"Won't you please take off my skates?" she said as pleasantly as she could, for it made her very angry to see them laughing at her. She longed to get out of their sight as quickly as possible, and she wondered if she could ever make her way across the ice and back to the meeting-place with her knees trembling under her in such unwonted fashion. Then she thought of how she must look with her face streaked with blood, and she decided it would be better to go home. She felt quite sure that if she went a little way across the field to the left she should find the road they had come down earlier in the evening.

"It didn't take us so very long to come down here," she thought, as she plunged through the snow, "and after I've repaired damages Uncle Henry will see that I get back to the party."

Her nose was still bleeding, but she stopped it after a while with applications of snow. Her head ached, and she felt sure the afflicted nose was swelling and that she should be a fright. She wished that she hadn't tried to be so smart, that she had stayed in the little inlet, and all the useless wishes that one makes when it is too late.

When she came to the road she felt better, and walked along as cheerfully as her increasing aches would permit. Now that she was getting farther away from the pond it was very still, painfully still, she thought. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was thickly sown with stars and the glistening snow-mantle was more beautiful than ever. For some reason the road seemed strangely unfamiliar, and Ruth faltered and almost turned back as she remembered that she had never before been out alone in the evening. It had been so light at the pond, with the many bonfires, and so noisily gay that she had not realized until now what the loneliness of the walk would be.

"It was stupid of me not to have one of those small boys go for Bert or Phil," she said to herself. "I should rather it would be Phil, because he takes care of one so nicely, and I'm sure he wouldn't laugh. I'd be willing to have them laugh at me, though, if I could only see them."

By this time Ruth should have begun to see houses, and she had already decided that she should stop at the first one she saw and ask for help. But to her dismay no houses appeared, and the road seemed narrower and more shut in by trees than it had before.

Still she clung tenaciously to the idea that she was on the right road, and that if she kept on long enough she should come to the houses. She tried to comfort herself by thinking that she had been too absorbed on the way down to notice how the road turned and how far the houses really were from the pond. Her head ached enough to make her feel a little dazed, and her nose seemed as large as a small apple when she cautiously touched it.

Suddenly she was quite sure that she was on the wrong road, and realized that she had no idea in which direction to go to get home. Besides that she was so tired that she could hardly keep on walking. Tears started to her eyes, but she winked them away. "I won't cry," she said boldly, as though she thought that speaking aloud would make it more binding upon her. "And I will keep moving, for then I can't freeze, and it seems terrifically cold."

She stood still for a moment trying to peer into the darkness ahead of her and wondering whether there might be houses near, or whether it would be better to go back and try to find the pond.

Suddenly on the still, cold air floated the sound of a voice. "Ruth!" it called,—and then after a moment of silence, "Ruth Shirley!" The sound was so drawn-out, so far-reaching, that as it echoed about her Ruth positively shook with fright and excitement. Then she started in the direction from which it seemed to come, a pathetic little figure stumbling from weariness.

After Ruth's departure Arthur tried hard to fix his mind on his story, but even the charm of Treasure Island failed to distract him. In spite of himself his thoughts turned always to the starlit winter night, and to the pond gay with bonfires and torches and covered with boys and girls. After a while he closed the book with a snap, and went to the piano, where he softly tried over some new music Ruth had left there. Then came a sound of sleigh-bells, the tramp of feet on the piazza, and the peal of the door-bell.

As Katie opened the door, a cyclone swept in which resolved itself into Phil, Frank and Joe, all talking at once. "We've come to take you over to Katharine's for the supper, and you've got to go," they announced almost as one man.

"It's no use for you to say no," continued Phil, "for we shall use force if necessary. We've had our orders not to come back without you, and you surely wouldn't deprive our dear little Joe of the chance of a supper."

Joe clasped his hands and wriggled imploringly, while Frank tried to hasten matters by going in search of Arthur's overcoat.

"Well, I'll go," said Arthur hesitatingly. "You'll have to boost me out to the sleigh, for I couldn't take a step on this snow."

"Of course. Frank and I will bear your lordship to the sleigh, and Joe can bring the stick. I'm glad that it's only one crutch now, old fellow," ended Phil so affectionately that Mrs. Hamilton could have hugged him.

"It's going to be one cane in—well, I don't dare to say just how long, but soon," announced Arthur with such determination that, "Hurrah," "Bully for you," "You're a brick," came from the boys simultaneously.

To Arthur the quick rush through the keen air, the tingle of the flying snow-needles against his face, above all the wholesome companionship of his chums, were as rain in thirsty places. The jokes of the boys seemed the wittiest things he had ever heard, and he shouted with laughter.

As they reached the piazza Betty opened the door. "Have you seen Ruth?" she asked anxiously. "She has disappeared, and all the others except Katharine are out hunting for her."

"Disappeared!" said Frank, looking as though he could not believe his ears. "How under the sun could she manage to disappear? Wasn't Jack with her?"

"Yes, but she wanted to be left alone for a while to practice, and when we were ready to start for Katharine's she was nowhere to be found. Oh, do hurry and don't stop for explanations." Phil and Joe were already out of the house, and Frank was soon at their heels.

"It's horrid to be left behind to wait, isn't it, Arthur?" said Betty, feeling very helpless and realizing how much more so Arthur must feel.

"It makes me feel like a log," answered Arthur. He was tramping up and down the long parlor and in his excitement doing better work with his crutch than he had ever done. "I'm going out on the piazza, Betty," he announced. "I can't stand it any longer in the house."

As he went through the hall his eye fell on the megaphone which hung there, and with a dim idea that it might be of use to him he tucked it under his free arm. The piazza was clean and dry, and he walked its length, finding the exertion a relief to his feelings. The megaphone was an awkward burden, and he started to put it down, only to snatch it up again before it had touched the piazza floor. When he had brought it out he had thought he might shout a triumphant "found" through it. Now a better purpose suggested itself to him.

"Ruth! Ruth Shirley!" he called, and his ringing voice flew through the air in waves of sound.

"Oh, do you see her?" shrieked Katharine, opening the front door.

"No, but I hope she can hear me. I've an idea that she tried to go home for some reason, and that she has lost herself on one of those winding roads that lead from the pond. Anyway, I'm going to shout every two minutes, and the sound may help her find her way." Katharine retreated, and the two girls wandered about restlessly in the house and listened for each call of Ruth's name. Suddenly there was a hurried thump of the crutch and Arthur shouted excitedly: "She's coming, girls; run and meet her."

The two girls flew out of the house to see just turning into the yard a weary-looking girl who was unmistakably Ruth. They rushed to meet her and half carried her up the steps and into the house, while Arthur shouted a rousing "found" through the megaphone.

"Is that the voice that's been calling me?" asked Ruth as he followed them into the house. "I believe if it hadn't been for that I should have given up."

"But where have you been and how did you manage to get lost?" questioned Betty.

"Oh, don't ask me any questions now, but give me a looking-glass and some powder so that I can fix this dreadful nose before the others get here," implored Ruth. "I'm tired to death, but I started out to make myself look better before I came to your party, and I want to do it."

The three girls vanished up-stairs, leaving Arthur to poke the fire and chuckle quietly over this truly feminine ending to the tragedy.

"She's the real thing," he said to himself. "Doesn't want to be pitied and fussed over."

By the time the others had gathered, Ruth came down-stairs and was besieged at once with questions.

"It was so foolish of me," she said as she finished telling her story. "I might so easily have sent one of those small boys across the pond. All I could think of at first was to go somewhere where I could take care of my poor nose." As she spoke she shut one eye and gazed with the other at her red and swollen nose.

"I think the swelling's going down a little, don't you?" she asked anxiously.

They all laughed, and Jack said almost as if he felt it a personal grievance, "I don't believe you were so scared as we were after all."

It was a jolly supper, but to Ruth, who ached from head to foot, it seemed as if it would never end. She did her best to behave as usual, and succeeded so well that for some time no one noticed how pale and tired she looked.

As they got up from the table, Arthur said suddenly: "Say, Phil, I'm awfully tired. Do you mind getting out your old nag now? And, Ruth, wouldn't you like to go home too?"

"Oh, yes," answered Ruth, so eagerly that the others realized at once the cause of Arthur's sudden weariness. No one said a word, but the girls almost fell over each other in their endeavors to assist her, and the boys rushed the sleigh to the door in great haste.

"Ladies first," said Phil gallantly, and before Ruth realized what was happening, he and Frank had gently picked her up and deposited her in the sleigh. Then came Arthur, and then the boys piled in on the front seat.

Mrs. Hamilton met them at the front door. "I'm so glad you came home early, children. Ruth, you must be tired to death after skating."

"I am. Oh, I am," answered Ruth with a little laugh, and then she surprised herself by throwing both arms about Mrs. Hamilton's neck and bursting into tears.

"Don't you dare to think I'm crying, Arthur Hamilton," she managed to say between her sobs. "I said I wouldn't, and I won't," and then realizing the absurdity of what she was saying, she laughed as unrestrainedly as she had cried.

The sight of Mrs. Hamilton's worried face and Arthur's helpless alarm brought her to her senses, and she said penitently, "Do forgive me for being so foolish. I've tried so hard not to cry that when I felt Aunt Mary's arms around me it just had to come out."

"Darling, the best place for you is in bed, and I shall see that you're tucked in all 'comfy,'" said Mrs. Hamilton tenderly.

As she started up the stairs, Ruth turned to Arthur who was slowly following. "I really do believe you saved my life," she said earnestly. "I was so frightened and tired and achy that I couldn't have gone many more steps if that blessed old voice hadn't led me."

"Oh, some one would have found you before long," answered Arthur, who hated to take any undeserved credit to himself.

"Perhaps," assented Ruth doubtfully. "At any rate it would have been a trifle cold sitting there waiting to be found, and I prefer to think you saved my life. It makes me feel much more important."

