Miss Leece, in effigy, had been kidnapped in an instant, before David and his friends had had time to realize what had happened.

"Which way did they go?" he asked breathlessly.

"Through the thicket," cried Grace.

And the whole crowd dashed after the kidnappers. It was great fun for everybody except Anne, who was too tired to keep up the chase for long, and was soon lagging behind the others. David saw her and turned back.

"You are too little for all this junketing, Anne," he said kindly. "Suppose I take you home? Shall I?"

"I wish you would, David," answered the girl. "I'm just about ready to drop, I'm so tired."

Taking her arm, he helped her over the ruts and rough places, until they finally emerged from the wood and started on the road to town.

There were many other Hallowe'en parties out that night; singing and laughing was heard in every direction.

"It's like a play," said Anne, "only everything is behind the scenes. Don't think I haven't enjoyed it, David, just because I got tired. I never played with boys and girls of my own age before. What fun it is!"

"Isn't it?" replied the young man, "I love to get out, once in a while, and have a good time like this. I find I can work all the better after it's over."

Presently the others caught up with them, breathless and laughing.

"Miss Leece is stolen," cried Grace, "before ever she was hanged or burned. I do wonder what they'll do with her."

"Oh, leave her in the woods," responded Reddy, "to scare the birds away."

"Good night, Anne," continued Grace. "David will take you home. We go this way. Don't be frightened about to-morrow. I doubt if she says anything; and if she does, we are all implicated."

The young people separated, still singing and laughing; never dreaming of the storm brewing from their evening's prank.

"Anne," pursued David, as they strolled down River Street together, "when I make my flying machine will you be afraid to take a sail with me?"

"Never," replied Anne, "but I wish it had been made in time to carry me away from Miss Leece to-morrow morning."

And Anne's words had more meaning than either of them realized at the time.

Imagine the surprise and horror of the Hallowe'en party when, next morning, they discovered the effigy of Miss Leece planted right in front of the Girls' High School!

And the teacher herself was the first to see the impious outrage.



CHAPTER VIII

MISS LEECE

Yes, there stood the hideous, grotesque effigy just where her abductors had left her the night before, her green veil floating in the breezes. As a figure of fun and an object of ridicule, she might not have created more than a ripple with the faculty. But it was evident that Miss Leece's function, even in effigy, was to make trouble.

And trouble was certainly brewing that memorable morning. The figure itself might never have been recognized, but a placard which had been pinned on the front of the old ulster left no room for doubt. Across it had been inscribed in large printed letters:

"THE MOST UNPOPULAR TEACHER IN SCHOOL."

No one dared take the effigy away for fear of being implicated. Everybody had seen it, both men and women professors and the boys and girls of the two schools. But it was not until Miss Thompson, the principal of the Girls' High School, had arrived that the figure was removed.

"How could those boys have been so mean!" exclaimed Grace to her three friends just before the gong sounded. "They might have known what would happen."

There was an ominous quiet in the various class rooms all morning; but nothing was said or done to indicate just when the storm would burst. When the first class in algebra met, Anne trembled with fear, but Miss Leece, in a robin's egg-blue dress, which offset the angry hue of her complexion, was apparently too angry to trust herself to look in the direction of the young girl and the lesson progressed without incident.

However, she was only biding her time.

"Miss Pierson," she said, toward the end of the lesson, in a voice so rasping as to make the girls fairly shiver, "go to the blackboard and demonstrate this problem."

Then she read aloud in the same disagreeable voice, the following difficult problem:

"'Train A starts from Chicago going thirty miles an hour. An hour later Train B starts from Chicago going thirty-five miles an hour. How far from Chicago will they be when Train B passes Train A?'"

The girls looked up surprised. The problem was well in advance of what they had been studying and Miss Leece was really asking Anne to recite something she had not yet learned.

Anne hardly knew how to reply to the terrible woman who stood glowering at her as if she would like to crush her to bits.

"I'm sorry," said the girl. "I cannot."

"Miss Nesbit," said the teacher, "will you demonstrate this problem?"

Miriam rose with a little smile of triumph on her face and went to the blackboard, where she worked out the problem.

"Why, what on earth does the woman mean?" whispered Grace. "Are we expected to learn lessons we have never been taught and has that horrid Miriam been studying ahead?"

"I think I must be dreaming," replied Anne, looking sorrowfully at Miss Leece.

"Miss Pierson," thundered the teacher, "you are aware, I believe, that I permit no conversation in this class. Stupidity and inattention are not to be supported in any student, and I must ask you to leave the room."

Anne rose in a dazed sort of way, looking very small and shabby as she left the room.

But Miss Leece was not to come off so easily in the fight, and Anne had a splendid champion in Grace Harlowe, who could not endure injustice and was fearless where her rights or her friends' rights were concerned.

She rose quietly and faced the angry teacher, who already regretted having gone so far.

"If Miss Pierson is to be ordered from the room, Miss Leece, I shall follow her. I spoke to her first. I was naturally surprised that you gave out a problem so far in advance of our regular work. It is doubtful if any girl in the class could do it except Miriam, and she must have been prepared."

