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Five Little Peppers and their Friends

by Margaret Sidney · English · Gutenberg #6418 · 496,159 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Five Little Peppers and their Friends

Author: Margaret Sidney


        
Release date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6418]
                Most recently updated: April 29, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6418

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS ***




Produced by Tom Allen, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.











FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS

By MARGARET SIDNEY

AUTHOR OF "FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS ABROAD," "A LITTLE MAID OF CONCORD TOWN,"
"SALLY, MRS. TUBBS," ETC.


Illustrated by Eugenie M. Wireman


[Illustration: "What are you doing, Phronsie, sitting down in the middle
of the stairs?"--(See page 46.)]




  To my daughter Margaret,
    who to her friends embodies
    "Polly Pepper" in her
    girlhood, I dedicate most
    lovingly this book.




PREFACE.


  There were so many interesting friends of the Five Little Peppers,
  whose lives were only the faintest of outlines in the series ending
  when Phronsie was grown up, that a volume devoted to this outer
  circle has been written to meet the persistent demand.

  Herein the author records many happenings that long ago Ben and Polly,
  Joel and David told her. And even Phronsie whispered some of it
  confidentially into the listening ear. "Tell about Rachel, please,"
  she begged; and Margaret Sidney promised to write it all down some
  day.

  And that day seems to have arrived in which it all should be recorded
  and the promise fulfilled. For the Five Little Peppers loved their
  friends very dearly, and were loyal and true to them. And hand in
  hand, the circle widening ever, they lived and loved as this history
  records.

  MARGARET SIDNEY.




CONTENTS


I. A FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA

II. PHRONSIE

III. CLEM FORSYTHE

IV. MISS TAYLOR'S WORKING BEE

V. "SHE'S MY LITTLE GIRL"

VI. GRANDMA BASCOM

VII. THE DISAPPOINTMENT

VIII. THE GARDEN PARTY

IX. THE TEN-DOLLAR BILL

X. TROUBLE FOR JOEL

XI. RACHEL

XII. DOINGS AT THE PARSONAGE

XIII. "SHE'S GOING TO STAY HERE FOREVER"

XIV. "CAN'T GO," SAID JOEL

XV. UP IN ALEXIA'S PRETTY ROOM

XVI. THE ACCIDENT

XVII. JOEL'S ADVENTURE

XVIII. THE COMFORT COMMITTEE

XIX. JOEL'S NEW FRIEND

XX. THE COOKING CLUB

XXI. OF MANY THINGS IN GENERAL

XXII. RACHEL'S VISIT TO MISS PARROTT

XXIII. THE OLD PARROTT HOMESTEAD

XXIV. RACHEL'S FUTURE

XXV. JACK PARISH

XXVI. MR. HAMILTON DYCE A TRUE FRIEND

XXVII. A PIECE OF GOOD NEWS

XXVIII. THE LITTLE STONE CUPBOARD




ILLUSTRATIONS

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PHRONSIE, SITTING DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STAIRS?"

FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA

"BUT THIS IS TEN DOLLARS," SAID JOEL

"ON, LARRY," SAID MISS TAYLOR GENTLY, BENDING OVER HIM

"YES, SIR," CALLED JOEL BACK, FROM THE ALCOVE

THE UNLUCKY OAR WAS SEIZED BY THE TRIUMPHANT CREW

"I USED TO PLAY WITH IT," SHE SAID SOFTLY

HE STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LITTLE SHOP




I

A FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA


"I wish," said Phronsie slowly, "that you'd come in, little girl."

"Can't." The girl at the gate peered through the iron railings, pressing
her nose quite flat, to give the sharp, restless, black eyes the best
chance.

"Please do," begged Phronsie, coming up quite close; "I very much wish you
would."

"Can't," repeated the girl on the outside. "Cop won't let me."

"Who?" asked Phronsie, much puzzled and beginning to look frightened.

"Perlice." The girl nodded briefly, taking her face away from the iron
railings enough to accomplish that ceremony. Then she plastered her nose up
against its support again, and stared at Phronsie with all her might.

"Oh," said Phronsie, with a little laugh that chased away her fright,
"there isn't any big policeman here. This is Grandpapa's garden."

"'Tain't, it's the perliceman's; everything's the perliceman's,"
contradicted the girl, snapping one set of grimy fingers defiantly.

"Oh, no," said Phronsie, softly but very decidedly, "this is my dear
Grandpapa's home, and the big policeman can't get in here, ever."

"Oh, you ninny!" The girl staring at her through the railings stopped a
minute to laugh, covering both hands over her mouth to smother the sound.
"The perlice can go everywheres they want to. I guess some of 'em's in
heaven now, spyin' round."

Phronsie dropped the doll she was carrying close to her bosom, to
concentrate all her gaze up toward the sky, in wide-eyed amazement that
allowed her no opportunity to carry on the conversation.

"An' I couldn't no more get into this 'ere garden than I could into
heaven," the girl on the outside said at last, to bring back the blue eyes
to earth, "so don't you think it, you. But, oh, my, don't I wish I could,
though!"

There was so much longing in the voice that Phronsie brought her gaze down
from the policemen in their heavenly work to the eyes staring at her. And
she clasped her hands together tightly, and hurried up to lay her face
against the big iron gate and close to that of the girl.

"He won't hurt you, the big policeman won't," she whispered softly. "I'll
take hold of your hand, and tell him how it is, if he gets in. Come."

"Can't," the girl was going to say, but her gaze rested upon the doll lying
on the grass where it fell from Phronsie's hand. "Lawks! may I just have
one good squint at that?" she burst out.

"You may hold it," said Phronsie, bobbing her head till her yellow hair
fell over her flushed cheeks.

The gate flew open suddenly, nearly overthrowing her; and the girl, mostly
all legs and arms, dashed through, picking up the doll to squeeze it to her
neck so tightly that Phronsie rushed up, quite alarmed.

"Oh, don't," she cried, "you'll frighten her. I'll tell her how it is, and
then she'll like you."

"I'll make her like me," said the girl, with savage thrusts at the doll,
and kissing it all over.

"Oh, my, ain't you sweet!" and she cuddled it fiercely in her scrawny neck,
her tangled black hair falling around its face.

"Oh, dear!" wailed Phronsie, standing quite still, "she's my child, and
she's dreadfully frightened. Oh, please, little girl, don't do so."

"She's been your child forever, and I've never had a child." The girl
raised her black head to look sternly at Phronsie. "I'll give her back; but
she's mine now."

"Haven't you ever had a child?" asked Phronsie, suddenly, two or three
tears trailing off her round cheeks to drop in the grass, and she drew a
long breath and winked very fast to keep the others back.

"Not a smitch of one," declared the other girl decidedly, "an' I'm a-goin'
to hold this one, and pretend I'm its mother."

Phronsie drew a long breath, and drew slowly near.

"You may," she said at last.

The new mother didn't hear, being hungrily engaged in smoothing her child's
cheeks against her own dirty ones, first one side of the face and then the
other, and twitching down the dainty pink gown, gone awry during the
hugging process, and alternately scolding and patting the little figure.
This done, she administered a smart slap, plunged over to the nearest tree,
and set the doll with a thud on the grass to rest against its trunk.

"Sit up like a lady," she commanded.

"Oh, don't!" cried Phronsie, quite horror-stricken, and running over on
distressed feet. "She's my child," she gasped.

"No, she's mine, an' I'm teachin' her manners. I ain't through pretendin'
yet," said the girl. She put out a long arm and held Phronsie back.

"But you struck her." Phronsie lifted a pale face, and her blue eyes
flashed very much as Polly's brown ones did on occasion.

The new mother whirled around and stared at her.

"Why, I had to, just the same as you're licked when you're bad," she said,
in astonishment.

"What's 'licked'?" asked Phronsie, overcome with curiosity, yet keeping her
eyes on her child, bolt upright against the tree.

"Why, whipped," said the girl, "just the same as you are when you're bad."

Phronsie drew a long breath.

"I've never been whipped," she said slowly.

"Oh, my Lord!" The girl tumbled down to the grass and rolled over and over,
coming up suddenly to sit straight, wipe her tangled black hair out of her
eyes, and stare at Phronsie. "Well, you are a reg'lar freak, you are," was
all she could say.

"What's a 'freak'?" asked Phronsie, actually turning her back on her child
to give all her attention to this absorbing conversation, with its most
attractive vocabulary.

"It's--oh, Jumbo!" and over she flopped again, to roll and laugh. "Well,
there!" and she jumped to her feet so quickly she nearly overthrew
Phronsie, who had drawn closer, unable to miss a bit of this very strange
proceeding. "Now I'm through pretending an' I haven't got any child, an'
you may have her back." She wrung her grimy hands together, and turned her
back on the object of so much attention. "Take her, quick; she's yours."

Phronsie hurried over to the doll, sitting up in pink loveliness against
the tree, knelt down on the grass, and patted her with gentle hand, and
smoothed down her curls. A curious sound broke in upon her work, and she
looked up and listened. "I must go back," she whispered to her child, and
in a minute she was running around the figure of the girl, to stare into
her face.

"Ow--get out!" cried the girl crossly, and she whirled off, pulling up her
ragged dress to her face.

"I thought I heard you cry," said Phronsie in a troubled voice, and
following her in distress.

"Phoo!" cried the girl, snapping her fingers in derision, and spinning
around on the tips of her toes, "'twas the cat."

"No," said Phronsie decidedly, and shaking her head, "it couldn't be the
cat, because she doesn't hardly ever cry, and besides she isn't here"--and
she looked all around--"don't you see she isn't?"

"Well, then, 'twas that bird," said the girl, pointing up to a high branch.
"Ain't you green, not to think of him!"

"I don't _think_ it was the bird," said Phronsie slowly, and peering
up anxiously, "and he doesn't cry again, so I 'most know he couldn't have
cried then."

"Well, he will, if you wait long enough," said the girl defiantly.

"Chee, chee, chee," sang the bird, with delicious little trills, and
shaking them out so fast his small throat seemed about to burst with its
efforts.

"There, you see he couldn't cry," began Phronsie, in a burst of delight;
"you see, little girl," and she hopped up and down in glee.

"He's got the 'sterics, an' he'll cry next, like enough," said the girl.

"What's 'the 'sterics'?" asked Phronsie, coming out of her glee, and
drawing nearer. "Oh, I see some tears," and she looked soberly up into the
thin, dirty face, and forgot all about her question.

"No, you don't, either." The girl twitched away angrily. "There ain't never
no tears you could see on me; 'twas the cat or the bird. Ain't you green,
though! You're green as that grass there," and she spun round and round,
snapping her fingers all the while.

Phronsie stood quite still and regarded her sorrowfully.

"Don't you believe I cried!" screamed the girl, dashing up to her, to snap
her fingers in Phronsie's face; "say you don't this minute."

"But I think you did," said Phronsie. "Oh. I'm very sure you did, and you
may hold my child again, if you only won't cry any more," and she clasped
her hands tightly together. The other girl started and ran toward the big
iron gate.

"Oh, don't!" Phronsie called after her, and ran to overtake the flying
feet. "Please stay with me. I like you; don't go."

The girl threw her head back as if something hurt her throat, then leaned
her face against the iron railings and stuck her fingers in her ears.

"Don't! lemme alone! go 'way, can't you!" She wriggled off from Phronsie's
fingers. "I'll lick you if you don't lemme be!"

"I wish you'd play with me," said Phronsie, having hard work to keep out of
the way of the flapping shoes all down at the heel, "and you may have
Clorinda for your very own child as long as you stay--you may really."

"Ow! see here!" Up came the girl's face, and with a defiant sweep of her
grimy hands she brushed both cheeks. "Do you mean that, honest true, black
and blue?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, very much relieved to see the effect of her
invitation, "I do mean it, little girl. Come, and I'll tell Clorinda all
how it is."

"I'm goin' outside to walk up and down a bit. Bring on your doll."

"But you must come here," said Phronsie, moving off slowly backward over
the grass. "Come, little girl"--holding out her hand.

"Now I know you didn't mean it," said the girl scornfully. "You wouldn't
let me touch that nasty old doll of yours again for nothin' you wouldn't,"
she shrilled at her.

"Oh, yes, I would," declared Phronsie, in great distress; "see, I'm going
to get her now," and she turned around and hurried over the grass to pick
Clorinda off from her resting-place and run back. "There, see, little
girl," she cried breathlessly, thrusting the doll into the dirty hands;
"take her now and we'll go and play."

For answer, the girl clutched the doll and sped wildly off through the
gateway.

"Oh!" cried Phronsie, running after with pink cheeks and outstretched arms,
"give me back my child; stop, little girl."

But there wras no stop to the long, thin figure flying down the path on the
other side of the tall hedge. It was a back passage, and few pedestrians
used the path; in fact, there were none on it this afternoon, so the
children had it all to themselves. And on they went, Phronsie, with but one
thought--to rescue her child from the depths of woe such as being carried
off by a strange mother would produce--blindly plunging after.

At last the girl with the doll stopped suddenly, flung herself up against a
stone fence, and drew a long breath.

"Well, what you goin' to do about it?" she cried defiantly, clutching the
doll with a savage grip.

Phronsie, too far gone for words, sank panting down to the curbstone, to
watch her with wild eyes.

"You said I might take her," the girl blurted out. "I hain't took nothin'
but what you give me. I want to play with her to my home. You come with me,
and then you can take her back with you."

"I can't," said Phronsie, in a faint little voice. Her cheeks were very
red, and she wiped her hot face on her white apron. "You must give me
Clorinda, and I must go home," and she held out a shaking hand.

But the girl danced off, and Phronsie, without a thought beyond the rescue
of her child, stumbled on after her, scarcely seeing one step before her
for the tears that, despite all her efforts, now began to stream down her
round cheeks.

At last, in trying to turn out for a baker's boy with a big basket, she
caught her foot and fell, a tired little heap, flat in a mud puddle in the
middle of the brick pavement.

"My eye!" cried the baker's boy, lifting her up. "Here, you girl, your
sister's fell, ker-squash!"

At this, the flying girl in front whirled suddenly and came running back,
and took in the situation at once.

"Come on, you lazy thing, you!" she exclaimed; then she burst into a laugh.
"Oh, how you look!"

"Give me back--" panted Phronsie, rubbing away the tears with her muddy
hands, regardless of her splashed clothes and dirty shoes.

"Keep still, can't you?" cried the girl, gripping her arm, as two or three
pedestrians paused to stare at the two. "Come on, sister," and she seized
Phronsie's hand, and bore her off. But on turning the corner, she stopped
abruptly, and, still holding the doll closely, she dropped to one knee and
wiped off the tears from the muddy little cheeks with a not ungentle hand.
"You've got to be my sister," she said, in a gush, "else the hoodlums will
tear you from neck to heels." And seizing Phronsie's hand again, she bore
her off, dodging between rows of dwellings, that, if her companion could
have seen, would have certainly proved to be quite novel. But Phronsie was
by this time quite beyond noticing any of the details of her journey, and
after turning a corner or two, she was hauled up several flights of rickety
steps, strange to say without the usual accompaniment of staring eyes and
comments of the various neighbors in the locality.

"There!" The girl, still clutching the doll, flung wide the rickety door.
"My, ain't I glad to get here, though!" and she drew a long breath,
releasing Phronsie's hand, who immediately slid to the floor in a collapsed
little heap. "Well, this is my home--ain't it pretty, though!"

Phronsie, thus called on for a reply, tried very hard to answer, but the
words wouldn't come.

"You needn't try," said the girl, slamming the door, "'tain't likely you
can praise it enough," and she broke out into a hard, sarcastic laugh,
which shrilled its way out of the one window, whose broken glass was
adorned with nondescript fillings.

"See here now, you're all beat out," she exclaimed suddenly; then rushing
across the room, she dragged up a broken chair, and jammed it against the
door. "There now, we're by ourselves, an' you can rest."

"I must go home," said Phronsie faintly, and holding up her tired arms.
"Give me my child; I must go home."

"Did you think I didn't know what was proper?" cried the girl scornfully,
and tossing her head. "I'm going to have five-o'clock tea 'fore you go.
There, I'm a lady, an' a swell one too, I'd have you know."

She ran over to the corner of the slatternly room, and set the doll on a
bed, over which were tossed the clothes in a dirty heap, Phronsie following
every movement with anxious eyes.

"Now she's my child, remember," she said, turning her sharp, black eyes on
the small figure huddled up on the floor, "as long as she stays here."

Then she hurried about, twitching a box out here and there from a cupboard,
whose broken door hung by one hinge.

"Here's my silver spoons--ain't they beautiful!" she cried, running up with
a few two-tined forks and a bent and battered knife. These she placed, also
the cracked cups, with great gusto, on the rickety table, propped for
support against the wall, as one of its legs was gone entirely and another
on the fair road to departure.

"'Tain't stylish to have yer table agin the wall," she broke out, "at a
five-o'clock tea; I know, 'cause I've peeked in the windows up on the
avenoo, an' I've seen your folks, too." She nodded over at Phronsie. "I
know what I'll do." She tossed her head with its black, elfish locks, and
darted off in triumph, dragging up from another corner a big box, first
unceremoniously dumping out the various articles, such as dirty clothes, a
tin pan or two, a skillet, an empty bottle--last of all, a nightcap, which
she held aloft. "Gran's," she shouted; "it's been lost a mighty long time.
Now I'm goin' to wear it to my five-o'clock tea. It's a picter hat, same's
that lady had on to your house once--I seen her." She threw the old
nightcap over her hair, tied the ragged strings with an air, and soon, by
dint of pulling and hauling, had the table in the very center of the
apartment, the box securely under its most delicate and unreliable portion.

"There--my! ain't we fine, though!" She surveyed her work with great
delight, her hands on her hips. "Now, says I, for our ice cream an' cake,
with white on top, an' choc'late."

She gave a flirt of her ragged gown and darted here and there with her
elfish movements; and presently a cold potato, shivering in its skin, a
slice or two of hard, moldy bread, and some turnips and carrots, uncooked,
were set about the dirty table, with empty spools in between. "Them's the
flowers," she explained, as she put the last-mentioned articles in their
places. "Now it's all ready, except the choc'late." And waving an old tin
coffeepot, whose nose was a thing of the past, she filled it at the faucet
over the wooden sink, and put it down with a flourish at one end of the
table. "Now we're ready, an' I'm the beautiful lady up to your house--I
seen her, once when I was peekin' through the fence"--she nodded shrewdly,
her little eyes snapping--"her an' your sister."

[Illustration: Five O'Clock Tea]

"Oh, I want Polly," broke out Phronsie, with such a wail, as she sat, a
frozen little heap, not daring to stir, that the girl screamed out:

"Well, I'm goin' to take you to her, when I've given you my five-o'clock
tea; that is, if you don't cry. An' I ain't goin' to be the beautiful lady
up at your house; I'll be Mrs. somebody else. No, I'll be a Dukess--the
Dukess of Marlbrer--I've seen her in the paper. Oh, you've got to have the
best chair," and she dragged up the sole article of furniture of that name,
minus its back, away from the door; then helping Phronsie up from the
floor, she wiped off the tears on her pinafore, no longer white, and soon
had her installed on it. "Now you're comp'ny." Thereupon she ran and
fetched the doll from the bed, and put her on a small, old barrel, from
which the articles were dumped out, and, with a box for her back, Clorinda
was soon in great state on one side of the feast. The Dukess then slipped
into her own seat, an inverted tub, somewhat low, to be sure, but still
allowing the view of the festive cup to be seen. "She's my child, now. Will
you have some choc'late?"--with a winning smile that ran all over her dirty
face and wrinkled it up alarmingly.

"Oh, no, she's my child," protested Phronsie, the tears beginning again.

"I mean till I get through my five-o'clock tea," cried the girl; "can't you
understand? Then she'll be yours, an' I'll take you home. Will you have
choc'late?--you must, Lady--what's your name, anyway?" she demanded
abruptly, bringing her black eyes to bear on Phronsie.

Phronsie could hardly stammer it out for the tears she was choking back.

"Oh, my eye, what a name!" laughed the Dukess, in derision. "Well, you can
be Lady Funsie--Fornsie--whatever you call it. Now, will you have some
choc'late? 'Taint perlite not to answer."

"I'd rather have some milk," said Phronsie faintly, "if you please."

"Oh, 'tain't no trouble," said the Dukess airily, quirking out her little
finger with grace; and poising the tin coffeepot with an elegant air, she
inverted it over a cracked cup, which, when generously full of water, she
passed to her guest. "Help yourself to th' cakes. Lady Fonsie," she said
graciously, "an' what beyewtiful weather we are havin'!"

Phronsie put forth a trembling hand, as it seemed to be expected of her,
and took the cup of water, spilling about half of it, which ran off the
table-edge and down her little brown gown, the Dukess greeting this mishap
with a shout of laughter, checking it suddenly with a start and a dismayed
glance in the direction of the broken window.

"It's time fer you to talk some," she said. "You should say, 'Yes, I think
so, too.'"

"I think so, too," murmured Phronsie, viewing her cup of milk gravely.

"An' you must say, 'I think, Dukess, you have the most splendid milk.'"

"It isn't milk," said Phronsie gravely, and she turned serious eyes on the
lady of quality opposite.

"Oh, yes, it is," said the Dukess, "an' you orter go on an' say, 'An' all
them perfectly beyewtiful flowers, I never see any so fine!'"--pointing to
the empty spools in between the eatables.

"But they aren't flowers," said Phronsie.

This occasioned so much discussion that there was no lack of conversation,
and was the reason that steps over the stairway were not heard. The door
was thrown open, and an old, stout, sodden woman, in a dirty, green shawl
and battered bonnet stood transfixed with amazement in the entrance. She
hadn't a pleasant eye beneath her straggling, white hair, and her first
words were not altogether agreeable nor appropriate at five-o'clock tea.

"So this is the way," she said gruffly, "when I sends you out, Rag, to pick
up somethin' you eat me out o' house an' home with brats you bring in"; for
she hadn't seen through the dirt on Phronsie's face and clothes what manner
of child was present.

The Dukess twitched off the nightcap, and sprang up, upsetting the tin
coffeepot, which rolled away by itself, and put herself over by Phronsie,
covering her from view. In passing, she had grasped the doll off from the
barrel and hidden her in the folds of her tattered gown with a quick, sharp
thrust.

"'Tain't nothin' 'f I do have some fun once in a while, Gran," she
grumbled. She pinched Phronsie's arm. "Keep still." And while the old woman
swayed across the room, for she wasn't quite free from the effects of a
taste from a bottle under her arm, which she couldn't resist trying before
she reached home, Phronsie and Rag were working their way over toward the
door.

"Stop!" roared the old woman at them, in a fury, and she held up the
nightcap. Involuntarily Rag paused, through sheer force of habit, and stood
paralyzed, till her grandmother had come quite close.