"Ail right, we'll call it so then," said Arthur with a laugh. "And now we're square again, as we were on the night when we first ate dinner together, for if I saved your life you have certainly saved my common sense."

"I must say I like it to hear you compare your common sense with my life. However, I'll shake hands on it," and with a laughing good-night Ruth followed Mrs. Hamilton into the pink room.

Arthur thumped along into his own room and went happily to bed, feeling that girls were pluckier that he had thought them, and that even crutch-bearers could accomplish something in the world.



CHAPTER XIII

MISS CYNTHIA

"Come down to the pond with me this afternoon," said Dorothy as she and Ruth parted on their way home from school a few days after the skating-party, "and we'll go into a quiet comer and practice until you feel sure of yourself."

"All right; I'll go," Ruth answered, "but I can't stay long; I must study for at least an hour before dinner."

"Well, be at my house by two, and then we shall have the pond almost to ourselves for a while, and we'll be ready to go home by the time the crowd gets there."

Dorothy was a good teacher and in the hour they spent on the pond Ruth gained both skill and confidence.

"I never shall be nervous again about it," she said with enthusiasm as they took a last swing around the pond together. "It's like so many other things; you have to get the feeling of it before you can really enjoy it."

"That's so," assented Dorothy; "you probably never will lose it now. My, but it's growing colder every minute, isn't it? Let's hurry home, and I'll make some hot chocolate. You'll have plenty of time before you need to study."

Ruth stooped to take off her skates at once. "I'm really as hungry as a bear," she confessed, "and a cup of your chocolate will be fine."

When the girls entered the house Dorothy stopped short as she caught the sound of voices in the library. She listened intently a second, then she frowned, put her finger on her lips, and grasping Ruth by the hand led her softly across the hall and up-stairs. Not until they had reached the large room in the third story and had closed the door did she break the silence which enfolded them.

"For pity's sake," asked Ruth as she took off her coat and hat, "what is it and who is it?"

"Oh, it's only Miss Cynthia," answered Dolly carelessly. "I didn't want mother to know I'm in the house."

"Who's Miss Cynthia?" pursued Ruth with great curiosity, "and why don't you want your mother to know?"

"Why, Miss Cynthia Atwood, of course. Don't you know her yet? You're fortunate, that's all I can say. She lives in that funny little house near the library, and she's the last surviving member of one of the oldest families here. I ought to know, for she's told me times enough."

"But why don't you like her?" persisted Ruth, who was toasting herself in front of the open fire while Dorothy got out the materials for the chocolate.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Dolly with a shrug. "She's tiresome and inquisitive, and she's always coming round to make visitations on days when she ought not to be out, and then we girls or the boys have to see that she gets home safely. I can't help slipping out of her way whenever I can."

"Well, you certainly slipped this time," said Ruth with a laugh. "I didn't really know what was going to happen to me. What a good-timey looking room this is, Dolly," she went on, glancing about her. "I always feel when I am up here as if I can't go away until I've tried every one of these games."

It was a huge room, rather bare of ornament except for the pictures Frank and Dorothy had put up, but wholly suggestive of good times, as Ruth had said. Nothing was too good for use, and everything promised pleasure of the most wholesome kind.

"Father and mother like us to have our best times at home," said Dolly sipping her chocolate with a critical air, "and Frank and I have had this room for a playroom ever since I can remember."

"It must be fine to have a brother or sister," said Ruth wistfully. "I don't think only children have half so much fun."

"They miss some quarrels, too," laughed Dolly. "Poor old Frankie! He's splendid discipline for my temper, for he can be the most exasperating boy I ever saw. I suppose I'm just as exasperating, though," she added honestly.

"Is that four o'clock?" asked Ruth suddenly. "Dear me, I must go, though I'd much rather stay here. Your chocolate is great, Dolly, and those nice little wafers were perfect with it."

"I hate to have you go, but I'll walk over with you just to get a little more air," said Dolly, settling her fur turban on her blonde locks. "Now we must go down softly, for Miss Cynthia may still be here. I dare say Frank is somewhere about, and mother can get him to take her home," she added, as if she half felt the need of an apology. "I'm sure it's his turn to go, anyway."

It was with the feeling of being guilty conspirators that the girls stole down-stairs and tiptoed softly across the hall, and they both jumped violently, when, even as Dorothy had her hand on the door-knob, Mrs. Marshall's voice called:

"Dorothy, is that you, dear?"

"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy in a voice expressive of resigned despair. Then she added in a tragic whisper, "We are lost! There is no escape from our unhappy fate!"

"Dorothy, Miss Cynthia is here, and I want you to see that she gets safely home," said her mother.

"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy again, looking at Ruth with an I-told-you-so expression. "Don't you dare to leave me, Ruth Shirley," she went on fiercely. "You'll have plenty of time to go with me. Come on in now and be introduced to her."

Ruth hardly knew what picture she had formed of Miss Cynthia, but she certainly hadn't expected to meet the pretty, pink-cheeked old lady to whom Mrs. Marshall presented her. She was the smallest, most delicate of creatures, with snowy hair and bright blue eyes, which in darting glances seemed to absorb in minutest detail the person to whom she was talking.

"And so this is Ruth Shirley," she said, holding one of Ruth's hands in both her tiny ones. "I'm very glad to know you, my dear. It seems as if Mrs. Hamilton might have brought you over to call on me before this. But then I'm used to being forgotten. How are Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and how is that dear boy, Arthur?" Miss Cynthia paused for breath and Ruth gladly released her hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are very well," she answered, "and Arthur is much—"

"I always said he would be better if he would only make an effort," interrupted Miss Cynthia triumphantly. "But I began to be afraid he never would, and I thought it most likely that he would go off into a decline, I've often told Mary Hamilton that I should be worried to death if he were my boy. Do you hear from your father often? It must be pretty bad to have him so far away; so many things can happen nowadays that you can't tell from one day to the next where you'll be or how you'll be. Of course you know that, though, having lost your mother, poor child."

"She hears very often from her father," said Mrs. Marshall, noticing Ruth's flushed cheeks, "and he makes the distance seem very short by sending cablegrams every once in a while. Now, Miss Cynthia, let me help you on with your cape, and then you can start out with an escort on each side of you."

"Now, girls, you'll have to excuse me if I don't talk much," said Miss Cynthia apologetically, as they were leaving the house; "this icy wind makes my throat feel sore. But I shall be delighted to hear you talk. Girls always have such a lot to say to each other."

"Please come in and rest yourselves," said Miss Cynthia with urgent hospitality, as they reached the door of the small old-fashioned looking house which Ruth had often noticed before.

Dorothy began hasty explanations about being in a hurry to get home, but Miss Cynthia laid an imploring hand on Ruth's arm and, looking at her with real appeal in her blue eyes, almost drew her into the house.

"We'll let Dorothy go if she must," she said decidedly, "but I want to get acquainted with you, child, and I'm terribly lonesome, too, these winter afternoons."

Even with every desire to escape Ruth couldn't resist the pleading old eyes which were looking at her almost tearfully.

"Do come in, Dolly," she begged; "I shall have time before I need to study to stay a little while." But almost as she spoke Dorothy vanished unaccountably, and there was nothing left for Ruth but to follow Miss Cynthia.

"Come right into the parlor and sit down, while I find Luella and have her light a lamp," said the old lady, hurrying out of the room with surprising agility.

The room was so dark that at first Ruth hardly dared to move, then as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she found her way to a chair and sat down on the edge of it. She didn't enjoy the situation in which she found herself, and she wished she were out of it. Even the algebra which she must study as soon as she got home possessed a charm for her in comparison with the present moment. She half smiled as she thought of the suddenness with which Dorothy had faded from sight.

"She might have waited after getting me into this," she said to herself impatiently.

Just then with a suddenness which sent her flying out of her chair a harsh voice said almost in her ear:

"Cheer up! Cheer up! Don't you cry!" and then followed an unintelligible variety of sounds ending with a cackling laugh.

Ruth knew almost at once that it must be a parrot, but the surprise had been so great that she stood shaking in the middle of the room, not daring to move for fear of stepping on the uncanny bird. She remembered that once when she was a very little girl she had confidingly held out her finger to a parrot and that the unfriendly creature had immediately taken a bite out of it. She wished that the light would come; it made her nervous to be in a dark room with only a voice for company.

"Who's afraid?" asked the parrot with surprising distinctness.

"I am, Polly," answered Ruth with great truthfulness, and just then the maid brought in a lamp and her mistress followed.

"Oh, you bad bird," said Miss Cynthia reproachfully, as the friendly gleam of the lamp disclosed the parrot perched on the back of the chair next to the one on which Ruth had been sitting. "You bad Ebenezer, you've opened your cage again. Isn't it clever of him. to do it?"

"Very clever," answered Ruth politely, but she still kept a safe distance from Ebenezer, who cocked his head on one side to look at her. and then burst into a hoarse, chuckling laugh as though he had seen something very funny.

"That bird is such a comfort to me," sighed Miss Cynthia, smoothing the gay plumage. "I named him Ebenezer because it's so nice to have a man's name that you can call naturally in case you think some one's in the house. I got a man that worked for us to teach him what to answer when I call his name. Just listen, my dear."

Miss Cynthia stepped into the hall. "Ebenezer! Ebenezer!" she called loudly, and to Ruth's amusement Ebenezer answered promptly in a voice that sounded surprisingly like that of a man, "Yes, I'm coming."

"I guess that would scare a burglar some," remarked Miss Cynthia, complacently, "particularly as you never could tell but that Ebenezer might be right close to the man's ear when he answered. I taught him to say 'Cheer up, cheer up; don't you cry,' because sometimes I'm dreadfully lonesome. It helps out even to have a bird to talk to."

She looked very sober as she ended, but Ebenezer, fixing a solemn eye on her, barked loudly and then mewed like a cat, evidently desiring to make his mistress feel that she had a large family to comfort her.

