"It's Polly Pepper!" ejaculated Mr. Cabot. Then a light broke over his face, and he laughed aloud, he was so pleased. "You mean, you are in love with Polly Pepper?"

"As if everybody didn't know it?" cried Pickering hotly. "Don't pretend, Uncle, that you are surprised;" he was really disrespectful now in manner. "Oh, beg pardon, sir," recovering himself.

"Never mind," said Mr. Cabot indulgently, "you are over-wrought this morning. My boy," and he came over and clapped his nephew on the back approvingly, "that's the best thing you ever told me; you make me very happy, and"—

"Hold, Uncle," cried Pickering, darting away from the hand, "don't go so fast. You are taking too much for granted."

Mr. Cabot for answer, bestowed another rap, this time on Pickering's arm, indulging all the while in the broadest of smiles.

Just then some one knocked at the door, and in response to Mr. Cabot's unwilling "Come in," Ben's head appeared. "Beg pardon, Mr. Cabot, but Mr. Van Metre wants you out here."

Pickering lunged past Ben. "Don't stop me," he cried crossly, in response to Ben's "Well, old fellow."

Ben stared after him with puzzled eyes as he shot down the long store; and all that afternoon he could not get Pickering and his strange ways out of his mind, and on the edge of the twilight, jumping out of his car at the corner nearest home, he buttoned up his coat and rushed on, regardless that Billy Harlowe was making frantic endeavors to overtake him.

"What's got into the old chap," said Ben to himself, pushing on doggedly with the air of a man who has thoughts of his own to think out. "I declare, if I should know Pickering Dodge lately; I can't tell where to find him."



And with no light on his puzzle, Ben turned into the stone gateway, and strode up to the east porch to let himself in as usual, with his latch key. As he was fitting it absently, all the while his mind more intent on Pickering and his changed demeanor than on his own affairs, he heard a little rustling noise that made him turn his head to see a tall figure spring down the veranda floor in haste to gain the quickest angle.

"Charlotte, why, what are you doing out here?" exclaimed Ben, leaving his key in the lock to look at her.

"Don't speak!" begged Charlotte hastily, and coming up to him. "Somebody will hear you. I came out here to walk up and down—I shall die in that house; and I am going home to-morrow." She nervously twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, and Ben still looking at her closely, saw that she had been crying.

"Charlotte, what are you talking about?" he cried, opening his honest blue eyes wide at her. "Why, I thought you had ever so much sense, and that you were way ahead of other girls, except Polly," he added, quite as a matter of course.

"Don't!" cried Charlotte, wincing, and, "but I shall go home to-morrow."

"Look here," Ben took out his key and tucked it into his pocket, then faced Charlotte, "take a turn up and down, Charlotte; you'll pull out of your bad fit; you're homesick." Ben's honest face glowed with pity as he looked at her.

"I'm—I'm everything," said Charlotte desperately. "O, Ben, you can't think," she seized his arm, "Polly is just having a dreadful time because I'm here."

"See here, now," said Ben, taking the hand on his arm in a strong grip, as if it were Polly's, "don't you go to getting such an idea into your head, Charlotte."

"I can't help it," said Charlotte; "it was put there," she added bitterly.

Ben gave a start of surprise. "Well, you are not the sort of girl to believe such stuff, any way," he said.

Charlotte pulled away her hand. "I'm going home," she declared flatly.

"Indeed you are not," said Ben, quite as decidedly.

"O, yes, I am."

"We'll see;" he nodded at her. "Take my advice, Charlotte, and don't make a muff of yourself.

"It's very easy for you to talk," cried Charlotte, a little pink spot of anger rising on either cheek, "you have everybody to love you, and to be glad you are here; very easy, indeed!"

With that, she walked off, swinging her gown disdainfully after her.

"Whew!" ejaculated Ben, "well, I must say I'm surprised at you, Charlotte. I didn't suppose you could be jealous."

"Jealous?" Charlotte flamed around at him. "O, Ben Pepper, what do you mean?"

"You are just as jealous as you can be," said Ben honestly, "absolutely green."

"I'd have you to know I never was jealous in my life," said Charlotte, quite pale now, and standing very still.

"You don't know it, but you are," said Ben imperturbably; "when people begin to talk about other folks being loved and happy and all that, they're always jealous. Why in the world don't you think how everybody is loving you and wanting to make you happy?" It was quite a long speech for Ben, and he was overcome with astonishment at himself for having made it.



"Because they are not," said Charlotte bitterly, "at least, they can't love me, if they do try to make me happy."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Ben.

"And Polly"—then Charlotte pulled herself up.

"Well, what about Polly?" demanded Ben.

"Oh, nothing." Charlotte twisted uneasily, and shut her lips tightly together.

"If you think my sister Polly doesn't love you and want to make you happy, there's no use in my talking to you," said Ben, in a displeased way.

"I didn't say so," cried Charlotte quickly. "Oh, don't go. You are the only one who can help me," as he made a movement toward the door. "I never told anybody else, and they don't guess."

"And it's a pity that they should now," said Ben. "I tell you, Charlotte, if you never say anything like this again, I'll believe that you're the girl I thought you, with plenty of sense, and all that. There, give us your hand. Hurry up, now; here comes Phronsie."

Charlotte slowly laid her hand in Ben's big palm, as Phronsie opened the oaken door, and peered out into the darkness.

"I can't think what makes Ben so late," she said softly to herself.

"I'm going into the other door," said Charlotte, springing off down the veranda.

"Halloo, Pet!" Ben rushed into the hall, and seized Phronsie for a good hug.

"O, Ben, you're so late!" cried Phronsie.

"Well, I'm here now," said Ben comfortably.

"You can't think what has happened," said Phronsie, with a delightful air of mystery.

"To be sure I can't; but you are going to tell me," declared Ben with assurance.

"O, Bensie, I'd so much rather you would guess," said Phronsie, clasping her hands.

"Well, then, you have a new cat," said Ben at a hazard, while he disposed of his coat and hat.

"O, Ben," cried Phronsie in reproach, "why, I've given up having new cats; indeed I have."

"Since when?" asked Ben.

"Why, last week. I really have. I'm not going to get any more," said Phronsie.

Ben shouted. At the sound of his voice, somebody called over the stairs, "O, Ben, are you home? Come up here."

"Come on, Pet," cried Ben, "we're wanted," seizing Phronsie, and hurrying off to the stairs.

"I did so want to tell you myself," mourned Phronsie on the way.

"Then you shall." Ben set her on the floor suddenly. "I'll come up in a minute or so," he called. "There now, Phronsie, we'll have the wonderful news. Out with it, child."

"I don't suppose you ever could guess," said Phronsie, pausing a moment, "I really don't, Ben, because this is something you never would think of."

"No, I'm quite sure I should never guess in all the world," said Ben decidedly, "so let us have it."

"Grandpapa has promised to give us a surprise party," announced Phronsie, with careful scrutiny to see the effect of her news.

"A surprise party? Goodness me!" exploded Ben, "what do you mean, Phronsie?"

"A surprise party to go and see Jasper; and we are to start to-morrow. Now, Ben!" and Phronsie, her news all out, beamed up into his face.

"Oh, so it's Jasper's surprise party," cried Ben.

"Yes, and it's ours too; because you see we didn't any of us think Grandpapa was going to do it," said Phronsie.

"Well, it's my surprise party, too," said Ben lugubriously, "for I'm astonished; and beside I'm left out in the cold."

"O, Ben, can't you go?" cried Phronsie, her face falling instantly.

"No, Pet; wait till you get to be a business man and you'll see that surprise parties can't be indulged in very often."

"Won't Mr. Cabot let you go?" asked Phronsie, with an anxious droop of the head. "O, I think he will; truly I do."

"I sha'n't ask him," said Ben; "I'm sure of that."

"But Grandpapa will," said Phronsie, her face changing.

"No, no, Pet; you mustn't say anything about that. I'd rather stick to the business. There, come on; they're wild, I suppose, upstairs, to tell the news."

Just then some one called Phronsie. "Oh, dear," she sighed involuntarily, as Ben sped over the stairs without her.

"I thought you were never coming home, Ben," said Polly, meeting him in the upper hall. "Oh, we've such a fine thing to tell you!"

"I'm going to guess," said Ben wisely.

"Oh, you never can," declared Polly; "never in all this world. Don't try."

"Can't I, though? Give me a chance. You are to have a surprise party, and go to see Jasper. There!"

"How did you guess?" cried Polly in wide-eyed astonishment.

Ben burst into a hearty laugh. "Well, I met Phronsie, if you must know."

"Of course," laughed Polly; "how stupid in me! Well, was ever anything so fine in all this world?" and she danced down the hall, and came back flushed and panting.

"And Grandpapa has written to tell Mr. Cabot how it is, and to ask for a day or two off for you," she said, with a little pat on his back.

"O, Polly!" exclaimed Ben, in dismay, "Grandpapa shouldn't—I mean, I ought not to go. I'd really rather not."

"Well, Grandpapa says that you are working too hard, Bensie, and it's quite true," Polly gave him another pat, this time a motherly one; "and so you are going."

But Ben shook his head.

"And we start to-morrow," ran on Polly, "and Jasper doesn't know a word about our coming; and we are going to stay at the hotel two or three days." And here Phronsie ran eagerly up the stairs.

"And it's going to be lovely, and not rain any of the time; and we are to take Jasper a box full of everything," she announced in great excitement. "We began to pack it the very minute that Grandpapa told us we were to go."

"That's fine! Well, I'll drop something into that box," said Ben.

"Of course," said Polly, in great satisfaction.

"And Jasper wouldn't like it not to have something of Ben's in it," said Phronsie.

"Well, now, Bensie, run down after dinner and ask Pickering Dodge to go. That's a good boy." Polly patted the broad back coaxingly this time.

Ben's face fell. "How do you know that Grandpapa would like to have him along?" he asked abruptly.

"As if I'd ask you to invite him," cried Polly, "unless Grandpapa had said he could go. The very idea, Ben!"

"Well, something is the matter with Pick," confessed Ben unwillingly, "and I don't want to ask him."

"Something the matter with Pickering?" repeated Polly in dismay. "O, Ben, is he sick?"

"No," said Ben bluntly, "but he's cross."

"O, Ben, then something very bad must have happened," said Polly, "for Pickering is almost never cross."

"Well, I don't know what to make of him," said Ben; "he's been queer for a week now, more or less, and to-day he wouldn't speak to me; just shot off telling me to let him alone;" and Ben rapidly laid before Polly the little scene of the morning in the store.

"Now, Ben," said Polly, when it was all over, "I know really that something dreadful is the matter with Pickering, and I shall send him a note to come here to-night. He must tell us what it is. I'm going to write it now." And Polly sped off to her room, followed by Phronsie.

