"Oh!" exclaimed Lily Ludlow in well-acted surprise. "Are you out taking a walk?"

"Yes," answered Jim, quite as innocently as if the matter had not been arranged a few hours ago. "And this is my sister. And this is Lily Ludlow, and this Belle May."

Alas for Hanny! Lily Ludlow was the girl who had called her "queer" and laughed. The child's face flushed and there was a lump in her throat.

"You don't go to school, do you?" asked Lily with the utmost nonchalance. She was quite ready for anything.

The little girl made an effort, but no words would come. She could never like this girl with the pretty name, she felt very sure.

"No," said Jim. "She's so small for her size that mother would be afraid of her getting lost."

They all giggled but the little girl, who wanted to run away.

"But you like New York, don't you? Jim thinks he wouldn't go back to the country for anything."

We had not come to "Bet your life," and "There's where your head's level," in those days. But Jim answered for his sister—"You just guess I wouldn't," with a deal of gusto.

They all walked up a short distance. The girls and Jim had all the talk, and they chaffed each other merrily. Hanny was silent. She really was too young for their fun.

Belle May's mother called her presently, and the little girl said in a whisper: "Oh, Jim, we must go home."

Jim wondered if he might ask Lily to walk with them, so he could come back with her. But she settled it with a gay toss of the head.

"Good-night," she said. "Come down again some evening."

"What a little stupid you are, Hanny!" Jim began, vexed enough. "Why didn't you ask them to walk up our way! And you never said a word! I could have given you an awful shake!"

"I—I don't like them."

"You don't know anything about them. Ben and I see them half a dozen times a day, and walk to school with them, and they're nice and pretty and have some manners. You're awful country, Hanny!"

The little girl began to cry.

"Oh, what a baby you are! Well, I s'pose you can't help it! You're only eight, and I'm almost thirteen. And Lily Ludlow's nearly eleven. I suppose you do feel strange among girls so much older."

"It isn't that," sobbed the little girl. How could she get courage to tell him?

"Oh, Hanny, dear, don't cry." Jim's voice softened—they were nearing home. "See here, I'll ask father to take us to Tompkins Square on Sunday, and you shall paint out of my new box. There! and don't tell any one—don't say a word to Ben."

He kissed her and wiped her eyes with the end of her starchy apron. Jim was very coaxing and sweet when he tried.

"Joe's here," said Ben. "And he thought the wolves would eat you up if you went too far. He wants to see you."

Jim dropped down on the step. Hanny ran through the hall. They were using the back parlor as a sitting-room, and everybody seemed talking at once. Joe held out his arms and the little girl flew to them.

Then it came out that Joe had taken one of the prizes for a thesis, and he would shortly be a full fledged M.D. He was so jubilant and the rest were so happy that the little girl forgot all about her discomfort.

Jim came rushing in. "Where's the hundred dollars?" he inquired.

Joe laughed. "I have not received the money yet. I thought the announcement was enough for one night."

"You and Hanny'll be so stuck up there'll be no living with you," said Jim.

Hanny glanced up with a smiling face. If she had only looked that way at Lily Ludlow! But even his schoolmate was momentarily distanced by the thought of such a prize. And he remembered later on with much gratification that he could tell her to-morrow.

Miss Chrissy Ludlow had been sitting by the front window in her white gown, half expecting a caller. When Lily entered, she inquired if that little thing was the Underhill girl?

"Oh, that's the baby," and Lily giggled. "There's a young lady who goes to Rutgers—well, I suppose she isn't quite grown up, for she doesn't wear real-long dresses. And they have another brother in the country—six brothers!"

Chrissy sighed. If she only knew some way to get acquainted with the young woman. And all the brothers fairly made one green with envy.

"You keep in with them," she advised her sister. "You might as well look up in the world for your friends."

There were not many people in the street who kept a carriage. Chrissy longed ardently to know them. And she had been almost fighting for a term at Rutgers. Mr. Ludlow was a common-place man, clerk in a shoe-store round in Houston Street, and capable of doing repairs. They rented out the second floor, as they could not afford to keep the whole house. But since Chrissy had found out that they were distant connections of some Ludlows quite well off and high up in the social scale, she had felt extremely aristocratic. For a year she had been out of school, and now her mother thought she better learn dressmaking, since she was so "handy." She meant to get married at the first good opportunity.

Mr. Thackeray in England was writing about snobs during this period. He thought he found a great many in London. And even among the republican simplicity of New York he could have found some.

Hanny's second attempt at social life was a much greater success. The visit at the Deans' was utterly delightful. The play-house was enchanting. They dressed and undressed the dolls, they gave Hanny two, and called her Mrs. Hill, because Underhill was such a long name, and they had an aunt by the name of Hill. They "made believe" days and nights, and measles and whooping cough, and earache and sore throat. Josie put on an old linen coat of her father's and "made believe" she was the doctor. And oh, the solicitude when Victoria Arabella lay at the point of death and they had to go round on tiptoe and speak in whispers, and the poor mother said: "If Victoria Arabella dies, my heart will be broken!" But the lovely child mended and was so weak for a while that the greatest care had to be taken of her, for she couldn't sit up a bit. And Hanny proposed they should take her up to Yonkers, where she could recruit in the country air.

Mrs. Dean came up with a basket and said it was supper time. She arranged a side table to hold some of the things. There was a nice white tablecloth and Josie's pretty dishes. There was a pitcher of hot water to make cambric tea, square lumps of sugar, dainty slices of bread already spread, smoked beef, pot-cheese, raspberries, cherry-jam, and two kinds of cake. Well, it was just splendid.

Then they went out on the sidewalk and skipped up and down. There was quite an art in skipping gracefully without breaking step. When they were warm and tired they came in, and Mr. Dean played on the piano for them.

At seven o'clock Mr. Underhill walked up for his little girl, whose cheeks were pink and her eyes shining like stars. He sat on the stoop and talked a little while with Mr. Dean, and said most cordially the other girls must come and take tea with Hanny. And if they liked he would take them out driving some day. That was a most delightful proposal.

Jim let the whole school know the next week that his "big brother" had won a prize of one hundred dollars. And when Joseph passed with honor and took his degree, they were all proud enough of him.

"Mother," said the little girl after much consideration, "if any of us get sick will we have to pay Joe like a truly doctor?"

"Well—why not?" asked Mrs. Underhill. "That will be his way of earning his living."

The little girl drew a long breath. "He might come and live with us then. Where will he live, anyway?"

"He is to practise in the hospital awhile."

"Couldn't he doctor us at all?" she asked in surprise?

"Oh, yes, he might if we had faith in him," returned her mother laughingly.

That puzzled the little girl a good deal, and when she had an opportunity she asked her father if he had faith in Joe.

"Well," her father seemed to hesitate, "he might doctor Tabby, but I wouldn't let him experiment on Dobbin or Prince."

Hanny's face was a study in gravity and disappointment. "And if I was sick?" she ventured with a very long sigh.

Then her father hugged her up in his arms until she was breathless, and scrubbed her soft little face with his whiskers, and both of them laughed. But Joe promised one day when he was home to doctor her for nothing, so that point was settled.

They had a great time Fourth of July. Lamb and green peas were the regulation dinner. Steve sent a wagon up every morning with the freshest vegetables there were in market, and the meat for the day. Their milk came from the Odells in West Farms, and their butter from Yonkers. To be sure, it wasn't quite like country living, and Mrs. Underhill was positive that no one gave such a flavor to butter as herself.

The Odells and some other relatives were down on Fourth of July. They had the lamb and peas, as I said, and at that date one kind of meat was considered enough. They had green-apple pie. There was a very early pie-apple on the farm and George had brought some down for his mother. He was well and happy as he could be "without the folks," and he shook his head a little ambiguously about Uncle Faid's method, and those of Mr. Finch.

They had some ice-cream and cake afterward. The little girl had never eaten any, and she thought it very queer. It would have been delightful but for the awful coldness of it! It froze the roof of her mouth and made an ache in the middle of her forehead. Steve told her people sometimes warmed it, and she ran out to the stove with her saucer.

"The land alive! What are you going to do with that cream?" almost shrieked Martha, who was washing dishes at the sink.

"Warm it," replied the little girl. "It's so cold."

Martha almost fell into a chair with the dish-cloth in her hand, and laughed as if she would have a fit. There was a suspicious sound from the dining-room as well, and the fair little face grew very red.

Steve came out.

"Here, Nannie, is mine that the weather has warmed, and I'll trade it for your peak of Greenland." He took the chunk out of her saucer, and poured the soft in.

"It is nicer," she said. "And you needn't laugh, Martha. When I am a big woman and make ice-cream I shall just boil it," and she walked back with grave dignity.

She took the Odell girls to Mrs. Dean's, and some other children flocked around the stoop. They had torpedoes and lady-crackers, that two children pulled, when they went off with a loud explosion in the middle and made you jump. There were real fire-crackers that the boys had, and pin-wheels and various simple fireworks. But the great thing would be going down to City Hall in the evening and seeing the fireworks there.

The Odells could not stay, to their sorrow. Mr. Underhill proposed to take the business wagon and put three seats in it, and ask the Deans to go with them. Mrs. Dean was very glad to accept for herself and the children. There was a young lady next door, Miss Weir, that Margaret liked very much, and she accompanied them. John had promised to take charge of the boys. Steve had dressed himself in his new light summer suit and gone off.

The little girl thought the display beyond any words at her command. Such mysterious rockets falling to pieces in stars of every color. There was a great dome of stars, and rays that presently shot up into heaven; there was a ship on fire, which really frightened her. And, oh! the noise and the people, the shouting and hurrahing, the houses trimmed with flags, the brass band that played all the patriotic songs, and the endless confusion! The little girl clung closely to her mother, glad she was not down on the sidewalk, for the people would surely have trodden on her.