"Hey, what have we got here?" She eyed Phronsie sharply. "Oh, well, you
ain't acted so badly after all; maybe the pretty little lady has come to
see me, hey?" and she seized Phronsie's small arm.

"Gran," cried Rag hoarsely, waking up from her unlucky paralysis, "let her
go; only let her go, an' I'll--I'll do anythin' you want me to. I'll steal,
an' pick an' fetch, and do anything Gran."

The old woman leered at her, and passed her hand to the beads on Phronsie's
neck; and in doing so she let the little arm slip, that she might use both
hands to undo the clasp the better. One second of time--but Rag, knowing
quite well what could be done in it, seized Phronsie, rushed outside,
slammed the door, and was down over the rickety stairs in a twinkling,
through the dirty courtyard and alley--which luckily had few spectators,
and those thought she was carrying a neighbor's child--around a corner,
darting here and there, till presently she set Phronsie down, and drew a
long breath.

"Oh, my eye!" she panted, "but wasn't that a close shave, though!"




II

PHRONSIE


"There now, here you are!" There was a little click in the girl's throat.
Phronsie looked up.

"Yes, and your child, too." Clorinda and all her pink loveliness was thrust
into her own little mother's arms, and the sharp, black eyes peered down
upon the two. "I've brung you home, and you're on your own grassplot,
same's you were." Still she stood in her tracks.

"I'm sorry I brung you to my house; but you've had a five-o'clock tea, and
now you're home, an' got your child." Still she did not stir.

"Well, I've got to go. Say, don't you call no one, nor tell no one, till
I've had time to shake my feet down street." She thrust out one flapping
shoe, then the other, gave a scornful laugh, and brushed her hand across
the sharp eyes. "Promise now, black and blue, 'I promise true, hope to die
if I do'. Hurry up! Do you promise?" she cried sharply.

"Yes," said Phronsie, hugging Clorinda tightly.

"All right. Now for Gran!" She shut her teeth tightly and was off and
through the big gateway.

"I've got my child," said Phronsie, putting up a sleepy hand to pat
Clorinda's head, but it fell to her side, while her yellow hair slipped
closer over her flushed cheek. She tried to say, "Clorinda, we've got home,
and my foots are tired," swayed, held her child tighter to her bosom, and
over she went in a heap, fast asleep before her head touched the soft
grass.

Polly Pepper, hurrying home from Alexia's, ran in by the gateway, and down
by a short cut over the grass, her feet keeping time to a merry air that
had possessed her all the afternoon. "How fine," she cried to herself, "our
garden party will be!--and we've gotten on splendidly with our fancy things
this afternoon. It will be too perfectly elegant for--" the flying feet
came to a standstill that nearly threw her over the sleeping figure, the
doll tightly pressed to the dirty little pinafore and the flushed cheeks.

"Oh, my goodness me!" cried Polly, down on her knees. "Why, Phronsie, just
look at your pinafore!" But Phronsie had no idea of looking at anything,
and still slept on.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, in consternation, "whatever in the world has
she been doing! Well, I must get her up to the house."

"Hullo!" It was Jasper's voice. Polly flew up to her feet and hulloed back.
He took a short cut, with a good many flying leaps, across the grass. "Oh,
Polly, I've been looking for you!"

"Just see there." cried Polly, pointing tragically to the little heap.

"Well, dear me!" said Jasper. "Why, Polly"--as his eyes fell on the soiled
pinafore and the little face where the tears had made muddy streaks.

"I know it," said Polly. "Did you ever in all this world, Jasper! What do
you suppose she has been doing?"

"Oh, making mud pies, perhaps," said Jasper, unwilling to worry Polly;
"don't look so, Polly. Here, we'll carry her to the house."

"Lady-chair," said Polly, the worry dropping out of her eyes at the fun of
carrying Phronsie in. But Phronsie was beyond the charms of "lady-chair" or
"pick-a-back," her yellow head bobbing so dismally when they lifted her up,
that Jasper at last picked her up in his arms, and marched off with her.

"You bring the doll, Polly."

So Polly ran along by his side with Clorinda dangling by one arm.

Mother Fisher said never a word when she received her baby, but wisely
soothed and washed and tucked her away in bed; and little Doctor Fisher, as
soon as he got home, viewed her critically through his big spectacles, and
said, "The child is all right. Let her sleep." Which she did, until every
one of the household, creeping in and out, declared she could not possibly
sleep any longer, and that they must wake her up. This last was from Polly.

"What do you suppose it is, Mamsie?" she asked, for about the fiftieth
time, hanging over Phronsie's little bed.

"Nothing," said Mrs. Fisher, with firm lips. Polly must not be worried by
unnecessary alarm, and really there seemed to be nothing amiss with
Phronsie, who was sleeping peacefully, with calm little face and even
breath. "It's the best thing for her to sleep till she's rested."

"But what could have tired her so?" said Polly, with a puzzled face.

"That's just what we can't find out now," said her mother, diving into her
basket for another of Van's stockings. "Oh, here is the mate. When she
wakes up, she'll tell us."

"Well, Joanna is going, isn't she, Mamsie?" asked Polly, deserting the
little bed to fling herself down on the floor at Mrs. Fisher's feet, to
watch the busy fingers.

"Yes, she is," said Mother Fisher decidedly.

"I'm so very glad of that," said Polly, with a sigh of relief, "because you
know, Mamsie, she might go off again and leave Phronsie when she ought to
be watching her."

"Say no more about it, Polly," said her mother, setting even, firm
stitches, "for Mr. King is very angry with Joanna; and you needn't be
afraid that Phronsie will ever be left again, until we do get just the
right person to be with her. Now you better go out and forget it all, and
busy yourself about something."

"I've got to practice," said Polly with a yawn, and stretching her arms. "I
haven't done a bit this whole afternoon, and Monsieur comes tomorrow."

"Best fly at it, then," said Mrs. Fisher, smiling at her. So Polly, with a
parting glance at the figure on the little bed, went downstairs and into
the big drawing-room, wishing that Phronsie was there, as usual, where she
dearly loved to stay, tucked up in a big damask-covered chair, one of her
dolls in her arms, waiting patiently till the practice hour should be over.

But when Phronsie at last turned over, and said without a bit of warning,
"I want something to eat, I do." with an extremely injured expression,
Mother Fisher was so thankful that she had no time to question her, if,
indeed, she had considered it wise to do so. And Sarah was called, and
laughed with delight at the summons, and ran off to get the tray ready,
Phronsie watching her with hungry eyes in which the dew of sleep still
lingered. But old Mr. King was not so patient.

When he saw, as he soon did, his visits to the side of the little bed being
as frequent as Polly's own, that Phronsie was really awake and sitting up,
he could keep still no longer, but putting his arms around her, fumed out:

"Oh, that careless Joanna! Poor lamb! There, there! Grandpapa will take
care of his little girl himself, after this."

"I'm hungry," announced Phronsie, looking up into his face. "Indeed I am,
Grandpapa dear, very hungry."

"Oh, to think of it! Yes, Pet"--soothing her. "Where is that Sarah? Can't
some one get this poor child a bit to eat?" he cried irascibly.

"Sarah will hurry just as fast as she can," said Mrs. Fisher, coming up
with a dainty white gown over her arm. "Phronsie must be a good girl and
wait patiently."

Phronsie wriggled her toes under the bedclothes.

"I wish you'd take me, Grandpapa dear," she said, holding up her arms.

"So I will--so I will, Pet!" cried old Mr. King, very much delighted; and
lifting her up to rest her head on his shoulder, he walked up and down the
room. "There, there, dear! Oh, why doesn't that Sarah hurry!"--when in
walked that individual with a big tray, and on it everything that a hungry
child could be supposed to desire. But Phronsie had no eyes for anything
but the glass of milk.

"Oh, Grandpapa," she piped out at sight of it, "Sarah's got me some milk,"
and she gave a happy little crow.

"So she has," he laughed as gayly, "Well, now, we'll sit right down here
and have some of these good things," and, Mrs. Fisher drawing up a big easy
chair in front of the table where Sarah deposited the tray, he sat down,
with Phronsie on his knee. "Now, child----"

"Oh, Grandpapa, may I have the milk?" she begged, holding out a trembling
hand.

"Bless you, yes, child." He put the glass into her hand. "Take care,
Phronsie, don't drink so fast."

"Honey will choke herself," cried Sarah, in alarm, holding up warning black
fingers. "Oh, my! she's done drunk it mos' all up a'ready."

"There, there, Phronsie!" Grandpapa took hold of the glass.

"Phronsie," said Mother Fisher, and it was her hand that took the glass
away from the eager lips. "You must eat a roll now, or a little bit of
toast."

"But I want some more milk," said Phronsie, and her lips quivered.

"Not yet, Phronsie." Mother Fisher was cutting up the toast, and now held
up a morsel on the spoon. "See how very nice it is."

"We'll play it is five-o'clock tea," said old Mr. King, at his wit's end to
bring the smiles into her face. Phronsie turned and gave him one look, then
buried her face in his waistcoat and cried as hard as she could.

"There, there!" The old gentleman got up to his feet and began to pace the
floor again, his white hair bent over her face, his hand patting her back
gently. "Don't cry, poor little lamb." And as a sudden thought struck him,
"Just look at your mother, Phronsie; you are making her sick."

Up popped Phronsie's yellow head, the tears trailing off from the round
cheeks till they fell on the floor. There stood Mother Fisher, quite still.

"I'm sorry, Mamsie," said Phronsie, and she put out a little hand, "I'll
eat the toast." So down old Mr. King sat again, with her on his lap, and
Mother Fisher cut up more toast, and Phronsie opened her mouth obediently,
and after the first mouthful she smiled: "I like it, I do." And Mother
Fisher smiled too, and said, "I knew you would, Phronsie." And Grandpapa
laughed, he was so happy, and Sarah kept crying, "Bress de Lawd! yer maw
knew best." And pretty soon Mrs. Fisher nodded to old Mr. King, and he
said, "Now for the rest of the milk, Phronsie," and the glass was put into
her happy hand.

And then more toast, and more laughing, for Grandpapa by that time told a
funny story, and everything got so very merry that the gayety brought all
the rest of the houseful of children up to see if Phronsie were really
awake.

"Why didn't you tell us before?" cried Joel, in a dudgeon, revolving around
the table. "She's been eating ever so long, and we thought she was asleep."

"That's the reason she's had a little peace," retorted the old gentleman.

"Catch them telling you, Joe!" said Percy Whitney, glad to pitch in with a
word.

"Well, you didn't know it, either," said Joel, in great satisfaction. "Say,
Phronsie, where were you all this morning?"

"Ugh!" cried Van, with a warning dig in his ribs.

"Let me alone," cried Joel, squaring around on him savagely.

"Look at Phronsie's face," said Percy, with a superior manner, as if no one
needed to tell him when to speak.

Polly was on her knees cuddling up Phronsie's toes, and begging to feed
her, when she felt her give a shiver, and try to hide her face on her neck.

"Don't, Joey," begged Polly. But Joel, not hearing her, and hating to be
dictated to by Percy, cried out persistently:

"Say, Phron, what were you doing all the morning?"

Phronsie at this gave a loud sob. "Take me, Polly," was all she said. So
Polly sat down on the floor, and Phronsie snuggled up closer into her neck,
and was rocked back and forth to her heart's content, while Joel, perfectly
aghast at the mischief he had done, was taken in tow by Mother Fisher, to
sob out, his head in her lap, that he "didn't mean to, he didn't mean to."

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed old Mr. King, in dismay, "this is a pretty state
of things! Polly, my child"--he leaned over her--"can't you think up
something to get us out of it?"

"I'm going to talk about the garden party," cried Polly, an inspiration
seizing her. "Oh, Phronsie, now you must sit up; you can't think what plans
we have for it." But Phronsie burrowed deeper in her nest.

"If you don't sit up, Phronsie," said Polly quite decidedly, "I shall have
to put you off from my lap, and go out of the room."

"Oh, no, no, Polly!" cried Phronsie, clutching her around the neck.

"Yes, I shall, Phronsie," declared Polly, in her most decided fashion, "so
you must sit right up, and hear all about it. Now, Jasper, you begin."

So Phronsie sat up and let Polly wipe her face; and then she folded her
hands in her lap, while Jasper began:

"You see that we thought that we'd take the Wistaria arbor, Father, if
you'd let us, for our post office. May we?"

"Yes, yes, certainly," said the old gentleman, who would have been quite
willing to promise anything just then.

"Oh, that's no end jolly!" cried Jasper, throwing back his dark hair from
his forehead with a quick thrust. "Now we can do splendidly. Polly, only
think!" His eyes shone, and Polly screamed out, "Oh, Grandpapa, how
lovely!" and the others joined in, not quite knowing what they were so
happy about, until Joel popped up his head from his mother's lap to hear
what all the noise was about over there.

"I'm going to be postmaster," he announced, wiping the tears off with the
back of his hand, and plunging across the room.

"No, sir-ee!" declared Ben, seizing his jacket-end, "don't think it, Joe.
Jasper is going to fill that important office."

"Yes, Jasper is," shouted Percy and Van together, delighted at anything
that could keep Joel out. Davie stood perfectly still in the midst of the
uproar.

"Why couldn't Joey be a letter carrier, to help give out the letters?" he
said at last, in the midst of the noise. "Couldn't he, Ben?" and he ran to
twitch that individual's sleeve.

"Hey--what?"

"Couldn't he be the one to give out some of the letters, and help Jasper?"
asked David anxiously.

"I don't know--yes, maybe"--as he saw David's face fall. "You best ask
Jasper, he's to be the postmaster."

So David ran over and precipitated himself into the middle of the group,
with his question; when immediately the rest began to clamor to help Jasper
give out the letters, so the babel was worse than at first.

Phronsie by this time was begging with the others, while she sat straight
in Polly's lap, with very red cheeks and wide eyes. Now she slipped out,
and rushed up to Jasper.

"And I, too, Japser; I want to give out letters, too," she cried,
dreadfully excited.

"So you shall, Pet," he cried, seizing her to toss her up in the air, the
others all circling around them, Phronsie's happy little crows going up
high above the general din.

"Well, I think if we are going to have such a fine post office, we'll have
to work pretty hard to write the letters," said Polly, after they had
sobered down a bit.

"Ugh!" cried Joel with a grimace, "I'm not going to write a single scrap of
one."

"Indeed you are," retorted Polly; "everybody has absolutely got to write
some letters. Why, we must have a bushel of them."

"Oh, Polly Pepper!" cried the others, "a bushel of letters!"

"And no one can have a letter who doesn't write some," announced Polly
firmly--"the very idea! So we must all work like everything to get ready
for the post office."




III

CLEM FORSYTHE


Phronsie sat on the stairs, halfway down the long flight. It was the same
staircase on which Jasper had found her, with Polly waiting patiently on
the lower step, when she first came to Grandpapa King's. Now she held
Clorinda in her arms, tightly pressed to her bosom.

"I do wish," she said softly, "that I could see my poor little girl, I do."

Clorinda not replying, Phronsie smoothed down the pink gown.

"It wasn't very nice at that little girl's house"--and a troubled
expression swept over her face--"but the little girl was nice, and she
hadn't any child."

Clorinda's countenance expressed no sorrow, but stared up at her mother
unblinkingly. Phronsie bent over and dropped a kiss on the red lips.

"Maybe she'll come again some day, if I watch by the big gate."

"My goodness me!" Polly, running along the upper hall, peered over the
railing. "What are you doing, Phronsie, sitting down in the middle of the
stairs?"

"I'm thinking," said Phronsie, looking up.

"Well, I should say!" cried Polly, running down to sit beside her. "Oh,
Pet, I've an invite for you." She seized Phronsie's hand and cuddled it in
both of her own. "It's perfectly splendid."

"What's an 'invite'?" asked Phronsie, coming slowly out of her thoughts, to
peer into Polly's face.

"Oh, I forgot, Mamsie didn't want me to say that," said Polly, with a
little blush. "Well, it's an invitation, Pet, and to Miss Mary Taylor's, to
go with us girls this afternoon to work on our fancy things for the fair.
Only think of that, Phronsie Pepper!" And Polly threw her arms around the
small figure, and hugged her, to the imminent danger of both falling down
the rest of the flight.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "we almost went over."

"Can I really go, Polly?" cried Phronsie, as soon as she could get her
breath, "when you all take your bags and work on things?" She set Clorinda
carefully down on the stair above, and stood up to look into Polly's face.

"Yes, child. Take care, you'll tumble over backward," warned Polly, with a
restraining hand. "And oh, Phronsie! I'm going to make you a little silk
bag, and you can take your pin-cushion to work on."

This was such a height of bliss that it quite overcame Phronsie, and she
sat down on her stair again to think it over. To have a little silk bag to
hang on her arm to carry her work in, just as Polly and the other girls did
when they went to each other's houses with their fancy work, was more than
she ever imagined was coming to her till she got as big as they were. And
to put her "cushion-pin" in it, and go to Miss Mary Taylor's with them all,
sent her into such a dream of delight that she sat quite still, her hands
in her lap.

"Don't you like it, Pet?" cried Polly, disappointed at her silence.

Phronsie drew a long breath, then stood up and began to hop up and down on
her stair.

"Oh, Polly," she cried, clapping her hands, "I'm going to have a little
silk bag, I truly am, Polly, all my own--oh!"

"My goodness me, Phronsie!" cried Polly, seizing her arms, "you'll roll
down and break your neck, most likely."

"And I'll take my cushion-pin"--Phronsie leaned over and put her face close
to Polly's cheek--"and I'll sew on it for the poor children, I will," and
she began to hop up and down again.

"Take care, and stop dancing," laughed Polly.

"And it shall be a pink bag," said Phronsie, dreadfully excited; "make it a
pink bag, do, Polly."

"Oh, I don't know that I can do that," said Polly slowly, "because you know
I took my piece of pink ribbon Auntie gave me, for that sachet case I'm
making for the fair. But never mind, child"--as she saw a sorry little
droop to Phronsie's mouth--"I'll find another somewhere, and it will be
nice, even if it isn't pink."

"It will be nice," echoed Phronsie confidently, as long as Polly said so,
and she clasped her hands.

"And come on, Pet, we'll go and find the ribbon and make the bag now, so as
to be all ready." Polly flew up from her stair. "Pick up your doll, and
give me your hand. Here we are!"--as they ran up to the top.

"I very much wish you wouldn't call her my doll," panted Phronsie, as they
reached the last step; "she's my child, Polly."

"I know; I won't forget," laughed Polly. "Now, says I, Phronsie, for my
piece-box!"

The invitation of Miss Mary Taylor to all the girls who were getting up the
fair for the poor children's week, plunged them into such a state of
excitement that those who had been lagging over their fancy work now
spirited up on it, or ran down-street to get more materials and begin anew.
One of these was Clem Forsythe.

"Oh, dear me!" cried Polly, looking up from the floor of her room, where
Phronsie and she had thrown themselves, the piece-box of ribbons between
them, "here comes Clem up the drive; now I 'most know she wants me to help
her on that sofa-pillow," and she twitched a square of yellow silk into a
tighter tangle. "How in the world did that spool get in here?" she
exclaimed, in vexation.

"I'll get it out, let me," begged Phronsie, dropping a fascinating bunch of
gay ribbons she was sorting in the hope of finding a pink one.

"Oh, you can't, child," cried Polly, her impatient fingers making sad work
of the snarl. "There, I'll break the old thing, there's no other way"--as
Clem ran over the stairs and into the room.

"Oh, I'm so glad to find you!" panted Clem. "Dear me! what _are_ you
doing?" And not waiting for an answer, she plunged on: "I stopped at
Alexia's--thought you might be there. And she's just as mad as can be
because I was coming over here for you. You see, her aunt has something for
her to do this morning. I'm tickled to death that for once I got ahead of
her. Whew! I'm so hot! I ran every step of the way." She threw herself down
on the floor beside the two. "My, what a sight of ribbons, Polly Pepper!"

"I'm going to have a silk bag, Clem," confided Phronsie, dropping the
little bunch of ribbons in her lap, to lean over to look into the tall
girl's face, "and I'm going to take my cushion-pin in it."

"Are you, really?" said Clem. "Oh, Polly, you see, I want you to----"

"Yes, I am." Phronsie nodded her yellow head. "Polly is going to make it
right now, she is."

"Is she? Oh, dear!" Clem gave a groan. "Oh, Polly, I did want you to----"

"You see, I promised her this," Polly was guilty of interrupting. "She's
been invited to Miss Mary's this afternoon with us girls, and she wants a
silk bag to carry her work in, too, the same as we big girls have, don't
you, Pet?" Polly stopped long enough in the final tussle with the snarl to
set a kiss on Phronsie's round cheek.

"Yes, I do, Polly," laughed Phronsie, with a wriggle of delight, "and I'm
going to carry my cushion-pin in it, I am."

"So you see I can't help you on your sofa-pillow, Clem," said Polly
hurriedly, feeling dreadfully ashamed to have to say no.

"Oh, I don't want any help on it," said Clem; "I finished that old thing,
Polly."

"Finished your sofa-pillow, Clem!" Polly dropped her snarl in her lap.
"Why, how could you?--and you hadn't the dog worked, except one leg, and
none of the filling in."

"Oh, I don't mean I finished it in that way," said Clem carelessly. "I mean
I'm done with it forever. I just hate that old dog, Polly, and so I gave
the whole thing to our second girl, and she's going to work it for
Christmas and send it to her mother."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "and now you won't give anything to the fair,"
and her mouth drooped sorrowfully.

"Oh, yes, I will, too," declared Clem cheerfully; "I'll give something ten
times better than that old dog sitting up on a cushion. And nobody would
have bought it when it was done, except my mother--I'd made her--so what's
the use of finishing it? Anyway, I've given it to Bridget; and now I'm
going to make the most elegant thing--you can't guess, Polly Pepper."

"What is it?" cried Polly, with sparkling eyes.

"Oh, that's telling," said Clem, in a tantalizing way. "You must guess."

"Polly," said Phronsie, with a gentle little twitch on her arm, "can you
find any pink ribbon?"

"Yes, yes; I mean no, not yet," said Polly, in a preoccupied way, her eyes
on Clem's face. "Oh, I can't guess; it might be anything, you know, Clem."

"But it isn't; I mean it's something," declared Clem, in great triumph.
"Oh, do hurry, you're so slow, Polly; it's too elegant for anything!"

Polly leaned her face in her hands, and her elbows on her knees. "Mm,
mm--oh, I know!" She brought up suddenly, nearly overthrowing Phronsie, who
had bent anxiously over her. "Take care, Pet, I came near bumping your
nose. It's a workbag."

"A workbag!" exclaimed Clem, in great scorn. "Well, I guess not, Polly
Pepper. What I'm going to make is ever so much better than an old workbag.
Guess again."