"Miss Harlowe," said Miss Leece, stamping her foot, and again giving way to rage, "I must ask you to take your seat at once and never interfere again with the way I conduct this class."

"You conduct this class with injustice and violence, Miss Leece," said Grace, turning very white, but holding herself in admirable control considering the conduct of the older woman.

"I am in no humor to be answered back this morning, Miss Harlowe, and I would advise you to be careful," continued the enraged woman. "I have had enough to try me since last night and this morning. Miss Pierson must answer to the principal for those insults, and her insubordination just now has only made matters worse."

"Miss Pierson has nothing to answer for which I have not, and I shall join her," replied Grace, and she left the room.

Miss Leece was about to continue the lesson when Jessica, pale and trembling, rose and followed her friend. Nora was next to go and in another moment there was not a girl left in the algebra class except Miriam and her four particular friends. The gong sounded as the last pupil closed the door behind her, but there was little doubt that the first class in algebra had gone on a strike.

The noon recess gong had sounded before the girls were able to meet and talk about the incident, and, during the time that intervened, Anne had received a summons in the form of a small note to meet the principal in her office at three that afternoon. She said nothing to her friends, however, and hid the envelope in her pocket.

The girls in IV. algebra gathered around their friends to hear the story. They were indignant and expressed their readiness to join the strike out of sympathy in case there was any more trouble.

"They have no right to put such a violent woman over us," said Grace, as she nibbled at a pickle and a cracker in the locker room. "I wish they would give me the opportunity. I should be more than willing to testify to her behavior before the entire faculty and the school board combined."

Anne, herself, the center of the whole affair was very quiet. This remarkable young girl seemed to possess some secret force that she was able to draw upon when she most needed it.

"Anne, you precious child," exclaimed the impetuous Nora, "you must not get scared. Whatever happens, the whole class means to stand by you. Don't we, girls?"

"Yes," came from all sides.

"I don't think anything in particular will happen," replied Anne. "I believe Miss Leece really wants to prevent my winning the prize. That's all."

"She has certainly adopted a pet," cried Marian Barber.

"What did Miriam Nesbit mean by studying ahead like that?" exclaimed another. "It was disloyal to the whole class."

"It looks very much as if they had fixed it up between them," continued Grace. "I'm sorry about the effigy, but I won't stand that kind of favoritism. It's mean and underhanded."

After school Anne lingered in the corridor until the other girls had gone. Then she made her way slowly to the office of the principal. "Come in," came the answer to her timid knock.

Miss Thompson, the principal, was a fine woman, much beloved by the people of Oakdale where she had served as principal of the Girls' High School for many years. She had adjusted numerous difficulties in her time, but never such a knotty problem as the present one. It was incredible that Anne Pierson, who stood so well in her classes that she had already been mentioned by the faculty, should have engaged in such an escapade as Miss Leece had accused her of.

"Sit down," she said kindly to the young girl, whose small, tired face appealed to her sympathies. "What is this trouble between you and Miss Leece, Miss Pierson?" she continued, plunging into the subject.

"I do not know myself, Miss Thompson," answered Anne quietly.

"But she accuses you of rather terrible things, Miss Pierson," went on the principal, picking up a slip of paper and reading aloud, "'inattention, insubordination, impertinence and a tendency to make trouble.' Have you any answer to make to these charges?"

"No," replied Anne.

"Have you nothing to say?"

"Only that they are untrue."

"Miss Pierson," continued the principal, opening a closet door, "do you recognize this figure."



There, hanging by its neck on a coat hook and still wearing its fantastic bonnet and green veil, was the famous effigy.

Anne looked at the absurd thing for a moment in silence. Then her eyes met Miss Thompson's, and both teacher and pupil burst out laughing.

The young girl never knew how far that laugh went to soften her present predicament. As a matter of fact, Miss Thompson had never liked the teacher in mathematics, while the small, shabby pupil appealed strongly to her sympathy.

"Were you not the originator of this outrageous plot, Miss Pierson?"

Anne was silent. She could hardly say she was the originator and still she had participated.

"I will put the question in another form," said the principal. "If you were not the originator, who was?"

Still Anne made no reply.

"Miss Leece," continued the principal, "alleges that she distinctly saw you standing by the figure. She did not recognize the other faces. Do you think, Miss Pierson, that such an escapade as you engaged in last night was entirely respectful or worthy of a pupil of Oakdale High School?"

"No," replied Anne at last.

"Do you know that suspension or expulsion are the punishments for such behavior?"

Anne clasped her hands nervously. She saw the freshman prize floating away, and her eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.

Instead of being angry, however, Miss Thompson was pleased with the girl's pluck and loyalty. But she was puzzled to know how to proceed. Her judgment and her sympathies revolted against punishing this prize pupil, and still it looked as if Miss Leece had everything on her side. A tap at the door interrupted her reflections, and Anne opened it, admitting Mrs. Gray escorted by David and Grace.

"My dear Miss Thompson," said the old lady, "I know you will consider me an interfering old woman, but when I heard that my particular child, Anne Pierson, was in trouble, I came straight to you. I want to talk the whole matter over comfortably; since it's my own freshman class that's on the rampage, I feel as if I had a right to put in a word."

