"Oh, I do hope you're tame!" whispered Betty softly.

She was fond of animals, and Bramble Farm, with the exception of a few lambs, had had no young life in its pastures and stables. The little calves were always sold as early as possible that there might be more milk for butter, and Betty was fairly aching to pet something.

She walked cautiously up to the colt, who sniffed at her suspiciously, but stood his ground. He pricked his ears forward and looked at her inquiringly.

"You dear!" said the girl quietly. "You little beauty! You wouldn't mind if I patted you, would you?"

She put out one hand and touched the rough side of the little animal. He stood perfectly still, and she stroked him for a minute or two, speaking gently to him. Presently he nuzzled her playfully.

"Oh, you darling!" she cried delighted. "Wouldn't I love to take you with me and have you for a pet! If you wouldn't grow any larger than you are now, I'd take you everywhere just like a dog."

She had both arms around the colt's neck now, and he seemed to enjoy being petted. All at once Betty thought she heard hoof-beats on the ground, and at the same time the colt raised his head and whinnied.

Betty looked up and across the field toward the house. She stood back from the colt and stared in dismay and astonishment at what she saw.

Tearing across the ground, headed directly for her, was a fierce animal with flashing red nostrils, huge mouth open wide and showing two great rows of strong yellow teeth bared to the gums. Sparks seemed to fly from the hoofs and a coarse black tail streamed in the wind.

"Good gracious!" gasped Betty weakly. "That must be the colt's mother!"

The colt whinnied again in welcome and delight, but Betty felt rooted to the earth.



CHAPTER X

FELLOW TRAVELERS

It is sometimes said that in moments of danger one's whole life passes swiftly in review through the mind, but Betty always declared that she had just a single thought when it seemed that in another moment she would be trampled under the mare's hoofs; she had not telegraphed to her uncle and he would not know where she had gone.

The horse continued to cover the ground rapidly, and then, when it had almost reached the terrified girl, fear lent sudden wings to Betty's leaden feet. She turned and ran.

Speeding over the field toward the fence at the other end, she could hear the steady pounding of the mare's hoofs, though she did not dare to glance over her shoulder. Her thoughts worked busily, trying to figure out a way to climb over or under the fence, and she had a lively fear of those terrible teeth nipping her as she tried to climb. As the fence seemed to her strained vision to rise suddenly from the ground and come to meet her, a way to safety opened.

Before she began to run she had unconsciously stooped to gather her sweater from the ground where she had dropped it, and now she turned and waved the garment frantically in the furious animal's face. Bewildered and confused, the mare stopped, and, as Betty continued to flap the sweater, she turned and dashed back to her colt. Weakly the girl tumbled over the fence and the adventure was over.

"She thought you were going to hurt Pinto," said Mrs. Brill, when she heard the story. "Goodness, I certainly am glad you had the presence of mind to shake your sweater at old Phyllis. Wouldn't it have been dreadful if she had bitten you!"

The next morning, Betty said good-by to the hospitable family who had been so wonderfully kind to her, and, much refreshed after a luxurious hot bath and a night's sleep in the pretty guest room, took the trolley car into town with Mr. Brill, who at the station door bade her farewell in his capacity of host and two minutes later as telegraph operator sent her message to Uncle Dick in Washington.

The 7:45 was on time to the minute, and as the long train pulled in and the porter helped her on, Betty drew a long breath of relief. Surely there could be no more delays and in a comparatively few hours she might hope to be with her uncle and know the comfort of telling him her experiences instead of trusting their recital to letters.

The train had been made up late the night before and many of the passengers were still sleepy-eyed after restless hours in their berths. A good many of them were at breakfast in the dining car, and as there was no parlor car Betty had to take half a section already occupied by a rather frowsy young woman with two small children.

"We take on a parlor car at Willowvale," the porter assured Betty, only too sympathetically, for he had been waiting on the woman and her children since the afternoon before. "I'll see that you get a chair then, Miss."

Betty settled herself as comfortably as she could and opened her magazine.

"Read to me?" suggested a little voice, and a sticky hand caressed her skirt timidly.

"Now don't bother the lady," said the mother, trying to pull the child away. "My land, if I ever live to get you children to your grandmother's I'll be thankful! Lottie, stop making scratches on that window sill!"

Lottie pursed her pretty mouth in a pout and drummed her small heels discontentedly against the green plush of the seat.

Betty smiled into the rebellious blue eyes and was rewarded by a sudden, radiant smile. She closed her magazine and found the mother gazing at her with a look almost as childlike in its friendly curiosity as her little daughter's.

"You've got a way with children, haven't you?" said the woman wistfully. "I guess everybody on this train will be glad when we get off. The children have been perfect torments, and Lottie cried half the night. We're none of us used to traveling, and they're so mussed up and dirty I could cry. At home I keep 'em looking as neat as wax. We're going to see my husband's mother, and I know she'll think I started with 'em looking like this."

Betty was far older than many girls her age in some things. She was self-reliant and used to observing for herself, and she had a rich fund of warm and ready sympathy that was essentially practical. She saw that the mother of these lively, untidy children was very young, hardly more than a girl, and worn-out and nervous as a result of taking a long journey with no help and little traveling experience. She was probably, and naturally, anxious that her children should impress their father's mother favorably, and it took little imagination to understand that in her home the young mother had been used to praise for her excellent management. Betty, added to her qualities of leadership and sound judgment, had a decided "knack" with children. In Pineville she had been a general favorite with the little ones, and many a mother had secretly marveled at the girl's ability to control the most headstrong youngster. Now she seized the opportunity presented to help a fellow-passenger.

"Have you had your breakfast?" she asked. "No? I thought not. Well, I had mine before I got on the train. If you are willing to trust the children with me, I'll amuse them while you go into the diner and have a quiet meal. You'll feel much better then."

"Oh, it's been a nightmare!" confided the young mother with a sudden rush of feeling. "Nobody ever told me what it would be like to travel with two children. Lottie upset her milk and Baby spilled her supper on the floor. And people just glare at me and never offer to help. It will be heavenly to eat my breakfast without them, but I feel that I'm imposing on you."

Betty managed to send her off convinced that everything was as it should be, and to the mother's surprise the children snuggled down like little mice to listen to the honorable and ancient story of the Three Bears. By the time a rested and radiant mother came back to them, for she had stolen a little time in the dressing room and rearranged her fair hair and adjusted her trim frock, something she had found it impossible to accomplish with two restless children clinging to her skirts, Lottie and Baby were firm friends with Miss Betty.

"I never knew any one as lovely as you are!" The gratitude of the woman was touching. "I was just about crazy. My husband tipped the porter, and he did try to look after me, but he didn't know what to do. Usually there is a maid on this train, they told us, but she was taken sick, and there wasn't time to get any one to fill her place. Now don't let the children bother you. They had their breakfast early, and I can read to them till we get to Willowvale where their grandmother will meet us."

But Betty had not finished. She loved the feel of soft little arms about her neck and there was not much connected with a baby's welfare she did not know about. Many a Pineville baby she had washed and dressed and fed as correctly as a model baby should be.

"Let me take them one at a time and tidy them up?" she suggested. "They'll take to it kindly, because I am new and that will lend to the washing a novelty. If we go in relays, we can't upset the whole car."

So first with Lottie, and then with Baby, who seemed to be without other name, Betty went into the dressing-room and there washed pink and white faces and hands till they shone, and brushed silk locks till they lay straight and shining. Clean frocks were forthcoming, and two spick and span babies emerged to beam upon a transformed world no longer seen through a veil of tears. This new friend could tell the most wonderful stories, invent delightful games, and sing dozens of foolish little rhymes in a low sweet voice that disturbed no one and yet allowed every word to be distinctly understood.

Both children went to sleep during the morning, and then Betty heard that Mrs. Clenning, as the mother introduced herself, lived in the West and that this journey to Willowvale was the first she had taken since the birth of the babies.

"My husband's mother is crazy to see them because they are her only grandchildren," she explained. "I didn't want to come without Mr. Clenning, but he couldn't get away for a couple of months. He is to come after us and take us home. If he didn't, I'm sure I'd live East the rest of my days, or at least till the children are grown up. I'll never have the courage to try a long train trip with them again."

Before Willowvale was reached Betty helped Mrs. Clenning get her wraps and bags together and tied the babies into bewitching white bonnets with long fluted strings. The porter came for the bags, but Betty carried the younger child to the car door and handed her down to the mother, who had gone first with Lottie. She saw a tall, stately, white-haired woman, dressed all in white from her shoes to her hat, gather all three into her arms, and then went back to her seat satisfied that the mother's troubles were over.

"Parlor car's ready, Miss," announced the porter, coming up to her. "Shall I take you on in?"

Betty followed him, to be established comfortably on the shady side of the car, with the window adjusted at the most comfortable height. She did not hear the porter's comment to the conductor when he passed him in the vestibule of the parlor car.

"That girl in seat fourteen, she's one perfect little lady," said the dusky porter earnestly. "You jest observe her when you takes her ticket. 'Member that lady with the two children what racketed all day and all night? Well, she done fix those two kids up till you wouldn't know 'em, and cheered their mother up, too. And all jest as pretty and like a lady. That mighty fine lady in the red hat (I give her a seat on the sunny side of the car a-purpose) wouldn't do nothing yesterday when I axted her to hold a glass of milk while I went to get a extra pillow. Said she wasn't going to be nursemaid to no stranger's brats!"