At the mention of the workbag, Phronsie had gently pulled Polly's arm. But
Polly was too deep in thought to notice, and she wrinkled her brows, and
bent her head again in her hands. What could it possibly be that Clem was
to make?

"Well, I think it is a sachet bag, then," she said at last.

"An old sachet bag, when all the girls are making oceans of 'em! I should
think you'd be perfectly ashamed, Polly Pepper, to sit there and guess such
things. I'm going to make a most beautiful, embroidered handkerchief case,
with little violets all----"

"Why, you can't, Clem Forsythe!" Polly flew to her feet, sending the ribbon
box flying, and nearly oversetting Phronsie. "You ought not to do any such
thing," she ran on passionately, a little red spot coming on either cheek,
"when you know it'll be just like mine. It would be too mean for anything."

"It won't be just like it," said Clem, twisting uncomfortably, and not
looking up into Polly's face, "for mine is to be a wreath, and yours is a
bunch."

"But it'll be the same thing," cried Polly, too angry to think what she was
saying, "and you're perfectly mean and hateful to copy mine."

"Polly," cried Phronsie, in a distressed little voice. She had gotten up to
her feet, and now hurried over to hold Polly's gown. "Oh, don't, Polly,
don't!"

"Go away," commanded Polly, angrily twitching her gown free; "you don't
know what you are doing, Phronsie, to stop me. She's gone and chosen the
very thing I thought of all by myself."

"I guess there are other violet handkerchief cases in the shops," said Clem
coldly. She was getting over her uncomfortable fit, and now she sprang to
her feet. "And I think you are mean and stingy, too, Polly Pepper"--she
tossed her head high in the air--"to expect to keep all the best things to
yourself, and we're all working ourselves most to death over this old fair.
And I did come to ask you to go down-town with me to buy my materials.
Mother's given me five dollars to spend just as I like--but I shan't ask
you now, so there!" She gave her head another toss, and walked off toward
the door.

Phronsie deserted Polly and ran on unsteady little feet after her.

"Polly isn't mean and stingy," she quavered; "she couldn't be."

Clem looked down at her, and little uncomfortable thrills ran all over her.

"Well, anyway, she's mad at me," she said, with great decision.

"Oh, no, Polly isn't mad," declared Phronsie. She clasped her hands, and
swallowed very hard to keep the tears back, but two big drops escaped and
rolled down her cheeks. When Clem saw those, she turned away.

"Well, anyway, I'm going down-street by myself," she said, without a
backward glance at Polly, and off she went.

"And if she thinks I'm going with her, or care what she does, after this,"
cried Polly, magnificently, with her head in the air, "she'll make a
mistake."

"Polly, Polly!" The tears were rolling fast now, and Phronsie could
scarcely see to stumble back across the room to her side.

"And you don't know anything about it, child. To think of making a violet
handkerchief case, and mine is almost done, and none of the girls would
copy mine! And Jasper drew the flowers on purpose." She was going on so
fast now that she couldn't stop herself.

"Mamsie wouldn't like it," wailed Phronsie, clear gone in distress now, and
hiding her face in Polly's gown.

"Mamsie would say--" began Polly decidedly. Then she stopped suddenly. "Oh,
what have I said!" she cried. "Oh, what can I do!" She clasped her hands
tightly together. She was now in as much distress as Phronsie, and, seeing
this, Phronsie came out of her tears at once.

"You might run after her," she said. "Oh, Polly, do."

"She won't speak to me," said Polly, with a little shiver, and covering her
eyes. "Oh, dear, dear, how could I!"

"Yes, she will, I do believe," said Phronsie, putting down a terrible
feeling at her throat. Not speak to Polly?--such a thing could never be!
"Do run after her, Polly," she begged.

Polly took down her hands and went off with wavering steps to the door.

"I'll get your hat," cried Phronsie, running to the closet.

But Polly, once having decided to make the attempt at a reconciliation, was
off, her brown braids flying back of her in the wind.




IV

MISS TAYLOR'S WORKING BEE


Looking both sides of the road, not daring to think what she would say if
she really did see Clem, Polly sped on. But not a glimpse of the tall
girl's figure met her eyes, and at last she turned in at a gateway and ran
up the little path to the door. Mrs. Forsythe saw her through the window
that opened on the piazza.

"Why, Polly Pepper," she cried, "what a pity that Clem didn't find you! She
went over to your house."

"Oh, I know, I know," panted Polly, with scarlet cheeks.

"Don't try to talk," said Mrs. Forsythe, "you are all out of breath. Come
in, Polly."

"Oh, I can't. I mean I would like to see Clem," mumbled Polly, with an
awful dread, now that she was on the point of finding her, of what she
should say. It was all she could do to keep from running down the piazza
steps and fleeing home as fast as she had come.

"Why, Clem isn't at home," said Mrs. Forsythe, in a puzzled way; "you know
I told you she had gone over to your house. She wanted you to go down-town
with her, to buy some materials to take over to Miss Mary's this afternoon
and begin something new for the fair."

"Oh!" said Polly, in a faint voice, and hanging to the piazza railing.

"You see, she was all tired out over that sofa-pillow. I told her it was
quite too ambitious a piece to do, and she was so discouraged I gave her
some more money, and advised her to get something fresh. She had almost
made up her mind to give up working for the fair altogether."

"Oh, dear me!" gasped Polly, quite overcome.

"Yes." Mrs. Forsythe leaned comfortably against the door-casing. It was
such a comfort to tell her worries to Polly Pepper. "Clem said all the
other girls were making such pretty things, and it was no use for her to
try. She can't get up new ideas quickly, you know, and she was ashamed not
to take in something nice, and so she said she didn't mean to do anything.
I couldn't bear to have her give it up, for she ought to keep with you
girls." Mrs. Forsythe's face fell into anxious lines. "She gets unhappy by
herself, with no young people in the house and only my mother and me to
brighten her up. So I talked with her a long while this morning, and at
last got her to be willing to try again. Well, it's all right now, for
she's started to find you, and go down-town to buy the things," and Mrs
Forsythe smiled happily.

Polly sank to the piazza steps and buried her face in her hands.

"Why, my dear, are you ill?" Clem's mother deserted the door-casing and
came quickly out. "Let me get you something."

"Oh, no, no!" Polly sprang to her feet and hurried down the steps. "I must
go home," she said hoarsely; and not pausing to think, only to get to
Mamsie, she sped away on the wings of the wind, not stopping until she had
turned in at the little green wicket-gate where she wouldn't be likely to
meet any one.

"Oh, dear, dear!"--and she hurried across the grass--"supposing Mamsie
isn't at home! She was going out for Auntie. What _shall_ I do?"

In her despair she raced over the greensward and plunged into the Wistaria
arbor--to stand face to face with Clem!

Polly was too far gone in distress to say anything. Clem jerked up her head
from the table, and raised a defiant pair of cheeks, wet and miserable.
"Oh, dear, dear!" was all Polly could get out. But she stumbled in and put
her arms around her neck, and down went the two heads together.

"I'm awfully sorry," blubbered Clem. "Oh, dear! I forgot my handkerchief."

"Take mine." Polly put a wet little wad into her hand. "Oh, Clem, if you
don't let me go down-town with you and buy that handkerchief case!"

"Let you!" cried Clem. "You won't want to go with me, Polly. But I'm not
going to work a handkerchief case."

"Oh, yes, you are," declared Polly positively. "If you don't, Clem
Forsythe!"

"It was mean in me to choose it," said Clem, beginning to sniffle again,
now that she had a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, no!" said Polly in alarm. "Now I know you won't forgive me when
you say such things. For it was all my fault; I was stingy mean to want to
keep it to myself."

"You aren't ever mean, Polly Pepper!" Clem hugged her so tightly by the
neck that the neat little ruffle Mamsie sewed in that very morning was
quite crushed. When she saw that, Clem was in worse distress than ever.

"See here! Why, Clem Forsythe!" Polly Pepper flew up to her feet so
suddenly, that Clem started in amazement, and stared at her as well as she
could with her eyes full of tears.

"Why, can't you see? Haven't we been two goosies--geese, I mean--not to
think of it before!"

"What?" asked Clem helplessly.

"Why, you might make a violet _glove_ case," said Polly, in a burst.
Then she began to dance around the arbor. "Oh, Clem, how perfectly lovely!"

"I don't see," began Clem dismally, "and I don't know how to make a glove
case."

"Why, make it just like my handkerchief case, only long," flung Polly over
her shoulder, as she danced away.

"But I don't want to copy yours," protested Clem, "for it really would be
mean."

"But this would make a set, yours and mine," said Polly breathlessly, and
coming up to shake the downcast shoulders, "don't you see? Oh, you goosie!
and I've been another, not to think of it before. And oh, such a set! Why,
it would sell for a lot of money. And I'll ask Jasper to draw you the same
kind of bunch of violets on your glove case, and we'll go right down-town,
now. I can make Phronsie's bag when I get home. Come on!"

When Clem once had the idea in her mind, she got off from the bench, and
Phronsie, watching anxiously from Polly's window for her return, saw the
two girls hurrying across the lawn, their arms around each other and
talking busily. And it wasn't but a moment or two, and she was flying over
the grass to meet them. Polly had explained that the little ribbon bag was
to be made just as soon as the materials for the new glove case were
bought. Polly had run up for her hat, and to get her little purse, for she
just remembered that her green silk for the violet stems was nearly out,
and Phronsie had said good-bye and gone back to the house on happy feet, to
tell Clorinda and watch at the window till Polly should come again.

And just after luncheon, for they must start early in order to have a good
long afternoon at Miss Mary's, Polly and Phronsie set forth, the new little
bag hanging from Phronsie's arm. Jasper went with them as far as the
corner, where he turned off to go to Jack Rutherford's, for the boys were
to meet there to write letters for the post office. They had promised to be
there bright and early.

"Oh, Jasper, it was so good of you to draw that dear bunch of violets for
Clem," said Polly for about the fiftieth time; "it was too sweet for
anything."

"Too sweet for anything," hummed Phronsie, all her eyes on her bag,
dangling as she walked.

"Take care, you came near falling on your nose, Phronsie." Jasper put out a
warning hand.

"I think it's so nice there's a pink stripe in it, Polly," said Phronsie,
patting her bag affectionately.

"Yes, isn't it, Pet!" cried Polly, glad she hadn't snipped up that very
ribbon for little sachet bags. "And the green stripe, too, is pretty,
Phronsie."

"It's pretty," cooed Phronsie, "and my cushion-pin is inside, Japser," she
announced.

"Is it really?" said Jasper.

"Yes, it is really and truly, Japser, and I'm going to work on it," she
added, with a very important air.

"You don't say so, Pet!" he cried. "Why, you are going to a working bee
just the same as the big girls, aren't you?"

"I'm very big," said Phronsie, stepping so high she nearly fell into a
mud-puddle. Whereat Jasper picked her up, bag and all, and marched off,
laughing, not to set her down till they reached the corner.

"Well, good-bye. Take care now, Phronsie," and he gave her a kiss.
"Good-bye, Polly, and good luck to your bee."

"And I do hope you'll have splendid success with the letters, Jasper,"
Polly craned her neck around the corner to say, the last thing. Then she
took Phronsie's hand and hurried along to meet a throng of girls, all bound
for Miss Mary's.

There on the big stone steps was Mr. Hamilton Dyce.

"I heard there was to be a bee here this afternoon," he said, looking down
at them all with a smile, "so I thought I'd come."

"I'm coming," announced Phronsie, breaking away from Polly and holding up
her bag; and she began to mount the steps.

"So I perceive," said Mr. Dyce, running down to meet her. "Well, Phronsie,
I must tell you I came partly to see you."

"And I've got a cushion-pin inside," said Phronsie confidingly, as she
toiled up.

"Have you, though?" cried Mr. Dyce. "Take care, don't go so fast. Let some
of these girls race ahead of us; we'll take our time. How d'ye, Polly, and
Alexia, and all the rest of you?"

"But I must hurry," said Phronsie, with a very pink face, as the bevy
rushed by, "for I'm going to work on my cushion-pin."

"So you must. Well, then, here goes!" Mr. Dyce swung her up to his shoulder
and went, two steps at a time, in through the crowd of girls, so that he
arrived there first when the door was opened. There in the hall stood Miss
Mary Taylor, as pretty as a pink.

"I heard there was to be a bee here this afternoon, and I've brought
Phronsie; that's my welcome," he announced.

"See, I've got a bag," announced Phronsie from her perch, and holding it
forth.

So the bag was admired, and the girls trooped in, going up into Miss Mary's
pretty room to take off their things. And presently the big library, with
the music-room adjoining, was filled with the gay young people, and the
bustle and chatter began at once.

"I should think you'd be driven wild by them all wanting you at the same
minute." Mr. Dyce, having that desire at this identical time, naturally
felt a bit impatient, as Miss Mary went about inspecting the work, helping
to pick out a stitch here and to set a new one there, admiring everyone's
special bit of prettiness, and tossing a smile and a gay word in every
chance moment between.

"Oh, no," said Miss Mary, with a little laugh, "they're most of them my
Sunday-school scholars, you know."

"That's all the more reason that you ought not to be bothered with them
week days," observed Mr. Dyce. "Now why can't you sit down here and amuse
me?" He pushed up an easy-chair into a cosy-corner, then drew up an
ottoman, on which he sat down.

"Oh, look at that Mr. Dyce," said Clem, quite in a flow of spirits, as she
threaded her needle with a strand of violet silk; "he's going to keep Miss
Mary off there all to himself. What did make him come this afternoon?"

"Well, he isn't going to have Miss Mary!" cried Alexia Rhys, twitching her
pink worsted with an impatient hand. "Horrors! Now I've gone and gotten
that into a precious snarl. The very idea! She's our Sunday-school teacher.
Oh, Miss Mary!" she called suddenly.

Miss Taylor, just sitting down in the easy-chair, turned. "What is it,
Alexia?"--while Mr. Dyce frowned. At which Alexia laughed over at him.

"Please show me about my work," she begged.

"You little tyrant!" called Mr. Dyce, as Miss Mary went over.

"Do I slip one stitch and then knit two?" asked Alexia innocently. Polly,
next to her on a cricket, opened wide eyes.

"Yes," said Miss Mary, "just the same as you have been knitting all along,
Alexia."

"Well, I couldn't think of anything else to ask," said Alexia coolly. Then
she laid hold of Miss Mary's pretty, gray gown.

"Oh, don't go back to him," she implored. "Do stay with us girls, we're all
your Sunday-school class--that is, most of us. _Please_ stay with us,
Miss Mary."

Miss Mary cast an imploring glance over at the gentleman, which he seemed
to see, although apparently he wasn't looking.

"Phronsie, you and I will have to move over, I think"; for by this time he
had her in his lap; and so he bundled her across the room unceremoniously.

"Oh, I've lost my needle!" cried Phronsie, peering out from his arms in
great distress.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Dyce; so he set her down and dropped to all-fours
to peer about for the shining little implement, Phronsie getting down on
her knees to assist the search.

Alexia, seeing the trouble, deserted her knitting, and flew out of her
chair to help look for it.

"You little tyrant!" exclaimed Mr. Dyce, as she added herself to the group,
"to call Miss Mary over there! I should think it was quite bad enough to
have you Sundays, Alexia."

"Miss Mary thinks a great deal of me," said Alexia composedly. "Dear me,
what a plaguey little thing that needle is! Never mind, Phronsie, don't
feel badly. I guess--oh, here it is, and sticking straight up."

"And all this would never have happened but for your calling Miss Mary
away," observed Mr. Dyce, getting up straight again. "What a little
nuisance you are, Alexia!" All of which she had heard from him so many
times before that it failed to disturb her, so she went back to her seat in
high spirits, Phronsie hopping over like a small rabbit to a little cricket
at Polly's feet. At this there was a bustle among the girls.

"Sit next to me, Miss Mary," begged Silvia Horne, sweeping a chair clear.

"No, no," cried Amy Garrett, "she's coming here!"

"I call that nice," exclaimed Alexia decidedly, "when I asked her to come
across the room! I'm going to sit next to her of course."

"You'd much better have stayed with me," laughed Mr. Hamilton Dyce, "since
there'll be one long fight over you. Better come back."

But Miss Mary, protesting that the girls needed her, finally settled it by
getting her chair into the middle of the group, which she made into a
circle.

"There, now, we're all comfy together," she announced. "Now, Mr. Dyce, you
must read us something."

"Oh, tell us a story," put in Alexia, who didn't relish listening to
reading.

"Oh, yes, a story, a story," they one and all took it up. Even Phronsie
laid down her big needle which she was patiently dragging back and forth,
with a very long piece of red worsted following its trail across the face
of her "cushion-pin" in a way to suit her own design, to beg for the story.

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, for the first time catching sight of this,
"you can't work with such a long thread. Let me cut off some of it, do."

"Oh, no, no," protested Phronsie, edging off in alarm.

"Why, it'll get all knotted up," said Polly, in concern; "you better let me
take off a little--just a little, teenty bit, Phronsie."

"No, no," declared Phronsie decidedly, "I must hurry and get my cushion-pin
done."

"She thinks she'll get it done faster with a great, long thread," giggled
one of the girls over in the corner. Mr. Dyce turning to fix her with a
stare, she subsided, ducking behind her neighbor's back.

"Phronsie, I must buy that cushion-pin at the fair," he announced. "I want
such an one very much indeed."

Phronsie got off from the little cricket where he had placed her, and went
straight over to him, to lay her hand with the "cushion-pin" in it on his
knee. "Then I will sell it to you," she said gravely, "and the poor
children can go into the country." Then she went back to her seat and took
up her work once more.

Some of the girls laughed, but Alexia frowned furiously at them; and Mr.
Dyce and Miss Mary apparently seeing no amusement in it, they all began to
beg for the story again, till the clamor bade fair to stop the needles from
doing their work.

"I guess you'll have to," Miss Mary smiled over at him from the center of
the circle, while the color deepened on her cheek.

"I want a story told to me first," he said coolly, leaning back in his
chair. "What is all this bee for, and this fair? I know just a hint about
that, but let me have the whole story from beginning to end. Now then, some
one tell me. I am very anxious to hear."

"You tell, Polly," cried Alexia, and "Let Polly Pepper tell, can't she,
Miss Mary?" begged all the girls, every one saying the same thing. So Miss
Mary said yes, and Polly laid down her violet handkerchief case in her lap,
although she hated to stop working, and began:

"You see, Miss Mary said one day in Sunday-school----"

"Oh, Polly, not that!" said Miss Taylor, in dismay.

"Go on, Polly, and tell every word," said Mr. Hamilton Dyce. "I'm to be
told the whole story; from the very beginning, now mind. You said, 'One day
in Sunday-school.' Now go on."

"Yes," said Polly, her cheeks like a rose for fear her dear Miss Mary might
not like it, "Miss Mary said we ought to be doing things, not always
talking about them and learning how to be good; and she said there were so
many poor children who were waiting for us to help them. And----"

"Polly, you don't need to tell that. He wants to know about the fair," Miss
Taylor broke in suddenly.

"Oh, dear!" said poor Polly, blushing rosier than ever and moving her
cricket so that she need not see Miss Mary's face, while Mr. Dyce,
protesting that he was not to be cheated out of a single word of the
narration, made her go back and tell over the last thing she said. This was
so much worse that Miss Mary decided she would let the story go on at all
hazards, so she leaned back in her chair resignedly, while Polly went on:

"Well, and so we said, 'Yes, Miss Mary, we'd like to' and what could we do,
for we didn't know how to help poor children."

"And I said I didn't want to," broke in Alexia suddenly.

"But you did, Alexia!" cried Polly, whirling around on her cricket to
regard her affectionately. "Oh, Mr. Dyce, she did help"--looking over at
him anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I see," nodded that gentleman, "and she's working on some
fandango for the fair just as hard as you other girls."

"Oh, this horrible old shawl!" said Alexia, regarding the worsted folds
dangling from her needle with anything but favor. "Well, I didn't want it,
and nobody will buy it, I know, but the other girls were all going to do
things, so I had to."

"Well, go on, Polly," said Mr. Dyce, with a laugh. So Polly, quite
satisfied that he really understood how Alexia was helping along the work
for the poor children the same as the others, hurried on with the story.

"Well, so then Miss Mary proposed that we hold a fair, and Grandpapa said
we might have it on his grounds; and Auntie Whitney said why not have a
garden party, and sell tickets, for perhaps some people wouldn't care to
buy things and----"

"And I'm going to put my cushion-pin on the table," piped Phronsie
suddenly, her checks all aglow with excitement, and dropping her needle
again.

"So you shall," cried Mr. Dyce, "only you must have a little card saying
'Sold' on it; for I am surely going to buy that pincushion, Phronsie."

And then Polly flew back to her work again, and Mr. Dyce told such a very
funny story about some monkeys who were going to give a party in the woods
to all the other animals, that Phronsie forgot all about her needle, and
ran over to clamber up into his lap.

And then, oh, the needles flew; and Clem's green stems began to grow, and a
tiny bud showed itself, and then a full-blown violet. And Alexia's pink
shawl took ever so many rows, and all the work seemed to flourish like
magic. And at last, Miss Mary looked up at the clock.

"Time to put up work, girls," she cried gayly. And then wasn't there a
great bustle, every one trying to see which would get hers into her bag
first! And then, oh, such a stretching of tired arms and feet!

"Oh, dear me! the prickles are all running up and down my legs," exclaimed
Alexia.

"Hush, well, so are mine," declared Clem. "Oh, dear me--ow! I haven't sat
still for so long--ever, I guess."

"Nor I," laughed another girl.

"Come." Miss Mary was telling Mr. Dyce to lead the way to the dining-room.
So they all fell into line, and, when there, they forgot tired legs and
arms in the delights of the little feast set out.

Miss Mary sat down by the small table and poured chocolate for them, a
white-capped maid at her chair, Mr. Hamilton Dyce on the other side as
grand helper. Then the girls settled down in pretty groups on the broad
window-seats, and on the high-backed chairs, and gave themselves up to the
supreme content of the hour.

And then Miss Mary proposed that they should wind up the afternoon with a
dance, which was received with a shout of delight. So she led the way to
the drawing-room and sat down before the grand piano.

"Can't one of you girls play?" asked Mr. Dyce, at that.

"Oh, no, no," said Miss Mary, "the girls must dance." So, without waiting
for any words, she struck into a two-step.

"Oh, I'll play, I'll play." Polly Pepper ran out from the midst of the
group.

"Polly, come back, you are going to dance with me," cried Alexia.

"No, you're always getting her first. She's going to dance with me,"
announced Clem.

Polly was already over at the piano, trying to be heard, but Miss Mary only
laughed and shook her head.

"No use, Polly," said Mr. Dyce, and he put his arm around her, and away
they went down the length of the drawing-room.

"Well, at least you haven't got this first dance," said Alexia.

