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Half a Dozen Girls

by Anna Chapin Ray · English · Gutenberg #6360 · 420,260 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Half a Dozen Girls

Author: Anna Chapin Ray


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6360]
                Most recently updated: December 29, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6360

Credits: Produced by Ralph Zimmerman, Steve Schulze, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A DOZEN GIRLS ***




Produced by Ralph Zimmerman, Steve Schulze, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




HALF A DOZEN GIRLS

by

ANNA CHAPIN RAY



TO MY PARENTS

I OFFER THESE MEMORIES OF A HAPPY, NAUGHTY CHILDHOOD.

  My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
     No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:
   Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
     For every day.

  "Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
     Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
   And so make life, death, and that vast forever
     One grand, sweet song."


CHARLES KINGSLEY.




CONTENTS.


I. THE ADAMS FAMILY

II. THE V

III. THE GIRLS TRY TO IMPROVE THEIR MINDS

IV. MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH

V. TWO MORE GIRLS

VI. POLLY ENCOUNTERS THE SERVANT QUESTION

VII. POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING

VIII. HALLOWEEN

IX. THE NEW READING CLUB

X. POLLY'S POEM

XI. JEAN'S CHRISTMAS EVE

XII. HALF A DOZEN COOKS

XIII. ALAN AND POLLY HAVE A DRESS REHEARSAL

XIV. POLLY'S DARK DAY

XV. THE PLAY

XVI. JOB GOES TO A FUNERAL

XVII. MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED

XVIII. MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP

XIX. KATHARINE'S CALL

XX. ONE LAST GLIMPSE




CHAPTER I.

THE ADAMS FAMILY.


   "'There was a little girl,
   And she had a little curl,
 And it hung right down over her forehead;
   And when she was good,
   She was very, very good,
 And when she was bad, _she was horrid_!'"


"And that's you!" chanted Polly Adams in a vigorous crescendo, as
she watched the retreating figure of her guest. Then climbing down
from her perch on the front gate, she added to herself, "Mean old
thing! I s'pose she thinks I care because she's gone home; but I'm
glad of it, so there!" And with an emphatic shake of her curly
head, she ran into the house.

Up-stairs, in the large front room, sat her mother and her aunt,
busy with their sewing. The blinds were closed, to keep out the
warm sun of a sultry July day, and only an occasional breath of
air found its way in between their tightly turned slats. The whir
of the locust outside, and the regular creak, creak of Aunt Jane's
tall rocking-chair were the only sounds to break the stillness.
This peaceful scene was ruthlessly disturbed by Polly, who came
flying into the room and dropped into a chair at her mother's
side.

"Oh, how warm you are here!" she exclaimed, as she pushed back the
short red-gold hair that curled in little, soft rings about her
forehead.

"Little girls that will run on such a day as this must expect to
be warm," remarked Aunt Jane sedately, while she measured a hem
with a bit of paper notched to show the proper width. "Now if you
and Molly would bring your patchwork up here, and sew quietly with
your mother and me, you would be quite cool and comfortable."

"Patchwork!" echoed Polly, with a scornful little laugh. "Girls
don't sew patchwork nowadays, Aunt Jane."

"It would be better for them if they did, then," returned Aunt
Jane severely. "It is a much more useful way of spending one's
time, than embroidering nonsensical red wheels and flowers and
birds on your aprons, as you have been doing. Your grandmother
used to make us sew patchwork; and before I was your age, I had
pieced up three bedquilts,--one rising-sun, one fox-chase, and the
other just plain boxes."

"I don't care," Polly interrupted saucily; "I never could see the
use of cutting up yards and yards of calico, just for the sake of
sewing it together again. Wouldn't you rather have me make you a
pretty apron, Jerusalem?" And she leaned over to pat her mother's
cheek affectionately, as she added, "And besides, Molly's gone
home."

"Has she?" asked Mrs. Adams, in some surprise. "I thought she was
going to spend the day."

Polly blushed a little.

"So she was," she admitted at length; "but she changed her mind."

Mrs. Adams looked at her little daughter inquiringly for a moment,
and seemed about to speak, but catching the eye of Aunt Jane, who
was watching them sharply, she only said,--

"I am sorry; for I wanted to send a pattern to Mrs. Hapgood, when
she went home, and now I shall have to wait."

"I'll take it over now, mamma; I'd just as soon." And Polly jumped
up and caught her sailor hat from the table where she had tossed
it.

"I should like to have you, if you will, Polly. It is in my room,
and I'll get it for you."

She put down her work and went out into the hall, followed by
Polly.

"Have you and Molly been quarrelling again?" she asked, when the
door had closed between them and Aunt Jane.

"Only a little bit, mamma," confessed Polly. "Molly was teasing me
all the time, and at last I was mad, so I said I wished she'd go
home, and she went right straight off."

"I am sorry my daughter should be so rude to her company," began
Mrs. Adams soberly.

"So'm I," interrupted Polly; "I don't mean to; but she makes me
cross, and before I know it I flare up. I wish she hadn't gone,
too; for we promised to go over to see Florence this afternoon,
and she'll think it is queer if we don't."

"I wish you would try to be a little more patient, Polly," said
her mother. "You mustn't be cross every time that Molly laughs at
you; and you answered Aunt Jane very rudely just now. You need to
watch that tongue of yours, my dear, and not let it run away with
you. And now take this to Mrs. Hapgood, and tell her she will need
to allow a good large seam when she cuts it, for Molly is taller
than you."

"Yes'm," said Polly meekly, as she held up her face for the kiss,
without which she never left the house.

Then she slowly went down the stairs, and out at the door,
thinking over what her mother had just said to her, and resolving,
as she did at least twice every day, that she would never, never
quarrel with Molly again. But not in vain had Mrs. Adams devoted
the past thirteen years to watching her only child, and she
understood Polly's present mood well enough to call to her from
the window,--

"You'd better bring Molly back to lunch, I think. We're going to
have raspberry shortcake, and you know she likes that."

And Polly looked up, with a brightening face, to answer,--

"All right."

Then, in spite of the warm day, she went hurrying off down the
street, while her mother stood by the window, watching until the
bright curls under the blue sailor hat had passed out of sight.
Then she turned away with a half-smile, saying to herself,--

"Poor Polly! She has hard times fighting her temper; but Molly
does tease her unmercifully. After all, she comes naturally by it,
for she's very much as I was, at her age."

"What's the matter?" queried Aunt Jane, as her sister came back
and took up her work once more. "Have Molly and Polly been having
another fuss?"

"Nothing serious, I think," said Mrs. Adams lightly.

Aunt Jane's thin lips straightened out into an ominous line as she
answered,--

"Strange those two children can't get on together! I think it is
largely Polly's fault, for Molly is a sweet, quiet girl. You are
spoiling Polly, Isabel, as I keep telling you. Some day you'll
come to realize it, and be sorry."

Mrs. Adams bit her lip for an instant, and a clear, bright color
came into her cheeks; but after a moment she replied quietly,--

"You must allow me to be the judge of that, Jane."

"Of course you can do as you like with your own child," retorted
Aunt Jane stiffly; "but I can't shut my eyes to what is going on
around me, and let a naturally good child be spoiled for want of a
firm hand, without saying a word to stop it. Your mother didn't
bring you up in that way, Isabel, though she did indulge you a
great deal more than she did us older children."

As Aunt Jane paused, Mrs. Adams rose abruptly and left the room,
saying something about a letter which she must write in time for
the next mail.

Aunt Jane could be exasperating at times, as even her younger
sister was forced to admit, and occasionally she was driven to the
necessity of running away from her, rather than yield to the
temptation of answering sharp words with sharper. Mrs. Adams could
and did bear patiently with unasked advice in all matters but one;
but in regard to the discipline of her little daughter she stood
firm, for she and her husband had agreed that here Aunt Jane was
not to be allowed to interfere. Yet, though Aunt Jane soon found
that her sister left her and went away whenever the subject was
mentioned, the worthy woman was not to be turned aside, but
returned to the charge with unfailing persistency.

The intimacy between mother and daughter was a peculiar one, and
at times seemed far more like that between two sisters. Mrs. Adams
was one of the women whose highest ambition was of the rather old-
fashioned kind,--to make a pleasant, homelike home, and to be an
intelligent, helpful wife and mother. From her quiet corner she
looked out at her friends who had "careers," with curiosity rather
than envy, and, for herself, was content to have her world bounded
by the interests of her husband and Polly. It might be a narrow
life, but it was a busy and a happy one. With all her household
cares, she still found time to look into the books which were
interesting her husband, and intelligently discuss their contents
with him; she read aloud with Polly, played games with her, and
watched over her with a quick understanding of this warm-hearted,
impetuous little daughter, in whom she saw herself so closely
reflected that she knew, from the memory of her own childhood,
just how to deal with all of Polly's freaks and whims. And her
endless patience and devotion were well rewarded, for Polly adored
her pretty, bright little mother with all the fervor of her being.
There were times, it is true, when Polly rebelled against all
restraint; but such moments were of short duration, and, for the
most part, she yielded easily to the pleasant, firm discipline
which made duty enjoyable, and punishment the necessary result of
wrong-doing, a result as hard for the mother to inflict as for the
child to bear. In her gentler moods, Polly realized that nowhere
else could she find so good a friend, so interested and
sympathetic in all that concerned her, and the two spent long
hours together, now talking quite seriously, now chattering and
laughing like children, with a perfect good-fellowship which
appeared very disrespectful to Aunt Jane, who believed in the old-
time rule, that children should be seen, not heard. However, Polly
never minded Aunt Jane's frown in the least, but went on playing
with her mother and petting her, confiding to her her joys and
sorrows, her friendships and her quarrels, and calling her by an
endless succession of endearing names, of which her latest was
Jerusalem, an epithet taken from her favorite, "Oh, Mother dear,
Jerusalem," and adapted to its present use, to the great
mystification of her aunt, to whom Polly refused to explain its
derivation.

Between his office hours and his patients, Polly saw but little of
her father; for Dr. Adams was the popular physician of the large,
quiet, old New England town where they lived. A man who had grown
up among books, and among thinking, wide-awake people, he was a
worthy descendant of the two presidents with whom he claimed
kinship. He was a strong, fine-looking man, so full of quiet
energy that his very presence in the sick-room was encouraging to
the invalid; and he had come to be at once the friend, physician,
and adviser of every family in town, whether rich or poor. If his
patients could afford to pay him for his visits, very well; if
not, it was just as well, for neither Dr. Adams nor his wife
desired to be rich. To live comfortably themselves, to lay up a
little for the future, and to be able to help their poorer
neighbors, now and then,--this was all they wished, and this was
easily accomplished. In past years, two or three other doctors had
settled in the town; but after a few months of trial they had
closed their offices and gone away, because not one of Dr. Adams's
patients could be tempted to leave him, and his lively black horse
and shabby buggy were seen flying about the streets, while their
shiny new carriages either stood idle in their stables, or were
taken out for an occasional pleasure drive.

If Polly had been asked what was her greatest trial, her answer,
truthful and emphatic, would have been: "Aunt Jane." It was a
mystery to her as, indeed, it was to every one else, how two
sisters could be so unlike. Mrs. Adams was a pretty, graceful
little woman, with a dainty charm about her, and a winning, off-
hand manner, which made her a favorite with both young and old.
Aunt Jane Roberts was tall and thin, with a cast-iron sort of
countenance, surmounted by a row of little, tight, gray frizzles
of such remarkable durability that, though evidently the result of
art rather than nature, neither wind nor storm, appeared to have
any effect upon them. On festal occasions it was her habit to
adorn herself with a symmetrical little blue satin bow, placed
above these curls and slightly to one side; but there was nothing
in the least flippant or coquettish about this decoration, for it
was as precise and unvarying as the gray frizz below it, and only
seemed to intensify the hard, unyielding lines of her face.

Miss Roberts was fifteen years older than her sister, and she
appeared to have been stamped with the seal of single blessedness
while she still lay in her cradle and played with her rattle;--
that is, if she ever had unbent so far as to play with anything.
Even her walk was not like that of most women; she moved along
with a slow, deliberate stride which was at times almost spectral,
and reminded one of the resistless, onward march of the fates.
Aunt Jane was serious-minded and progressive, and, worst of all,
she was conscientious. However great a blessing a conscience must
be considered, there are some consciences that make their owners
extremely unpleasant. Whenever Aunt Jane was particularly trying,
her friends brought forward the singular excuse: "Jane is
_so_ conscientious; she means to do just right." And she
certainly did. So far as she could distinguish its direction, Aunt
Jane trod the path of duty, but she trod it as a martyr, not like
one who finds it a pleasant, sunshiny road, with bright,
interesting spots scattered all along its way. She had advanced
ideas about women and pronounced theories as to the rearing of
children; she was a member of countless clubs, and served on all
the committees to talk about reform; she visited the jail
periodically, and marched through the wards of the hospital with a
stony air of sympathy highly gratifying to the inmates, who tried
to be polite to her because of her relationship to the doctor,
whom they all adored. The demands of her public duties left Miss
Roberts little time for home life; but in the few rare intervals,
she sewed for her sister, refusing the more attractive work, and
devoting herself to sheets, pillow-cases, and kitchen towels, in
the penitential, self-sacrificing way which is so trying to the
person receiving the favor. She appeared to regard these labors as
an offset to the frank criticisms of her sister's housekeeping,
which she never hesitated to make when the opportunity offered.
Aunt Jane had come to live with her sister soon after Mrs. Adams
was married; and the doctor's happy, even temper enabled him to
make the best of the situation, though he had at once given Miss
Roberts to understand that she was in no way to interfere with him
or his concerns.

No introduction to the Adams family would be complete which failed
to mention Job Trotter, for Job was a faithful servant who had
done good service for many a long day. He was the old family horse
whom the doctor had driven for years, but who, owing to age and
infirmity, had been put on the retired list as a veteran, and
given over to the tender mercies of Mrs. Adams. She changed his
youthful nickname of Trot to the more fitting one of Job, and
stoutly maintained his superiority to the lively colt that
succeeded him between the thills of the doctor's buggy. Job, too,
appeared to share her opinion, and never failed to give a vicious
snap at his rival, whenever they came in contact. There was a
family legend that Job had been a fast animal in his day, and Mrs.
Adams often told the story of the doctor's first ride after him:
how, at the end of a mile, he had turned his pale face to the
horse-dealer who was driving, and piteously besought him: "In
mercy's name, man, let me get out; I've had enough of this!" But
all this was enveloped in the haze of the remote past, and now Job
was neither a dangerous nor exhilarating steed, but rather, a
restful one, who allowed his driver to contemplate the landscape
and impress its charms upon his memory. Job had been twenty-three
years old when the doctor handed him over to his wife; and, as if
to prove his relationship to the family, and to Aunt Jane in
particular, he had never advanced a year in age since then, but,
long, long afterwards, his headstone bore the legend:

             IN MEMORY OF
             JOB TROTTER,
          A FAITHFUL FRIEND,
  WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.


A rear view of Job still showed him a fine-looking horse, for his
delicate skin, slightly dappled here and there, his long, thick
tail and proudly arching neck plainly betokened his aristocracy.
But unfortunately, reckless driving in his youth had bent his fore
legs to a decided angle, and turned in his toes in an absurdly
deprecating fashion, until Mrs. Adams declared that she would put
a skirt on him to cover these defects, unless people stopped
turning to look after him and laugh.

But it was when he was in motion that Job exhibited his
peculiarities to the best advantage. His ordinary gait was a slow,
dignified walk, varied, at times, by a trot of which the direction
was of the up-and-down species, and made his progress even slower
than usual. But now and then the old fellow would seem to be
inspired with a little of his former spirit, and, after a skittish
little kick, he would straighten his body with a suddenness which
brought Mrs. Adams to her feet, and rush off at a mad pace that
soon faltered and failed, when the old brown head would turn, and
the gentle eyes seem to say pleadingly,--

"I did try, but I can't."

In reality, the cause of Job's slowness lay, not so much in his
age as in his afflicted knees; and they kept his driver in a
constant state of anxiety as to which pair would give out next.
Now his hind legs would suddenly fail him, and he would apparently
attempt to seat himself in the dust; then, just as he had
recovered from that shock, his front knees would collapse, and Job
would plunge madly forward on his venerable nose.

But, after all, they had many a pleasant drive up and down the
country roads, where the old horse plodded onwards, apparently
enjoying the scenery as much as his mistress did, now stopping to
graze by the roadside, now suddenly turning aside and, before his
driver was aware of his intention, landing her in the dooryard of
some farmhouse where the doctor had visited a patient years
before. For Job had a retentive memory, and was never known to
forget a road or a house where he had once been. During the last
of the time that the doctor had driven him, he had lent him to do
occasional service at funerals, where Job was never known to
disgrace himself by breaking into an indecorous trot. Something in
the ceremony of these melancholy journeys had struck Job's fancy
and impressed the circumstances on his memory to such an extent
that, ever after, he was reluctant to pass the cemetery gate, but
tugged hard at the lines to show his desire to enter. It was not
so bad when Mrs. Adams and Polly were by themselves; but Mrs.
Adams often invited some convalescing patient of the doctor to go
for a quiet little drive, and it was mortifying to have Job,
taking advantage of the moment when his mistress was deep in
conversation, stalk solemnly under the arching gateway and bring
his invalid passenger to a halt beside some new-made grave. There
seemed to be no apology that could fitly meet the occasion and do
away with the gloomy suggestiveness of the situation.

Aunt Jane rarely had time to drive with Job, for an ordinarily
fast walker could pass him by; but Polly and her mother enjoyed
him to the utmost, and spoiled him as much as they enjoyed him,
letting him stroll along as he chose, stopping whenever and
wherever he wished. To avoid being dependent on the man, who was
often away driving the doctor upon his rounds, Mrs. Adams had
learned to harness Job herself, and nearly every pleasant day she
could be seen buckling the straps and fastening him into the
carriage, while the old creature stood quiet, rubbing his head
against her shoulder, now and then, with a gentle, caressing
motion, or turning suddenly to pretend to snap at Polly, who was
much in awe of him, and then throwing up his head and showing his
teeth, in a scornful laugh at her fear.

This was the family circle in which Polly Adams had spent the
thirteen happy years of her life, respecting and loving her
father, adoring her mother, and continually coming in conflict
with Aunt Jane. And Polly herself? Like countless other girls, she
was good and bad, naughty and lovable by turns, now yielding to
violent fits of temper, now going into the depths of penitence for
them; but always, in the inmost recesses of her childish soul,
possessed with a firm resolve to be as good a woman as her mother
was before her. She knew no higher ambition.




CHAPTER II.

THE V.


Everybody in town knew the Hapgood house. It stood close to the
street, under a row of huge elms, and surrounded with clumps of
purple and white lilac bushes whose topmost blossoms peeped
curiously in at the chamber windows. Such houses are only found in
New England, but there they abound with their broad front
"stoops," the long slant of their rear roofs, where a ladder is
firmly fixed, to serve in case of fire, and the great, low rooms
grouped around the immense chimney in the middle. The Hapgood
house had been in the family for generations, and was kept in such
an excellent state of repair that it bade fair to outlast many of
the more recent houses of the town. A wing had been built out at
the side; but even with this modern addition, no one needed to
glance up at the date on the chimney--sixteen hundred and no-
matter-what--to assure himself of the great age of the stately old
house before him.

Up in the Hapgood attic a serious consultation was going on.

"Now, girls," Polly Adams began solemnly, "'most half of our
vacation has gone, and I think we ought to do something before
it's over."

"Aren't we doing something this very minute, I should like to
know?" inquired Molly Hapgood, who had felt privileged, in her
capacity as hostess, to throw herself down on the old bed which
occupied one corner of the garret.

Polly frowned on such levity.

"I don't mean that, Molly, and you know it. What I think is, that
we should get together regularly every two or three days and do
something special. Aunt Jane is in lots of clubs and things, and--
"

"I've heard it said," interrupted Jean Dwight solemnly, "that Aunt
Jane spent so much time doing good outside that she never had a
chance to be good at home." "Now, Jean, that isn't fair," said
Polly laughing. "You know I'd be the very last one to hold up Aunt
Jane as an example, only she has such good times with her
everlasting old people that I thought we might do something like
it."