"He thinks he's a whole menagerie," laughed Ruth.

"Shake hands with her, Ebenezer, and settle it," commanded Miss Cynthia, and at the word the bird stretched out his funny claw, which Ruth took in gingerly fashion.

"Ebenezer likes young folks as well as I do," said his mistress soberly, "but somehow they don't care much about coming to see us. Aren't you the girl who likes lace and embroidery?" she asked suddenly. "I've heard about your going over to see that Swiss girl make lace. I've been looking over a chest this morning and I've left all the old dresses out to air. Would you like to see them?"

Ruth assented eagerly. This would be an easy way for her to finish her call, and she loved to see old-fashioned things. Miss Cynthia was pleased at her enthusiasm, and after returning Ebenezer to his despised cage, an attention which he acknowledged by pecking gently at her white hair and screaming "Bad bird, bad bird," led the way up the short, steep flight of stairs.

"What a dear room!" exclaimed Ruth giving a quick glance about her. Then as her eyes fell upon the treasures spread upon the bed she cried out with pleasure.

"What a beautiful blue gown! Did somebody really ever wear it?"

"That was my great-aunt's wedding gown, my Great-aunt Cynthia. It was given to the niece who was named for her, and then to me on account of the name."

Ruth gazed admiringly at the shining satin, blue as a summer sky, and made in the quaint fashion of years long past.

"Here are the shoes and the gloves which went with it," continued Miss Cynthia, "and a fan which she carried. These little lace tuckers were hers, too. She never lived to wear out all her pretty fineries, poor little soul, but I've been told that her short life was a happy one and a very sweet memory to all who knew her."

Miss Cynthia's voice and eyes were strangely gentle as she talked about the youthful great-aunt whose shining gown had been one of her choicest treasures for so many years, and Ruth began to like her.

"Do you know how she looked?" she asked with real interest in her voice. "I should like to imagine her in this lovely dress."

"My aunt," answered Miss Cynthia musingly, "was too young when she died to remember her; but she has told me many times that her father, who was the first Cynthia's brother, often said she was the prettiest creature the sun ever shone on, with black hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes that were like violets. I like to talk about her," added Miss Cynthia. "Here are more things my Aunt Cynthia left me."

Ruth, who had an instinctive liking for delicate fabrics and fine embroideries, reveled in the beautiful pieces of hand-work which Miss Cynthia showed her. There was a muslin gown embroidered so profusely that one wondered if the patient needlewoman had any eyes left when her artistic work was completed. There were fichus, small and large, with patterns simple and elaborate, looking as though a breath might blow them out of existence, so fragile was their substance. Ruth laughed gleefully at the face which looked out at her from the mirror when Miss Cynthia told her to put on a queer, old bonnet which she called a calash. There was a ribbon hanging under her chin which the old lady called a bridle, and when Ruth pulled it the bonnet stretched like the top of an old-fashioned chaise.

"How funny," laughed Ruth. "Did you. really ever wear one like this?"

"That was my dear mother's," answered Miss Cynthia, "but I can just remember having one when I was a little girl."

"Oh, dear. I hate to leave all these interesting things, but I must go home," said Ruth, reluctantly laying the calash on the bed, and taking a last look at the beautiful things displayed there. "I've had a lovely call, Miss Cynthia, and I thank you so much for letting me see these wonderful old dresses."

"My dear, if you would prize it I should like you to have this handkerchief which was my Great-aunt Cynthia's."

"Oh, Miss Cynthia, I couldn't take anything so lovely," protested Ruth.

"My dear child, there's no one else who will care for these things as I have done, and it's been a great pleasure to show them to some one who is sympathetic, and—and I know my little great-aunt would have liked you to have it if she could have known you."

Miss Cynthia's voice was trembling and her eyes looked clouded and wistful. Ruth could hardly believe that this was the sharp-voiced, prying old lady whom she had wished to escape meeting earlier in the afternoon.

"Dear Miss Cynthia," she answered impulsively, "I never shall forget your Great-aunt Cynthia, and I shall be delighted to own something that belonged to her. I'm sure I never had anything half so lovely as this cobwebby handkerchief. Have the other girls," she went on hesitatingly, "ever seen these beautiful old things?" She would have liked to ask that they might all see them together some day, but she hardly dared.

"No," said Miss Cynthia ungraciously, "they haven't. The girls in this town don't care anything about me or my belongings, and they never come here if they can help it. The boys are nicer." And forthwith Miss Cynthia told Ruth some of the kind things the boys had done for her, and grew quite gentle and friendly again in the telling.

"I often wish I knew something I could do for them," she added. "It's so hard to think of anything that would really please boys."

"If they should see the bundles of letters you have there, Miss Cynthia," suggested Ruth, "I'm sure they'd ask you if you could spare any stamps. They're all crazy over their collections."

"Are they really?" asked Miss Cynthia, as if a new idea had been given her. "Why, my dear, those are letters from all over the world written to my blessed father. One of his dearest friends was a sea-captain who sailed everywhere, and always mailed letters to my father from every port he touched."

Even as she spoke, Miss Cynthia was excitedly slipping the letters out of their envelopes. "Here," she said, thrusting a package into Ruth's hands. "You help me, and then you may take them home to Arthur, and he can divide with the others. Of course I don't know which ones they will like, so I'll send them all."

"Good-bye, Miss Cynthia. I can hardly wait to show these to the boys," said Ruth as her hostess came slowly down the steep stairs behind her, and then she jumped and almost screamed when, "Good-bye, good-bye; come again," came hoarsely from under her very feet.

"It's only Ebenezer out again," said Miss Cynthia serenely. "I must have the catch on that door made stronger."

Five minutes later Ruth rang the door-bell at home, and, as she stepped into the house, Dorothy came toward her from the library.

"Oh, did you think I was perfectly dreadful?" cried Dolly, putting on a very penitent expression.

"Well, yes, I did just at first. Then Ebenezer told me to 'cheer up' and after that, to tell the truth, I forgot all about you. I've had a perfectly lovely time."

"A lovely time!" echoed Dorothy. "Well, you are a funny girl."

"Are the boys here with Arthur?" Ruth went on, noticing for the first time the hum of voices in the library.

"Yes," answered Dolly. "They're busy over their everlasting stamps as usual. I've just been in to see if Frank was ready to go home and I told them where you were."

"Do come in again with me," begged Ruth, "and see if they like what I have for them."

A stormy discussion was in progress when they entered the room, but Phil, who never forgot his good manners, got up to find chairs for the young ladies, and the other boys fired a volley of questions at Ruth, who could hardly stop to answer them, so great was her excitement. She laid the old envelopes on the table with an air of triumph. "I do hope you'll find something there that's really valuable," she added, "for Miss Cynthia was so pleased at the idea of giving you something you would like. She said you boys had always been so nice to her."

Ruth's face and manner were the perfection of innocence, but for some reason there was a tinge of discomfort in the manner of the boys gathered around the table.

"That looks like a good one, Phil," said Arthur, pushing an envelope across the table. "Just look it up in the catalogue, will you?"

"She said that Joe," Ruth went on relentlessly, "had always been very good about doing errands for her and seeing her home from his grandmother's."

"I never did anything for her," blustered Joe, turning red, "except what I had to."

"And she told me that for one whole winter, Frank and Bert kept all her paths clean," pursued Ruth, purposely refraining from looking at her unhappy victims, "and wouldn't take a cent for it when she wanted to pay them."

"We did it just because we happened to want to," growled Frank, looking as uncomfortably guilty as though he had been discovered in some bad action.

"Say, there are some dandy stamps here," said Phil, fearing that his turn was coming next and anxious to change the conversation. "Did you ever see one like that, Art?"

The boys poked over the stamps in an excited silence, gazed at them through lenses, and hunted in the catalogue with an absorbed interest which seemed to make them quite forget their guests. Every few minutes they found a new treasure.

At last Ruth got up with an air of pretended indignation and walked toward the door saying, "Come on, Dolly; let's go. We don't seem to be wanted here."

"Please don't go," said Arthur with an air so distressingly polite that it wouldn't have deceived any one.

"All right for you," laughed Ruth as she closed the library door behind her; "just wait until I bring you stamps again."

For a few minutes after the departure of the girls not a word was spoken. Then Joe gave vent to a sudden groan and put his hand to his head.

"Is my hair entirely burnt off on the top of my head?" he asked in comical despair. "These are the hottest coals of fire I've ever had handed out to me, That wretch of a Ruth knew she was making us squirm."

"I'm afraid the poor old lady never had any chance to be grateful to me," said Arthur uncomfortably.

"The worst of it is," confessed Frank, "that father was paying Bert and me for every bit of that shoveling and Miss Cynthia never knew it. I feel as if I wanted to go right round there and do something for her this very minute."

"So do I," agreed Joe and Bert almost at the same time.

"Let's form a secret order," suggested Arthur, "and pledge ourselves to make Miss Cynthia as happy as possible for the rest of her life."

No one answered for a moment and then Phil said thoughtfully, "We might call it the 'Order of the Moon.' Cynthia is one of the names for the moon, you know. Don't you remember, Art, we were reading in class this morning about 'fair Cynthia's rays' or something like that?"

"That's great!" said Frank, "and that name will drive the girls wild, for they'll never guess what it means."

And so the "Order of the Moon" was established then and there, and to the credit of the boys be it said that the fine purpose for which it was started was faithfully carried out.



CHAPTER XIV

TINY ELSA

It was the usual custom for Ruth and Arthur to play together for an hour after dinner, and they had just got fairly under way one evening when Arthur stopped in the middle of a measure and began to count the fire alarm. In a small town every one listens when an alarm is struck, and many go to the fire.

"Sixty-five," said Arthur, as the sound died away on the air. "That's in the factory settlement, isn't it, father?"