Ben went slowly down the hall to get ready for dinner. "I don't know how it is," he said, "but everything seems to be getting mixed up in this house, and all our good, quiet times gone. And now what can Charlotte have heard to make her want to go home?"

And all the time during dinner, Ben kept up a steady thinking, until Polly, looking across the table, caught his eye.

"Don't worry," her smile said, "I've sent a note to Pickering, and we'll find out what the trouble is."

Ben sat straight in his chair, and nodded back at her. "I can't tell her now that Pick is not what I'm stewing over," he said to himself, "and I can't tell her any time, either, for Charlotte has heard something that makes her think Polly is bothered by her being here. I must just fuss at it myself till I straighten it out."

So when Pickering Dodge, with a radiant face at being sent for by Polly's own hand, ran lightly up the steps of the King mansion, about an hour later, Ben hurried off to find Charlotte Chatterton.

"I can't come down," called Charlotte from the upper hall, "I'm tired; good-night."

"So am I tired," declared Ben, "but I'm going to talk to you, Charlotte," he added, decidedly.

"No; I don't want to talk," said Charlotte, shaking her head. "Good-night. Thank you, Ben," she added a bit pleasanter, "but I'm not going down."

"Indeed you are!" said Ben obstinately. "I'm not going to stir from this spot," he struck his hand on the stair railing, "until you are down here. Come, Charlotte."

"No," began Charlotte, but the next moment she was on the stairs, saying as she went slowly down, "I don't want to talk, Ben. There isn't anything to say."

"Now that's something like," observed Ben cheerfully, as she reached his side. "Come in here, do, Charlotte," leading the way into Mother Fisher's little sewing-room.

"But I'm not going to talk," reiterated Charlotte, following him in.

"You are going to talk enough so that I can know how to get this ridiculous idea out of your head," said Ben, as he closed the door on them both.

Mr. Cabot hurried into his wife's room, his face lighted with great satisfaction. "Well, Felicia," he said, "I believe I needn't worry about that boy any more."

"Who, Pickering?" asked Mrs. Cabot, with a last little touch to the lace at her throat.

"Of course Pickering. Well, he's in better hands than mine. Oh, I'm so glad to be rid of him;" and he threw himself into an easy chair and beamed at her.

"What in the world do you mean, Mr. Cabot?" demanded his wife. "You haven't had another fuss with Pickering? Oh, I'm quite sure he'll do well in the Law, if you'll only have patience a little longer."

"Nonsense, Felicia," said Mr. Cabot, "as if I'd get him out of that office, when it was such a piece of work to fasten him in there. Well, to make a long story short, he loves Polly Pepper. Think of that, Felicia!" And Mr. Cabot, in his joy, got out of the chair and began to rush up and down the room, rubbing his hands together in glee.

"O, Mr. Cabot—Mr. Cabot," cried his wife, flying after him, "you don't mean to say that Pickering and Polly are betrothed? Was ever anything so lovely! Oh! never mind about dinner; I couldn't eat a mouthful. I must go right around there, and get my arms around that dear girl. Tell Biggs to put the horses in at once."

"Stop just one moment, Felicia, for Heaven's sake!" cried Mr. Cabot, putting himself in front of her; "that's just like a woman; only hear the first word, and off she goes!"

"Do order the carriage," begged Mrs. Cabot, with dancing eyes. "I can't wait an instant, but I must tell Polly how glad we are. And of course you'll come too, Mr. Cabot. Oh, dear, it's such blessed news!"

"I didn't say they were engaged," began Mr. Cabot frantically, "I—I"—

"Didn't say that Polly and Pickering were engaged?" repeated Mrs. Cabot. "Well, what did you say, Mr. Cabot?"

"I said he loved her," said Mr. Cabot. "O, Felicia, it's the making of the boy," he added jubilantly.

Mrs. Cabot sank into her husband's deserted chair, unable to find a word.



CHAPTER XII.

POLLY TRIES TO DO WHAT IS RIGHT.

"O, Pickering!" Polly actually ran into the drawing-room with outstretched hands. "Why did Jencks put you in here?"

"I asked to come in here," said Pickering. "I don't want to see a lot of people to-night; I only want you, Polly."

"But Mamsie could help you—she'd know the right thing to say to you," said Polly.

"No, no!" cried Pickering in alarm, and edging off into a corner. "Do sit down, Polly, I—I want to talk to you."

So Polly sat down, her eyes fastened on his face, and wishing all the while that Mamsie would come in.

"I don't wonder you think I'm in a bad way," began Pickering nervously; "it was awfully good in you to send for me, Polly, awfully."

"Why, I couldn't help it," said Polly. "You know it's just like having one of the boys in trouble, to have you worried, Pickering."

"Yes, yes," said Pickering, "I know."

"Well, I want to tell you something," began Polly radiantly, thinking it better to cheer him up a bit with her news before getting at the root of his trouble. "Do you know that Grandpapa is going to take us all to-morrow to see Jasper? It's to be a surprise party."

"Ah," said Pickering, all his gladness gone.

"Yes; and Grandpapa wants you to go with us, Pickering," Polly went on.

"Oh, dear me—I can't—can't possibly!" exclaimed Pickering, in a tone of horror. "Don't ask me, Polly. Anything but that."

"O, yes, you can," laughed Polly, determined to get him out of his strange mood. "Why, Pickering, we don't want to go without you. It would spoil all our fun."

"Well, I can't go," cried Pickering, in an agony at being misunderstood. "I'd do anything in the world you ask, Polly, but that."

"Why not, you ridiculous boy?" asked Polly, quite as if it were Joel who was before her.

"Because Jasper and I don't speak to each other," Pickering bolted out; "we had a fight."



Polly sprang to her feet. "What do you say?" she cried.

"It's beastly, I know," declared Pickering, his face aflame, "but, Polly, if you knew—I really couldn't help it; Jasper was"—

"Don't tell me that it was any of Jasper's doings," cried Polly vehemently, clasping her hands tightly together, so afraid she might say something to make the matter worse. "I know, Pickering, it was quite your own fault if you won't speak."

"O, Polly!" exclaimed Pickering, the hot blood all over his face, "don't say that; please don't."

"I must; because I know it is the truth," said Polly uncompromisingly. "If it isn't, why, then come with us to-morrow, Pickering," and her brow cleared.

"I can't, Polly, I can't possibly," cried Pickering in distress; "ask me anything but that, and I'll do it."

"This is the only thing that you ought to do," said Polly coldly. "O, Pickering, suppose that anything should happen so that you never could speak!" she added reproachfully.

"I'm sure I don't want to speak to a man when I've broken friendship with him," said Pickering sullenly. "What is there to talk about, I'd like to know?"

"If you've broken friendship with Jasper, I'm quite, quite sure it is your own fault," hotly declared Polly again; "Jasper never turned away from a friend in his life." And Polly broke off suddenly and walked down the long room, aghast to find how angry she was at each step.

"Don't you turn away from me, Polly," begged Pickering in such a piteous tone that Polly felt little twinges of remorse, and in a minute she was by his side again.

"I didn't mean to be cross," she said quickly, "but you mustn't say such things, Pickering."

"I must tell you the truth," said Pickering doggedly, "and that is that I've broken friendship with Jasper, and I can't speak to him."

"Pickering," said Polly, whirling abruptly to get a good look at his face, "you must speak to Jasper," and she drew a long breath.

"I tell you I can't," said Pickering, his face paling with the effort to control himself.

"Then," said Polly, very deliberately, yet with a glow of determination, "you can't speak to me; so good-night, Pickering," and she ran out of the room.

Pickering stared after her a moment in a dazed way, then picked up his hat, and darted out of the house, shutting the door hard behind him.

Polly, hurrying over the stairs to her own room, kept saying to herself over and over, "Oh! how could I have said that—how could I? when I want to help him—and now I have made everything worse."

"Polly," called Mrs. Fisher, as Polly sped by her door, "you are going to take the noon train, you know, to-morrow, Mr. King says; so you can pack in the morning easily."

"I'm not going, Mamsie; that is—I hope we are not any of us going," said Polly incoherently, as she tried to hurry by.

"Not going! Polly, child, what do you mean?" cried Mrs. Fisher aghast.

"O, Mamsie, don't ask me," begged Polly, having hard work to keep the tears back. "Do forgive me, but need I tell?" and Polly stopped and clung to the knob of the door.

"No, Polly, if you cannot tell mother your trouble willingly, I will not ask it, child." And Mrs. Fisher turned off, and began to busy herself over her work.

Polly, quite broken down by this, deserted her door-knob, and rushed into the bedroom.

"O, Mamsie, it's about—about other people, and I didn't know as I ought to tell. Need I?" cried Polly imploringly, seizing her mother's gown just as Phronsie would.

"No more had you a right to tell, Polly," said her mother, "if that is the case," and she turned a cheerful face toward her; "I can trust my girl, that she won't keep anything that is her own, away from me. There, there;" and she smoothed Polly's brown hair with her hand. "How I used to be always telling you to brush your hair, and now how nice it looks, Polly," she added approvingly.

"It's the same fly-away hair now," said Polly, throwing back her rebellious locks with an impatient toss of the head. "Oh! how I do wish I had smooth hair like Charlotte's."

"Fly-away hair, when it's taken care of as it ought to be," observed Mrs. Fisher, "is one thing, and when it's all sixes and sevens because a girl doesn't have time to brush it, is another. Your hair is all right now, Polly, There, go, child;" and she dismissed her with a final loving pat. "I can trust you, and when your worry gets too big for you, why, bring it to mother."

So Polly, up in her own room at last, crept into a corner, and there went over every word, bitterly lamenting what she had done. At last she could endure it no longer, and she sprang up. "I'll write a note to Pickering and say I am sorry," she cried to herself. "Maybe Ben will take it to him. O, dear! I forgot; Ben is vexed with him; but perhaps he will leave it at the door. Any way, I'll ask him."

So Polly scribbled down hastily:

Dear Pickering:

I am so sorry I said those words to you; I don't see how I came to. Do forget them, and forgive Polly.

"Ben, Ben!" Polly ran over the stairs, nervously twirling the little note. "O, dear me, where are you, Ben?"

"Here," called Ben, "in Mamsie's sewing-room."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Polly, throwing wide the door on the tete-a-tete Ben was having with Charlotte.

"Come in, Polly," cried Ben, his blue eyes glowing with welcome. "That's all right; you don't interrupt us. Charlotte and I were having a bit of a talk, but we're through. Now what's the matter?" with a good look at Polly's face.

"O, Ben, if you could," began Polly fearfully, "it's only this," waving the note with trembling fingers. "Now do say you will take this note to Pickering Dodge."

"Why, I thought you sent him a note before dinner," said Ben in surprise.

"So I did; and he came," said Polly, her head drooping in a shamefaced way, "and I was cross to him."

"O, Polly, you cross to him!" exclaimed Ben; "as if I'd believe that!" while Charlotte stared at her with wide eyes.