They came home very tired. But the little girl had added to her stock of historical knowledge and knew what Fourth of July stood for. It was a very great day, the beginning of the Republic.

The boys were out early the next morning finding "cissers," crackers that had failed to burn out entirely, and still had a little explosive merit when touched by a piece of lighted punk. There was no school that day, and Steve took them up to West Farms to expend the rest of their hilarity. The little girl was pale and languid. Mrs. Underhill was quite troubled at times when friends said:

"Isn't Hanny very small of her age? Is she real strong? She looks so delicate."

This was why she had thought it best not to send her to school this summer. She read aloud to her mother and said one column in a speller and definer, and Margaret taught her a little geography and arithmetic. She could hem very nicely now. She had learned to knit lace, and do some fancy work that was then called lap stitching. You pulled out some threads one way of the cloth, then took three and just lapped them over the next three, drawing your needle and thread through. Now a machine does it beautifully.

There was another fashion, "fads" we should call them nowadays. A school-bag—they didn't call them satchels then—was made of a piece of blue and white bed-ticking, folded at the bottom. Every white stripe you worked with zephyr worsted in briar stitch or herring-bone or feather stitch. You could use one color or several. And now the old work and the bed-ticking has come back again and ladies make the old-fashioned bags with tinsel thread.

Margaret had made one, and the little girl had taken it up. She was quite an expert with her needle. She had found several delightful new books to read. The Deans had some wonderful fairy stories. She was enraptured with the "Lady of the Lake," and some of Mrs. Howitt's stories and poems. She had learned her way about, and could go out to the Bowery to do an errand for her mother. She knew some more little girls, and with her sewing, helping her mother, studying and reading and play, the days seemed too short.

Vacation did not begin until the 1st of August. The boys were to go up to Yonkers and help George and Uncle Faid. They were quite ready for new ventures.

When Margaret came home the last day of school with a really fine report, her mother felt quite proud of her. The little girl, with large eyes and a mysterious expression, begged her to come into the parlor and see something. She smiled and took Hanny's small hand in hers. The furniture had been moved about a little. And oh, what was this? The little girl's eyes were stars of joy.

"It's your piano and mine," she said. "Yours till you get married and go away, and then mine forever and ever. Joe gave fifty dollars of his prize money toward it. Wasn't he lovely? And oh, Margaret, such beautiful music as it makes!"

The little girl with one small finger struck a key. The sound seemed to fascinate her. Margaret caught her in her arms and kissed the enraptured face.

"We shall be too happy, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have had the courage to ask for a piano, but it's the one thing above all others that I have wanted. Oh, it's just too delightful!"

Mrs. Underhill said: "It's a great piece of wastefulness, but the boys would have it. I'm sure I don't see where you're going to get time to learn everything. And you'll never know anything about housekeeping. I should be ashamed to have any one marry you."

People didn't hustle off to the country the day school closed. Indeed, some didn't go at all. The children played on the shady side of the street. The little girls had "Ring around a rosy," that I think Eve's grandchildren must have invented. Then there was "London Bridge is falling down," "Open the gates as high as the sky," and

"Here come two lords quite out of Spain A-courting for your daughter faire,"

and after a great deal of disputing and beseeching they obtained "daughter faire," and averted war. And "Tag" never failed with its "Ana mana mona mike." You find children playing them all yet, but I think the wonderful zest has gone out of them.

In the evening a throng of the First Street children who had pennies to spend used to go up to the corner of Second Street and Avenue A. An old colored woman sat there, with a gay Madras turban, and a little table before her, that had a mysterious spring drawer. On one side she had an earthen jar, on the other a great pail with a white cloth over it, that emitted a steamy fragrance. And she sang in a sort of chanting tone:

"H-o-t corn, hot corn. Here's your nice hot corn, s-m-okin' h-o-t. B-a-ked pears, baked pears—Get away, chillen,' get away, 'les you've got a penny. Stop crowdin'."

They had enough to eat at home, but the corn was tempting. One night one boy would treat and break the ear of corn in two and divide. And the baked pears were simply delicious. The old woman fished them out with a fork and put them on a bit of paper. Wooden plates had not been invented. And the high art was to lift up your pear by the stem and eat it. Sometimes a mischievous companion would joggle your arm and the stem would come out—and oh, the pear would drop in a "mash" on the sidewalk. You could not divide the pear very well, though children did sometimes pass a "bite" around. But we lived in happy innocence and safety, for the deadly bacillus had not been invented and ignorance was bliss.



CHAPTER VI

MISS DOLLY BEEKMAN

It seemed curiously still after the boys went away. Margaret took two music lessons a week and gave the little girl half a one. And one day Stephen came in and said:

"Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array, And I'll take you a-drivin' so galliant and gay."

"Both of us?" asked the little girl.

"Yes—both of us. I have my new buggy and silver-mounted harness. You must go out and christen it for good luck. Hurry, Peggy, and put on your white dress."

Miss Blackfan had been again and made them two white frocks apiece. The little girl had "wings" over her shoulders and they made her less slim. She wore a pink sash and her hair was tied with pink. Her stockings were as white as "the driven snow," and her slippers looked like dolls' wear. They were bronze and laced across the top several times with narrow ribbon tied in a bow at her instep. She had a new hat, too, a leghorn flat with pale pink roses on it. It cost a good deal, but then it would "do up" every summer and last years and years. Fashions didn't change every three months then. Margaret had a pretty gipsy hat, with a big light-blue satin bow on the top, and the strings tied under her chin, and it made quite a picture of her. Her sleeves came a little below the elbow, and both wore black silk "openwork" mitts that came half-way up the arm.

There had been a shower the night before and the dust was laid. They went over Second Street to the East River, where one or two blocks were quite given over to colored people. There was an African M. E. church, that the little girl was very curious to see. Folks said in revival times they danced for joy. Crowds used to go to hear the singing.

"But do they dance?" asked the little girl wonderingly. She couldn't quite reconcile it with the gravity of worship.

"They simply march up and down the aisles keeping time to the tunes. Well—the Shakers dance in the same fashion." Stephen had been up to Lebanon.

Then a little farther on was another Methodist church, where several notable lights had preached. Nearer the river were some queer old houses, and at almost every corner a store. Saloons were a rarity. Over yonder was Williamsburg, up a little farther Astoria, just a place of country greenery. There were a few boats going up and down, and the ferry-boats crossing.

The houses were no longer in rows. There were some vegetable gardens, and German women were weeding in them; then tracts of rather rocky land, wild and unimproved. After a while it began to grow more diversified and beautiful—country residences and well-kept grounds full of shrubbery at the front and vegetables in the rear, with barns and stables, betraying a rural aspect. The air was so sweet and fresh.

"Oh!" exclaimed Margaret, "Annette Beekman must live somewhere about here. I promised her we would come up some day."

Stephen turned into a country road. There were many grand old elms, hemlocks, pines, and fruit-trees as well. A table stood under one, and some ladies were sitting there sewing and chatting, while several children ran about. And while they were glancing at them a girl in a pretty blue muslin sprang up and ran down to the wide-open gate.

"Oh, Margaret!" cried Annette Beekman. "Why, this is lovely of you, Stephen! Can't you turn in and stop a while with us?"

"I'm showing Margaret New York," said Steve, with his pleasant laugh. "She has begun to think straight down to Rutgers Institute comprised every bit there was of it."

"Oh, Stephen!" deprecatingly.

Some one else came out; a fair, tall girl with great braids of flaxen hair and a silver comb in the top to make her look taller still. She smiled very sweetly.

"Oh, Mr. Underhill!" she exclaimed.

"This is my big sister and this is my little one," explained Stephen. "And this," to Margaret, "is Miss Dolly Beekman."

A warm color rose in Margaret's cheeks as a half-suspicion stole over her.

"You must get out and rest a while after this long ride," said Miss Dolly with winsome cordiality. "The rain last evening was delightful, but the day is warm. We are all living out-of-doors, as you see. And this, I suppose, is your little sister? Drive up and help the girls out, and then go round to the barn. You will find some one there."

Stephen wound slowly up the driveway, nodding to the group of ladies. Dolly walked along the grassy path. She wore a white dotted suisse gown with a "baby waist," and had a blue satin sash with ends that fell nearly to the bottom of the skirt. Her sleeves came to the elbow and were composed of three rather deep ruffles edged with lace. Round her pretty white neck she had an inch-wide black velvet, fastened with a tiny diamond that Stephen had brought her a week ago. She looked like a picture, Margaret thought, and later her portrait in costume was exhibited at the Academy of Design.

Stephen lifted his sisters down. Dolly took Margaret's arm and the little girl's hand and introduced them to almost as many sisters and cousins and aunts as there were in "Pinafore." The small person was not quite comfortable. She had a feeling that the back of her nice frock was dreadfully crushed. Margaret was a little confused. Stephen seemed so at home among them all. Annette had spoken so familiarly of him, yet she had not suspected. How blind she had been!

There was young Mrs. Beekman, thirty or so, already getting stout, and with the fifth Beekman boy that she would gladly have changed for a girl; Mrs. Bond, the next sister, with a boy and a girl; Aunt Gitty Beekman, some Vandewater cousins, and some Gessler cousins from Nyack.

They had rush-bottomed and splint chairs, several rockers, some rustic benches, and two or three tables standing about, with work-baskets and piles of sewing and knitting, for people had not outgrown industry in those days, and still taught their children the verses about the busy bee.