"Yes," answered his father, counting again as a second alarm sounded. "Get on a warm coat, Ruth. and we'll see what's burning."

"Why don't you let John take you in the sleigh," suggested Mrs. Hamilton, "and then Arthur can go with you." She had been quick to notice the regret in Arthur's face, for now that he was beginning to get out again he longed to do everything the others did.

"Oh, mother, they can't wait for John to harness," he said quickly, as his father hesitated before replying. "If they did the fire would be out."

"That's right, son. Very likely it's not much of a fire anyway, but a little run in this frosty air won't hurt Ruth and me. Are you warmly dressed, little girl; overshoes on and mittens?" added Mr. Hamilton, as Ruth came down-stairs.

"Very warmly dressed, Uncle Henry. I've got so much on that probably I shan't be able to run at all."

Once out in the cold, starlit night none of the warm garments seemed superfluous, and Ruth ran and walked by turns in order to keep up with Mr. Hamilton's long strides. As they reached Mr. Marshall's house Dorothy and her father and Frank joined them, and just ahead they could see the Ellsworth boys with Betty and Charlotte.

"Some one says it's that old brown house that was almost ready to fall to pieces anyway," said Jack coming up behind them with Phil.

"Was any one living there?" asked Mr. Marshall.

"I saw some children playing out in the yard when I drove by the other day," answered Frank. "Come on, boys, let's run for it," he added, as a turn in the road enabled them to see the fire.

"Isn't it dreadful?" shuddered Ruth as, with fascinated gaze, she watched the flames fasten hungrily upon one part after another of the doomed house, and sweep into the air as though exulting in their triumph. "Do you suppose these other houses will have to go too?"

"I hardly think so," answered Mr. Hamilton. "They are beginning to get the fire under, and they are keeping the other roofs wet."

"Stay here with the girls and Mr. Hamilton, Dolly," said Mr. Marshall suddenly. "I want to go over and talk to some of these people."

A little crowd had collected around the door of one of the cottages, and as Mr. Marshall walked toward them the girls looked after him with eyes that were frankly curious.

"I remember coming up here with Aunt Mary the day before Christmas," said Ruth. "And she left a Christmas basket at this very same brown house, if I'm not mistaken. Yes, I'm sure of it, and there were five or six children in the family. Oh, I hope they all got out safely."

"Lucky that it was early in the evening," observed Charlotte, stamping her feet to get some warmth into them. "I can't stay much longer, girls; I'm so cold that—"

"Here comes Mr. Marshall," interrupted Betty eagerly. "Wait a minute, Char, and we'll all go."

Mr. Marshall, who had been inside one of the houses, came toward them with something clasped in his arms, and as he drew near they could see that it was apparently a baby rolled in a heavy shawl. The child had put both arms around his neck and was hiding her eyes on his shoulder when he reached the little group. He looked very grave, and the girlish faces grew sober in sympathy even before he spoke.

"Oh, father, is the baby hurt?" asked Dorothy anxiously.

"Not injured, dear, but left very much alone. She is a little German girl, and she and her mother had only been here a few days. The mother wanted to get work in the factory, and had taken a room for herself and the baby with the German family which lived in the brown house. Every one got out safely, but the excitement was too much for the poor young mother. She must have had a weak heart, I'm afraid, for she had to go away and leave her baby."

Ruth's eyes filled with tears as she realized what he meant, and she stretched out her arms impulsively toward the baby.

"Poor little soul," she said with a choke in her voice; "is she old enough to know what happened?"

As she spoke the baby raised her head and stared in startled wonder at the pitying faces about her. The shawl fell back a little from her head, and, in the brilliant light from the fire, the girls could see golden rings of hair clustering around a face delicately pink and white. The big brown eyes gazed at them for a moment, then with a little sob she buried her head on Mr. Marshall's shoulder again.

"I must look like some one she has known," he said softly, as he wrapped the shawl closely around her, "for the minute she saw me she held out her arms to me, and no one could get her away. These poor people around here have enough to look out for over night, so I'll take this baby home. Do you think you can help take care of her for a while, daughter?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love to," assented Dolly eagerly. "I wish she'd let me take her," but for the present, at least, the sorrowful baby refused to leave her safe resting-place, and only clung more tightly to Mr. Marshall when the girls tried to beguile her.

Mr. Hamilton and Betty's older brothers stayed to make some arrangements for the poor family that had been turned out-of-doors, and, as by this time the fire was well under control, the spectators dispersed in various directions. The girls and boys escorted Mr. Marshall and the baby home, and then left Ruth at her own door.

By the time she had finished telling Mrs. Hamilton and Arthur about the fire and the forlorn baby, Mr. Hamilton appeared and was at once besieged with questions.

"I wish you had been there, Mary," he said to his wife; "you always seem to know how to make every one comfortable. It is wonderful to me to see how good those people are to each other. They were only too anxious to shelter that poor Schmidt family, in which there are six children, and I didn't know whether we should ever get them peaceably divided up. I tried to get more information about the baby's mother; but no one seems to know anything except that she was called Mrs. Winter, and had lost her husband quite recently."

"Was she a young woman?" asked Mrs. Hamilton.

"She looked hardly more than a girl as she lay there, and her face was so refined and sweet that I couldn't help fancying that the early part of her life had been spent under very different conditions from these."

"Didn't the woman they lived with know anything more about them?" asked Ruth, much disappointed.

"Poor Mrs. Schmidt was so excited, and so anxious to see that her own brood was safe and to be well cared for, that she didn't know much about anything else. The poor little mother had only been with her a few days, and beyond the fact that she seemed very sad and had cried a great deal, and that the little one's name was Elsa, she could tell me nothing. Oh, she did say that the mother and baby looked very much alike, the same large, brown eyes, and the same fair complexion and fair hair."

"The baby is a perfect little beauty," said Ruth, "and I quite envy Dolly the fun of having her in the house. I'm going over the first thing in the morning to see her."

Fortunately the next day was Saturday, and one by one the girls dropped into Dorothy's house to see the pretty baby. Alice and Katharine, who hadn't seen the fire the night before, had to hear the whole story from the other girls, and all were much impressed when Ruth happened to mention that Mr. Hamilton had thought the poor young mother looked better than her surroundings.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit," said Dorothy impressively. "Everything about this baby was just as clean and sweet as could be. Her mother must have taken her right out of bed, for she had nothing on but her little nightie when father brought her home. Mother found some baby clothes of mine, and I had such fun dressing her this morning."

"How old do you suppose she is?" asked Betty.

"Oh, I know. Mrs. Schmidt told father last night that she was two years old," answered Dorothy.

While the girls were talking about her the baby had sat quietly on Dorothy's lap looking from one to another with her solemn, brown eyes. Ruth and Betty had made several attempts to get her to sit with them, but she only turned her head away and nestled closer to Dorothy, much to that young lady's delight.

"I wish mother would let me keep her always," said Dolly with a little sigh. "I should just love to take care of her."

"For how long?" laughed Charlotte.

"Now, Charlotte, don't be horrid. Just because you get tired of children is no reason I should," answered Dorothy, putting on the superior air which Charlotte couldn't stand.

"Oh, fudge, you wouldn't like it any better than I do if you really couldn't get out of it," snapped Charlotte.

"I'm the only one who really needs her, because I haven't any sister or brother," said Ruth, holding out her arms once more to the baby. "And, of course, I can't have her."

To her surprise this time the little Elsa half smiled at her, and, as though wanting to make up to her for the sister she couldn't have, put out her own chubby hands. Ruth took her quickly before she should have time to repent and sat down with her.

"She saw your watch," said Dorothy as the baby put up a timid finger to touch it.

"I'm glad there's something about me she likes," retorted Ruth quickly. "Perhaps in time, Dolly, she'll love me for myself alone, as she does you."

Dorothy colored, and it seemed as if the baby were likely to be the innocent cause of trouble, but Betty, who was a born peacemaker, stepped into the breach with eager unconsciousness. She had been thinking deeply for some minutes and her smooth forehead was puckered perplexedly as she spoke.

"You're always laughing at me for my queer ideas, girls, but this time I've really thought of something," she said with repressed excitement."

"Does it hurt, Betsy?" inquired Charlotte with pretended anxiety.

"Why can't the Social Six," went on Betty, ignoring her flippant friend, "adopt the baby and bring her up?"

"For goodness' sake, Betty, what do you think we are, millionaires?" protested Charlotte.

"No, of course not. But I know that I could earn a little money every week if I wanted to work for it, and I can't bear to think of this darling baby going into an orphan asylum."

Betty leaned over and kissed the dimpled hand as she spoke, looking so tender and motherly that the girls forgot to laugh at her. The baby, who had been sitting contentedly on Ruth's lap, received the kiss with favor, and then looking at the girls hovering around her smiled sweetly as if taking them all into her affection at once.

"Isn't she a perfect dear?" cried Dorothy, going down on her knees before her. "I'm with you, Betty; she shall have most of my allowance every week, and I know that we can get lots of help if we are only in earnest about it."

"I'd just love to have the club do it," said Ruth with her usual enthusiasm. "And wherever I am I shall be a member of the club just the same, and always be ready to help out with little Elsa. I know father and Uncle Jerry will be interested in her, too."

"We can all sew for her," suggested Alice, a proposition which caused Dorothy and Charlotte to look at each other in disgusted silence.

"But where is she going to live?" inquired Katharine, who frequently put a damper on the enthusiasm of her friends by some exceedingly practical question. "We can't plant her out in the square at an equal distance from all of us."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Betty. "I hate to be brought down so suddenly. I'd forgotten that she'd have to have a home. I was just thinking of clothes and education, and I had it all planned that she should be a great singer or a writer, and take care of us in our old age."

Betty's flight of fancy was so absurd that the girls shouted with laughter, and seeing them so merry little Elsa laughed too, and showed her white teeth.

"She's ail right, girls; she can see a joke," said Charlotte, who in spite of herself began to feel the baby's charm.