"Which do you propose to do," asked Molly disrespectfully, "start
a society for the improvement of the jail or open a mission at the
poor-house to teach Miss Bean some manners?"

"Let's have a dramatic club, and get up a play," suggested the
fourth member of the group, who was seated on a dilapidated hair-
covered trunk under the open window, regardless of the strong east
wind which now and then lifted a stray lock of her long yellow
hair and blew it forward across her cheek.

"What a splendid idea, Florence!" said Jean, rapturously bouncing
about in her seat on the foot of the bed. "How does that suit you,
Polly?"

"We might do that, for one thing," assented Polly cautiously; "but
oughtn't we to try something a little--well, a little improving,
too." "I'd like to know if that wouldn't be improving?" asked
Molly. "It would teach us to act, and then, if we wanted, we could
charge an admission fee and raise some money."

"I think it would be splendid, girls," said Polly, in spite of
herself carried away by the prospect, and forgetting her own plan.
"What shall we take?"

"Let's take 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,'" said Jean. "We could make it
over into a play easily enough, and Florence would be just the one
for Eva. Alan could be Uncle Tom, you know."

"I think we could get something better than that," remarked
Florence, in some disgust. "If I'm Eva, I'll have to die, and I
don't know the first thing about that."

"Oh, that's easy enough," answered Molly, with the air of one who
had experience; "just stiffen yourself out and fall over. But I
don't believe you could ever get Alan to act."

"Why not take a ready-made play?" asked Polly. "It would save ever
so much work."

"What is there?" said Molly, sitting up to discuss the matter.

"We don't want any Shakespeare," added Jean; "that's all killing,
and Florence doesn't want to go dead, you know."

"I'll tell you what, girls," said Molly, as if struck with a
sudden idea, "we'll have an original play, and Jean shall write
it."

Florence and Polly applauded the suggestion, while Jean groaned,--

"I can't, girls. I never could in this world."

"Yes, you can," returned Molly, who had firm faith in her friend's
ability. "You go right to work on it, and you ought to get it all
done in a week or two, so we can give it before school opens."

"And we want just five people in it," said Polly. "I know I can
get Alan to act, if Molly can't."

Molly shrugged her shoulders incredulously, while Jean inquired,
with the calmness of desperation,--

"What shall it be about?"

"John Smith and Pocahontas," replied Polly promptly. "He almost
gets killed, and doesn't quite; so that will get the audience all
stirred up, but save the trouble of dying."

"But that only needs three," observed Florence thoughtfully, "and
there are five of us."

"Doesn't he take her home to England, I'd like to know? There's a
picture in the history where he shows Pocahontas to the queen. One
of us can be king, and the other queen."

"But at court there are always lots of people round," remonstrated
Florence, with an eye to the truth of the situation.

"Never mind; we can make believe that the queen has sent them off,
so as not to scare Pocahontas; that's what they call poetical
license," said Polly. "Jean can see about that. There are lots of
splendid things to wear, right here in this garret. Don't you
suppose your mother would let us take them, Molly?"

"Yes, I know she will," replied Molly.

There was silence for a moment, while the girls considered the
matter. Then Polly returned to her first charge.

"But it will take a good while to get ready to start this, so I'd
like to suggest our doing something else, while we wait."

"Polly has something in her head," said Jean. "Tell us what 'tis,
Poll,"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Polly, as she rose and began to walk
up and down the floor. "Aunt Jane was scolding, the other day,
because I hadn't read 'Pilgrim's Progress.' She said it was a
living disgrace to me, and that I must do it, right off. Now, what
if we have a reading club and do it together? Have any of you read
it? I don't believe you ever have."

The girls admitted that they had not.

"That's just what I thought," said Polly triumphantly. "It's so
stupid that I can't do it alone, for I read the first page
yesterday, and I know. But we don't any of us want to be 'a living
disgrace'; so what if we read aloud an hour every other afternoon?
'T wouldn't take us so very long, and," here she laughed frankly,
"I don't suppose it would hurt us any."

"I don't know but we ought to," remarked Molly virtuously, while
Jean added,--

"I've heard people say it was like measles. You'd better take it
young, if you did at all."

"When shall we begin?" demanded Polly, fired with enthusiasm at
the prospect.

"To-morrow," said Molly; "and you'd better come here to read, for
we can be nice and quiet up here. Come to-morrow at three, and
we'll read till four."

"Oh!" exclaimed Florence, suddenly springing up, as a small, dark
body came flying in at the open window above her head, and went
tumbling across the floor and down the stairs.

"What was that?" asked Molly, rolling off the bed.

"A green apple. I think," replied Polly, as she ran after it and
seized it. "Yes; here it is."

"That's Alan's doing," said Molly sternly, "I do wish he'd ever
let us alone."

"I don't," said Polly, coming to his defence; "he's ever so much
fun. I get tired of all girls."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Jean quickly, bowing low, in answer to
the compliment.

But Polly missed the bow, for her curly head was out of the
window, and she was laughing down at a slender, light-haired lad
who was just taking fresh aim at the open window.

"Come up here, Alan!" she called.

"Oh, don't, Polly!" remonstrated Molly from within. "He'll laugh
at us, and spoil all our fun."

"No, he won't," answered Polly valiantly; then, more loudly, "What
did you say, Alan?"

"What are you girls about up there?" he inquired.

"Come up and see." And she drew in her head just in time to escape
a second missile.

"All right; I'll come if you'll promise to play something, and not
spend all your time gabbling." And Alan vanished through the side
door. A minute or two afterwards, his shoes were heard clattering
up the attic stairs.

The four girls, whom he found sitting in a row on the edge of the
bed, were such good friends of him and of each other, that the
five were commonly spoken of as "the V," or, sometimes, as "the
quintette." Alan Hapgood, who was regarded as the point of the V,
was a wide-awake, irrepressible youth of twelve, who had a large
share in the doings of his older sister and her friends. They did
their best to spoil him by their unlimited admiration; but, to be
sure, the temptation to do so was a strong one, for Alan was a
lovable fellow, always merry and good-natured, generous and
accommodating to his friends, and quick to plan and execute the
pranks which added the spice of mischief to the doings of the V.
In person he was tall for his age, and slight, with thick, yellow
hair, that lay in a smooth, soft line across his forehead, large
gray eyes, and a generous mouth, full of strong, white teeth which
were usually in sight, for Alan was nearly always laughing,--not
a handsome boy, exactly, for his features were quite irregular,
but a splendid one, whom one would instinctively select as a
gentleman's son, and an intelligent, manly lad.

His sister Molly, two years older, was an attractive, bright girl,
whose only beauty lay in her smooth, heavy braids of brown hair.
She and Polly had been constant companions from their babyhood,
had quarrelled and "made up," had quarrelled and made up again,
three hundred and sixty-five days a year for the last thirteen
years, and at the end of that time they were closer friends than
ever. Two girls more unlike it would have been hard to find, for
Molly was as quiet and deliberate as Polly was impetuous; but
nevertheless, in spite of their continual disagreements, they were
inseparable. They were in the same class in school and in Sunday-
school, they had the same friends, and read the same books, and
had a share in the same mischief. They even carried this trait so
far as to both come down with mumps on the same day, when their
unwonted absence from school was the source of much speculation
among their friends, who fondly pictured them as indulging in some
frolic, until the melancholy truth was known.

Next to Alan, Jean Dwight was the boy of the V, a strong, hearty,
happy young woman of fourteen, who succeeded in getting a great
deal of enjoyment out of this humdrum, work-a-day world. Her rosy
cheeks glowed and her brown eyes shone with health; for Jean was
as full of life as a young colt, and vented her superfluous energy
in climbing trees, walking fences, and running races, until Aunt
Jane and her followers raised their hands and eyes in well-bred
horror. But Jean's unselfish devotion to her mother, her real
refinement, her quick understanding, and her sound common sense
did much to atone for her hoydenish ways, and gave promise of the
fine womanhood which lay before her. At first it had been a matter
of some surprise, in the aristocratic old town, that Mrs. Adams
and Mrs. Hapgood, representatives of "our first families," as they
were universally acknowledged to be, could allow their children to
be so intimate with Jean Dwight, whose father was only a
carpenter, and whose mother took in sewing. However, any comments
were promptly silenced when Mrs. Adams had been heard to say, one
day, that she was always glad to have Polly with such a womanly
girl as Jean Dwight, so free from any nonsensical, grown-up airs.
From that time onward Jean's position was an established fact.

Florence Lang was the acknowledged beauty of the V, a dainty
maiden of thirteen, with fluffy, yellow hair, great blue eyes, and
a pink and white skin which might have made a French doll sigh
with envy. The only daughter of a luxurious home, she was always
beautifully dressed, always quiet in her manners. No matter how
excited and demoralized the rest of the V might become, Florence
never failed to come out of the frolic as gentle and unspotted as
she went in, greatly to the disgust and envy of Polly, whose
clothes had a tendency to get mysteriously torn, whose shoes
appeared to go in search of dust, and whose short, curly hair had
a perfect genius for getting into a state of wild disorder. It was
not that Florence seemed to take any more care of herself than the
others, but she was naturally one of those favored beings to whom
no particle of dust could cling, who could use none but the
choicest language. Such gentle children have admirers enough; it
is the luckless, quick-tempered Pollies, the warm-hearted, harum-
scarum Jeans, who need a champion.

If Molly and Polly had never disagreed, the quintette would have
been only a trio; for, when they were at peace, they were all in
all to each other. But in times of strife Molly was devoted to
Florence Lang, while Polly took refuge with Jean Dwight. In this
way the V was formed; and though the closest intimacy was between
Molly and Polly, the four girls were firm friends, and there were
few days when they were not to be found together, usually either
at the Hapgood house, or at Polly's, where their visit was never
quite satisfactory unless Mrs. Adams was in the midst of the
group. Alan, too, was often with them, for a tendency to
rheumatism, which occasionally developed into a severe attack of
the disease, kept him in rather delicate health, and prevented his
entering into the athletic sports which are the usual amusement
for lads of his age. But though he was thus, of necessity, thrown
much with his sister and her girl friends, Alan was far from
belonging to that uninteresting species of humanity, the girl-boy;
instead of that, he was a genuine, rollicking boy, with never a
trace of the prig about him.

"Well, what was it you wanted of me?" Alan asked, as soon as his
head reached the level of the attic floor.

"We didn't want you; you came," retorted Molly, with the frankness
of a sister.

"No such thing; you called me,--at least, Polly did." And Alan
marched across the floor to seat himself beside his champion, sure
that there he would find a welcome.

He was not mistaken, for Polly remarked protectingly,--

"I did call you, Alan, for we want to have some fun, this horrid
day, and we need you to stir us up."

"All right; how shall I go to work?" inquired Alan cheerfully.
"Shall I dance a breakdown, or will you play tag?"

"Let's play hide-and-seek," suggested Jean; "it's so nice and dark
up here, to-day."

"Wait a minute," interposed Florence. "Alan, we may as well tell
you now: Jean is going to write a play for us to act, and you are
going to be John Smith and have your head cut off."

"The mischief, I am!" with a prolonged whistle of surprise and
disgust. "It strikes me I have something to say about what shall
be done with my head."

"Stop using such dreadful expressions, Alan," said Molly primly.
"You know mamma doesn't like to hear you say 'the mischief.'"

"Well, she didn't, 'cause she isn't here," returned Alan, in
nowise abashed by his reproof. "And I don't believe she'd like to
hear you girls planning to cut my head off, either."

"Oh, Alan, you goose!" said Polly. "John Smith's head wasn't cut
off, for Pocahontas saved him, you know. All you'll have to do
will be to lie down with your head on a stone, and have one of us
girls get ready to hit you with a club."

"If you girls are going to manage the club," remarked the boy,
with masculine scorn, "I'd much rather have you try to hit me, for
then I'd be safe."

"That's a very old joke, Alan," said Jean, with disgust; "and
besides, it isn't polite. You ought to be proud to be asked to
have a part in our grand play."

"Will you act, or won't you?" demanded Polly sternly, as she
seized him by his short, thick hair.

"Oh, anything to get peace," groaned Alan.

"Say yes, then."

"Yes."

"Very well. Now, you are to be ready whenever we want you; you are
to do just what we want, and do it in just the way we want. Do you
promise?"

"Yes, yes! But do hurry up and play something, or it will be dark
before you begin."

"There!" said Polly, nodding triumphantly to the girls as she
released him. "Didn't I tell you I'd get him to act?"

"You couldn't bribe him to keep out of it," said Jean, as they
sprang up for their game.

The old attic was a favorite meeting-place for the V, who held
high carnival there, now racing up and down the great floor and
hiding in dark corners behind aged chests and spinning-wheels, now
robing themselves in the time-honored garments which had done duty
for various ancestors of the Hapgood family, and exchanging visits
of mock ceremony, or inviting Mrs. Hapgood up to witness a
remarkable tableau or an impromptu charade. Piles of illustrated
papers filled one corner, and, when all else failed, the children
used to pore over the sensational pictures of the Civil War,
dwelling with an especial interest on the scenes of death and
carnage. In another corner was arranged a long row of old
andirons, warming-pans, and candlesticks, flanked by an ancient
wooden cradle with a projecting cover above the head. Rows of
dilapidated chairs there were, of every date and every degree of
shabbiness,--those old friends which start in the parlor and
slowly descend in rank, first to the sitting-room or library, then
up-stairs, and so, by easy stages, to the hospital asylum of the
garret. And up through the very midst of it all, midway between
the two small windows which lighted the opposite ends of the
attic, rose the huge gray stone chimney, like a massive backbone
to the body of the house. What stories of the past the old chimney
could have told! What descriptions of Hapgoods, long dead, who had
warmed themselves about it! What secret papers had been burned in
its wide throat! What sweet and tender home scenes had been
enacted on the old settles ranged before its glowing hearths,
which put to shame our tiny modern fireplaces and insignificant
grates! But the old chimney kept its own counsel, and did not
whisper a word, even to the swallows that built their nests in the
crannies of its sides. If it had spoken, there would be no need
for any one else to write of the doings of the V; for the chimney
had silently watched the children day by day, and knew, better
than any one besides, the simple story of their young lives.

"Now," Polly reminded them, as they were running down the stairs
an hour later; "remember to come to-morrow at just three, all of
you."

"What's up?" inquired Alan curiously.

"'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Jean, as she leaped down from the
fourth stair, and landed in an ignominious pile on her knees;
"we're going to read it aloud together."

"I'm sorry for you, then," responded Alan. "Mother read it to me
when I had scarlet fever, ever so long ago, and it's no end
stupid."

"We're going to try it, anyway," said Polly, with an air of
determination. "Come on, Jean; it's time I was at home. I'll see
you to-morrow, girls."




CHAPTER III.

THE GIRLS TRY TO IMPROVE THEIR MINDS.


Polly's reading-club started off valiantly the next afternoon, and
for an hour the girls read aloud industriously, while the rain
pattered on the shingles above their heads. The experiment had all
the charm of novelty, and the weather was in their favor, since
there was little temptation to be out of doors; so, at the close
of the first day, the reading was voted a great success. However,
the next time there was a slight decrease in the interest, and
Jean's suggestion as they sat down, that they should read for half
an hour and play games the rest of the time, was hailed with
delight by all but Polly, who was haunted by the possibility of
being that "living disgrace" which Aunt Jane had pronounced her.
Still, Polly was in the minority, and the change of programme was
adopted. At the third meeting, Molly was the one to propose an
adjournment at the end of the first quarter of an hour, and the
girls were not slow to take advantage of the suggestion, and go
rushing down-stairs, and out into the bright afternoon sunshine,
to join Alan who was lazily swinging in the hammock, with his eyes
fixed on the bits of white cloud that went drifting across the
blue above him.

It was with an air of great decision that Polly marched up the
attic stairs, two days later. She had purposely delayed her
coming, and the others were anxiously awaiting her. The warm sun
streamed in at the western window, and threw a golden light over
the dainty summer gowns of the three girls who were in a row on
the slippery haircloth seat of an old mahogany sofa, which had an
empty starch-box substituted for its missing leg. Alan sat in
front of them, placidly rocking to and fro, astride the cradle
that he had dragged out into the middle of the floor, to serve as
an easy-chair.

"Hurry up, Polyanthus," he remarked encouragingly. "These girls
are scolding me like everything, and I want you to come and fight
for me."

"Do help us to send him off, Polly," his sister begged. "He
insisted on coming up here with us, even after I told him we
didn't want him."

"Why don't you go out and play ball with the other boys, Alan?"
urged Jean.

"Now, Jean, that's too bad!" said Polly, filled with righteous
indignation. "It's not fair to twit Alan because there are some
things he can't do."

"Let him be," said Florence; "he'll get so tired of it at the end
of ten minutes, that nothing would tempt him to stay here."

"Good for you, Florence; you're a trump," returned Alan. "I
promise you, I won't so much as speak, if you'll let me stay; but
it's awfully dull doing nothing, and mother's bound I shan't play
ball. You wouldn't catch me here, if I could."

"Ungrateful wretch!" exclaimed Polly, while Jean added,--

"No danger of your saying anything! You'll be sound asleep before
we've read a page."

"What's the use of reading it, then?" was Alan's pertinent
question.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Florence. "It's one of Polly's
ideas, or rather, Aunt Jane's."

"Aunt Jane ought to be ganched!" remarked Alan, with calm
disrespect; for Polly made no secret of Aunt Jane's eccentricities,
and they were a common subject of discussion among the V.

"I know it," confessed Polly, filled with shame at the thought of
having such a relative.

"Come, Polly, what is the use of reading this poky old book?"
urged Molly. "'T isn't doing any of us the least bit of good. I've
listened just as hard as I could, and I'm sure I haven't any idea
what it's all about, it's told in such a queer way."

Molly's use of the word "queer" said more than a dozen lesser
adjectives. She had a singularly expressive manner of drawing it
out, that threw untold meaning into its simple form. Alan used to
declare that, if Molly once pronounced anything queer, its
reputation was spoiled, as far as her hearers were concerned. This
time Jean upheld her.

"It is very poky," she announced, as she pulled a bit of hair out
from one of the holes in the cushion, and fell to picking it to
pieces. "I think it's too warm weather for it, Polly. I don't care
what Aunt Jane says; I'm not going to waste these glorious summer
days over such stuff." And she pointed disdainfully at the book, a
square, clumsy volume, bound in dingy black cloth covers.

Polly looked rather hurt.

"I know all that, girls," she began; "but an hour a day, and only
every other day, too, isn't very much to spend on it."

"It's an hour too much, though, Polly," said Molly decisively.
"This garret is so warm; wait till cooler weather, and then we'll
try again. We shouldn't have time to finish it, anyway, before
Jean had the play ready for us. How is it getting along, Jean?"

"Awfully!" confessed Jean. "Whenever I sit down to write, my head
is as empty as an egg is, after you've blown it."

"Now, you girls let me plan for you," said Alan, moved to pity by
Polly's downcast face. "You let your old book go till fall, and
then start again, but only read half an hour a day. That's all
your brains can take in, and I'll try to be on hand to explain it
to you. How does that suit, Poll?"

"I suppose it will have to do," sighed Polly. "I hate to give up,
now we've started; but if you won't read, you won't."

"Very true," remarked Jean, while Florence added,--

"Now, tell us truly, Polly, do you know what the man is talking
about half the time?"

"No, I don't know as I do," admitted Polly.

"Then what do you want to read it for?" pursued Florence,
determined to come to an understanding.

"Oh, it sounds sort of good, you know," said Polly vaguely; "just
as if we ought to like it. 'Most everybody does read it, and I
didn't know but, if we kept at it long enough, it might teach us a
little something."

"Who wants to be taught? And besides, I'd rather have something a
little fresher than this," said Jean, making no secret of her
heresy.

"Polly! Polly!" called a voice from below.

Polly sprang up from the floor, where she had seated herself.

"That's mamma; what can she want?" she exclaimed, running to the
window and putting her head out.