So Betty was zealously looked after by the whole train crew, for the story had spread, and the siege of Clenning had been a protracted one with a corresponding fervency of gratitude for release; and at six o'clock that night the attentive porter handed her down the steps to the platform of the beautiful Union Station in Washington.

She had only her light traveling bag to carry, so she followed the crowd through the gates, walking slowly and scanning the faces anxiously in order that she might not pass her uncle. She did not wish to go through the station out on the plaza, lest she make it more difficult for him to find her, and she was keenly disappointed that he had not been at the gate, for the train was half an hour late and she had confidently expected him to be waiting. She took up her stand near the door of the waiting room and scanned the eddying circles of travelers that passed and repassed her.

"Something must have delayed him," she thought uneasily. "He couldn't miss me even in a crowd, because he is so careful. I hope he got the telegram."

She had turned to compare her wrist-watch with the station clock when a voice at her back said half-doubtfully, "Betty?"



CHAPTER XI

A SERIOUS MIX-UP

"You are Betty, aren't you?" the girlish voice insisted, and this time Betty identified it as belonging to a girl a year or two older than herself who stood smiling uncertainly at her.

"Yes, of course I'm Betty," said Betty Gordon smiling.

The face of her questioner cleared.

"All right, girls," she called, beckoning to two others who stood a little way off. "She's Betty. I was sure I hadn't make a mistake."

Betty found herself surrounded by three laughing faces, beaming with good-will and cordiality.

"We must introduce ourselves," said the girl who had first spoken to her. "This is Louise," pointing to a gray-eyed miss apparently about Betty's age. "This is Esther." A girl with long yellow braids and pretty even white teeth bobbed a shy acknowledgment. "And of course I'm Roberta, Bobby for short."

"And if we don't hurry, we'll be late for dinner," suggested the girl who had been called Louise. "You know Carter isn't as patient as he once was; he hates to have to wait."

Bobby thrust her arm through Betty's protectingly.

"Come on, Betty," she said comfortably. "Never mind about your trunk check. Carter will drive down after it early in the morning."

Betty's bewildered mind was vaguely appreciative of the wide sweep of open plaza which lay before them as they came out on the other side of the station, but before she could say a word she was gently bundled into a handsome automobile, a girl on either side of her and one opposite, and the grim-faced, silver-haired old chauffeur, evidently slightly intolerant of the laughter and high spirits of his young passengers, had started to thread his way through the lane of taxicabs and private cars.

Betty was intensely puzzled, to put it mildly. Her uncle had mentioned no girls in his letters to her, and even supposing that she had missed some letters, it was hardly possible that he should not have let fall an explanatory word or two from time to time.

"I thought Uncle Dick would come down to meet me," she said, voicing her surprise at last.

"Oh, poor dear, his heart is almost broken to think he has to stay cooped up in the house," answered Bobby, who seemed to be the general spokesman. "But how stupid of us—of course you don't know that he hurt his foot!"

"Is he hurt?" Betty half rose from her seat in alarm. "Is he badly injured? When did it happen?"

Bobby pulled the excited girl down beside her.

"You see it happened only yesterday," explained Louise, finding her voice with a rush. "You'd better believe we were frightened when they brought him to the house in the ambulance. His foot has some little bones broken in it, the doctor says, but he'll be all right in a month or so. He has to hobble around on crutches till the bones knit."

"But it isn't serious, so don't look like that," urged Bobby. "Why, Betty, your lips are positively white. We're so thankful it was his foot and not his head—that would have been something to worry about."

"How—how did it happen?" gasped Betty, anxious and worried in spite of these assurances. "Was he in an accident?"

"He was the whole accident," announced Bobby cheerfully. "You see he's completely wrapped up in these new buildings they're putting up on the outskirts. We'll take you out to see 'em while you're here and perhaps you'll understand the construction, which is more than I do. Anyway, the whole firm and every workman is absorbed in the experiment, and they're burnt as red as the bricks from working outdoors all day."

"Uncle Dick does love to be outdoors," murmured Betty.

"He sure does," agreed Bobby. "Well, nothing would do yesterday but that he must climb up on the roof of one they've just started and take a peek at the chimney. I guess it needed looking after, for the whole thing tumbled over on him, coming down full-weight on his right foot. Forcet, the foreman, had an awful time getting him down from the roof, and instead of telephoning for the car, some nervous person sent for the ambulance and scared us all into fits."

Betty blinked again. No mention of building houses had been made in Uncle Dick's letters to her.

"Did he get my telegram?" she asked, leaning forward to look at a monument they were passing.

"A little before noon," replied Bobby. "Louise and Esther and I had such a violent argument as to which of us should come to meet you that we didn't even dare draw lots; it seemed safer for us all to come along."

Esther, who sat opposite Betty, had noticed her interest in the Washington Monument.

"We're going to take you sightseeing to-morrow," she promised. "Aren't we, Bobby? And I don't see why we don't go home by way of Fort Myer. It doesn't take any longer, and dinner isn't till seven, you know."

"All right." Bobby leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur. "Take us round by Fort Myer, please, Carter," she directed.

The car turned sharply, and in a few minutes they were rattling over an old bridge.

"We live out in the country, Betty, I warn you," said the voluble Bobby. "But it has its compensations. You'll like it."

Betty, a stranger to Washington, decided that the Willard must be a country hotel. It would be like Uncle Dick, she knew, to shun the heart of the city and establish himself somewhere where he could see green fields the first thing every morning.

"What is Fort Myer?" she asked with lively curiosity, as the car began to climb a steep grade. "Is that where they had training camps during the war?"

"Right," said Bobby. "It's an army post, you know. See, here are some of the officers' houses. I only hope we live here when Louise and I are eighteen—they give the most heavenly dances and parties."

Betty looked with interest at the neat houses they were passing. The names of the officers were conspicuously tacked on the doorsteps, and there was a general air of orderliness and military spic and spanness about the very gravel roads. Occasionally a dust-colored car shot past them filled with men in uniform.

"Do you ride?" asked Betty suddenly. "Uncle Dick has always wanted me to learn, but I've never had a good chance."

"Well, you can begin to-morrow morning," Bobby informed her. "We've three ponies that are fine under the saddle. Betty, I do wish you'd make up your mind to live in Washington this winter. There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't, and we were talking it over last night, making plans for you."

"Why! that's entirely as Uncle Dick says," returned Betty, surprised. "I haven't any say in the matter."

Bobby shot a triumphant glance toward the other girls.

"He said he hadn't much right to dictate, but I told him I knew better," she said with satisfaction. "He wants you as much as we do, and that's considerable, you know."

Again a wave of doubt swept over Betty. Uncle Dick had said he had not much right to dictate! When he was her only living relative!

"Uncle hasn't a fever or anything, has he?" she asked apprehensively. "I mean the injury to his foot hasn't, it didn't—" she floundered.

"Oh, that old hurt to his head never amounted to anything," declared Bobby with convincing carelessness. "No, indeed, he's perfectly well except for the crutches, and the doctor says keeping him indoors for a few days will give him a much-needed rest."

Betty recalled the accident in which her uncle had been stunned when he had slipped down a bank into an excavation made along a road on which they had been driving. Bobby evidently referred to that old injury.

"Now you can begin to watch for the house," said the silent Esther, as Carter swung the car around another curve in the beautiful road. "I don't see why I couldn't have been named Virginia!"

"Esther has a personal grievance because she's the only one of us born in the South, and she had to be named for an aunt like the rest of us," laughed Bobby. "Every tenth girl you meet down here seems to be named Virginia."

"But was she born in Virginia?" asked Betty. "Where did you live then?"

Bobby stared. Then she laughed.

"Oh, I see," she said. "We lived at Fairfields. Of course you know that. But, like so many friends, you have always thought of us as living in Washington. We're in Virginia, Betty, didn't you know that?"

"No." Betty's puzzlement was plainly written on her face.

"When we crossed the bridge, we left the District of Columbia," explained Bobby. "Of course we're very close to the line, but still we are not in Washington."

"There's the house!" exclaimed Louise. "I wonder if mother got back from shopping. I don't see her on the porch."

Betty saw a beautiful white house, dazzlingly white against a background of dark trees, with a broad lawn in front circled by a wide white driveway. A terraced garden at the side with a red brick walk was arranged with wicker chairs and tables and a couple of swings protected with gay striped awnings. It was a typical Southern mansion in perfect order, and Betty reveled in its architectural perfections even while she told herself that it did not look in the slightest like a hotel. What was it Bobby had called her home? "Fairfields"—that was it; and she, Betty, wanted to go to the Willard. Had they made a mistake and brought her to the wrong place?

There was no time to ask for explanations, however. The girls swept her out of the car and up the low steps through the beautiful doorway. A well-trained man servant closed the door noiselessly, and the three bore Betty across the wide hall into a room lined with books and boasting three or four built-in window seats, in one of which a gentleman was reading.

"We found her! Here she is!" shouted the irrepressible Bobby. "Don't tell us we can't pick a girl named Betty out of a crowd!"

The gentleman closed his book, and, steadying himself with a cane lying near by, rose slowly. There was no recognition in the gaze he fastened on Betty, and she for her part hung back, staring wildly.