"Poor little kiddie! I'm sure she's very brave to laugh at the idea of having to support us all," giggled Ruth.

"Let's ask mother about it," suggested Dorothy, as Mrs. Marshall came into the room, and the busy woman, who was never too much occupied to listen to her daughter's plans, or to lend a helping hand, sat down as calmly as though she had nothing else to do. She had already begun to consider the problem of Elsa's future, and she decided immediately that Betty's idea was a good one, and as helpful for the girls as for the baby.

"You might board her at Mrs. Hall's," she suggested, after listening to a rather disjointed narrative from the entire club.

"Of course. The very thing," murmured Betty. "Why didn't we think of it ourselves?"

"And you must organize your work in a businesslike way," continued Mrs. Marshall. "You might start an Elsa fund with what you can collect among yourselves, no matter how small. Then you can see who will be willing to promise regular subscriptions. You will need a treasurer to take charge of the fund, and a secretary to manage your correspondence."

The girls looked very thoughtful; they had hardly realized that their plan would assume so much importance.

"You must understand, girls, before you go into this, that you are undertaking a serious thing and one you cannot give up lightly," continued their adviser. "For my own part I can't think of any better use to which you can put your energy and your club funds than to the care of this dear, motherless baby. Of course, you know that we shall do all we can to find out if she has any relatives, but there seems small chance of success, as we haven't the slightest clue to follow."

The girls were silent as Mrs. Marshall went out of the room. Then Betty, taking the baby in her arms said, "Come here, littlest club girl; we can't initiate you yet, but you've got six new mothers, and you'll be taken care of to within an inch of your life."

Then began a busy time for the members of the Social Six. Dorothy was made secretary and Charlotte treasurer of the Elsa Fund, which started out with the imposing sum of three dollars, taken bodily from the club treasury.

In order to help the cause along, Mrs. Marshall invited the ladies of the Fortnightly Club to meet at her house, and Betty was persuaded to tell them what the girls hoped to do for the baby. It was rather a halting little speech, but she ended it most effectively by stepping to the door and bringing in little Elsa, who had been waiting in the hall for this very moment. As Betty stood there before them all smiling at the rosy baby in her arms, the sound of Ruth's violin broke the silence. It was the simplest lullaby she was playing, but she made it so tender and appealing that the hearts of the mothers went out to the dear baby who had no mother, and all were eager to help.

By the time Mrs. Hall came in to take Elsa home, a substantial sum was promised for the fund, and duly noted by Charlotte, who comforted herself for her own lack of money by keeping the accounts in the most businesslike manner. It was no small task, for promises of contributions came in so readily that the treasurer was obliged to take most of her spare time out of school to keep her books in order.

To her surprise Melina came to her with an air of great mystery and, first making sure that no one was within sight or hearing, held out to her a five dollar bill.

"I want to git that five dollars off my mind and start it movin'," she said grimly when Charlotte looked at her in wonder. "No, there ain't no use of your refusing. That baby needs it as much as any one I know just now, and that was the idea, you know, that I should pass it on."

Charlotte realized that she couldn't refuse without hurting Melina's feelings. "All right," she said, "I'll take it for her, and when she gets old enough to understand it I'll explain that she must start it on again."

For a while it seemed almost as though little Elsa might be hurt by too much care. The six young mothers made all sorts of errands into Mrs. Hall's that they might have a chance to play with the baby, who seemed to love them all with great impartiality. Ruth and Dorothy almost quarreled one afternoon because each claimed the privilege of taking her out and neither one was willing to give up. Just as it threatened to become serious, Betty, who had come in a few minutes later, slipped off with the baby while the other two were arguing. She did it so cleverly that when they discovered her treachery they made common cause against her, and went amiably home together vowing vengeance upon Miss Betty for her slyness.

By the end of three weeks the novelty had worn off a little and the girls no longer struggled to be first in the baby's affections, but were frequently willing to omit going to see her for a day or two. And just then, when the mothers were beginning to smile and shake their heads over the situation, something happened which again made little Miss Elsa the centre of interest.

Mrs. Schmidt, prowling around the blackened ruins of her former home, came upon a metal box, locked and little harmed by the flames, which she remembered as belonging to the baby's mother. In great excitement she took it to Mrs. Hamilton and that evening the girls were called in solemn conclave to see the box opened.

First, Mr. Hamilton took out four photographs which were passed from one to another. One pictured a gray-haired man in military clothes, very erect, very stern and fine-looking. Another was of a plump, placid, elderly lady who looked the very picture of motherliness.

"I know that's the baby's grandmother and grandfather," said Dorothy positively, and no one had any other opinion to offer.

Mr. Hamilton uttered an exclamation of surprise as he took the third picture from the paper which enfolded it. "That's the poor little mother," he said softly, and the girls crowded around eagerly to gaze at the pretty, girlish creature looking out at them with hopeful eyes which foreshadowed no hint of her sad fate.

The girls were very sober, and no one broke the silence as Mr. Harnilton unwrapped the remaining picture. It was a young man with a thim, delicate face and large eyes rather sad in their expression. On the back was written in German, "Karl von Winterbach, to his beloved wife."

"He looks like the picture of some German poet," murmured Charlotte thoughtfully.

"The poor little soul had evidently dropped part of her name," said Mr. Hamilton, "for the people in the settlement knew her only as Mrs. Winter."

There was not much else in the box; a few ornaments, a little faded needlebook which looked as though it had been kept for memory's sake, and two letters. One of the letters was unsealed, and Mr. Hamilton took out a slip of paper which said with pathetic brevity, "If I am dead please send this letter to my dear father. He will care for my baby. Emilie von Winterbach."

The girls scrutinized the address on the other letter with the most excited interest.

To the Herr Baron von Grunwald, 10 Sommerstrasse, Dresden, Germany, read Ruth slowly over Mr. Hamilton's shoulder. "Why, girls, he's a baron; Elsa's grandfather is a baron."

"I knew she looked aristocratic," remarked Betty in a satisfied tone. "I shall go the first thing in the morning to offer her my humble services."

"Well, young ladies, it looks very much as if the Social Six would be deprived of their youngest member," said Mr. Hamilton as he put pictures and letters back into the box. "I shall send that letter to-morrow morning, and another with it telling all we know about little Elsa's mother, and I am sure we shall hear something as soon as possible from the Herr Baron von Grunwald."

The prospect of losing the club baby made her all the more precious in the eyes of her six adopted mothers, and during the weeks while they waited for news from across the ocean, they were lavish in care and affection. They planned to make an elaborate traveling wardrobe for her, and worked courageously at it every minute they could spare. Even Charlotte and Dorothy took a hand. Time was lacking, however, and their ideas of what their baby really needed grew less expansive as the days went on. The Candle Club boys felt that they were offering a neat and appropriate tribute when they presented the small lady with six pairs of shoes, two black, two white, and a pair each of red and blue.

"Those are good enough for a baron's granddaughter, don't you think?" asked Jack, who had been deputed to present them at a meeting of the Social Six. "I think they're rather neat, myself," he added with modest pride, as he stood off and gazed admiringly at them.

"They are lovely," said Ruth warmly. "Have some fudge. And here, take some back to the boys to show that we appreciate their kindness."

"I just know they waited to give them. until they felt sure we were making fudge," grumbled Dolly as Jack departed. "I know their tricks."

"I don't care," laughed Ruth. "We've had plenty anyway, and it was nice of them to spend their money on shoes."

The girls were in Ruth's room, and the rest of the house was very still, for Mrs. Hamilton had gone to Boston and Arthur was out with the boys. Tongues were flying fast, and no one heard the bell ring. Presently Katie appeared in the doorway with the card-tray saying:

"Miss Ruth, there is a gentleman down-stairs who wants to see Mrs. Hamilton, and I can't make him understand where she is."

Ruth looked at the card curiously and then fell back on the sofa with a startled face.

"Girls, it's the Baron von Grunwald," she gasped, "and he's come without any warning. Oh, why did Aunt Mary go into town to-day!"

"It's much more likely to be one of the boys playing a joke on us," said Dolly who hadn't had a chance to see the exceedingly correct-looking card which Ruth was crushing in her agitation. "I don't believe there has been time yet for Elsa's relatives to get here."

"Pretty nearly four weeks ago that Uncle Henry sent the letters," replied Ruth. "You can't make me believe the boys could get up anything like this," she added, displaying the card.

"You'll have to go down right off," said Dorothy, quite convinced. "You mustn't keep him waiting."

"Oh, why not one of you?" groaned Ruth. "He won't know the difference, and you've lived in Glenloch longer."

"Goosey. As if that made any difference," laughed Charlotte.

"You know more German than any one of us," said Katharine comfortingly.

"Horrors! Shall I have to talk to him in German?" asked poor Ruth in despair.

"Of course," said Betty. "Didn't Katie say that she couldn't make him understand?"

Ruth would have liked to run and hide, but instead she went slowly down-stairs and walked straight into the parlor without giving herself time to think.

The tall, gray-haired man who rose to meet her was so like the picture in the box that Ruth felt almost as if she knew him, and she would have known just what to say if the dreaded German hadn't embarrassed her. She shook hands with him in silence, and then for a moment struggled to find a conversational opening which shouldn't plunge her into deeper distress.

The kind old man evidently understood her difficulty, for his sad face grew gentle as he said with slow distinctness:

"I can understand English, Fraulein."

He smiled at the extreme relief expressed in Ruth's face and went on speaking.

"I have come so quick as I can from Germany, Fraulein, my little grandchild to see, and I find that I am arrived before my letter gets here. I have seen in Boston Mr. Hamilton, and he has told me how to find his home and that he will come also so soon as he can."

Ruth drew a breath of relief. "If you will excuse me I will send for the baby this very minute," she said, and went quickly from the room.