"You are most welcome, Mrs. Gray," replied Miss Thompson, cordially.

She was exceedingly fond of the lonely old lady who had been a benefactor to the school in so many ways. "But what's this you say about the freshman class? I have heard nothing about it."

"Grace," said Mrs. Gray, "suppose you tell Miss Thompson what you have just finished telling me."

Then Grace related the incident in the algebra class and the long succession of insults Anne had endured from the terrible Miss Leece.

"Dear, dear," murmured Miss Thompson, "this looks like persecution and very strong favoritism on the part of Miss Leece. A thing we wish to keep out of the school as much as possible. But what about this!" and she opened the door of the closet where the pumpkin face of the effigy grinned at them grotesquely from the shadows.

"I have something to say about that, Miss Thompson," declared David. "I am the author of this 'crime' and I intend to take the blame for it. Miss Pierson had so little to do with it that we had fairly to drag her out of her own house to make her join the crowd."

"I think, Miss Thompson," put in Mrs. Gray, "that a teacher must have been exceedingly sharp and disagreeable to have inspired such nice children to this," and she pointed to the figure.

"I believe you are right," admitted the principal after a moment's thought, "and I trust, under the circumstances, that the whole affair can be settled without the interference of the School Board. Suppose you leave Miss Leece to me. And young people," she added, "if you will promise to say nothing more about the subject, I think Miss Leece may be persuaded to let the matter drop."

And so ended the Hallowe'en escapade. Miss Thompson paid a visit to Miss Leece that evening, at the teacher's rooms in Oakdale, and was closeted with her for more than an hour. No one ever knew what happened. Miss Thompson was a woman to keep her own counsel; but the affair never came up before the School Board and Miss Leece, after that, though somewhat stiff in her manner, had no more outbursts of rage for some time. Undoubtedly her display of favoritism in the algebra class had lost her the day.

Miss Thompson was a woman of fine judgment and broad and just views. She was proud of the Oakdale High Schools and the splendid classes they turned out year after year. She realized perfectly what a disturbance a woman like Miss Leece could cause and she determined to check her at every point, especially when the most prominent and finest pupils of the two schools were implicated.

Therefore the offenders went scot-free and Anne was once more safe to pursue the freshman prize.

Miss Leece, however, was only biding her time. While Anne had won this battle she might lose the next.



CHAPTER IX

THANKSGIVING DAY

"Oh, how I love Thanksgiving!" cried Grace.

"Oh, how you love turkey, you mean," exclaimed her bosom friend, Nora O'Malley.

"Yes," admitted Grace, "the turkey is a grand old bird, bless him, but football is what I really love, delightful, thrilling football. I wish I could play center on the home team. I know I could make a touchdown as well as the best of them."

The crowd of young people were seated on straw in the bottom of a large road wagon that was slowly making its way from Grace's house out to the football grounds. It was decorated with the colors of the Oakdale High School, sea-blue and white, and the girls wore blue and white rosettes and carried long horns from which dangled ribbon streamers. Numbers of Oakdale people were hurrying down the road toward the field, and the crisp autumn air vibrated with the sounds of talk and laughter. In the distance could be heard the music of the town band, which always gave a concert before the Thanksgiving game.

"And to think that little Anne has never in her life seen a football game!" exclaimed Jessica.

Anne blushed.

"Yes," she replied reluctantly, "I'll have to admit this is my very first game, but I understand the rules. Grace has explained them to me. I hope our boys will win."

"If the Dunsmore boys are in good trim, I'm afraid they'll give us a stiff pull," observed David, "but the stiffer the pull the more interesting it is to watch, so long as they don't lick us."

Just then the wagon drew up at the grounds and the boys and girls jumped out and made their way through the crowd to their seats.

Everybody in Oakdale turned out for the annual Thanksgiving football game. The professors and their wives, the teachers from the Girls' High School and all the pupils were there in full force, besides the citizens of Oakdale and their families. There was really a very large assemblage in the semicircular ampitheater which was hung with bunting and flags in honor of the great occasion, and probably not one in the whole cheerful company but had enjoyed a good Thanksgiving dinner that afternoon, so good humor beamed from every face.

"Don't you think this is a thrilling sight, Anne?" demanded Grace, for there was not a soul in Oakdale who was not vain of the High School football team, which had won for itself honors all over the state.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Anne, clasping her hands and waiting impatiently for the performance to commence.

Just then the band struck up again, and under cover of the music David whispered to Jessica:

"Do you see that man over there to the right on the back seat, with long, dark hair and a slouch hat?"

Jessica found the individual presently, starting slightly when she saw his face.

"I do believe it's Anne's father," she whispered.

"It just is," said David, "and he's looking hard at Anne, too. I wonder if he means to make another scene."

"Poor Anne!" sighed Jessica. "She seems to have more than her fair share of troubles."