"You're not Uncle Dick!" she gasped accusingly.



CHAPTER XII

STRAIGHTENING THINGS OUT

Betty's speech was shock number one. Another quickly followed.

The gentleman tugged quizzically at his short gray mustache.

"And you," he announced quietly, "are not my niece, Betty Littell!"

Esther and Louise stared, round-eyed, while Bobby collapsed dramatically on a convenient couch.

"Have we kidnapped anybody?" she asked, a bit hysterically. "Good gracious, Dad, don't tell me I've forcibly run off with a girl? Haven't you made a mistake? She must be Betty—she said so."

"My darlings, I'm sorry to be late," said a new voice, a rich, sweet contralto, and a stout woman with a kindly, florid face swept through the doorway. "Why, what is the matter?" she demanded hurriedly, confronting the tense group.

"Momsie!" exclaimed Bobby, hurling herself upon the newcomer. "Oh, Momsie, isn't this Betty Littell? We went to meet her and she said her name was Betty, and all the way home she talked about Uncle Dick, and now she says dad isn't her uncle! I'm afraid I've made a mess of things."

"Yes, I think you have," said Betty, with blazing cheeks. "I came to Washington to meet my uncle, Mr. Richard Gordon, who is stopping at the Willard. Of course my name is Betty. I'm Betty Gordon, and he's my Uncle Dick. And goodness only knows what he is doing now—he'll be about crazy if he came to meet me."

Bobby began to laugh uncontrollably.

"I never heard of such a thing in my life!" she giggled, wiping her eyes. "Dad's name is Richard Littell, and we've been expecting our cousin Betty Littell to arrive to-day from Vermont for a long visit. We haven't seen her since she was six years old, but I took a chance on recognizing her. And then there was the name! How could I guess there would be two Bettys looking for two Uncle Dicks! Don't be mad, Betty; you can see a mix-up like that wouldn't happen twice in a life time."

"She isn't mad," interposed Mr. Littell, lowering himself carefully to the window seat, for he had been standing all this time and his foot began to pain again. "After she knows you a little better, Bobby, she will expect this sort of denouement to follow whatever you undertake. I say we ought to have some dinner, Mother, and then talk at the table."

"Of course, of course," agreed motherly Mrs. Littell. "The poor child must be famished. Take Betty—you don't mind if I call you Betty, do you, dear?—up to your room, Bobby, and when you come down dinner will be served."

"But my uncle!" urged Betty. "He will be so worried. And the other girl—where do you suppose she is?"

"By George, the child has more sense than I have," said Mr. Littell energetically. "I'd give a fortune if Bobby had half as level a head. Our Betty is probably having hysterics in the station if she hasn't taken the next train back to Vermont."

His keen eyes twinkled appreciatively at Betty, and she knew that she liked him and also sensed instinctively that his eldest daughter was very like him.

"Why, Father, how you do talk!" reproved Mrs. Littell comfortably. "I'll call up the station while the girls are upstairs and then Betty shall call the Willard, or you do it for her, and then perhaps we can eat dinner before the souffle is quite ruined."

The girls took Betty upstairs to a luxurious suite of rooms they shared, and when she had bathed her face and hands and brushed her hair, they came down to find that Mr. Littell had called up the Union Station and discovered that because of a freight wreck the Vermont express had been delayed and would not be in before nine o'clock that night.

"So our Betty is probably having a comfortable dinner on the train," he announced. "Now just a minute, and I'll have the Willard for the other Betty. We'll tell your uncle you are safe and that we'll bring you into Washington to-night."

In a few minutes he had the connection, and they heard him ask for Mr. Richard Gordon. His mobile face changed as the clerk answered, and Betty, watching, knew that he had disconcerting news. He turned to them, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Mr. Gordon left early this morning for Oklahoma," he said. "He left an address for mail, and there's a telegram which came after he left. It was sent from Halperin and was received at eleven-thirty this morning."

"That's the one I sent!" answered Betty. "And Uncle Dick's gone to Oklahoma! What on earth shall I do?"

"Do!" repeated Mr. and Mrs. Littell in concert. "Why, stay right here with us, of course! Do you suppose we'd let a young girl like you knock around alone in a city? We'll be glad to have you stay as long as you will, and you mustn't be uncomfortable another second. When you hear from your uncle there'll be plenty of time to make other plans."

Betty did not try to express her gratitude to these new kind friends, for she knew that she could never say one-half the thanks she felt toward them. They were cordiality itself, and did everything in their power to make her feel at home. An excellent dinner was served in the charming dining-room with a mixture of formality and simple home courtesy that was as unusual as it was delightful, and in this atmosphere of good breeding and tact, Betty bloomed like a little rose.

"A charming girl, whoever she is," said Mr. Littell to his wife, as he smoked his cigar after dinner and the girls drew Betty to the piano. "She has plenty of spirit, but lacks Bobby's boisterousness. It will be a good thing for the girls to have some one like her, self-reliant and quiet and yet with decided snap, to chum with."

"I like the idea of five girls in the house," beamed Mrs. Littell, who was the soul of hospitality and fairly idolized her three daughters. Whatever discipline they had came from their father. "And now I think I had better go to the station, after our Betty, don't you?"

"Oh, Mother!" came in concert from the piano, where Bobby was rattling off a lively waltz. "We all want to go. Please? There's plenty of room in the car."

Mrs. Littell looked undecided.

"One of you may go with your mother," said Mr. Littell decisively. "I think it had better be Louise. Now, there is no use in arguing. One girl is enough. Betty will be tired after traveling all night and all day, and she will be in no mood for talking and carrying on. I'll tell Carter to bring the car around, Mother."

Bobby pouted for a few moments after her mother and sister had gone, but her good-nature was easily restored and she and Betty and Esther were deep in an exchange of confidences when Mrs. Littell returned bringing the missing Betty with her.

"Now stand up for a minute, you two Bettys," commanded Bobby, when greetings had been exchanged and explanations made. "I want to see if I made such a dreadful mistake in taking Betty Gordon for Betty Littell."

The two girls stood side by side, and though they both had dark eyes and hair, there the resemblance ceased. Betty Littell was a dumpling of a girl with curly hair, a snub nose and round face. She looked the picture of good-nature, and her plumpness suggested a fondness for sweets that subsequent acquaintance with her fully sustained.

Betty Gordon had grown tall through the summer, and she was of a slender, wiry build that hinted of a fondness for outdoor life. Her heavy straight hair was wrapped around her well-shaped little head in braids, and her exquisite little hands and feet, so far her one claim to beauty, though later promises lay in her glowing face, gave her, as Louise afterward confided to her mother, "an air like an Indian princess."

"No, you don't look much alike," conceded Bobby, after a prolonged scrutiny. "But Betty Gordon looks the way I thought Betty Littell would look, so I don't see that I am to blame."

"Trust Bobby to excuse herself from a scrape," chuckled her father. "By the way, how are you going to arrange about names? Two Bettys in the family will involve complications."

"I think we'll have to call Betty Littell, 'Libbie'" suggested Mrs. Littell, smiling. "That was your mother's name at home, always, Betty."

"Yes, I know it; and that's why they called me Betty," replied the Littell girl. "Two names, the same names, I mean, do make confusion. I'm willing to be called Libbie, Aunt Rachel, if you let me have a little time to get used to it. If I don't answer right away, you'll understand that I'm listening for 'Betty.'"

"Well, Mother, I think at least two of these girls need sleep," announced Mr. Littell. "Betty Gordon looks as if she couldn't keep her eyes open another moment, and Betty Littell has yawned twice. I should say we all might retire—it's after eleven."

"Goodness, so it is," said his wife hastily. "Time does fly so when you're talking. Come, girls, if you are going sightseeing to-morrow, you'll need a good night's rest."

There were three bedrooms and a private bath at the disposal of the girls, and separate beds in all the rooms. Betty Gordon shared a room with Bobby, Louise and Betty Littell had the one adjoining, and Esther slept alone in the third room, which was also connected with the others.

Long after the other girls were asleep Betty lay awake, thinking over the happenings of the day. Finally she worked around to the suggested change in names.

"They must expect me to stay if they plan to avoid confusion of names," she thought. "I must talk to Mr. Littell in the morning and ask him if it's really all right. I feel as if it were an imposition for me, a perfect stranger, to accept their hospitality like this."

In the morning she was up and dressed before the rest, fortunately having a fresh blouse in her bag so that, although she had nothing but her suit skirt, she looked well-groomed and dainty. Betty Littell was also without her trunk, though Bobby promised that both trunks should be brought from the station that morning.

"I'd like to speak to your father a minute," said Betty, when she was dressed.

Bobby, on the floor tying her shoes, blew her a kiss.

"You'll find him on the terrace probably," she said confidently. "Go ahead, dear, but it won't do you any good. We're determined to keep you to play with us."

So the astute Bobby had guessed what she wanted to say! Nevertheless, Betty was determined to carry out her resolution. She went slowly down the wide staircase and stepped out through double screen doors on to the bricked terrace. Sure enough, there sat Mr. Littell, smoking comfortably and reading his morning paper.