Dolly put Margaret in a rocker, untied her bonnet, and took off her soft white mull scarf—long shawls they were called, and the elder ladies wore them of black silk and handsome black lace. They were held up on the arms and sometimes tied carelessly, and the richer you were, the more handsomely you trimmed them at the ends. Then for cooler weather there were Paisley and India long shawls.

Hanny kept close to her sister and leaned against her knee. She felt strange and timid with the eyes of so many grown people upon her. But they all took up their work and talked, asking Margaret various questions in sociable fashion.

There were three Beekman boys and one little Bond running about. The girl was very shy and would sit on her mother's lap. The Beekmans were fat and chubby, with their hair cut quite close, but not in the modern extreme. They wore long trousers and roundabouts, and low shoes with light gray stockings, though their Sunday best were white. We should say now they looked very queer, and unmistakably Dutch. You sometimes see this attire among the new immigrants. But there were no little Fauntleroy boys at that period with their velvet jackets and knickerbockers, flowing curls and collars.

The boys tried to inveigle Hanny among them. Pety offered her the small wooden bench he was carrying round. Paulus asked her "to come and see Molly who had great big horns and went this way," brandishing his head so fiercely that the little girl shuddered and grasped Margaret's hand.

"Don't tease her, boys," entreated their mother. "She'll get acquainted by and by. I suppose she isn't much used to children, being the youngest?"

"No, ma'am," answered Margaret.

The boys scampered off. Annette knelt down on the short grass, and presently won a smile from the little girl, who was revolving a perplexity as to whether big boys were not a great deal nicer than little boys. Then Stephen came back and Mr. Paulus Beekman, who was stout and dark, and favored his mother's side of the family. The ladies were very jolly, teasing one another, telling bits of fun, comparing work, and exchanging cooking recipes. Miss Gitty asked Margaret about her mother's family, the Vermilyeas. A Miss Vermilye, sixty or seventy years ago, had married a Conklin and come over to Closter. She seemed to have all her family genealogy at her tongue's end, and knew all the relations to the third and fourth generation. But she had a rather sweet face with fine wrinkles and blue veins, and wore her hair in long ringlets at the sides, fastened with shell combs that had been her mother's, and were very dear to her. She wore a light changeable silk, and it still had big sleeves, such as we are wearing to-day. But they had mostly gone out. And the elder ladies were combing their hair down over their ears. There were no crimping-pins, so they had to braid it up at night in "tails" to make it wave, unless one had curly hair. Most of the young girls brushed it straight above their ears for ordinary wear, and braided or twisted it in a great coil at the back, though it was often elaborately dressed for parties.

Aunt Gitty was netting a shawl out of white zephyr. It was tied in the same manner that one makes fish-nets, and you used a little shuttle on which your thread was wound. It was very light and fleecy. Aunt Gitty had made one of silk for a cousin who was going abroad, and it had been very much admired. The little girl was greatly interested in this, and ventured on an attempt at friendliness.

Dolly took them away presently to show them the flower-beds. Mr. Beekman had ten acres of ground. There were vegetables, corn and potato fields and a pasture lot, beside the great lawn and flower-garden. Old Mr. Beekman was out there. He was past seventy now, hale and hearty to be sure, with a round, wrinkled face, and thick white hair, and he was passionately fond of his grandchildren. He had not married until he was forty and his wife was much younger.

There were long walks of dahlias of every color and kind. They were a favorite autumn flower. A great round bed of "Robin-run-away," bergamot, that scented the air and attracted the humming-birds. All manner of old-fashioned flowers that are coming around again, and you could see where there had been magnificent beds of peonies. In the early season people drove out here to see Peter Beekman's tulip-beds.

There were borders of artemisias, as they were called, that diffused a pungent fragrance. We had not shaken hands so neighborly with Japan then, nor learned how she evolved her wonderful chrysanthemums.

The little girl grew quite talkative with Mr. Beekman. You see, in those days there was a theory about children being seen and not heard, and no one expected a little six-year-old to entertain or disturb a room full of company. The repression made them rather diffident, to be sure. But Mr. Beekman gathered her a nosegay of spice pinks, carnations now, and took her to see his beautiful ducks, snowy white, in a little pond, and another pair of Muscovy ducks, then some rare Mandarin ducks from China. She told him about the ducks and chickens at Yonkers and how sorry she was to leave them.

And then came the handsome white Angora cat with its long fur and curious eyes that were almost blue, and when she said "mie-e-o-u" in a rather delighted tone, it seemed as if she meant "O master, where have you been? I'm so glad to see you!"

He stood and patted her and they held quite a conversation as she arched her neck, rubbed against his leg, and turned back and forth. Then she stretched way up on him and gave him her paw, which was very cunningly done.

"This is a nice little girl who has come to see me," he said, as she seemed to look inquiringly at Hanny. "She's fond of everything, kitties especially."

Kitty looked rather uncertain. Hanny was a little afraid of such a curious creature. But presently she came and rubbed against her with a soft little mew, and Hanny ventured to touch her.

"She likes you," declared old Mr. Beekman, much pleased. "She doesn't often take fancies. She loves Dolly, and she won't have anything to do with Annette, though I think the girl teases her. Nice Katschina," said her master, patting her. "Shall we buy this little girl?"

Perhaps you won't believe it, but Katschina really said "yes," and smiled. It was very different from the grin of the "Chessy cat" that Alice saw in Wonderland.

Some one came flying down the path.

"Father," exclaimed Dolly, "come and have a cup of tea or a glass of beer. Stephen and his sister think they can't stay to supper. But may be they'll leave the little girl—you seem to have taken such a notion to her."

Hanny didn't want to be impolite and she really did like Mr. Beekman, but as for staying—her heart was up in her throat.

Dolly picked up Katschina and carried her in triumph. Two white paws lay over Dolly's shoulder.

There was a table with a shining copper tea-kettle, a pewter tankard of home-brewed ale, bread and butter, cold chicken and ham, a great dish of curd cheese, pound cake, soft and yellow, fruit cake, a heaping dish of doughnuts and various cookies and seed cakes. Scipio, a young colored lad, passed the eatables. Young Mrs. Beekman poured the tea. The mother sat near her. She was short and fat and wore her hair in a high Pompadour roll, and she laughed a good deal, showing her fine white teeth of which she was very proud.

Katschina sat in her master's lap, and the little girl was beside him. The boys were given their hands full and sent away. It was a very pretty picture and the little girl felt as if she was reading an entertaining story. One of the Gessler cousins had been knitting lace, double oak-leaf with a heading of insertion. It looked marvellous to the little girl. She said she was making it to trim a visite. This was a Frenchy sort of garment lately come into vogue, though the little girl did not know what it was, and was too well trained to ask questions. But the lace might be the desire of one's heart.

They sipped their tea or raspberry shrub, or enjoyed a glass of ale. They were all very merry. The little girl wondered how Dolly dared to be so saucy with Stephen when she only knew him such a little. Mrs. Beekman could hardly accept the fact that they would not stay to supper, and said they must come soon and spend the day, and have Stephen drive up for them, and that she hoped soon to see Mrs. Underhill. "It is quite delightful and we are all well satisfied," she added, nodding rather mysteriously.

Dolly put on the little girl's hat and kissed her, giving her a breathless squeeze. Miss Gitty kissed her as well and told her she was a "very pretty behaved child." The buggy came round and Stephen put them in amid a chorus of good-bys.

"The little one looks delicate," commented the younger Mrs. Beekman when they had driven away. "I'm afraid she doesn't run and play enough. But she's beautifully behaved. And what a fancy father took to her!"

"Miss Underhill doesn't seem like a real country girl," said another.

"The Underhills are a good family all through, English descent from some Lord Underhill. They were staunch Royalists at one time."

"And the Vermilyeas are good stock," said Aunt Gitty. "There's nothing like being particular as to family. It tells in the long run."

"Well, Dolly, we think he will do," said Mrs. Beekman laughingly, as Dolly, having said her good-bys, sauntered back to the circle. "He might be richer, of course. There's a large family and they can't have much apiece."

"Stephen Underhill's got the making of a good substantial man in him," grunted father Beekman. "If he'd been a poor shoat he wouldn't have hung around here very long, would he, Katschina? We'd 'a put a flea in his ear, wouldn't we."

Katschina arched her back. Dolly laughed and blushed. Stephen was her own true-love anyway, but she was glad to have them all like him. With the insistence of youth she felt she never could have loved any other man.

Stephen clicked to Prince, who was rested and full of spirits. They drove almost straight across the city, about at the end of our first hundred numbered streets. But the road wound around to get out of a low marshy place, a pond in the rainy season, and some rocks that seemed tumbled up on end. They struck a bit of the old Boston Post Road, and that caused the little girl to stop her prattle and think of the old ladies they had never visited. She must "jog" her father's memory. That was what her mother always said when she recalled half-forgotten things.

Stephen and Margaret had only spoken in answer to the little girl. He had a young man's awkwardness concerning a subject so dear to his heart. Margaret was awed by the mystery of love, captivated by Dolly's friendliness, and puzzled to decide what her mother would think of it. Stephen married! Any of them married for that matter. How strange it would seem! And yet she had sometimes said, "When I am married."

The place was wild enough. You would hardly think so now when hollows have been filled and hills levelled, and rocks blasted away. After they turned a little stream wound in and out through the trees and bushes. Amid a tangled mass the little girl espied some wild roses.

"Oh, Steve!" she cried, "may I get out and pick some?"

"I will." He handed the reins over to Margaret and sprang down, running across a little bridge, and soon gathered a great handful.

"Oh, thank you," and her eyes shone. "What a funny little bridge."

"That's Kissing Bridge."