"I truly was," confessed Polly. "There, don't stop, Ben, to talk about it, please, but do take this note," thrusting it at him.

But Ben shook his head. "I thought I told you, Polly, that Pick don't want to speak to me. How in the world can I go at him?" At this Charlotte stared worse than ever.

"You needn't go in the house," said Polly, "just leave it at the door. Ah, do, Ben;" she went up to him and coaxingly patted his cheek.

"All right, as long as you don't want me to bore him," said Ben, slowly getting out of his chair. "Here, give us your note, Polly. Of course you'll make me do as you say."

"You're just as splendid as you can be," cried Polly joyfully. "There, now, Bensie," pushing the note into his hand, "do hurry, that's a good boy."

And in a quarter of an hour, Ben rushed in, meeting Polly in the hall, kis face aglow, and eyes shining. "Here, Polly, catch it," tossing her a note; "that's from Pick."

"Why, did you see him?" asked Polly, in amazement.

"Yes; couldn't help it—he was rushing out the door like a whirlwind, and we came together on the steps," said Ben, with a burst of laughter at the remembrance, "and we spoke before we meant to; couldn't help it, you know; just ran into each other—and he read your note, and then he flew into the house, and was gone a moment or two, and came back mumbling it was all his fault, and he'd written; that you'd understand, or something of that sort, and he gave me this note to carry back; and I guess Pick is all right, Polly." Ben drew a long breath of relief after he got through; he was so unaccustomed to long speeches.

Polly tore open her note, and stooped to read it by the dancing flames of the hall fire.

To show that I forgive you, Polly, I'll go to-morrow with you all to see Jasper.

PICKERING.

"Won't Jasper be surprised?" Phronsie kept exclaiming over and over, when they were once fairly in the cars; much to old Mr. King's delight, who never tired of congratulating himself on planning the outing. "Grandpapa dear, I do think it was, oh! so lovely in you to take us all."

"Well, Jasper has been working hard lately," said the old gentleman, "and it will be no end of good to him even if it doesn't agree with you, my pet," pinching Phronsie's ear.

"Oh, but it does agree with me," said Phronsie in great satisfaction, "very much, indeed, Grandpapa."

"So it seems," said the old gentleman. "Well, now, Phronsie," glancing around at the rest of his party, "everything is moving on well, and I believe I'll take a bit of a nap; that is, if that youngster," with a nod toward the end of the car, "will allow me to."

"I don't believe that baby will cry any more," said Phronsie, with a hopeful glance whence the disturbing sounds came, "he can't, Grandpapa; he's cried so much. Now do lean your head back; I'm going to put this rug under it;" and Phronsie began to pull out a traveling blanket from the roll.

Polly, across the car aisle, laid down her book, and clambered out her seat. "Let me take baby," she said, coming up unsteadily to the pale little woman who was endeavoring to pacify a stout, red-cheeked boy a year old, just beginning on a fresh series of roars.

An old gentleman in the seat back, laid down the paper he had been trying to read, to see the fresh attempts on the small disturber.

"He'll tire you out, Miss," said the pale little woman deprecatingly. "There, there, Johnny, do be still," with an uneasy pull at Johnny's red skirt.

"Indeed he won't," laughed Polly merrily. Hearing this, Johnny stopped beating the window in the vain effort to get out, and deliberately looked Polly over. "I like babies," added Polly, "and if you'll let me," to the little mother, "I'm going to play with this one." And without waiting for an answer, she sat down in the end of the seat, and held out her hands alluringly to Johnny.

"Young lady, there are babies and babies," observed the old gentleman solemnly, and leaning over the back of the seat, he regarded Polly over his spectacles with pitying eyes, "and I'd advise you to have nothing to do with this particular one."

But Johnny was already scrambling all over Polly's traveling gown, and she was laughing at him. And presently the pale little woman was stretched comfortably on the opposite seat, her eyes closed restfully.

"Well done!" cried the old gentleman; "I'll read my paper while the calm spell lasts;" as the train rumbled on, the sound only broken by Johnny's delighted little gurgles, as Polly played "Rabbit and Fox" for his delectation.

Phronsie looked down the intervening space, and heaved a sigh at Polly's employment.

"Don't worry; I like it," telegraphed Polly, nodding away to her. So Phronsie turned again to her watch, lest Grandpapa's head should slip from the blanket pillow in a sudden lurch of the cars.

"I'd help her if I knew how," Charlotte, several seats off, groaned to herself, "but that lump of a baby would only roar at me. Dear, dear, am I never to be any good to Polly?"

She leaned her troubled face against the window-side, her chin resting on her hand, and gave herself up to the old thoughts. "What did Ben say?" she cried suddenly, flying away from the window so abruptly that she involuntarily glanced around to be quite sure that none of her fellow-passengers were laughing at her. "'You may be sure, Charlotte, if you keep on the lookout, there will a time come for you to help Polly.' That's what he said, and I'll hold fast to it."

On and on the train rumbled. The little mother woke up with a new light in her eyes, and a pink color on her cheeks. "I haven't had such a sleep in weeks," she said gratefully. Then she leaned forward.

"I'll take Johnny now," she said; "you must be so tired."

But Johnny roared out "No," and beat her off with small fists and feet.

"He's going to sleep," said Polly, looking down at him snuggled up tightly within her arm, his heavy eyelids slowly drooping, "then I'll put him down on the seat, and tuck him up for a good long nap."

At the word "sleep" Johnny screamed out, "No, no!" and thrust his fat knuckles into his eyes, while he tried to sit up straight in Polly's lap.

"There, there," cried Polly soothingly, "now fly back, little bird, into your nest."

Johnny showed all the small white teeth he possessed, in a gleeful laugh, and burrowed deeper than before within the kind arm as he tried to play "Bo-peep" with her.

"You see," said Polly, to the little mother's worried look; "he'll soon be off in Nodland," she added softly.

"I've never had any one be so good to me," said Johnny's mother brokenly, "as you, Miss."

"Is Johnny your only little boy?" asked Polly, to stop the flow of gratitude.

"Yes, Miss; I've buried four children."

"Oh!" exclaimed Polly, quite hushed.

The little mother wiped away the tears from her eyes, and looked out of the window, steadily fixing her gaze on the distant landscape. And the train sped on.

"But the worst is, the father is gone." She turned again to Polly, then glanced down at her black dress. "Johnny and me have no one now."

"Don't try to tell me," cried Polly involuntarily, "if it pains you."

She would have taken the thin hand in hers, but Johnny's uneasy breathing showed him still contesting every inch of progress the "children's sandman" was making toward him, and she didn't dare to move.

"It does me good," said the little woman, "somehow, I must tell you, Miss. And now I'm going to Fall River. Somebody told me I'd get work there in the Print Mills. You see, I haven't any father nor mother, nor anybody belonging to Johnny's father nor me."

"Are you sure of getting work when you reach Fall River?" asked Polly, feeling all the thrill of a great lonely world, for two such little helpless beings to be cast adrift in it.

"No'm," said the little woman; "but it's a big mill, they say, and has to have lots of women in it, and there must be a place for me. I do think that times are going to be good now for Johnny and me, and"—

A crash like that when the lightning begins on deadly work; a surging, helpless tossing from side to side, when the hands strike blindly out on either side for something to cling to; a sudden fall, down, down, to unknown depths; a confused medley of shouts, and one long shuddering scream.

"Oh! what"—began Polly, holding to Johnny through it all. And then she knew no more.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE ACCIDENT.

A roaring sound close to her ear made Polly start, and open her eyes. Johnny's fat arms were clutched around her neck so tightly she could scarcely breathe, while he was screaming as hard as he could.

—"is the matter?" cried Polly, finishing her sentence.

A pair of strong arms were lifting her up, and pulling her from beneath something, she could not tell what, that was lying heavily over her, while Johnny rolled off like a ball.

"O, Ben!" cried Polly gratefully, as the arms carried her off. And then she saw the face above her: "Why, Pickering!"

"Are you hurt anywhere?" gasped Pickering, speaking the words with difficulty.

"What is it?" cried Polly, in a dazed way.

"There's been an accident," said Pickering. "Oh, Polly, say you're not hurt!" as he set her carefully down.

"An accident!" exclaimed Polly, and she sprang to her feet and glanced wildly around. "Pickering—where—where"—she couldn't ask "are Phronsie and Ben and Grandpapa?"

But Pickering cried at once, "All right—every single one. Here comes Phronsie, and Ben too."

And Phronsie running up, with streaming hair and white cheeks, threw glad arms around her neck. "Oh, Polly, are you hurt?" And Ben seized her, but at that she winced; and her left arm fell heavily to her side.

"Where's Baby?" cried Polly, trying to cover up the expression of pain; "do somebody look after him."

"Charlotte has him," said Phronsie, looking off to a grassy bank by the railroad track, where Charlotte Chatterton sat with Johnny in her lap.

Polly followed the glance, then off to the broken car, one end of which lay in ruins across the rails, and to the crowds of people running to the scene, in the midst of which was the fearful hush that proclaimed death.

"Oh! do come and help," called Polly, and before they knew it, she was dashing off, and running over the grass, up to the track. "There was a woman—Johnny's mother," she cried, pushing her way into the crowd, Phronsie and Ben and Pickering close behind—"in the seat opposite me."

Two or three men were picking up a still figure they had just pried out from the ruins of the car-end, dropped helplessly on its side, just as it fell when the fatal blow came. "Let me see her," said Polly hoarsely. They turned the face obediently; there was a long, terrible gash on the forehead that showed death to have come instantly to Johnny's mother, and that "good times" had already begun for her, and her weary feet were safely at rest in the Heavenly Home.

Polly drew a long breath, and bending suddenly dropped a kiss on the peaceful cheek; then she drew out her handkerchief, and softly laid it over the dead face. "Take her to that farmhouse." She pointed to a large white house off in the fields. "I will go there—but I must help here first."



"Yes, Miss," said the men obediently, moving off with their burden.

"Polly—Polly, come away," begged Pickering and Ben.

"Grandpapa is sitting on the bank over there," pointed Phronsie, with a beseeching finger. "Oh, do go to him, Polly; I'll stay and help the poor people."

"And no one was hurt," said Ben quickly, "only in this end of the car. See, Polly, everybody is out," pointing past the crowd into the car, to the vacant seats.

"There was an old gentleman in the seat back of me," cried Polly, in distress. "Hasn't any one seen him?" running up and down the track; "an old gentleman with a black velvet cap"—amid shouts of "Keep out—the car is taking fire. Don't go near it."

A little tongue of flame shooting from one of the windows at the further end of the car proclaimed this fact, without the words.

"Has no one seen him?" called Polly, in a voice so clear and piercing that it rose above the babel of the crowd, and the groans of one or two injured people drawn out from the ruin, and lying on the bank, waiting the surgeon's arrival. "Then he must be in the car. Oh, Ben—come, we must get him out!" and she sprang back toward the broken car end.