CHAPTER XIII

WASHINGTON MONUMENT

"You're up early!" the gentleman greeted Betty cordially. "Guess you're ahead of even Esther, who usually leads the van. Sleep well? That's good," as she nodded. "No troubles this bright morning?"

Betty gave him a grateful glance.

"I can't help it," she said bravely. "You know how I feel, coming here like this—you don't know me—"

"No-o," drawled Mr. Littell, pulling forward a gay-cushioned chair and motioning for her to sit down. ("Can't have any manners when your foot is smashed," he explained in an aside.) "No, Betty, it's true we don't know you. But mother and I think we know a nice girl when we see her, and we're glad to have you stay with us just as long as you can feel comfortable and at home. If I were you, I'd just bury these uneasy feelings you speak of. Fact is, I'll give you two good reasons why you should make us a little visit. One is that if we had had the pleasure of your acquaintance you would have had a regular letter from mother weeks ago, asking you to come and spend the summer with us. The second is that I know how your uncle would feel to think of you alone in the city or the country. Guess how I'd take it if one of my own daughters was waiting for word from me and no one made things pleasant for her. Won't you shake hands and make a bargain with me that you'll try to see our side of it, your uncle's and mine, and then just plan to have a happy time with the girls until we can reach him in the West?"

Betty placed her small hand in the larger one held out to receive it, and smiled back at Mr. Littell. He had a smile very few people could resist.

"That's better," he said with satisfaction. "Now we're friends. And, remember, I'm always ready to give advice or listen. That's what fathers and uncles are for, you know. And I'd like to have you look on me as a second Uncle Dick."

Thus encouraged, Betty briefly outlined for him her story, touching lightly on her experiences at Bramble Farm, but going into detail about Bob Henderson, her uncle, and her pleasant recollections of Pineville.

By the time she had finished, the four girls had joined them on the terrace and presently a table was brought out and spread with a cloth, and, Mrs. Littell following the maid with a silver coffee urn, breakfast was served.

"The girls will want to go into town to-day, I suppose," said the motherly lady, selecting the brownest muffin for Betty and signaling her husband to see that the maid served her an extra portion of omelet. "I have some shopping to do, so I'll go in with them in the car. But I absolutely refuse to 'do' the Monument again."

"Poor mother!" laughed Bobby. "She hates to ride in an elevator, and yet I know by actual count she's gone up in the Monument a dozen times."

"I suppose every one who comes to Washington wants to go sightseeing," said Betty Littell, or, as she must begin to be called now, Libbie, "I know how it is in our little town at home. There's just one monument—erected to some Revolutionary hero—and I get fairly sick of reading the inscription to all the visiting aunts and uncles."

"Well, I like to go around," declared the energetic Bobby. "But just once I had an overdose. We had a solemn and serious young theological student who made notes of everything he saw. He was devoted to walking, and one of his favorite maxims was never to ride when he could walk. He dragged me up every one of those nine hundred steps in the Washington Monument and down again, and I was in bed for two days."

"Wait till you see the steps, and you'll understand," said Louise to Libbie and Betty. "If you try to walk down you're apt to get awfully dizzy."

After breakfast Carter brought the car around, and Mr. Littell hobbled to the door to see them off.

"Betty wants to send a telegram to her uncle," he said in an aside to his wife, while she stood at the long glass in the hall adjusting her veil. "Better help her, for she'll feel that she is doing something. If Gordon is in the oil regions, as I think from what she tells me he is, there isn't much chance of a telegram reaching him any quicker than a letter. However, there's no use in dampening her hopes."

"Now we'll drop you at the Monument," planned Mrs. Littell, as the car bore them down the driveway. "You can walk from there to that pretty tea-room—what is its name, Bobby?—can't you?"

"The Dora-Rose, you mean, Mother," supplied Bobby. "Of course we can walk. But Carter is taking the longest way to the Monument."

"We're going to the station first," answered her mother. "Betty wants to send her uncle a telegram, and Carter is going to leave directions to have the trunks sent up to the house. You have your baggage checks, haven't you, girls?"

They produced them, and Carter slipped them into his pocket. Betty had leisure and opportunity to enjoy the beauty of the handsome building as they approached it this perfect morning, and she could not help exclaiming.

"Yes, it is fine, every one says so," admitted Bobby, with the carelessness of one to whom it was an old story. "Finer, daddy says, than the big terminals in New York."

Libbie had the advantage of being the only one of the girls who had been to New York.

"This has lots more ground around it," she pronounced critically. "Course in a city like New York, they need the land for other buildings. But you just ought to see the Pennsylvania Station there!"

"All right, take your word for it," said Bobby. "Where do we go to send a telegram, Momsie?"

Mrs. Littell smiled.

"Betty and I are all who are necessary for that little errand," she said firmly. "The rest of you stay right in the car."

Carter opened the door for them and then went in search of the baggage man. Betty and Mrs. Littell found the telegraph window and in a few minutes a message was speeding out to Richard Gordon, Flame City, Oklahoma, telling him that his niece was in Washington, giving her address and asking what he wished her to do.

"I'll write him a letter to-night," promised Mrs. Littell when this was accomplished. "Then he'll know that you are in safe hands. You must write to him, too, dear. Flame City may consist of one shack and a hundred oil wells and be twenty miles from a post-office, you know."

Carter reported that the trunks were already on their way to Fairfields, and now the car was turned toward the gleaming Monument that seemed to be visible from every part of the city, Betty, her mind relieved by the sending of the telegram, abandoned herself to the joys of sightseeing. Here she was, young, well and strong, in a luxurious car, surrounded by friends, and driving through one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. Any girl who, under those circumstances, could remain a prey to doubts and gloom, would indeed be a confirmed misanthrope.

The car was stopped at one of the concrete walks leading to the base of the Monument, and with final instructions as to the time and place they were to meet her, Mrs. Littell drove away.

"Why, there's a crowd there!" cried Libbie in wonder.

"Waiting to be taken up," explained Louise. "Come on, we'll have to stand in line."

The line of waiting people extended half way around the Monument. The girls took their places, and when the crowd streamed out and they were permitted to go inside, Betty and Libbie, the two strangers, understood the reason for the delay. The elevator seemed huge, but it was quickly filled, and when the gates were closed the car began to mount very slowly.

"We'd be sick and dizzy if they went up as fast as they do in department stores and office buildings," said Bobby. "It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the top. Watch, and you'll see lots of interesting things on the floors we pass."

Betty was wondering how Bobby had ever survived the climb up the stairs and the trip down again with the enthusiastic theological student, when a cry somewhere in the back of the car startled her.

"What's the matter?" demanded the elevator operator, without turning his head.

"John isn't here!" declared a hysterical feminine voice. "Oh, can't you stop the car and go down and get him? He pushed me in, and I thought he was right behind me. Aren't you going back?"

"Can't, Madam," was the calm answer. "Have to finish the trip. You can go right back with the next load."

"Oh, goodness gracious," moaned the voice. "What'll I do? If I go back I may miss him. If I wait at the top it will be half an hour. Suppose he walks up? Maybe I'd better start to walk down to meet him."

Bobby stifled a giggle with difficulty.

"Bride and groom," she whispered to Betty. "Washington's full of 'em. Guess the poor groom was lost in the shuffle. Is she pretty—can you see?"

Betty tried to look back in the car, though the press of passengers standing all about her made it difficult. The bride was easily identified because she was openly crying. She was an exceedingly pretty girl, modishly gowned and apparently not more than twenty years old.

"We'll get hold of her and persuade her to wait," planned Bobby. "I'll show her the sights to amuse her while we're waiting for the next elevator load to come up. Here we are at the top."

A crowd was waiting to descend, and as they walked from the elevator, the bride meekly following, Bobby plucked her sleeve.

"Excuse me," she said bluntly, but with a certain charm that was her own, "I couldn't help hearing what you were saying. Your husband missed the elevator, didn't he?"

The bride blushed and nodded.

"Well, don't try to walk down," advised Bobby. "I did it once, and was in bed for two days. He'll come up with the next load. No one ever walks up unless they are crazy—or going to theological seminary. Your husband isn't a minister, is he?"

"Oh, no, he's a lawyer," the bride managed to say.

"All right," approved Bobby, noting with satisfaction that the elevator gate had closed. "Come round with us and see the sights, and then when your husband comes up you can tell him all the news. This is Betty Gordon, Libbie Littell and Louise, Esther and Bobby Littell, all at your service."

"I'm Mrs. Hale," said the bride, stumbling a little over the name and yet pronouncing it with obvious pride.



CHAPTER XIV

LIBBIE IS ROMANTIC

The girls, marshaled by Bobby, made a tour of the windows, and though Betty was fascinated by the views of the city spread out before her and bought post cards to send to the Pineville friends and those she knew in Glenside and Laurel Grove, her mind was running continuously on young Mrs. Hale's announcement.

"She couldn't be the old bookstore man's wife," she speculated, her eyes fixed on the Potomac while Bobby cheerfully tangled up history and geography in a valiant effort to instruct her guests. "Lockwood Hale was an old man, Bob said. He didn't say he had a son, but I wonder——Oh, Bobby, the Jesuit fathers didn't sail down the Potomac, did they?"

"Well, it was some river," retorted Bobby. "Anyway, Miss, you didn't seem to be listening to a word I said. What were you thinking about in such a brown study?"