"Who do you have to kiss?" asked the little girl mirthfully.

"Well, a long while ago, in Van Twiller's time, I guess," with a twinkle in his eye, "there wasn't any bridge. The lovers used to carry their sweethearts over, and the charge was a kiss."

"But there wasn't any kissing bridge then," she said shrewdly.

"When the bridge was built they stopped and kissed out of remembrance."

"Was it really so, Margaret?"

"It has been called that ever since I can remember."

"You unkind girl, not to believe me!" exclaimed Stephen, with an air of offended dignity. "And I am ever so much older than Margaret."

"You didn't carry me over, but you carried the roses, so you shall have the kiss all the same," and as she reached up to his cheek they both smiled.

Then they came down Broadway to Bleecker Street, and over home. Father Underhill was sitting on the stoop reading his paper. Jim begged to take the horse round to the stable. Margaret went up-stairs to pull off her best dress and put on her pink gingham. She had just finished and was calling for Hanny, when Stephen caught her in his arms.

"Dear Peggy—you must have guessed."

"Oh, Stephen! It seems so strange. Is it really so? I never dreamed——"

"I fell in love with Dolly months ago. There were so many caring for her that I hardly hoped myself. But there's some mysterious sense about it, and I began to see presently that she preferred me. Though I didn't really ask her until Sunday night. And they all consented. We are regularly engaged now."

"Oh, Stephen! To lose you!"

That is the first natural thought of the household.

"You are not going to lose me. We shall be engaged a long while; a year surely."

"But, father—and our coming here."

"That is all right. It can't make any difference. Only you will have a new sister. Oh, Peggy, try to love her," persuasively, yet knowing she could not resist her.

"She is very sweet."

"Sweet! She's just cream and roses and all the sweetest things of life put together! I tell you, Peggy, I'm a lucky fellow. Of course it will seem a little strange at first. But some day you'll have your romance, only I don't believe you can ever understand how glad the other fellow will be to get you. Girls can't. And you'll try to make things smooth with mother if she feels a little put out at first? Dolly wants to love you all. She's admired Joe so much, and they are all proud of him."

The supper bell rang impatiently. Stephen kissed his sister and gave her a rapturous hug.

Hanny came up-stairs and Margaret hurried through her change of attire.

"I thought you never were coming," began their mother tartly. "'Milyer, you're the worst of the lot when you get your nose buried in a newspaper. Boys, do keep still, though I suppose you're half starved," with a reproachful look at those who had delayed the meal.

The little girl had eaten so many of the delicious cookies that she wasn't a bit hungry. So she entertained her father with the miles of dahlias and the wonderful cat, so soft and furry and different from theirs, and with truly blue eyes, and who could understand everything you said to her. And Mr. Beekman was very nice, but not as nice as father. The little boys were so short and so funny. "And I don't believe I like little boys. Jim and Benny, Frank and all of you are nicer. Perhaps it is the bigness."

They all laughed at that.

She sat in her father's lap afterward and went on with her quaint story, until her mother came and routed her out and said, "I do believe, 'Milyer, you'd keep that child up all night."

Afterward Mr. Underhill went out on the front stoop, where he and Stephen had a long talk, while Margaret sat at the piano making up for her afternoon's dissipation, but in the soft, vague light she could see Dolly Beekman with her laughing eyes and crown of shining hair, and was sure she would make a delightful sister. Mrs. Underhill sat and darned stockings and sighed a little. Yet she was secretly proud of Margaret, even if she did study French and music. Whether they would ever help her to keep house was a question. Where would she have found time for such things?



CHAPTER VII

MISS LOIS AND SIXTY YEARS AGO

"Yes; come get out once in a while."

"I've no time to spare," said Mrs. Underhill. "Some one has to work or you'd all be in a fine case. Here's Margaret spending her time drumming on the piano and studying French and what not. I dare say you'll be called upon some time to take your daughter to Paris to show off her accomplishments."

"I hope we'll do credit to each other," he returned with a dry, humorous laugh, as if amused.

"The world goes round so fast one can't keep up with it. If the work only rushed on that way! Why don't some of you smart men who have plenty of time to sit round, invent a machine to cook and sew and sweep the house?"

"Martha's a pretty good housekeeping machine, I think. And you might find another to sew."

She had no idea that Elias Howe was hard at work on a tireless iron and steel sewing-woman and was puzzling his brains day and night to put an eye in the needle that would be satisfactory.

"You'd need to be made of money to hire all these folks! Margaret ought to be sewing this very minute, but she's fussing over those drawings of John's. I've such a smart family I think they'll set me crazy. And what you will do when I am gone——"

"We're not going to let you get away so easy. And if you would just go out a bit now and then. Come, mother," with entreaty in his voice.

"Oh, 'Milyer," she said, touched by something in the tone, "I really can't go to-day. I've all those shirts to cut out, and Miss Weir told me of a girl who would be glad to come and sew for fifty cents a day. I think I'll have her a few days. And you look up the poor old creatures and see if they are in any want. Then if I really can do them any good I'll go."

She always softened in the end. She felt a little sore and touchy about Steve's engagement, and proud, too, that Miss Beekman had accepted him. Stephen had insisted some one must come in and help sew, and that his mother must have a little time for herself. Seven men and boys to make shirts for was no light matter. The little girl was learning to darn stockings very nicely and helped her mother with those.

So father Underhill took the little girl and Dobbin and the ordinary harness, for Steve had Prince and the silver-mounted trappings, and the elders could guess where he had gone. Business was dull along in August, so the men had some time for diversion, and the father always enjoyed his little daughter. Her limited knowledge and quaint comments amused him, and her sweet, innocent love touched the depths of his soul.

It was quite in the afternoon when they started. Dobbin was not as young and frisky as Prince, so they jogged along, looking at the gardens, the trees, the wild masses of vines and sumac, and then stretches of rocky space interspersed with squatters' cabins and the goats, pigs, geese, and chickens. Sometimes in after years when she rode through Central Park, she wondered if she had not dreamed all this, instead of seeing it with her own eyes.

They went over to Mr. Brockner's to inquire.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "Mrs. Brockner will be so sorry to miss you. She has talked so much about your little girl, and threatened to hunt her up. And now she's gone to Saratoga for a fortnight, to see the fashions. But you must come up again."

Then he directed them, and they drove over in a westerly course and soon came to the little stone house that bore evident marks of decay from neglect as well as age. The first story was rough stone, the half-story of shingles, that had once been painted red. There were two small windows in the gable ends, but in front the eaves overhung the doorway and the windows and were broken and moss-grown. There was a big flat stone for the doorstep, a room on one side with two windows, and on the other only one. The hall door was divided in the middle, the upper part open. There was a queer brass knocker on this, and the lower part fastened with an old-fashioned latch. The little courtyard looked tidy, and there was a great row of sweet clover along the fence, but now and then the goats would nibble it off.

When they stepped up on the stoop they saw an old lady sitting in a rocking-chair, with a little table beside her, and some knitting in her lap. She had evidently fallen into a doze. Hanny stretched up on tiptoe. A great gray cat lay asleep also. There were some mats laid about the floor, two very old arm-chairs with fine rush bottoms painted yellow, a door open on either side of the hall, and a well-worn winding stairs going up at the back.

Mr. Underhill reached over and gave a light knock. The cat lifted its head and made a queer sound like a gentle call, then went to the old lady and stretched up to her knees. She started and glanced toward the door, then rose in a little confusion.

"I am looking for a Miss Underhill," began the visitor.

"Oh, pardon me." She unbolted the lower door. "I believe I had fallen asleep. Miss Underhill?" in a sort of surprised inquiry. "I am—one of the sisters. Walk in."

She pushed out one of the arm-chairs and gave her footstool to the little girl.

"I am an Underhill myself, a sort of connection, I dare say. We heard of you some time ago, but I have been much occupied with business, yet I have intended all the time to call on you."

"You are very good, I am sure. We had some relations on Long Island, and I think some here-about, but we lost sight of them long ago. We really have no one now. My sister Jane is past eighty, and I am only three years younger."

She was a slim, shrunken body and her hands were almost transparent, so white was her skin. Her gown was gray, and she wore a white kerchief crossed on her bosom like a Quakeress. Her fine muslin cap had the narrow plain border of that denomination.

Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and his removal to the city,—then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.

"You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble in her voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father's relatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my only brother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned a great farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little later the old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before the British evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever, and there were only my mother and us two girls."

Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took the wrinkled hand gently.

"Do you mean you were alive then—a little girl in the Revolutionary War?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.

"Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubt if you're more than that."

"I am a little past eight," said Hanny.

"And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hoped so that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic and very much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armies were separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward through McGowan's Pass, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced them into the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessians they would have driven the British off the field. But I believe Washington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost a victory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, for we could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word came that father was killed."

"Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkled hand. What if she had been alive then!—and she looked over at her father with tears in her eyes.

"It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side. You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said they never could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father's espousing the Federalists' cause."

"But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl, wide-eyed.

"We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, and folks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was taken prisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headed young fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool his ardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill. Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire. Oh, my child, such quantities of things as were in it! My mother had never gone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then the land was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. The British took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made money right along. But the English were very good to us, and no one ever molested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journey to go down to the Bowling Green."

The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.

"There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on until most everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane, though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don't know,"—hesitatingly.

"Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.

"Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to some Germans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our little work and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctor thought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It made it easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. But there'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sigh of self-abnegation.

"And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"

"Well, you see grandmother made hard feelings with the relatives. She didn't think the colonies had any right to go to war. And after father's death mother felt a good deal that way. They dropped us out, and we never took any pains to hunt them up. We never knew much about the Underhills. I must say you are very kind to come," and her voice trembled.