The two teams then filed out for warming-up practice; the excitement of the ensuing game drove all thought of the sinister looking Mr. Pierson out of their heads, for the time being. The first half ended in a brilliant touchdown for the High School boys, though the kick for goal failed. Immediately the place rang with the cheers of the spectators. Crowds of boys rushed up and down giving the High School yell and when the noise died down somewhat the girls started the High School song:

"Here's three cheers for dear old Oakdale, God bless her, everyone!"

Anne was thrilled. Never had she enjoyed herself so much. She stood upon the seat beside Grace and waved a blue and white banner as frantically as anybody else.

"I don't think I quite understand what it's all about," she confided to David, who sat next to her, "but I am very happy all the same."

David smiled down into the radiant face. What a new dress and hat can do for one small, insignificant little person is quite wonderful sometimes. And Anne, with the money she had earned from Mrs. Gray, had replenished her wardrobe. In her neat brown suit and broad-brimmed hat she was really pretty, in a queer, quiet sort of way, David thought. He wondered if the father, hidden by rows of people, in the back, would be able to see how prosperous and well his daughter was looking. But his attention was recalled to the football field, for the next half was going against the High School, and there was apprehension among the sons and daughters of Oakdale.

"Dunsmore! Dunsmore!" cried a delegation from Dunsmore College.

But Dunsmore was not to be the victor that Thanksgiving Day. It was ordained that, just as hope had almost expired, a slender, fleet-footed young junior of the High School team should seize the ball and fly like the wind across the line. Score 10 to 1—Oakdale's score!

Immediately a terrific hubbub began. Surely the place had gone mad, Anne thought. The hundreds of spectators, including Grace and her party, had rushed from the ampitheater, clambered over the railing and dashed into the field of glory. Such yelling and roaring, such blowing of horns while the hero of the afternoon was carried about on the shoulders of his fellows, made her heart palpitate wildly. Her friends had forgotten all about her, evidently, or perhaps they thought she had followed.

"Anne," said a voice in her ear, "don't make any disturbance. I want you to come with me."

Anne turned around quickly and faced her father.

"Come at once!" he said. "I want to get out of this howling mob as soon as possible. We can talk later."

He took her hand, not ungently, and presently they found themselves on the other side of the fence surrounding the field. Anne had not meant to go, but she knew her father was quite capable of making a scene and she felt she couldn't endure it just then. Once outside, she thought she might escape. Never once, however, did he release her hand until he had her safe in one of the town hacks and they had started down the road.

When Grace and her friends finally recovered from their wild joy and excitement there was no Anne to be found.

"Perhaps she stayed in her seat," exclaimed Grace, but the place was quite empty.

David and Jessica looked about them uneasily.

"What chumps we were!" said the young man presently. "We never bothered to look after her, and now probably that old parent of hers has actually gone and kidnapped the poor child."

They searched through the crowds everywhere, but Anne was nowhere about.

At last David and Jessica confessed their suspicions to Grace.

"Oh, oh!" cried Grace, "I feel as if we were personally responsible for her! What shall we do?"

David thought a minute.

"Is there a play at the Opera House to-night?" he asked presently.

"I believe there is," replied Grace. "Why?"

"Ten to one Anne's father is acting in it," said David, "and that is the reason he happens to be in Oakdale to-day."

"That's a very brilliant idea if it happens to be true," said Jessica. "But don't you think we had better see Miss Mary Pierson before we do anything?"

"No," exclaimed Grace decisively. She was in the habit of thinking quickly and her friends usually let her have her way; but it was generally the best way. "It would be a pity to alarm her unnecessarily if we can avoid it. Anne isn't expected home until late, anyway. She is invited as are all of you to eat supper at my house. Suppose we go right to town, while David makes some inquiries at the Opera House. Then, if Anne's father is really acting in town to-night, we shall know what to do."

Accordingly, they tumbled into the road wagon, whipped up the horse and drove back to Oakdale as fast as they could go. On the way in, they saw a new bill posted on a wall, advertising a play entitled "Forsaken." It showed, in vivid colors, a young girl very ragged and tired looking, asleep on the steps of a large church.

"Let's go to the show," cried Nora, who always managed to combine amusement with duty; "that is," she added, "if Anne's father is in it. Of course, Anne will probably be somewhere about, in that case, and we could spirit her away while he is acting."

"That isn't a bad idea," answered David. "But I'd better find out a few things first. I'll come over to your house, Grace, and report," he called as he jumped out of the back of the cart.

The girls waited impatiently for his return, feeling that every moment Anne might be speeding away in some outgoing train, and they were losing valuable time. Grace had thought of consulting her mother, her best and wisest counsellor at all times, but Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe had gone on a long drive to the home of Mrs. Harlowe's mother and would not return until late that night. In half an hour their patience was rewarded; the gate clicked and David ran breathlessly up the walk, joining them presently in the parlor.

"It's true," he cried excitedly. "Anne is at the Spencer Arms, probably locked up in a room. Her father is acting to-night in 'Forsaken,' and the whole company leaves town on the 11.30 train. I suppose Anne must go to the theater, for there will be no time to go back to the hotel after the play. I got the whole thing out of the clerk."

"Then we can all go to the theater," cried Nora triumphantly.