"Keep back, Polly!" commanded Ben, and "I shall go," cried Pickering Dodge. But Polly ran too, and clambered with them, over the crushed car seats and window frames of the ruin.

"He's not here," cried Ben, while the hot flame seemed to be sweeping with cruel haste, down to catch them.

"Look—oh, he must be!" cried Polly wildly, peering into the ruin. "Oh, Ben, I see a hand!"

But a rough grasp on her shoulder seized her as the words left her mouth. "Come out of here, Miss, or you'll be killed," and Polly was being borne off by rescuers who had seen her rush with the two young men, in amongst the ruin. "I tell you," cried Polly, struggling to get free, "there is an old gentleman buried in there; I saw his hand."

"Everybody is out, Miss," and they carried her off. But Ben and Pickering were already in a race with the flames, for the possession of the old gentleman, whose body, after the car seat was removed, could plainly be seen.

"There's the axe," cried Ben hoarsely, pointing to it, where it had fallen near to Pickering.

Pickering measured the approach of the flames with a careful eye. "He is probably dead," he said to Ben. "Shall we?"

"Hand the axe," cried Ben. Already the car was at a stifling heat, and the roar of the flames grew perilously near. Would no one come to help them? Must they die like animals in a trap? Well, the work was to be done. Two—three ringing blows breaking away a heavy beam, quick, agile pulling up of the broken window frame, and in the very teeth of the flames, young arms bore out the old body.

A great shout burst from the crowd as they staggered forth with their burden. Pickering had only strength to look around for Polly, before he dropped on the grass.

And when he looked up, the tears were raining on his face.

"O, Pickering!" cried Polly. "Now there isn't anything more to long for. You are all right?"

Pickering lifted his head feebly, and glanced around. The walls of the "spare room" at the farm-house, gay in large flowered paper, met his eyes. "Why, where am I?" he began.

"At good Farmer Higby's," said Polly. And then he saw that her arm was in a sling. "That's nothing," she finished, meeting his look, "it's all fixed as good as can be, and has nothing to do but get well—has it, Ben?"

Ben popped up his head from the depths of the easy chair, where he had crouched, afraid lest Pickering should revive and see him too suddenly.

"How are you, old fellow?" he now cried, advancing toward the bed. "There, don't try to speak," hurriedly, "everything is all right. Wait till you are better."

"How long have I been here?" asked Pickering, looking at Polly's arm.

"Only a day," said Polly, "and now you must have something to eat," starting toward the door.

"I couldn't eat a mouthful," said Pickering, shutting his mouth and turning on the pillow.

"Indeed you will," declared Polly, hurrying on. "The doctor said as soon as you could talk, you must have something to eat; and I shall tell Mrs. Higby to bring it up." So she disappeared.

"Goodness me! have I had the doctor?" asked Pickering, turning back to look after her.

"Yes," said Ben. Then he tried to turn the conversation. But Pickering broke in. "Did Polly break her arm at—at the first?" he asked, holding his breath for the answer.

"Yes," said Ben, "don't talk about it," with a gasp—"Polly says that she is so glad it isn't her right arm," he added, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "And the doctor promises it will be all right soon. It's lucky there is a good one here."

Pickering groaned. "It's a pity I wasn't in the old fellow's place, Ben," he said, "for I've got to tell Polly how I wanted to leave him, and I'd rather die than see her face."

"See here," cried Ben, "if you say one word to Polly about it, I'll pitch you out of the window, sick as you are."

"Pitch ahead, then," said Pickering, "for I shall tell Polly."

"Not to-day, any way. Now promise," said Ben resolutely.

"Well—but I shall tell her sometime," said Pickering. "I'd rather she knew it—but I wish we could have saved him."

"He's in the other room," said Ben suddenly.

"Poor old thing—to die like that."

"Die? He's as well as a fish," said Ben; "sitting up in an easy chair, and to my certain knowledge, eating dried herrings and cheese at this very minute."

"He's eating dried herrings and cheese!" repeated Pickering, nearly skipping out of bed. "Why, wasn't he dead when we brought him out?"

"No, only stunned. There, do get back," said Ben, pushing Pickering well under the blankets again, "the doctor says on no account are you to get up until he came. Do keep still; he'll be here presently," with a glance at Mrs. Higby's chimney clock.

"The doctor—who cares for him!" cried Pickering, nevertheless he scrambled back again, and allowed Ben to tuck him in tightly. And presently in came Polly, and after her, a bright apple-cheeked woman bearing a tray, on which steamed a bowl of gruel.



And in less time than it takes to tell it, Pickering was bolstered up against his pillows, and obediently opening his mouth at the right times to admit of the spoonfuls Polly held out to him. And Phronsie came in and perched on the foot of the four-poster, gravely watching it all. And old Mr. King followed, drawing up the easy chair to the bedside, where he could oversee the whole thing. And before it was over, the door opened, and a young man, with a professional air, looked in and said in great satisfaction, "That's good," coming up to the bed and putting out his hand to Pickering.

"Here's the doctor," cried old Mr. King, with a flourish of his palm. "Well, Doctor Bryce, your patient is doing pretty well, I think."

"I should say so," answered the doctor, with a keen glance at Pickering. "O, he's all right. How is the arm?" to Polly.

"That is all right too," said Polly cheerfully, and trying to talk of something else.

"Let me feed Pickering, do," begged Phronsie, slipping from the bed, "while Doctor looks at your arm, Polly."

"I can wait," said the doctor, moving down to the foot of the four-poster, where he stood looking at the feeding process, "and I can go in and see Mr. Loughead meanwhile."

Pickering dodged the spoon, nearly in his mouth. "Who?" he cried.

"Dear me," cried Polly, trying to save the gruel drops from falling on Mrs. Higby's crazy quilt, "how you frightened me, Pickering."

"Who did he say?" demanded Pickering, as Dr. Bryce went out.

"Pickering," said Polly, with shining eyes, "who do you think you and Ben saved so bravely? Jack Loughead's uncle, who has just got here from Australia, and he's"—

Pickering gave a groan and turned on his pillow. "Don't give me any more, Polly," he said, putting up his hand.

Polly set the spoon in the gruel bowl, with a disappointed air.

"Never mind," said the young doctor, coming back again, "he's eaten enough. Now may I see your arm?" He turned to Polly gently. "We must go in the other room for that," with a nod at Pickering.

A thrill went over Phronsie, which she tried her best to conceal, and she turned quite pale. Polly smiled at her as she went over toward the door, followed by the doctor, old Mr. King and Ben. Pickering Dodge clenched his hand under the bedclothes, and looked after them, then steadfastly gazed at the large flowers blooming with reckless abandon up and down over the dark-green wall-paper.

"Phronsie," said Polly, hearing her footsteps joining the others out in the hall, "will you go in and see how Charlotte is getting on with Johnny? Do, dear," she whispered in Phronsie's ear, as she gained her side.

"I'd rather stay with you, Polly," said Phronsie wistfully, "and hold your other hand."

"But I do so want you to help Charlotte," said Polly beseechingly. "Will you, Phronsie?" and she set a kiss on Phronsie's pale cheek.

"I will, Polly," said Phronsie, with a sigh. But she looked back as she went slowly along to the opposite end of the hall. "Please don't hurt Polly," she said imploringly to the doctor.

"I won't, little girl," he replied, "any more than I can help."

"Good-by," called Polly cheerfully, and she threw her a kiss with her right hand.

* * * * *

Mrs. Farmer Higby stood on her flat door-stone, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Seems's if I sha'n't ever get over the shock," she said to herself, looking off to the railroad track, shining in the morning sunlight. "To look up from my sewing and see—la! and 'twas the first time I ever sat down to that rag-rug since I had to drop it and run over and take care of Simon, when they brought me word he was 'most cut to pieces in the mowing machine. My senses! I'm afraid to finish the thing."

The frightened look in her eyes began to deepen, and she shook as if the chill of a winter day were upon her, instead of the soft air of a mild morning in spring.

"I want to get out in the woods and holler," she declared; "seems's if then I'd feel better. To look up, expecting to see the cars coming along real lively and pleasant, just as they always do so sociable-like when I'm sewing, and then—oh, dear me!" she wrung her fat hands together, "there, all of a sudden, were two of 'em bumping together, one end smashed into kindling wood, and t'other end sticking up straight in the air. Oh! my senses, I don't wonder I thought I was going crazy, and that I let the rug fly and jumped into the middle of the floor, till I heard the screaming, and I run to help, and there was that poor soul they were bringing here, and she dead as a stone. Oh, dear, dear!"

Mrs. Higby turned away so that she could not see the shining railroad track, and looked off over the meadow, while a happier expression came over her features. "I'm awful tickled this house is big," she said, with a good degree of comfort, "so's Jotham and me could take 'em in. Now I'm glad we didn't sell last spring, when Mary Ann was married, and move down to the village. Seems's if Providence was in it. Gracious, see that man running here! I hope there ain't anything else happened!" and with her old flutter upon her, Mrs. Higby turned to meet a young man advancing to the door-stone, with more speed than was ordinarily exhibited by the natives of Brierly.

"Is this Mr. Jotham Higby's house?" asked the stranger. And although he was very pale and evidently troubled, he touched his hat, and waited for her answer.

"Yes," said Mrs. Higby; "what do you want? Do excuse me," all in the same breath, "but I'm all upset; there was an awful railroad accident along here yesterday. You haven't come to tell of anything else bad, have you?" And she was sharper than ever.

"No," said the young man, "my friends are here; you took them in so kindly. Do show me the way to them." He was quite imperative now, moving over the flat stone, and into the square entry like one accustomed to being obeyed. "Which way?" he asked, glancing up the stairs.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, "excuse me, sir; the rooms upstairs"—nodding like a mandarin in the direction named, "any of 'em—all of 'em; they've got 'em all; you can't make a miss."

The young man was already opening the door of the room where Dr. Bryce was examining Polly's arm, old Mr. King and Ben looking on anxiously.

Polly saw him first. "Oh, Jasper!" she cried, with a sudden start.

"Take care!" exclaimed Dr. Bryce, looking off from the bandages he was nicely adjusting, to bestow a keen glance on Jasper.

Jasper gave one hand to his father in passing, but went straight to Polly's side, and laid his other hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right, Jasper," said Polly, seeing he couldn't speak. "Doctor says my arm is doing beautifully."

"Well, well," said old Mr. King, trying to speak cheerfully, but only succeeding in a nervous effort, "this isn't just the most successful way to give you a surprise party, Jasper, but it's the best we could do. And we had to send you a telegram, for fear you'd see it in the papers. So you thought you'd come on and see for yourself, eh?" as Jasper showed no inclination to talk.

"Yes," said Jasper, still confining himself to monosyllables.

"And that's the sensible thing to do," said Ben, with a grateful look at Jasper, "than to wait till we are able to move on—Pickering and all."