Down in the street sat Mrs. Adams in their low, two-seated
carriage, while Job stood nodding sleepily in the sun, as he
waited for the signal to proceed.

"Don't you girls want to go for a little drive?" she called, as
her daughter's head came in sight.

In an instant three other heads appeared, and she was saluted with
three voices,--

"How lovely!"

"What fun!"

"We'll be down in a minute."

The minute was a short one; for the girls snatched their hats in
passing through the hall, and quickly surrounded the carriage, in
a gay, laughing group. Alan came sauntering down the stairs after
them, and stood leaning in the doorway, watching them settle
themselves preparatory to starting. Something in the lad's
position struck Mrs. Adams, and she beckoned to him.

"Come too, Alan; that is, if you can stand it with so many girls."

"May I? Is there room?"

He ran out to the carriage, then stopped, hesitating, as he saw
Polly touch her mother's arm, and shake her head silently.

"I don't believe I'll go," he said, drawing back.

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Adams, in surprise.

"I don't think Polly wants me to," answered the boy frankly. "I
don't want to be in the way." And he turned back to the house.

"'Tisn't that, mamma," said Polly, blushing at being caught. "I'd
like to have Alan go, well enough, only I was afraid it would be
too much for Job to take so many of us."

"In that case, you might have offered to be the one to give up,"
said her mother, in a low tone, which, though very gentle, still
brought a deeper flush to Polly's face. Then she added to Alan,
"Nonsense, my boy! You are thin as a rail, and don't weigh
anything to speak of. Get in here this minute, and if Job gets
tired, I'll make you all walk home."

Alan mounted to the front seat, where he made himself comfortable,
with a boyish disregard of Florence's fresh pink gingham gown;
Mrs. Adams shook the lines persuasively; Job waked and began to
trudge along with an air of sombre patience which would have done
credit to the scriptural original of his name.

"I am glad you are all of you used to Job," said Mrs. Adams
smilingly, as they moved slowly down the main street and across
the railroad track. "He really has been a valuable horse in his
day, and there was a time when nothing could go by him,--why,
what is the matter?" And she looked around at the girls on the
back seat, as they burst into an irreverent laugh.

"Nothing, mamma," said Polly, leaning forward with her elbows on
the back of the seat in front of her; "only we thought we'd heard
you say something about it before."

"Let's drop them out, if they're so saucy," suggested Alan. "Don't
you want me to drive, Mrs. Adams?"

"Thank you, Alan; but I don't dare trust you, when you are no more
used to him, for he stumbles so. Go on, Job!" she added, with an
inviting chirrup, as she leaned forward and rattled the whip up
and down in its socket, to remind Job of its existence.

But Job was familiar with that operation, and from long experience
he had learned its lack of significance. Accordingly, he only
tilted one ear back towards his mistress, and went on at his
former jog.

It was one of the finest days of the summer, one of the days when
the season seems to have reached its height and appears to be
standing still, for a moment, in the full enjoyment of its own
beauty. A shower early in the day had washed away the dust, and
every leaf and blossom by the roadside stood up in all the glad
pride of its clean face, and turned its eyes disdainfully upward,
away from the brown earth below. The girls chattered and laughed
while they rode through the town, past the cemetery, where Mrs.
Adams had some difficulty in overcoming Job's desire to turn in,
across the long white bridge over the river, and through the quiet
little village on its eastern bank. Then they turned southward,
where the road lay over the level meadows, now past a great corn-
field, now by the side of a piece of grass land dotted thickly
with large yellow daisies. At their right was the broad blue
river, shining like metal in the sun; before them rose the two
mountains that watch over the old town, one beautiful in its
irregular outlines, the other impressive in its bold dignity. No
one who has lived near these hills can ever forget their spell.
Though long years may have passed before his return, yet his first
glance is always towards the bare, rugged cliffs, the wooded
sides, and the white summit houses of these twin guardians of the
quiet valley town.

"I believe I am perfectly happy," said Florence, with a sigh of
content, as she leaned back and surveyed the meadows.

"I should be, if I could have some of those daisies," said Polly,
pointing to a great bunch of them close by.

"Want 'em? All right, here goes!" And before Mrs. Adams could
bring Job to a halt, Alan was out over the wheel.

"Don't stop; I can catch up with you," he called. "It's too hard
work to get Job under way again."

He was as good as his word; for he hastily pulled up the flowers
by the roots, came running after the carriage, and tossed them
into Polly's lap.

"There! Now aren't you glad you brought me?" he exclaimed
triumphantly, as he scrambled up the back of the carriage, like a
monkey, and worked his way along to the front seat again. "You're
a daisy, yourself, Alan," answered Polly, leaning out over the
wheel to break off the roots. "These are lovely. Want some,
girls?"

"It's going to rain to-morrow, I just know," said Molly,
disregarding the daisies. "If it does, it will spoil our picnic,
and that will be a shame."

"Oh, it won't rain," said Jean. "What makes you think so, Molly?"

"It always does," said Molly wisely, "when the hills look such a
lovely dark blue. I heard somebody say so, ever so long ago, and I
never knew it to fail."

"I don't believe in signs," remarked Polly vindictively, with her
mouth full of daisy stems. "It's all just as it happens, only some
people have a sign for everything. For my part, I'll wait till I
see the rain coming, before I believe in it."

"That's Polly all over," said Alan. "She won't take anything on
trust; she has to see it first."

"How did the reading come on to-day?" inquired Mrs. Adams, leaning
back in her seat, and letting Job ramble from side to side of the
road, at his will.

"Not very well," said Florence, seeing that none of the others
started to reply.

"I hope I didn't break it up," Mrs. Adams answered, as she took
out the whip, to brush a fly from Job's plump side.

Alan giggled.

"You needn't be afraid, Mrs. Adams; the girls are glad to get off
on any terms."

"I'll tell you how 'tis, Mrs. Adams," said Jean, coming to the
rescue, rather to Polly's relief. "You see, it's such warm
weather, and the book wasn't real interesting, so we decided to
let it go till by and by. Do you think we're very dreadful?" And
she laughed up into Mrs. Adams's face, with perfect confidence in
her approval.

Mrs. Adams laughed too.

"I didn't really think you would carry out your plan for very
long," she said. "Polly takes Aunt Jane's words too seriously. In
old times, everybody read 'Pilgrim's Progress,' but it's going out
of fashion now, and--Whoa, Job! What are you doing?" she
exclaimed, as the carriage tilted to one side so unexpectedly that
Florence and Molly screamed a little.

Job, grieved at finding himself ignored and left out of the
conversation, had apparently determined to amuse himself in his
own way. He had meandered back and forth across the road, as was
shown by the serpentine character of his tracks; now, catching
sight of a tempting stalk of mullein by the fence, he had walked
across the gutter and was just stretching his head forward to
seize the coveted morsel, when Mrs. Adams interrupted him. Her
first impulse was to draw him back, but kinder feelings prevailed,
and she bent forward to give him the full length of the lines,
saying indulgently,--

"The mischief is done already, Job, so you may as well have your
lunch, for you can't tip us up any farther." And she sat there
quite patiently, in spite of her strained position, until Job had
devoured the mullein in a leisurely fashion. Then she reined him
back into the road, remarking, "It isn't fair for poor Job to do
all the work and not have any of the fun, is it?"

"I'll tell you, Mrs. Adams," suggested Alan; "let's all get out
and put Job into the carriage, and draw him a mile or two, just to
rest him."

"You shan't make fun of Job!" said Polly indignantly. "You didn't
like what Jean said to you, and now you go and say, Job is o-l-d
and s-l-o-w."

"What in the world do you spell the words for, Poll?" asked Jean.
"I never have been able to make out."

"Why, Job knows what you are saying, as well as anybody, and may
be he is sensitive about it," replied Polly, to the great
amusement of the girls.

"We might read 'Pilgrim's Progress' to him, then," said Jean
wickedly. "Perhaps it would teach him to go ahead, if he knows so
much."

"Poor old Job! his going days are nearly over, aren't they, Joby?"
said Mrs. Adams caressingly, as she rubbed the whip up and down
over his glossy side. "Well, he's a poor, tired old fellow with a
heavy load, so perhaps we'd better turn here and go home."

This proceeding met with Job's full approval. He had been walking
more and more slowly, as if overcome by the effort which he had
been forced to make, and seemed scarcely able to totter onward,
stumbling at every stone. But with the change of direction, his
life came back to him, and with a whisk of his tail and an
ungainly flourish of his hind legs, he started off at a trot,
turning neither to the right nor the left, but only intent on
reaching home and supper.

"There!" said Mrs. Adams in a tone of disgust; "when Job does that
I just want to whip him. He has played that trick on me over and
over again, and still I am always deceived by it. It isn't more
than two weeks since Polly and I were driving to the Glen, one
very warm day. It was a strange road, and all at once Job was
taken ill in such a queer way; he staggered and almost fell. Polly
and I were so frightened, for we thought he was going to die,
right then and there. We jumped out and walked along beside him,
leading him and petting him. The road was so narrow that we
couldn't turn him around, without going on ever so far; nobody was
in sight, and we were both of us just ready to cry from sheer
nervousness. At last we came to where we could turn him, and
backed him around as carefully as could be. What did the old goose
do but put down his head and give it the funniest sideways toss,
and then trot off towards home, leaving us standing there in the
road."

"What did you do? did you walk home?" asked Alan, while the girls
laughed.

"No, indeed! We made him stop for us, and he had to trot the rest
of the way, you may be sure. Go on, Job!" urged Mrs. Adams,
shaking the lines violently.

But Job settled that matter by whisking his tail over the lines
and holding them firmly, in spite of the attempts his mistress
made to free them once more. Finding her labors of no avail, she
turned her attention to the girls again.

"What if you take another plan for your reading?" she asked,
pulling off one of her long gloves and turning slightly, as she
rested her elbow on the back of the seat. "If you care to come to
our house one or two mornings a week, through the rest of the
vacation, and read aloud with me some good book,--I don't mean
goody,--I should be delighted to have you. You could do the
reading and amuse me while I sew."

"That's elegant!" exclaimed Jean rapturously. "What shall we read,
girls?"

"But are you sure that you want us?" asked Florence doubtfully,
for her mother was not particularly hospitable to the members of
the V, and it seemed impossible to her that Mrs. Adams could be in
earnest in her proposition.

"Indeed I do," responded Mrs. Adams heartily. "I can take that
time for darning the doctor's stockings, and Polly's too, for that
matter, for her toes are always coming through. I don't like to do
it, but I shall be so well entertained that I probably shan't mind
it at all."

"See here," said the practical Jean; "let's all bring our
stockings to darn. There can't but one of us read at a time, and I
just hate to do nothing but sit and twirl my thumbs."

"But I don't know how to darn stockings," said Florence
helplessly.

"Time you did, then," said Jean. "If you had as many small
brothers as I do, you'd have plenty of practice. Besides, I think
any girl as old as we are ought to know how to mend her own
stockings, whether she's rich or poor."

"So do I, Jean," said Mrs. Adams approvingly; "and yet I am
ashamed to say that I have never taught Polly. But I think I'll
add your plan to mine, and tell the girls to bring their darning-
bags with them; and I will give you all lessons in a duty and
necessity that can be made almost a fine art."

"I hate to sew," said Molly disconsolately.

"So do I," responded Jean calmly, "but I have to just the same;
and that's the reason I thought I'd like to take the time when we
read to do some of the worst things."

"I say," remarked Alan meditatively, as he plunged his hands into
his pockets, "where's my share in this coming in?"

"Why, nowhere; you're nothing but a boy, you know," replied his
sister, with an air of conscious superiority.

"One boy is as good as a dozen girls, though, ma'am," retorted
Alan.

"Do you want to come too?" asked Polly. "He can, can't he, mamma?"

"I don't know as I want to, all the time," said Alan. "I'd like it
when I can't do anything else; but when the boys are round, I'd
rather be with them, of course."

"That settles it," said Polly, leaning forward to tickle his ear
with a long-stemmed daisy. "Take us or leave us; but we don't want
any half-way friends that like us when they can't get anything any
better."

"Don't you mind her, Alan," said Mrs. Adams. "You can come, if you
want to, and I'll protect you myself."

"If you come, though," added Polly, determined to have the last
word, "you'll have to bring some stockings to darn. We shan't let
in any lazy people."




CHAPTER IV.

MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH.


"Oh, dear me, Jean!" sighed Polly. "I do believe there's Miss
Deborah Bean coming down the street."

"What of her?" inquired Jean indifferently.

"Why, if 'tis, she's coming here to lunch. She says all the
hateful things she can think of; and you don't know how queer she
is. I can't help laughing at her; and that makes mamma cross, for
she wants me to be polite to her, because she's old as Methuselah
and poor as Job's turkey."

"I didn't suppose your mother was ever cross," said Jean.

"Oh, she isn't cross, exactly; but sometimes she doesn't like
things as well as others."

"Most people don't," remarked Jean sagely.

Miss Bean's present home was in the poorhouse, from which place of
retreat she made expeditions into the town, at intervals, to visit
her old acquaintances, and among them was Mrs. Adams, for whose
mother she had sewed, during her younger, stronger days. On these
great occasions, she was wont to cast aside the plain gown which
she ordinarily wore, and bring out to the light of day the one
that had for years served as her best when she went into the
institution. Accordingly, it was a strange figure that turned in
at the doctor's gate, and came to a halt before the two girls who
were sitting on the grass under one of the tall elms on the lawn.
Her gown was of some black woollen stuff, figured with green, and
its short, full skirt fell in voluminous folds over her large
hoops. A white muslin cape covered her shoulders; and her head was
adorned with a yellow straw shaker bonnet, in the depths of which
her wrinkled face, with its pointed chin and bright eyes, looked
like the face of some mammoth specimen of the cat tribe, an effect
that was increased by her high, shrill voice. Black lace mitts
covered her hands; and she carried, point upward, a venerable
brown umbrella, loosely rolled up, and held in place with two
rubber bands.

"Is your ma at home?" she asked Polly abruptly.

"She's in the house," answered Polly, rising with some reluctance.
"I'll go and call her. You stay here, Jean."

"Jean who?" inquired Miss Bean, bringing her spectacles to bear on
Jean's blooming face.

"Jean Dwight, ma'am," said Jean demurely, in spite of a strong
desire to laugh.

"Bill Dwight's daughter?"

Jean nodded, while her color rose at the rough abbreviation of her
father's name.

"I want to know! He was a son of old Enos Dwight and Melissy
Pettigrew; and I can remember the time, and not so very long ago,
either, when the Adamses wouldn't have had anything to do with
such folks," remarked Miss Bean, who Avas not only a firm believer
in the aristocracy of the old town, but regarded it as her right
to utter all the disagreeable truths that came into her brain.

To-day she had spoken rashly, for Polly, angry at the insult to
her friend, faced her with blazing eyes, while every little curl
on her head was dancing with indignation.

"It doesn't make any difference what you think about it, Miss
Bean. My mother has charge of me, not you; and she's glad to have
Jean come here."

"Dear sakes! Red hair does show in the temper," sighed Miss Bean,
unconsciously touching another sore spot, for Polly's hair was one
of her trials.

"I'd rather have red hair and a temper, than meddle with what
doesn't--" Polly was beginning hotly; but remembering that the old
woman, though uninvited, was yet a guest, she added hastily, "Come
into the house."

When she came out under the trees again, she found Jean still
sitting on the grass, with a little suspicious moisture around her
eyes. Polly dropped down by her side, and impulsively pulling
Jean's head over into her lap, she bent down and kissed her.

"It's a shame, Jean!" said she. "Don't you mind a word the old
thing says. I don't care anything about your grandpa and grandma;
they might have been brought up in jail, for all I care. It's you
that I like. She's a horrid old woman."

"I don't mean to care," said Jean disconsolately; "but some people
always have to tell me I'm a nobody."

"No, you aren't, you're somebody," contradicted Polly. "And as
long as you're splendid yourself, I don't see what difference it
makes whether you have forty cents or forty million dollars, and
whether you carpenter for a living or doctor for it,--or beg for
it, the way she does."

They were silent for a minute, and then Polly added, with a
laugh,--

"There's one thing about it, we'll have some fun out of her, for
she's going to stay to lunch, and she's so funny at the table. She
minces so, and she never refuses anything to eat without telling
just why she doesn't like it. One time, mamma offered her some
pie, and she said, 'Oh, my, no! I never eat it. Pie-crust is
grease packed in flour.' I'm so glad you are here to-day."

When the girls went into the house at lunch time, Miss Bean was in
the midst of a stream of gossip. Her usual surroundings gave rise
to no more varied subjects than the personal appearance of her
companions, and the routine of the housework, in which they all
had a share. Doubtless it was partly for this reason that the
worthy woman made the most of her brief outings, to gather up any
bits of information which might serve to enliven the days to come,
and render her an object of admiration in the community where she
was passing her time. In spite of Aunt Jane's frowns, and the
efforts of Mrs. Adams to turn the conversation, she was running on
and on, helped by an occasional word from the doctor, who derived
much amusement from the old woman's visits. As Polly and Jean
seated themselves across the table from her, she glanced up to eye
them with little favor, and then went on,--

"As I was saying, I stopped in to Miss Hapgood's on my way up, and
she'd just got a letter from Kate. You remember Kate Harvey, her
sister that married Henry Shepard and went out to Omaha to live,
don't you? He's made a lot of money, but people always said he was
a miserable sort of fellow."

"Let the doctor give you some of the oysters, Miss Bean,"
interrupted Mrs. Adams desperately. "No, I don't eat oysters now;
there's no R in August," replied Miss Bean frankly.

"Unless you spell it O-r-gust," whispered Jean, in an aside which
made Polly choke over her glass of water.

"Well," resumed Miss Bean tranquilly, "Kate's got two daughters of
her own, about Molly's age, and she wants 'em to come there and
board, and go to school at Miss Webster's. I don't know's I
wonder, for I don't suppose there's any schools in them little
western towns; but Mis' Hapgood's all upset about it. I told her
she'd better take 'em, and charge a good, round price for 'em; but
she says she hasn't much room, and then she don't know how they'd
get along with Molly."

"Do you think they'll come?" inquired Polly eagerly.

"I don't know," answered Miss Bean coldly. "Mis' Hapgood hasn't
made up her mind. She sets great store by Kate, being her only
sister," she went on, turning back to the doctor; "and so I
shouldn't much wonder if she took 'em, after all. They say his
father shot himself, and--"

"Have some of these preserved plums, Miss Bean," said Mrs. Adams,
lifting the spoon persuasively.

"No, thank you. Preserves isn't very hulsome, and I don't go much
on them, excepting pie-plant and molasses," answered Miss Bean, as
she poured out her coffee into her saucer.

At this somewhat unexpected response, Jean pinched Polly's hand
under the table, and they both giggled.

"Some folks," continued Miss Bean reflectively, "say it's a coward
that commits suicide; but, my soul and body! I think it's just the
other way; I never should get up spunk enough." Then, with an
abrupt change of subject, she added: "Speaking of folks dying, I
see Mr. Solomon Baxter as I was coming along. He's aged a good
deal since his wife died, and no wonder, poor man! with all his
six children to look out for. He shook hands with me, and he
seemed so all cut up when I told him how lonesome he looked, that
I says to him: 'Mr. Baxter, why don't you get married again?
There's lots of good women left, as many as there ever was. Why
don't you take Miss Roberts, now? She'd manage your children for
you, I'll warrant.'"

This was too much for the doctor and the girls, and they burst out
laughing, while Aunt Jane remarked stiffly,--

"Thank you, Miss Bean; but I have no present desire to be
married."

"Well, I didn't know but what you might think 'twas a case of
duty," responded Miss Bean grimly.

As soon as the meal was over, Polly and Jean adjourned to the lawn
again, and sat down to discuss the situation, for they were both
much excited over the possible coming of Molly's cousins.

"I saw some pictures of them, once," said Polly, as she settled
herself in the hammock. "They were pretty, and they were just
elegantly dressed, with piles of lace and things, and gold chains
round their necks."

"Miss Bean said they had lots of money," said Jean thoughtfully.