"Nor you, either," retorted Clem. "So come on, let's dance together," and
away they went, too.

And at last, when it was time to go home, Mr. Hamilton Dyce, who had
absented himself after that first dance, drove up with a flourish to the
door in his runabout.

"I've come for Phronsie Pepper," he said.

So Phronsie, half asleep, had her hat tied on, and kissed Miss Mary, and
Polly lifted her up and guided her foot over the step, Mr. Dyce, the reins
in one hand, helping her with the other.

"Good-bye," he called, his eyes on no one but Miss Mary.

"Oh, my bag, my bag!" cried Phronsie, in a wail of distress, and leaning
forward suddenly.

"Take care, child; where are you going?" Mr. Dyce put forth a restraining
hand and held her closely.

"My bag!" Phronsie looked back, the tears racing over her round cheeks.

"I'll bring it home," called Polly from the steps, where she was back among
the knot of girls.

"My bag!" Phronsie continued to wail.

"Dear me!" cried Polly, "she must have it now." So she ran into the house
to get it, where Phronsie had left it on her little cricket, Mr. Dyce
meanwhile saying, "There, there, child, you shall have it," while he turned
the little mare sharply about.

"We can't ever find the needle," said Alexia, rushing after Polly into the
library, and getting down on her knees to prowl over the floor. "Misery
me!"--with a jump--"I've found it already, sticking straight into me!"

So Phronsie's "cushion-pin" was thrust into the gay little
pink-and-green-striped workbag, and Polly danced out with it and
handed it up to her. Mr. Dyce cracked the whip, and this time they
were fairly off.




V

"SHE'S MY LITTLE GIRL"


"Oh, I do wish, Polly," cried Phronsie, as they ran along the hollyhock
path, "that my poor little girl could go to the country. Can't she, Polly?"
she asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, of course," assented Polly, her mind on the garden party, now
only three days ahead. "Phronsie, how perfectly elegant those roses are
going to be!"--pointing off to the old-fashioned varieties blooming
riotously.

"Oh, Polly!" Phronsie stood still a moment in silent bliss, then hopped up
and down the narrow path. "I'm so glad she can go! Oh, Polly, I'm so
_very_ glad!"

"Who?" cried Polly, in perplexity.

"My little girl, my poor little girl," said Phronsie, hopping away.

"Oh, of course." Polly gave a little laugh. "Well, there are lots of poor
little girls who will go, Phronsie," she said, in great satisfaction,
"because, you know, we're going to make a great deal of money, I expect.
Why, Grandpapa has told Thomas to buy ever so many flowers. Just think,
child, and the oceans we have here!" She waved her hands over to take in
not only the old-fashioned garden where they stood, but the smart
flower-beds beyond, the pride and joy of the gardeners. "Oh, yes, there
will be ever so many children who will be happy in the country in the
summer."

"And my poor little girl," persisted Phronsie gleefully, "she will be
happy, Polly. Oh, let's go down to the big gate--p'raps she's there
now--and tell her. Please, Polly." She seized Polly's hand in great
excitement.

Polly sank to her knees in delight over a little bed of daisies.

"I do think these are the very sweetest things, Phronsie Pepper," she said.
"See the cunning baby ones coming out."

"Please, Polly," begged Phronsie, clinging to her hand.

"Why, Phronsie!" Polly looked up in amazement. Not to pay attention to the
baby daisies was certainly astonishing, when Phronsie was always so rapt
over the new flowers. "What is it you want, child?"

"Please come down to the big gate, Polly," pleaded Phronsie, her lip
quivering, for Polly was not usually so hard to understand.

"Yes, I will," said Polly, reluctantly tearing herself away from the
fascinating daisies. "Now then, we'll go there right away; one, two, three,
and away!"

"I guess--she'll--be--there," panted Phronsie, but she was running so fast
to keep up with Polly's longer steps that her words died away on the air;
and Polly, who dearly loved a race over the grass, was letting her mind
travel to the delights of the garden party, and what it was going to
accomplish, so she didn't hear.

At last there was the big gate.

"Dear me!" cried Polly, with a gay little laugh, "what a fine race! No
wonder you wanted me to try it with you! Why, Pet, have I run too fast?"
She looked with remorse at the flushed little face.

"No," gasped Phronsie, "but oh, Polly, will you sit down on the grass?"

"To be sure I will," said Polly very remorsefully, "you're all tired out.
There, let's come over here," and she led her over to the very tree under
which Phronsie had fallen asleep. "Here's where I found you the other day,
Phronsie, when you were so tired. Heigh-ho!" And Polly threw herself down
on the grass, and drew Phronsie into her lap.

"P'raps she'll come," said Phronsie, and the sorrowful look began to
disappear as she cuddled in Polly's arms. "Don't you believe she will,
Polly?" She put her face close to Polly's to peer anxiously into her brown
eyes.

"Who, child?" asked Polly.

"The poor little girl--my poor little girl," exclaimed Phronsie.

"Oh, there isn't any little girl, at least any particular one," cried
Polly. "We're going to send ever so many little girls into the country,
Phronsie, but not any special one."

"Oh, yes, there is," contradicted Phronsie, her lip quivering again, and,
despite all her efforts, the big tears began to course down her cheeks.
"She's my little girl, and I like her. Please let her go, Polly. And maybe
she'll come soon, if we only wait for her." It was a long speech, and by
the time it was all out, Phronsie had laid her head in Polly's neck, and
was sobbing as if her heart would break.

It was for this reason that Polly did not happen to look up across the
grass to the big gate, so of course she couldn't be expected to see what
took place there. And it was not until Phronsie had been persuaded to sit
straight and have her tears wiped away, because Mamsie wouldn't like to
have her cry, that any one guessed it at all. And in one instant Polly's
lap was deserted, Phronsie was flying over the greensward, crying out:

"There she is--my poor little girl!"

It took but a moment for Polly's swift feet to follow, but none too soon,
for the thin little face with the sharp, black eyes was withdrawn, and the
flapping old shoes were beating a hasty retreat. But Polly was after her,
and her hand was on her arm, and the first thing the stranger knew she was
drawn within the big gateway, Phronsie circling around her with great
satisfaction.

"She _did_ come, Polly, she did."

"Lemme be. I warn't doin' nothin' but peekin'," said the girl, trying to
wriggle away from Polly's grasp. But Polly held on.

"Don't be frightened; there isn't any one going to hurt you. What's your
name, little girl?"

"She's my little girl," insisted Phronsie, trying to get hold of the thin
little hand, which was less grimy than usual.

"What's your name?" asked Polly again.

"Rag," said the girl, in a burst.

"Rag? Oh, dear me!" said Polly.

"Lemme go. I hain't done no harm. Gran'll be wantin' me."

"Who?"

"Gran." The girl, at that, tried to fold up her arms in the remains of her
sleeves. But Polly saw the long, red welts that were not pleasant to look
at. She gave a little shiver, but held on firmly to the tattered ends.

"Oh, make her stay," cried Phronsie; "I want her to play with me. I'll let
you take Clorinda again, and she shall be your child," she stood up on
tiptoe to say.

"Can't," said the girl, making a desperate effort to twitch away. "Lemme
go."

"No, you cannot go until you have told me who you are, and how you know my
little sister."

Rag looked into the brown eyes of the little girl not so much older, drew a
long breath, then burst out, "She's visited me to my house," and, putting
on the most defiant expression possible, stood quite still.

_"Visited you at your house!"_ echoed Polly. She nearly dropped the
ragged sleeve.

"Yes, an' I give her a five-o'clock tea," said Rag proudly. "Any harm in
that? An' I brung her home again, and she ain't hurt a bit. You lemme go,
you girl, you!"

"You must come and see Grandpapa," said Polly firmly, a little white line
around her mouth.

"I ain't a-goin'." Rag showed instant fight against any such idea.

"Then, if you don't," said Polly, gripping her arm, "I shall call the
gardeners, and they will bring you up to the house."

"Oh, do come," cried Phronsie, who thought everything most delightfully
conspiring to make her friend remain. "Dear Grandpapa will love you, little
girl; come with Polly and me."

She took hold of her other arm, and Rag, seeing no way out of it and wholly
bewildered, suffered herself to be led up to the grand mansion.

"Bless me; what have we here?" Old Mr. King, enjoying a morning
constitutional on the big veranda, looked over his spectacles, which he had
forgotten to remove as he had just thrown down the morning paper in a
chair, and stared in amazement at the three children coming over the lawn.

"My poor little girl, Grandpapa," announced Phronsie, releasing the arm she
clung to, and tumbling up over the steps, "and please make her stay, and
I'm going to let her take Clorinda," and she plunged breathlessly into the
old gentleman's arms.

"Hoity-toity, child!" exclaimed old Mr. King, holding her closely. "Well,
what have we here?"--as Polly led Rag up on to the veranda.

"I don't know, Grandpapa," said Polly, still keeping tight hold of the arm
in its tattered sleeve.

"It seems to be a little girl," said Grandpapa, peering at the stranger.

"Yes, it's my little girl," said Phronsie happily, "and she's come to play
with me, Grandpapa."

"Oh, my goodness me!" exclaimed Mr. King, stepping backward and drawing
Phronsie closer.

"I ain't come. _She_ brung me," said the girl, pointing with a thumb
over at Polly; "tain't my fault; she made me."

"Polly, what is all this?" asked the old gentleman perplexedly, staring at
one and the other.

"I don't know, Grandpapa," said Polly, the little white line still around
her mouth; "she says Phronsie has been at her house, and----"

"_Phronsie been at her house!_" thundered the old gentleman.

"Yes, she has. An' I give her a five-o'clock tea," cried Rag, in a burst,
who, thinking that she was probably now going to be killed, began to take
pleasure in telling all she knew. "Swell folks does; I seen 'em plenty of
times on th' avenoo, an' here, too"--she nodded toward the long French
windows--"an' I got as good a right, I guess. An' she let me take her doll,
an' I like her. An' we had an orful good time till Gran came in, an' then
we lit out, an' I brung her home. Now what you goin' to do about it?" She
folded her thin arms as well as she could, for Polly was still holding to
one, and glared defiantly out of her sharp, black eyes.

"Oh, Grandpapa, her arms!" Polly was pointing to the long, red welts.

Rag turned as if shot, and twitched the ragged sleeves down, tucking the
free arm behind her back. "Lemme go, you girl: you hain't no right to see
'em, it's none o' your business," she screamed at Polly. Old Mr. King had
sunk into a chair. Phronsie, in his lap, was so busy in putting her face
close to his, and telling him that it was really her own poor little girl,
that she had failed to see the arms and the disclosures they had made.

"Go and get your mother," he said, after a breathing space. "Oh, stay! I
can't hold her"--with a gesture of disgust.

"An' you ain't a-goin' to tetch me," declared Rag proudly; "no, sir-ee!"

"Well, Phronsie, you jump down and go and get your mother," Mr. King
whispered, smoothing her yellow hair with a trembling hand.

"I will--I will," she cried gleefully, hopping out of his lap.

"Oh, don't send her away." All the defiance dropped out of Rag's face and
manner, and she whimpered miserably. "She's th' only nice one there is
here. Don't let her go."

"She's coming right back, little girl," said old Mr. King kindly. He even
smiled. But the girl had hung her head, so she didn't see it, and she
blubbered on.

"I'll bring Mamsie to see my poor little girl," Phronsie kept saying to
herself over and over, as she scuttled off, and in a very few minutes
Mother Fisher was out on the veranda in obedience to old Mr. King's
summons.

"It's beyond me"--the old gentleman waved his hand at Rag--"you'll have to
unravel it, Mrs. Fisher. Here, Phronsie, get up in my lap." He strained her
so tightly to him, as Phronsie hopped into her accustomed nest, that she
looked up.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" she exclaimed.

"Did I hurt you, child?" he said, in a broken voice.

"A little, Grandpapa dear," she said.

"Well--oh, Lord bless me! I can't talk, child," he finished brokenly.

"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she asked, sitting straight to look at him
anxiously. "Does your head ache? I'll smooth it for you," and she began to
pat his white hair.

"Oh, no, child, my head doesn't ache. There, sit still, dear, that's all I
want." So Phronsie cuddled up within his arms, feeling quite sure that now
Mamsie had her own poor little girl, everything would be all right.

"She's my nice little girl, and I like her," Phronsie was saying. "Yes, I
do, very much indeed, Grandpapa."

"You do?"

"Yes, and I want her to stay here, Grandpapa. Please, may she?"

"Oh, dear!"

"_Please_, Grandpapa dear." Phronsie put up one hand and tucked it
softly under his chin. He seized it and covered it with kisses.

"Oh, my lamb--that wicked, careless Joanna!"

"What's the matter, Grandpapa?" Phronsie brought up her head to look at him
with troubled eyes.

"Nothing--nothing, child; there, cuddle down again. Your mother is talking
to the little girl, and she will fix up things. Oh, bless me!"

"Mamsie will fix up things, won't she, Grandpapa?" cooed Phronsie,
wriggling her toes happily.

"Yes, dear."

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, after a moment's silence only broken by a soft
murmur of voices, for Mother Fisher had drawn her group to the further
corner, "I don't think my little girl has got a very nice place to live
in."

"Oh, Phronsie, child!" He strained her convulsively to his breast. "There,
there, lamb, Oh, I didn't mean to! Grandpapa won't hurt his little pet for
the world."

"You didn't hurt me this time," said Phronsie, "as much as you did before,
Grandpapa dear."

"Oh, my child! Grandpapa wouldn't hurt a hair of your blessed head. Oh,
that dreadful Joanna!"

"I like my own little girl very much indeed," said Phronsie, dismissing her
own hurts to go on with her narrative. "Yes, I do, Grandpapa," she added
decidedly, "but I don't like the place she lived in. And, Grandpapa"--here
she drew a long breath--"there was an old lady came in, and I don't think
she was a nice old lady, I don't, Grandpapa." Phronsie crept up a bit
closer, if that were possible.

"What did she do, child?" He held his breath for the answer.

"She took hold of my arm," said Phronsie, a shiver seizing her at the
remembrance, and she burrowed deeper within the protecting arms, "and she
felt of my beads that Auntie gave me."

"What else?" He scarcely seemed to ask the question.

"And my own little girl pulled me away, and she carried me home, most of
the way, and I like her." Phronsie brought herself up with an emphatic
little nod, and smiled.

"That was good."

Phronsie smiled radiantly. "Wasn't it, Grandpapa!" she cried, in delight.
"And I want her to stay. May she? Oh, may she? She's my own little girl."

"We'll see about it," said old Mr. King, with a thought of the long welts
on the thin arms, and the furious old woman.

"What's that noise?" asked Phronsie, suddenly lifting her head.

"Oh, a bird, maybe," said the old gentleman, carelessly looking up to the
vines swinging around the veranda. "There, lay your head down again,
child."

"It didn't sound like a bird, Grandpapa. I thought some one was crying."
Yet she put her yellow head obediently down, and didn't lift it again till
Mother Fisher stood by the side of old Mr. King's chair.

"Well, is the conference over?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mrs. Pepper. Her lips had a little white line around them, too,
like that on Polly's mouth, and the black eyes had a strange expression.

Phronsie popped her head up like a bird out of its nest, and piped out:

"Oh, please, Mamsie, may she stay?"

"Yes," said Mother Fisher, "she is going to stay, Phronsie."

"Oh, my goodness me!" breathed old Mr. King.

Phronsie slipped out of his arms and began to dance, clapping her hands.

"I'm going to play with her now, but I must get Clorinda first," she cried
excitedly.

"See here, Phronsie," Mother Fisher called, as she was flying off, "you
must not play with the little girl yet."

Phronsie stood quite still.

"Come here to mother." Mrs. Fisher opened her arms and Phronsie scuttled
into them like a little rabbit. Mrs. Pepper held her so closely that
Phronsie looked up quickly.

"Why, you are hurting me like Grandpapa, Mamsie."

"Oh, my child!" Mother Fisher seemed to forget herself, as she bowed her
head over Phronsie's yellow hair.

"What is the matter, Mamsie?" asked Phronsie. "I wish I could see your
face," and she wriggled violently.

"Nothing is the matter now," said Mamsie. "There, child, now I'll tell you.
If the little girl stays here, she----"

"She's my little girl," interrupted Phronsie.

"Well, if she stays here, she must be washed and have on clean clothes. So
Sarah has taken her, and is going to fix her all up nice."

"Oh--oh!" cried Phronsie, in a transport, "and can she have some of Polly's
clothes, Mamsie?"

"Yes, I guess so. Anyway, we will fix her up all nicely."

"And may she stay here for ever and ever," cried Phronsie, "and not go back
to that un-nice old lady? Please, Mamsie, don't let her go back," she
pleaded.

Over the yellow hair the old gentleman had found out and communicated
several things back and forth. One was, "I don't think she is the child's
own grandmother." "Mr. Cabot can investigate," and so on.

"What are you whispering about?" at last asked Phronsie.

"Nothing that you should know, dear. Now I'm going to put you in
Grandpapa's lap, Phronsie. You must be a good girl," and Mother Pepper went
off.

"You must take care of me, Phronsie," said the old gentleman, "for I really
think I need it now. And I guess my hair does want to be smoothed, after
all."

"I'll stay and take care of you, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, delighted that
her services were really to be called for, and with her heart at rest about
her own poor little girl.




VI

GRANDMA BASCOM


"Deary me!" Grandma Bascom stopped shooing out the hens from her kitchen
doorway, and leaned on the broom-handle. "If here don't come Mis'
Henderson! Now I shall hear about that blessed little creeter and all the
rest of them childern."

"Good-afternoon." The parson's wife went swiftly up the flag-bordered path
between the lilac bushes. "It's a beautiful day, Mrs. Bascom."

"Hey?" Grandma's shaking hand went up to her cap-border, so Mrs. Henderson
had to say it over, that it was a beautiful day, as loud as she could.

"You've come to-day?" said Grandma.

"Yes, I see you have, an' I'm obleeged to you, I'm sure, for it's mighty
lonesome since that blessed little creeter, an' all the rest of them
childern went away. Come in an' set down," and she led the way into the
kitchen.

Meanwhile, the hens, seeing nothing to prevent it, had employed the time in
slipping in under Grandma's short gown, and were busily scratching around
for any stray bits.

"Thank you." The parson's wife nimbly found a chair, while Grandma bustled
into the bedroom.

"Excuse me a minute, Mis' Henderson," she called; "I'm goin' to slip on
t'other cap."

"Oh, don't take the trouble," said Mrs. Henderson's pleasant voice. But she
might as well have said nothing, for Grandma didn't hear a word.

"'Tain't proper to see your minister's wife in your mornin' cap, nor your
petticoat neither for that matter," said Grandma to herself, looking down
at her short gown. So she concluded to put on her Sunday-go-to-meeting
gown, as she called her best dress. This took her so long, because she
hooked it up wrong three times, that Mrs. Henderson appeared in the doorway
before the operation of dressing-up could be said to be finished.

"I'm very sorry," she began.

"'Tain't a bit o' trouble," said Grandma cheerfully, pulling at the second
hook, which she had been trying for some time to get into the first eye;
"you set down, Mis' Henderson, an' I'll be out pretty soon."

"I must go very soon." The parson's wife came quite close to say this, up
under the frill of the best cap, which stood out very stiffly, as Grandma
always kept it in a covered box on top of her high bureau.

"Hey?"

"I must go home soon. I have so many things to see to this afternoon."

It was a fatally long speech, for Grandma only attended to the last part.

"It's aft-noon? I know it. I'm comin' 's soon 's I can git this hooked
up"--with another pull at the mismated hooks and eyes. Seeing this, in
despair the parson's wife took the matter of hooking up into her own hands,
and before long the Sunday-go-to-meeting gown could be said to be fairly
on.

"Now that's something like," observed Grandma, in great satisfaction. "I
hain't been hooked up by any one since Mis' Pepper went away. Deary me, how
I should set by a sight o' her, an' th' blessed little creeter--there ain't
none other like that child."

Mrs. Henderson nodded, being sparing of words.

"I've some letters from them," she said loudly, "and if you come out to the
kitchen, I will stay and read them to you."

"What did you say was the matter in the kitchen?" demanded Grandma, in
alarm. "Oh, them dirty hens, I s'pose, has got in again."

"I have letters from the Pepper children, and they ask me to come over here
and read them to you," shouted Mrs. Henderson. "Dear me!"--to
herself--"what shall I do? I'm all tired out already, and three letters to
read--she won't hear a word."

But Grandma, having caught the word "letters," knew quite well what was in
store, so, picking up her best gown by its side breadths, she waddled out
and seated herself with great dignity in a big chair by the kitchen window.
It was next to the little stand in whose drawer she used to let Joel Pepper
look for peppermints.

When the Pepper children shut up the little brown house to go to Mr.
King's, Grandma moved the small mahogany stand from its place next to the
head of her bed out into the kitchen. She kept her big Bible on it, and her
knitting work, where she could "have 'em handy." And it made her feel less
lonesome to look up from her work to see it standing there.

"Seem's though that boy was a-comin' in every minute," she said. "My land
o' Goshen, don't I wish he was!" for Grandma always had a soft spot in her
heart for Joel.

Now she smoothed down her front breadth, and folded her hands in a company
way. The parson's wife drew up a kitchen chair close to her side and
unfolded the first letter.

"Who writ that?" asked Grandma eagerly.

"That's from Polly," said Mrs. Henderson.

"Bless her heart!" cried Grandma. "Well, what does she say?"

"Ma"--a light-haired, serious boy appeared in the doorway--"Pa wants you,"
he announced.

"Oh, Peletiah!" exclaimed the parson's wife, in consternation, at his
unlooked-for appearance, and, "Oh, Grandma!" in the same breath, "I'm so
sorry I must go."

"So sorry? What's ben a happenin' that Polly's sorry?" said Grandma,
supposing that was in the letter. "Now I know that blessed little creeter
has got hurt, an' they wouldn't let me know afore the rest."

"It isn't in the letter," declared Mrs. Henderson, in a loud, hasty tone,
hurrying out of her chair. "Peletiah, what does your father want, do you
know?"

"I don't know exactly," said Peletiah deliberately, "only Aunt Jerusha
tumbled down the cellar stairs; maybe that's it."

"Oh, dear me! dear me!" cried the parson's wife, in a great fright.
"Peletiah, here are the letters from the Pepper children"--thrusting them
into his hand--"do you stay and read them to Grandma. And be sure to tell
her why I went home," and she actually ran out of the kitchen, and down the
lilac-bordered path.

Peletiah, left alone with the letters, turned them over and over in his
hands, as he stood quite still in the middle of the kitchen floor. He never
thought of disobeying, and presently he pulled up another chair, just in
front of Grandma, and sat slowly down.

"Oh, I know she's got hurted bad," she kept groaning, "an' I shan't never
see her again. Oh, the pretty creeter! Hain't she hurted bad?" she asked
anxiously, bringing her cap frills to bear on the boy in front.