"Is Pickering Dodge with you?" exclaimed Jasper, quickly.

Polly turned in her chair, and looked into his eyes. "Yes; Pickering came with us expressly to see you, Jasper." Then without waiting for an answer, "He is in the next room; do go and see him."

"Very well," said Jasper, "I'll be back in a moment or two, father," going out.

Pickering Dodge still lay, gazing at the sprawling flowers on the wall, and doing his best not to count them. The door opened suddenly. "Well, well, old fellow." Jasper came up to the bedside with the air of one who had been in the habit of running in every little while. "It's good to see you again, Pick," he added, affectionately, laying his hand, that good right hand, on the nervous one playing with the coverlids.

"Of course you couldn't do what I asked, Jasper; no one could," said Pickering, rolling over to look at him. "And I was a fool to ask it."

"But I might have been kinder," said Jasper, compressing his lips; "forget that, Pick."

"Don't say any more," said Pickering, his face flushing, "and I know it's all up with me, any way, Jasper." And he turned pale again. "We pulled an old fellow out of the wreck, at least Ben did the most of it—Polly wanted us to; and who do you suppose he is? Why, Jack Loughead's uncle. Of course he'll be here soon, and it's easy to see the end."

At that, Pickering bolted up in bed to a sitting position, and clutched at the collar of his morning jacket with savage fingers.

"Don't, Pick," begged Jasper, in an unsteady voice.

"I'm going to get up," declared Pickering deliberately. "Clear out, Jasper," with a forbidding gesture, "or I'll pitch into you."

"You'll lie down," said Jasper decidedly; "there, get in again," with a gentle push on Pickering's long legs. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, though, to act like this!" trying to speak playfully.

Pickering scrambled back into bed, fuming every instant. "To lie like a log here, while that fellow dashes around carrying everything before him—it's—it's—abominable and atrocious! Let me out, I say!" And he dashed toward the edge of the bed, nearly knocking Jasper over.

"Hold on, there," cried Jasper, pinning down the clothes with a firm hand, "don't you see"—while Pickering struggled to toss them back "Take care, you'll tear this quilt!—that I'll help you on to your feet all in good time? And if you behave yourself, you'll be around, and a match for any Jack Loughead under the heavens. There, now, will you be still?"

"Send that dunce of a doctor to me as soon as you can," said Pickering, rolling back suddenly once more, into the hollow made in the center of the four-poster. "Dear me, he's sweet on Polly too!" he groaned under the clothes.

"Whew!" exclaimed Jasper, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "I won't agree to hold you in bed again, Pick. I'll send the doctor," he added, going out, "but you see that you don't lose your head while I'm gone."

"I'll promise nothing," said Pickering softly to himself, the moment the door closed, and slipping neatly out of bed, he tiptoed over and turned the key in the lock. "There," snapping his fingers in the air, "as if I'd have that idiot of a doctor around me." Then he proceeded to dress himself very rapidly, but with painstaking care.

"I'm all right," and he gave himself a final shake; "that doctor would have made a fool of me and kept me in bed, like enough, for a week. And with that Jack Loughead here!" He gave a swift glance into the cracked looking-glass hanging over the high shelf, and with another pull at his necktie-end, unlocked the door and went out.

"Halloo!"

"Oh, beg pardon!" A long figure that had just scaled the stairs, came suddenly up against Pickering, stalking along the narrow hall.

"How d'ye do?" said Pickering quite jauntily, and extending the tips of his fingers; "just got here, I take it, Loughead?"

"Yes," returned Jack Loughead. Pickering was made no more steady in his mind, nor on his feet, by seeing the other's evident uneasiness, but he covered it up by a careless "Well, I suppose you have come to look up your uncle, hey?"

"Yes, oh, yes," said Jack, "of course, my uncle. Well, were any of the others hurt?"

"Yes; one woman was killed." Pickering could not trust himself to mention Polly's broken arm yet.

Jack Loughead's face carried the proper amount of sympathy. "No one of your party was hurt, I believe?" he said quickly.

"Oh, look us over, and see for yourself," said Pickering, beginning to feel faintish, and as if he would like to sit down. And then the door at the end of the hall was opened, and out came all the others and the doctor, who was saying, "I'll just step in and look at the young man, though he's doing well enough—oh, my gracious!"

"Thank you, I am doing well enough," said Pickering, with his best society manner on, and extending his hand, "much obliged, I'm sure; what I should have done without you, I don't know, of course; send in your bill, and I shall be only too happy to make it all right."

Jack Loughead rushed up to Polly. "No one told me—is your arm—" he couldn't say "broken," being quite beyond control of himself.

"How are you, Mr. Loughead?" said old Mr. King rather stiffly, at being overlooked, and putting out his courtly old hand.

"Oh, beg pardon." Jack mumbled something about being an awkward fellow at the best, and extended a shaking hand.

"You are anxious to see your uncle, of course," continued the old gentleman, leading off down the hall, "this way, Mr. Loughead."

"Of course, yes, indeed," stammered Jack Loughead, having nothing to do but to follow.



CHAPTER XIV.

JOEL.

Joel threw down his books in an uneasy way. "I must give it up; there's no other way," he exclaimed.

"Halloo, Joe!"

"You here?" cried Joel, whirling in surprise. "Come out of your hole, Dave," peering into the niche between the book-shelves and the bed. "What are you prowling in there for?"

"Oh! my cuff-button rolled in here somewhere," said David, emerging crab-wise, and lifting a red face. "Give us a hand, Joe, and help pull out the bed. Plague on this room for being such a box! There!" with an impatient shove.

Joel burst into a fit of laughter, and then stared; it was such an unusual thing to see a frown on David's placid face. "What's come over you, any way? Stand out of the way; I'll have this bed over there in a jiffy," rolling it into the center of the small room as he spoke.

David sprang to one side lightly. "Whew! what a dust you kick up," he cried, snapping his clothes gingerly.

"So you are in your best toggery," exclaimed Joel, standing straight, his labors over the bed being completed.

"Yes, I'm going to the Parrotts' to dinner," said David, hurrying off for the whisk broom to remove the last speck of dust from his dress suit. "Of course you've forgotten it, Joe, though I don't suppose you'd go, any way."

"No, I wouldn't go, any way," said Joel, tossing back his black locks from his forehead. "You forget, Dave, it's the Association night."

David let another little frown settle on his face. "No, I didn't forget that, Joe, but I do wish you'd think it possible to take a Thursday evening off once in a while for the sake of your friends, if for no other reason."

"Well, I can't," said Joel, getting down on all-fours to hunt for the button, "so don't let's go over old arguments. Where in time is that thing? oh"—and he came up bright and shining to his feet, holding the button between his thumb and finger. "My compliments to you," presenting it to David. "There, stick it in before it gets lost again, and hurry off; you look pretty as a pink."

"Stop your nonsense, Joe," cried David sharply, who hated being reminded of his girlish beauty. "Well, I'll make the usual excuses for you. Good-by," and not forgetting to pick up his walking stick with his hat, he ran off on his way to the florist's for the boutonniere that must go on before he presented himself at the Parrotts' dinner party.

Joel shoved back the bed into position with one long thrust that would have been a godsend to a lagging boat crew; then dashed to the table and sat down, doggedly throwing open the first book that came to hand.

"I'd rather chop wood," he exclaimed in the old way, leaning his head on his hands. "Whew! weren't those good days, though, in the little brown house, when we had all outdoors to work in!" He dropped his arms to pinch the muscles of one with his other fingers. "Isn't that beautiful?" he said affectionately. Then he swung them over his head, tilting back his chair restfully.

"What did Mamsie say?" he cried, bringing the chair down with a remorseful thud. "'I'd work myself to skin and bone but I'd go through creditably.' Here goes!"

And by the time that Davie was handing in Miss Lulu Parrott to dinner Joel clapped together his last book, threw on his hat, and rushed out to a hasty supper at Commons, en route to the Christian Association meeting.

Little Perkins ran up to him at the close of the meeting. "Stop a bit. Pepper, do," he begged; "Johnson's gone back to his cups, and we can't do anything with him."

A cloud fell over Joel's face. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Oh, in the little room back. He won't show his face here, and yet he can't keep away, he says. You must get your hand on him, Pepper," and Little Perkins hurried off.

Joel dashed into the "little room back." "How d'ye, Johnson?" putting out his hand "Come out for a walk, do; why, this room is stifling."

"I can't," said Johnson miserably; "you don't know, Mr. Pepper, I've been drinking, or you wouldn't ask me."

"Nonsense—but I would, though," said Joel sharply. "Come out, I say, Johnson; it's enough to make you drink again to stay in such a room."

Johnson not getting out of his chair, Joel went in and laid hold of his arm. "It's no use, Johnson," he said, "I can't talk to you here; it's too hot and close. And I do want a walk, so let's have it together. There, button up your coat," as they were well out in the hall, and Johnson flung his hat on his head with a reckless hand.

As they hurried down the steps they ran against a crowd of college boys. Johnson shrank up miserably against the stone fence, and tried to look as small as possible. Glances of recognition passed, and Joel spoke to right and left as the boys went by. But a few hisses, low and insistent, were all he got.

"Do let me go," begged Johnson, still hugging the fence, "you can't save me; and they hate you enough for such work."

"Come on!" roared Joel at him, and plucking him off from the fence with a determined hand.

"It's time we went for him," said one of the college boys, with a backward glance at Joel and his companion, "the Deacon is absolutely insulting. The idea of his speaking to us."

"Let's have it over to-night," said another. "What do you say?" to the others.

"Where's Davina?" asked another.

"Oh, Pink-and-White is out dining," said the first voice. "My pretty little girl is safe at the Parrotts'."

"Sure?"

"As a gun. Met him with a posy in his button-hole, and sweet as a little bud himself, and he told me so."

"All right. He'll stay away late, then; the Parrotts always have music or a dance after their dinners. Come on." The last speaker rolled up his sleeves, and boxed imaginary rounds in a scientific manner in the air.

"Agreed?" the tall fellow who proposed it looked over the whole crew. "Do you all want to have it done to-night?" as they came to a standstill on the pavement.

"Yes—yes."

"Hush—that cop is looking. Move on, will you? Now, not a man of you backs out, you understand; if he does, he gets worse than the Deacon will. All right."

"We're all such jolly good fellows, We're all such jolly good fellows"—

Everybody smiled who passed them singing their way down town.

"It always does me good to hear those students sing. They're so happy, and so affectionate toward each other," said one lady, hanging on her escort's arm.

He, being a college man, said rapturously, "Oh yes!"

Joel, back in his own room, threw himself in his easy chair, first turning down the gas. "Just so much less of a bill for Grandpapa. Our debt is rolling up fast enough without burning up the money. Dear me, if Johnson drinks after this, I shall be in despair." He threw up his long legs, and rested them on the mantel, while he thrust his hands in his pockets, to think the better.