"What good will that do Anne?" demanded practical Grace.

"It may do her no good whatever," said David, "but it would be well not to lose sight of the father, even, if we must follow him to the train. And if Anne knows we are near, she will be able to get back her nerve."

"Children," cried Grace suddenly, "I have a scheme. I won't put it into action unless it's absolutely necessary, but it's bound to work."

"What is it?" demanded the others.

"I won't tell," replied Grace mysteriously, "because I may not have to use it, and I'll warn you that it's rather dangerous. But it will save Anne, and we just mustn't get caught."



CHAPTER X

GRACE KEEPS HER SECRET

The "best" Oakdale people did not often see the melodramas that appeared from time to time at the small opera house. Occasionally, if something really good came along, Oakdale society turned out in force and filled the boxes and the orchestra seats; but, generally speaking, the little theater was only half filled.

And such was the case on this Thanksgiving night. Most of the audience was made up of farmers out holiday-making with their families, factory girls from the silk mills and a few storekeepers and clerks.

"I am glad there are so few people here," observed Grace, looking around the scanty audience; "because, if we have to resort to my scheme, it will make it much easier and less dangerous."

"What in the world is it?" pleaded Jessica.

"Never mind," answered her friend. "I'm afraid you'll object, so I won't tell until the last minute."

Just then a wheezy orchestra struck up a march and the High School party settled down in their seats, each with a secret feeling that it was rather good fun, in spite of the peculiar reason that had taken them there.

"Here he is," said Nora, pointing to the name on the programme. "He takes the part of Amos Lord, owner of the woolen mills."

At that moment the lights went down and the music stopped short. The curtain rolled up slowly disclosing the front of a church. It was night and lights gleamed through the stained glass windows. Snow was falling and from the church came the sound of organ music playing the wedding march. The picture was really very impressive, although the music was somewhat throaty and the flakes of snow were larger than life-size.

But who was it half lying, half sitting on the church steps, shivering with cold?

The girls had not been so often to the theater that they could afford to be disdainful over almost any passable play, and from the very moment the curtain went up their interest was aroused. Certainly, there was something extremely romantic and interesting about the lonely little figure on the church steps.

"That's the heroine," whispered Jessica. "Her name is Evelyn Chase."

Then people began to go into the church. It was a wedding evidently, although the groom was a tall, lean, middle-aged individual with gray hair.

"It's Mr. Pierson himself," exclaimed Nora in a loud whisper.

The bride-to-be was young and quite pretty. She was not dressed in white, but it was plain she was the bride because she carried a bouquet and hung on the arm of Anne's incorrigible parent. As they started up the steps, what should they stumble over but the half-frozen form of the young girl!

Then, there was a great deal of acting, not badly done at all, thought David, who had had more experience in these matters than his friends. The bride refused to go on with the ceremony until the poor little thing was taken care of. The groom would brook no delay, for, oh, perfidy, he had recognized in the still figure his own child by a former wife deserted years before.

Slowly the forsaken girl regained consciousness, lifted her head from the steps, threw back her shawl, and——

"Heavens and earth, it's Anne herself!" exclaimed Grace.

It was Anne. They were so startled and amazed they nearly tumbled off their seats.

"As I live, it is Anne, and acting beautifully!" whispered David.

"Where did she learn how?" demanded Jessica. "Strange she never told it."

But they were too interested to reply, for the action of the play was excellent and the interest held until the curtain rang down on the first act.

"No wonder he wants to keep her with him," ejaculated David when the lights went up. "She is the star performer in the show."

"She is wonderful," declared Grace. "To think that little, brown, quiet thing could be so talented! I always imagined acting was the hardest thing in the world to do, but it seems as though she had always been on the stage."

"Are we still going to try to save her?" asked Nora.

"Of course," replied David. "She doesn't want to act. Didn't you hear her say so that night? She wants to go to school."

"But it seems a pity, somehow, when she is so talented."

"She's just as talented in her studies," said Grace, "and I've often heard that stage life is very hard. No, no! I intend to do my best to get Anne away this very night, if it upsets the entire town of Oakdale."

When the second act was over, and Anne had actually so moved her audience that one old farmer was audibly sobbing into a red cotton handkerchief, and the girls themselves were secretly wiping their eyes, Grace whispered to David:

"I'm going to write a note, if you'll lend me a pencil and a slip of paper, and wrap it around the stem of this chrysanthemum. When Anne appears in the next act, you go up in the box, and if she's alone an instant pitch it to her. Then she will know what she's to do."

"But what is she to do?" demanded the others.

"I won't tell," persisted Grace. "You'll object, if I do."

"All right," said David. "I'll obey you Mistress Grace, although I wish you would confide in me."

But Grace was obdurate. She would tell no one.

The last act disclosed an attic at the top of an old tenement, with dormer windows looking out on a wintry scene. Anne appeared, more ragged than ever, carrying a little basket of matches. It was evident that she was a match girl by trade, and that this was her wretched domicile. As she crept down the center of the stage, ill and wretched, for she was supposed to be about to die—David saw his opportunity. From behind the curtain of the box he tossed the chrysanthemum, which fell right at her feet.