"Girls, go get Elsa and bring her here as fast as you can," she exclaimed, popping her head into her own room. "He's perfectly elegant," and then she was gone again.

Betty and Dorothy running down the stairs soon after heard the steady hum of conversation in the parlor, and smiled to think how soon Ruth's terror had vanished. For Ruth the next twenty minutes seemed very long, and she spent it trying to make the Herr Baron feel at home, and hoping against hope that Mrs. Hamilton would arrive by the next train.

To her joy it happened as she had wished, for Mrs. Hamilton and the baby arrived at the house almost in the same moment. Little Elsa had grown so used to petting and attention that she was friendliness itself and went to her grandfather with a gurgle of delight. He, poor man, almost lost his self-control at sight of her, for she was wonderfully like his own lost daughter. Ruth slipped out of the room, because she couldn't bear to see his grief, and went back to the girls, who were waiting for her with eager curiosity.

A little later Mrs. Hamilton came to them.

"Uncle Henry has come and has taken the Baron off to talk with Mrs. Schmidt and Mrs. Hall," she said in answer to their questions. "The poor man says his only daughter married against his wishes, but that he should have willingly forgiven her and her husband if they had only given him the chance. He is delighted with little Elsa, and so grateful to you girls for befriending her. He hopes to get Mrs. Hall to go with him and the baby to Dresden, and then he will send her back here. He is very anxious to meet the club girls and thank them for what they have done, and he's invited us all to visit him if we go to Germany."

"When will he start for home?" asked Ruth.

"As soon as he can get away," answered Mrs. Hamilton. "And that reminds me that I must see if I can do anything for Mrs. Hall to help matters along. I can sympathize with the poor grandfather's desire to get the baby to her grandmother as soon as possible."

Left to themselves the girls looked at each other blankly.

"So that's the end of the club baby," sighed Betty.

"Why, no, she can be our German member," said Ruth decidedly.



CHAPTER XV

PETER PAN

It was Saturday morning, and Ruth sat down at her desk to write her regular letter to her father. She laid out her paper, fitted a fresh pen into the silver holder, and then looked at the calendar. As she found the date her eyes grew very thoughtful.

"Six months to a day," she murmured. "How fast the time has gone." Then she began her letter.

"Glenloch, March 17th.

"Darling father:

"I wonder if you remember that just six months ago to-day you and I were celebrating your birthday together, and that I was heartbroken when you told me what was going to happen to us. Nothing could have made me believe then that I could be so happy now, or that the time could possibly seem so short. I wonder if you would think I've changed any. I'm an inch taller than I was when you saw me last, and I weigh ten pounds more, so I've accomplished something in six months. I don't believe you've grown an inch; at least not an up and down inch.

"I just wish you could taste some of my cooking. If I went out as cook now, I shouldn't have to feed the family on birthday cake, for I can make perfectly scrumptious little baking-powder biscuit, and my salad dressing is a joy forever. I can do other things, of course, but these are my specialties. Oh, and I can make a maple fudge that just melts in your mouth. I sent a box of it to Uncle Jerry, and he wrote back right off that I could consider myself engaged as cook whenever he set up housekeeping.

"I read almost every bit of your German letter myself, though I had to get Aunt Mary to help me out once or twice. It made me want to study all the harder to see how quickly she read it. It's ten times easier now to work hard on French and German, because I hope that I shall need to use them before very long. Oh, Popsy, won't it be joyful when I can come over to you!!!! It would take more than four hundred exclamation points to express my feelings, so you must please imagine the rest of them.

"I don't want to make you too proud of your daughter, but I must just tell you that I got an A in French history last month. We have a dandy history teacher who makes everything interesting, and then I keep thinking that I must know all about these things before I go abroad, and that helps lots.

"More than anything I love the Gym. I just wish you could see Miss Burton; she's the dearest, sweetest teacher I ever had, and so pretty that I want to look at her all the time. She's a splendid teacher, too, and the girls are all wild over the lessons and over her.

"I take only one violin lesson a week now, because, though you may find it hard to believe, I am really working too hard at school to go into Boston twice a week. I practice every day and Arthur and I play together almost every evening. Arthur is so changed and so jolly now. He uses only one cane and says he means to walk without any soon. He acts as if he couldn't get enough of the boys and girls, and his father and mother look perfectly radiant whenever their eyes light on him. He's gone back to school, and he and Joe are making all sorts of plans about college.

"I suppose you never noticed that I didn't tell you what Uncle Henry gave me for a Christmas present, or perhaps you thought he didn't give me anything. Well, he did give me one of the very nicest presents I ever had, and that was a course of lessons at a riding-school in Boston. I was perfectly delighted, and I knew I shouldn't have to ask you about it because you've always meant to have me learn to ride. I've been going in every Wednesday since Christmas, taking a violin lesson first, and then meeting Uncle Henry to go to the riding-school. He said he was so particular about borrowed articles that he would never let me go alone. My, but it was hard at first, and I thought I never should learn to hold my whip and my reins and myself in the proper way. I had such a darling horse, though, and it was such fun, that I couldn't help sticking to it, and now the riding-master says that I really ride very well.

"A week ago Uncle Henry surprised me by buying the horse I've been riding and he's out in the stable this very minute. He thinks I'm quite ready to ride with him out here, and he's coming home to lunch so that we can start off early this afternoon. That last sentence sounds rather mixed. Of course I mean that it's the horse that's in the stable, and it's Uncle Henry, not the horse, who's coming home to lunch.

"There, that cat is out of the bag and I feel better. I suppose they'll all laugh at me for telling, but I don't care. I thought at first it would be great fun to surprise you after I got over there, but I might have known I couldn't keep such a lovely secret all that time.

"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that Aunt Mary said her part of the present was to be my riding-habit, and the first time Arthur went into Boston he brought me the prettiest little riding-crop I've ever seen.

"Mercy! My arm's stiff from writing so much, and my little watch tells me that it's almost lunch-time. I never wrote such a long letter before and I do hope you'll be properly grateful for it. I've known you to complain of the shortness of my letters, but you can't this time.

"With heaps of love to you, I am "Your faithfulest, lovingest chum,

"Ruth."

"There! The dearest of fathers ought to be satisfied with that," thought Ruth as she slipped her letter into the envelope, sealed it and stamped it. "Now for lunch and then my ride."

"Isn't he a beauty, Arthur?" called Ruth, coming out on the piazza in all the glory of her dark-blue habit, high boots and gauntlet gloves.

Arthur, who had a pocketful of sugar and was dividing it impartially between the two horses, turned at the sound of the voice and gave her an approving glance.

"He certainly is," he answered, "and he's going to have a very swell-looking rider, too. I like that blue dress and that neat little hat."

"Glad you're suited," laughed Ruth. "He ought to have a name; do think up a nice name right off now so that I can have something to call him this afternoon."

"I like your way of ordering me to think up things on the moment," protested Arthur in an aggrieved tone.

"Of course you like it. Do think quick, because Uncle Henry is just ready to start."

"Peter Pan," suggested Arthur. "And then he'll never grow old and bony and lame."

"Clever boy," said Ruth approvingly as they started off. "That name suits me exactly. Can't you just see him doing a shadow dance with me on his back?"

Arthur watched them until a curve in the road hid them from sight. Then as he started toward the house a familiar voice hailed him, and he turned to see Dr. Holland looking at him with approving eyes.

"Pretty nice looking pair of riders, aren't they? Why don't you go in for that sort of thing, my boy?"

"I shall just as soon as you say I can, doctor."

"Go ahead then, with my blessing. You've always been so used to riding that the exercise will be the best thing in the world for you. Leg still pain you any?"

"A little, but it's growing stronger every day."

"Well, keep it up, young man, and you'll come out all right," said the doctor heartily as he drove off, leaving Arthur to find his mother and tell her the good news.

In the meantime Ruth and Mr. Hamilton were riding at an easy pace down the road past the old mill. It was a rare day for March. The snow had been gone for a fortnight, and to-day the air and sunshine were full of promises of spring.

To Ruth the ride was a perfect delight. She was happy because the sun shone, and because fleecy clouds were chasing each other across a blue sky. She loved the hint of spring in the air, and the fresh breeze which blew over the lake. Most of all she delighted in Peter Pan, who responded to her slightest touch, and flew over the ground so smoothly and surely that fear was impossible.

As they rounded the lake and came out on the side nearest the centre of the town, Ruth saw a house which seemed strangely familiar to her.

"Why, it's Mrs. Perrier's house, and there's Marie out on the porch," she said in great surprise. "I haven't seen it from this side before and I didn't know it at first. Do you think we might stop and see Marie for just a few minutes? I haven't been to see her for two weeks, and I'm afraid she'll think I'm neglecting her."

Mr. Hamilton looked at his watch. "Yes, we shall have time to make a short call on that sunshiny porch and still get you back in time for Miss Burton."

Marie was sitting in a steamer chair, well wrapped up, and so absorbed in her work that she saw nothing of her guests until they were almost at her side. When she looked up a warm color flushed her pale cheeks, and she tried to conceal the sheet of paper on which she had been working.

"This is Mr. Hamilton, Marie, and this is my friend, Marie Borel, Uncle Henry," said Ruth quickly. "You two should be very good friends, for Uncle Henry's just been telling me how fond he is of Switzerland."

"Ah, do you love my country?" cried Marie, all her embarrassment forgotten. "It ees so good to hear that; I am sometimes so homeseeck for my mountains."

"Indeed I do love your mountains and your lakes and the good people who live there," responded Mr. Hamilton with a warmth that delighted Marie's homesick heart.

"But I must speak to my aunt," said Marie struggling to rise from her many wraps. "You will perhaps come into the house." "No, sit still, and I'll tell Mrs. Perrier we're here," urged Ruth. "We can stay only a few minutes, and we like to sit here in the sunshine."