A knock at the door. "Come in!" called Joel, not looking around, till a rushing sound of feet trying to step carefully, called him out of himself.

"Now—now!" Two or three swifter than the others, darted for the chair, but Joel was not in it. On the other side of it, looking at them, his hands out of his pockets, he stood, saying, "What do you want?"

"Oh, come, Pepper, it's no use," said a tall fellow, wiry and agile, "too many against you in this little call. Come along," and he advanced on Joel.

"You come along yourself, Dobbs," said Joel pleasantly, and holding up a fist that looked hard to begin with, "and you'll get this; that's all."



"Come on, fellows!" Dobbs looked back and winked to the others. "Now!" there was a shoulder-to-shoulder rush; a wild tangle of arms, followed by a wilder tangle of legs, and Joel was through the ranks, his black eyes blazing, and tossing his black hair from his forehead.

"Do you want some more?" he cried, flirting his fists in the air, "or will you leave my room?"

"Lock the door!" "Get up, Bingley," and, "Stop your roaring." "No, we'll give it to you now, and no mistake." "If you won't come quietly, you shall some way, Deacon."

These were some of the smothered cries.

"Now!" and there was another blind rush; this time, over Bingley, who didn't heed the invitation to get up.

Joel, watching his chance to reach the door, had no time before they were on him, and he heard the key click in the lock.

"It's for Mamsie now, sure—and for Polly!" he said, setting his teeth hard. On they came. But Joel, in rushing through as before, was so mindful of stepping over Bingley carefully, that it lost him an instant; and a grasp firm as iron, was on his arm. The others rallied, and closed around him.

"Unhand me!" yelled Joel, beating them off. But he might as well have fought tigers, unless he could knock off, with cruel aim, the one hanging to his arm. It was no time to mince matters, and Joel, only careful to avoid the face, struck a terrible blow that felled Dobbs flat.

"Now will you go?" roared Joel, aghast at what he had done, yet swinging his arms with deadly intent on either side, "or, do you want some more?"

There lay two valiant fellows on the floor. The rest drew off and looked at them.

"You'll pay for this, Deacon," they declared under their breath.

"I suppose so," said Joel, still swinging his arms for practice; "probably you'll wait for me with kindly intent some dark night behind a tree, as you know I don't carry a pistol. Why don't you have it out now? Come on if you want to."

But no one seemed to want to.

"There'll be a row over this," said one or two, consulting together; "as long as those thin-skinned fellows don't get up," pointing to the floor, "we must wait." Suddenly the door was unlocked, and the whole crew stampeded.

"See here," cried Joel, bounding after them, "come back and take care of your two men."

But the crew disappeared.

Bingley lifted his head feebly.

"Just like Dobbs," he said, "get us into a scrape, and then cut."

"Hush—don't say anything," said Joel, rushing frantically back, "I think he's dead—oh, Bingley, I'm sorry I hurt you too."

He was rapidly pouring water into the basin, and dashing it into Dobbs' unconscious face. "I must go for the doctor," he groaned. "Bingley, he can't be dead—do say he isn't!" in a flood of remorse.

Bingley managed to roll over and look at his late leader. "He looks like it," he said; "I shouldn't think you'd be sorry, Pepper."

"Oh!" groaned Joel, quite horror-stricken, and dashing the water with a reckless hand, feeling like a murderer all the time.

"Bingley, could you manage to do this?" at last he cried in despair. "I must run for a doctor, there's not a minute to lose."

"I wouldn't go for any doctor," advised Bingley cautiously; "see; his eyelids are moving—this row will be all over town if you do."

But Joel was flying off. "Come back!" called Bingley, "I vow he's all right; he's opened his eyes, Pepper."

Joel turned; saw for himself that Dobbs was really looking at him, and that his lips moved as if he wanted to say something.

"What is it, Dobbs?" cried Joel, throwing himself down on his knees by Dobbs' side.

"Let him alone, and help me up," said Bingley crossly, "I'm hurt a great deal more. He's tough as a boiled owl. Give us a hand, Pepper."

But Joel had his ear down to Dobbs' mouth.

"Where are the fellows?" asked Dobbs in a whisper.

"Gone," answered Joel, briefly.

"Gone—and left me here like a dog?" said Dobbs.

"Yes," said Joel.

"They couldn't wait, my friend," observed Bingley sarcastically, "for people of such trifling consequence, as you and I."

"The deuce! you here, Bingley?" exclaimed Dobbs, in his natural voice, and trying to get his head up.

"Oh, you are coming to, are you?" said Bingley carelessly. "Well, Dobbs, I think you better get on your feet, and help me out, since Pepper won't; for I vow I can't stir."

"Oh, I'll help you," declared Joel, getting up to run over and put his hands under Bingley's arms, paling as he exclaimed, "I didn't mean to hurt you so, Bingley, on my honor I didn't."

"And you didn't," said Bingley, wincing with the pain, as Joel slowly drew him to his feet; "it wasn't your stinger of a blow, Pepper, but some of those dastardly cads stepped all over me; I could feel them hoofing me. There, set me in that chair, and I'll draw a long breath if I can."

"Now, I shall go for a doctor," declared Joel, setting Bingley within the easy-chair, and making a second dash for the door.

"I tell you, you will not," cried Bingley, from his chair. "Wait a minute, till I see where I'm hurt. I'm coming out of it better than I thought. Come back, Pepper."

"Really?" Joel drew off from the door, and looked at him.

"Yes; go and take care of Dobbs; he was only shamming," said Bingley, leaning his head comfortably on the chair-back. Dobbs already was on his feet, and slowly standing quite straight.

"Sure you don't want any help?" asked Joel, putting out his hand.

"Thanks, no," said Dobbs scornfully, not looking at the hand, but making for the door.

"Let him alone, Pepper," advised Bingley; "a mean, low-lived chap like that isn't hurt; you couldn't kill him," as Joel looked out anxiously to watch Dobbs' progress along the hall, at last following him along a bit.

"He's in his own room, thank fortune," exclaimed Joel, coming back, "and I suppose I can't do any more. But oh, I do wish, Bingley, it hadn't happened."

Joel leaned his elbow on the mantel, and looked down at the easy-chair and its occupant.

"Perhaps you'd rather be lying there," said Bingley, pointing to the floor, "instead, with a flopper under your ear, like the nasty one you gave me, Pepper."

"I am so sorry for that, too," cried Joel, in a fresh burst of remorse.

"I got no more, I presume, than was good for me," said Bingley, feeling the bump under his ear. "And don't you worry, Pepper, for your mind must be toned up to meet those fellows. They'll be at some neat little game to pay you up for this, you may rest assured."

"I suppose so," said Joel indifferently. "Well, now are you sure I can't do anything for you, Bingley?"

"Sure as a gun," said Bingley decidedly; "I'm getting quite limbered out; so I'll go, for I know my room is better than my company, Pepper," and he dragged himself stiffly out of his chair.

"Don't go," said Joel hospitably; "stay as long as you want to; I should be glad to have you."

Bingley turned a pair of bright eyes on him. "Thank you," he said, "but Davina will be in soon, and things will have to be explained a little, and I'm not quite up to it to-night. No, I must go," moving to the door; "I don't feel like making a pretty speech, Pepper," he said, hesitating a bit, "or I'd express something of what's on my mind. But I think you understand."

"If you want to do me a favor," said Joel steadily, "you'll stop calling David, Davina. It makes him fearfully mad, and I don't wonder."

"He's so pretty," said Bingley, with a smile, and wincing at the same time, "we can't help it. It's a pity to spoil that lovely name."

"But you must," declared Joel, growing savage; "I tell you, it just ruins college life for Dave, and he's so bright, and leads his class, I don't see how you can."

"Oh, we're awfully proud of him," said Bingley, leaning heavily on the table, "of course, and trot him out behind his back for praises and all that, but when it comes to giving up that sweet name—that's another thing," he added regretfully. "However, I'll do it, and make the other fellows, if I can."

"Good for you!" cried Joel gratefully. "Good-night, Bingley; sure you don't want any help to your room?"

"Sure," declared Bingley, going out unsteadily and shutting the door.

Joel threw himself on his knees by the side of the easy-chair, and burrowed his head deep within it. "Oh, if I only had Mamsie's lap to lay it in," he groaned, "and Mamsie's hands to go over it."

"Joe—Joe!" David flung wide the door, "where are you?" he cried.

Joel sprang to his feet.

"Here's a telegram," said David, waving a yellow sheet at him. "I just met the boy bringing it up. The folks were going to see Jasper—on a surprise party; something happened to the cars, and Polly has her arm broken—but that's all," delivered David, aghast at Joel's face.

"Polly? oh, not Polly?" cried Joel, putting up both hands, and feeling the room turn around with him.

"Yes, Polly," said David; "don't look so, Joe," he begged, feeling his own cheeks getting white, "it's only broken—it can't be bad, for we are not to go, Grandpapa says; see," shaking the telegram at him.

"But I shall go—we both must," declared Joel passionately, beginning to rush for his hat behind the door; "the idea—Polly hurt, and we not to go! Come on, Dave, we can catch the midnight train," looking at his watch.

"But if it makes Polly worse," said David doubtfully.

Joel's hand carrying the hat to his head, wavered, and he finally tossed the head-gear into the nearest corner. "I suppose you are right, Dave," he said helplessly, and sinking into a chair.



CHAPTER XV.

THE FARMHOUSE HOSPITAL.

Jack Loughead marched into his uncle's room. "Well—well—well," exclaimed the old gentleman with a prolonged look, and sitting straight in his chair. "So this really is you, Jack? I must say, I am surprised."

"Surprised?" echoed Jack, getting his uncle's hands in both of his. "Why, Uncle, I cabled Crane Brothers just as soon as I got your letter, that I was coming."

"This is the first thing I've heard of it," said old Mr. Loughead. "Well, how did you track me here, for goodness' sake?"

"Why, I saw an account of your accident in the New York paper as soon as I landed," said Jack.

"Oh! confound those papers," exclaimed his uncle ungratefully. "Well, I came near being done for, Jack," he added. "In fact, I was left in the wreck."

Jack shuddered.

"But that little girl there," pointing toward the next room, where the talking seemed to be going on busily, "insisted that I was buried in the smash-up, so they tell me, and she made them come and look for me. None too soon, I take it, by all accounts." The old gentleman placidly tore off two or three grapes from the bunch in the basketful, put at his elbow, and ate them leisurely.

"Phronsie is a good child," said Jack Loughead, with feeling, "and an observing one, too."

"Phronsie? Who's talking of Phronsie?" cried his uncle, pushing back the fruit-basket. "It was the other one—Polly; she wouldn't let them give over till they pulled me out. So the two young men tell me; very well-meaning chaps, too, they are, Jack."

"You said it was a little girl," Jack managed to remark.