"If she only sees it," he thought.

But apparently she didn't. Going wearily to an old cupboard, she took out a crust of bread. Then she drew the ragged curtains at the windows and lit a candle. Simultaneously the entire attic was illuminated, for stage candles have remarkable powers of diffusing light.

"Why doesn't she pick up the flower?" exclaimed Grace. "If she doesn't the scheme won't work at all."

"I believe she's going to die," whispered Nora in a broken voice.

Just then the Irish comedian appeared, puffing and blowing from the long climb he had had to the top of the house. He had come to bring help to the dying girl, but he was funny in spite of the dreary tragedy, and Nora changed her tears to laughter and began to giggle violently, burying her face in her handkerchief in her effort to control her mirth. Her laughter was always contagious, and presently her two friends were giggling in chorus.

"Do hush, Nora O'Malley!" whispered Jessica nervously. "You know that if you once get us started we'll never stop."

A countryman, sitting back of Nora, touched her on the shoulder.

"Be you laughing or crying, miss?" he asked. "It ain't a time for laughing nor yet for crying, since the young lady ain't dead yet and I don't believe she's goin' to die, either."

"She just is," exclaimed Nora, wiping the tears from her eyes. "She'll die before she gets off that bed to-night, I'll wager anything."

All this while, the chrysanthemum with the note twisted and pinned to its stem lay in the middle of the stage. In the meantime, Anne had fallen into a stupor from cold and hunger. The kind little comedian rushed about the stage, making a fire, putting on the tea kettle and stumbling over his own feet in an effort to be useful.

"Now, all the others will enter in a minute," whispered Grace disgustedly, "and she'll never get it at all."

Just then Anne turned on her pillow and opened her eyes. They looked straight at David, who was sitting in the front of the box. He pointed deliberately at the chrysanthemum.

"She sees it," said Jessica, for Anne's eyes were now fixed on the flower.

When the kind Irishman departed to spend his last cent on medicine and food for the dying girl, she rose, staggered across the stage, seized the chrysanthemum and rushed back again, just in time to be lying prone when her father entered, now a repentant and sorrowful sinner.

"It's all right," whispered Grace in a relieved tone. "I feel sure that the plan will work to perfection."

Anne did die a stage death, and there was not a dry eye in the house when she forgave her father, bade farewell to the entire company, who had now gathered in the attic, and her soul passed out to soft music while the lights were turned very low.

"Fire! Fire!" rang out a voice from the darkened house.

Where did the voice come from? Nora and Jessica were so startled they could only clutch each other and wonder, while Grace whispered:

"Don't move from your seats."

"Grace, was that your voice?" whispered David, who had joined the girls during the death-bed scene.

But Grace made no reply. She only put her finger to her lips as she held his arm with a detaining hand.

There was a panic in the house. The audience rushed for the doors while the actors leaped over the footlights in their mad scramble to escape. Several women's voices took up the cry of fire and the place was in wild confusion. Evidently the man who managed the lights had been too frightened to turn them on again, for the theater still remained in semi-darkness.

The four young people did not move while the audience was crowding out of the aisles.

"We might as well be suffocated as crushed," observed David. "It's a much more comfortable death, and besides I can't smell any smoke."

Grace smiled but was silent.

"I'm here at last," announced Anne's well-known voice behind them.

And there she was, still in her ragged stage dress, carrying her hat and coat on her arm.

"Why, Anne Pierson!" cried Nora, "I thought you were dead and gone."

Anne laughed.

"Not dead," she said. "But I would certainly have been gone in another half hour. We needn't hurry," she continued. "I don't believe he would ever think of looking for me inside the theater, and, for the time being, this is the safest place."

"Anne, why did you never tell us you were an actress!" demanded David.

"I was afraid to," faltered the girl. "I was afraid you would all hate me if you knew the truth. Besides, I never acted but six months in all my life. We toured in this play a year ago, and I knew the part perfectly. It would have been cruel of me not to have played to-night. The girl who usually does it was sick and there was no one to take her part. When father told me that, I knew I should have to do it this once, but if the fire panic hadn't started I couldn't have gotten away from him very easily. He would have made a terrible scene. And even then, it might have been difficult. No stranger would have helped me run away from my own father, who is determined that I shall go on the stage. He thinks I have the making of an actress. But I don't like the stage life. It is hard and ugly. I want to study, and be with girls like you." A charming smile radiated her small, intelligent face.

"Where do I come in?" asked David, looking at her.

"I think you are the best friend I have in the world, David," declared Anne. "I can never forget your kindness."

"And now, Mademoiselle Annette Piersonelli," asked David, secretly much pleased at the girl's earnestness, "can't you divest yourself of your ragged dress before we go?"

"Yes, indeed," she replied. "I am fully clothed underneath." She slipped off the stage dress and put on her hat and coat.

Meanwhile, not a soul was left in the theater except two of the ushers, who were sniffing around trying to find out where the fire scare had originated.

"There comes father," whispered Anne. "Can't we hide behind the seats?"

"Quick," cautioned David. "He's coming down the center aisle."

