp hesitated, in a maddening way. "Well, I suppose it was giving her
the handkerchief made her break down and I don't believe she thought I'd
come straight out here and tell you girls. And I'm _only_ telling you
because I think maybe we can help her. After she'd taken the
handkerchief and wiped her nose she took hold of my hand and pressed it
hard and told me she hoped I'd never know what loneliness was. And then
I asked her if she didn't have anyone and she said no--not a soul in the
whole wide world cared whether she lived or died. Isn't that dreadful?
And she said she didn't have a home anywhere, just lived in a horrid old
boarding house. Well, she was beginning to act more cheerful and I was
afraid she was recovering enough to tell me to go on with the scanning,
so I got up my nerve and I asked her point-blank if she'd ever had a
lover----"

"_Gyp Westley_----" screamed Pat.

"Well, there wasn't any use beating 'round the bush and I knew we'd want
to know and I read once that men were the cause of most heartaches, so I
asked her----"

"What _did_ she say? Wasn't she furious?"

"No--I think she was glad I did. Maybe, if you didn't have any family
and lived in a great big boarding house where you couldn't talk to
anyone except 'bout the weather and the stew and things, you'd even like
to confide in me. She just blushed and looked downright pretty, but
dreadfully sad. She said she'd had a very, very dear friend--you could
tell she meant a lover--but that it was all past and he had forgotten
her. I suppose I should have said to her that it's 'better to have loved
and lost than never to have loved at all,' but I just asked her if he
was handsome, which was foolish, because she'd think he was if he was as
homely as anything."

"And was he?"

"She said he was distinguished--a straight nose and a firm chin and
black hair with a white streak running straight down through the middle,
like Lee's black-and-white setter dog, I guess. Girls, mustn't it be
_dreadful_ to have to go on day after day with your heart like a cold
stone inside of you and no one to love you and to teach school?"

Each girl, with her own life full to brimming with love, looked as
though they felt very sorry, indeed, for poor little Miss Gray.

"Let's do something to make her happy," suggested Pat.

"Do you suppose we could find the man? They must have quarreled and
maybe, if he knew----"

"There can't be many men with white streaks in their hair and if we get
the other girls to help us, perhaps by watching real closely, we can
find him."

"And I thought, too, we might send her some flowers after a few days
without any name or any sign on them where they came from. She'll be
dreadfully excited and curious and then in a week or so we can send some
more----"

"Aren't flowers very expensive?" put in Jerry. Gyp understood her
concern; Jerry had very little spending money.

"I know--Pat and I'll buy the flowers and maybe some of the others will
help, and you write some verses to go with them, Jerry."

Though to write verses would, ordinarily, to Jerry be a most alarming
task, she was glad of anything that she could do to help Miss Gray and
assented eagerly.

Peggy Lee was enlisted in the cause, and the next day the conspirators
made a trip to the florist's shop. They were dismayed but not
discouraged by the exorbitant price of flowers; they scornfully
dismissed the florist's suggestion of a "neat" little primrose
plant--they were equally disdainful of carnations. Patricia favored
roses, and when the florist offered them a bargain in some rather wilted
Lady Ursulas, she wanted to buy them and put them in salt and water
overnight, to revive them. Finally they decided upon a bunch of violets,
which sadly depleted their several allowances. And Jerry attached her
verses, painstakingly printed on a sheet of azure-blue notepaper in red
ink. "Blue's for the spirit, you know, and the red ink is heart's blood.
Listen, girls, isn't this too beautiful for words?" Gyp read in a tragic
voice:

    "Only to love thee, I seek nothing more,
    No greater boon do I ask,
    Only to serve thee o'er and o'er,
    And in thy smile to bask.

    "Only to hear thy sweet voice in my ear,
    Though thy words be not spoken for me,
    Only to see the lovelight in thy eyes,
    The love of eternity.

"They're _wonderful_, Jerry! And so sad, too."