Just then the door opened and Miss Underhill sprang up to take her sister's arm and lead her to a chair. She was taller and stouter, and the little girl thought her the oldest-looking person she had ever seen. Her cap was all awry, her shawl was slipping off of one shoulder, and she had a sort of dishevelled appearance, as she looked curiously around.

Lois straightened her up, seated her, and introduced her to the visitors.

"I'm hungry. I want something to eat, Lois," she exclaimed in a whining, tremulous tone, regardless of the strangers.

Miss Underhill begged to be excused, and went for a plate of bread and butter and a cup of milk.

"Perhaps you'd like to see our old parlor," she said to her guests, and opened the door.

There were two rooms on this side of the house. The back one was used for a sleeping chamber. She threw the shutters wide open, and a little late sunshine stole over the faded carpet that had once been such a matter of pride with the two young women. There were some family portraits, a man with a queue and a ruffled shirt-front, another with a big curly white wig coming down over his shoulders, and several ladies whose attire seemed very queer indeed. There was a black sofa studded with brass nails that shone as if they had been lately polished, a tall desk and bookcase going up to the ceiling, brass and silver candlesticks and snuffers' tray, as well as a bright steel "tinder box" on the high, narrow mantel. A big mahogany table stood in the centre of the room, polished until you could see your face in it. But there was an odd tall article in the corner, much tarnished now, but ornamented with gilt and white vines that drooped and twisted about. Long wiry strings went from top to bottom.

"I suppose you don't know what that is!" said Miss Lois, when she saw the little girl inspecting it. "That's a harp. Young ladies played on it when we were young ourselves. And they had a spinet. I believe it's altered now and called a piano."

"A harp!" said the little girl in amaze. Her ideas of a harp were very vague, but she thought it was something you carried around with you. She had heard the children sing

"I want to be an angel And with the angels stand; A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand,"

and the size of this confused her.

"But how could you play on it?" she asked.

"You stood this way. You could sit down, but it was considered more graceful to stand. And you played in this manner."

She fingered the rusted strings. A few emitted a doleful sort of sound almost like a cry.

"We've all grown old together," she said sorrowfully. "It was considered a great accomplishment in my time. I believe people still play on the harp. We had a great many curious things, but several years ago a committee of some kind came and bought them. We needed the money sadly, and we had no one to leave them to when we died. There was some beautiful old china, and a lady bought the fan and handkerchief that my grandmother carried at her wedding. The handkerchief was worked at some convent in Italy and was fine as a cobweb. My mother used it, and then it was laid by for us. But we never needed it," and she gave a soft sigh.

She had glided out now and then to look after Jane, who was eating as if she was starved. And in the broken bits of talk Mr. Underhill had learned by indirect questioning that they had parted with their land by degrees, and with some family valuables, until there was only this old house and a small space of ground left.

Miss Jane was anxious now to see the visitors. But she was so deaf Lois had to repeat everything, and she seemed to forget the moment a thing was said. Dobbin whinnied as if he thought the call had been long enough.

Mr. Underhill squeezed a bank-note into the hand of Miss Lois as he said good-by. "Get some little luxury for your sister," he added.

"Thank you for all your friendliness," and the tears stood in her eyes. "Come again and bring your sister Margaret," she said to the little girl.

They drove over westward a short distance. The rocky gorge was still there, and at its foot was one of the first battle-fields of this vicinity. Hanny looked at it wonderingly.

"Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "They found they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followed by some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, for they were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that. And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to fly to a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boy then."

The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?

"It seems such a long, long time ago—like the flood and the selling of Joseph. And was grandmother really alive?"

"Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."

"Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I felt afraid of her."

"Don't think of her, pussy. It's very sad to lose your senses and be a trouble."

"You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. She didn't see how such a thing could happen to him.

"I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just under his breath.

Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper. The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over her adventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John was drawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work at house-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man had come in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans and several of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walked up and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and what wonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't be any to come in the future.

At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, as grandmother was anxious to see them.

Her grandmother was invested with a curious new interest in her eyes. That any one belonging to her should have lived in the Revolutionary War seemed a real stretch of the imagination for a little girl eight years old. Grandmother considered her wonderful also. She wasn't so much in favor of short frocks and pantalets that came down to your ankles, but the little girl did look pretty in them. And when she found how neatly she could hemstitch and do such beautiful featherstitch, and darn, and read so plainly that it was a pleasure to listen to her, she had to admit that Hannah Ann was a real credit, and, she confessed in her secret heart, a very sweet little girl.

"I've begun your new Irish chain patchwork," she said. "I've made one block for a pattern, and cut out quite a pile. Aunt Eunice lighted upon some beautiful green calico. I was upon a stand whether to have green or red, but an Irish chain generally is pieced of green. It seems more appropriate."

And yet people had not begun to sing "The Wearing of the Green."

"I declare," said Cousin Ann, "you're such an old-fashioned little thing one can hardly tell which is the oldest, you or grandmother."

"Is it anything"—what should she say?—wrong or bad seemed too forcible—"queer to be old-fashioned?"

"Well, yes, queer. But you're awful sweet and cunning, Hannah Ann, and we'd just like to keep you forever."

With that she almost squeezed the breath out of the little girl and kissed her a dozen times.

Grandmother could tell such wonderful stories as they sat and sewed. All the glories of the old Underhill house, and the silver and plate that had come over from England, and the set of real china that a sea captain, one of the Underhills, had brought from China and how it had taken three years to go there and come back. And the beautiful India shawl it had taken seven years to make, and the Persian silk gown that had been bought of some great chief or Mogul—grandmother wasn't quite sure, but she thought they had a king or emperor in those countries. She had a little piece of the silk that she showed Hanny, and a waist ribbon that came from Paris, "For you see," said she, "we were so angry with England that we wouldn't buy anything of her if we could help it. And the French people came over and helped us."

"What did they fight about, grandmother?"

"Oh, child, a great many things. You can't understand them all now, but you'll learn about them presently. The people who came here and settled the country wanted the right to govern themselves. They thought a king, thousands of miles away, couldn't know what was best for them. And England sent over things and we had to pay for them whether we wanted them or not. And it was a long struggle, but we won, and the British had to go back to their own country. Why, if we hadn't fought, we wouldn't have had any country," and grandmother's old face flushed.

The little girl thinks it would be dreadful not to have a country, but her mind is quite chaotic on the subject. She is glad, however, to have been on the winning side.

Nearly every day Uncle David took her out driving. They saw the old house on the hill in a half-hidden, woody section where the family had to live until the new house was built. They went round the battlefield, but sixty years of peace had made great changes, and the next fifty years was to see a beautiful town and many-storied palaces all about. She dipped into the history of New Amsterdam again and began to understand it better, though she did mistrust that Mr. Dederich Knickerbocker now and then "made fun," not unlike her father.

The visit came to an end quite too soon, grandmother thought, and she was very sorry to part with the little girl. She thought she would try and come down when the fall work was done, and she gave Hanny only four blocks of patchwork, for if she went to school there wouldn't be much time to sew.

They stopped at Yonkers two days and picked up the boys, who were brown and rosy. Aunt Crete was much better and did not have to go about with her face tied up. She said there was no place like Yonkers, after all. Retty seemed happy and jolly, but there was a new girl in the kitchen, for Aunt Mary had gone to live with her children. George said he should come down a while when the crops were in.

School commenced the 1st of September sharp. It was hot, of course. Summer generally does lap over. The boys who had shouted themselves hoarse with joy when school closed, made the street and the playground ring with delight again. If they were not so fond of studying they liked the fun and good-fellowship. And when they marched up and down the long aisles singing:

"Hail Columbia, happy land; Hail ye heroes, heaven-born band. Who fought and bled in freedom's cause!"

you could feel assured another generation of patriots was being raised for some future emergency. Oh, what throats and lungs they had!

Mrs. Underhill had been around to see Mrs. Craven, and liked her very well indeed. So the little girl was to go to school with Josie and Tudie Dean.

Some new people had come in the street two doors below. Among the members was a little girl of seven, the child of the oldest son, and a large girl of fourteen or so, two young ladies, one of whom was teaching school, and the other making artificial flowers in a factory down-town, and two sons. The eldest one was connected with a newspaper, and was in quite poor health. His wife, the little girl's mother, had been dead some years. The child was rather pale and thin, with large, dark eyes, and a face too old for her years and rather pathetic. And when Mrs. Whitney came in a few days later to inquire where Mrs. Underhill sent her little girl to school, she decided to let her grandchild go to Mrs. Craven's also.

"She's quite a delicate little thing and takes after her mother. I tell my son, she wants to company with other children and not sit around nursing the cat. But Ophelia, that's my daughter who teaches down-town, where we used to live, says the public school is no place for her. And your little girl seems so nice and quiet like."

Nora, as they called her, was very shy at first. Hanny went after her, and found the Deans waiting on their stoop. Nora never uttered a word, but looked as if she would cry the next moment. Mrs. Craven took her in charge in a motherly fashion, but it seemed very hard for her to fraternize with the children.

Mrs. Craven lived in a corner house. The entrance to the school was on Third Street, and the schoolroom was built off the back parlor, which was used as a recitation-room for the older class. There were about twenty little girls, none of them older than twelve. At the end of the yard was a vacant lot, fenced in, which made a beautiful playground.