The five young people crouched low while the actor stalked down the aisle. But it was plain he was not looking for his daughter in the theater, for he called out to one of the ushers moving about at a distance:

"Have you seen anything of the young girl who was with the company? I lost her during the panic and I haven't been able to locate her since. I must be leaving town in a few minutes," he added, consulting his watch. "It's almost time for the train now."

"The company all left with the audience," said the usher. "I guess she went along with 'em."

"Now is our time," said Anne, when the actor had disappeared. "Suppose we go out the stage entrance and down that side street!"

Whereupon she led the way back of the boxes and into the wings, followed by her friends, who looked curiously about them at the unusual sight.

"What a queer place," said Grace, "and how smudgy the scenery looks! Are these little places dressing rooms, Anne?"

"Yes," answered Anne. "You see, it's all horrid when you are close. And the life is worse—riding almost every day on smoky trains and spending each night in a different place. The people are so different, too. I would rather go to Oakdale High School," she exclaimed, "than be the greatest actress in the world."

They were standing in one of the larger dressing rooms while Anne endeavored to wipe the powder and rouge from her face with a pocket handkerchief.

A tall figure darkened the doorway, and in the glass Anne saw the reflection of her father's face. Without a word, she ran to the open window and jumped out on the fire escape. The others followed nimbly after her. Mr. Pierson turned and rushed down the passage to the side entrance.

"Hurry, Anne!" called David. "He will meet you at the bottom if you don't."

They climbed quickly down the ladder, almost treading on each other's fingers in their haste, and in another moment they were running down an alleyway.

"Another narrow escape," cried Anne, when they were out of danger. "How shall I ever thank you, dear friends?"

"You have already discharged the debt, Anne, by letting us see you act," answered Grace.

"By the way, Grace," commanded David, "own up now. It was you, wasn't it, who started the fire panic?"

"I told you I wouldn't tell," answered Grace, "and I never shall."

"Anne, did she say anything about it in her note?" asked Nora.

"No," said Anne mysteriously, "she never mentioned the word 'fire' at all."

"I feel certain it was you who called 'fire,' Grace," said Jessica.

"I'll never, never tell," cried Grace teasingly; "so you'll never, never know."

She turned in at her own gate and to this day the mystery is still unsolved.



CHAPTER XI

MRS. GRAY'S ADOPTED DAUGHTERS

After Mrs. Gray's luncheon party in honor of Grace and her three friends a tiny little idea had implanted itself in her mind. As the weeks rolled on, and Christmas holidays approached, it grew and spread into a real plan which occupied her thoughts a considerable part of every day.

As a secretary Anne had turned out admirably. The only drawback was that Mrs. Gray could not see enough of her. The lonesome old lady almost lived on Anne's semi-weekly visits, but the girl was too busy to give any more of her time to reading aloud or driving with her benefactor.

Finally Mrs. Gray took a bold step. She invited the four girls to meet at another Sunday luncheon, and announced her intentions from the head of the table.

"My dear children," she said, "you are aware that I am a very old woman."

"We are not aware of anything of the sort, Mrs. Gray," interrupted Grace.

"Nevertheless I am," pursued Mrs. Gray. "A very old, lonesome person with few pleasures. I have decided, therefore, to do an exceedingly selfish thing, and give myself a real treat."

"You deserve it if anyone in the world does, Mrs. Gray," put in Jessica. "You who are always giving other people treats."

"Wait until you hear the plan, child, before you pass judgment," answered Mrs. Gray. "It's been too many years to count since I have had a really, jolly Christmas," she continued. "I have just sat here in this quiet old house, and let the holidays roll over me without even noticing them."

"Now, Mrs. Gray," exclaimed Grace, "the poor people in Oakdale would not agree with you on that point. Only last Christmas I saw your carriage stopping in front of the Flower Mission, and it was simply bursting with presents."

"Yes, yes, my dear. It is the easiest thing in the world to give presents and not so much pleasure after all. What I want is some actual fun, good Christmas cheer and plenty of young people. But I shall have to be selfish if I'm to get it all, because it will mean that I'm to rob mothers and fathers for a whole week of their children. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe will have to learn to do without you, Grace, for seven days and nights. Your father, Jessica, must keep his own house. Nora, your brothers and sister must not expect to see you at all while you belong to me. As for my precious Anne, here, I should just like to steal her away altogether from her mother. In fact, my dears, I am going to adopt you for a whole week during the holidays and then—such larks!"

And the charming old lady looked so gay and pretty that the girls all laughed joyously.

"Do you mean that you really want us to make you a visit, Mrs. Gray?"

"I do indeed. That is the exceedingly selfish wish I have been entertaining for the last six weeks. I not only want it, but I have arranged for it already. I have made secret calls, my dears, and mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters are all most agreeable. You are to come to me a week before Christmas and must settle yourselves exactly as if you were my own children. I mean to punish any homesick girl severely by giving her an overdose of chocolate drops. Families may be visited once a day, if necessary, though I shall frown down upon too frequent absences. But, young ladies, before we get any further, tell me what you think of the plan?"