She disappeared into the house, and while she was gone Mr. Hamilton set himself to the pleasant task of getting acquainted with the shy girl whose wonderful dark eyes looked so confidingly at him. It needed only a few sympathetic questions to induce her to tell him of the little town nestled at the foot of the Jura Mountains, of the sparkling lake on which she used to look from her chamber window, and of the Jungfrau, seventy miles away, but seeming so near in clear weather.

"I know just where your old home is, Marie," he said kindly, when, in her pretty, broken English, she had pictured her birthplace to him. "I don't wonder that you are homesick, for even I often long for a sight of those beautiful mountains."

"It gives me much good to talk of them to some one who knows how beautiful they are," answered Marie simply. "But here comes Miss Ruth, and—"

"Now, Marie, don't you scold me," interrupted Ruth gaily. "I just couldn't help bringing out your lace pillow and your embroidery for Uncle Henry to see."

"Oh, a gentleman," laughed Marie, "a gentleman, he does not care for fine stitches."

"There, isn't that beautiful, Uncle Henry?" persisted Ruth. "And what do you think? I've learned to make a very simple pattern."

"You don't say so!" said Uncle Henry, much impressed. "Couldn't you—couldn't you make me something to wear?"

"What shall it be?" laughed Ruth. "I'll tell you. If you'll promise to have a black velvet suit and wear it to the office every day, I'll make you a large lace collar to wear with it."

"I'll let you know when I leave the order for the suit. It will be time enough to begin. on the collar then," answered Mr. Hamilton, much amused at the idea. "I'm afraid we must be saying good-bye to Marie now," he added with a glance at his watch, "or you won't have any time to rest before starting out again."

But just then Mrs. Perrier came out on the porch carrying a tray, and nothing would do but that Mr. Hamilton and Ruth must taste her home-made grape-juice, and the little cakes made from a recipe she had brought from Switzerland. They were almost as thin as paper, and so deliciously crisp and toothsome-looking that Ruth couldn't resist them.

"Oh, Uncle Henry," she cried impulsively, "I am so hungry: and you have a hungry look, too, hasn't he, Marie? Never mind if we don't get home quite so soon; I can rest while I'm eating."

"Just as you say, my dear," answered Mr. Hamilton with proper meekness. He was having an unusual and interesting experience himself, and didn't in the least mind staying.

The little lunch was delicious, and Ruth sighed as she finished the last cake she felt she could possibly eat. Mr. Hamilton stooped to pick up his whip before saying good-bye, and as he did so dislodged a book which was tucked into the steamer chair. It fell to the floor, and a paper fluttered out of it and floated almost to Ruth's feet. She picked it up to return it, but her eye was caught by a pencil sketch which stood out boldly.

"Why, Marie," she cried in astonishment, "did you draw this? It's that little piece of the shore of the lake that I've been looking at while I've sat here. Do let me show it to Uncle Henry."

"Eet ees nothing," faltered Marie, full of shy embarrassment. "I cannot make eet look as I see eet."

Mr. Hamilton studied the little sketch with kindly, critical eyes. Then he apparently forgot that there was need to hurry, for to Ruth's surprise he sat down again by Marie's chair, saying earnestly: "Have you more sketches in that book I knocked down, child? Let me see them if you have."

His manner was so serious, so compelling, that Marie gave him the book without a word. There were sketches in pencil and sketches in water-color. Those in the first part of the book were tiny drawings of the interior of Mrs. Perrier's house, with now and again that smiling woman herself in a characteristic pose. Once in a while there was a sketch in color of mountains, lake and sky done evidently from memory. All crude and faulty, but showing so much strength, so much individuality and color-sense, that Mr. Hamilton turned the leaves of the little book again and again, and finally laid it down reluctantly, saying:

"If I only had time, Marie, I should like to talk them all over with you. There is so much promise in them that you must keep on trying; you must study as soon as you are strong enough."

"I am so glad that you think I am not wasting my time when I do such things," she answered wistfully. "They will never look as I want them to look, but I cannot help trying. I shall hope to study some day."

Marie walked to where the horses were tied to show Ruth how much she had improved, and as they turned to wave a last good-bye to her Mr. Hamilton said impressively, "Ruth, do you know we've discovered a genius there. I firmly believe that girl will make a name for herself some day. We must help her."

"I should like to," answered Ruth, who all the way home seemed to be in a brown study.



CHAPTER XVI

TELLING FORTUNES

"I'm very sorry to be late," said Ruth penitently, as she walked into Miss Burton's little sitting-room to find the three other girls there before her.

"We were just wondering whether that fiery steed had carried you off so far that you couldn't get back," laughed Miss Burton.

"He's a beauty, and I'd have given anything to have my father see you ride off on him," said Dorothy, who longed to ride, but hadn't yet been able to persuade her father that it was a necessary part of her education.

"You see we didn't wait for you," continued Miss Burton, "so take off your hat and coat, and you shall have a cup of chocolate and some bread and butter as soon as you are ready."

"Riding does give one such an appetite," murmured Ruth apologetically, forgetting that they didn't know that she had been feasting only about an hour before. "But what were you talking about, girls, as I came up-stairs? Your voices sounded so earnest that I felt quite curious."

"We were talking about Mildred Walker," answered Betty. "I don't believe you ever heard of her, Ruth, but she's a girl who always lived here until about three years ago. Her father had a good deal of money, and suddenly he made a great deal more and they went to New York to live. They lived pretty extravagantly, I guess, and now he has lost all his money and is very sick, and Mildred will have to do something to help support the family. She's only nineteen, and she's never done anything but have a good time all her life, so we were wondering how she would get along."

"When my father heard about it," said Dorothy, "he slapped his hand down on the table and said, 'There, that settles it; my girl shall learn to do something to support herself in case need comes.' He looked so fierce and decided that I should have been quite worried if I hadn't made up my mind some time ago what I wanted to do."

"Oh, Dolly, what is it?" cried Ruth, almost upsetting her cup in her earnestness.

"Why, physical culture, of course," answered Dorothy. "I haven't any talent for anything else, and I just love that."

"It's a very good choice, Dorothy, for, even if you're never obliged to teach, it helps one in many ways," said Miss Burton. "I've always been very thankful that my wise father felt just as yours does, for when the time came I was able to take hold and do my part. When father helped me plan my education there seemed no possible chance that I should be obliged to earn my own living, but it came suddenly, as as it so often does, and I'm glad to think that both father and mother lived to see me working happily and successfully."

Miss Burton was smiling as she finished, but there was a soft mistiness in her brown eyes which touched the hearts of her adoring audience.

"Dear little Miss Burton," said Ruth, giving her a swift hug, "we can't be sorry that you had to earn your living if we try, for if you hadn't we never should have known you."

"Who can tell?" said Charlotte with mock solemnity. "Perhaps she might have come into our lives in some other way. Perhaps even now some one is drawing near to us who may be destined to play an important part in our lives or hers." Charlotte's voice grew deeper as she spoke, and her eyes had a faraway look.

"Oh, Charlotte, you goose. You make me feel positively creepy," cried Betty.

"You don't see any one over my shoulder, I hope," said Dorothy with an involuntary backward glance.

"Now, Miss Burton," said Charlotte with a laugh, "I leave it to you if that isn't sufficient proof that I ought to be an actress."

"I'm afraid the modern manager would require still more proof than that, Charlotte," answered Miss Burton, much amused. "But you certainly did that well."

"Let's all tell what we think we could do if we had to," proposed Betty. "What should you do, Ruth?"

"I suppose that after I've studied the violin a few years more I could give lessons," said Ruth thoughtfully. "But somehow I don't seem to look forward to it with any wild joy. Whenever I plan ahead, I always think of myself as in a home, making things look pretty, and having lots of dinner-parties. I believe I should like to be a model hostess," she added honestly.

"Oh, Ruth, just a society woman?" asked Charlotte with scorn in her voice.

"Ruth's idea means more than that, Charlotte, if you think of it in its broadest sense," interposed Miss Burton. "To be a perfect hostess implies capacity for managing one's household, a wide culture, forgetfulness of self and a ready appreciation of the needs of others, sincerity, charm, interest in one's fellow beings, and so many other good qualities that I can't stop to mention them. It's really a beautiful ideal, and Ruth is fortunate in living with a woman who is one of the few perfect hostesses I know."

"I don't think I quite realized before how much it meant," said Ruth. "But it must have been watching Aunt Mary that made me think of it, for I used to have quite different ideas. It just occurs to me," she added with an infections laugh, "that the last time I remember saying anything about it I told father that when I grew up I should keep a candy-shop."

"And eat all you wanted, of course," added Charlotte as they all laughed. "That was my first idea, too."

"And what's your present idea?" asked Betty.

"Oh, mine's so big and impossible, and so slow in coming, that I can't bear to talk about it," answered Charlotte, grown suddenly shy, and then she relapsed into silence, and no amount of urging would make her speak.

"No one asks me about mine," said Betty plaintively after a pause in the conversation, "and I'm just dying to tell."

"Oh, Betty, forgive us, and divulge the secret this very minute," laughed Miss Burton.

"Well," began Betty slyly, "I'm going to be different from the rest of you; I'm going to be married and keep house. And my husband's going to be an invalid, at least I think I shall have him an invalid, and I shall have to support the family. Oh, I forgot to say that before I'm married I'm going to learn all about cooking and—and domestic science. Then I shall do all my own housework, and make cake for the neighbors, and cater for lunch-parties, and raise chickens and squabs, and keep bees, and grow violets and mushrooms, and have an herb-garden. Oh, and in my leisure moments—"

Miss Burton and the girls were quite helpless with laughter by this time, and Betty interrupted herself to look at them with pretended astonishment.

"I was just about to say," she went on severely, "when you interrupted me by laughing so rudely, that in my leisure moments I should make clothing for the children and myself, and also furnish fancy articles for the Woman's Exchange."