There were numbers of such schools at that period, but they were mostly for little girls. Hanny liked it very much. On Wednesday afternoon they had drawing, and reading aloud, when the girls could make their own selections, which were sometimes very amusing. On Friday afternoon they sewed and embroidered and did worsted work. There was quite a rage about this. One girl had a large piece in a frame—"Joseph Sold by his Brethren." Hanny never tired of the beautiful blue and red and orange costumes. Another girl was working a chair seat. And still another had begun to embroider a black silk apron with a soft shade of red. Then they hemstitched handkerchiefs, they marked towels and napkins with ornate letters, and really were a busy lot. Little Eleanora Whitney couldn't sew a stitch, and some of the girls thought it "just dreadful."

Friday from half-past three until five Miss Helen Craven gave the children, whose parents desired it, a dancing lesson. If Nora couldn't sew, she could dance like a fairy. Her education was a curious conglomeration. She could read and declaim, but spelling was quite beyond her, and her attempts at it made a titter through the room. She could talk a little French, and she had crossed the ocean to England with her papa. So she wasn't to be despised altogether.



CHAPTER VIII

THE END OF THE WORLD

"'Taint no such thing! The world couldn't come to an end!" Janey Day quite forgot Mrs. Craven's strictures on speech. "It's too strong. And—and——"

"And it's round," said the wit of the school. "Round as a ring and has no end. There now."

"But the world ain't like a ring."

"So isn't my love for you, my friend."

There was quite a little shout of laughter.

One of the larger girls, Hester Brown, stood with upraised head and earnest countenance.

"It is coming to an end in October. It is only two or three weeks off. My father has read it all in the Bible. And we are getting ready."

Her demeanor silenced the little group.

"But how do you get ready?"

"We must repent of our sins. And that's why mother wouldn't let me come to the dancing-class. She thinks it wrong, any way. And mother and Auntie are making their ascension robes. We go to church every night."

The girls stood awestruck.

"What's going to happen?" asked one.

"Why, the world will be burned up. All those who love God are to be caught up to heaven. Then the dead people who have been good will rise out of their graves. And all the rest—everything will be burned."

The solemnity of the girl's voice impressed so that they looked at each other in silent fear.

"I just don't believe a word of it," declared Janey Day, drawing a long breath. "My father's a good man and goes to church and reads the Bible every night. He's read it through more than fifty times, and he's never said a word about the world coming to an end. And he's building a new house for us to move into next spring."

"Fifty times, Janey Day! It takes a long, long while to read the Bible through. My grandmother's read it all through twice, and she's awful old."

"Well—twenty times at least. And don't you 'spose he'd found something about it?"

"Everybody can't tell. It's in Daniel. There's days and times to be added up."

"Five of you, Janey," said the wit with a child's irreverence.

"Just when is it coming to an end? Girls, there's no use to study any more lessons."

"It will be next week," said Hester with almost tragic solemnity. "But you must all go on doing your work just the same."

"I don't see the sense. I've just begun fractions, and I hate them. I won't do another sum."

The bell rang and recess was at an end. The girls straggled until they reached the doorway, then suddenly straightened themselves into an orderly line and took their seats quietly. There was a sound of rapidly moving pencils—slates and pencils were in full swing then. No one had invented "pads."

One after another read out answers. A few went up to Mrs. Craven for assistance.

"Lottie Brower," the lady said presently.

Lottie colored. She had a kind of school-girl grudge against Hester.

"I—I haven't done my sums," she replied slowly.

"Why not?"

"Because the world is coming to an end. They're so hard, and what is the use if we're not going to live longer than next week?"

Every girl stopped her work and stared at Hester, amazed, yet rather enjoying Lottie's audacity.

"How did you come by such an idea?" asked Mrs. Craven quietly.

"But is there any use of studying or anything?" Lottie's voice had a little tremble in it. "I'm sure I don't want the world to come to an end, but——"

"Do your people believe this?"

"No, ma'am," replied Lottie.

"Where, then, did you get the idea?"

"Hester Brown is sure——"

Hester's face was scarlet. She felt that she was called upon to bear witness.

"My father and mother believe it, and we are all getting ready. My uncle means to give away all his things next week."

The girl was in such earnest that Mrs. Craven was puzzled for a moment.

"I do not think we shall know the day or the hour," was the reply. "We are all exhorted to go on diligently with whatever we are doing. And Lottie, Hester has certainly set you an example. She did her sums correctly. She has added works to her faith as the Bible commands. I am aware many people think the end of the world is near, but that is no reason for our being careless and indolent. I doubt if that excuse would be accepted; at all events, I cannot accept yours."

"But I hate fractions! The divisors and the multiples get all mixed up and go racing round in my head until I can't tell one from the other."

"Bring your slate here." Mrs. Craven made room for her by the table. "Now, what is the trouble?"

Twelve o'clock struck before Lottie was through, but she had to admit that it wasn't so "awful" when Mrs. Craven explained the sums in her quiet, lucid manner. The girls rose and went to the closet for their hats and capes.

"Girls," began Mrs. Craven, "I want to say a word. I hope each one of you will respect the other's religious belief. Our country has been founded on the corner-stone of liberty in this matter, and one ought to be noble enough not to ridicule or sneer at any honest, sincere faith, remembering that we cannot all believe alike."

Hester went out with two or three of the larger girls.

"I do not think you were quite kind, Lottie," said her teacher, in a soft tone.

"But what would be the use of fractions if the world came to an end?"

"Oh, Mrs. Craven! do you believe it? I should feel just dreadful. The world has so many splendid things in it—and to be burned up."

"I should just be frightened to death," and one little girl shuddered.

"Children, I am sorry anything has been said about this. There are a good many people who believe and who have preached for the last three years that the end of the world is near. The time has been set for next week. Yet the Bible does say that no man knoweth the day nor the hour. I do not believe in these predictions," and she smiled reassuringly. "I think we can all count on Thanksgiving and a merry Christmas as well as a happy New Year. I want you all to be kind to each other, and when Hester is disappointed next week, to refrain from teasing her. If you think for a moment, you will find it very easy to believe just as your parents do, for you love them the best of any one in this world. And the more you respect and obey them, the more ready you are to be kind and gentle and truthful to all about you, the better you are serving God. You must leave this matter in His hands, and remember that He loves you all, and will do whatever is best. Don't feel troubled about the world coming to an end. I am afraid Lottie here will have a great deal more trouble about fractions. I doubt if she gets through by Christmas. Now run home or you will be late for dinner."

The little girl sat very quiet at the table. There was only her mother, John, and the boys. She wished that her father or Steve were here so she could ask them. A strange awe was creeping over her. It seemed so dreadful to have all the world burned up. There might be some people left behind in the hurry. It hurt terribly to be burned even a little.

There was a very sober lot of girls at school that afternoon. The jest was all taken out of recess. Hester sat on the steps reading a little pocket Testament. The others huddled together and shook their heads mysteriously, saying just above a whisper, "I don't believe it." "My mother says it isn't so." But somehow they did not seem to fortify themselves much with these protestations.

Some of the elder cousins had come to visit and take tea. People went visiting by three in the afternoon and carried their work along. There was an atmosphere of relationship and real living that gave a certain satisfaction. You enjoyed it. It was not paying a social debt reluctantly, relieved to have it over, but a solid, substantial pleasure.

Martha took the little girl up-stairs and put on a blue delaine frock and white apron, and polished her "buskins," as the low shoes were called. Then she went into the parlor and spoke to all the ladies. She had her lace in a little bag, and presently she sat down on an ottoman and took out her work.

"You don't mean to say that child can knit lace? And oak-leaf, too, I do declare! What a smart little girl!"

"Oh, she embroiders quite nicely, also. Hannah Ann, get your apron and show Cousin Dorcas."

The apron was praised and the handkerchiefs she had marked for her father were brought out. Then she was asked what she was studying at school.

Cousin Dorcas was knitting "shells" for a counterpane. There was one of white and one of red, and they were put together in a rather long diamond shape with a row of openwork between every block. It was for her daughter, who was going to be married in the spring, and it interested the little girl wonderfully.

Then they talked about Steve and Dolly Beekman. While the girls were at White Plains, Steve had coaxed his father and mother up to the Beekmans', and the engagement had been settled with all due formality. Dolly and her mother had been down and taken tea. And now Steve went up every Sunday afternoon and stayed to supper, and once or twice through the week, and took Dolly out driving and escorted her to parties.

The Beekmans were good, solid people, and Peggy ought to be satisfied that Stephen had chosen so wisely. "Was it true that Steve had been buying some land way out of town? Did he mean to build there?"

"Oh, dear, no!" answered his mother. "It was a crazy thing, but John had really persuaded him, and John was too young to have any judgment. But he said the Astors were buying up there, and land was almost given away."

"I don't know what it's good for," declared Aunt Frasie. "Why it'll be forty years before the city'll go out there. Well, it may be good for his grandchildren."

They all gave a little laugh.

Presently another of the cousins sat down at the piano and played the "Battle of Prague."

Then Aunt Frasie said, "Do sing something. It doesn't seem half like music without the singing."

Maria Jane ran her fingers over the keys, and began a plaintive air very much in vogue:

"Shed not a tear o'er your friend's early bier, When I am gone, I am gone."

Aunt Frasie heard her through the first verse, and then said impatiently:

"You've sung that at so many funerals, Maria Jane, that it makes me feel creepy. You used to sing 'Banks and Braes.' Do try that."

It had been said of Maria Jane in her earlier years that she had sung "Bonnie Doon" so pathetically she had moved the roomful to tears. Her voice was rather thin now, with a touch of shrillness on the high notes, but the little girl listened entranced. Then she sang "Scots wha' hae" and "Roy's wife of Aldivaloch." Margaret had come home, the supper-table was spread, the men came in, and they sat down to the feast. They teased Steve a little, and bade John beware, and were so merry all the evening that when it came her bedtime the little girl had forgotten all about the world coming to an end.