"Do they sound like a lover?" asked Jerry anxiously.

"_Exactly_," declared Pat, solemnly. "Oh, _won't_ it be fun to see her
open it? And she'll think, of course, that it comes from the
black-and-white man."

"And we must each one of us pledge to keep our eyes open for the
creature."

"Think of it, girls--if we could make Miss Gray happy again it would be
something we could remember when we're old ladies. Mother told me once
that things we do for other people to make them happy come back to us
with interest."

In the English class, on the following day, four girls sat very demurely
in the back row, their eyes riveted on their books. When presently there
was a knock at the door (Gyp had timed carefully the arrival of the
messenger), Pat Everett exclaimed, "my goodness" aloud, and Jerry
dropped her book to the floor. But their agitation passed unnoticed;
Miss Gray's attention was fixed upon the little square box that was
brought to her.

Jerry had a moment of panic. She scribbled on the top of a page in her
text-book: "What if she's angry?" To which Gyp replied: "If _your_ life
was empty, wouldn't you jump at a crumb?"

Only for a moment was the machinelike precision of the English class
broken. Miss Gray untied the cord, and peeped under the cover. The
girls, watching from the back row, saw a pink flush sweep from her small
nose to the roots of her hair, then fade, leaving her very white. Then:

"Please continue, Miss Chase."

When the class was dismissed even Gyp had not the courage to linger and
watch Miss Gray open the box. "She might suspect you," Patricia had
warned. But at recess she rushed to the girls, her eyes shining.

"_Jerry! Pat!_ She's _crazy_ about 'em! I went in after the third hour
and pretended I was hunting for my book. The violets were sitting up on
her desk and she had a few of them fastened in her old cameo pin--and
she looked _different_--already! Let's keep up our good work! Let's
swear that we'll leave no stone unturned to find the black-and-white
man!"




CHAPTER XVI

FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL


"Oh, I'm _sick_ of winter! I wish I was a cannibal living on a tropical
island eating cocoanuts."

"----Missionaries, you mean," laughed Isobel.

Virginia Cox threw her skates over her shoulder; Isobel, Dorrie Carr and
herself were the last to leave the lake. The school grounds were
deserted.

"Oh, look at the snowman someone's started," cried Ginny, as they walked
through the grounds. "Say, this is spliffy snow to pack! Let's finish up
the work of art." In her enthusiasm over her suggestion her ennui was
forgotten. "I know, let's make him into a snowlady."

Ginny's fingers were clever. Her caricatures, almost always drawn in
ridicule of the faculty or her fellow-classmates, were famous. If, in
her make-up, she had had a kindlier spirit and a truer sense of the
beautiful, she might have become a great artist or sculptor.

Now she worked feverishly, shaping a lifelike figure from the huge cakes
of snow that the others brought to her. As she stood back to view her
handiwork a naughty thought flashed into her mind.

"Girls--it's going to be Miss Gray! And mother's got a funny old
lavender crocheted shawl like that thing Miss Gray wears when it's cold,
that the moths won't even eat. And I can fix a hat like the dreadful
châpeau of hers that came out of the ark. And glasses, too----"

Isobel and Dorrie laughed delightedly.

"How can you get them out here?"

"Oh, _I'll_ find a way!" Ginny always could! "Do you think that nose is
pug enough?" She deftly packed it down on each side with a finger, then
gave it a quick, upward touch. "Isn't that better?"

Her companions declared the likeness perfect--as far as snow could make
it.

"And I can hunt up two blue glass allies for eyes." There was, plainly,
no end to Ginny's resourcefulness. "You just wait and see what you'll
see in the morning."

During the night King Winter maliciously abetted Ginny in her work, for
a turn in his temper laid a sparkling crust over everything--and
especially the little snowlady who waited, immovable, on a little rise
of ground near the main entrance of the school.