Betty made a little face, but she had no intention of revealing her thoughts. She wanted to find out about the bookshop quietly, and if possible get the address. Always providing that Mrs. Hale was related to the man who had shown such an interest in Bob Henderson's almshouse record.

"Of course Hale is an ordinary enough name," she mused. "And yet there is just a chance that it may be the same."

The girls were planning to take the next car down, and yet when it came up they lingered diplomatically to catch a glimpse of the bridegroom. "John" proved to be a good-looking young man, not extraordinary in any way, but with a likeable open face and square young shoulders that Libbie, who startled them all by turning poetical late that night, declared were "built for manly burdens."

Louise, Esther and Bobby were the last to squeeze into the car, Libbie, the prudent, having ducked earlier. As Betty turned to follow them, the gate closed.

"Car full!" said the operator.

"Oh, Betty!" Bobby's wail came to her as the car began to disappear. "We'll wait for you," came the parting message before it dropped from sight.

Mrs. Hale laughed musically.

"Now you know something of how I felt," she said merrily. "May I present my husband? John, those five girls have been so nice to me. And now you'll go round with us, won't you?"

But Betty knew better than that.

"I'm going to write some of my post cards," she said. "But I would love to ask you a question before you go. Do you know a man in Washington who keeps a bookshop? His name is Lockwood Hale."

Mr. and Mrs. Hale exchanged glances.

"Know him?" repeated the young man. "Why, I should think we did! He's my great-uncle."

"I'm very anxious to see him to ask about a friend of mine," explained Betty. "Mr. Hale thought he might be able to tell him something of his parents who died when he was a baby. As soon as I heard your name I hoped you could tell me where to find the bookstore."

"Yes, uncle is a wizard on old family records," admitted the nephew. "Sometimes I think that is why he hates to part with a book. He keeps a secondhand bookshop, you know, and he's positively insulting to customers who try to buy any of the books. The old boy is really queer in his head, but there's nothing to be afraid of. He wouldn't hurt a flea, would he, Elinor?"

Mrs. Hale said doubtfully, no, she supposed not.

"Elinor didn't have a very good impression of him," laughed her husband. "We're on our wedding trip, you know,"—he blushed slightly— "and mother made us promise we'd stop in to see the old man. He hasn't seen me since I wore knickerbockers, and we had a great time making him understand who we were. Then he said that he hoped we liked Washington, and went back to his reading."

"And the shop is so dirty!" shuddered the bride. "I don't think she ought to go to such a place alone, John."

"I won't," promised Betty hastily. "If you'll let me have the address, I'll be ever so grateful and it may be a great help to my friend."

Young Mr. Hale wrote down the street and number on the back of the brand-new visiting card his wife pulled from her brand-new purse, and Betty thanked them warmly and turned to her card writing, leaving them free to enjoy each other and the view to their hearts' content. She had directed post cards to a dozen friends before the elevator returned, and this time both she and the bridal couple made sure that they were among the first to step in.

Betty felt of the little slip in her purse several times during the afternoon, inwardly glowing with satisfaction. If she could find Bob Henderson in Washington through the old bookseller, or learn something definite of the lad, she would find it easier to wait for word from her uncle.

After luncheon, which was calculated to please healthy appetites of five girls to a nicety, they went into several of the large shops with Mrs. Littell, and then, because it had begun to rain and did not promise pleasant weather for driving, they went to a moving picture show.

"Had a full day?" asked Mr. Littell at dinner that night. "Libbie, what did you see?"

Libbie's answer provoked a gust of laughter. She was so essentially a matter-of-fact little personage in appearance and manner that when she opened her red mouth and announced, "A bride and groom!" the effect was startling.

That started Bobby, and she told the story of the lost John, told it as her father would have, for neither Bobby nor Mr. Littell were at all inclined toward sentimentality.

"Well, Betty," Mr. Littell beckoned to her afterward when they were all in the pleasant living-room across the hall, "think you're going to like Washington, even if it is overrun with brides and grooms?"

"It's lovely," Betty assured him fervently. "We've had the most perfect day. And, Mr. Littell, what do you think—I've found out something important already."

She had told him about Bob that morning, and he was interested at once when she narrated what the bride and groom had told her of old Lockwood Hale.

"Why, I know where his shop is. Everybody in Washington does," said Mr. Littell when she had finished. "He has lots of rare books mixed in with worthless trash. Funny I didn't take in you meant that Hale when you spoke of him. I suppose you'll want to go there to-morrow Carter will take you in the car, and you'd better have one of the girls go with you. Bobby is all right—she may be scatter-brained but she doesn't talk."

For some reason none of the girls was sleepy that night, and after going upstairs they all assembled in Bobby and Betty's room to talk. Libbie could not keep her mind off the bride.

"I wonder how I'd look in a lace veil," she said, seizing the fluted muslin bedspread and draping it over her head. "It must be lovely to be a bride!"

"You've been reading too many silly books," scolded Bobby. "Anyway, Libbie, you're too fat to look nice in a veil. Better get thin before you're old enough to be married, or else you'll have to wear a traveling suit."

Libbie eyed her scornfully and continued to parade up and down in her draperies.

"Betty would look pretty in a veil," said Louise suddenly. "Come on, girls, let's stage a wedding. Libbie won't sleep all night if she doesn't have some romantic outlet. I'll be the father."

She seized a pillow and stuffed it in the front of her dressing gown so that it made a very respectable corpulency.

"I'll be the mother!" Esther began to pin up her hair, a dignity to which she secretly aspired.

"I'm your bridesmaid, Libbie," announced Betty, catching up the bride's train and beginning to hum the wedding march under her breath.

"If you will be silly idiots, I'm the minister," said Bobby, mounting the bed and leaning over the foot rail as if it were a pulpit.

The bride stopped short, nearly tripping up the devoted bridesmaid.

"I don't think you should make fun of ministers," she said, looking disapprovingly at her cousin. "It's almost wicked."

"I'd like to know how it's any more wicked than to pretend a wedding," retorted Bobby wrathfully. "Weddings are very solemn, sacred, serious affairs. Mother always cries when she goes to one."

Betty began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the floor, and the more the two girls glared at each other, the harder she laughed.

"I don't see what's so funny," resented Bobby, beginning to snicker, too. "For goodness sake, don't have hysterics, Betty. Mother will hear you and come rapping on the door in a minute."

"I just thought of something." The convulsed Betty made a heroic effort to control her laughter and failed completely. "Oh, girls," she cried, wiping her eyes, "here you are bickering about the bride and the minister, and not one of us thought of the bridegroom. We left him out!"

Louise and Bobby rolled over on the bed and had their laugh out. Libbie collapsed on the floor, and Esther leaned against the bureau, laughing till she cried.

"They say the bridegroom isn't important at a wedding, but I never heard of ignoring him altogether," gasped Bobby, and then they were off again.

They made so much noise that Mrs. Littell tapped on the door to ask why they were not in bed, and when Bobby told her the joke, she had to sit down and laugh, too.

"I'll send you up some sponge cake and milk if you'll promise to go right to sleep after that," she told them, kissing each one good night all over again. "Libbie shall at least have the wedding cake, if she can't have a wedding."



CHAPTER XV

OFF TO INVESTIGATE

Drip! drip! drip!

Betty listened sleepily, and then, as she raised herself on one elbow to hear better, she knew the noise was made by the rain.

"If that isn't too provoking!" Bobby sat up with an indignant jerk and surveyed Betty across the little table at the head of the beds. "I thought we'd all go down to Mount Vernon to-day, and now it's gone and rained and spoiled it all. Oh, dear! I don't think I'll get up"; and she curled down in a dejected heap under the white spread.

"Well, I'm going to get up," announced Betty decidedly, springing out of bed with her accustomed energy. "Rainy days are just as much fun as sunny ones, and there's something I have to do to-day, weather or no weather."

"She's a dear," said Louise warmly, smiling as the sound of Betty's carolling came to them above the sound of running water in the bathroom. "Mother says she likes her more and more every day. I wish her uncle would never write to her and she'd just go on living with us all the time."

"And go to school with us in the fall. That would be nice," agreed Bobby reflectively. "But, of course, Betty's heart would be broken if she never heard from her uncle. However, we'll be as nice to her as we can, and then maybe she will want to stay with us anyway, even if he does send for her."

"What are you two plotting?" asked Betty gaily, emerging warm and rosy from her vigorous tubbing. "Do you know, I've just remembered that I promised to show Libbie how to make mile-a-minute lace before breakfast? I hope there is time."

"What on earth do you want to make lace for?" demanded the practical Bobby, as her cousin appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. "It's too early to begin on Christmas presents."

Libbie was not at all confused in her ideas, and she had a very clear reason for wishing to add this accomplishment to her rather limited list.

"It's for my hope-chest," she informed Bobby with dignity, and not even the shout of laughter which greeted this statement could ruffle her. "You may think it's funny," she observed serenely, "but I have six towels and three aprons made and put away all ready."

"My aunt!" sighed Bobby inelegantly, shaking her head. "You believe in starting young, don't you? Why, I'm fourteen, and I've never given a thought to a hope-chest."

Here Esther, the early riser of the family, created a diversion by coming in fully dressed and announcing that Mammy Lou was willing to teach as many girls as cared to come after breakfast how to make beaten biscuit.