"Yes, I guess so," said Peletiah cheerfully; "she fell way down all over
the cat sitting on the stairs."

"Where'd you say she fell?" screamed Grandma.

"Cellar stairs," Peletiah raised his voice, too, and sprawled out his hands
to show how his Aunt Jerusha must have descended.

"Oh, me! oh, my!" exclaimed Grandma, in great sorrow, "that blessed little
creeter! to think she's fell and got hurted!"

"She ain't little," said Peletiah, who was extremely literal, "she's awful
long and bony!" And he could think of no special reason for calling her
blessed, but that might be Grandma's fancy.

"Well, read them letters," said Grandma mournfully, when she could control
her speech enough to say anything; "maybe they'll tell more about the
accident," and she put her hand again behind her best ear.

"'Tain't in the letters," said Peletiah, "it's only just happened." But
Grandma didn't hear, so he picked up Polly's letter, which was open, and
began in a singsong tone:

"'Dear Mrs. Henderson--'"

"Hey?"

"'Dear Mrs. Henderson,'" cried Peletiah, in a shrill, high key.

"Do move up closer; I'm a little hard o' hearin'--jist a mite," said
Grandma. So Peletiah shoved his chair nearer, and began again:

"'Dear Mrs. Henderson, we are going to have the very loveliest thing
happen, and I want to write to you now, because next week there won't be
any time at all, we shall be so very busy.'"

It was impossible to stop Peletiah until he had rounded a sentence, as he
considered it his duty to pay strict attention to a period. So, although
Grandma screamed, and even twitched his jacket sleeve, she couldn't get him
to stop. The consequence was that he had to shout this over till at last
she understood it, and then she turned a bewildered face upon him, but as
he was deep in his second sentence, he didn't see it, but plodded patiently
on.

"'Grandpapa is going to let us have a garden party; there are tickets to be
sold, for we are going to raise money to send poor children out into the
country. And Jasper is getting up the post office, which Grandpapa says we
may have in the Wistaria arbor. And we girls are all making fancy work,
and oh, Phronsie is making a pin-cushion which Mr. Hamilton Dyce has bought
already. Just think, and oh, I do believe we shall make lots and lots of
money! Give my love to dear, dear Grandma Bascom, and please read this
letter to her. From your loving little friend, Polly.'"

Peletiah, considering it better to read this all as one sentence, had
droned it out without a break, to look up and find Grandma sunken back
against her chair, her cap frills trembling with indignation.

"I hain't heard a single word," she said, "an' there's that blessed child
got hurt, an' I can't seem to sense it at all."

"She ain't hurt, Polly ain't," said Peletiah, stoutly defending himself.
"They're going to have a garden party."

"A what?" screamed Grandma.

"A _garden_ party."

"Oh, then she fell in the garding, an' you said cellar stairs," she cried
reproachfully.

Peletiah looked at her long; then he got out of his chair and leaned over
her.

"My Aunt Jerusha fell," he screamed, so loud that Grandma started.

"Oh, an' the Pepper children ain't hurt?" she cried, in great relief.

"No, they're going to have a party." He wisely left out the garden this
time.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Grandma, greatly pleased at the hint of any
festivities, no matter how distant, and the smiles began to run all over
her wrinkled face again. "I wonder now," she said, "if they don't want my
receet for Cousin Mirandy's weddin' cake; it's in th' Bible there"--nodding
over to the little stand.

Peletiah, seeing her so absorbed, waited patiently till the second letter
was called for. He never for an instant thought of sliding off; so he
pulled it out of its envelope, and got ready.

At last Grandma pulled herself out of the charms of Cousin Mirandy's
receet, and set her spectacles straight.

"Who writ that one?" she asked.

"Joel," said Peletiah, finding it quite to his liking to read this one, for
Joel never wasted any time in preliminaries, but came to the point at once,
in big, sprawly letters.

"'Dear Misses Henderson.'" Somebody must have corrected him then, for he
scratched out the "Misses," and wrote on top "Mrs." "'You tell Grandma
Bascom, please, that it's just prime here, but I like her peppermints, too,
and I won't chase her old hens when I come back. Joel.'"

When Grandma really got this letter by heart, she laughed and said it had
done her good, and she wished Joel was there this minute, in which Peletiah
hardly concurred, being unable to satisfy Joel's athletic demands. And then
she looked over at the little mahogany stand, and the tears rolled down her
withered old cheeks.

"I'd give anythin' to see him comin' in at that door, Peletiah," she said,
"an' he may chase th' hens all he wants to when he comes back"; for Grandma
always cherished the conviction that the "Five Little Peppers" were to make
life merry again in their "little brown house," and she went on so long in
this way that Peletiah, who had glanced up at the clock many times, said at
last, in a stolid way, "There's another letter." And Grandma, looking down,
saw a little wad in his hand.

"Now I do believe that's from the blessed little creeter," she exclaimed,
very much excited; "that must be Phronsie's."

"Yes, it is," said Peletiah.

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" cried Grandma. "You should 'a' read
it first of all." She leaned forward in her chair, unable to lose a word.

"You didn't tell me to," said Peletiah, in a matter-of-fact way.

"Well, read it now," said Grandma, quavering with excitement.

"There ain't nothin' to read," said Peletiah, unfolding the paper, many
times creased.

"Hey?"

"There ain't nothin' to read," repeated Peletiah; "you can see for
yourself." He held it up before her. There were many pencil marks going
this way and that, by which Phronsie felt perfectly sure that her friends
would understand what she was telling them. And once in a while came the
great achievement of a big capital letter laboriously printed. But for
these occasional slips into intelligible language, the letter presented a
medium of communication peculiar to itself.

"Ain't it sweet!" said Grandma admiringly, when she had looked it all over.
"The little precious creeter, to think of her writin' that, and all by
herself too!"

"You can read it as well upside down," observed Peletiah.

"I know it." Grandma beamed at him.

"Just think of that child a-writin' that! Who'd ever b'lieve it?"

"I must go now," announced Peletiah, getting out of his chair and beginning
to stretch slowly.

"Well, now tell your ma I thank her for comin', and for them letters from
them precious childern. An' see here." Grandma leaned over and pulled out
the under drawer of the little stand. It wasn't like giving peppermints to
Joel Pepper, and it sent a pang through her at the remembrance, but
Peletiah had been good to read those letters.

"I'm a-goin' to give you these," she said, beginning to shake therefrom
into her hand three big, white peppermints and two red ones.

"No, I thank you, ma'am," said Peletiah stiffly, and standing quite still.

"Yes, you take 'em," said Grandma decidedly. "You've been real good to read
them letters. Here, Peletiah."

"No, I thank you, ma'am," said Peletiah again, not offering to stir. "Well,
I must be going," and he went slowly out of the kitchen, leaving Grandma
with the big peppermints in her hand.

That evening, after everything was quiet at the parsonage, the minister
called his wife into the study.

"We will look that letter over from Mrs. Fisher, now, my dear."

Mrs. Henderson sat down on the end of the well-worn sofa.

"Lie down, dear," he said, "and let me tuck a pillow under your head. You
are all tired out."

"Oh, husband, I am sure you are quite as tired as I am," and the color flew
into her cheeks like a girl. But he had his way.

"You better leave the door open"--as he went across the room to close
it--"Jerusha may call."

"Jerusha won't need us," he said, and shut it.

"You know the doctor said she was not much hurt, only strained and bruised,
and she's quite comfortable now. Well, my dear, now about this letter. Do
you think we might take this child?"

"We?" repeated his wife, with wide eyes. "Why, husband!"

"I know it seems a somewhat peculiar thing to propose"--and the parson
smiled--"with our two boys and Jerusha."

"Yes," said Mrs. Henderson, "it is, and I never thought seriously of it."

"She won't do Peletiah any harm"--and then he laughed--"and she might
brighten him up, if she's the girl Mrs. Fisher's letter indicates. And as
for Ezekiel, there's no harm to be thought of in that quarter. Our boys
aren't the ones, wife, to be influenced out of their orbits."

"Well, there's Jerusha." Mrs. Henderson brought it out fearfully, and then
shut her mouth as if she wished she hadn't said anything.

"I know, dear. You needn't be afraid to speak it out. It is always on my
mind. Oh, I do wish--" and the parson began to pace the floor with troubled
steps.

His wife threw back the old sofa-blanket with which he had tucked her up,
and bounded to his side, passing her hand within his arm.

"Don't, dear," she begged. "Oh, why did I speak!" she cried remorsefully.

"You said no more than what is always on my mind," said the minister again,
and he pressed the hand on his arm, looking at it fondly. "Poor Almira!" he
said, "I didn't think how hard you would have to work to please her, when I
took her here."

"But you couldn't help it, husband," she cried, looking up at him with a
world of love. "After your mother died, what place was there for her to go?
And she really was good to her."

"Yes," said the minister, and he sighed. "Well, it's done, and she is here;
but oh, Almira, I think it's made a great difference with our boys."

Mrs. Henderson's cheek paled, but it wouldn't do to let him see her
thoughts further on the subject, he was so worn and tired, so she said:

"Well, about the little girl, husband?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fisher's letter must be answered," said the parson, pulling
himself out of his revery. "She asks if we can find a place in Badgertown
for this child, who seems uncommonly clever, and is, so she writes, very
truthful. And I'm sure, Almira, if Mrs. Fisher says so, the last word has
been spoken."

"Yes, indeed," said his wife heartily.

"And they've found out a great deal about her. She's been half starved and
cruelly beaten."

The parson's wife hid her tender eyes on her husband's coat sleeve.

"Oh, dear me!" she exclaimed sympathetically.

"And the old woman who pretended to be her grandmother, and who beat her
because she wouldn't steal, became frightened at the investigation, and has
cleared out, so there is no one to lay a claim to 'Rag.'"

"To whom?" asked Mrs. Henderson, raising her head suddenly.

"Rag--that's the only name the child says she has. But Mrs. Fisher writes
they call her Rachel now. You didn't notice that when you read the letter,
did you, Almira?"

"No," said his wife, "I didn't have time to read more than part of it.
Don't you remember, I hurried over to Grandma Bascom's with the little
Pepper letters, and you said you'd talk it over with me when I got home?
And then Peletiah came after me, and I ran back here to poor Jerusha."

"Oh, I remember. I shouldn't have asked you." He nodded remorsefully.
"Well, then, I'll tell you the rest. You read the first part--how they ran
across the girl, and all that?"

"Yes. Oh, dear me! it gives me a shiver now to think what an awful risk
that blessed child, Phronsie, ran," cried Mrs. Henderson.

"I know it; I cannot bear to think of it even in the light of her safety,"
said Mr. Henderson. "Well, now, Mr. King has taken upon himself to support
and to educate Rag--Rachel, I mean--and the best place, at first, at any
rate, to put her is Badgertown. Now what do you say, Almira, to her coming
here to us?"

The parson's wife hesitated, then said, "Jerusha--" and paused.

"Will she be made unhappy by Jerusha, you mean?" asked the parson.

"Yes."

"No, I don't believe she will," he said decidedly. "You must remember she
has had her old 'Gran' as she calls her, and after that I think she can
bear Jerusha."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Henderson, "I forgot. Then I say, husband, we will
take this child. I should really love to put the brightness into her life.
And please let her come soon." A pretty glow rushed up to her cheek, and
the parson's wife actually laughed at the prospect.




VII

THE DISAPPOINTMENT


"Will it stop, Grandpapa?" Phronsie, kneeling on a chair, her face pressed
close to the window pane, turned to old Mr. King, looking over her
shoulder.

"I'm afraid not, dear," he answered.

"Doesn't God know we want to help the poor children?" she asked suddenly, a
surprised look coming into her eyes.

"Yes, yes, dear; of course he knows, child."

"Then why does he let it rain?" cried Phronsie, in a hurt voice.

"Oh, because, Pet, we must have rain, else the flowers wouldn't grow, you
know."

"They're all grown," said Phronsie, trying to peer out into the thick
twilight between the great splashes of rain running down the window over
toward the garden, "and now we can't have our party to-morrow, Grandpapa,"
she added sorrowfully.

"No, it would be quite too wet, after this downpour, even if it cleared
to-night," said the old gentleman decidedly. "Well, Phronsie, child, we
must just accept the matter philosophically."

"What's philo--that big word, Grandpapa?" she asked, turning away from her
effort to catch sight of the flower-beds, off in the distance, gay with the
wealth of blooms saved for the hoped-for festivities of the morrow, and she
put her arm around his neck.

"Oh, that? It was a pretty large word to use to you, and that's a fact,"
said the old gentleman, with a little laugh. He was having rather a hard
time of it to conceal his dismay at the blow to all the plans and
preparations so finely in progress for the garden party. "Well, it means we
must make the best of it all, and not fret."

"Oh!" said Phronsie. Then she turned back to her window again, and surveyed
the driving storm.

"Perhaps the flowers like it," she said, after a pause, when nothing was
heard but the beating of the rain against the glass; "maybe they are
thirsty, Grandpapa."

"Yes, maybe," assented Grandpapa absently.

"And if God wants it to rain, why we must be glad, mustn't we, Grandpapa,
if he really wants it?"

"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman hastily.

"Then I'm glad," said Phronsie, with a long sigh, and she clambered down
from her chair, "and let's find Polly and tell her so, Grandpapa."

Over in the library there was a dismal group. Joel was fighting valiantly
with a flood of tears, doubling up his little fists and glaring at Percy
and Van at the least intimation of a remark to him. Little Davie had
succumbed long ago, and now, crammed up in a small heap in the corner back
of the sofa, was rivaling the storm outside, in the flood of tears he
supplied.

Jasper crowded his hands in his pockets, marching up and down the long
room. Polly, who was swallowing hard, as if her throat hurt her, wouldn't
look at one of the boys. Little Dick was openly wailing in his mother's
arms.

"Oh, shut up that, kid, will you?" cried Percy, crossly, over at him.

"Percy, Percy," said his mother gently.

"Well, he needn't boo-hoo like a baby," said Percy; "we've all got to give
up the garden party."

"We can't have any garden party," mumbled little Dick between his sobs, and
crying all over his mother's pretty blue silk waist.

"There, there, dear," Mrs. Whitney said soothingly, "we'll have it the next
day, perhaps, Dicky boy."

"Next day is just forever," whimpered little Dick. "Oh, dear! boo-hoo-hoo!"

Percy started an impatient exclamation, thought better of it, and turned on
his heel abruptly. But Van burst out:

"And the flowers'll all be gone, so what's the use of trying to have it
then?"

"They won't," cried Joel, in an angry scream, and squaring round at him.
"They shan't, so there, Van Whitney!" When the door opened and in walked
Mr. King, and Phronsie clinging to his hand.

"Oh, hush, boys!" cried Polly hoarsely, a wave of shame rising in a rosy
flush up to her brow. Oh, why hadn't she tried to keep cheerful instead of
giving way to the general gloom? And now here were Phronsie and dear
Grandpapa, who had ordered "just oceans of flowers" and everything else.
Oh, dear, how naughty she had been! She sprang away from the big, carved
table, over to take Phronsie's hand.

"The flowers are thirsty, Polly, I guess," said Phronsie, looking up at her
with a smile; "and when they drink all they want to, why, we'll have the
party, won't we, Polly?"

"Yes," said Polly, the flush not dying down.

"Then that'll be nice, I think," said Phronsie, smoothing down her gown in
satisfaction, "and I can finish my cushion-pin now"; for there was one
little corner still untraveled by the remarkable design observed by the
worker. But Mr. Hamilton Dyce had protested he didn't care for any such
trifling deficiency, for he could put more pins in that quarter, so he
should still be its purchaser.

"So you can," cried Polly, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, and
winking furiously over at the boys.

"And we can write more letters," cried Jasper suddenly, springing over to
Phronsie's side.

"Phoo!" exclaimed Joel, "we've got bushels already."

"Well, it's nice to have more yet," retorted Jasper, "so you better keep
still, old fellow."

"I shall write some more," announced Van, with great pomposity, strutting
up and down the room.

"Hoh-hoh!" laughed Joel, snapping his fingers in derision, "you haven't
finished one yet, and beside, who can read your chicken tracks?"

"I have, too," declared Van, very red in the face, ignoring the reflection
on his writing and plunging over to Jasper. "Haven't I, Jasper, written a
letter for the post office? Say, haven't I?"--gripping him by the
jacket-sleeve.

"Yes, you have," said Jasper. "He handed it in this afternoon," he added,
nodding to the group.

"There, you see." Van rushed triumphantly up in front of Joel. "You see,
Joel Pepper, so you've just got to take that back."

"Well, only one," said Joel, "and there can't any one read it, so that's no
good."

"And I wrote some letters," cried Phronsie, running away from the little
circle to thrust her face in between the two boys. "I did, all by myself.
One, two, ten, I guess."

Little Dick at that stopped sniveling, and slipped off from his mother's
lap. "I did, too, write some, ten, three, 'leven, just as many as you did."
The tears trailed off from his red cheeks as he bobbed his head
emphatically.

So no one heard quick steps along the hall, and the door being thrown wide
by the butler, saying, "They're all in the library." In came Miss Mary
Taylor and Mr. Hamilton Dyce.

"We thought we'd drop in," said the gentleman, with a quick glance at Miss
Mary, as if to say, "You see, they didn't need us after all, to help cheer
up."

"Why, how very jolly you all are!" observed Miss Mary. The rain-drops were
glistening on her hair and cheeks, where she had scampered away from the
protecting umbrella at the foot of the steps. "Oh, I'm not wet, Mrs.
Fisher"--Mother Fisher at this moment coming in with her mending basket.
"I left my mackintosh in the hall."

"Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Hamilton Dyce. Joel had left sparring with Van
and now swarmed around the newcomer, for he was extremely fond of him. "How
are the letters coming on, Jasper? By the way, I've a few belated ones, in
the pockets in my coat out in the hall. I'll get them."

"Let me--let me," screamed Joel.

"All right, go ahead. In both side pockets, Joe." He didn't consider it
necessary to explain that Miss Taylor and he had been busy driving their
pens all the afternoon.

"Whickets!" cried Joel, rushing back, both hands overflowing, "what a lot!"

"Joel, what did you say?" Mother Fisher glanced up, the lines of worry that
had settled over her face at the terrible disappointment that had befallen
the family, disappearing, now that the usual cheeriness was coming back.

"I didn't mean to," said Joel, the color all over his chubby face, "but my,
see what a lot! The post office won't hold 'em all!"

"We'll put them with the others," cried Jasper, "and thank you, oh, so
much, Mr. Dyce; we can't have too many. Come on, all of you, and see our
pile"--running out into the hall, headed for his den.

"You must thank Miss Mary," said Mr. Dyce.

But Miss Mary laughingly protesting the gratitude was not so much due to
her, the whole company filed out after Jasper in great good spirits.

Little Davie, back of the sofa, poked up his head.

"Are they all gone, Mamsie?" he asked fearfully.

"Why, Davie, my boy!" exclaimed Mother Fisher, much startled, and laying
down her needle, stuck in a stocking-heel, "I thought you were upstairs
with Ben."

"I haven't been with Ben." said David, working his way out, to run and lay
his swollen little face in his mother's lap. She cleared away her work, and
took him up, to gather him close in her arms.

"There, there, Davie, mother's boy, it's all right"--smoothing the hair
away from the hot brow--"we can have the garden party another day, and
then perhaps there'll be all the more pleasure and good time."

"Tisn't that," said little Davie, wriggling around to look up at her, "but
Polly--" and for a moment it seemed as if the floods were to descend again.

"Oh, Polly is all right," said Mrs. Fisher cheerfully.

"Is, she, Mamsie?" asked David doubtfully.

"Yes, indeed, and you must see that you keep yourself right. That's all any
of us can do," said Mother Fisher. "Now, Davie, my boy, hop down and run
into Jasper's den with the others."

"Oh, I can't, Mamsie," protested Davie, in horror, and burrowing in her
arms, "they'll see I've been crying."

"That's the trouble with crying," observed Mother Fisher wisely; "it makes
you twice sorry--once when you're doing it, and the next time when it
shows. You can't help it now, Davie, so run along. Mother wants you to."

If Mother wanted them to, that was always enough for each of the "Five
Little Peppers," so Davie slid slowly down from her lap, and went out and
down the hall.

Meantime Miss Mary had taken Polly's arm in the procession to Jasper's den.

"Oh, Polly, how cheery you have made them!" she exclaimed. "We expected to
see you all perhaps drowned in tears."

"Oh, I haven't done it--anything to make them happy," cried Polly, the wave
of color again flooding her cheeks; "indeed I haven't, Miss Mary. I've been
bad and wicked and horrid," she said penitently, her head drooping.

"Oh, no, Polly," protested Miss Mary, her arm around Polly's waist.

"Yes I have, Miss Mary, I----"

"Well, don't let us talk now about it; we will look at the letters." Miss
Mary drew her within the den. There stood Jasper behind the table perfectly
overflowing with epistles of every sort and size, while little packages,
and some not so very little, either, filled up all the receptacles possible
for mail matter.

"Oh, my, what a lot!" exclaimed everybody, as Joel with a dash precipitated
his handfuls on the already long-suffering pile.

"This is only the beginning," laughed Jasper, waving his arms over, to
compass the whole den. "Just look on the top of the bookcase, will you?"

Everybody whirled around.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Grandpapa, at the sight. Letters were scattered
here and there in the thickest of piles all along the surface, while the
Chinese vase had a whole handful poking up their faces as if to say, "Here
we are, all the way from China."

"Dear me," exclaimed old Mr. King again, "when do you ever expect to sell
all those, Jasper?"

"Mine is in there," announced Phronsie, hanging to his hand and pointing to
the vase. "Grandpapa, it really is; Japser put it there."

"Did he, Pet?" cried the old gentleman, immensely interested.

"Yes, he did truly," said Phronsie, bobbing her head emphatically. "I saw
him my own self, Grandpapa. _And it's to you_." She stood on her
tiptoes and whispered the last bit of information.

"No, is it?" cried Grandpapa, highly gratified; and, lifting her up to a
level with his face, he kissed her on both cheeks. "Now, Phronsie, I shall
always keep that letter," he said, as he set her down.

"Shall you?" cried Phronsie, smoothing her gown with great satisfaction.
"Then I'm so glad I wrote it, Grandpapa."

Over by the table Jasper was saying to Polly:

"Now what shall we do with this dreadfully long evening? Do hurry and
think, Polly, before everybody gets dismal again."

"Oh, I don't know," said Polly, at her wit's end.

"But we must think of something," said Jasper desperately, and fumbling the
letters.

Polly's eye fell on his restless fingers.

"We might sort them out, the letters, and tie them up in little packages to
take out to the post office."