The pupils, arriving at Highacres the next morning, rubbed their eyes in
their amazement. Not one failed to recognize the English teacher in the
funny, shawl-draped figure, with enormous glasses framing round blue
eyes, shadowed by a hat that was almost an exact counterpart of the
shabby one Miss Gray had hung each morning for the past three winters on
her peg in the dressing-room. But there was something about the rakish
tilt of the hat that was in such strange contrast to the severe
spectacles and the thin, frosty nose, that it gave the snowlady the
appearance of staggering and made her very funny.

All through the school session groups of pupils gathered at the windows,
laughing. There was much speculating as to who had built the snowlady;
the three little sub-freshmen who had begun the work Ginny had finished
were vehement in their assertions that they had not. Gradually it was
whispered about that Ginny Cox had done it.

"We might have known that," several laughed, thinking Ginny very clever.

Then, over those invisible currents of communication which convey news
through a school faster than a flame can spread, came the rumor that
trouble was brewing. One of the monitors had told Dorrie Carr that Miss
Gray had had hysterics in the office; that, in the midst of them, she
had written out her resignation and that, after the first period, not an
English class had been held!

Another added the information that Barbara Lee had quieted Miss Gray
with spirits of ammonia and that Dr. Caton had refused to accept her
resignation and had been overheard to say that the culprit would be
punished severely.

Ginny's prank began to assume serious proportions. Ginny was more
thoughtless than unkind; it had not crossed her mind that she might
offend little Miss Gray. But she was not brave, either--she had not the
courage to go straight to Miss Gray and apologize for her careless,
thoughtless act.

There had been, for a number of years, one well-established punishment
at Lincoln; "privileges" were taken away from offenders, the term of the
sentences depending upon the enormity of the offence. And "privileges"
included many things--sitting in the study-room, mingling with the other
pupils in the lunch rooms at recess, sharing the school athletics. This
system had all the good points of suspension with the added sting of
having constantly to parade one's disgrace before the eyes of the whole
school.

"If Ginny Cox is found out, she can't play in the game against the South
High," was on more than one tongue.

Gyp, deeply impressed by the criticalness of the situation, summoned a
meeting of the Ravens. Her face was very tragic.

"Girls--it's the chance for the Ravens to do something for the Lincoln
School! We've had nothing but spreads and good times and now the
opportunity has come to test our loyalty."

Not one of the unsuspecting Ravens guessed what Gyp had in mind!

"Ginny Cox did build that snowlady--Isobel saw her. But if she gives
herself up she'll be sent to Siberia!"

"Well, it'll serve her right. She needn't have picked out poor little
Miss Gray to make fun of."

Gyp frowned at the interruption. "Of course not. _We_ know all about
Miss Gray and feel sorry for her, but Ginny doesn't. And, anyway, that
isn't the point. I was talking about loyalty to Lincoln." Gyp made her
tone very solemn. "Disgrace--everlasting, eternal, black disgrace
threatens the very foundations of our dear school!" She paused,
eloquently.

"Next week, Tuesday, our All-Lincoln girls' basketball team plays our
deadly enemy, South High. And what will happen without Ginny Cox? Who
_else_ can make the baskets she can? Defeat--ignominious defeat will be
our sad lot----" Her voice trailed off in a wail that found its echo in
every Raven's heart.

"I'd forgotten the game! _What_ a shame!"

"Why _couldn't_ Ginny have thought of that?"

"Maybe Doc. Caton will just let her play that once."

"Not he--he's like iron. Didn't he send Bob Morely down for three whole
days just before the Thanksgiving game 'cause he got up in Cæsar class
and translated 'bout the 'Garlic Wars'?"

Gyp sensed the psychological moment to strike.

"Never before in the history of our secret order has such an opportunity
to serve our school been given to us----"

"What can we do?"