"Take Libbie," giggled Bobby, whose sense of humor was easily tickled. "She's collecting stuff for her hope chest and I should think biscuit recipes would be just the thing. Do you want to learn to cook, Betty? Esther has a kitchen hobby and rides it almost to death."

"I do not!" retorted Esther indignantly. "Do I, Louise? Mother loved to cook when she was a girl, and she says she likes to see me fussing in the kitchen."

Betty was showing Libbie how to hold her crochet hook, and now she looked up from her pupil.

"Why, I'd love to learn to make those wonderful biscuits Mammy Lou makes," she said slowly, "but I really have to go into Washington to-day. That is, if it will not upset any one's plans? I can easily walk to the trolley line, and I won't be gone longer than a couple of hours."

A trolley line ran about half a mile from the house, and to Betty who had frequently walked ten miles a day while at Bramble Farm, this distance seemed negligible.

"Let me go with you, Betty?" coaxed Bobby. "Carter will take us in the machine. I won't bother you, and if you have personal business to attend to, I'll wait for you in the library or some place. Cooking and making lace drives me wild, and if you leave me at home as likely as not I'll pick a quarrel with some one before the morning is over."

"Worse than that, she'll insist on singing while I'm trying to practice," said Louise. "I'm three or four days behind with my violin, and a rainy morning is a grand time to catch up. Do take her with you, Betty."

"Why, goodness, she will be taking me," insisted Betty. "Of course you know I'll love to have you, Bobby. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to go with me because it is a strange place and your father said not to go alone. Only I didn't want to disturb any plans you might have made for to-day. I'll tell you about it on the way," she added noting the look of growing curiosity on Bobby's face.

After breakfast the girls scattered to their chosen occupations, and Mrs. Littell settled herself to read to her husband on the glass enclosed piazza that extended half way across the back of the house. The car was brought round for Betty and Bobby and, commissioned to do several small errands in town, they set off.

"Now where are we going?" demanded Bobby bouncing around on the seat cushions more like a girl of seven than fourteen. "Do tell me, for I'm simply devoured with curiosity."

So Betty briefly outlined for her a little of Bob's history and of what she knew Lockwood Hale had told the poorhouse master. She also explained how she had obtained the old bookshop man's address from the bride they had met in the Monument the day before.

The rain came down steadily, and the country road was already muddy, showing that it had stormed the greater part of the night. Carter was a careful driver, and the luxurious limousine had been substituted for the touring car so that the girls were protected and very comfortable. Quite suddenly Carter brought the car to a stop on a lonely stretch of road just above a sharp turn.

"Goodness, I hope he hasn't a puncture," said Bobby. "I was so interested in listening to you I never heard anything. What's wrong, Carter?" she called.

"There's a little dog in the road, Miss Bobby," said Carter slowly and distinctly, as he always spoke. Bobby had once declared that she did not believe a fire would shake Carter from his drawling speech. "A puppy, I guess you'd call it. I'll have to move it to one side before we can drive past, because it is in the middle of the road."

Bobby leaned out to look.

"It must be hurt!" she cried. "Bring it in here, quick, Carter. Why, it's just a tiny puppy, Betty," she added; "a black and white one."

Carter, mingled pain and reproach in his face, brought the dog to them, holding it gingerly away from him so as not to soil his coat.

"It's very muddy, Miss Bobby," he said disapprovingly. "Your mother won't like them nice gray cushions all stained up."

"Well, couldn't you lend me your handkerchief, Carter?" suggested Bobby gently. "I'll wipe him off. There now, he's all right. My handkerchief's so small it wouldn't have done one of his paws."

Carter, minus his handkerchief, started the car and they rounded the curve. The puppy seemed to be all right except that he was wet and shivering, and Bobby and Betty had decided that he was very young but otherwise in perfect health when the car stopped again.

"There's another one of 'em, Miss Bobby," groaned Carter. "You don't want this one, do you?"

The girls thrust out their heads. Sure enough, another black and white puppy lay abandoned in the roadway.

"Certainly, we'll pick it up," said Bobby indignantly. "Do you suppose we're going to go past a dog and let it die in the rain? Bring it here, please, Carter."

The old man got down stiffly and picked up the dog. This time he handed over a second handkerchief with a ludicrous air of "take-it- and-ruin-it."

"That's the last handkerchief I have with me, Miss Bobby," he announced feelingly, watching his young mistress mopping water and mud from the rescued puppy.

"Well, there won't be any more puppies, Carter," Bobby assured him cheerfully.

But they had not gone twenty rods when they found another, and, after that, a few rods further on, a fourth.

"Here's where we use our own handkerchiefs," giggled Bobby. "And what are we going to do with a car full of dogs?"

The problem was solved, however, before they crossed the bridge into Washington. On the hill leading to the bridge they overtook a small colored boy weeping bitterly. Bobby signaled Carter to stop, and leaning out asked the child what the matter was.

"I done lost my dawgs!" he sobbed. "We-all is moving, and I had 'em in a basket with a burlap bottom. I done tol mammy that burlap was rotten." He held up the basket for them to see the hole in the cloth tacked across the bottom. "I was going to sell them dawgs for fifty cents apiece when they was bigger," he finished with a fresh burst of grief.

His joy when the girls showed him the puppies and explained how they had found them was correspondingly noisy. He had an old gingham apron with him, and into this the dogs were unceremoniously bundled and securely knotted. Betty and Bobby each gave him a shining ten-cent piece, and a blissful boy went whistling over the bridge, his world changed to sunshine in a few brief minutes.

The car threaded a side street, turned twice, and brought up before a quaint old house with a basement shop tucked away under a bulging bay-window.

"This is Hale's bookshop, Miss," said Carter respectfully to Betty,



CHAPTER XVI

WHAT HALE HAD TO TELL

The door of the bookstore opened with a loose old-fashioned latch, and one fell down two steps without warning into a long, narrow room lined with books. Betty went first, and Bobby, stumbling, would have fallen if she had not caught her.

"Gracious! I'm a little bit scared, aren't you?" Bobby whispered. "It seems like such a spooky place."

It was certainly very quiet in the shop, and for a few moments Betty thought they must be alone. Then some one stirred, and, looking down the room, they saw an old man bent over a book open on a table near a dusty window. He wore big horn spectacles and was evidently extremely nearsighted, for he kept his face so near the book that his nose almost touched the pages.

"That must be Mr. Hale," said Betty. "I wonder if it's all right to interrupt him?"

"I should say the only way to make him understand you're here, would be to go up and take that book away," rejoined Bobby.

"He can't be very anxious to sell anything, or he'd pay more attention to his store," giggled Betty.

"I'll wait here," said Bobby hastily, as Betty moved toward the rear of the store. "I'd probably say the wrong thing anyway. Let me see, I'll be reading this fat brown book. They all look alike to me, but this may be thrilling in spots."

Betty approached the motionless old man, whose lean brown forefinger traced the curious black characters in the book before him so slowly that it did not seem to budge at all.

"I beg your pardon?" she said tentatively.

No response.

"I want to ask you——" Betty began again, a little breathlessly. "I want to ask you about a boy named Bob Henderson."

"Name's Hale," said the old man, without looking up and speaking in a cracked, hoarse voice. "Lockwood Hale, dealer in new and secondhand books. Just look around on the tables and you'll likely come across what you want. I'll wrap it for you when you find it. Just now I'm busy."

Betty looked desperately at Bobby, who was listening over the top of her book, and stifled a desire to laugh.

"I don't want a book," she insisted gently. "I want to ask you a question. About Bob Henderson. You know you were interested in the records of the Oliver County almshouse, and you thought you might know something of his people."

The old man pushed his spectacles up on his forehead fretfully and regarded the girl impatiently from a pair of near-sighted blue eyes.

"The books weren't worth anything," he told her seriously. "I spent near a day going over 'em, and there wasn't a volume worth bringing back with me. Folks get the idea in their heads that a book's worth money just because it is old. 'Tain't so—I could fill my tables and shelves with old trash and still not have any stock. Jim Turner don't know a valuable book from a turnip."

Mr. Hale gave every indication of returning to the absorbing volume before him, and Betty plunged in hastily with another question.

"You know a boy named Bob Henderson, don't you?" she urged.

"Yes, he was in here some time last week," answered Hale calmly. "Was it Wednesday, or Tuesday—that load of old almanacs was delivered that same afternoon."

"Well, I'm a friend of his." Betty almost stuttered in her eagerness to explain before the old man should be lost again in his book. "He worked on the farm where I spent the summer, and he told me about you and how anxious he was to see you and find out about his people. I've been anxious, too, to learn if he reached Washington and whether he is here now. Do you know?"

Now that the shopkeeper's mind was fairly detached from his printed page he seemed to be more interested in his caller, and though he did not offer to get Betty a chair, he looked about him vaguely as though he might be seeking a place for her to sit.

"I don't mind standing. I mustn't stay long," she said hurriedly, afraid to let him fix his attention on outside objects. "Didn't Bob Henderson say where he was going? Did he mention anything about leaving Washington?"