"The very thing!" cried Jasper enthusiastically. "Here, all you good
people"--he whirled around--"if you want to help, please sit down, and
we'll get this mess of letters sorted and tied up into bundles." He waved
his hands over his head, and of course everybody stopped talking at once.

"Oh, whickets!" Joel screamed; then he caught Polly's eye, and his chubby
face took on a lively red. "Let me--let me!" He crammed himself in between
Jasper and the table.

"Hold on!" commanded Jasper, "not so fast, Joe," and he seized Joel's brown
hands just grabbing a big pile.

"Wait till Jasper tells us how to begin," said Polly, her brown eyes
dancing at the prospect of something to do.

"Oh, dear!" whimpered Joel, stamping in his impatience. The Whitney boys
were crowding up close behind. "Do hurry up, Jasper," they teased.

"Well, how shall we begin, Polly?" Jasper wrinkled up his brows in
perplexity.

"Let's ask Miss Mary," said Polly. So Jasper called, "Miss Mary!" but she
didn't seem to hear, which perhaps wasn't so very strange, after all, as
Mr. Dyce was telling her something which must have been very interesting,
over in the corner. When at last the summons reached her, she came hurrying
over with very pink cheeks. "Oh, what can I do to help?"

"We've been calling and calling for ever so long," said Joel, in a very
injured tone, for he had added his voice when he saw that things were
waiting for Miss Taylor.

"Oh, have you, Joel? That's too bad." Miss Mary's cheeks became pinker than
ever.

"Well, you are always screaming over something, Joe, you beggar"--Mr. Dyce
pulled his ear--"so it's no wonder that your cries are not attended to on
the instant."

When Miss Mary saw what was wanted of her, she proposed that Jasper give
out twelve letters to each person, who should tie them up neatly, and put
in a big basket. Then they would be ready to take out to the post office in
the Wistaria arbor, and to be sorted into the little boxes which Grandpapa
had commissioned the carpenter to make all up and down the sides, leaving
one end free for the delivery window. The door for the postmaster and his
assistants was to be at the opposite corner.

"Oh, yes, how nice!" exclaimed Polly, hopping up and down as ecstatically
as Phronsie ever did. "Jasper, I'll get a ball of twine," and she was
flying off.

"No, you stay here and help me give out the letters," said Jasper.

"Oh, I want to do that," cried Joel, squeezing and crowding.

"No, you must get the big basket," said Jasper. "Go and ask Thomas to give
you one."

"I don't want to get an old basket," whined Joel; "let Percy get it."

"Hoh! I'm not going to," declared Percy, drawing himself up in great state.

"Then I will go myself," said Jasper, flinging down a handful of letters,
to hurry off.

"Joel," said Polly, in a sorry little voice, and turning away from the
table, "now you will spoil everything, and we've just got to feeling good.
How can you, Joey!"

"I didn't mean--" began Joel, turning his back on her, while he winked very
hard, "I didn't mean to, Polly."

Percy dug the toe of his shoe into the rug, and looked down on the floor.

"Then run after Jasper," cried Polly; "hurry, and tell him so."

"I will," cried Joel, plunging off, and Percy, being left alone, as Van had
slid away to another group when he saw how things were going on, concluded
to follow. And presently Jasper came back.

"It's all right, Polly," he nodded brightly to her, and they fell to work.

And in a minute or two, Joel came back with Percy, carrying the basket, a
big market affair, between them. And when he saw what fun they were having
over it, for they were both laughing merrily, Van wished he had gone.

And seeing his dismal face, Jasper sent him after a ball of twine. And then
Phronsie wanted to get something, and little Dick teased to go too, so
Grandpapa suggested they should go after some extra pairs of scissors.

"And Mamsie will let us take hers out of her workbasket, I guess," cried
Phronsie. "Let us ask her, Grandpapa dear."

"Oh, you better stop working, Mrs. Fisher." Old Mr. King popped his white
head in at the library door. There sat Mother Fisher by the table, mending
away as usual, for the stockings never seemed to be quite done. "And come
into Jasper's den and see how fine we all are!" he added gayly.

"Yes, Mamsie, do come," chirped Phronsie, running her head in between him
and the door-casing to plead.

"Yes, Mamsie, do come," echoed little Dick, who would do and say everything
that Phronsie did.

"You see, you've simply got to come," laughed Grandpapa.

"And may we have your scissors, Mamsie?" Phronsie now deserted old Mr.
King, to run over to the big workbasket.

"My scissors?" repeated Mother Fisher. "Why, Phronsie, child, what are you
going to do with them?"

"We're going to cut letters," said Phronsie, with an important air, her
fingers already in the basket, which, standing on tiptoe, she had pulled
quickly over toward her in her eagerness. "And may we have your scissors,
Mamsie?"

"Take care," warned Mother Fisher, but too late. Over went the big basket,
and away rattled all the things, having a perfectly beautiful time by
themselves over the library floor.

"Bless me!" ejaculated old Mr. King, while little Dick laughed right out.

Phronsie stood quite still, the color all out of her round cheeks. Then her
bosom heaved, and she darted over to lay her head in Mother Fisher's lap.

"Oh, I didn't mean to, Mamsie," she wailed.

"Oh, deary me! bless me!" exclaimed Grandpapa, in the greatest
consternation, and leaning over the two.

"There, there, don't mind it, deary." Mother Fisher was smoothing the
yellow hair.

"Take me, Mamsie," begged Phronsie, holding up both hands, and she burrowed
her face deeper yet in Mrs. Fisher's lap.

"Oh, dear me!" old Mr. King kept exclaiming. Then he pulled out his
handkerchief and mopped his face violently. This not making him feel any
better, he kept exclaiming, "Oh, dear me!" at intervals.

"I'll pick 'em up," said little Dick cheerfully, beginning to race after
the spools and things over the floor.

Mother Fisher had drawn Phronsie up to her bosom, where she cuddled her to
her heart's content. "Now, child," she said, after a minute, "I think you
ought to help to pick up the things and put them in the basket. See how
nicely Dicky is doing it."

"I'm getting all the spools," announced Dick, jamming all the chairs aside
that he could move, and lifting a very hot face. "Yes, sir-ee! Come,
Phronsie."

"I think you ought to help him, Phronsie."

So Phronsie slipped out of her mother's lap obediently, and wiped off her
tears.

"Come on," said little Dick, in great glee. "I'm going under the table;
there's a lot under there."

And in shorter time than it takes to tell it, the spools, and mending
cotton, and tape measure, and, dear me! the ever-so-many things of which
Mrs. Fisher's big workbasket was always full, were all collected from the
nice time they were having on the floor, and snugly set up in their places
again. And Mother Fisher, escorted by the children and old Mr. King, who by
this time was laughing quite gayly once more, was going out into the hall,
on the way to Jasper's den. And Phronsie had the big cutting-out shears,
and little Dick the smaller, little snipping-thread scissors.

"Hullo!" Mr. King called out, as the butler ushered into the hall two
gentlemen, in dripping mackintoshes. "Now that's fine, Cabot and Alstyne,
to drop in of this dismal evening."

"We've called to condole with you all," said both gentlemen, as they were
divested of their wet garments, "but it doesn't seem as if our services
were needed"--with a glance at Grandpapa and his group.

"Oh, my family gets over any little disappointment such as bad weather,"
observed the old gentleman, with pride. "Well, come this way, the principal
object of interest is in Jasper's den; no need to announce it"--as the
peals of laughter and chatter sounded down the long hall.




VIII

THE GARDEN PARTY


And so, after all, it turned out to be the very best thing that the garden
party did not take place until two days after, for all was then as sweet
and fresh as a rose--all but one thing. And that was, on the very morning
of the eventful day, Mrs. Chatterton drove up.

But then, as Jasper observed to Polly when this dire news was announced,
"Cousin Eunice was always turning up when least wanted." And Polly had, as
usual, to keep back her own thoughts on the subject, to comfort him. It
would never do to add to his dismay.

"Why she can't stay in Europe when she's everlastingly saying that there is
no place in America to compare with it, I don't, for my part, see," he
cried, in a pet.

"I suppose she wants to be with her relations, Jasper," said Polly, with a
sigh.

"Relations?"--Jasper turned suddenly on his heel and thrust his hands
deeply in his pockets--"well, she fights with every single one of them,"
he said savagely.

"Oh, Jasper--fights!" exclaimed Polly, in horror, whose great grief had
always been at having no relations, so to speak. "Dear me, how very
dreadful!"

"Well, you know she does," said Jasper gloomily, and squaring
round--"always picking and carping at something or somebody; and now Father
will be all upset by her. If she had only waited till to-morrow!"

Polly felt such a dreadful sinking of her heart just then, that for a
minute she didn't speak. There didn't seem to be any comfort for this.

"And just think how good Father has been," went on Jasper, too miserable to
keep still, "and all those flowers he had ordered, for of course he
couldn't let the florists suffer, and that he sent to the hospitals when it
poured so."

"I know it," said Polly, swallowing hard.

"And now he has ordered another lot, and everything else--why, you know,
Polly, there isn't anything Father hasn't done to make this fair a success,
and now she has come!" Jasper flung himself into a chair and buried his
face in his hands.

"Oh, Jasper," cried Polly, running over to him in the greatest distress,
"don't! Oh, dear me! What can we do?"

"Nothing," said Jasper, in the depths of gloom; "nothing will do any good
so long as she has come."

"Oh, there must something be done," declared Polly quite wildly, and
feeling equal to anything. If she only knew what would avail! "_Hush,
here comes Grandpapa!_"

"Oh, he mustn't see us feeling badly." Jasper sprang from his chair. "Come,
Polly," and they flew out into the side hall.

"Now where are those two, Polly and Jasper?" said old Mr. King to himself,
coming to the library in a great state of irritation. "I've searched this
house for them, and nobody seems to have the least idea where they have
gone. Polly! Jasper!" he cried loudly, and it wasn't a very pleasant voice,
either.

"Oh, dear!" Jasper seized Polly's hands in a corner of the hall. "He's
calling us, and we've got to go, Polly, and how we look, you and I!
Whatever shall we do!"

"But we must go," breathed Polly. Then she looked up into Jasper's face.
"Let's ask him to go out and help us fix the flowers," she cried suddenly.

Jasper gave her a keen glance. "All right," he said. "Come on," and before
their resolution had time to cool itself, they rushed into the library.

"Oh, Grandpapa," they both cried together, "do come out and tell us how to
fix the flowers."

"Hey?" The old gentleman whirled around from the table, where he had begun
to throw the papers about. "Did you know Mrs. Chatterton had come back?" He
glared at them over his spectacles, which he had forgotten to remove when
he had been interrupted with the unwelcome news while peacefully reading
the morning paper.

"Yes--oh, yes," said Jasper.

"Oh, yes, we know it," cried Polly cheerfully, "but, Grandpapa, we want
you"--tugging at his hand.

"Hey? you knew it?" The old gentleman's tone softened, and he suffered
himself to be led toward the door. "And you want me, eh?"--feeling with
every step as if life, after all, might be worth living.

"Yes, we do indeed, Father," cried Jasper affectionately, possessing
himself of the other hand.

"And oh, the flowers you sent are just too lovely for anything!" cried
Polly, dancing away along by his side. "They're gorgeous, Grandpapa dear."

"Are they so?" Grandpapa beamed at her, all his happiness returned. "So you
want me to tell you how to arrange them, eh?" And his satisfaction in being
appealed to was so intense that he held his head high. "Well, come on," and
he laughed gayly.

Mrs. Chatterton, newly arrived in the handsome suite of apartments Cousin
Horatio's hospitality always allowed her, looked out of the window, and,
having no one else to confide her opinions to, was not averse to chatting
with her French maid.

"Isn't it perfectly absurd, Hortense, to see that old man?--and to think
how particular and aristocratic he used to be! Why, I can remember when he
would hardly let Jasper speak to him in some of his moods, and now just see
that beggar girl actually holding his hand, and he laughing with her."

"A beggaire, is it?" cried Hortense, dropping the gown she was brushing, to
run to the window. "I see no beggaire, madame"--craning her neck.

"You needn't drop your work," said Mrs. Chatterton, with asperity, "just
because I made a simple remark. You know quite well whom I mean, Hortense.
It's that Polly Pepper I'm speaking of."

"She is not a beggaire, madame," declared Hortense pertly, opening her
black eyes very wide. "Oh!" She extended her hands and burst into a series
of shrill cackles. "Why, she's like all de oder children in dis house, and
I think truly, madame, de best."

"Go back to your work, I say," commanded Mrs. Chatterton, in a fury,
forgetting herself enough to stamp her foot. So Hortense picked up the
gown, but she continued to cackle softly to herself, with now and then a
furtive glance at her mistress.

Outside, with all the sunny influence of the summer morning upon him, old
Mr. King, and Polly, and Jasper went about, superintending the placing of
the flowers. For there seemed to be a great many in the pots, with ferns
and palms, to distribute where they would best show off and be persuaded to
swell the poor children's fund.

"Oh, Grandpapa dear! what richness!" sighed Polly, clasping her hands in
ecstasy. "I do think I never saw so many, and such beauties. Only look,
Jasper, at that azalea!"

"I know it," said Jasper, his eyes sparkling, "and those orchids, Polly!"

"Oh, I know--I know," said Polly, spinning about to take it all in. Old Mr.
King put back his head and laughed to see her.

"I'm so glad you like it, Polly, my girl," he said, heartily pleased.

"Like it, Grandpapa!" repeated Polly, standing quite still. "Oh, it's just
too beautiful!" and she clasped her hands tightly together.

"Well, I think we'd best get to work," said Jasper, bursting into a laugh.
"Come on, Polly, let's set about it."

"I think so, too," said Polly, coming out of her rapture. Thereupon ensued
such a busy time!--especially as old Turner and two of his under-gardeners
came up for directions, and Mr. King went off with them. So for the next
hour Polly seemed to be on wings, here, there, and everywhere, and
breathing only the sweet fragrance of the flowers.

"How Phronsie would enjoy it--the fixing and all!" she mourned, in the
midst of it, as the transforming of the flower-tables into veritable bowers
of beauty went on.

"But you know she had to take a long nap, else she would be all tired out.
And the afternoon is going to be a long one, Polly."

"Oh, I know," said Polly, flying on with her work faster than ever, "and
Mamsie was right to make her go to sleep."

"Mrs. Fisher is always right," said Jasper decidedly, "ever and always."

"Isn't she!" cried Polly, in a glow. "Well, Jasper, do you think that
smilax ought to be trained up there?" She twisted her head to view the
effect, and looked up at him anxiously.

"Yes--no," said Jasper critically; "I don't believe I'd put it there. It
looks too much, Polly; there are so many vines about."

"So it does," said Polly, in great relief. "Heigh-ho! when one is working
over any thing it looks so different, doesn't it?"

"I should say so," cried Jasper. "Oh, Polly, it can't ever in all this
world be twelve o'clock."

"It can't!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay. But there was one of the
white-capped maids coming across the lawn, with the summons to go in to
luncheon, which was to be served at an earlier hour than usual.

And after that, no one had more than a moment in which to think, for at
three o'clock the garden party was to open, and the fair to be in full
progress.

Long before that time, the avenues and streets leading out to the Horatio
King estate were thronged with children of all ages and sizes; most of them
with their nurse-maids, all bound to the scene of the garden party, their
small purses dangling by chains from their arms, or carried carefully in
their hands. For wasn't this to help poor children who didn't have any
pleasant homes, but lived in stuffy tenement houses, to go out into the
broad, beautiful country, where they could race in the fields and play with
the chickens, and pick all the flowers they wanted to? And so, ever since
the announcement had been made that such a fund was to be raised, there had
been much hoarding of pennies, and no slight self-denial on the part of the
younger element, who would naturally be drawn into the plan.

All the society people were to drive up later; and until the early evening
hours it was to be the function of the town, which every one was anxious to
attend. But everybody in Mr. King's household was to be ready to receive,
exactly at three o'clock.

Phronsie was in the highest of spirits, having Grandpapa's hand to cling
to, trying to welcome all the guests, and keeping one eye out to see that
Rachel was enjoying herself, attired in a pretty, pink cambric gown, her
black hair--which now seemed, oh, so soft and pretty!--tied back with
little pink bows. And Rachel's eyes--well, there! no one would ever have
suspected that they had only been accustomed to the squalor of Gran's
apartment, and Gran herself, but one short week ago. They now looked on the
world in general, and this fair scene in particular, with all the
nonchalance of one born and brought up in the midst of such conditions as
could bring about a state of affairs like the present that surrounded her.
And many asked, "Who is that child?" for it was clearly seen that she
wasn't of the set that was thronging the grounds.

Rachel herself was wholly unconscious of the remarks that were being made,
so she devoted her heart and soul to the duty assigned to her, that of
waiting on Polly and her bevy of school friends in one of the
flower-bowers. And she never bothered about any curious glances, or asides,
until a chance remark struck her ear as she was hurrying across the lawn,
which she thought needed attention; then she raised her head, and her black
eyes grew sharp and intent. It was Mrs. Chatterton who was speaking.

"Yes, it's a little beggar girl he took in," and the cackle was unpleasant
that accompanied the words. "Dear me! I expect she'll rob us all; such
creatures are so sly." She was pointing out Rachel to one of her friends
lately arrived from Europe, and who had exerted herself to come early and
see the children.

"Do you mean me?" demanded Rachel, her black eyes, like gimlets, on the
long, cynical face. "'Cause if you does, I can tell you that what I does, I
does right out on top; an' I guess by the looks o' you, that ain't your
style."

"You impertinent creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton, her long face
crimson with passion, not allayed by seeing that her friend could with
difficulty control her amusement. "She'll tell this everywhere," she fumed
within. "I shall go and speak to my cousin, Mr. King, about you, girl." She
moved her arm and shapely hand, both very beautiful still, and well
exhibited on every occasion, and started off with great dignity.

"I would," said Rachel scornfully. Then she laughed, "Oh, me! oh, my!
you're such a favor_ite_, you are!" and she doubled up her thin
figure, and went off in a little gust of merriment.

"Come with me." Mrs. Chatterton darted back and seized her friend's arm to
drag her away. "That detestable creature makes me feel quite faint."

As soon as they had disappeared down a winding path, Rachel's amusement
quite left her. She drew herself up stiffly, and hurried back to Polly, to
be the same quiet, attentive, deft little maiden as before.

"You do tie flowers up so beautifully," cried Polly, handing her another
big spool of baby ribbon. "Doesn't she, girls?"

"Yes, indeed," cried ever so many.

"I can't tie a bow to save myself," declared Alexia; "it all snarls up, and
it looks for all the world, when I get through, as if my dog had chewed it.
Oh, dear me! Yes, that basket is two dollars."

"I'll take it," said the little tot who had to stand on tiptoes to peer
over the table with its blooming beauty. "I want it for my mamma," and he
gave his smart little cane to the nursemaid to hold, while he opened his
purse.

"Well, it's a beauty, Rick," said Alexia, picking up the basket; "the
violets are so sweet," and she sniffed them two or three times as she
passed them over.

"Here's Rick Halliday," called Clem, at the other end of the table. "Now
I'm going to make him buy something of me. We must all make him, girls; his
father's given him oceans of money to spend, of course."

It was loud enough for Polly to hear, and she dropped the box of ribbon
under the table.

"No, no," she said decidedly, hurrying over, "Grandpapa said we were not to
ask a single person to buy. That's the rule, you know, Clem."

"We could make ever so much more," grumbled Clem; "it's for the poor
children, you know, Polly."

"Grandpapa said not," repeated Polly, her cheeks like a rose, and back she
flew again to her post.

"I shan't buy anything of you, Clem Forsythe," loudly declared small Rick
over to her, taking his little cane from the nursemaid's hand, "anyway. And
beside, my papa said if any one teased me to spend my money, I was to come
right away. But he didn't believe they would here." And with his basket of
flowers for his mother, he moved off with great dignity across the lawn,
swinging his cane as he had noticed the men did.

"Of all kids, I do think that Rick Halliday is the most detestable infant,"
exclaimed Clem, in great discomfort. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Nunn"--her face
brightening--"we have heliotrope, ever so much of it." She thrust her hands
into a big vase overflowing with fragrance. "How many? Oh, three dozen
sprays. Yes, indeed."

[Illustration: "But this is ten dollars," said Joel]

And the bands--one at the end of the big lawn, and the other on the terrace
at the farther side of the house--were playing their sweetest; and now the
society folk began to put in an appearance among the throngs of children.
Everybody was in gala attire, and the garden party was at its height.

"Joel," cried Mr. Cabot to that individual, rushing in and out among the
little knots of gayly dressed visitors, "here, run over to the post office,
will you, and see if there are any letters for me?"

"All right," Joel cried, as he flew along. And in an incredibly short space
of time, back he rushed with three missives.

"How much?"

"Ten cents apiece," said Joel promptly. "I'll get change in a minute," and
he was flying off again with the bill thrust into his hand.

"I don't take any change here. I don't want any; I won't be bothered with
it," declared Mr. Cabot, in his most decided fashion.

"But this is ten dollars," said Joel, aghast, and stopping short to flap
the bill.

"Never mind, that's my affair; go along, or I'll report you. Aren't you one
of the postmen?"--pointing sternly to his badge.

"Yes," said Joel, straightening up, and puffing out his chubby cheeks with
pride.

"Well, then, you'll find yourself reported if you don't march," cried Mr.
Cabot "So off with yourself to the postmaster."

"Come on, Joel," called another of the postmen, who happened to be Percy,
rushing along. "I'm going to get my mail bag now, there's just a crowd of
folks waiting over there for letters"--pointing over to the pine grove.

"So will I get mine," shouted Joel, "and see here"--waving his ten-dollar
bill--"what Mr. Cabot sent to Jasper. I guess that'll send one poor child
off into the country, Percy Whitney! Won't that be prime!"

There was such a crowd around the Wistaria-arbor post office, that Percy
and Joel, who much preferred being letter-carriers to helping Jasper
within, had to crawl in under the vines, to find the mail bags.

"Here, Jasper," cried Joel, "take it, do"--throwing the ten-dollar bill
down in a flurry, to fling the strap of his mail bag over his head before
Percy should get his in order.

But Jasper, who was trying to satisfy the demands of a throng of people all
clamoring at the small window for letters, didn't see it, or even hear his
name called. So the ten-dollar bill lay perfectly still where it fell,
until it got all tired out, and a little puff of wind, sweeping through the
arbor, blew it first to one side, and then to the other, until at last it
fell down among a tangle of evergreen with which the posts of the arbor
were wound. And presently, Van, who much preferred being assistant to
Jasper to running about as a letter carrier, came along and exclaimed, "Oh,
that silly old green stuff! It takes up so much room!" And he twitched off
a lot of it, and the ten-dollar bill, well crumpled up inside of the bunch,
sighed and said to itself as it was flung under the counter, "Now I guess
I'm dead and buried forever."