"Yes," answered Polly; "and they looked as if they had it all on..
Mamma says 'tisn't a good idea for young girls to wear jewelry,
and she won't let me have any at all, but just these." As she
spoke, Polly touched the string of gold beads that lay closely
about her throat. They had been her great-grandmother's beads, and
Polly had received them for her name.

"I shouldn't wonder if they did that more out West," said Jean.
"How old are they, Polly?"

"One is older than Molly," answered Polly "and the other is about
Alan's age. Molly hasn't ever seen them, for they've always lived
out there I hope they won't come, though," she added emphatically.

"Why not?" inquired Jean. "If they're nice I think it would be fun
to have them here."

"I don't," said Polly. "There are just enough of us, as it is; and
if they were here, we shouldn't get any good of Molly."

"It won't make any difference, if they don't go to the same school
with us. And besides, you said this morning that you couldn't bear
Molly," said Jean a little maliciously.

"You know I never meant any such thing, Jean," said Polly
impatiently. "I like Molly Hapgood better than any other girl in
this town, and you know that just as well as I do."

"What about me?" inquired Jean, laughing, for she was accustomed
to Polly's moods, and was by no means angry at the alarming
frankness of her reply, as she said tragically,--

"I like you ever so much, Jean; but, honestly, I like Molly
better, when she's nice, for we've always been together; and I
don't want these dreadful girls to come in between us."

"I don't believe they will, any more than Florence and I do," said
Jean soothingly.

At the mention of Florence's name, Polly straightened up, and
looked right into Jean's eyes.

"Jean Dwight," said she, "if you'll never, never tell, I am going
to say something to you that I never told anybody before."

"What is it?" asked Jean curiously.

"You promise not to tell?"

"Why, of course, if you don't want me to."

"Well," said Polly, in a whisper, "I think Florence is a perfect
little flat. There! I suppose mamma would say I was as bad as Miss
Bean, with all her gossip, but I can't help it, it's true. But
don't let's talk about it any more, it makes me so cross. Perhaps
they won't come, anyway."

"Here comes Alan," said Jean, glancing up as the boy turned in at
the gate; "maybe he can tell us something about them." In fact,
the lad had come to see Polly for no other purpose than to talk
the matter over with her, for Polly was his truest friend in the
V, and the two children exchanged confidences with the same simple
good-fellowship they might have shown, had they both been girls.
Polly never snubbed Alan because he was younger, as Molly did, but
invariably stood as his champion when the other girls scolded him,
and tried to send him away; and Alan, on his side, never rubbed
Polly the wrong way, but respected her quick temper. Of course he
teased her, as every natural boy teases the girls with whom he is
thrown; but it was a gay, good-natured sort of teasing that never
irritated Polly in the least. During his long, rheumatic fever of
the winter before, she had been a most devoted friend, dropping in
to see him at all sorts of odd hours, to amuse him with her merry
nonsense, and had greatly disgusted the girls by frankly
announcing her preference for his society over their own. And Alan
returned the compliment with interest, declaring that he would
"rather have Poll in one of her tantrums than the rest of them
with all their best manners."

He came deliberately across the lawn, with his black and white
striped cap cocked on the very back of his head, and his hands in
the side pockets of his gray coat, and calmly disregarding the
curiosity of the girls, he made no attempt to speak until he had
comfortably settled himself on the grass at their feet.

"Well," he inquired at length, after he had arranged himself to
his liking, with his hands clasped under his yellow head; "what is
it you want to know?"

"Everything," demanded Polly, comprehensively.

"All right," he answered, lazily shutting his eyes. "The earth is
the planet on which we live, and is about twenty-five thousand
miles round; a decimal fraction is one whose denominator is ten,
one hundred, one thousand, or and so forth; America was discovered
in--"

"Oh, Alan, do be sensible if you can," said Jean. "We know all
that stuff. What we want is to hear about these cousins of yours
that are coming."

"How did you know anything about them?" asked the boy, in
surprise.

"Miss Bean is here," answered Polly. "She went to see your mother
on the way, and heard about it." "Oh."

There was a world of disgust in Alan's tone. Presently he went
on,--

"Well, everybody will have to hear of it now. I came over to tell
you, Poll, but it seems that old woman is in ahead."

"Are they really coming, then?" asked Polly anxiously.

"Hope not," said Alan, rolling over on his face and pulling up a
handful of grass; "girls enough round already."

"That's not polite," returned Polly; "but go on."

"There isn't any on," said Alan. "All there is about it is that
they want to come, and I'm afraid mother is going to let them.
Molly likes it, but I don't want them round in the way. I know
they'll be prim and fussy, without any fun in them. I believe I'll
come over here and live."

"Come on," said Polly hospitably; then she proceeded in a moral
tone, "But, Alan, you ought not to talk so about them, for they're
your cousins, and you ought to like your relations, you know."

"Do you like Aunt Jane?" inquired Alan, suddenly rolling over to
face her once more.

But Polly was spared the necessity of making any reply, by a
sudden voice behind her.

"And so this is your garden, Mrs. Adams! It's a likely place for
petunias and sweet williams, but I don't think much of those new-
fangled things," pointing to a brilliant bed of dwarf nasturtiums
near by. Then she went on in a sing-song tone,--

    "'So I've come out to view the land
     Where I must shortly lie.'"

"Needn't think I expect to lie in your garden, though," she hastily
added, evidently fearful of being misunderstood.

"Hush, Alan! you must not laugh at her," said Polly, stifling her
own merriment as best she could.

But Miss Bean, absorbed in her eloquence, had passed on out of
hearing, and Jean returned to the charge.

"Come, Alan, there's a dear boy," she began persuasively, "tell us
about the girls."

"I don't know much about them," answered Alan. "Katharine is the
older one, about fifteen, and Jessie is just my age. Her birthday
is the third and mine the seventh. I suppose they're well enough,
but their pictures look a little toploftical, and I'm not over
fond of that kind. They are going to bring their pony, if they
come, and that will be fun, if mother will only let me ride him."

"You'll get your neck broken," predicted Polly. "Do you remember
the day we tried to ride Job, and he lay down and rolled us off?"

"That was your fault," returned Alan; "if you hadn't gripped his
mane so, he'd have been all right. Well," he added, sitting up and
stretching himself, "mother sent me to the market, and I s'pose I
must go, but I thought I'd just stop in a minute."

"Oh, dear! how I wish I had a brother!" sighed Polly, watching his
boyish figure, as he sauntered away across the grass.

"Yes," said Jean slowly, as she thought of the four little
brothers at home, "it is nice, but it has its drawbacks, Polly.
When they all want to do the same thing at the same time, and
can't wait a minute, why, then it doesn't seem quite so
agreeable."

In the warm twilight, Mrs. Adams and Polly sat on the broad
piazza. Miss Bean had taken her departure, long before, and Jean
had gone home to help her mother get supper and put the younger
children to bed. The birds were twittering their last sleepy good
nights, and two or three little stars were faintly showing in the
blue sky above the dark mountain, while scores of tiny fireflies
were dotting the air below.

"There, Jerusalem!" Polly was saying triumphantly, as she perched
herself on the broad arm of her mother's piazza chair; "now
everybody is out of the way, and I can have you all to myself."

"What is it to-night?" inquired Mrs. Adams, laughing, as she
pulled her light shawl over her shoulders to keep out the evening
air.

"Lots of things, mamma," answered Polly, with a sudden
thoughtfulness; "there's been a good deal to-day."

"About Molly's cousins, for instance?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"Yes," replied Polly; "I don't think we want them, mamma. I know
they won't fit in a bit. And Alan says he doesn't want them."

"That's not quite fair of Alan," said her mother: "he oughtn't to
say so without knowing anything more about them. But, Polly, you
may find them pleasant friends, and like them better than you do
Molly."

Polly shook her head with decision.

"I'm sure I shan't. But I'm afraid Molly will like them better
than she does us."

"Jealous, Polly?" And there was a tone of regret in her mother's
voice as she went on: "I am a little disappointed in my daughter.
Of course, Polly, Molly will be thrown with them a great deal,
much more than with you; and, so long as they are her cousins, she
will probably be fond of them. But, after all these years, can't
you trust Molly's friendship enough to believe that it won't make
any difference in her feeling to you, but that she can love and
care for you all, at the same time?"

"Sometimes I think she can, and sometimes I think she can't,'"
said Polly slowly. "Once in a while, when we have had a 'scrap,'
as Alan calls it, I think she doesn't care a bit about me."

"Whose fault is it, when you quarrel?" asked Mrs. Adams, smoothing
the short curls. "I don't think it is all Molly's fault, any more
than it is all yours. If my small daughter wants her friends to
care for her, she must govern that temper and study self-control."

"I know that, mamma," broke in Polly impetuously; "but you don't
have any idea how hard 'tis, nor how sorry I am after it is over."

"It is just because I do know it so well, my dear, that I keep
saying this to you; for I hope I can save you from a part, at
least, of the pain I have suffered in just this same way. I have
been through it all, Polly, and I know that every time you give up
to your temper, it is just so much easier to do it again; and if
you were to go on long enough, in time you would get to where it
would be impossible to stop yourself, and you would do something
that might be a sorrow to you, through all your life. It is just
so with every habit; the more you give way to it, the more it
becomes a part of your nature. That is the reason I am trying to
help you form the habit of a quiet, even temper. And now," added
Mrs. Adams, changing the subject, "what else was there that we
wanted to talk over?"

"'Twas Jean," said Polly, as she slipped down on the floor at her
mother's feet. "Miss Bean was twitting her to-day because she
wasn't rich." And Polly repeated the little conversation which had
taken place under the trees.

Mrs. Adams listened thoughtfully. When Polly had finished, she
said decidedly,--

"That was rather uncalled for, I think, Polly. Whatever Jean's
parents may be, they are really refined people, and Jean is at
heart a lady."

"What difference does it make, anyway?" asked Polly impatiently.

"Not so much as most people think," said Mrs. Adams. "If your
parents are cultivated people, it helps you to make something of
yourself; and whatever teaching you get from them is so much stock
in trade, just as money would be, if you were starting in
business. If, when you have this start, you don't make the most of
it, it shows that you are unworthy of it; and if you become a
grand woman without it, then you deserve ever so much more credit
than the people who have had everything in their favor. Do you
understand me, Polly?"

"Yes, I think I do," said Polly. "And it doesn't make any
difference whether we are rich or poor, does it?"

Her mother paused for a moment, as if the question were a hard one
to answer. Polly had a way of asking deeper questions than she
realized. Mrs. Adams rocked back and forth in silence two or three
times; then she said,--

"Yes and no, Polly. Money in itself doesn't make the least bit of
difference; but people that have it can make more of themselves,--
I don't say that they do, remember. If Jean didn't have to wash so
many dishes nor mend so many stockings, she could give more time
to study and reading every year. But, after all, I don't believe
she would be half so fine, unselfish a girl as she is now, when
she has to give up doing what she likes, to help her mother. It is
just the same whether it is money, or family, or a fine mind, or
beauty; the more that is given you, the more you are expected to
make of it, and the more the shame to you if you neglect it. But
we're getting into very deep subjects for so near bed-time. What
did Alan come for?"

"Just to tell me about the girls," said Polly. "He says they're
going to have a pony, and everything."

"How well Alan has been, all summer," remarked her mother.

There was a sudden click of the gate-latch, and a tall figure came
up the walk.

"Sitting here in the damp, Isabel, and catching your death of
cold! I can't afford time to sit around in the dark doing nothing,
when I think of all the good that can be done around us." And Aunt
Jane stalked past them into the house, and sat down to cut the
leaves of the last scientific magazine.

However, though Mrs. Adams did not reply, she had made up her mind
that her usual goodnight talk with Polly was far more important
than all the clubs in the world, and no words from Aunt Jane could
induce her to give up her nightly habit.




CHAPTER V.

TWO MORE GIRLS.


"It does seem as if to-morrow afternoon never would come," Molly
was saying, as she and Polly stood leaning on the fence in the
early twilight.

"What time will they get here?" Polly asked her.

"Three o'clock, and I just feel as if I couldn't wait, when I
think how every minute is bringing them along. It's going to be
splendid to have them here. You must come over to see them the
very first thing, Polly, for I want them to know my best friend
right away."

"I do hope they'll be nice," said Polly thoughtfully.

"Nice!" echoed Molly. "Of course they are. I'll tell you what,
Polly, Alan has been running them down to you. He is so queer
about it; I should think he'd like to have them come. They're just
as pretty as they can be, and boys always like pretty girls."

"Oh, dear," sighed Polly; "how nice it would be to be pretty!"

"Why, you aren't so bad, Polly." And Molly surveyed her with frank
criticism. "If only your nose wasn't quite so puggy, and you
didn't have quite so many freckles, you'd be real good-looking.
Besides, Alan says he likes your looks better than he does
Florence's."

"Does he?" And Polly flushed with pleasure.

"Yes, he told mamma so the other day; you know boys have queer
tastes," answered Molly flatteringly.

"But I wish I did know of something to take off freckles and tan,"
said Polly, rubbing her cheeks with a vicious force. "Aunt Jane
wants me to wear a veil and keep white; but I'd rather be black
and speckled all over, than make a mummy of myself. I think fresh
air and sunshine were made to be enjoyed, and not to be peeked out
at through a rag."

"It must be horrid to freckle," said Molly sympathetically. "Did
you ever try anything for it, Poll?"

"No, only lemon juice once, and it all ran into my eyes and made
them smart; but it didn't touch the freckles any."

"They say buttermilk is good," suggested Molly. "Why not try
that?"

"That's a good idea," said Polly. "We have some, and I don't
believe it would hurt. How do you use it, Molly? I'll do it to-
night, and then I could start white with your cousins, anyway; and
so much depends on first impressions, you know."

"I'm not just sure about it," answered Molly; "but I think they
put it on over night, and rub it in well. You'd better not do it,
if you are afraid it can do any harm."

"Oh, it can't," said Polly, with assurance; "and even if it does,
anything is better than looking like a fright."

"But you aren't a fright," said Molly loyally; then added, "What
does keep Alan so? His errand wasn't going to take two minutes,
and your mother will be tired of him."

"No, she won't," said Polly; "she likes Alan. Don't be in a hurry,
Molly; this is the last chance we shall have to talk for a year."

In spite of herself, Polly's voice failed a little on the last
words. She loved her friend dearly, and the coming of the cousins,
with the probability of its causing a separation between them, had
been her first real sorrow. For Molly's sake she tried to be eager
and interested about them, but when she was alone with Jean or
Alan, she was disconsolate enough over the prospect. The three or
four weeks had flown past, every day bringing the change nearer,
and the last evening had come. Arm in arm, the two girls had been
pacing up and down the walk, while they waited for Alan, and that
half-hour had made Polly realize more than ever how fond she was
of this companion with whom she had spent so many contented hours.
The memory of their frequent quarrels seemed to sink away into the
past, and only the thought of their good times was before them
then. But Alan's whistle was heard, as he came out of the house;
and he and Molly went away down the street, leaving Polly standing
alone at the gate. She looked after them until they disappeared in
the gathering darkness; then her curly head dropped on her folded
arms, and she began to sob with all the fervor of her impetuous,
affectionate nature. It was over in a minute or two, and no one
was the wiser for it but the birds in the tall elm trees above her
head. Then she turned forlornly, and started to walk to the house;
but, with Polly, the reaction always came quickly, and by the time
she reached the steps, she was humming the air which Alan had just
whistled, as she planned about the gown she would wear when she
went to see the cousins, and pictured to herself the details of
their first meeting. It was all so like Polly, to be in the depths
of grief at one moment, and to be singing the next. Her sorrows
were just as sincere as Molly's, while they lasted, but the very
intensity of them made it impossible for them to continue long at
a time. Polly's life was one of superlatives: when she was happy,
she was radiant; when she was unhappy, she was miserable. There
was no middle ground for her.

But to-night Polly was bent on beautifying herself. For Molly's
sake, as well as for her own, she was anxious to make a good
appearance in the eyes of the two girls whom she was to meet on
the morrow. The last thing before she went to her room, she
secretly visited the kitchen and helped herself to a generous bowl
of buttermilk, which she carried up stairs. She set it down on the
table and, lamp in hand, went to the mirror. In the main, Polly
was not a conceited girl, nor a vain one. On the contrary, she
thought little about her personal appearance, except to give an
occasional sigh over her hair and freckles. But, just now, it
seemed to her that beauty was the one thing to be desired, and
holding up the lamp, she gazed at herself steadily, unconscious of
the picture she made, with the light falling full upon her bright
hair and eager young face. Then she set down the lamp with a
suddenness which threatened to shatter it.

"Oh, you fright!" she said to herself, in a tone of disgusted
sincerity.

She turned away and took up the bowl from the table, sniffed at it
daintily, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The strong, sour odor
of the buttermilk was not pleasant, certainly, but what mattered
that, if it removed the obnoxious freckles? She shut her teeth,
held her breath, and resolutely applied it to her face, putting it
on freely, and rubbing it in until her arms ached and her cheeks
burned under their unwonted treatment. The next morning she
repeated the operation with even greater zeal, and ended by a
vigorous application of soap and water, and a rough towel. Then
she drew near the glass once more, to see and admire her soft,
white skin, where no freckle would be found. As she gazed, her
eyes grew round with wonder, and she stood as if transfixed at the
sight before her. To say the least, it was striking. The freckles
had not disappeared, but still the buttermilk had done its work,
and Polly's face presented every appearance of having been
varnished, for, thanks to the polishing which it had undergone, it
shone like a new copper tea-kettle. For an instant, tears of
mortification stood in the gray eyes; then Polly's sense of the
ridiculous had its way, and, dropping into a chair, she laughed
till her cheeks were crimson under their metallic surface, and her
lashes were damp with hysterical tears.

"What in the world are you laughing at, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's
voice at her door. "The breakfast bell has rung, and it's time you
were down-stairs."

"Yes'm," replied Polly, suddenly becoming sober again, as she
remembered that she must present herself to the family in this
plight, and would probably be well laughed at for her pains.

She delayed in her room as long as she dared, but her mother had
always insisted on perfect regularity at meal times, and Polly
knew that she must appear. With one last, despairing glance at the
mirror, a glance which was by no means reassuring, she turned away
and silently went down the stairs and into the dining-room, hoping
to take her place at the table so quietly that she could escape
notice. It was not her mother whom she dreaded, but she shrank
from her father's teasing and Aunt Jane's merciless comments. As
she drew her chair up to the table, Aunt Jane glanced up from her
oatmeal.

"Late again, Polly! Why, what have you been putting on your face,
child?"

Polly's cheeks grew scarlet, but she answered, with an attempt at
carelessness,--

"Oh, nothing but a little buttermilk. Why?"

"Why?" responded Aunt Jane, with needless emphasis, "I should
think you'd better ask why! Have you looked in the glass this
morning?"

"Yes," answered Polly faintly, for they were all staring at her,
and she saw a mischievous twinkle come into her father's blue
eyes.

"Well, I'd like to know what fresh piece of nonsense this is,"
Aunt Jane was beginning severely, when the doctor interposed,--

"Wait a minute, Jane; don't be in such a hurry to scold. Come,
Polly, tell us what you have been doing to make yourself look like
a South Sea Islander or a Pawnee?"

Polly dropped her eyes and played with her fork for a minute; but
sulkiness was not in her nature, and after a pause, she confessed.

"Molly said buttermilk was good for freckles, so I put some on
mine, but they didn't come off. You see," she added, turning to
her mother with the certainty that she would find sympathy in that
quarter, if in no other, "the Shepard girls are coming to-day, and
Molly wanted me to go over to see them right away, and I wanted to
look as well as I can."

Polly was interrupted by a hearty laugh from the doctor, who laid
down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, to enjoy his
merriment to the utmost.

"I think there's no doubt of their being struck by your looks,
Polly," he said at length. Then, as he saw her bite her lips to
steady them, he added kindly, "Shall I tell my little girl what I
really think about it? I don't consider the freckles themselves
beautiful; but I would rather see her with enough of them to prove
that she lives out of doors in the sunshine, as every healthy
child should, than be one of the little, pale-faced beauties
brought up in the house, or under veils and broad hats. If I can't
have but one, I want my Polly to have health rather than beauty,
for health is beauty, especially in children."