"One of us can offer ourself on the altar of loyalty----"

Her meaning, stripped of its eloquent verbage, slowly dawned upon six
minds! A murmur of protest threatened to become a roar. Gyp hastily
dropped her fine oratory and pleaded humbly:

"It's so _little_ for one of us to do compared to what it means, and if
we _didn't_ do it and South High beat us, why, we'd suffer lots more
with remorse than we would just taking Ginny's punishment for her.
Anyway, what did the promise we solemnly made _mean_? Nothing? We're a
nice bunch! _I'm_ perfectly willing to take Ginny Cox's place, but I
think each Raven ought to have the chance and we should draw lots----"

"Yes, that would be the fairest way," agreed Pat Everett in a tone that
suggested someone had died just the moment before.

"I always draw the unlucky number in everything," shivered Peggy Lee.

"There'll have to be two this time, then, for I always do, too," groaned
a sister Raven.

"Shall we do it, girls? Shall we prove to the world that we Ravens can
make any sacrifice for our school?"

"Yes--yes," came thickly from paralyzed throats.

In a dead silence Gyp and Pat prepared seven slips of paper. Six were
blank; upon the seventh Pat drew a long snake with head uplifted, ready
to strike. The slips were carefully folded and shaken in Jerry's hat.
Gyp put the hat in the middle of the room.

"Let's each one go up with her eyes shut tight and draw a slip. Then
don't open it until the last one has been drawn." They all agreed--if
they had to do it they might as well make the ceremony as much of a
torture as possible!

So horrible was the suspense that a creaking board made the Ravens jump;
a shutter slamming somewhere in another part of the building almost
precipitated a panic. After an interval that seemed hours each Raven sat
with a white slip in her nervous fingers.

"Now, one--two--three--_open_!" cried Gyp.

Another moment of silence, a sharp intake of breath, a rattle of paper,
then: "Oh--_I have it_!" cried Jerry in a small, frightened voice.




CHAPTER XVII

DISGRACE


"Will the young gentleman or lady who built the snow-woman that stood on
the school grounds yesterday morning go at once to my office?"

Dr. Caton's tone was very even; he might have been asking the owner of
some lost article to step up and claim it, but each word cut like a
sharp-edged knife deep into poor Jerry Travis' heart.

She sat in the sixth row; that meant that, to reach that distant door,
she must face almost the entire school! Her eyes were downcast and her
lips were pressed together in a thin, bluish line. She heard a low
murmur from every side. Above it her steps seemed to fall in a heavy,
echoing thud.

Not one of the Ravens dared look at poor Jerry; each wondered at her
courage, each felt in her own heart that had the unlucky slip fallen to
_her_ lot she could never have done as well as Jerry had----

Then, instinctively, curious eyes sought for Ginny Cox--Ginny, who had
been unjustly accused by her schoolmates. But Ginny at that moment was
huddled in her bed under warm blankets with a hot-water-bag at her feet
and an ice-bag on her head, her worried mother fluttering over her with
a clinical thermometer in one hand and a castor-oil bottle in the other,
wishing she could diagnose Ginny's queer symptoms and wondering if she
had not ought to call in the doctor!

Jerry had had a bad night, too. At home, in her room, Gyp's eloquent
arguments had seemed to lose some of their force. Jerry persisted in
seeing complications in the course that had fallen to her lot.

"It's acting a lie," she protested.

"The cause justifies _that_," cried Gyp, sweepingly. "Anyway, I don't
believe Dr. Caton will be half as hard on you as he would have been on
Ginny Cox. It's your first offence and you can act real sorry."

"How can I act real sorry when I haven't _done_ anything?" wailed Jerry.

"You'll _have_ to--you must pretend. The harder it is the nobler your
sacrifice will be. And some day everyone will know what you did for the
honor of the school and future generations will----"

"And I was trying so hard for the Lincoln Award!" Real tears sprang to
Jerry's eyes.

"Oh, you can work harder than ever and win it in spite of this,"
comforted Gyp, who truly believed Jerry could do anything.

"And I can't play on the hockey team in the inte

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