Meanwhile, Joel, as happy as a lark at the thought of Mr. Cabot's
contribution, went off on the wings of the wind, distributing letters,
here, there, and everywhere, and receiving lots of orders.

It was, "Oh, Joel, get me a letter,"

And, "Joel, get me one; I can't get near the post office; there's a perfect
mob there."

And, "Joel Pepper!"--from clear across the lawn--"come over here; Mrs.
Singleton wants to see you about some letters," until Joel began to feel
that he was about running the whole post-office department, and it seemed
as if every drop of blood was in his chubby face, he was so hot. But he
never thought of being tired, he was so happy, plunging on.

"Oh, my gracious, honey! you done mos' knocked de bref out o' me!" It was
Candace, who had left her little shop on Temple Place to help forward the
garden party, against whom he had come up, careless where he was going.




IX

THE TEN-DOLLAR BILL


"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Joel brought himself up remorsefully, trying to recover
the collection of rag dolls sent spinning from her black arms.

"An' dey were sech perfec' beauties!" mourned Candace, twisting her hands
sorrowfully together. "Oh, me! oh, my!"

"They aren't hurt a bit," declared Joel stoutly, precipitating the whole
collection unceremoniously at her. "There they are, every single one, as
nice as ever!"

"Take care," warned Candace. "Oh, my soul and body!" she mourned, "dey're
all mussed up."

"You can comb it out," said Joel, longing to comfort, and forgetting it was
wool from Candace's own head.

"And what'll Mis' Cabot and Mis' Alstyne say?" groaned Candace. Then she
sat right down on the grass and began to pick at the dolls discontentedly.
"W'y couldn't you 'a' looked whar you're goin', Mas'r Joel?"

"Have Mrs. Alstyne and Mrs. Cabot bought those dolls?" cried Joel, pointing
a brown finger at them. "Oh, dear me!" He just saved himself from
exclaiming, "Those horrors!"

"Yes," said Candace, smoothing a woolly head in great distress, "but I
dunno's they'll want 'em now, dey've been shook up so and spilt on de
groun'--oh, dear me!"

"Joel, aren't you coming with that letter bag?" and, "Joel Pepper, hurry
up!" The cries were now so insistent that Joel dashed away, stopped, and
rushed back tumultuously. "Oh, Candace, I'm so sorry!" He flung himself
down on the grass by her side. Distress was written so plainly all over his
hot face that Candace stopped in her work over the dolls to turn and regard
him.

"Bress yer heart, honey," she cried, now as much worried over Joel as she
had been about the dolls, "dey ain't hurt a mite--not a single grain," she
added emphatically.

"Oh, Candace, are you sure?" he exclaimed delightedly.

"Not a mite," protested Candace, bobbing her own woolly head in a decided
fashion. "Dear me! now I'm afraid I discomberated my turban, an' it's my
spick an' span comp'ny one Mr. King give me for this yere berry occasion,"
and she put up both black hands to feel of it anxiously. Joel jumped to his
feet and ran all around the big figure to get the most comprehensive view.

"It's all right, Candace," he reported, in great satisfaction.

"Sure, honey?" she asked doubtfully.

"Yes, yes," declared Joel quickly, prancing up in front of her. "I like
you, Candace; you're just as nice as can be."

"Den gimme your hands!"--she laid the rag dolls carefully on the grass, and
put out both of her black ones--"and hoist me up, honey, dat's a good
chile."

So Joel stuck out his brown hands, and Candace laying hold of them, he
tugged, very red in the face, till finally she set her ample gaiters on the
ground and stood straight.

Up rushed Van.

"They're complaining at the post office," he squealed. "You've got to give
me your bag. Folks can't get their letters. Give me the bag." He thrust out
both hands.

Joel turned on him in a fury,

"You aren't going to have my bag," he screamed.

"I am, too; you're so slow, and don't give out the letters," said Van,
delighted to find some chance to get the best of Joel, and quite important
to be sent with a message to such an effect.

"You shan't either; I ain't slow," cried Joel, answering both statements at
once, and whirling around in an endeavor to keep the bag at his back. But
Van flew for it, disdaining to waste more time over arguments.

Candace stretched out a large, black hand. "See here, now, Mas'r Van, leggo
dat bag." She seized him by the jacket collar with such a grip that he
dismissed all thoughts of the mail bag, his one concern now being to get
free from Candace.

"Ow!" he screamed, wriggling violently. "I don't want the mail bag; let me
go, Candace, do!"

"See," cried little Dick, half across the lawn, to a merry party of ladies
and gentlemen, who turned to follow the pointing of the small finger toward
Candace and her capture.

"Oh, let me go," cried Van, very red in the face at this, and trying to
duck behind her big figure, "_please,_ Candace."

"Let him go," begged Joel, just as much distressed; "he won't touch the
bag, I don't believe, again, Candace."

"Oh, I won't, I won't," promised Van wildly. "I don't want the bag; do let
me go, Candace."

"Yer see, Mas'r Joel was a-helpin' me," said Candace, slowly releasing
Van's jacket collar, "an' 'twarn't none 'o his fault dat he stopped
kerryin' de letters." But Van was off from under her open fingers and shot
across the green in the opposite direction from little Dick and his party.

"Now I'll take my dolls to de ladies," observed Candace, bundling them up
in her clean, checked apron. She sent a satisfied glance after Joel, making
quick time toward the post office, then waddled off.

"Boy!" called a fine, imperious voice, as Joel dashed by a group of ladies
and gentlemen. As there wasn't any other boy in sight, he might be supposed
to be the one wanted; but Joel by this time was frantic to get to the post
office, and with his mind filled with mortification and distress at his
delay from his duty, he paid no heed to the call, now repeated more
insistently.

"It's a lady," then said Joel to himself, "so I must go back. Oh, dear me!"
He wheeled abruptly, and, hot and red-faced, plunged up to the group.

"What is it, ma'am?" Then he saw to his disgust that it was Mrs.
Chatterton. She was surrounded by friends whom she had met abroad.

"Why didn't you come when I bade you?" she exclaimed arrogantly. "Don't you
know it's your place to serve me?"

"No, ma'am," said Joel bluntly, his black eyes fixed on her face. One or
two of the gentlemen turned aside with a laugh.

"What, you little beggar!" Mrs. Chatterton said it between her teeth,
furious at the amusement of her friends, but Joel heard.

"I'm not a beggar," he declared hotly, and squaring his shoulders. By this
time he forgot all about the mail bag. "And you haven't any right to say
so"--with flashing eyes.

Mrs. Chatterton, now seeing him worked up, recovered herself and smiled
sweetly. She leaned back in her garden chair and swung her parasol daintily
back and forth.

"Oh, yes, you are," she declared; "we all know it, so there is no use in
your denying it. Well, you get us some ices and be quick about it." She
dismissed him with a wave of her beautiful arm, in its flowing, lace
drapery.

But Joel did not budge.

"You don't know it." He swept the whole group with his black eyes. "It
isn't as she says, is it?"

"No," said one of the gentlemen who had laughed, whirling around to bring a
very sharp pair of eyes on Joel's face, "it isn't, my boy."

"Well, I must say," protested Mrs. Chatterton, an angry light coming into
her cold eyes, and turning around on him sharply, "that this isn't very
friendly in you, Mr. Vandeusen, to pit that upstart boy against me. Now
there will be no managing him hereafter."

"Well, but, Mrs. Chatterton," broke in one of the other gentlemen, in a
propitiatory voice, and leaning over her chair, Mr. Vandeusen turning
calmly on his heel to survey the distant lawns through his monocle, "a
beggar, don't you know--well, it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world
to be called that, don't you know?"

"Particularly when one isn't a beggar," said a young lady hotly. Then she
turned to Joel and laid a hand on his arm. "Don't you mind it," she said.

"And as for you, Miss Tresor, I should consider it wiser for you to be
silent." Mrs. Chatterton turned on her with venom. "What do you know about
these miserable Peppers that infest my cousin's house, pray tell?"

"I like them," declared Miss Tresor decidedly, not turning her head. "Don't
mind it, my lad."

"I don't, now," said Joel. Then the gentlemen laughed again.

"Oh, I must go." All his long neglect of his letter-carrier duties, made so
much worse by this delay, now surged over him. He raised his chubby face,
over which a smile ran, and bounded off.

"Isn't he a dear!" exclaimed Miss Tresor impulsively.

"Come away, Emily," begged another young lady, seizing Miss Tresor's arm,
"the old cat is quite furious; just look at her face."

"We'll leave her to mamma's tender mercies," said Emily carelessly, "she
knows how to handle her. Do you remember that scene, Elinor, at Geneva?"

"Don't I!" laughed Elinor, as they sauntered off.

Well, by the time that six o'clock came, there wasn't so much as a scrap of
a letter left in Jasper's post office, but, instead, a box crammed full of
silver pieces and banknotes. And Miss Mary Taylor and Mr. Hamilton Dyce,
and some other young ladies and gentlemen whom they drilled into the
service, shut themselves up in the library and wrote as fast as ever they
could make their pens fly over the paper, till little white piles appeared
on the table. And Percy and Joel and Van and the other boys would rush in
for these same piles to put them in the post office, to earn more money, to
go into the big box. So back and forth ran these letter carriers, until
even Miss Mary threw down her pen.

"I can't write another word," she cried. "I've exhausted everything I can
think of. I don't want to see another letter!"

And then a card was put up outside the Wistaria arbor, "Post Office
Closed." And everybody who still had money, was anxious to spend it before
going home; so it was just lavished on the flower-bowers, the fancy-work
table, and the candy shop.

And then, when there wasn't anything more to be bought or sold, the bands
moved down nearer to the center of the big lawn, making the gay little
groups all move back, leaving a broad, smooth surface, for the affair was
to end in dancing on the green.

Meanwhile Grandpapa was gallantly offering his arm to Madam Dyce, and
leading her up to an esplanade on the upper terrace, and, word being spread
about that all the guests were expected to follow, there they found seats
and little tables and a bevy of waiters to serve a delicious supper. And
here the dancing on the green below by the young people could be seen in
all its gayety, the setting sun casting bright gleams upon the merry scene.

"Dear me! shouldn't you think those young people would be tired enough
after all they have worked," observed the old gentleman, leaning back in
his comfortable chair, "to sit still and take it easy with us here?"

"No, indeed!" exclaimed Madam Dyce, "my old feet are actually twitching
under my gown to dance too."

"In that case," observed old Mr. King most gallantly, "let me lead you
down, and will you give me the honor?" He bent his white hair to the level
of her hand.

"No, indeed," laughed Madam Dyce; "I will leave the field for the young
people. But it carries me back to my youth, when you and I did dance many a
time together, Horatio."

"Did we not?" laughed Grandpapa, too. And then up came some merry groups,
tired of dancing, after some supper, when down they would go again,
fortified and refreshed, to begin it all over once more. At last, even the
lingering ones were obliged to say good-bye. The evening had shut in and
the brilliant garden party was a thing of the past. The King household was
resting and talking it all over on the spacious veranda, luxurious in its
cushions and rugs, its easy-chairs and hammocks.

"Oh, it has been so perfectly beatific!" exclaimed Polly, in a rapture. She
was curled up on the top step, her head in Grandpapa's lap, who was
ensconced in a big chair with Phronsie's tired little face snuggled up on
his breast. "Hasn't it, Alexia?" For Alexia was going to stay over night.

"Oh, my!" Alexia gave a sigh and squeezed Polly's hand. "I never had such a
good time in all my life, Polly Pepper," she declared. "The poor children
won't begin to get the fun out of it that we've had."

"Oh, those dear poor children!" exclaimed Polly, stretching out her toes,
which now began to ache dreadfully; "just think how perfectly lovely it's
going to be for them all summer, Alexia."

Joel caught the last words. He poked up his head from one of the hammocks.

"Well, I guess Mr. Cabot has helped a poor child to go into the country,"
he cried, in a pleased tone.

"I guess everybody has helped," observed Ben, "the way your letters went,
Jasper! Who would think so many could have been sold!"

Jasper stopped pulling Prince's ears.

"Didn't they go!" he cried, in huge satisfaction.

"I guess you were glad to get that big bill, Jasper," shouted Joel. "My,
wasn't he good to send it!"

"Eh?" asked Jasper. Everybody was chatting and laughing, so it wasn't
strange that things couldn't be heard the first time. So Joel shouted it
again, glad to be allowed to scream such a splendid contribution over and
over. "The big bill, wasn't it prime, Jasper!"

"What are you talking about, Joe?" cried Jasper, stopping his play with
Prince, as he saw Joel was terribly in earnest over something.

"Why, the big bill I gave you, that Mr. Cabot sent. Hurrah! Wasn't it
fine!" Joel kicked up his heels and emitted a whistle that made Polly clap
her hands over her ears.

"What big bill?" exclaimed Jasper. "What on earth are you talking about,
Joe?"

Joel tumbled out of the hammock and took long leaps across the piazza
floor, which landed him in front of Jasper.

"Why, that ten-dollar bill I gave you that Mr. Cabot sent to the post
office," he said, in a breath.

"You didn't give me any ten-dollar bill," said Jasper, all in a puzzle;
"you've been dreaming, Joe."

"I--I laid it down right by you." Joe could only gasp the words now.

"I didn't see it," said Jasper.




X

TROUBLE FOR JOEL



There was an awful pause, for everybody caught the last words. Joel slid to
the floor in a little heap. Mrs. Chatterton spoke up quickly.

"It's easy enough to see where it went," and she gave a little laugh.

"Come on, Joe." Jasper sprang up and shook Joel's arm. "We'll go and hunt
for it."

"I'll go, too." Van and Percy screamed it together. Now that any trouble
had come to Joel, each vied with the other to see which could work the
faster to help matters.

"I laid it--right down. Oh, dear me!" Joel was pretty far gone in distress
by this time, and blubbered miserably, as they all raced across the
greensward, Polly and Alexia following swiftly. "Hold on there, James,"
ordered Jasper, to one of the three men busy dismantling the post office of
its improvised trimmings of pine branches.

"Eh--eh, sor? Stop, boys," said James to the workmen within the arbor.

"We have lost something," panted Jasper, as the whole group precipitated
themselves up to the spot.

"Is that so, sor?" said James, in great concern. "Well, if I'd 'a' known
it, I'd 'a' kept a sharp eye out for it, sor." Polly and Alexia were
already in the arbor in the thickest of the green branches scattered over
the floor, and the boys were picking and pulling wildly, everywhere a
banknote could be supposed to hide. "What was it, sor?"

"A banknote," said Jasper, down on his knees, prowling over the floor with
both hands, while Joel, who could scarcely see for the tears that streamed
down his chubby cheeks, searched desperately on all sides.

"Is that so, sor?" said James, in great distress. "Well now, that's too
bad. We've taken off two loads already, sor."

"Where have you put them?" demanded Jasper, springing to his feet.

"Down in the dump, sor."

"We must look that over," said Jasper decidedly. "Send your men with
lanterns; don't touch a single thing here, James, I'll come back," and he
sprang off.

"No, no, sor," said James, touching his cap. "Now, boys," to the workmen,
"you can leave this here; get your lanterns and help the master."

"All right," said the men.

"Polly, you and Alexia keep on hunting, won't you?" called Jasper over his
shoulder, as the boys flew off.

"Yes, we will," called back Polly, who would very much have preferred the
pleasures of "the dump," a big dell in process of filling up with just such
debris as had now been added.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Alexia discontentedly, "now we're mewed up here
when we might be in that dear old sweet dump, Polly Pepper; and all because
we're girls."

"Well, we can't help it," said Polly, with a sigh, who wished very much
sometimes that she might be a boy, "so we'd much better keep at work
hunting for that ten-dollar bill, Alexia."

"And Joel is so dreadfully careless," said Alexia, determined to grumble at
something, and poking aimlessly at the green branches scattered on the
floor. "I don't suppose we'll ever find it in all this world, in such a
mess."

"We must," said Polly, a little white line coming around her mouth.

"Well, we can't, so what's the use of saying that?" and Alexia gave a
restful stretch to her long arms. "Oh, me! oh, my! I'm so tired, Polly
Pepper!"

"You know we must find that ten-dollar bill, Alexia," repeated Polly
hoarsely, working busily away for dear life.

"Well, we can't; it's perfectly hopeless--so do keep still. Just look at
all this." Alexia waved her arms at the green draperies. "I'm going to pull
the rest down anyway, though; that'll be fun," and she made a dash at it.

"No, no," said Polly, on her knees on the floor, "we must leave all that
till Jasper comes back. Come, Alexia, help me look over these."

"Oh, bother!" cried Alexia, in great disdain, "I don't want to poke over
those old things. You know yourself it's no earthly use; we'll never find
it in all this world, Polly Pepper."

There was a queer little sound, and Alexia, whirling around, saw Polly
Pepper in a little heap down in the middle of the green branches.

"Oh, misery! what have I done?"--rushing over to her and shaking her arms.
"Oh, Polly, do get up, we _will_ find it, I'm positively sure; do get
up, Polly." But Polly didn't stir.

"Oh, dear me!" wailed Alexia. "Polly, _please_ get up." She ran all
around her, wringing her hands. "Oh, what did I say it for! Polly, Polly
Pepper, we'll find it, as sure as anything. We can't help but find it.
Polly, do get up."

She flung herself down on her knees and began to pat the white face. Polly
opened her eyes and looked at her.

"What did you say such dreadful things for, Alexia?" she said
reproachfully.

"Oh, I couldn't help it," exclaimed Alexia remorsefully. "There! Oh, dear
me! you've scared me 'most to death, Polly Pepper. Do get up." So Polly sat
straight, and Alexia fussed over her, all the while repeating, "We will
find it, Polly."

"Dear me!" said Polly, "this isn't hunting for that ten-dollar bill."

"Well, what's the use?" began Alexia. "Oh, yes, of course we'll find it,"
she brought herself up quickly. "Now, Polly, I tell you." She sprang to her
feet. "Let's clear a place in this corner"--and she rushed over to it--"and
then pick up every branch and shake it, and put it over here. Then we'll
know surely whether that horrid thing is on the floor or not."

"So we shall," cried Polly, getting up on her feet; "that's fine, Alexia!"
And they set to work so busily they didn't hear when the boys came back
from their search. But the first moment she saw Jasper's face, Polly knew
that the hunt was unsuccessful, and the next minute Joel threw himself into
her arms and hugged her closely.

"Oh, Polly," he sobbed, "it's gone, and it's my fault."

"Cheer up, old fellow," said Jasper, clapping him on the back; "we'll find
it yet."

Van and Percy stood dismally by, knocking their heels against the arbor
side, and feeling quite sure they should burst out crying in another
minute, if Joel didn't stop.

Polly patted his poor head and cuddled it in her neck. "Oh, Joey, we'll
find it," she said, swallowing a big lump in her throat; "don't cry, dear,"
while Alexia sniffed and wrung her hands, fiercely turning her back on them
all.

"Now, boys," said Jasper, in his cheeriest fashion, "we'll all set to work
on these vines that are left. Come on, now, and let's see who will work the
fastest."

"I will," announced Van, rushing over to twitch down the green drapery that
had been such a piece of work for the gardeners to put up. Percy said
nothing, but set to work quietly, lifting each branch to peer under it.

"Take care," warned Jasper, pausing a minute in his own work to look over
at Van's reckless fingers; "you must shake each one as you pull it down,
before you throw it out on the grass, else we'll have all our work to do
over again. Oh, Alexia, are you coming to help?"

"Of course I am," declared Alexia. "Oh, Van, what a piece of work you are
making!"

Polly was whispering to Joel, "We ought to help," when Van gave a shout,
"I've found it! I've found it!"

"Hurrah!" Jasper leapt down from the railing and plunged up in great
excitement to Polly and Joel. "There, old fellow, what did I tell you?" he
cried with glowing face, and clapping Joel on the back again.

"Phoh!" exclaimed Percy, in great contempt, "he hasn't, either; it's only a
bit of green paper."

"I thought I had," said Van, quite crestfallen, and flinging down the dingy
bit; "it looked just like it."

It was too much; and Joel, who had hopped out of Polly's lap, flung himself
on the floor and cried as if his heart would break. They couldn't get him
out of it, so Jasper just picked him up and marched off to the house with
him to give him to Mother Fisher.

And the next morning, search as hard as they could--and everybody was
hunting by that time--not a trace of the ten-dollar bill could be
discovered. And Mrs. Chatterton took pains to waylay Joel in the hall or on
the stairs at all possible opportunities, and ask him, with a smile at his
swollen nose and eyes (for he had cried so he could hardly see), if he had
found it yet. But these chances became very few, for it was Jasper's and
Polly's very especial business to keep guard over Joel, and try to divert
him in every way. Meantime the hunt went on. And the third day, when it
became perfectly apparent to the entire household that the banknote was in
such a clever hiding-place that no one could find it, Joel, his tears all
gone, marched into Mr. King's writing-room and up to his big table, and
without a bit of warning burst out:

"I want to sell tin!"

"Eh, what?" exclaimed the old gentleman, looking over his glasses. "What is
that you are saying, Joey, my boy?"

"I want to sell tin," said Joel bluntly.

_"Want to sell tin!"_ ejaculated old Mr. King, in amazement.

"Yes, sir, just like Mr. Biggs; he got lots of money. May I, Grandpapa?
Please say I may." Joel ran around the writing-table to plant himself by
the old gentleman's chair.

"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed Mr. King, leaning back in dismay, "whatever
can you mean, my boy?"

"Grandpapa"--Joel laid a brown hand on the velvet morning-jacket, and
brought his black eyes very close to the gentleman's face--"I've got to
earn that ten dollars; I've got to, Grandpapa, 'cause I lost it." Joel's
voice broke here, but he recovered it and dashed on, "And I can't do it
unless you will let me sell tin. _Please,_ Grandpapa dear. Mr. Biggs
used to, in Badgertown, you know, and he took me with him sometimes on his
cart, so I know how; and I can sell a lot. I can wheel it in my express
wagon, and--" Joel by this time was running on so glibly, under the
impression that if he didn't stop, Mr. King would be induced to say yes,
that the old gentleman was forced to put up his hand peremptorily.

"There, there, Joey, my boy," he said, settling his glasses that had
slipped to the end of his nose, and taking Joel's hand. "Now, then, let's
hear all about the matter."

And in a minute or two Joel was perched on the old gentleman's knee, and
they were having the most sociable time possible. And before long Joel
forgot he hadn't laughed for oh, such a long while, and lo and behold!
Grandpapa said something so very funny that they both burst out into a
merry peal, that rang out into the wide hall beyond.

"Joel is actually laughing," exclaimed Polly, coming soberly down the
stairs; and she was so overcome by the joyful sound that she sat right down
on the step. "Oh, dear me, how perfectly lovely!" she breathed, folding her
hands in delight.