"Better have a freckled face than a freckled soul," added Aunt
Jane, feeling that here was the opportunity to make a fine moral
point.

"There's more connection there than you think, Jane," responded
Dr. Adams quickly. "A child is much more likely to have an
unfreckled, unspotted soul, when her body has the health which
comes with plenty of exposure to the air and sun. Show me a
healthy child, and a small amount of care will make her a good
one; I'm not so sure of the sickly ones. It's my opinion that more
can be made of a healthy sinner than a feeble saint. Isn't it so,
Poll?" And he leaned over to pass his broad hand caressingly down
the shining face, as he added gaily, "There's one good thing about
it, my dear; we shan't have to waste any gas to-night. The light
of your countenance will be quite enough."

They were still sitting lingering over their meal, when Alan came
in to bring a note from Molly. At sight of Polly, he started back
in mock dismay, exclaiming,--

"Great Scott, Polly! What's the matter?"

"Don't tell Molly, Alan," she begged; "but I tried to get rid of
my freckles, that's all."

Alan gave a low, expressive whistle.

"I'm glad it's nothing worse. We had a girl once, that told Molly
if she let the moon shine on her while she was asleep, she'd all
swell up and turn black, and I didn't know but you were beginning
to do that."

"I thought you had given up slang, Alan," remarked Mrs. Adams, as
she motioned him to a chair beside her.

"So I have, mostly. Mother didn't want me to use much, and I
couldn't get along without any; so we split the difference and
agreed that I could have one. I chose 'great Scott,' but it
doesn't always fit the case. I say, Polly, you'll be over to-
night, won't you?"

Polly looked doubtfully at her mother.

"Isn't it rather soon, Alan?" Mrs. Adams asked.

"Not a bit of it," answered the boy. "Mother will be busy with
Uncle Henry, because he'll only be here one night, and we'll have
to see to the girls. Molly can't manage them both, and I'm no use
at all, so we need Polly to help us out. Mother said you'd better
come over about five, Poll, and stay to supper."

"I don't know whether I can get bleached in time," answered Polly,
laughing, as she followed him to the door; "but I'll come if I
can. And don't you dare tell Molly."

"Catch me telling tales!" returned Alan, with some dignity.
"That's not in my line, Poll; and not on you, anyway."

With an appearance of great carelessness, Polly strolled out to
the hammock soon after two o'clock that afternoon, and settled
herself, book in hand. But for the next hour, there was little
reading done, for Polly's gray eyes often wandered from the pages
before her, and fixed themselves on the distant corner around
which the Shepard family must come. It was a long hour of waiting,
and Polly had begun to think that the train must have been wrecked
by the way, when the distant, shrill whistle was heard. At the
sound, she drew herself into a more dignified position, settled
her skirts about her and fell to reading with a will. But though
her eyes went down the left-hand page and up again to the top of
the right-hand one, she could not have told so much as the title
of the book, so absorbed was she in listening for the wheels that
would pass the house. She heard them drawing near, but continued
to be lost in her reading until just as the carriage was in front
of her. Then she glanced up, as if by accident, and was filled
with confusion to see Alan leaning down from his seat on the box
and pointing at her, while two broad hats and two girl faces were
bent forward to survey her curiously. Alan waved his cap; she
answered his salute, and the carriage went swiftly on, leaving
Polly to stare at the pile of trunks strapped on behind it, with a
vague feeling that her intended effect had been a little marred by
Alan's demonstration.

"Served me right, though!" she remarked philosophically to
herself, as she curled herself up to read in earnest, now that her
excitement was over. "I needn't have tried to pose for them; that
sort of thing doesn't suit me; I'd better leave it to Florence."

It was with some misgiving, that Polly, two hours later, started
to take the familiar walk to the Hapgood house. Every riotous curl
was brushed until it lay close to her small head, but already the
golden ends were doing their best to break loose once more; thanks
to her mother's efforts, her burnished skin had lost a little of
its coppery lustre; and her fresh blue and white gingham gown was
as dainty and trim as loving hands could make it. But Polly, as
she looked in the glass before starting, only saw that her hair
was red, and that her freckles would insist on showing. However,
Alan's compliment came to her relief, and she dismissed the
question of her looks with a smile, as something not worth a
thought, and ran off down-stairs to say good by to her mother.

Alan saw her coming, and started to meet her.

"What's the matter, Alan?" she said, noticing his frown, as she
joined him.

"Nothing but a crick in my knee," he explained cheerfully; "I
think I took cold last night, perhaps. They're up-stairs with
Molly," he added vaguely. "I'll call them down, or will you go
up?"

"I'll wait here," said Polly, seating herself on the broad stone
step. "What are they like, Alan?"

"Stunning beauties, both of them," responded Alan, with some
enthusiasm. "Katharine knows it, that's the worst of it. I do hate
a girl that thinks she's pretty. I'd rather they'd be homely as
Miss Bean, and not think about themselves, all the time. But I'll
go call them." And he departed, leaving Polly to meditate on his
words.

The girls soon came down the old stairway behind her, and as Polly
shyly rose to meet them, she felt at once the truth of Alan's
description of Katharine. There was a strong family resemblance
between the sisters, both were dark, and they had the same bright,
brown eyes and smooth, dark brown hair; but Katharine was by far
the more beautiful, with her pink cheeks, small regular teeth,
full lips, and long straight nose with just a suggestion of
sauciness in the slant of its tip. It was this nose that
captivated Polly, and, indeed, Katharine was like a beautiful
picture, in figure and feature, while her rapidly changing
expressions and her brilliant health added a charm which no
picture could ever have. She seemed years older than the other
girls, and this effect was increased by the elegance of her dress
and by her quiet, settled manners, which made Polly feel very
young and shabby in her spotless gingham. Katharine shook hands
with a dignity that quite overawed Polly, who turned to look at
Jessie with a conscious feeling of relief. Jessie was a plump,
lively young woman of twelve, with less, perhaps, of her sister's
delicate beauty; but the lack was more than made good by her
perfect unconsciousness of self, and her frank, winning manner,
which led Polly to forget her formal greeting, and seize her hand,
saying impulsively,--

"I'm so glad you've come to live here!"

Jessie laughed, showing a pair of deep dimples in her dark skin,
as she answered, with a cordiality equal to Polly's own,--

"And I'm so glad Molly has such nice friends,"

That settled the matter between them, and, arm in arm, they
strolled out to the tennis court, chatting like old friends, while
Molly and Alan followed with Katharine, who looked about her
indifferently, nodding slightly, from time to time, in answer to
some question.

"I do think these old houses are splendid," Jessie was saying
eagerly. "I never saw one before. Out in Omaha we call a house old
that has been built twenty years."

"Haven't you ever been East before?" asked Polly, with a feeling
of pity for any girl who had never known the delights of life in
an old New England town.

"Never since I was a year old, so I don't remember much about it,"
answered Jessie. "I think I am going to like it, though, for the
place is lovely, and Aunt Ruth is so sweet."

"I hope you won't be homesick, I'm sure," said Polly
encouragingly.

Jessie laughed outright at the idea.

"Why should I be homesick?" she inquired, rather to Polly's
surprise.

"Why, I don't know exactly, only I should think you'd be lonely
without your father and mother," she began.

"That's what Aunt Ruth seemed to think," interrupted Jessie; "but
I shan't be, a bit. You see, mamma is off travelling with papa
ever so much of the time, and when she's at home, even, we don't
see much of her, for we are in school days, and she goes out, or
else has company 'most every evening."

"Is that the way people do out there?" inquired Polly, with
perfect innocence.

The others were standing near and, at the question, Alan shot a
sly glance at Molly, as Katharine answered, with an air of
patronage,--

"Not all people, you know; but mamma is in society, and is very
gay, so of course she can't be expected to have much time for us."

"Oh!" said Polly, as if a new light had dawned on her. The simple
life of the old town and her own mother's devotion to her had not
taught her to know that, when the question arises between them,
home life must give place to social.

But Molly saw they were treading on dangerous ground, so, to ward
off a possible skirmish, she suggested,--

"Let's have a game of tennis. You girls play, don't you?"

It proved that they did, and Alan was sent off to get the net and
rackets, followed by Polly, who went racing after him, to help him
bring out his load.

"Why, do girls run here?" asked Katharine, with an air of
surprise.

"Yes, of course we do; run and play tag, and do all sorts of
dreadful things," answered Molly, with some spirit. "What do you
do, I'd like to know?"

"Of course it's different in a city," replied her cousin sedately.
"We play tennis and skate; but we never run, all for nothing. Only
little girls do that."

"What nonsense!" was Molly's comment. "I'd call myself a little
girl, then, if I couldn't have any fun without. I hope you don't
consider yourself a young lady--Excuse me, Katharine," she added
hastily. "I didn't mean to be rude; but you'll have to take us as
you find us, I'm afraid."

But Alan and Polly had reappeared, and the game began, watched by
Alan, who refused all the girls' entreaties to play.

"I can't to-night, Poll," he answered to her glance; "I'm too
stiff in the joints, but I'll act as umpire."

By the time the game was over, they were excellent friends, even
Katharine's reserve having yielded to admiration for the playing
of these two girls, who returned her swiftest balls with the
precision born of long practice. As the bell rang for dinner, she
dropped her racket and held out a hand to each, saying, with the
winning grace she knew how to assume at her pleasure,--

"I never saw better players in my life. We shall have to try a
series of match games this fall, West against the East."

"They do play pretty well, don't they?" inquired Alan from the
rear, with a tone of conscious pride. "I've coached them both, and
they can play every bit as well as I can."

"That's modesty," said Polly, laughing. "Alan wouldn't play, just
because he was afraid you'd beat him. We play five here, quite
often."

"How do you arrange it?" asked Katharine.

"Put in an extra one on the weak side," answered Polly, stooping
to pick up a ball she had dropped. "It isn't quite as much fun,
but there are just five of us, and it gives us all a chance," she
added, as they entered the dining-room and she took her place
between Alan and Jessie.

"How do you like it, Kit?" asked Jessie, when they were in their
room that night.

"Like what?" inquired Katharine, with a sleepy yawn.

"Oh, auntie and Molly and all?"

"Auntie is rather nice, only she is a little bit countrified,"
returned Katharine critically; "and Molly is well enough; but what
a funny little thing that Polly Adams is! She acts more like a
boy, the way she goes rushing around with Alan."

"I like her, though," said Jessie.

"She isn't so bad," answered Katharine thoughtfully; "she's a
good-hearted little thing, even if she isn't like the Omaha girls.
I do like Alan, though, Jessie; don't you? He is a splendid-
looking fellow, and has ever so much fun in him. He seems ever so
much older than he really is."

"Perhaps it's because he has been sick a good deal," suggested
Jessie.

"It may be that is it," assented Katharine, pulling off the silver
bangles that clanked like a criminal's fetters at every motion of
her hand; "but he doesn't look as if he'd been ill a day in his
life. I'm so glad there's a boy in the family; for they always
keep things going. I wonder what our school will be like."

The two girls speculated on the future until they heard Alan, in
the next room, kick off his shoes and let them drop, with a thud,
on the floor. Then, tired with their journey, they fell asleep.




CHAPTER VI.

POLLY ENCOUNTERS THE SERVANT QUESTION.


As time went on, Polly's first impression of the sisters was
unchanged. In fact, the girls all agreed in pronouncing Jessie "a
dear," and she was at once made to feel at home with the V, which
hospitably extended its arms to take her in. But with Katharine it
was a different matter. Critical of others, and constantly
studying the effect of all that she herself said or did, she was
rather a damper on the good times of the girls. Fortunately, she
usually scorned them as children, and spent much of her time with
her mates in the fashionable boarding-school at which she and her
sister were day pupils. And yet, she was not to blame for this
artificial side of her nature. At heart she was as true and sweet
a girl as Molly herself; but, bred up in the atmosphere of her
western city home where there was but one end in view, to struggle
up to the top of the social scale, if need be, over the bodies of
one's dearest friends, what wonder was it that her growth towards
womanhood was cramped by being forced out of its natural beauty
into the artificial lines of fashionable society. But it was not
yet too late to undo the harm, for a generous, warm heart lay
under her affected indifference and ambition; and her parents had
been wiser than they realized, when they sent their daughters East
to be educated, and left them in the care of the motherly woman
whose social position was too assured to have her feel the need
for striving, and who, like Mrs. Adams, believed that a woman's
highest life lay in her home and children, and that society was
incidental, rather than the main end in view.

There were times, and they were by no means rare, when Katharine's
native sweetness showed itself, and then the girls welcomed her to
their circle. Florence was her favorite among them, while she
openly courted Alan's favor, to the amusement of the boy's mother,
who smiled quietly to herself over his unconsciousness of her
attempts and his continued, unswerving devotion to Polly.

"But what I don't understand," she said to Florence, one day, when
they were out for a walk together, "is how you girls ever happened
to pick up Jean Dwight."

"Pick her up? What do you mean?" asked Florence, meeting her
friend's look with a glance which was almost defiant, for she was
too loyal to Jean to fail to notice the scorn in Katharine's tone
and manner.

"You know what I mean, Florence, so don't pretend to be as absurd
as Polly Adams and Molly are. Of course you and I both know that
you three girls could have the pick of the town, if you chose; and
I don't see why you take up with the daughter of a carpenter."

Polly had called Florence "a flat," but there was no suggestion of
weakness in her reply now. On the contrary, she drew up her small
figure to its full height, and spoke with a simple, childish
dignity which might have put to shame her companion.

"You needn't say any more about it, Katharine. It is just because
we do have the pick of the town that we have taken up with Jean
Dwight. At least, she is too much of a lady to slander her friends
behind their backs, even if she is only a carpenter's daughter."

"Don't be so crushing, Florence. I only wanted to know what was
the reason you were with her so much," answered Katharine, trying
to pass off the matter lightly, although she was privately
resolving to cultivate the acquaintance of this girl, of whom her
friends were so fond.

One bright day in early October, the V had walked up from school
together as far as Molly's, where they settled themselves on the
piazza to talk over the doings of the day. Katharine and Jessie
had joined them, and they sat there chatting till the clock struck
five. At the sound, Polly sprang up.

"Oh, dear! I ought to have gone home long ago," she said
regretfully. "Is anybody else coming?"

"I'm going to stay a little longer," answered Jean. "Wait just a
few minutes, Poll."

"I can't, Jean; mamma will be expecting me." And Polly picked up
her hat and started for home, followed by Alan who escorted her to
the gate.

She was surprised, when she entered the house, to find the lower
rooms deserted and in some confusion. Her astonishment was
increased when, on going up-stairs, she saw her mother with her
bonnet on, busy in packing her small satchel. Mrs. Adams's red
eyes and white face told her daughter that something was amiss.

"So you have come, at last!" she exclaimed, with an air of relief,
as she caught sight of Polly in the door; "I was just thinking
that I should have to send Mary after you."

"What's the matter, mamma; are you going away?" Polly asked
anxiously.

"For a little while, dear. We have had a telegram that Uncle
Charlie is very, very ill. And Aunt Jane and I are going to New
York to-night."

So Aunt Jane was going too! Polly was relieved at that. Uncle
Charlie she scarcely knew, so her main anxiety was for her mother,
of whose devotion to this only brother she was well aware. "Is he
going to die, mamma?" she asked slowly.

The tears were falling on the toilet-case in Mrs. Adams's hand,
but she answered steadily,--

"I hope not, dear; but they are very anxious about him. I am sorry
to leave you all alone here with papa, and he is away so much of
the time, too."

"Don't you worry about me, Jerusalem," answered Polly
courageously, though her heart sank, a little, as she thought of
the lonely evenings.

"I presume I shan't be gone long," said Mrs. Adams thoughtfully;
"but it is so uncertain. If only Aunt Jane could be here, it would
be a comfort to you."

But Polly shook her head violently.

"I'd rather be alone, mamma. I shall get along beautifully, and
you've no idea what good care I'll take of papa."

Mrs. Adams was crossing the room to get her slippers. As she
passed Polly, she stooped to kiss her.

"And you have no idea," she said, "what a comfort it is to me that
you take it so bravely. I know it will be forlorn for you, but
there isn't any help for it. Papa is getting ready, now, to drive
us to the station, for it is almost time for the train."

As she spoke, the doctor's voice was heard from below, calling to
them to hurry; Aunt Jane swept out from her room; Mrs. Adams
snapped the fastener of her bag and turned to say good by to her
daughter. Polly went down-stairs behind her and stood in the door,
looking after them with rather a long face, though she waved her
hand bravely until they were around the corner.

Then she went back up-stairs, feeling as if, all at once, an
earthquake had struck their quiet home. She and her mother had
rarely been separated, and the suddenness and sadness of the
present summons only added to the loneliness. The house was in
that state of disorder which always follows a hurried packing, and
Polly went mechanically up and down, putting the rooms in order
while, in imagination, she followed the travellers to the train.
Then, when, all was done, she went into her own room and sat down
to consider the situation. Taken all in all, it was not an
encouraging picture that the next few days presented. Her father
was liable to be called away at any hour of the night, leaving her
alone with Mary who slept at the far end of the house; there would
be the lonely hours when she was out of school; the next day was
Saturday--what should she do with herself? The prospect was too
much for poor Polly and, throwing herself down on her bed, she
gave herself up to the luxury of a hearty cry.

    "I wish I were dead now,
     Or else in my bed now,
     I'd cover my head now,
     And have a good cry."

"Is this what you call a hospitable welcome?" asked a sudden voice.

Polly raised her head in surprise, and saw Molly standing in the
doorway, with a smile on her face and a great bundle in her hand.
Polly sprang up and threw her arms around her friend excitedly.

"Oh, Molly Hapgood! where did you come from? I never, never was so
glad to see anybody in all my life."

"If that's a fact," said Molly coolly, "why didn't you come down-
stairs to meet me, and not make me hunt for you, all over the
house?"

"How could I meet you, when I didn't know you were coming?"
demanded Polly.

"Didn't you?" asked Molly, surprised in her turn. "Why, your
mother just stopped at our house and told me that she had to go
away for a few days, and you wanted me to come and stay with you
till she came back. She said you'd tell me all about it."

"Isn't that just like her!" exclaimed Polly rapturously. "And
you're going to stay here all the time? How perfectly splendid!"

"Where's she gone?" asked Molly, as she unpacked her brown paper
Saratoga.

"Uncle Charlie, in New York, is so ill they've sent for mamma and
Aunt Jane," answered Polly, with sudden seriousness, "and they
don't know anything more than that. It said--the telegram, I mean--
'Charles very ill, come at once,' and mamma is dreadfully
worried. Of course she doesn't know how long she'll be gone. Oh, I
am so glad you've come!" And Polly, with the tears still damp upon
her cheeks, pranced excitedly up and down the room.

"You don't know how lonesome it was going to be," she went on,
when she had quieted down a little. "Now, if only Uncle Charlie
will get well, I don't care much how long they're gone. We'll just
have an elegant time."

"I don't think Katharine liked my coming very well," remarked
Molly, with a giggle, as she pulled out an extra gown and hung it
over the foot of Polly's dainty white and gold bed. "She seems to
think I can't stir, now they are at the house; but I'm not going
to give up all my fun for them. They're nothing but boarders;
'tisn't as if they were on a visit; and Alan can see to them once
in a while. He can't bear Katharine," she continued, after a
pause; "he heard her say to Florence, once, that he was distangy
looking, and he never has forgiven her since. We don't either of
us know just what it means, but he thinks it has something to do
with his nose."

Polly threw herself into a chair and burst out laughing.

"Oh, Molly, Molly! What will you say next? That means
distinguished; it's French, you know." "I don't know anything
about French, Poll; and you needn't laugh at me, for you don't
know much yourself," returned Molly, with some dignity.

"I don't believe Katharine does, either," answered Polly. "The way
I happened to know about that was because she said so to me once,
and I asked mamma what it meant. She says she doesn't think it's
nice for girls to keep putting French and German words into what
they say, for it looks as if they did it to show off. Come on,
let's go down and see what we're going to have for dinner."