"Well, now let me see," considered the old man. "Bob Henderson? Oh, yes, I recollect now how he looked—a manly lad with a frank face. Yes, yes, his mother was Faith Henderson, born a Saunders. That's what caught my eye on the almshouse record book. Years ago I traced the Saunders line for a fine young lady who was marrying here in Washington. She wanted a coat of arms, and she was entitled to one, too. But there was a break in the line, one branch ending suddenly with the birth of Faith Saunders, daughter of Robert and Grace. I never forget a name, so when I read the almshouse record and saw the name of this lad's mother there I knew I had my chart complete. Yes, the boy was interested in what I could tell him."

Betty, too, was interested and glad to know that Bob had succeeded in finding the old bookseller and learning from him what he had to tell. But if Bob was still in Washington, she wanted to see him. He could doubtless tell her what to do in case she did not hear from her uncle within a few days—and Betty was growing exceedingly anxious as no answer came in reply to her telegram. And above all, she wanted to see an old friend. The Littells were kindness itself to her, but she craved a familiar face, some one to whom she could say, "Do you remember?"

"Didn't Bob say where he was going?" she urged again.

"Going?" Mr. Hale repeated the question placidly. "Oh, I believe he went to Oklahoma."

Oklahoma! Betty had a sudden wild conviction that her thoughts had been so centered on that one locality that she was beginning to lose her mind and imagine that every one repeated the word to her.

"Did you—did you say Oklahoma?" she ventured. "Why, how funny! I have an uncle out there in the oil fields. At least we think he is in the oil fields," she added, a sudden look of worry flashing into her eyes. "It seems so funny that Bob should go away off there."

The old man peered up at her shrewdly.

"Aye, aye, funny it may be," he croaked. "But suppose I should tell you I advised the lad to go there? Would that seem funny, eh?"

Betty stared in complete bewilderment.

"Oh, it isn't always in the story books, sometimes it happens to real boys," he nodded exultantly. "Suppose I told you, in strictest confidence, young lady, for I think you're a true friend to him, that he has relatives out there? His mother's two sisters, both of 'em living on the old homestead? Neither of 'em married and without near kith or kin so far as they know? Suppose I tell you that the old farm, as I locate it, is in the oil section? Suppose the lad is entitled to his mother's interest in the place? Eh? Suppose I tell you that?"

He made a question of each point, and emitted a dry cackle after every assertion.

"I told the lad to go out there, and if he had any trouble proving who he was to come back here to me," said Hale importantly. "I can help him straighten out the tangles. I've untied many a knot for families more tangled up than this. So he may be back, he may be back. Drop in any day, and I'll tell you whatever I know."

Betty thanked him warmly and he followed the girls to the door, repeating that he would be glad to tell them everything he knew.

They were going to one of the large shops to do a few errands for Mrs. Littell, and since their visit to the bookstore had taken so long they agreed to separate and each do one or two commissions and then meet at the door within half an hour.

Betty's mind was busy with the astonishing revelations Lockwood Hale had made, and as she deftly matched wool for a sweater, she turned the information over in her mind.

"I don't believe Bob has gone so far West at all," she said to herself firmly. "He wouldn't have money enough, I'm sure. I suppose he has written to me, but my mail will go to the farm, of course, and Mr. Peabody would be the last person to forward it. I must write the postmaster to hold and redirect my mail—when I know where I am to be."

Although she had promised herself not to worry, Betty was becoming very anxious to hear from her uncle. She had written to the Benders in Laurel Grove and to Norma Guerin at Glenside, explaining her situation and asking them to let her know as soon as the quarantine in Pineville should be lifted. She knew that she could visit friends there indefinitely. But that did not much lighten the burden. Anxiety for her uncle and growing fear that she might never again hear from him, it had already been so long a time since his last letter, at times oppressed her.

Their chopping finished, she and Bobby were reunited and were glad to enter the car and drive quietly home to luncheon. It was still raining, and they found the other girls impatient for their return.

"We know all about beaten biscuit," boasted Esther. "And I stirred up a gold cake every bit myself."

"Practising all done," reported Louise. "And I'm just aching for a good lively game. No wedding stuff, Libbie, I warn you. I can see a romantic gleam in your eye."

Libbie said nothing then, but after lunch when they were debating what to do, she had a suggestion.

"Let's play hide-and-go-seek," she said enthusiastically.

"Well, I didn't know you had that much sense," approved Bobby, who was blunt almost to a fault but undoubtedly fond of her younger cousin. "Come on, girls, we'll have one more good game before the family begin to hint I'm too old for such hoydenish tricks. We'll go up to the attic and make as much noise as we can."



CHAPTER XVII

MORE SIGHTSEEING

Libbie waited till they were safely in the attic before she followed up her suggestion.

"I read the loveliest story last summer," she said dreamily. "It was about a bride—"

A shout of laughter from the listening girls interrupted her.

"I knew there would be a bride in it somewhere," rippled Bobby. "Now, Libbie, once and for all, this is hide-and-go-seek, not a mock wedding."

"You might let me finish," protested Libbie. "I only meant to say this story was about a bride who ran away from her wedding guests for fun and hid in a great carved chest; the chest had a spring lock and it closed tight when she pulled it down. Her husband and all the guests hunted and hunted, and they never found her. Years and years after, when they opened the chest, there were only some bones and the wedding dress and veil."

"And you call that a lovely story!" Bobby's scorn was immeasurable. "Well, I think it's gruesome. And what kind of housecleaning did they have in those days? My mother opens every chest and trunk and box in the house at least twice a year."

The game started merrily, and, forewarned by Libbie's story, the girls knew exactly where to find her when she hid from them and unerringly pulled her out of every chest into which she hopefully squeezed her plump self.

"You never should have mentioned 'chest' to us," laughed Betty, when Libbie was "it" for the third time. "We know your line of reasoning now, you see."

Libbie good-naturedly began her counting, and Betty looked about for a good place to hide. The attic was long and wide and a splendid place to play. It was rather too well lighted for hide-and-seek, but the trunks and boxes arranged neatly around the walls offered a fair chance to escape detection. A peculiar fan-shaped box near a window attracted Betty's attention, apparently being a built-in box.

"I'll hide there," she resolved, running lightly over to it.

Louise and Esther and Bobby were already stowed away in various corners, and Betty slipped into the box noiselessly. Libbie ceased counting.

The three Littell girls reached "home" without being detected, and then perched merrily on an old trunk to watch Libbie prowl about after Betty. A five-minute search failed to reveal her, and Libby gave up.

"All safe, you may come in!" they called in unison.

No Betty appeared, and they shouted again.

"Well, if that isn't queer!" Louise looked at Bobby in doubt. "Where do you suppose she is hiding?"

Bobby, a furrow of anxiety between her eyes, searched the attic with level glances, her sisters and cousin watching her apprehensively.

"Something must have happened to her," Louise was beginning, when Bobby gave a cry and raced for the door.

"I'll bet I know where she went," she flung over her shoulder. "Haven't time—to stop—don't bother me——" She flew down the stairs, the others after her at top speed.

Down, down, down, through the third, second and first floors, the four girls fled like a whirlwind, down, always following flying Bobby, to the laundry in the basement where modern electric equipment made washing clothes a scientific process.

Bobby brought up her mad flight before a tall cupboard in one corner, turning the catch on the door, opened it and out tumbled— Betty!

"Are you hurt?" demanded Bobby, helping her to her feet. "Oh, Betty, darling, do say you're all right! It's a wonder you weren't suffocated or didn't break any bones."

"I'm all right," said Betty, smoothing out her skirts. "But I'm still a bit dazed. It was such a sudden drop. What have I done that I shouldn't, Bobby?"

Libbie, too, was bewildered, and stared at the disheveled Betty with puzzled wonder.

"Why, my dear child," explained Bobby, with a funny maternal manner, "you fell down the laundry shoot. It opens into the attic for good ventilation. I'm glad there were some soiled clothes at the bottom for you to land on, otherwise you might have had a bad bump. Sure you're all right?"

"Yes, indeed," insisted Betty. "I thought I was climbing into a box and went in feet first without looking. Instead of hitting the floor, I slid gently on and on. I hadn't any breath to scream with I went so fast. Anyway, there wasn't time to scream. I just sat here for a time after I landed. And I was wondering where I was and how I could get out when you opened the door for me."

That ended the game for the day, and the rest of the afternoon the girls were content to spend quietly, Betty in writing a long letter to Mrs. Arnold, one of her mother's old friends who had moved to California, and the others with books and sewing.

The next morning was fair and sunny, and before breakfast Bobby had it planned that they should spend the day at Mount Vernon. Of course Betty and Libbie were very anxious to see the famous place, and the three sisters were glad to have the opportunity to take them for the first time.

"It's never the same again," explained Louise, obligingly tying Esther's hair-bow for her. "There's a wonderful thrill you get when you see the things that really were Washington's and were handled by him that never comes again. Though we love to go there and never tire of looking at the rooms."

"What a chatter-box you are, child!" expostulated her mother, who had come up to tell them breakfast was ready. Indeed the gong had sounded fully fifteen minutes before. "How nice you look, all of you! I'll be proud to take five girls to Mount Vernon. We're going to-day, aren't we?"

Dear Mrs. Littell! Betty already loved her dearly, as indeed did every member of the household. She was so unaffected, so affectionate and generous, and she allowed money to change her simple, happy nature not at all. The Littells had not always been wealthy, and the mistress of the beautiful mansion did not hesitate to tell of the days when she had done all of her own housework and taken care of two babies.