The girls discussed it the next day. Most of their mothers and fathers had scouted the idea. Josie Dean was very positive it couldn't be—her father had been going over the Bible and the Millerites had made a big mistake.

"And girls," said Josie earnestly, "St. John, one of the disciples of our Saviour, lived to be a hundred years old. Some people taught that the world would come to an end before he died. And now it's 1843, and it's stood all this while, though every now and then there's been an excitement about it. And I ain't going to be afraid at all, there now!"

The little girl wondered whether she would be afraid. But Friday evening the boys were full of it, and Steve said it was nonsense. She crept up into her father's lap and asked him in a tremulous whisper if he was afraid.

"No, dear," he answered, pressing her to his heart.

"But if it should come."

"Well—I'd take my little girl and mother and Margaret——"

"And what would you do?" as he made a long pause.

"I'd beg to be taken into heaven. And we would all be together. I think God would be good to us."

"And the boys."

"Yes, the boys." He wondered within himself if they were all fit for heaven. But he was quite sure the little girl was.

There was a very great excitement. For months there had been meetings of exhortation and prophesying, and appeals to conscience, to terror, to the desire of being saved from impending destruction. Last winter there had been revivals everywhere, yet during the summer thoughtful people had questioned whether the moral tone of the community had been any higher. There were heroic souls, that always rise to the surface in times of spiritual agitation. There were others moved by any excitement, who seized on this with a kind of ungovernable rapture.

No one spoke of it in Sunday-school. Hanny brought home "Little Blind Lucy," and was so lost in its perusal that she hardly wanted to leave off for half an hour with Joe. But her mother let her look over to see whether Lucy really did have her eyesight restored. She was so sleepy that when she had said her little prayer she felt quite sure that God would take care of her and the beautiful world He had made. It would be cruel to burn it all up.

But the children went to school on Monday. Martha washed as usual. She did think it would be a waste of labor and strength if the world came to an end, though she was sure clean clothes would burn up quicker, and if it had to be, one might as well have it over as soon as possible.

All things went on, the buying and selling, the business of the day, and in some houses there were weary pain-racked bodies that slipped out of life gently without waiting for the general conflagration.

Still a strange awe did pervade the city. Some of the churches were open, and people were on their knees weeping and sobbing to be made ready; others were full of faith and expectations, singing hymns, and impatiently waiting the moment when the trump would sound and they be caught up to glory. Down on Grand Street Hester Brown's uncle was giving away shoes, and wondering at the fatal unbelief of those who were so ready to accept. Here and there another of abounding faith was doing the same thing, or perhaps giving away things they did not need, hoping it would be accounted to them for good works.

Hester was not in school. Neither did she come on Tuesday, and that night was to be the fatal end of all things. A great many people went to church that day. The children did suffer from dread, though Lottie Brower kept up a sort of cheery bravado, as one whistles or sings in the dark.

"And I don't think Hester's been such an awful sight better than the rest of us. She answered correct one day when she had talked, and pretended she had forgotten all about it. And she was just mean enough about that clover-leaf pattern and wouldn't show a single girl. And she gets mad just as easy as the rest of us."

"I think we oughtn't get mad any more. And, girls, I'll lend you my knife to sharpen your pencils. We ought to try to be just as good as we could, for my Sunday-school teacher said if we died the world came to an end for us."

They made many resolves. Mrs. Craven thought they had never been so angelic in their lives.

But the little girl was very much "stirred up."

People didn't say nervous so much in those days. In fact nervousness was rather associated with whims and tempers. Joe came over to supper—he could get off from the hospital now and then. They were all talking about going to Delancey Street Church, where it was said people would be dressed in their ascension robes, and remain to the final change.

Margaret begged to go, and said she knew all her lessons. The boys had theirs to study. Jim scouted the idea of the world's coming to an end. Benny adduced several remarkable reasons why it couldn't come just yet. The Millerites had made a mistake in the true meaning of the "days" in Daniel.

"Are you quite sure?" asked the little girl timidly.

"Well—you'll see the same old world next week this time. Don't you get frightened, Hanny dear," and Ben kissed her reassuringly.

She sat by the boys and knit on her lace a while. Then her mother looked up from the stockings she was darning. She said "she always took Time by the forelock," and the little girl had a fancy some time she would drag him out. She wondered if she would really like to see Time with his hour-glass and scythe, and all his bones showing.

Mrs. Underhill looked up at the clock.

"My goodness, Hanny!" she exclaimed, "it's time you were in bed half an hour ago. Put up your lace. You'll be sleepy enough in the morning."

The little girl wound it round her needles and then stuck the ends in the stem of the spool and put it away in her basket. She kissed Ben and Jim good-night, and followed her mother. Her eyes had a half-frightened look and the pupils were very large. Mrs. Underhill felt out of patience that there should be so much talk about the world coming to an end before children. She knew Hanny was "just alive with terror." She couldn't pretend to explain anything to her; she was of the opinion that as you grew older "you found out things for yourself." And I am really afraid she didn't believe in total depravity for sweet little girls like Hanny. It was well enough for boys. So much of her life had been spent in doing, that she might have neglected some of the "mint, anise, and cummin." She undressed the little girl. Oh, how fair and pretty her shoulders were, and her round white arms that had a dimple at the top of the elbow. She was small for her age, but nice and plump, and her mother felt just this minute as if she would like to cuddle her up in her arms and kiss her as she had in babyhood. If she had, all the fear would have gone out of the little girl's heart.

Hanny said her prayer, and added to it, "Oh, Lord Jesus, please don't let the world come to an end to-night." Then her mother patted down the bed, took off one pillow and the pretty top quilt, and put her in, kissing her tenderly, the little trembling thing.

Then she stood still awhile.

"I do wonder what I did with your red coat," she began. "Cousin Cynthia said it might be let down and do for this winter. There's no little girl to grow into your clothes. Let me see—I put a lot of things in this closet. I remember pinning them up in linen pillow-cases, but I meant to store them in the cedar chest. I wonder if I have been that careless."

She stood up on a chair and threw down some bundles with unnecessary force. Then she stepped down and began to look them over, keeping up a running comment. She would not have admitted that she was talking against time, secretly hoping the little girl would drop off to sleep. But the coat was not in any of the bundles.

"I think it must be in the chest. While I'm about it I may as well go and see. If you have outgrown it, it could be made over into a dress; it's nice, fine merino, a little thicker than I'd buy for a dress, but your father would have just that piece. I'll get a candle and go up-stairs—I wouldn't trust a glass lamp with this horrid burning-fluid in my storeroom. Hanny, be sure you don't get up and touch it," as if there was the slightest possibility. "I'll be down again in five minutes."

That was a shrewd motherly excuse not to leave the little girl alone in the dark, though she was never afraid.

She lay there very still, with a feeling of safety since her mother was up-stairs. Of course she was old enough to know a great many things and to have ideas on religious subjects. But I think the Underhills were more intelligent than intellectual, and people were still living rather simple lives, not yet impregnated with ideas. They had not had the old Puritan training, and the ferment of science and philosophy and transcendentalism had not invaded the country places. To-night in the city there were wise heads proving and disproving the times and half times, and days and signs, but they really had no interest for Mrs. Underhill, who was training her family the best she knew how, making good men and women.

And the little girl's ideas were extremely vague. She thought her soul was that part of her heart that beat. When it ceased beating you died and the body was left behind; so of course that was what went to heaven. And when she had been naughty or when she had left something undone and was hurrying with all her might to do it, this thing beat and throbbed. If she wanted something very much and was almost tempted to take it, the feeling came up in her throat, and she knew that was conscience. She was trying now to recall and repent of her sins, and oh, she did so wish her father was here. Would he be back before the end came, and take them all in his strong arms? and they would run—Oh, no! they were to be caught up in the clouds. But she would be safe where he was.

Years afterward, she was to understand how human and finite love foreshadowed the eternal. But then she could only believe, and her faith in her human father was the rock of her salvation.

And when her mother came down she had fallen asleep, but she thought it would be just as well to leave the lamp burning until Margaret's return. She would look in now and then to see that it didn't explode. Burning-fluid was considered rather dangerous stuff.

Hanny was so tired that she slept soundly. It was almost midnight when the folks came home, and Mrs. Underhill begged Margaret to go to bed quietly and not disturb her. And it was all light with the sun rising in the eastern sky and shining in one window when she opened her eyes. Margaret stood before the glass plaiting her pretty, long hair.

The little girl sat up. Something had happened. There was a great weight—a great fear. What was it? Oh, yes, this was their room; they were all alive, for she heard Jim's breezy voice, and Joe, who had stayed all night, said impatiently:

"Peggy, are you never coming down?"

Hanny sprang out of bed and clasped her little arms about her sister.

"Oh!" with a great exultation in her sweet child's voice—"the world didn't come to an end, did it? Oh, you beautiful world! I am so glad you are left. And everybody—only—Margaret, were the people at the church dreadfully disappointed? What a pity God couldn't have taken those who wanted to go; but I'm so glad we are left. Oh, you lovely world, you are too nice to burn up!"

I think there were a great many people in the city just as glad as Hanny, if they did not put it in the same joyful words.

Margaret smiled. "Hurry, dear," she said, "Joe will have to go, and I know he wants to see you."

Hanny put on her shoes and stockings, and Margaret helped her with the rest, washed her and just tied up her hair with a second-best ribbon. Joseph had eaten his breakfast and was impatiently waiting to say good-by. John was off already.

Nothing had happened. The world was going on as usual. True there had been the comet and falling stars and wars and rumors of wars, but the old world had sailed triumphantly through them all. The dear, old, splendid world, that was to grow more splendid with the years.