"Isn't it!" Jasper slipped into a seat on the step by her side. "Now
everything is going to be fine when Joe can laugh!"

"Just hear him," cried Polly, pricking up her ears to catch the blissful
sound, "and Grandpapa, too. Oh, Jasper!"

"I know it," said Jasper, in great satisfaction. "Father has been so pulled
down because Joe took it so hard."

"Well, you see, Joel couldn't help it," cried Polly, "because it was
careless, just as Mamsie said, to leave anything without handing it to the
person."

"Of course," assented Jasper quickly. "Mrs. Fisher is right; but I'm sure
any one is likely to do it, and Joel was in such a hurry that day,
everybody pulling at him this way and that to get letters."

"I know it," said Polly, delighted to hear Joel's part taken, "and just
think how he worked before, Jasper. He helped such a perfect lot getting
the flower-table ready."

"He helped everywhere," declared Jasper, bringing down his hand with
emphasis on his knee. "I never saw anybody work as Joe did."

"And now to think that he has lost that money!" mourned Polly, her head
drooping sorrowfully over her closed hands. "Oh, dear me, Jasper!"

"But just hear him laugh," cried Jasper, springing up; "it's going to be
all right now, Polly, I do believe. Come, let's go and hunt some more for
the banknote."

So they both flew off from the stairs to begin the search for the money
again. For no one stopped--dear me, not a bit of it!--the hunt for the
hidden ten-dollar bill. Everybody but Phronsie and little Dick searched and
prowled in every nook and corner where there was the least possible chance
that the ten-dollar bill could be in hiding. They had both been so sleepy
on the evening of the garden party when the loss had been announced, that
it fell unheeded on their ears. And afterward all the household was careful
to keep the bad news from them. So the two children went on in blissful
unconsciousness of Joel's trouble, while the grand hunt proceeded all
around them.

When Joel emerged from Grandpapa King's writing-room, he was hanging to the
old gentleman's hand and looking up into his face and chattering away.

"You know it means work," said old Mr. King, looking down at him.

"I know, Grandpapa," said Joel, bobbing his stubby, black head.

"And you must keep at it," said the old gentleman decidedly, "else no pay.
There's to be no dropping the job, once you take it up. If you do, you'll
get no money. That's the bargain, Joe?"--with a keen glance into the chubby
face.

"Oh, I will, Grandpapa, I will," declared Joel eagerly, and hopping up and
down; "I'll do every single speck of the work. Now do let us hurry and get
the book."

"Yes, we'll hurry, seeing our business arrangement is all settled," laughed
the old gentleman. "Now, then, Joel, my boy, we'll go down-town and buy the
blank book, so that I can set you to work at once," and he grasped the
brown hand tightly, and away they went.

And in ten minutes everybody knew that Joel was going to make a list of all
the books in a certain case in old Mr. King's writing-room, and that
Grandpapa and he were already off down-town to buy a new blank book for the
work. And at the end of it--oh, joy!--Joel was to have a crisp ten-dollar
bill to replace the one he had lost.




XI

RACHEL


"Here she comes!" roared Mr. Tisbett. The townspeople, hurrying to
Badgertown depot to see the train bearing the new little girl sent on by
Mrs. Fisher to their parson's care, crowded up, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson
smilingly in the center of the biggest group.

"Oh, husband, I do pity her so!" breathed the parson's wife. "Poor thing,
she will be so shy and distressed!" The parson's heart gave a responsive
thrill, as he craned his neck to peer here and there for their new charge.
"She hasn't come. Oh, dear me!"--as a voice broke in at his elbow.

"I'm here." The words weren't much, to be sure, but the tone was wholly
self-possessed, and when the parson whirled around, and Mrs. Henderson, who
had been looking the other way, brought her gaze back, they saw a little
girl in a dark brown suit, a brown hat under which fell smooth braids of
black hair, who was regarding them with a pair of the keenest eyes they had
either of them ever seen.

"Oh--oh--my child--" stammered Mr. Henderson, putting out a kind hand. "So
you have come, Rachel?"

"Yes, I am Rachel," said the child, looking up into his face and laying her
hand in the parson's big one; then she turned her full regard upon the
minister's wife.

Mrs. Henderson was divided in her mind, for an instant, whether to kiss
this self-possessed child, as she had fully arranged in her mind beforehand
to do, or to let such a ceremony go by. But in a breathing space she had
her arms about her, and was drawing her to her breast.

"Rachel, dear, I am so glad you have come to us."

Rachel glanced up sharply, heaved a big sigh, and when she lifted her head
from Mrs. Henderson's neck, there was something bright that glistened in
either eye; she brushed it off before any one could spy it, as the parson
was saying:

"And now, where is your bag, child--er--Rachel, I mean?"

Rachel pointed to the end of the platform. "I'll go an' tell 'em to bring
it here."

"No, no, child." The parson started briskly.

"Let us all go," said Mrs. Henderson kindly, gathering Rachel's hand up in
one of hers. "Come, dear." So off they hurried, the platform's length, the
farmers and their wives looking after them with the greatest interest.

"My, but ain't Mrs. Henderson glad to get a girl, though!"

"Yes, she sets by her a'ready."

"Sakes alive! I thought she was a poor child," exclaimed one woman, who was
dreadfully disappointed to lose the anticipated object of charity.

"So she is," cried another--"as poor as Job's turkey, but Mr. King has
dressed her up, you know, an' he's goin' to edicate her, too."

"Well, she'll pay for it, I reckon. My! she looks smart, even the back of
her!"

And before very long, Rachel had been inducted into her room, a pretty
little one under the eaves, neat as a pin in blue-and-white chintz
covering, around which she had given a swift glance of approval. And now
she was down in the parsonage kitchen, in a calico gown and checked apron;
her own new brown ribbons having been taken off from her braids, rolled up
carefully, and laid in the top drawer, the common, every-day ones taking
their places.

Peletiah and Ezekiel were each in a corner of the kitchen, with their pale
blue eyes riveted on her.

"Well, dear," Mrs. Henderson greeted her kindly, "you have changed your
gown very quickly."

A tall, square-shouldered woman stalked in from the little entry.

"Oh, Jerusha," exclaimed Mrs. Henderson pleasantly, "this is the little
girl that Mrs. Fisher sent us. Rachel, go up and speak to Miss Jerusha."

Rachel went over obediently and put out her hand, which the parson's sister
didn't seem to see. Instead, she drew herself up stiffer than ever, and
stared at the child.

"Ah, well, I hope she won't forget that she's very poor, and that you've
taken her out of pity," said Miss Jerusha.

Rachel started back as if shot, and her black eyes flashed. "I ain't poor,"
she screamed. "I ain't goin' to be pitied."

"Yes, you are, too," declared Miss Jerusha, quite pleased at the effect of
her words, and telling off each syllable by bringing one set of bony
fingers down on the other emphatically; "in fact, you're a beggar, and my
brother----"

"I ain't, ain't, ain't!" screamed Rachel shrilly, and, flinging herself on
her face on the floor, she flapped her feet up and down and writhed in
distress. "I want to go home!" she sobbed.

The boys, for once in their lives, actually started, and presently they
were across the kitchen, to their mother, kneeling by Rachel's side.

"Don't let her go," they said together.

"She isn't going," said Mrs. Henderson, smoothing the shaking shoulders,
but Rachel screamed on.

"Dear me!" The parson hurried in at the uproar, his glasses set up on his
forehead where his nervous fingers had pushed them. "What is the matter?"

"That poor child," answered Miss Jerusha, pointing a long finger over at
the group in the middle of the kitchen, "is acting like Satan. I guess
you'll repent, brother, ever bringing her here."

"'Twas Aunt Jerusha," declared Peletiah bluntly, "and I wish she'd go
home."

"Hush, hush, dear," said his mother, looking up into his face.

There was an awful pause, the parson drew a long breath, then he turned to
his sister.

"Jerusha," he said, "I wish you would go into the sitting-room, if you
please."

"An' let you pet that beggar child," she exclaimed, in shrill scorn, but
she stalked off.

Mr. Henderson went swiftly across the kitchen and knelt down by his wife.

"Rachel"--he put his hand on the little girl's head--"get directly up, my
child!"

Rachel lifted her eyes, and peered about. "Has she gone--that dreadful,
bad, old woman?"

"There is no one here but those who love you," said the minister. "Now,
child, get directly up and sit in that chair." He indicated the one, and in
a minute Rachel was perched on it, with streaming eyes. Peletiah, having
started to get a towel, and in his trepidation presenting the dish-rag, the
parson dried her tears on his own handkerchief.

"Now, then, that is better," he said, in satisfaction, as they all grouped
around her chair.

"Rachel, there mustn't be anything of this sort--tears, I mean--again.
That lady is my sister, and----"

_"Your sister!"_ screamed Rachel, precipitating herself forward on her
chair in imminent danger of falling on her nose, to gaze at him in
amazement.

"Yes"--a dull red flush crept over the minister's face--"and--and whatever
she says, Rachel, why, you are not to mind, child."

"She ain't a-goin' to sass me," declared Rachel stoutly.

"Well, I don't believe she will again; let us hope not," said Mr.
Henderson, in a worried way. "However, you are not to cry; remember that,
Rachel, whatever happens," he added firmly: "you are to be happy here; this
is your home, and we all love you."

"You do?" said Rachel, much amazed, looking at them all. "Oh, well, then,
I'll stay." And slipping down from her chair, she seized Mrs. Henderson's
apron. "What'll I do? Mrs. Fisher told me how to wash dishes. May I do
'em?"

"Yes, and the boys shall wipe them," said Mrs. Henderson, and pretty soon
there was a gay little bustle in the old kitchen, the parson staying away
from the writing of the sermon to see it.

But Peletiah and Ezekiel were much too slow to suit Rachel, who got far
ahead of them, so she flew to the drawer in the big table where she had
seen them get the dish-towels, and, helping herself, she fell to work
drying some of the big pile in the drainer in the sink.

"I don't see how you can go so fast," observed Peletiah, laboriously
polishing up his plate.

"Well, I don't see how you can go so slow," retorted Rachel, with deft
passes of the towel over the cup. "My! I sh'd think your elbows had gone to
sleep."

"They haven't gone to sleep," said Peletiah, who was always literal; and
setting down his plate, half-dried, on the table, he turned over one arm to
investigate.

"Of course not, you little ninny," said Rachel lightly. "I didn't----"

"Rachel, Rachel!" said the parson's wife, over by the table. She was
getting her material together for baking pies, and she now added gently,
"We don't call each other names, you must remember that, child."

"Oh!" said Rachel. She stopped her busy towel a minute to think, then it
flapped harder and faster, to make up for lost time.

"Well, go ahead," she said to Peletiah, "and wipe your plate."

So Peletiah, letting his elbows take care of themselves, picked up his
plate and set to work on its surface again; and pretty soon the dishes were
all declared done, the pan and mop washed out, and hung up.

"What'll I do next?" Rachel smoothed down her apron and stood before the
baking-table, a boy on either side.

"Now, boys," said Mrs. Henderson, pausing in her work of rolling out the
pie crust, "I think you had better take Rachel down to see Grandma Bascom.
I've told her she's coming to-day, and she's quite impatient to see her.
And, Rachel, you can tell her about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and the boys. And
oh, Rachel, be sure to tell her about Phronsie; she does just love that
child so!"

The parson's wife leaned on the rolling-pin, and a bright color came into
her face.

"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her
apron.

"And, Peletiah, go into the buttery, and get that little pat of butter done
up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"--and
she fell to work again--"so I could send her one."

So Peletiah went into the buttery and got the pat of butter, and the three
started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where
he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.

"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.

She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.

"See, dear," he said.

Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down
the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all
hand in hand.

"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression
settling over her thin little face.

"What?" said Peletiah.

"Your Gran; that's what your mother said."

"Oh, no, she didn't," contradicted Peletiah; "we are going to Grandma
Bascom's."

"Well, that's the same thing," said Rachel; "she's your Gran, isn't she?"

"She's Grandma Bascom," repeated Peletiah stolidly.

"Oh, dear me! of course! But she's _your_ Gran, isn't she?"--her
tongue fairly aching to call him "ninny" again.

"No, she isn't; she isn't any one's Gran--she's just Grandma Bascom."

"Oh!" said Rachel. Perhaps it wasn't so very bad as she feared. She would
wait and see.

"She's dreadfully deaf," remarked Peletiah.

"What's that?"

"She can't hear unless you scream."

Rachel burst into a loud laugh, but it was very musical; and before they
knew it, although they were very much astonished, the two boys were
laughing, too, though they hadn't the least idea at what.

"I'm glad of it," announced Rachel, when she had gotten through. "I love to
scream. Sometimes it seems as if I'd die if I couldn't. Don't you?"

"No, I don't," said Peletiah, "ever feel so."

"Don't _you?"_ Rachel leaned over to peer into Ezekiel's face.

"No, I don't, either," he said.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Rachel, catching her breath. "Well, let's run."
And before either boy knew what was going to happen, she was hauling them
along at such a mad pace as they had never before in all their lives
indulged in.

The butter-pat slipped out of Peletiah's hand, gone on the wind, and landed
on the roadside grass.

"Wasn't that a good one!" cried Rachel, her eyes shining, as she brought up
suddenly. "Oh, my! ain't things sweet, though!"--wrinkling up her nose in
delight.

"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah, when he could get his breath.

"I never see anything so beautiful," Rachel was saying, over and over. Then
she flung herself flat on the grass, and buried her nose in it, smelling it
hungrily. "Oh, my!"

"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah again, and standing over her.

"And I'm a-goin' to live here," declared Rachel, in a transport, and
wriggling in the sweet clover, "if I'm good. I'm goin' to be good all the
time. Yes, sir!"

"I lost the butter-pat," repeated Peletiah.

"Butter-pat?" Rachel caught the last words and sprang to her feet.

"Oh, yes, I forgot; we must hurry with the butter-pat. Come on!" and she
whirled around on Peletiah. "Why, where--?" as she saw his empty hands.

"I lost the butter-pat," said Peletiah. "I've been telling you so."

"No, you haven't," contradicted Rachel flatly.

"Yes, I have," said Peletiah stolidly.

"No such thing." Rachel squared up to him, her black eyes flashing. "You
haven't said a single word, you bad, wicked boy."

"Yes, I have," repeated Peletiah, ready to say it over for all time; "I've
told you so a great many times."

Rachel looked at him, and put up both hands. The only thing proper to do
under such circumstances was to shake him smartly, but it seemed so like
attacking a granite post, and besides, he was the minister's son, and she
was going to be good, else they must send her away (so Mrs. Fisher had
said), so her arms flopped down to her side, and hung there dismally. And
she burst out:

"Where did you lose it, you nin--? I mean--oh, dear me!--where, I
say?"--frowning impatiently.

"Back there," said Peletiah, pointing down the road. "You pulled me along
so, it flew out of my hand."

Rachel set her teeth together hard.

"Come on!"

She seized a hand of each boy, Ezekiel being a silent spectator all the
time; and if they went fast before, this time, in retracing their steps, it
might be called flying, till a little spot on the roadside grass showed the
object of their search. Peletiah's breath was gone entirely by this time,
and he sank down by its side without a word, his brother following suit.

"I shall carry it now," announced Rachel, gathering up the little pat, safe
in its white cloth. "My! 'tain't hurt a bit" She brushed off a few
marauding ants. "Come on, now!"

Peletiah struggled to his feet and gasped, "I shall carry it," and put out
his hands.

"No such thing." Rachel held the butter-pat firmly in her slender, brown
hand. "My! you ain't fit to carry no butter-pats--let 'em drop out of your
hands. Come on!"

"I shall carry it," declared Peletiah doggedly, and bringing his pale eyes
to bear on her face, while he stood still in his tracks.

"I hope you may get it," cried Rachel triumphantly. "I never see such a
boy. Come on, I say." She held out her hand with authority.

"My mother said I was to carry the butter-pat, and I shall carry it," said
Peletiah, putting out one hand for it, and the other behind his back.

Rachel wrinkled her brows and thought a minute.

"So she did," she said. Then she set the butter-pat in Peletiah's hand, and
pinched his thumb down over it. "There, hold on to it," she said, "or
you'll lose it again. Now, come on!"

The way back was conducted on slower lines, as Rachel had an anxious
oversight lest the butter-pat should again be taken off on the wind, so
that Peletiah and Ezekiel had a chance to recover their breath, with some
degree of composure, by the time they turned down the lane to Grandma
Bascom's. There she was, sitting in her big chintz-covered chair, resting
after the morning's work, as they found on entering the little old kitchen.

Rachel's eyes had been getting bigger and bigger, though she had said
nothing tip to this time; but when they rested on the old lady's face,
under the big, frilled cap, she burst out sharply:

"Is that your Gran?"

"She isn't my Gran," replied Peletiah.

"No, she isn't," echoed Ezekiel.

"Well, is she Gran?" demanded Rachel impatiently--"anybody's Gran--just
Gran? Say, is she?"

"No, she isn't Gran," said Peletiah, shaking his head of stiff, light hair.

"Oh, dear me! you said so," cried Rachel, in a high, disappointed key.
"Oh, dear, dear, dear! I wish she was." And, terribly afraid she was going
to cry, she marched off to the little-paned window, and twisted her fingers
into knots.

"She's Grandma," said Ezekiel, walking over to her and peering around her
side.

"Oh, then she is," cried Rachel, springing around. "Say"--she seized his
jacket--"she's my Gran, an'----"

"Grandma, I said," repeated Ezekiel.

"Yes, yes, Grandma; well, she's mine."

"She's all our Grandma," said Ezekiel decidedly.

"Yes, yes, but she's mine, too," declared Rachel, bobbing her head
decidedly. "She shall be my Gran--Grandma. I shall just take her, so
there!"

"You musn't take her away," said Ezekiel, in alarm.

"I ain't goin' to; I don't want to. I'm goin' to live here always an'
forever," declared Rachel firmly.

Ezekiel smiled at that in great satisfaction, and the matter being settled,
Rachel skipped over to the old lady's chair, and looked steadily down into
the wrinkled face.

"Go out and put the butter-pat somewhere," she said to Peletiah, who still
held it in his hand, waiting to present it.

"I must give it to Grandma," he said; "my mother told me to."

"Well, you can't while she's asleep," said Rachel quickly, "so you put it
somewhere--anywhere--and when she wakes up, why, you can give it to her. Do
hurry--and you go and help him."

So the two boys walked off to find a place in the buttery, and quick as
lightning Rachel leaned over and set a kiss on the wrinkled old cheek. If
Grandma couldn't hear, she was very quick at feeling.

"Why!" She stirred uneasily in her chair, and opened her eyes.

"Who is this?" she asked, staring at the strange little girl, for although
the parson's wife had told her all about the new member of the family to
come that day, Grandma was so bewildered by being suddenly aroused from her
sleep, she had forgotten all about it. "Hey, who is it?"

Peletiah, not having had time to put down the butter-pat, now came up and
presented it with all due formality.

"But who is this little gal?" asked Grandma, as he set the butter-pat in
the middle of the checked apron over her lap.

"She's Rachel," said Peletiah.

"Eh? What?" Grandma held a shaking hand behind her ear. "Speak a little
louder, Peletiah; you know I'm a-growin' hard o' hearin', just a grain."

"Rachel," shouted Peletiah, as he stood still in his tracks in front of
her.

"Ain't well! Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Grandma, in a tone of great concern.
"What a pity!" and she turned and regarded the stranger with anxiety.

"Oh, dear me! You get away, Peletiah," commanded Rachel, brushing him
aside. So Peletiah, very glad to be released, moved off, and Rachel,
putting her mouth to the nodding cap-border, said very distinctly:

"Mrs. Fisher sent me to live at the minister's; I'm Rachel."

"Oh, my land o' Goshen!" exclaimed Grandma Bascom, lifting both hands in
delight. "Why, I can hear you splendid. You see, I'm only a grain deaf. An'
so you're that little gal. Well, I'm glad you've come, you pretty creeter,
you!"




XII

DOINGS AT THE PARSONAGE


And in another minute Rachel was telling all about Mrs. Fisher and Polly
and Phronsie--oh, and Joel and David--for Grandma kept interrupting and
asking all sorts of questions, so that the news and messages were all
tangled up together.

"Did Joel say he wanted pep'mints?" asked Grandma, in a lull.

"Oh, yes, he said yours were awful good, and he wished he had some of 'em,"
Rachel answered. She didn't dare take her mouth away from the cap-frill,
and her feet ached dreadfully from standing still so long. But Grandma was
as bright as a button, and hungry for every scrap of information.

"Land o' Goshen!" mourned Grandma, "how I wish he was comin' in now! an'
I'd give him plenty." She sat still for a minute, lost in thought. Peletiah
and Ezekiel had wandered off outside, where they sat under the lilac
bushes, to rest after their unwonted exercise, so the hens, undisturbed,
stepped over the sill of the kitchen door, and scratched and picked about
to their hearts' content.

"I'll drive 'em out," said Rachel, delighted at the chance of action this
would give her, and springing off.

"Take the broom," screamed Grandma after her, "and then hurry and come back
and tell me some more."

So Rachel, wishing the duty could be an hour long, shooed and waved her
broom wildly, and ran and raced, and the fat old hens tumbled over each
other to get away. And then she came slowly back to Grandma's side, to go
over again every bit she had told before. Until, looking up at the old
clock on the shelf, she saw that it was one minute of twelve o'clock.

"Oh, my! I've got to go," she screamed in Grandma's ear, and without
another word she dashed off and up to the lilac bushes. "Boys, come this
minute." She held out both hands. "It's awful late."

"I know it," said Peletiah, with a very grieved face; "we've been waiting
for you ever so long, and dinner's ready at home."

"Well, come now." She stuck her long arms out straight, and shook her
fingers impatiently. "Oh, dear me--do hurry!"

"I ain't goin' to take hold of hands," declared Peletiah, edging off.

"Nor I, either," echoed Ezekiel.

"Oh, yes, you must." And without waiting for more words on the matter,
Rachel seized a hand of each, and bore off the boys.

If they ran before, they flew now. But all the same they were late to
dinner, and the parson and his wife and Miss Jerusha were all helped
around, and had begun to eat.

"There, see what that new girl has done already," said Miss Jerusha
sternly, laying down her knife and fork. "Peletiah and Ezekiel ain't ever
late. Well, you'll see trouble enough with her, or I'll miss my guess."

Peletiah sank down on the upper step of the piazza, but Ezekiel crept into
the kitchen, while Rachel pushed boldly up to Mrs. Henderson's chair.

"Oh, I'm awful sorry," she said. Her face was very flushed and her eyes
glowed with the run.

"Ben gallivantin' off an' temptin' the boys to play," declared Miss
Jerusha, with a shrewd nod of her brown front. "Oh, I know."

"We won't say any more about it now, dear," said Mrs. Henderson gently, at
sight of the hot little face. "

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