Soon after dinner, the doctor went away to his office, and the
girls decided to settle themselves for a quiet visit in front of
the open fire in the parlor. This was their first evening alone
together since Jessie and Katharine had come, and there was much
to be talked over.

"Don't let's have any light but just the fire," Molly suggested.
"Then we'll sit on the rug and have it all to ourselves."

"I can't help feeling as if Aunt Jane were likely to drop in at
any minute, though," Polly remarked. "She doesn't approve of
people's sitting in the dark; she thinks it is lazy."

"She's half way to New York by this time," said Molly; "but I do
wish your mother was here."

"So do I," groaned Polly fervently, as she caught sight of the
empty fire-place, for there was not one single stick on the
andirons.

Now, to lay an open fire ready for the lighting is at once a
science and a fine art, and Polly was by no means versed in the
operation. Why, of all days in the year, this happened to be the
one on which Mrs. Adams had neglected to arrange her usual pile of
round sticks and kindlings and shavings, it would be hard to say.
Some little unexpected call on her time had made her forget this
regular duty, and had left her daughter as hostess to preside over
a cheerless hearthstone.

"What's the trouble?" asked Molly, as she detected the discouraged
ring to her friend's tone. "Don't you know how to lay a fire?"

"I never have laid one, all alone," admitted Polly, whose share in
the matter, it must be confessed, had been to tuck a handful of
soft, light shavings under the andirons and apply the match.
"But," she added valiantly; "I've watched mamma often enough, and
I know I can do it. We must have a fire; the furnace one is 'most
out, for Mary forgot to put in any coal, and it's just freezing
here. You sit down, and I'll go get some wood."

She came back in a few moments, tugging a great basket of wood,
which she arranged in an orderly, solid pile across the andirons,
much as she might have placed it, had she been packing it in a
woodshed. Then she added a generous handful of shavings, and
touched it off with a match.

"There!" said she, with a prolonged accent of contentment; "you
see it's easy enough. It will all be going, in a minute."

"Don't you be too sure," returned Molly, doubtfully eyeing the
shavings which flashed into flame and quickly died away, leaving
the wood unscorched.

"What do you suppose is the matter?" said Polly, rather annoyed at
her lack of success.

"Seems to me you've put the wood in too tight," said Molly, arming
herself with the shovel, and trying to pry the sticks apart.

"Perhaps I have," said Polly meekly.

Regardless of soot and ashes, she pulled the wood out on the rug,
and began again. This time she arranged it cris-crossing as
regularly as the walls of a log-house, and, having exhausted her
supply of shavings, she lighted a newspaper and thrust it into the
middle opening. The girls watched it with eager eyes. It blazed up
like the shavings and, like them, burned out, leaving only the
blackened cinders, with here and there a line of red, to show
where an edge had been. This was discouraging; the room was
uncomfortably cool, and they were wasting their entire evening in
preparing for their talk.

"The third time conquers," said Molly, laughing, as she saw Polly
tearing down her log cabin. "What are you going to do next, Poll?"

"Lay it yourself, if you want to," retorted Polly, showing more
heat than the fire had done.

"I never did such a thing in my life," Molly assured her. "Can't
Mary do it?"

"I don't know," said Polly, dropping back from her knees until she
sat on her heels; "anyway, she's so cross I don't dare ask her."

"What makes your mother keep her if she's so cross?" inquired
Molly, leaning forward to blow the last spark which still lingered
on the newspaper.

"Because she can't get anything else," answered Polly,
unconsciously touching the key-note of the whole servant question.

"Well," remarked Molly, after a pause, while Polly again wrestled
with the fire, "we shall catch our deaths of cold here, Polly; we
may as well go to bed, for this isn't going to burn to-night."

"I'm sorry, Molly," her hostess said penitently, as they went up-
stairs after leaving a note on the table addressed to the doctor,
and containing the simple but alarming statement: "Good night;
we've gone to bed to keep from freezing."

"I don't care a bit," said Molly. "I like to talk after I'm in
bed, and we shall have ever and ever so long before we get
sleepy."

At breakfast, the next morning, the girls had to bear with much
teasing from the doctor on the subject of their struggles, the
evening before; and, as he rose from the table, he suggested that
they should ask Alan to give them a few lessons in making
bonfires.

"I shan't be back to lunch," he added, as he put his head through
the dining-room door again; "but I'd like dinner on time to-night,
surely, for I must go down to the hospital before my evening
hour."

"I'll tell Mary," said Polly, jumping up to follow him to the
front door, as was her mother's custom.

"Now," she continued, as she went back to the table, "what let's
do all day?"

Their plans were soon formed: a drive with Job in the morning,
for, of late, after many cautions, Polly had been allowed to drive
the old creature; and in the afternoon they would go to see Jean.

"I wonder if Alan wouldn't go with us, this morning," said Polly.

"I think he'd like to," answered Molly. "He caught cold a week
ago, and since then he's been so stiff that he hasn't been
anywhere but just to school and back; and I should think he would
be glad to get away from Katharine. He says he gets so tired of
her."

"We'll ask him, then," said Polly. "I think 'twould be a good idea
to start early, so I'll go out to tell Mary about lunch, and have
John harness right away."

She was gone for some time, and when she came back to Molly in the
sitting-room, her face was flushed and her eyes were shining with
an angry gleam.

"Why, Polly?" said Molly, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

"It's that horrid Mary!" responded Polly, casting herself down on
the sofa with unnecessary vigor. "I don't see what we are going to
do, Molly Hapgood; I've a good mind to send you right straight off
home."

"You've done it before now," Molly began teasingly, but seeing the
real trouble in her friend's face, she relented and asked, "What's
gone wrong, Polly?"

"It hasn't gone, it's only going," answered Polly lugubriously.
"It's Mary. She says mamma has been promising her a vacation for a
long time, and that she's going to take it now, for it's such a
good time when part of the family are away. I told her she
mustn't; but she says she's going to, or else she'll go for good.
I don't dare let her do that, but whatever am I going to do,
Molly? She's going right off now, and you'd better go home to
stay." And Polly rose and stalked tragically up and down the room,
with her fingers buried in her curls.

Molly surveyed her in pity; then she rose to meet the emergency
like a heroine.

"I'm not going to go home one single step, Polly," she declared.
"I'll stay here and help you through with it."

"But you'll starve, Molly," remonstrated her hostess tearfully.

"Nonsense!" responded Molly. "Now you just sit down and don't go
rushing round like this, and we'll talk the matter over, and take
an account of stock."

This was encouraging, and Polly felt her spirits coming up again.

"Well?" she asked, as she seated herself on the sofa once more.

"In the first place," said Molly, with a calmness born of
inexperience, "we'll tell her to go. I have heard mamma say, often
and often, that it's easier to do the work yourself than to have a
girl around that's restless and wanting to be off all the time."

There was something so impressive in Molly's manner, as she
delivered herself of this sentiment, that Polly gazed at her with
a new respect. She had never dreamed that her friend knew so much
about housekeeping.

"And so," Molly went on, "we'll just get rid of her and do the
work ourselves. I've always been dying to try it, and this is a
splendid chance. We won't do much sweeping and dusting, for it
will only be for a day or two--How long was she going to be gone,
Polly?"

"A week," answered Polly briefly.

"A whole week!" Molly's face fell. Then she resumed, "Well, we
shall get on, in some way or other."

"We needn't do much but get the meals and wash the dishes," said
Polly, with renewed courage.

"We shouldn't have time, if we wanted to," returned Molly. "Now,
Polly, the question is: how much do you know about cooking?"

"Not very much," Polly confessed. "I can boil eggs and make toast,
and I have made coffee, once or twice, just for fun."

"That's good," said Molly enthusiastically; "you're a treasure,
Polly. I can do codfish and milk, and make molasses candy, and fry
griddle-cakes. We shan't have such a bad time, after all."

"We have ever so many cook-books," suggested Polly. "Can't we do
something with them?"

"I'm afraid they'd be tough, unless we boiled them a good while,"
giggled Molly. "But really, Poll, we can work out of them; try
lots of new things, you know, to astonish your father. What does
he like?"

"Welsh rarebit," responded Polly promptly; "and baked macaroni,
and lemon pudding, and--"

"Not too much, Polly; we can't do all that at once. We'll try
something new every meal. Oh, say! don't let's tell your father
Mary has gone. We'll have dinner all ready when he comes, and not
let him know that we cooked it ourselves, until he's eaten it.
Then we'll tell him and surprise him."

"Well," assented Polly, with a vague misgiving that her father
might discover the change of cook; "I think it will be fun, Molly;
and then, if we get hard up, there are plenty of crackers and
preserves to fall back on."

"We shan't want them," said Molly scornfully. "I know we shall
have a great deal better things to eat than if Mary stayed.
Servant girls are so unreliable!" she added, with a whimsical
imitation of Aunt Jane's manner.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Polly, with decision, "we must not
tell the girls or Alan, for if they knew about it, they would
invite themselves to meals. If we cook for us three, that is all
we can do."

"What if they come here to see us?" asked Molly.

"We'll lock the door and hide," replied Polly inhospitably. "There
are times when company is a nuisance,--I don't mean you, Molly,
for you are head housekeeper, and I couldn't get along without
you. But come, we'll go up and put our room in order, while we are
waiting for her to get out of the way."

At this very moment Mrs. Adams, one hundred and fifty miles away,
was congratulating herself that she had left her little daughter
with such a competent servant who, though far from amiable, yet
was quite capable of taking the entire charge of the house during
her absence. Perhaps it was just as well that she was not within
hearing of the conversation which the girls had just been holding.




CHAPTER VII.

POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING.


"I'm going now, miss," remarked Mary's voice at the foot of the
front stairs.

"Go on, then," said Polly, with dignity, turning to Molly to add,
"She wouldn't dare do that if mamma were here. Then she never
thinks of calling to us, like this."

Peeping stealthily out at the front window, the girls watched her
as she walked off, dressed in her state and festival suit. Then
they descended to the kitchen to survey their field of operations.

"She's left it in splendid order, and there's a hot fire; that's
one good thing," said Polly, lifting the stove lid to look in.

"With a fire and a cook-book, we can work wonders," said Molly.
"Now, Polly, let's plan."

"All right." And Polly sat down on the wood-box. "What shall we
have for lunch? That comes first."

"I'll tell you," suggested Molly suddenly, as if struck with a
brilliant idea; "let's not have much for lunch. Your father won't
be here, so we can eat up whatever was left over from breakfast,
and have all our time for the dinner."

"But 'tisn't time to get dinner now; it's only eleven o'clock,"
said Polly.

"Yes, it is time," returned Molly. "I want to try a lemon pudding
for dessert, if he likes them, and it takes ever so much time, I
know. We must feed him up well, so he won't look thin to your
mother when, she gets back."

"Let's see how the oven is," said Polly, pulling open the door and
peering in. "It feels nice and warm, so perhaps we'd better go to
work."

"Where are your cook-books?" demanded Molly.

"Here." And Polly brought out a number of books and pamphlets. "We
ought to find a rule in some of these."

Molly possessed herself of the largest.

"'Marion Holland'--no, 'Harland,'" she read. "Oh, I've heard of
her! I'll look in this, and you take another. Let's see, where's
the index? 'Soups--fish--poultry--meats--company.' Oh, where is
it? 'Eggs--cake.' That sounds like it. 'Servants--puddings.' At
last! 'Apple--cottage--cracker--lemon.' Here are two lemon
puddings, Polly." And Molly glanced up to see Polly, with an
anxious frown, reading intently from her own small book. She
looked up, in her turn, to answer,--

"Here's another, so you read yours and then I'll read mine, and
we'll see which we like best."

"'One cup of sugar, four eggs, two tablespoons cornstarch, two
lemons, one pint milk, one tablespoon butter,'" read Molly. "You
get your milk hot and put in the starch and boil five minutes--
Oh, there's a lot more to do! Just see here."

Both heads were bent over the book. Then Polly exclaimed,--

"Mine is easier, I know. Listen: 'A quarter of a pound of suet,
half a pound of bread crumbs, four ounces of sugar, the juice of
two lemons, the grated rind of one, and one egg. Boil it well in
an _Agate_ pot, and serve with sauce.'"

There was an expressive pause.

"Yours is better, after all," said Polly. "I don't know what suet
is, but I don't believe we have any; and besides, it's ever so
much easier to measure cups than pounds."

The girls enveloped themselves in gingham aprons and set to work.
Polly rummaged in store-room and pantry, and brought out the
necessary materials for the pudding, while Molly measured and
mixed.

"Polly," she called suddenly, in a tone of distress. Polly put her
head out from the pantry. Her face was decorated with coal-dust
from the stove and flour from the barrel, but she was too intent
upon her work to care for that.

"Well," she asked, "what's the matter?"

"There isn't enough cornstarch," said Molly, showing the empty
paper.

"How much more do you need?" asked Polly, looking rather blank.

"Another spoonful," replied Molly; "and the milk is all boiling
now, ready for it."

"I wish we had Alan here, to send for some," sighed Polly.

"There isn't time. Don't you suppose your mother has another
package?" asked Molly, stirring the boiling milk in an excited
fashion that sent occasional drops spattering and hissing over the
stove.

"Perhaps she has." And Polly hurried away to the store-room,
jingling her keys with a comical air of consequence.

She came flying back, in a moment, with a small package in her
hand.

"I wonder if this won't do just as well," she said. "It's marked
elastic starch, instead of cornstarch, but it looks ever so much
like the other, and it's all there is, anyway."

Molly eyed it with little favor.

"It isn't just the same," she said thoughtfully; "but if we can't
get anything else, we may as well use it. Here goes, anyway." And
she added a heaping spoonful.

The pudding was mixed, poured into a baking dish and set into the
oven.

"There," said Molly, with an air of relief, "that's done, all but
watching to see that it doesn't burn."

"And clearing up the table," sighed Polly. "It doesn't seem as if
we could have used so many dishes, just for one little pudding;
does it, Molly?"

"Never mind," said Molly consolingly; "when it's done, we shall
feel paid for it all. I don't mind washing dishes. You put the
sugar and stuff away, while I do them. I wish I felt sure about
this other starch," she added, taking up the paper and glancing at
it.

Polly's back was turned, when she heard an exclamation of horror.
Looking around, she saw Molly who, with the package still in
her hand, had dropped into a chair.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously.

"See here!" And Molly pointed solemnly to the label, then burst
into another fit of merriment, as she watched Polly's face grow
blank while she road aloud,--

"'Elastic Starch: Prepared for Laundry Purposes, only.'"

"Whatever do you suppose it will do to us?" asked Molly,
struggling to regain her self-control, and then laughing harder
than ever.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Polly. "It can't kill us, but it
may stiffen us up some. I wonder if we'd better try to eat it,
Molly." "I'm not going to have all my work wasted," said Molly
decidedly, as she opened the oven door and peeped in. "It's
browning just beautifully, and looks all right. We won't say or
think anything about it, and I don't believe it will hurt us any.
Even if it does, we have a doctor right in the house."

"Unless it kills him, first of all," added Polly gloomily. "But
I'm tired now, Molly; we'll have lunch while that is baking, and
then we can rest till time to get dinner. I never supposed it was
so much work to keep house."

"What are you going to have for dinner?" asked Molly, ignoring the
last remark.

"Beefsteak and potatoes and pudding," said Polly. "That's enough.
We don't want to begin better than we can keep up."

Their lunch was over, and the dishes piled up, to be washed later,
when they should feel more like it; the girls had made themselves
presentable again after their labors, and were sunning themselves
like two young turtles, on the front steps, when they saw Alan
coming towards the house.

"Now, Molly," Polly cautioned her; "remember we aren't going to
tell that we are housekeeping."

"What have you been doing with yourselves?" inquired Alan, as he
sat down on the step below them and pulled his soft hat forward,
to keep the dazzling sun out of his eyes. "I came here just before
noon, but I couldn't start up anybody. Where were you?"

"How strange we didn't hear you!" said Molly innocently. "We were
here all the morning. Are you sure the bell rang?"

"I should say it did," said Alan. "I pulled it till I was tired.
You must have been deaf, or asleep."

"We weren't either; we were only just busy," answered Polly, with,
an air of importance which would have roused Alan's suspicions,
had not Molly come to the rescue by asking about her cousins.

"They're off driving, this afternoon," answered Alan. "They tried
to make me go, but I told them flatly I didn't want to, so they
took Florence instead. I had to play casino with Kit all last
evening, and that was all I could stand. I say, I'm going to stay
to dinner over here, if you ask me to." The girls exchanged
glances of consternation which, happily, passed over the top of
Alan's head, and were unseen.

"Well," assented Polly, with some reluctance; "you can stay, I
suppose, but you won't get much to be thankful for, I warn you."

"As long as you tease so hard," responded Alan, disregarding the
coolness of her tone; "I'll stay, then. I told mother I knew you'd
be in a fight, by this time, and need me to make peace, so she'd
better not expect me till I came. Now, honestly, aren't you glad
to see me?" And he beamed up at the girls with such goodwill that
they relaxed their severity, and took the lad into their
confidence.

"Now, Alan," Molly began solemnly; "if you stay here, you mustn't
ever tell the other girls, but Mary has gone, and Polly and I are
doing the cooking ourselves."

Alan whistled; but not even his whistle was as disrespectful as
was his following remark,--

"Anything left over from yesterday that I can have?"

"You must behave, if you stay, Alan," said Polly firmly. "You can
go home, or else you can go to work with us, when it's time. I've
told you before now that we won't have any lazy people around this
house."

"All right; what shall I do first?" And Alan pulled off his cuffs
and folded back the bottoms of his sleeves. "Hullo! who's this
coming?" he exclaimed, as a figure turned in at the gate.

"Why, it's Mr. Solomon Baxter," said Polly, in some surprise. "How
queer! He never comes here." "Perhaps he's after your father,"
suggested Molly, in an undertone.

"He must be," answered Polly, as she rose to meet him; "but I
should think he would know that papa's at his office, not here."
Mr. Baxter was a widower of fifty, whose wife had recently died,
leaving him with six children under ten years old. Whatever may
have been the motives leading to the match, surely Mrs. Baxter
could never have married her husband either for his personal
beauty or for his repose of manner; for Mr. Baxter's bald head was
covered with a smooth yellow wig, and his figure presented every
appearance of having its joints so tightly wired together that
they could not play freely in their places, while it was a matter
of common report that his nervous, excitable manner had worried
his wife until she was glad to be at rest.

"How do you do? Is your aunt at home?" he answered Polly's
greeting.

This was unexpected, but Polly reflected that they might be on
some committee together.

"I am sorry, but she and mamma were sent for to go to New York,"
she explained courteously. "Their brother is ill. Won't you come
in, sir?"

"Just for a little while, perhaps," said Mr. Baxter, following her
into the parlor. "If they're away, who's keeping house?"

"We are, Molly Hapgood and I," answered Polly, a little surprised
at the question.

"A good girl?"

Polly looked up in astonishment, thinking that he had taken that
way of praising her. On the contrary, she discovered that this was
intended as a question.

"What was it you said," she asked.

"Have you a good girl?"

"We haven't any," replied Polly meekly; "ours went away this
morning."

"Just like them! They're the greatest plague in the world!" said
Mr. Baxter explosively, and so rapidly that his words appeared to
be tumbling over each other, in their haste to escape from his
lips. "They haven't any honor; mine went off yesterday, and I
haven't any to-day. She was a splendid girl with a great trunk
full of real nice clothes, and such refined tastes, she always
drank English breakfast tea. But she wouldn't stay, because I
would not let her have all the soap she wanted. Extravagant
things!" Mr. Baxter suddenly reined in his tongue; then added
abruptly, "Who's housekeeper generally, your mother or your aunt?"

"Mamma is," replied Polly.

"Oh!" Mr. Baxter's tone was rather annoyed. There was a prolonged
pause, while Polly watched the clock and reflected that it was
time to put on the potatoes.

"Are your children well?" inquired Molly politely, feeling that it
was her duty to say something.

"Quite well, only the baby has the croup almost every night. They
have a great many colds, but I tell them that it's good enough for
them, and perhaps it may teach them to be a little more careful,"
answered their fond parent sympathetically.