Perhaps it did rouse people to better and kindlier living and more serious thought. Before Mr. Underhill went away his wife said:

"'Milyer, hadn't you better look after those old people up at Harlem. I suppose they had some garden truck, but there's flour and meat and little things that take off the money when you haven't much. And fuel. I'll try to go up some day with you and see what they need to keep them comfortable in cold weather."

The girls could hardly study at school, there was so much excitement. Did people really have on their ascension robes? What would Hester say?

Hester did not come to school all the week. Of course they had made a mistake in computing the time, but a few weeks couldn't make much difference. Still, the worst scare was over, and if one mistake could be made, why not another? Were they so sure all the signs were fulfilled?



CHAPTER IX

A WONDERFUL SCHEME

The Whitneys and the Underhills became very neighborly. Mr. Theodore Whitney often stopped for a little chat, and he was very fond of a good game of checkers with Steve or John. He was on the other side in politics and they had some warm discussions. Ophelia, the oldest girl, was engaged and deeply absorbed with her lover. Frances went away early in the morning and did not get back until after six. Mrs. Whitney, a Southern woman by birth, was one of the easy-going kind and very fond of novels. Mr. Whitney brought them home by the dozen. The house seemed somehow to run itself, with the aid of Dele, as she was commonly called.

Dele proved a powerful rival to Miss Lily Ludlow. Lily was much prettier and more delicate looking. Dele had brown-red hair, dry and curly. She was a little freckled, even in the fall. Her mouth was wide, but she was always laughing, and she had such splendid teeth. Then her eyes were so full of fun, and her voice had a sort of rollicking sound. She knew all kinds of boys' play, and was great at marbles. Then she had so many odd, entertaining things, and their parlor wasn't too good for use when 'Phelia's beau was not there. But the children lived mostly on the stoop and the sidewalk.

Delia went to Houston Street school. She could walk farther up the street with the boys, and watch out for them when they went. Ben liked her better than he did Lily or Rosa, but Jim was quite divided. He, like the other poor man with two charmers, sometimes wished there was only one of them. But Lily was a born coquette, and jealous at that. She had a way of calling back her admirers, while Dele didn't care a bit for admiration, but just wanted a good time.

Benny Frank was something of a bookworm and student. Jim, who was growing very fast, was a regular boy, and, I am sorry to say, did not always have perfect lessons. He was so very quick and correct in figures that he managed to slip through other things. Moreover he carried authority. The boys had called him "country" at first and teased him in different ways until small skirmishes had begun. And one day there was a stand-up fight at recess. Jim thrashed the bully of his class. It was a forbidden thing to fight in the school-yard, or in school hours, and so Jim was thrashed again for his victory. But Mr. Hazeltine shook hands with him afterward and said "it wasn't because he thrashed Upton, but because he had broken the rules, and he liked to see a boy have courage enough to stand up for himself." So Jim did not mind it very much, though he had a black eye for two or three days.

After that he was a sort of hero to the boys, and Upton did not bully as much. But some of the boys delighted to "pick" at Benny Frank, who would have made a good Quaker. Jim sometimes felt quite "mad" with him.

Lily did not seem to get along very rapidly with her intimacy. Hanny was too young, and now that she had the Deans on one side and little Nora Whitney on the other, was quite out of Lily's reach. And she did enjoy Delia immensely, though she was past thirteen and such a tall girl. So Lily tried all her arts on Jim, and succeeded very well, it must be confessed.

It was Saturday, and the world had not come to an end yet. Benny had gone down-town with Steve in the morning, but he would not have both boys together, for Jim was so full of "capers." So he had done errands for his mother, blackened the boots and shoes—the bootblack brigade had not then come in fashion, and you hardly ever saw an Italian boy. He had cleared up the yard and earned his five cents. He was wondering a little what he would do all the afternoon.

Dele came flying in, eager and impetuous.

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill!" she cried, "can't Hanny go to the Museum this afternoon? The"—it seemed so odd, Hanny thought, to call grave-looking Mr. Whitney that, but she said Steve to her big brother. "The brought home four tickets. My cousin, Walter Hay, is here, and he will go with us and then go down home. And Nora does so want Hanny to go. Oh, won't you please let her? I'll take the best of care of her. I've taken Nora and my little Cousin Julia ever so many times. Oh, Jim, what a pity! If I had one more ticket!"

"Sho!" and Jim straightened himself up. "I have twenty-eight cents, and I wouldn't want to go sponging on a girl anyhow! Oh, mother, do let us go? Hanny, come quick! Oh, do you want to go to the Museum?"

"To the Museum?" Hanny drew a breath of remembered delight and thrilling anticipation.

Dele and Jim talked together. They were so earnest, so full of entreaty. Jim might have gone in welcome, but Hanny——

"Why, we shall just take the stage and ride to the door, and we'll be so careful getting out. They drive clear up to the sidewalk, you know. Walter is fourteen and he takes his little sisters out, and knows how to care for girls. And there's such a pretty play; just the thing for children, The. said."

"Oh, mother, please do," and the little girl's voice was so persuasive, so pleading.

"Oh, please, mother! I'll see that nothing happens to Hanny."

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill, Nora would be so disappointed. And we all want Hanny."

Mrs. Underhill had told her husband if he would come up about three she would take the drive to Harlem with him. Of course she meant to take the little girl. Which would Hanny rather do?

The fascinations of the Museum outweighed the drive. Margaret was up to the Beekmans' spending the day, their last week on the farm. Of course Jim could go—and when she looked at all the eager faces she gave in, and Hanny danced with delight.

It was almost three before they could get off, and the play began at that hour. However they caught a stage out on the Bowery and were soon whirled down to the corner of Broadway and Ann Street.

People were crowding in, it was such a beautiful day, and this was considered the place preeminently for children. People who would have been horrified at the thought of a theatre did not have a scruple about the lecture-room.

"We better not stop to look at things," advised Delia. "We can do that afterward. Let's go in and get our seats."

They had to go way up front, but they didn't mind that so long as they were all together. They studied the wonderful Venetian scene on the drop-curtain, and the young lad in a supposedly green satin costume, with a long white feather in his hat, who was just stepping into a gondola where a very lovely lady was playing on a guitar. Then the orchestra gave a clash of drums, cymbals, French horns, and a big bass viol, and up went the curtain.

A musical family came out and sang. Then there were some acrobatic performances. After that the pantomime.

Grandpapa Jerome, in a very foreign costume and a bald head which he tried to keep covered with a black velvet cap, had two extremely tricksy sprites for grandchildren. They were very pretty, the girl with long, light curls, the boy with dark ones. But of all mischief, of all tormenting deeds and antics with which they nearly set grandpapa crazy and threw the audience into convulsions! They took the nice fat boiled ham off the table and greased the doorstep so thoroughly you would have thought every bone in the old man's body would have been broken by the repeated falls. They cut the seat out of the chair, and when he went to sit down he doubled up equal to any modern folding-bed, and he kicked and turned summersaults until the maid came out and rescued him. Then he spied the author of the mischief asleep on a grassy bank, and he found a big strap and went creeping up cautiously, when—whack! and the little boy flew all to pieces, and the old man was so amazed at his cruelty that he sat down and began to weep and bewail when the little lad peeped from behind a tree and, seeing poor grandfather's grief, ran out, hugged him and kissed him and wiped his eyes, and you could see he was promising never to do anything naughty again. But that didn't hinder him from cutting out the bottom of the basket into which the old man was cutting some very splendid grapes. There were not more than half a dozen bunches, and the children ran away with them. The old man descended so carefully, put his hand in the basket, his whole arm, and not a grape. There was none on the ground. Where had they gone! Oh, there was the cat. But pussy was much spryer than the old man, and the audience knew she had not touched a grape.

After that some Indians came on the scene of action, fierce red men of the forest, and their language was decidedly Jabberwocky. The little girl was quite frightened at the fierce brandishing of tomahawks. Then they had a war dance. And oh, then came the marvel of all! Four beautiful Shetland ponies with the daintiest carriage and six lads in livery. There sat General Tom Thumb, the curiosity of the time, the smallest dwarf known. He was not much bigger than a year-old baby, but he dismounted from his carriage, gave orders to his servants; a bright-eyed little fellow with rosy cheeks, graceful and with a variety of pretty tricks. He sang a song or two, then sprang into his carriage and the ponies trotted off the stage. The curtain came down.

The children were breathless at first. The crowd was surging out and the place nearly empty before they found their tongues. And then there was so much else to see. The various stuffed animals, the giraffe with his three-story neck, the mermaid, the wax figures, the birds and beasts and serpents, and a model of Paris, of London, and of Jerusalem. The place looked quite gorgeous all lighted up.

The people were beginning to thin out. They had not seen half, Jim thought.

"Oh, we haven't been up-stairs!" exclaimed Walter. "There's a great roof-garden. And you can see all the city."

They trudged up-stairs. Dele kept tight hold of the little girl's hand. It was quite light up here. What a great space it was! One large flag was flying, and around the edge of the roof numberless smaller ones. Some evergreen shrubs in boxes stood around, and there were wooden arm-chairs, beside some settees. It was rather chilly, though the day had been very pleasant. And oh, how splendid the lights of Broadway looked to them, two long rows stretching up and up until lost in indistinctness. The stores were all open and lighted as brilliantly as one could with gas. No one thought of Saturday half-holidays then. It was very grand. But what would they have said to the Columbian nights and electric lights?

"I don't feel as if I had seen it half," said Jim. He was not grudging his quarter. "If we had come about one o'clock."