"Well, and so she is," said old Mr. Loughead obstinately, "and a nice little thing, too, I should say."

"Miss Pepper is twenty years old," said his nephew suddenly. Then he was sorry he had spoken.

"Nonsense! not a day over fifteen," contradicted the old gentleman flatly. "And I must say, Jack, you've been pretty expert, considering the time spent in this house, in taking the census."

"Oh! I knew her before," said Jack, angry to find himself stammering over what ought to be a simple account enough.

"Hem—hem!" exclaimed the old gentleman, bestowing a keen scrutiny on his nephew. "Well, never mind," he said at last; "now, let's to business."

"Are you strong enough?" asked Jack, in duty bound, yet longing to get the talk into safe business channels.

"Strong enough?" repeated the old gentleman, in a dudgeon, "I'm really better than I was before the shake-up. I'm going home tomorrow, I'd have you to know, Jack."

"You would better not move too soon," said his nephew involuntarily. Then he added hastily, "At least, take the doctor's advice."

"Hem—hem!" said his uncle again, with a shrewd smile, as he helped himself to a second bunch of grapes.

"Well, now, as to that matter you sent me over to London about," began Jack, nervously plunging into business.

"Draw up that chair, and put your mind on the matter, and we'll go over it," interrupted old Mr. Loughead, discarding the grape-bunch suddenly, and assuming his commercial expression at once.

So Jack drew up his chair, as bidden; and presently the financial head of the Bradbury & Graeme Company, and the enterprising young member who was the principal part of "Company," were apparently lost to all else in the world, but their own concerns.

Meantime, Pickering Dodge was having a truly dreadful time of it.

The doctor, washing his hands of such a troublesome patient, had just run downstairs, jumped into his little old gig in displeasure, and was now half across a rut worn in the open meadow, dignified by the name of the "Short Road."

"Do go to bed," implored Ben, studying Pickering's pale face.

"Hoh, hoh!" Pickering made out to exclaim, "if I couldn't say anything original, I wouldn't talk. You're only an echo to that miserable little donkey of a medical man."



"But you really ought to go back to bed," Ben insisted.

"Really ought?" repeated Pickering, in high disdain; "as if I'd put myself again under that quack's thumb. No, sir!" and snapping his fingers derisively at Ben, he straightened up jauntily on his somewhat uncertain feet. "All I want is a little air," stumbling off to the window."

"Well, I'm going to tell Phronsie that my arm is all right," said Polly, hurrying off; "beside I want to see Johnny"—

"It's time for me to look after that young man, too," said old Mr. King, following her; "I haven't heard him roar to-day. Come on, Jasper; you must see Johnny."

As they disappeared, Ben ran over to Pickering, and was aghast to find that the face laid against the window-casing was deathly white, and that all his shaking of the broad shoulders could not make Pickering open his eyes.

"Jasper," called Ben, in despair.

"Hush!" Some one came hurrying up. "Don't call Jasper; then Polly will know. Let me help."

Ben looked up. "O, Charlotte! that's good. Pick's done up. Call Mrs. Higby, will you? we must get him to bed."

"I'll help you; I'm strong." Charlotte held out her long arms.

Ben looked them over approvingly. "You're right," he said; "it's better not to stir Mrs. Higby up. There, easy now, Charlotte; put your hands under there. You are sure it won't hurt you?"

"Sure as I can be," said Charlotte, steadily moving off in pace with Ben, as they carried Pickering between them.

"Excuse me!" Ben rushed in without knocking upon the Bradbury & Graeme Company. "Do you mind"—to Jack—"I'm awfully sorry to ask it, but I can't leave him. Will you run to the doctor's and fetch him? Mrs. Higby, the landlady downstairs, you know, will tell you where to find him." Ben was all out of breath when he got through, and stood looking at young Loughead.

"What's the doctor wanted for?" cried Company, springing to his feet, and seizing his hat from the table. "Why, of course I'll go—delighted to be of use—who for?"

"Pickering Dodge—got up too soon—keeled over," said Ben briefly. "I've got to stay with him—he's in bed—and we don't want Grandpapa or Polly to know."

But Jack Loughead after the first word, was half over the stairs.

"See here," cried old Mr. Loughead suddenly, as Ben was rushing out, "can't I see your sister? I'm horribly lonesome," turning in his chair; "that is, if her arm will let her come," he added, as a second thought struck him. "Don't ask her if you think she's in pain."

"Doctor has fixed Polly's arm," said Ben, "and I know she'll like to come in and sit with you. It's a shame," and his honest face flamed with regret, "I had to ask such a favor as"—

"Tut, tut! go along with you," commanded the old gentleman imperatively, "and send Polly here; then I'll make by the operation," and he began to chuckle with pleasure.

So Ben ran off, and presently Polly, her arm in a sling, came hurrying in.

"Bless my soul," cried the old gentleman, "if your cheeks aren't as rosy as if you had two good arms, and this was an every-day sort of excursion for pleasure."



"It's so nice," said Polly, sitting down on one of Mrs. Higby's spare-room ottomans, on which that lady had worked a remarkable cat in blue worsted reposing on a bit of green sward, "to think that everybody is getting on so well," and she hugged her lame arm rapturously.

"Hem—hem! I should say so," breathed old Mr. Loughead, regarding her closely. "Where have they buried that woman?" he demanded suddenly.

Polly started. "Out in the meadow," she said softly. "Mrs. Higby wanted it here instead of in the churchyard. It is under a beautiful oak-tree, Mr. Loughead, and Mr. Higby is going to make a fence around it, and Grandpapa is to put"—

"Up the stone, I suppose you mean," interrupted the old gentleman. "Well, and when that's done, why, what can be said upon it, pray tell? You don't know a thing about it—who in Christendom the woman was—not a thing."

"Johnny's mother," said Polly sorrowfully, the corners of her mouth drooping; "that's going to be on it, and Grandpapa is to have the letters cut, telling about the accident; and Mrs. Higby hopes that sometime somebody will come to inquire about it. But I don't believe anybody ever will come in all this world," added Polly softly, "because there is no one left who belongs to Johnny," and she told the story the pale little mother had just finished when the car went over.

Old Mr. Loughead "hemmed," and exclaimed impatiently, and fidgeted in his chair, all through the recital. When it was over, and Polly sat quite still, "What are you going to do with that horrible boy?" he asked sharply. "Almshouse, I suppose, eh?"

"O, no!" declared Polly, in horror. "Phronsie is going to take him into the Home."

"Phronsie is going to take that little rat into her home?" cried old Mr. Loughead in disgust. "You don't know what you are talking of. I shall speak to Mr. King."

"Johnny is just a dear," cried Polly, having great difficulty not to spring from her chair, and turn her back on the old gentleman, then and there.

"But into your home," repeated old Mr. Loughead, his disgust gaining on him with each word; "it's monstrous—it's"—

"Oh! I didn't mean our home," explained Polly, obliged to interrupt him, he was becoming so furious. "Johnny is going down to Dunraven, to the Children's Home," and then she began on the story of Phronsie's company of children, and how they lived, and who they were, with many little side stories of this small creature, who was "too cunning for anything," and that funny little boy, till the old gentleman sat helplessly listening in abject silence. And the latch was lifted, and young Mr. Loughead put his head in the doorway, looking as if he had finished a long tramp.

"Come in, Jack," said his uncle, finding his tongue. "We've a whole orphan asylum in here, and I don't know what all; every charity you ever heard of, rolled into one. Do come in, and see if you can make head or tail to it."

"Oh! Mr. Loughead knows all about it," cried Polly brightly, while her cheeks glowed, "for he went down to Dunraven with us at Christmas, and he showed the children stereopticon pictures, and told them such nice stories of places that he had seen."

"He—my Jack!" exploded the old gentleman, starting forward and pointing to his nephew. "Great Caesar! he never did such a thing in his life."

"Ah!" said Polly, shaking her brown head, while she looked only at the old gentleman, "you ought to have seen, sir, how happy the children were that day."

"My Jack went to an orphan asylum to show pictures to the children!" reiterated the old gentleman, unable to grasp another idea.

"Do be still, Uncle," begged his tall nephew, jogging his elbow.

"Here—here's Polly!" cried Jasper's voice. And at the same moment in sped little Dr. Fisher, his glasses shining with determination, as he gazed all over the room for Polly.

"My dear, dear child," he cried, as he spied her.

And "Papa Fisher!" joyfully from Polly, as she sprang from Mrs. Higby's ottoman, and precipitated herself into the little doctor's arms.

"Softly, softly, child," he warned; "you'll hurt it," tenderly covering the poor arm with his right hand, while he fumbled in his pocket with the other, for his handkerchief. "Dear me!" and he blew his nose violently. "Yes; well, you're sure you're all right except this?" and he held Polly at arm's length and scanned her closely.

"I am all right if you will only tell me that Mamsie is well, and isn't worried about us," said Polly, an anxious little pucker coming on her forehead.

"Your mother is as bright as a button," declared Father Fisher emphatically.

"Come, come!" ejaculated Mr. King, appearing in the doorway; "this isn't just the way to take possession of Mr. Loughead's apartment. Jasper, I don't see what you were thinking of. Come, Fisher, my room is next; this way."

Polly blushed red as a rose as old Mr. Loughead said briskly, "Oh! I sent for her to cheer me up, and now, I wish you'd all stay."

"Beg pardon for this inroad," said little Doctor Fisher, going up to the old gentleman's chair and offering his hand. "Well, well, Loughead," to Jack, "this is a surprise party all round!"

"No inroad at all, at least a pleasant one," old Mr. Loughead kept saying, while Polly ran up to Jasper:

"Did Pickering's uncle come with Papa Fisher?"

"No," said Jasper, with his eyes on Jack Loughead, "the Doctor was all alone, Polly."

And then the door of Pickering's room opened, and out came Dr. Bryce, with bad news written all over his face.

"I fear brain fever," he said to Dr. Fisher after the introduction was over, making the two physicians acquainted. "Come," and the door of Pickering's room closed on them both.

And twilight settled down on the old square white house, and on the new-made grave under the oak in the meadow; and Brierly people, by twos and threes, came to inquire for "the sick young man," going away with saddened faces. And a messenger from the telegraph office drove up just as Mr. Higby was pulling on the boots to his tired feet for a long walk to the village, handing in the message:

Mrs. Cabot and I will take the midnight train. RICHARD A. CABOT,



And then there was nothing more to do, only to wait for the coming of Pickering's uncle and aunt.

And the next day Pickering's calls were incessant for "Polly, Polly," sometimes upbraiding her as the brown eyes were fastened piteously on his wild face; and then begging her to just smile at him and remember how he had loved her all these years. "And now I am going to die," he would cry.

"O, Polly! Polly!" Mrs. Cabot would wring her hands and beg at such times, a world of entreaty in her voice. And then old Mr. King would interfere, carrying Polly off, and declaring it was beyond all reason for her to be so annoyed.