"I had a cold last winter," remarked Alan, launching himself into
the conversation with this bit of personal reminiscence.

"Oh," said Mr. Baxter again.

There was another pause, a long one this time. Polly broke it, for
she saw that both Molly and Alan were on the point of laughing.

"It is a beautiful day," she began. "We were going to ride this
morning with Job, but--" She paused abruptly. Job had done
conspicuous duty in Mrs. Baxter's funeral procession, in fact, he
had helped to bear the disconsolate widower and his children to
her grave. Polly felt that further mention of him would be ill-
timed. Mr. Baxter appeared to be pursuing his own train of
thought. "Is Miss Roberts well?" he asked, after another interval.

"Very," answered Polly.

"Not given to being sick much?"

"No, she is very strong."

"Well," said Mr. Baxter, rising with an air of relief, "I must be
going. Just tell your aunt, sissy, that I called on her. Where's
my hat?"

He had mislaid it somewhere, and while he charged up and down the
parlor looking for it, Alan and Molly prudently withdrew, to laugh
unseen. At length he discovered it in the hall, and went away,
leaving the children to speculate vainly on the cause of his
visit.

"Sissy!" exclaimed Polly violently. "Sissy! I wonder how he'd like
me to call him bubby! I'll try it, the next time he comes. But he
stayed so forever that we shan't have time to cook any potatoes
for dinner."

They surely would not, for the fire was out and the stove was
cold.

"Your poor father!" groaned Molly. "And we weren't going to let
him know that anything was wrong."

"Never mind," said Polly; "we'll give him just meat and pudding.
That's enough for any man."

They cheered up at that, and, with Alan's help, they went to work
to build a fire, making many discoveries during the operation
about dampers and grates and their uses. But time, always
unaccommodating, refused to wait for them, and six o'clock came
far too soon, and brought the doctor in its train.

Dr. Adams was rather perplexed when he went into the house and was
met by no one at the door. Polly and her mother usually greeted
him, but to-night the front of the house was deserted.

"The girls must be off somewhere," he said to himself. "Well, I'll
go out and tell Mary to give me my dinner now, without waiting for
them."

He made his way to the kitchen, noting to his surprise, as he
passed through the dining-room, that the table was only half set
for the meal, and that the few articles on it had a little the
appearance of having been thrown at it from a distance. Dr. Adams
was an orderly, methodical man, and his wife's careful
housekeeping was quite to his liking. However, he reflected that,
during her absence, there must and would be irregularities, and
passed on to the kitchen. As he opened the door, he was met by a
cloud of dense, bluish white smoke which brought the quick tears
to his eyes. Through the thick air he could see, not the ample
proportions of his usual cook, but three small figures that were
hurrying to and fro with a purposeless, ineffectual bustle which
yet accomplished nothing. One of the figures hailed him in
disconsolate tones,--

"Oh, papa! are you home so soon?"

"So soon?" he answered, as well as he could for coughing; "it's
six o'clock now. Is dinner ready? What are you doing out here?"

It took but a moment to explain the matter, and then the doctor
showed that it was not without reason that Polly called him the
best father in the world. He was just back from a long drive out
into the country with a fellow doctor, to pass judgment upon a
critical case; he must visit a man in the hospital before his
evening office hour; he was tired, hungry, and in a hurry, and
there was no immediate prospect of dinner. But the three weary,
heated, crocky faces before him moved him to pity, and he threw
open the outer door, saying briskly,--

"Let's have a little air here, and see what's the matter."

"The fire won't seem to burn," said Alan. "It just smokes and goes
out."

"So I see," said the doctor laughing. "Perhaps it would go better,
my boy, if the dampers were not shut up tight. All it needs is a
little draught,--see?" And in a moment there was a comfortable
crackling sound going on inside the stove.

Before his marriage, the doctor had been in the habit of camping
out every summer, and his old experiences came to his aid in the
present crisis. While the girls flew in to set the table, he
quickly brought the fire into order, and cooked the meat as
handily as a woman. Thanks to him, the supper proved a merry one
in spite of the smoky dining-room, the meagre bill of fare, and
the great white blister on the side of Alan's hand, which the lad
was doing his best to keep out of the doctor's sight. Molly raised
her eyebrows and darted a comical glance at Polly when the doctor
asked for a second plate of the pudding, and it was not until long
afterwards that the girls knew of the manful effort he had made to
swallow the sticky compound.

"Can I do anything more to help you?" he asked, stopping behind
Alan's chair as he was going away.

"You've done enough already, I should think," answered Molly
gratefully.

"It was too bad for Mary to leave you in the lurch," he replied.
Then, as his eyes fell on Alan's hand, he added, "That's a hard
burn, my boy! Why in the world didn't you say something about it?"

"What was the use?" inquired Alan calmly. "Grumbling about it
wouldn't do it any good."

"No; but I could," responded the doctor. "I like your pluck, but
there's no use making a martyr of yourself for nothing. Come into
my den and let me put something on it." And after a moment's
delay, he went striding away down the street, looking at his watch
as he walked.

"How do people ever manage to keep house?" sighed Molly, an hour
later.

The dishes were washed, the rooms in order, and the two girls were
luxuriously settled on the sofa, which they had drawn up in front
of Alan's blazing fire on the hearth. Alan himself was stretched
out on the rug, with his yellow head resting against the seat of
the sofa, beside Polly's hand. Too tired to talk, the children had
sat there quietly watching the fire until Molly broke the silence.

"I don't see, I'm sure," returned Polly. "It never seems as if
mamma did much, even when we haven't any girl; and I'm tired
almost to death, with what little we've done."

"I'm slowly getting to think," said Molly reflectively; "that our
mothers are wonderful women. If it takes three of us to spoil one
dinner, how do they get along, to do all the housekeeping and look
out for us and sew and all?"

"Perhaps they know more to start with," suggested Alan, ducking
his head out of reach of Polly's threatening fingers.

"If you hadn't been and gone and burned yourself in our service,
Alan," she said, laughing, "I would turn you out of the house."

But Molly was too much in earnest to heed this by-play.

"I believe I'll learn to cook," she went on. "I don't mean fancy
cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on."

"Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly.

"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad
and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I
want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get
in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden
flurry of rain swept against the windows.

"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about
getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."

"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at
nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."

"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back
into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it
will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I
say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."

"I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in
my head and--Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door
opened and shut.

"No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.

"Jerusalem!" and Polly sprang up with a glad cry. "Wherever did
you come from?"

She was surrounded and dragged forward to the sofa, where Alan
took her cloak, Molly her bonnet, and Polly pulled off her gloves.

"This is delightful to be so waited on," said Mrs. Adams. "It is
worth while going away, to have the pleasure of coming back to my
three children. Now come and sit down, and tell me all about it."
And with a girl at each side and a boy at her feet, she prepared
to hear the story of their doings.

"First, how is Uncle Charlie?" asked Polly, sure from her mother's
bright face that there was no bad news.

"It was a sudden attack of indigestion, and he was much better
before we reached him; but for a little while they thought there
was no chance for him. Aunt Jane is going to stay for a week or
two, but I was in a hurry to come back to my baby. And that
reminds me, I stopped at your house, Alan, to tell your mother I
had come and that Molly would stay here till Monday; and when I
found that you were here, I said I should keep you, too, till
morning. But now you must tell me how you've been amusing
yourselves."

"With cooking," said Polly, with a tragic groan. "Mary's gone off
for a week, and the fire went out, and Alan burned himself, and we
nearly starved. I'm glad you've come back; oh, you can't guess how
glad!"

By degrees they told the tale of their woes, not omitting the
slightest detail, while Mrs. Adams leaned back on the sofa and
laughed till the tears came.

"But there's one good thing about it all," observed Molly, in
conclusion. "We've had a perfectly dreadful time, but it will
teach us to appreciate our mothers and know a little what they are
doing, the whole time."

CHAPTER VIII.

HALLOWE'EN.

"You have such a different way of looking at things from what
mamma did," said Katharine.

"Perhaps it is because we have lived so differently," Mrs. Hapgood
answered her.

It was a cold, gray day in late October, a day which showed that
November was close at hand. The other girls were off for some
frolic, Alan was reading and dozing on the sofa in the next room,
so Mrs. Hapgood and Katharine had the parlor to themselves, and
were snugly settled in two willow chairs drawn up in front of the
fire, Katharine busy on a dainty bit of embroidery, Mrs. Hapgood
putting a new sleeve into a gown which had yielded before Molly's
energetic elbows.

"I wonder if that is it." And Katharine laid down her work and
fell to pondering on the matter. After a time, she resumed, "After
all, auntie, I don't know but I like your way better. I thought at
first it was going to be slow here. At home, there's never any
time for quiet talks like this; it's just nothing but a hurry and
a scrabble, and when we get through, we've nothing to show for it.
I've only been here six weeks, but I really feel as if I know you
now better than I do mamma." And Katharine rested her head against
the back of her chair, while the dark eyes fixed on the fire grew
a little dim.

Mrs. Hapgood leaned over and rested her hand on the girl's, as it
lay on the arm of her chair.

"I'm glad to have you say so, Katharine," said she. "For this
year, I am to stand in place of a mother to you, you know, and I
like to have you feel at home here."

"I know all that," answered Katharine; "and I'm glad they sent me
here, only it mixes me all up. When I was at home and kept hearing
little bits about it, the parties and the flowers and the pretty
gowns, I felt as if I couldn't wait to be old enough to be in it
all. When I came away, mamma said I was to be here a year, and
then, go home to come out, so I could be ready to be married at
eighteen, as she did. A year is such a little while to wait that I
thought I was almost there. But when I came here, I found the
girls of my age acting like children, and having splendid times
doing what I had always thought was silly, and not caring the
least bit about society and all that. I shall just get used to
this and like it, and then go back into the other once more."

"But not in just the same way, I hope."

"I suppose not, auntie; but it won't make so very much difference,
after all."

"Perhaps not," her aunt answered; "but it may make a little. If
you hadn't come to us, you would never have seen the other side,
that there are a few good times outside of the parties and the
young men. And even if you go back into it when you go home, as
you probably will, Katharine, it won't do any harm for you to have
had a year to stop and think, and talk matters over, before
plunging into the 'scrabble,' as you call it."

"It seemed so queer, when I first came East," said Katharine, as
she took up her work again, "to see you and Molly sit down and
talk for an hour at a time. Mamma hasn't ever done it with us,
only to joke with us, or ask about our lessons once in a while.
But everything that comes up, Molly and Polly Adams say, 'Mamma
says so,' or 'Mamma thinks so.'"

She sewed steadily for a few moments, then she broke off, to ask,
with an air of mock tragedy,--

"Mamma says she wants me to marry at eighteen; but what in the
world should I do, auntie, if nobody should ask me?"

"Not get married, I suppose," returned her aunt composedly.

Katharine's face fell.

"What! be an old maid, like Polly's Aunt Jane!" she exclaimed.

"It isn't necessary that you should be like her, even if you
shouldn't marry." And Mrs. Hapgood laughed at the horror in
Katharine's tone. Then she went on, seriously, "Katharine, may I
talk very plainly with you, just as if you were really my
daughter?"

"Please do, auntie." And Katharine drew her chair a little closer
to her aunt's.

"You were just saying that your mother and I look at things
differently, Katharine, and it is true that we do. I wouldn't find
fault with her for anything, for she has been a dear, good sister
to me; but it seems to me that she has made a little bit of a
mistake in letting your head get filled with all these thoughts of
being married. You are only a child yet, my dear, and it is years
before such ideas ought to come to you. But now they are here, I
am going to tell you just what I think about it all. Not all women
are fitted to marry; some would be happier and better without it.
The day is long past when a woman must either marry or be laughed
at as an old maid. What I want my girls to do is to grow into
strong, noble women who are fitted to fill any position that opens
before them, and to fill it well, with no thought of self, but
only for the good of others. Then, if the time ever comes that you
are asked to be the wife of a man, for the sake of whose love and
companionship you are ready to give up all else, then you will do
right to marry him, but not until then."

There was another pause. Mrs. Hapgood went on,--

"And since we are on the subject, Katharine, there is one more
word to say. If the time ever comes for you, remember, in making
your great decision, that married life is not all sunshine, but
that there are the same little every-day worries after marriage as
there were before. If a woman is strong enough to be a true,
devoted wife, she can have no happier, better life than in her own
home. But she has no right to promise without thinking it all
over, whether she can sacrifice and work, can suffer hardship and
even wrong for her husband's sake. Those are solemn words, dear,
and should never be spoken thoughtlessly: 'For better for worse,
for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health--'"

"You make it all mean so much more than mamma did," said Katharine
thoughtfully. "She never talked to me like this. You make me half
afraid of it, auntie."

"So much the better," her aunt replied. "It isn't anything that
you can do one day, and undo the next; but it is a matter of life--
and death," she added, as if to herself. Then she went on, with
an entire change of tone, "Now, Kit, we have been talking about a
very serious matter, and I am nearly through. But we may never
speak of it again, so before we leave it, I want to just say that
I wish you could put this whole subject out of your head for
years, until the great question comes to you,--better still, if it
had never been put into your head in the first place. However,
that mischief is done. Still, try as hard as you can, for this
year at least, to forget all about it. Then, if you must remember
it at all, remember it as we have spoken of it, a serious question
which must be settled between you and your conscience. In the
meantime, do the very best you can to develop yourself into a
helpful woman, ready for any call that may come. Your call will
come, in one way or another, and all you have to do is to be
prepared to answer 'ready.' And the grand secret of this
preparation lies in perfect unconsciousness of self. It is all
hidden in you, Kit, if you only try to make the most of it. And
now I shouldn't at all wonder if we were better friends than ever
for this frank talk, should you?"

The girl did not speak, but, bending over, she kissed her aunt
impulsively and left the room.

"The child is finding her soul at last," said Mrs. Hapgood to
herself. "Kate had smothered it and buried it under her false
ideas of womanhood; but it is there, and Katharine might so easily
make a woman to be proud of, with her warm, loving nature, if only
she could be kept out of the 'scrabble' for a few years longer.
Well, my son, what is it?" she added aloud, as Alan came in,
yawning and stretching, and dropped into the chair just vacated by
Katharine.

"Nothing, only I'm sick of reading, and came in for my share in
the talk. Has Kit gone?"

"She just went up-stairs," answered his mother, surveying her boy
with fond pride, for, in all truth, Alan was good to look at as he
sat there, a real bonnie boy who might gladden any mother's heart.
Mother-like, she passed a caressing hand over his yellow hair, and
straightened out his coat-collar, but she only said, "Alan, you
are positively growing tall, every single day."

"Am I?" asked the boy absently. Then he went on. "Speaking of Kit,
mother, has it struck you that she is leaving off a little of her
airs and graces? She isn't near as silly as she was when she first
came."

"I don't think Katharine is silly," his mother replied; "it is
only a little way she has. You are too critical of her, Alan."

"Well, she makes me tired," responded the boy, rolling up his eyes
at his mother, whose deep-seated objection to that phrase he well
knew. "She wants to be the very middle of things when we're
together, and must have just so much fuss made over her. She'd be
well enough, if it wasn't for that."

"Katharine has a great deal of character, after all," said his
mother. "You aren't quite fair to her, Alan. If Polly or Florence
did the same things she does, you would think it was all right."

"Polly and Kit aren't to be spoken of in the same breath,"
answered Alan energetically. "Florence doesn't count, one way or
the other; but Polly is a splendid girl, and about the best friend
I have. She always fights for me, and it would be mean if I didn't
return the compliment once in a while. Here comes Mrs. Adams now,"
he added, as he glanced out of the window.

It was only an errand, not a call, she hurriedly explained. Friday
night was going to be Hallowe'en, and wouldn't Alan and the girls
come over to celebrate, as a surprise to Polly? Jean and Florence
would be there, too. Then she went away again, leaving Alan to
discuss the matter with his mother.

Friday evening came, and the surprise was kept a profound secret.
Mrs. Adams had called Polly up-stairs to try on a new gown which
she had just finished, and Polly was still revolving in front of
the mirror, making vain attempts to view her back, when the bell
rang.

"You go down, Polly," said her mother. "I am all covered with
basting-threads."

So Polly, in all the glory of her new gown, went running down the
stairs to the door, and started back in astonishment as her six
guests came solemnly marching into the house, dressed in their
best, to do honor to the occasion.

"Why, what are you doing here?" she was beginning rather
inhospitably, when her mother unexpectedly came to her relief and
invited the girls to take off their things.

"We're a party, Polly," exclaimed Jessie. "How stupid you are not
to see it!"

"It's Hallowe'en," added Florence; "and we've been asked to come
to celebrate it."

"Oh-h-h!" And a new light dawned on Polly. "It's a surprise party,
is it? Who started it? You, Jerusalem?"

"Why don't you take your little friends into the parlor and
converse with them, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's prim voice. "Don't
you know that it isn't polite to leave them standing here?"

A sharp reply was trembling on the tip of Polly's tongue; but she
caught her mother's warning glance, so she resolutely turned her
back on the blue satin bow which Aunt Jane had donned for the
party, and led the way into the parlor.

Then the fun began, for Mrs. Adams had studied to find all the
amusing tricks, whether they belonged to Hallowe'en or not. She
was the gayest of the gay, entering into all the frolic, and doing
her best to make Aunt Jane unbend and have a share in the games.
But there must be a skeleton at every feast, and Miss Roberts
played the part to perfection, sitting back against the wall, and
only smiling indulgently, now and then, as the room rang with the
shouts of the young people. It all started with a tub and a plate
of apples which mysteriously appeared in the dining-room, and soon
they were all in a kneeling circle around the tub, bobbing for the
apples, that took a malicious delight in ducking under the water
and rolling away, just as the white teeth were ready to seize the
stem. The captured apples were only just pared and the seeds
counted, when Mrs. Adams called them away to try their fate on one
single apple which hung by a string from the top of the room.

"It is an unfailing test," she said. "If you can take a bite out
of this apple without touching it, except with your teeth, you
will live to get married. Otherwise, you will die an old maid."

Now, it sounds like a very easy matter to bite an apple; but when
it is free to swing this way and that as you touch it, the success
is not so sure. Alan first chased the apple up and down, gnashed
his teeth and retired. Next Florence took her turn, with no better
success. Jessie, too, failed to get a taste, even of the skin.
Then Jean advanced to the charge.

"Now watch," she said, laughing. "I'm going at this on scientific
principles. See here!"

She hit the apple with such force as to throw it far up and out,
waited with wide-open mouth until, pendulum-like, it swung back
and, at the instant of its reaching her, before it had turned, she
struck her strong, young teeth into the side and brought away a
generous mouthful.

"There!" said she triumphantly, as she marched back to her place.
"I defy anybody to do better than that."

They melted lead and poured it into water, to learn from the shape
as it cooled the secret of their future work; they floated needles
on water, watching them sink, or swim and gather in groups; they
roasted nuts in the ashes, and tried the old, old test of the
three dishes of water. But the prettiest trick of all was one that
brought them back to the great tub once more, to float the walnut-
shell boats, with their burning candles fixed in each. As the
girls took their pairs of shells, one with a pink, the other with
a blue candle placed in the middle like a mast, it was curious to
see the difference in their ways of launching them on this mimic
ocean of life. Jean and Jessie dropped theirs in thoughtlessly,
only intent on the fun of the moment. Florence put hers in
daintily and with care not to wet her fingers, and Molly and
Katharine launched theirs out boldly, following them up with a
little ripple which sent them rocking away into the midst of the
tiny fleet. But Polly, Polly who did not believe in signs, had an
anxious pucker about her eyebrows as she started out her wee
vessels, and hurried them all their way with a mighty splash which
threatened to capsize them, there and then.

Mrs. Adams stood back, watching the group of bright-colored gowns
and eager faces, as the young people gathered more closely about
the tub to see the fate of their lights, now exclaiming in chorus
at some crisis, now in anxious silence while they waited for new
developments.

"My light has failed, first of all," said Katharine regretfully.

"Which is it?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"The pink one."

"That is the man," she answered, bending over to look at the poor
little end of candle, with only a smouldering wick to show that
any life was left.