Soon after breakfast the party started, the plan to go by motor being abandoned in favor of the trip down the river. It was decided that Carter should come down later with the car and bring a basket luncheon, taking them home in the afternoon.

Mount Vernon is sixteen miles below Washington, and the sail down the Potomac was delightful in the cool of the morning, and Betty thought she had never seen anything more beautiful than the deep greens of the trees and grass on either bank. By common consent the boatload of chattering people became silent as they came in sight of Mount Vernon, and as the glimmer of the house showed white between the trees. Betty's heart contracted suddenly. Louise, who was watching her, squeezed her arm sympathetically.

"I know how you feel," she whispered. "Mother told me that the first time she went abroad and dad took her to see the Colosseum she cried. You're not crying, are you, Betty?"

Betty shook her head, but her eyelashes were suspiciously damp.

Libbie was staring in unaffected enjoyment at the scene before her and fairly dancing with impatience to be off the boat.

"I do want to see Martha Washington's things," she confided, as they went ashore. "Her ivory fan and her dishes and the lovely colonial mahogany furniture."

"George Washington's swords for mine," announced Bobby inelegantly. "I've seen 'em every time I've been here, and I'd give anything to have one to hang in my room."

"Bobby should have been a boy," remarked Mrs. Littell indulgently. "You're mother's only son, aren't you, dear?"

"Well, my name is as near as I'll ever come to it," mourned Bobby. "However, I manage to have a pretty good time if I am only a girl."

Mrs. Littell led them first to the tomb of Washington. The plain brick building was directly at the head of the path leading from the landing, and a reverent group stood, the men with bared heads, for a few moments before the resting place of the Father of his Country.

High above the river, overlooking the land he loved, stands the Mount Vernon mansion. From the tomb the Littell party went directly to the house.

Each of the girls, although interested in the whole, showed her personality distinctly in her choice of special relics.

It was Betty who lingered longest in the library, fascinated by the autographed letters of Washington, his tripod used in surveying, and his family Bible. Bobby had to be torn bodily from the room which contained the four swords. Esther spent her happiest hour in the old kitchen, admiring the huge fireplace and the andirons and turnspit.

Louise and Mrs. Littell were able to go into raptures over the old furniture in Martha Washington's bedroom and sitting room, though they, of course, had seen it all many times before.

Mrs. Littell herself had a collection of antique furniture of which she was justly proud, and mahogany furniture was sure of her intelligent appreciation. Strange to say, Libbie remained cool toward the very things she had voiced a desire to see, and in the middle of the morning they missed her.

They were on their way to the barn Washington's father had built, and Betty volunteered to run back and see if the missing girl had stayed behind in the house.



CHAPTER XVIII

BETTY UNDERSTANDS

Betty hurried back and began a hasty inspection of the rooms. She recollected seeing Libbie upstairs at the door of Washington's room the last time she had definitely noticed her, and she ran upstairs to see if she might not be there.

No Libbie was in any of the rooms.

Downstairs she searched hurriedly, peeping under people's elbows, trying not to annoy others and yet to make a thorough hunt in a short time so as not to keep the others waiting. Then in the music room, or East Parlor, as it is often called, she found the truant, gazing with rapt eyes at the quaint old harpsichord which had belonged to Nellie Custis.

"Every one is waiting for you," announced Betty, pulling her gently by the sleeve. "Come on, Libbie, we're all going. We've seen the whole house."

Libbie followed in a sort of daze, and when they rejoined the others she seemed to be still in a brown study.

"For goodness sake," prodded Bobby impatiently, "what were you doing back there? We nearly went off and left you. Where did you find her, Betty?"

"I was in the music room," announced Libbie with dignity. "I wanted to see the harpsichord. Say, girls, did you know Washington gave that to Nellie Custis when she was married? He wore his uniform when he gave her away, and—"

"Well, for pity's sake!" Bobby's disgust was ludicrous. "Trust Libbie to dig up a romance wherever she goes. What else did you find connected with weddings, Lib?"

Libbie was inclined to be ruffled, but Mrs. Littell soothed the troubled waters by telling them that the old barn, which they had reached by this time, was built in 1733 by Washington's father and that the bricks were supposed to have been imported from England.

The beautiful old formal garden further mellowed their tempers, for it was impossible to say sharp things walking along the very paths which George Washington had often trod and between the rows of box brushed by the silken skirts of Mrs. Washington. Where her rose bushes used to be are planted others, and Mrs. Littell assured the girls that it was one of the great pleasures of the First Lady of the Land to gather rose leaves for her potpourri jars and to make a perfumed unguent for which she was famous among her friends.

"She was a wonderful housekeeper," added Mrs. Littell, smiling at Libbie, whose momentary resentment had quickly faded, "and a very fine manager. We are told that she was thoroughly domestic in her tastes and that she made her husband ideally happy."

Presently Carter came with a hamper of luncheon and their appetites did full justice to Mammy Lou's dainties. Betty wondered, sitting on the grass, the Potomac flowing lazily several feet below, whether she was dreaming and might not wake up to find herself at Bramble Farm with Mr. Peabody scolding vigorously because something had not gone to suit him. She often had this odd feeling that her present happiness could not be real.

This, too, brought the thought of her uncle to her mind, and again she wondered if she would ever hear from him—if something dreadful had not happened to him, leaving her almost as much alone in the world as Bob Henderson. She shivered a little, then resolutely threw herself into the chatter of the other girls and soon forgot all but the present pleasure and excitement.

After rambling about the grounds another hour or so, the party from Fairfield was ready to go, and they all found it restful to lean back in the comfortable car and spin back to the city.

"If you're not too tired I think we might drive down Pennsylvania Avenue," suggested Mrs. Littell. "Our guests haven't seen the White House yet, have they?"

Neither Betty nor Libbie had, and as the car turned into the famous thoroughfare both girls sat up alertly so as not to miss a single sight of interest. Carter slowed down as they approached a high iron fence, and at the first glimpse of the white mansion separated from the fence and street by a wide stretch of lawn, Libbie shouted joyfully.

"The White House!"

"Well, you needn't tell everybody," cautioned Bobby. "Think of the weddings they've held in there, Libbie!"

"I imagine any one who has ever seen a picture of the White House recognizes it instantly," said Betty, fearing a resumption of cousinly hostilities. "How beautiful the grounds are."

"You must go through it some day soon," said Mrs. Littell. "And now we'll drive to the Capitol. Day after to-morrow would be a good time for you to take the girls to the Capitol, Bobby."

The Capitol reminded Libbie of a pin tray she had at home, and awoke recollection in Betty's mind of a bronze plaque that had been one of Mrs. Arnold's treasures in the stiff little parlor of the Pineville house. All good Americans know the White House and the Capitol long before they make a pilgrimage to Washington.

On their arrival at Fairfields they found Mr. Littell playing solitaire, and something in his undisguised relief at seeing them made Betty wonder if time did not hang heavily on his hands.

After dinner Bobby proposed that they turn on the phonograph and have a little dance among themselves.

"Oh, that will be fine!" cried Betty.

"Then you can dance?"

"A little—mother taught me."

So the girls danced and had a good time generally for an hour or more, with Mr. and Mrs. Littell looking on. Then Betty sank down on the arm of Mr. Littell's chair.

"I've been thinking of something," she half whispered. "Do you like to play checkers? If you do, I know how."

Maybe Mr. Littell understood that she was doing it largely to keep him company. But he said nothing, and they played checkers for nearly two hours. Betty was a fairly good player and managed to land several victories.

"With a little more practice you'll make a very good player," declared Mr. Littell. "I appreciate your staying to play with a cripple like me," he added gratefully. "Does your Uncle Dick play?"

"I don't really know," replied the girl, and now her face clouded for an instant. Oh, why didn't she hear from Uncle Dick?

The next few days were filled with sightseeing trips. Betty was kept too busy to have much time to worry, which was fortunate, for no word came from her uncle and no word reached her from Bob Henderson. The Guerins and the Benders wrote to her, and each letter mentioned the fact that Bob had sent a postal from Washington, but that no later word had come from him.

"I met Peabody on the road yesterday," ran a postscript to Norma Guerin's letter, written by her doctor father. "He hinted darkly that Bob had done something that might land him in jail, but I couldn't force out of him what fearful thing Bob had done. I hope the lad hasn't been rash, for Peabody never forgives a wrong, real or fancied."

Betty knew that the farmer's action had to do with the unrecorded deed, but she did not feel that she should make any disclosures in that connection. Of Bob's innocence she was sure, and time would certainly clear him of any implication.

The girls visited the Capitol, seeing the great bronze doors that are nineteen feet high and weight ten tons. Betty was fascinated by the eight panels, and studied them till the others threatened to leave her there over night and call for her in the morning. Then she consented to make the tour of the three buildings. But the historical paintings again held her spellbound. When she reached the Senate chamber, which was empty, except for a page or two, the Senate not being in session, she dropped into a gallery seat and tried to imagine the famous scenes enacted there. They spent the better part of a day at the Capitol, and saw practically everything in the buildings. They were so tired that night that Libbie went to sleep over her dessert, and Betty dreamed all night of defending the city with a shotgun from the great gilded dome. But she and Libbie agreed that they would not have missed it for anything.