And Phronsie would climb up on the bed and lay her cool little hand gently on the hot forehead. Then the sick boy's cries would drop into unintelligible murmurs, while his fingers picked aimlessly at the coverlet.

"There! he is better," Phronsie would say softly to the watchers by the bed, "and I guess he is going to sleep."

But the quiet only ushered in worse ravings when Pickering lived over once more the horror of the train-wrecking, and then it took many strong arms to hold him in his bed. "Come on, Ben," he would shout, struggling hard; "leave him alone—we shall be caught—the fire! the fire!" until his strength died away, and he sank to a deathly stupor.

* * * * *

Phronsie sat down to write a letter to Mrs. Fargo. One like it was dropped every morning into the basket set on Mrs. Higby's front entry table, ready for the neighbor's boy to take to the village post-office.

DEAR MRS. FARGO:

[wrote Phronsie, looking off from the wooden cradle that Mrs. Higby had dragged down from its cobwebby corner under the garret eaves, with the remark, "I guess Johnny'll sleep well; all the Higbys since the first one, has been rocked in it."] I must tell you that dear Pickering isn't any better. [Then she glanced back again, and softly jogged the cradle, as Johnny turned over with a long sigh.] And Papa Fisher and the other doctor don't think he is going to get well. And Mrs. Cabot cries all the time, and Polly cries sometimes too. And we don't know what to do. But I guess God will take care of us. And Charlotte is going to take Johnny down to the Dunraven Home in a day or two. She says she can, though I know she don't like babies, especially boy-babies; she said so once. And so he will be happy. And that's all I can write to-day, Mrs. Fargo, because every minute I'm afraid Polly will want me.

FROM PHRONSIE

And just the very minute when Phronsie was dotting the "i" in her name. Mrs. Higby came toiling up the stairs, holding her gingham gown well away from her feet.

"Say!" she cried in a loud whisper, and pausing midway to wave a large square envelope at Phronsie, curled up on the hall window-seat.

Phronsie got down very softly, and tiptoed over to the stair-railing to grasp the letter Mrs. Higby thrust between the bars, going back to her old post, to open it carefully.

DEAR PHRONSIE:

I think God meant that I was to have Johnny for my very own. So won't you give him to me, dear? Let Charlotte bring him soon, please, for my heart is hungry for a baby to hold. I will make him happy all my life, Phronsie, so I know you will give him to

HELEN'S MOTHER.



CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE BORDERLAND.

Phronsie came into the Higby kitchen, her hands full of wind-blossoms and nodding trilliums.

"Pickering will like these," she said to herself in great satisfaction, and surveying her torn frock with composure, "for they are the very first, Mrs. Higby," addressing that individual standing over by the sink in the corner. "Please may I wash my hands? I had to go clear far down by the brook to get them."

But Mrs. Higby, instead of answering, threw her brown-checked apron high over her head.

Phronsie stood quite still.

"Why do you put your apron there, Mrs. Higby?" she asked at last. "And you do not answer me at all," she added in gentle reproach.

"Land!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, in a voice spent with feeling, "I couldn't, 'cause I was afraid I sh'd burst out crying, and I didn't want you to see my face. O, dear! he's had a poor spell since you went out flowerin' for him, and your pa and Dr. Bryce say he's dyin'. O, dear!"

Down came the apron, showing Mrs. Higby's eyelids very red and swollen.

Phronsie still stood holding her flowers, a breathing-space, then turned and went quickly to the back stairs.

"Sh! don't go," called Mrs. Higby in a loud whisper after her; "it's dreadful for a little girl like you to see any one die. Do come back."

"They will want me," said Phronsie gravely, and going up carefully without another word. When she reached Pickering's door, she paused a moment and looked in.

"I don't believe it is as Mrs. Higby said," she thought, drawing a long breath, a faint smile coming to her face as she went gently in.

But old Mr. King put up his hand as he turned in his chair, at the foot of the bed, and Phronsie saw that his face was white and drawn. And Dr. Bryce turned also, looking off a minute from the watch that he held, as if he were going to bid her go away.



"Phronsie," said Grandpapa, holding out both arms hungrily.

Phronsie hurried to him, a gathering fear at her heart, and getting into his lap, laid her cheek against his.

"Oh! my dear, you oughtn't to be here—you are too young," said Mr. King brokenly, yet holding her close.

"I am not afraid, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her mouth to his ear, "and I think Pickering would like me to be here. I brought him some flowers." She moved the hand holding the bunch, so that the old gentleman could see it. "He likes wild flowers, and I promised to get the first ones I could."

"O, dear!" groaned old Mr. King, not trusting himself to look.

"May I lay them down by him?" whispered Phronsie.

"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman, allowing her to slip to the floor. The group around the bedside parted to let her pass, and then Phronsie saw Polly. Mrs. Cabot was holding Polly's well hand, while her head was on Polly's shoulder.

"Grandpapa said I might," said Phronsie softly to the two, and pointing to her flowers.

"Yes, dear."

It was Polly who answered; Mrs. Cabot was crying so hard she could not speak a word.

Phronsie's little heart seemed to stop beating as she reached the bedside. She had not thought that she would be afraid, but it was so different to be standing there looking down upon the pillow where Pickering lay so still and white, and with closed eyes, looking as if he had already gone away from them. She glanced up in a startled way and saw Dr. Fisher at the head of the bed; he was holding Pickering's wrist. "Yes," he motioned, "put them down."

So Phronsie laid down her blossoms near the poor white face, and stole back quickly, only breathing freely when she was as close to Polly as she could creep, without hurting the broken arm.

"I'm dying—I'm not afraid," suddenly said Pickering's white lips. Dr. Fisher sprang and put a spoonful of stimulant to them, while Mrs. Cabot buried her face yet deeper on Polly's shoulder, her husband turning on his heel, to pace the floor and groan. "Polly, Polly!" called Pickering quite distinctly, in a tone of anguish.

"O, Polly, Polly! he's dying—go to him do!" Mrs. Cabot tore her hand out of Polly's, almost pushing her from the chair. "Quick, dear!"

Polly put Phronsie aside, and stepped softly to the bedside; Pickering's eyes eagerly watched for her face.

He smiled up at her, "Polly," and tried to raise his hand.

She laid her warm, soft palm on the cold one lying on the coverlid. He clasped his thin fingers convulsively around it.

"I am here, Pickering," said Polly, unable to find voice for anything else.

"Don't—ever—leave me," she could just make out the words, bending close to catch them.

"I never will," said Polly quietly.

A sudden gleam came into his face, and he tried to smile, grasping her hand tighter as his eyes closed.

"It has come," said Dr. Fisher in a low voice to Mr. Cabot; "tell your wife," and he bent a professional ear over the white face on the pillow, while Dr. Bryce hurried forward; then brought his head up quickly, a peculiar light in the sharp eyes back of the spectacles. "He is sleeping!"

* * * * *

Polly was sitting, a half-hour by the bedside, Pickering's thin fingers still tightly grasping her hand. They had made her comfortable in an easy chair, Jasper bringing one of Mrs. Higby's biggest cushions for her to lean her head against. He now stood at the side of her chair, Phronsie curled up on the floor at her feet.

"Don't stay." Polly's lips seemed to frame the words rather than speak them, looking up at him.

He shook his head, resting his hand on the back of the chair. Polly tried to smile up a bit of comfort into his eyes. "Jasper loved Pickering so," she said to herself, "that he cannot leave him; but oh! he looks so dreadfully, I wish he would go and rest," and she began to have a worried look at once.

"What is it?" asked Jasper, catching the look at once, and bending to whisper in her ear.

"You will be sick if you do not go and rest," whispered back Polly.

"I cannot—don't ask it." Jasper brought the words out sharply, with just a bitter tone to them.

"He thinks it is strange that I ask it; he is so fond of Pickering," said Polly to herself. "And now I have grieved him—O, dear!"

"I won't leave Pickering," she said, lifting her brown eyes quickly.

A spasm came over Jasper's face, and his brow contracted.

"Don't," he begged, and Polly could feel that the hand resting on the back of the chair grasped it so tightly that it shook beneath her.

"I ought to have remembered that Jasper couldn't leave him; he loves him so," mourned Polly. "Oh! why did I speak?"

In the room at the end of the hall Mrs. Cabot was excitedly walking the floor, twisting her handkerchief between her nervous fingers, and talking unrestrainedly to Charlotte Chatterton.

"I do believe this will melt Polly's heart," she cried. "Oh! it must, it must! Don't you think it must, Miss Chatterton?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte Chatterton in a collected manner, as she bent over the cradle to tuck the shawl over Johnny's legs where he had kicked it off in his sleep.

"Oh! you know quite well what I mean, Miss Chatterton," declared Mrs. Cabot, in her distress losing her habitually polite manner. "Why, everybody knows that Pickering has loved Polly since they were boy and girl together."

Not knowing what was expected of her, Charlotte Chatterton wisely kept silent.

"And now, why, it's just a Providence, I do believe—that is, if he gets well—that brought all this about, for of course Polly must be touched by it. She must!" brought up Mrs. Cabot quite jubilantly.

And this time she waited for Charlotte to speak, at last exclaiming, "Don't you see it must be so?"

"I think love goes where it is sent," said Charlotte slowly.

"Sent? Well, that is just it. Isn't it sent here?" cried Mrs. Cabot impatiently.

"I don't know," said Charlotte. Then she said distinctly, "I know love is very different from pity"—

"Of course it is—but then, sometimes it isn't," said Mrs. Cabot nervously. "Well, any way, Polly has almost as good as promised to marry Pickering," she finished triumphantly—"so—and you are very cruel to talk to me in this way, Miss Chatterton."

Charlotte Chatterton turned away from Johnny and faced Mrs. Cabot. "You don't mean to say you think Polly would feel bound by what she said when we all thought he was dying?"

"I do, certainly—knowing Polly as I do—if Pickering took it so. And I am quite sure he will say so when he gets well; quite sure. Polly isn't a girl to break her word," added Mrs. Cabot confidently.

"Then I'm sure Providence hasn't had anything to do with this," said Charlotte shortly, "and Polly shall never be tormented into thinking it her duty either," and she turned off to pick up a new gown "in the works" for Johnny.

"What you think duty, Miss Chatterton, wouldn't be Polly Pepper's idea of duty in the least," said Mrs. Cabot, getting back into the refuge of her society manner again, now that her confidence in Polly grew every moment, "so we will talk no more about it if you please," she added icily, as she went toward the door. "Only mark my words, my dear boy and that dear girl will be engaged, and quite the appropriate match it will be too, and please every one."

* * * * *

"You must go back, my boy," said old Mr. King two days later. "It's just knocking you up to stay," studying Jasper's face keenly. "Goodness me! I should think you'd fallen off a dozen pounds. Upon my word I should, my boy," he repeated with great concern.