"Oh, Betty, when you are funny you are the funniest thing I ever saw," gasped Charlotte, going off into a fresh burst of laughter.

"I'm much obliged to you, Betty, for that laugh," said Miss Burton, wiping her eyes, "and I hope I'll be there to see when you get that model establishment of yours in running order."

"I'll send you samples of the various things if you're not on hand," responded Betty with a twinkle. "But really, Miss Burton," she added with sudden seriousness, "I do want to take a course in cooking and domestic science."

"Judging by the specimens of your cooking I've eaten I should think it would be the thing for you to do," replied Miss Burton heartily. "The opportunities for teaching in that line are many, and even if you never have to earn money by it, to know how to cook is a very great accomplishment."

"I dare say," said Charlotte, "that we shall all do something absolutely different from what we are planning now. Probably Betty will marry a millionaire, and Dolly will take in sewing. Who can say that Ruth may not be an artist? And I—well, I think my strong point is cooking, and I shall undoubtedly be feeding starving families on baked apples for years to come."

"Oh, fudge," said Dolly, much disgusted with her part of the prophecy. "You can't tell fortunes for me, Charlotte; I won't have it."

"I'm sure to be an artist," laughed Ruth. "I can draw a pig with my eyes shut just as well as I can with them open. I should love to splash on color, though."

"You might be a house-painter," said Betty meditatively. "When my millionaire builds his house I'll employ you to do the painting."

"And Charlotte can be cook," suggested Ruth. "But speaking of artists, girls, makes me think of what I've been wanting to ask you ever since I got here. Uncle Henry and I called on Marie this afternoon and found her sitting on the piazza in the sunshine. Just as we were leaving we found out quite by accident that she has been making perfectly lovely little sketches, and Uncle Henry thinks she's a genius. He told her she must study as soon as she got strong, and you should have seen the longing look in those great dark eyes of hers."

"I suppose she hasn't a cent that she feels she can use for lessons," said Miss Burton thoughtfully. She, as well as Ruth's special chums, had become very much interested in Marie, and Mrs. Perrier's little house had been the goal of many a breezy walk.

"I think Uncle Henry means to help her, of course," continued Ruth, "but I was wondering if there wasn't something we could do to earn money. Wouldn't it be great if the Cooking Club could do something to help?"

"I should say it would," responded Dorothy with the greatest enthusiasm. "Didn't we begin to try even at our first meeting to make our club helpful to others?"

"I hope we shan't miss the mark the way we did that time," groaned Charlotte with a disgusted expression on her face.

"Oh, but didn't Joe look too absurd in that ladylike black skirt and bonnet?" said Ruth going off into a fit of laughter. "I don't care if the joke was mostly on me; it was the funniest thing I ever saw."

"We never could pay him off with anything half so clever," laughed Betty. "But, girls, it's Marie who wants to be an artist, not Joe. Who's got an idea?"

"Let's have a supper in the Town Hall and cook all we can ourselves and solicit the rest," proposed Dorothy.

"Too much outside work when we're in school," protested Charlotte.

"If we could have it four weeks from now it would come in the April vacation," persisted Dorothy.

"Why not have some sort of an entertainment," suggested Miss Burton, "and seat your audience at small tables? Then at the end of the entertainment you could serve light refreshments."

"And we could have tableaux and perhaps some music," cried Ruth in a burst of inspiration. "You'd help us out with it, wouldn't you, Miss Burton?"

"Of course I would. I've had to plan such things several times."

"Let's choose the prettiest girls we can find in the school for waitresses," said Betty, "and have them wear cunning aprons and big bows on their heads."

"Why not have the thing open an hour or so before the entertainment begins, and give them a chance to buy home-made candy and salted almonds and some of those specialties which the gifted members of our club delight in making?" suggested Charlotte. "We shall need all the money we can get, for just the price of the tickets won't amount to very much."

"That's a practical idea, Charlotte," said Miss Burton. "And if you'd like it perhaps I can make some money for you by reading palms. The boys could build a little tent for me, and I could give each applicant five minutes of my valuable time."

"Oh, Miss Burton, can you really read palms?" cried Betty much impressed.

"Well, Betty," said Miss Burton with her radiant smile, "I can, at least, make it interesting for persons who like to have their palms read. And fortunately I have a costume which I wore for this same purpose at a Charity Bazar in Chicago."

"That will be great," said Dorothy. "Oh, girls, I think this is going to be the grandest affair we've ever had in Glenloch. Can't you just see how everything is going to look?"

"We'll get the boys to help decorate the hall," suggested Betty.

"They'll be useful in lots of ways," added Charlotte. "Boys come in handy sometimes."

"We must have a business meeting right away with Kit and Alice," continued the practical Dorothy. "We shan't accomplish anything until we know just what each one is to do."

"There's just one thing," said Ruth hesitatingly. "Do you suppose we can make a success of it without telling people what we are going to do with the money? Of course I know," she went on hurriedly, "that our own families must be told, but it seems to me it will be much pleasanter for Marie if it isn't generally known."

"That's so," declared Dorothy. "It would be horrid for her to feel that she is being made an object of charity for the town. Let's tell just our mothers and fathers, and swear them to secrecy."

"If we give a good entertainment," added Charlotte, "no one will have any right to ask what we're going to do with the money."

"Good," cried Ruth, much relieved. "I felt almost sorry I'd proposed it when I began to think about poor Marie."

"Girls, girls, it's half-past six," cried Betty, as Miss Burton's clock struck the half-hour. "I actually haven't heard that clock strike before this afternoon."

"Mercy me! We have dinner at six," and Ruth turned to find her coat and hat.

At that moment there was a knock, and Miss Burton's landlady poked her head into the room to say there was a gentleman at the door who wanted to see Miss Ruth Shirley.

"It must be Mr. Hamilton," said Ruth, who felt guilty on account of the lateness of the hour. "I'll call down and tell him I'll be there in a minute."

"It's not Mr. Hamilton. It's no one I know," answered Mrs. Stearns.

Ruth looked puzzled. "Oh, do come down with me," she implored, catching Miss Burton's hand, and together they went along the hall and down to the turn in the stairs. Then, as Ruth caught sight of the tall, handsome man standing in the hall with the lamplight shining full upon his face, she forgot everything else in the world, and getting over the remaining stairs in some incomprehensible way, threw herself into his outstretched arms.

"Oh, Uncle Jerry, Uncle Jerry!" she cried with a little break in her voice as she buried her head on his shoulder. She was quite unconscious that, though his arms tightened around her, his eyes were fixed with eager longing on the smiling girl who had stopped half-way down the stairs. There was a long second of silence. Uncle Jerry's face went white and then red. Margaret Burton's smile faded, and an expression of perplexity took its place. Then she came down the stairs, and holding out her hand said:

"I see you haven't forgotten me, Mr. Harper. I am very glad to see you again."

Ruth looked up in amazement as Uncle Jerry took the white hand in both of his. "Why, Miss Burton," he began impetuously, "I—" and then something made him look up to the hall above where three heads were gazing over the railing with eager curiosity.

"I am more than glad to meet you here," he continued lamely. "I—I had no idea of meeting an old friend."

"Miss Burton, you never told me that you knew my Uncle Jerry, and I've talked about him lots of times," protested Ruth in an aggrieved voice.

"Well, of course, I supposed your Uncle Jerry was Jeremiah Shirley," laughed Miss Burton. "You never told me that Jerry stood for Jerome, nor that his last name wasn't the same as yours."

"Why, so I didn't. And I suppose all the girls think your name is Jeremiah, and they're probably sorry for you. I'll run up now and get my hat, and bring them down to be properly introduced."

It seemed only a minute, and a very short one at that, to Jerome Harper, before Ruth came down-stairs again with the girls behind her. He ventured a little protesting glance at Miss Burton as she stepped into the background, and allowed the chattering girls to absorb him. Being Ruth's Uncle Jerry it was plainly his duty to show himself in the best possible light to these, her friends, and he did it in so charming a manner that they all fell in love with him on the spot.

They left the house together, and only Dorothy noticed that Uncle Jerry lingered a little to say good-bye to Miss Burton. Dorothy usually did notice everything connected with Miss Burton, and just then she had been thinking how pretty she looked in her simple white wool gown, with her fair hair low on her neck and her brown eyes shining.

"What under the sun made you say that some one might be coming to play an important part in Miss Burton's life, Char?" she said in a low tone to Charlotte as they started off. "Did you really have a feeling?"

"A feeling? No, goosey; of course I didn't. Why do you ask?"

Dorothy pinched her arm to hush her, and nodded significantly at Uncle Jerry, who was just ahead of them with Betty and Ruth.

Charlotte looked surprised and then scornful. "I hate to see any one getting up a romance out of nothing," she whispered almost crossly. "They're just old acquaintances, of course."

But Dorothy knew that Charlotte hadn't seen Uncle Jerry's face as he said good-bye.



CHAPTER XVII

UNCLE JERRY

Uncle Jerry stayed only until Monday morning, and his visit seemed so short to Ruth that after he had gone she could hardly believe that it had really happened. Neither could she quite reconcile herself to the fact that out of that brief time he had taken two whole hours away from his only niece to call on Miss Burton. Her only consolation was that he had promised to return for the night of the grand entertainment, and he thought it probable that he should be able then to stay a week.

She had little time to think about her own affairs, for with the date of the entertainment once set the days flew by on wings. It was planned for the second Wednesday in April, which would come in the middle of the spring vacation, and thus give the girls a chance to rest after it was over. Once in the midst of their preparations, the girls began to realize how big a thing they had undertaken, and were fearful that they should not be able to make it a financial success. Fortunately their elders realized it, too, and came promptly to the rescue. Mr. Hamilton offered to pay for the hall, Mr. Marshall agreed to provide the tables and chairs, and to pay for having the stage enlarged, and the Candle Club boys devoted themselves to their hard-working friends, and were ready to do anything to help.