"It may come up again, Kit," said Florence consolingly. "While
there's life, there's hope."

"They are alive as long as they float," Mrs. Adams interpreted.
"When they sink, they are dead; but this one is only ill, or else
his plans have failed."

"That's almost as bad," said Jean. "But isn't this just like
Florence? Her two have cuddled up side by side, and are blazing
away in a corner, all by themselves." "Look at Polly's and mine,"
said Molly. "We have joined hands. We must be going to live
together, all four of us."

"In a New York tenement house," suggested Alan unkindly.

"No such thing," returned Polly. "Molly shall keep house, and I'll
board with her. I hope my man will be proprietor of a restaurant,
though," she added, in an aside to Alan.

Suddenly there came a wail from Jessie.

"Girls, girls! Just look at mine!"

"Where are they?" asked Molly.

"Here." And Jessie pointed tragically to one side of the tub,
where the blue candle lay at the bottom of the sea, and the pink
one, though still floating above it, had burned out and tilted to
one side in an attitude of profound dejection.

  "'Where was Moses when the light went out?
   Where was Moses, what was he about?'"

sang Alan teasingly.

But even while he was singing, an energetic wave from Jean's side
overturned his own small ships and left them floating bottom
upwards.

"Just my luck!" he remarked, as he rose. "I knew I should come to
some untimely end. As Poll says, I don't believe in signs,
anyway."

The chocolate and wafers had been passed, and the fateful loaf of
cake had been cut, bringing the ring to Florence, and the thimble,
fitting symbol of single blessedness, to Jean; and still there was
time for a little more of the fun. Some one suggested a game of
forfeits, and a pile of them was soon collected, to be held over
the head of Jessie who was chosen judge, as being the youngest
girl present. Her ingenuity was endless, and she kept them
laughing over her ridiculous fines, until nearly all had been
redeemed.

"Only two or three more," said Jean encouragingly. "Here's one of
them, now."

"Fine or superfine?"

"Fine."

"Fine? Let's see, I know whose 'tis," meditated Jessie. "Oh, I
haven't any ideas left! Let him.

  "'Bow to the wittiest,
   Kneel to the prettiest,
   And kiss the one he loves best.'"

Like most sensible mothers, Mrs. Adams had a horror of anything
like kissing games; and now she frowned a little, in spite of
herself. No one of the V, she felt sure, would have pronounced
this fine. She turned to glance at Alan who stood for a moment,
blushing as his eye moved over the group. Then he walked up to
Polly and bowed low, passed on to Katharine's chair where he
dropped on one knee, and then, walking straight to Mrs. Adams, he
bent down and kissed her cheek with a heartiness which was not all
play. She put out her hand and drew him down on the sofa, at her
side.

"Thank you, dear," she whispered. "It was a pretty compliment, and
we old people enjoy such things, you may be sure."

"It was true," said Alan simply, as he settled himself beside her
with a confiding, little-boyish motion.

The last forfeit had not been redeemed, when the heavy portieres
swung open, and a figure swathed in dark draperies and with a veil
over her face came slowly into the room. The girls gazed
doubtfully at this ghostly apparition, till a brown hand--was
extended and a deep voice spoke from under the veil,--

"I am here to reveal the future. To-night is the time to know the
secret of your coming lives. Let the oldest advance first."

Katharine, still a little in awe of the mysterious stranger,
stepped forward and laid her hand on the dark one before her. The
being scanned it closely.

"A long life," she said, "and a happy one, for you will slowly
learn the joy of doing good to those around you and forgetting
yourself for others. Then, wherever you go, you will be surrounded
with friends and your name will long be remembered."

Katharine smiled, as she stepped back and Jean took her place.

"You will have the best possession the earth can give, a contented
mind. I see in the future a little house presided over by a
strong, quiet woman whose life is in her home."

Then Molly's turn came. Her fate was quickly spoken.

"Yours is a husband six feet tall, and your children will number
nineteen, as they sit about your meagre table."

Molly groaned, as she yielded her place to Florence.

"I see a lordly house, richly furnished and filled with servants.
Within is a devoted husband who watches over a wife with golden
hair."

"How elegant!" said Polly. "Now it's my turn." And she held out
her hand with a smile.

"You will suffer much and have much happiness," the voice went on.
"You will love deeply and be loved in return, and the end will
more than repay the beginning."

"Isn't that queer!" And Polly withdrew, to ponder on her mystical
fortune.

"Now Jessie," said Mrs. Adams; "see what fate has in store for
you."

"I'm half afraid," she said, laughing.

"Love, happiness, and sunshine," was what she heard. "A tiny
cottage simply furnished with a teapot and eleven cats."

There was a shout.

"Now, Alan."

The brown hand trembled a little, and the eyes under the veil
looked right into Alan's, as she spoke. "Some pain, much joy; a
slow, even growth into a glorious manhood that knows no wrong, but
lives for truth. Whatever else maybe is hidden from my sight."

"What a splendid one, Alan!" exclaimed Polly, her face flushing,
as she took in all the meaning of the words.

And Katharine added quietly,--

"You have read us very well, Aunt Ruth."

"Mamma?" exclaimed Molly and Alan, in a breath.

"Yes, mamma," answered Mrs. Hapgood's voice, as she quickly shed
her wrappings. "I thought I would have a finger in this pie, too.
But how did you know me so soon, Katharine?"

"I knew nobody else would say what you did, for it was just a part
of our talk the other day," she replied, as she unpinned the thick
veil from Mrs. Hapgood's hair.

"Good-night, Mrs. Adams," said Jean, as they stood grouped about
her in the hall. "This has been a lovely Hallowe'en, and I shall
always remember it, I know."

"I hope you will, too, till next year," added Alan suggestively,
as he went out into the bright starlight.

CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW READING CLUB.

"The beautiful summer of All Saints" was at its height, and the
soft haze lay upon the blue hills and rested lightly over the
meadows along the river. Such days were tempting enough to entice
a hermit from his cell, and Mrs. Adams and the young people had
agreed to devote Saturday afternoon to a long drive. Soon after
their early lunch they had started off, Job leading the way, with
Mrs. Adams, Jessie, Molly, and Jean, followed by Cob, the wiry
little mustang that Mr. Shepard had sent East for his daughters'
use, drawing Katharine, Florence, Polly, and Alan. Their
destination was the nearer of the two mountains, a drive to the
foot and then a scramble to the tip-top house, for the sake of one
last look down upon the beautiful valley, before winter should
shut it in. Unfortunately, Job was in one of his languid moods
that day, and in spite of warning checks and flapping of lines,
and even a mild application of the whip, he refused to break into
a trot; but, with bowed head and discouraged mien, he plodded
onward with as much apparent effort as if each motion of his aged
frame were to be his last. In vain Katharine again and again
reined in Cob, to wait for his companion; the old horse lagged
farther and farther in the rear. At length Mrs. Adams called,--

"This is unbearable, Katharine! I am afraid we shall have to give
up and go home. Job acts as if he couldn't crawl another step. I'm
sorry," she added to her passengers, "to spoil our plan, but I
dare not drive this old fellow any further, for fear he might
never get home."

But even the turning back again failed to inspire Job as it
usually did. In her secret heart, Mrs. Adams regarded this as an
ominous symptom, and felt an ever-increasing anxiety lest he
should never reach home alive. They were less than two miles from
the town, but it was a long hour before Job dragged his weary way
up the street, in at the gate, and tottered feebly up to the open
door of the barn. By making little side excursions up and down the
country, the other carriage had managed to keep respectfully in
the rear; and Katharine now tied Cob outside the gate, while the
others crowded around Job to watch with pitying eyes, as Mrs.
Adams unharnessed this feeble veteran who had probably gone on his
final march. The last strap was unbuckled and allowed to fall to
the ground, while Mrs. Adams invitingly held up the worn old
halter, to slip it on Job's nose. Perhaps she was slower than
usual, perhaps some sudden thought of a neglected opportunity shot
through Job's brain. However that might be, there was a quick
scattering of the group, as two iron-shod heels flew up into the
air, the brown head was playfully tossed from side to side, and
Job, the feeble, the lifeless, went frisking away across the lawn,
now galloping furiously up and down, with a lofty disregard of the
holes he was tearing in the soft, dry turf, now stopping to roll
on his back and kick his aged legs ecstatically in the air, with
all the joyous abandonment of a young colt, then scrambling up
again, to go pounding away, straight across a brilliant bed of
chrysanthemums and only pausing, for a moment, to gaze pensively
out over the front gate.

"Whoa, Job! Whoa, boy!" Mrs. Adams was calling in vain, while Jean
exclaimed spitefully,--

"Mean old thing! I'll never be sorry for him again! I didn't lean
back all the time we were gone, but just sat on the very front
edge of the seat and tried to make myself as light as I could."

Then followed an exciting chase, for Job appeared to have regained
all the agility of his far-off ancestors that roamed the plains at
their own sweet will. Such sudden wheelings! Such wild leaps! Such
frantic kicks! He refused to be coaxed; he cocked up his ears in
derisive scorn when they scolded him and requested him to whoa. He
had no intention of whoaing. He recognized from afar that a snare
lay hidden somewhere in the measure of oats which Mrs. Adams held
out before him, and he drew back his lips in a contemptuous smile,
as he capered away to the remotest corner of the grounds. The
pursuit lasted for an hour, and at the end of that time, Job
appeared to be far fresher than his pursuers, fresher even than he
had been at the start.

It was plain that nothing was to be gained in this way, so Mrs.
Adams and the girls retired to the house to take counsel, leaving
Alan to drive Job to the stable, and come back to dinner with the
others.

"I am tired, if he isn't," sighed Mrs. Adams, dropping into a
chair by the window overlooking the lawn.

"Has he ever done it before?" asked Florence sympathetically.

"Never with me; but he used to get away from John, when he was
younger. Now he has started, I am afraid he will repeat the
experiment, he has had such a good time to-day. It just makes me
want to whip him!" And Mrs. Adams glared out at the unconscious
Job who was quietly cropping a tuft of green grass.

It may be that the stolen fruit was not so sweet to his tongue as
Job had expected, or his conscience may at length have begun to
act once more. He slowly raised his head and gazed longingly up
and down the street, as if yearning to try a wider field for his
gymnastics. Then apparently his sense of duty carried the day for,
turning reluctantly, he plodded away to the open stable door, and
quietly marched into his accustomed place.

"Run, Polly, quick! Run and fasten the door!" her mother
exclaimed, as she hurried away to tie up the prodigal, to prevent
any fresh wanderings.

When the doctor came home to dinner and heard the story, he was
merciless in his teasing.

"One woman, six girls, and one boy, all to be outwitted by one
poor old horse twenty-nine years old! "he exclaimed.

"Now, that's not so!" interposed his wife.

"Job isn't but twenty-three, so don't put any more years on his
devoted head."

Dr. Adams laughed. He took a sinful pleasure in reminding his wife
of Job's advanced age.

"Twenty-nine last June," he said, as he gave Polly her second
piece of meat. "If you are careful of him and keep him for a few
years longer, you can sell him out at a high price, to be
exhibited as a curiosity."

"Sell Job! Never!" protested Mrs. Adams. "I would almost as soon
sell Polly. No money could ever make up for that old fellow's
intelligence, and for the real love he gives me."

"Yes," added Alan sympathetically; "and no money could buy his
obedience to you, this afternoon, when he was loose."

While the table was being cleared for the dessert, the doctor
suddenly turned to his daughter.

"Well, Polly," he asked; "how comes on the reading club?"

"Finely, papa. Why?"

"I didn't know but you were tired of it, by this time, and wanted
something else."

"Oh, no; we have such good times," said Jean enthusiastically.
"And if we gave it up, you never would get your stockings darned,
either."

"Oh!" And the doctor lapsed into silence.

"What made you ask, papa?" inquired Polly.

"Mere curiosity."

"I know better than that," she said, seizing his hand as it lay on
the table. "Now, popsy Adams, you just tell us what you are
driving at."

"What is the use?" asked the doctor provokingly. "I did have
another plan; but if you are all satisfied, I'll offer it to some
of the other girls, or perhaps Aunt Jane will take it in charge."

This was too much for Polly.

"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't
we girls?"

"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something
for which you have to give up your own good times?"

Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,--

"We'll do it, just the same."

"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I
have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an
interest in something really useful."

"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by
this time fired.

"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about
Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay
a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an
Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the
state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she
can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of
her room."

The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the
faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short
story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes
were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on
her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to
himself, as he looked at her.

"Go on, papa," urged Polly.

"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his
arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder
if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,--there are
just the six of you, you know,--and run in to see her for a few
minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back,
and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now,
suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with
her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's
Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.

He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of assent from his
hearers. Then he resumed,--

"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of
it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good
deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would
think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be
worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be
disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only
ill and lonely."

"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave
the table.

"Bridget O'Keefe."

"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in
disgust.

"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor
briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then
let me know."

And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.

Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to
leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire,
they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical
suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was
to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a
call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know
that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no
difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but
the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back
from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons,
the one holiday of the week.

"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to
see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."

"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet,
it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been
together. What if we draw lots for it?"

But Alan objected.

"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want
you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday,
myself."

"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added
Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his;
"the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in
generosity. I'll take Saturday myself, girls."

Alan turned to her impulsively.

"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a
cousin."

Katharine laughed lightly.

"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and
it's only a little while, anyway."

It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she
gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever
cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his
cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to
win his liking could never have brought.

The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty
of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel
sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the
outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with
a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few
weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the
doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing
that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only
encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their
young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door
atmosphere which they brought in, their scraps of news, and their
gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely
days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards
beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where
Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they
realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half-
hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self-
sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their
usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the
womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness,
all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an
influence which lasted far on through their lives.

And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk
from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to
look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to
the place and its associations, they no longer hurried along the
corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in,
now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of
little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the
room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half
over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few
moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to
pass slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant
word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet
their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of
friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much
of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until
lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie
devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her
attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred
the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the
girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger
ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of
the dolls which they had cast aside.

However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others,
had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before
any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance
for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance
which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she
talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At
length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how
she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she
had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with
overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep
on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she
must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the
neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale
and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to
find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips
to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she
said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us
better friends."

And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear
eyes above her own,--"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body
know all about it. Somehow it helps along."

Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two
or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was
saluted with exciting news.

"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money
enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and
they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"

Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No
one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went
hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming,
and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present.
The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine
cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content,
now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a
suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked
no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy
her niece was daily gaining.

"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said
to Molly, one day when they were out driving.

It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over
the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves,
were enjoying the air and motion.

"What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a
half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.

"Oh, everything,--at least, everything isn't divided," returned
Katharine a little incoherently. "Some of us have so much more fun
out of things than other people do. There's us; and then there's
Bridget and that little pet of Polly's, Dicky what's-his-name. You
know the one I mean. And then, just in our set, there's ever so
much difference. Jessie and I have everything we want, and Jean
has to pinch and scrimp; Jean is as strong as a bear, and Alan
can't do anything at all, without being laid up to pay for it;
Polly wails for a family of young brothers, and Jean has more of
them to take care of than the old woman that lived in a shoe. Now
what's the reason things are so mixed up, I'd like to know."

"I can't see why myself," said Molly, tucking in the robe about
herself and her cousin. "Maybe, if we knew all about it, they
aren't as mixed up as they seem."

"Yes, they are," Katharine insisted. "If they weren't, some people
wouldn't have everything, and some go without, as they do. I don't
suppose there is much of anything in the world I couldn't do, if I
wanted to, and tried hard enough for it; but everybody isn't so."

"I have sort of an idea," answered Molly profoundly, "that most
everybody can get what she wants, if she is willing to work and
wait long enough. It's only a question of what you want."

CHAPTER X.

POLLY'S POEM.

"Molly, don't you want to come and take a walk with me?" asked
Polly, appearing in the door one Saturday morning.

Molly sprang up and tossed her book down on the table.

"Yes, indeed I do. It's too pleasant to stay in the house such a
day as this. I'll go and call the others."

"But I don't want the others, at least, not this morning," said
Polly mysteriously. "I want you all to myself, for I've something
to tell you, to show you.". Polly blushed and stammered a little.

"What is it, Poll?" asked Molly curiously.

"Oh, nothing much; at least, I'll tell you by and by. Go and get
your hat, and come on."

"The Bridget Society" as Alan disrespectfully called it, had been
in operation for about two weeks now; but though it had proved an
absorbing subject to the girls, yet it took very little of their
time, and left them nearly as free as ever for their usual
occupations. Their common interest in the one work, however, had
bound the six girls even more closely together than before, until
they depended on one another's help and sympathy, in any and every
question that arose.

It was a clear, bracing day, so cold that the white frost was
still glittering on the grass-blades in the more sheltered
corners, so clear that the bare, rough ledges of the western
mountain looked so near that one could toss a stone up to the pile
of broken rocks which marked the line of their bases; while far
across the river valley, the sun lay warm upon the roofs and
towers of the town nestling on the hillside, and touched with a
golden light the tall, slender spire of the little church. The
girls walked briskly away through the town and out towards the
river, a mile away. Polly appeared to be unusually excited,
whether by the crisp air or by her new winter coat, Molly was at a
loss to decide. It was a fine day, surely; but the more Molly
studied the long dark-blue coat trimmed with chinchilla, and the
saucy little blue cap edged with the same soft fur, and cocked on
the back of Polly's curls, she came to the conclusion that Polly's
spirits were affected by her becoming suit. That being the case,
it was plainly her duty to remove Polly's worldly pride.

"Do try to walk like a civilized being, Polly!" she exclaimed, as
her friend suddenly pounced into the midst of a flock of hens that
were pluming themselves in a sunny fence-corner. "People will
think you're crazy, if you act so."

"Well, what if they do?" said Polly, laughing. "I don't care what
they think, I wanted to astonish those hens. Shoo!" And she
charged upon them again, brandishing a dry stick which she had
picked up by the roadside.

In spite of herself Molly laughed as she clutched her friend
firmly by the elbow and dragged her onward, out of temptation's
way.

"You'll have the jailer and the fire department out after you,"
she said, as she guided Polly's erring footsteps back into the
concrete path of virtue. "Do come along! Besides, you had
something to tell me."

Polly's face grew suddenly grave, and the hot blood rushed to her
cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was trembling with suppressed
excitement.

"Wait till we get out on the bridge, Molly," she begged. "We'll be
all alone there."

So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.

"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I
am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge,
then."

"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.

"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly;
"but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."

She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting
away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and
breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped
and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene
around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it
wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way
between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the
clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over
the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river
bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries.
No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and
they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned
to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern
hills.

"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.

From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came
short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her
mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet
of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the
marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out,
tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.

"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never
to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else
know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"

"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a
glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's
irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.

"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in
the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret
because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her
breath--"I've written a poem!"

"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and
respectful awe.

"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I
knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."

"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea
that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.

"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her
methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there
ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to
fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,--
Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work."

"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.

"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the
_News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out,
and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and
put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and
it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call
me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."

"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead
and buried, it can't do you any good."

"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!"
exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.

"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People
that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."

Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.

"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"

Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat
nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.

"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never
written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that
were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who
waits to sit in judgment.

"I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving
herself to the task, she read aloud,--

  "The children went chestnutting once,
     Out in the woods to stay all day,
   There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate,
     All there, for there's no school to-day."


Polly stopped to catch breath.

"Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically.

Polly looked up with a startled air.

"Why, out of my head, of course."

"Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not reassuring. "Go on," she
added.

"Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly.

    "The good, kind mothers pack the lunch
     Of bread and butter, meat and cake,
     So off they start at ten o'clock,
     For it is hot when it is late."


This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful
curl to her lips.

"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting
emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."

This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire
among dead twigs.

"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!
I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."

As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool
and collected.

"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more
able to write a poem than Job is."

"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with
gleaming eyes and frowning brow.

"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this:
your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than
half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about
one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and
butterflies, or else death or--" Molly paused for an idea. Not
finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something
just like that before."

Polly choked down her rising sobs.

"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I
want of you, Molly Hapgood."

Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her
pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn a

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