The girls were almost speechless with amazement and pleasure. To visit Mrs. Gray's beautiful home and live in a whirl of parties and funmaking such as would be sure to follow was more than any of them had ever dreamed of.

"It's perfectly delightful, Mrs. Gray!" they cried almost in one breath.

"And we shall give the Christmas party together, my four daughters and I, and we'll do exactly as we choose and invite whom we please."

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the four young girls. "Won't it be fun?"

"It will for me," said the little old lady. "And I need to have a good time. I am getting old before my time for lack of amusement. And now, my lady-birds, who else shall we invite to the house party?"

"Who else?" said Grace, somewhat crestfallen; for four intimate girl chums are invariably jealous of admitting other girls to the charmed circle.

"Do you mean what other girls, Mrs. Gray?" asked Jessica.

"No, no, child; I mean what other boys, of course. Do you think I want any more than my four nice freshmen to amuse me? But I don't think this party would be complete without four fine fellows to look after us. Who are the four nicest boys you know?"

"David," exclaimed all four voices in unison.

Mrs. Gray laughed.

"There seems to be no difference of opinion on that score," she replied; "but is David the only boy in Oakdale?"

"He's the nicest one," said Anne, who could never forget how kind David had been to her when his sister was her bitter enemy.

"Reddy Brooks is nice, too," said Nora. "He threw apples at some tramps once, and saved us from being robbed."

"Very good," said Mrs. Gray. "Reddy Brooks shall certainly be invited to the house party. I admire courage above all things."

"Then there's 'Hippopotamus' Wingate," said Jessica.

"Who?" demanded Mrs. Gray.

"His name is really 'Theophilus', but the boys have always called him 'Hippopotamus,' and now the name sticks to him and everybody forgets he has any other."

"Are you agreed on Hippopotamus, my adopted daughters?" demanded Mrs. Gray.

It was voted by acclamation, that Hippopotamus was agreeable to the company.

"And now, I have a fourth to propose," announced Mrs. Gray. "I think I should like to import my great-nephew, Tom Gray, from New York. He is a little older than these boys, perhaps. Nineteen is his age, I think, and I haven't seen him since he was a child; but he's obliged to be nice because he bears the name of one beloved by all who knew him."

"Whose name, Mrs. Gray?" asked Nora.

"That of my husband," said the old lady, softly. "The nicest Tom Gray this world has ever known." And she looked at a portrait over the sideboard of a very handsome young man dressed in the uniform of an Army officer.

"He loved his country, my dears, and fought for it nobly. He was a soldier and a gentleman," went on the old lady proudly, "and I am sorry he left no son to follow in his footsteps. He was a great hunter and traveler, too. I used to tell him if he had not loved his family so dearly, he would certainly have been a gypsy. He liked camping and tramping, and used to wander off in Upton Woods for hours at a time. He knew the names of all the trees and birds and animals that exist, I believe. But he loved his home, too, and no woods had the power to draw him away from it for long. I used to tell him he had brought a piece of the forest and put it in our front yard, for he planted all those beautiful trees you now see growing on my lawn, which my old gardener, who has been with me since I was first married, cherishes as he would his own children."

"And is young Tom Gray like him, Mrs. Gray?" interposed Grace.

"I hope so, my dear," sighed the old lady. "If he has inherited the beautiful traits of his uncle, his wholesome tastes for the outdoors and nature, he can't help being a fine fellow. But I have not seen my nephew since he was a child. He has been living here and there all these years, sometimes in America and sometimes in England. His mother and father are both dead, and he has been brought up by his mother's unmarried sisters, who are half English themselves. But he must be a nice boy, even if he has only one drop of his uncle's blood in his veins."

The girls sighed and said nothing. It was touching and beautiful to see the old lady's loyalty and devotion after all these years of loneliness; for her husband had been dead since she was a young woman. Still Mrs. Gray never brooded. She was always cheerful and happy in doing kindnesses for other people.

"If ever I marry," sentimental Jessica was thinking, "I hope it will be somebody like Mrs. Gray's husband."

"I should like to have a brother like Tom Gray," observed Grace aloud.

"Well," said Mrs. Gray, "we shall have to wait and see what the new Tom Gray is like. He may be utterly unlike my Tom Gray."

And the old lady sighed.

"We shall all have to get new party dresses," exclaimed Nora to change the subject. "I have been wanting one for an age and now I have a good excuse."

"Oh, yes," cried Grace enthusiastically. "Now, at last, I shall be able to get the blue silk mother promised I could have if at any time there was an occasion worthy of it."

"I'm going to ask papa to give me a lavender crepe for a Christmas present," said Jessica.

"O Mrs. Gray," continued Nora, "we are going to have such fun Oakdale can't hold us."

"I think we should have a surprise for Mrs. Gray," announced Grace. "She is doing so much for us. O girls! I have an idea."

"What!" demanded the others breathlessly, including Mrs. Gray herself, who was as full of curiosity as a young girl.

"No, no," cried Grace, "it wouldn't be a surprise if I gave it away. But it's going to require a lot of work and planning to carry it out."

"Is it big or little?" asked the dainty old lady as eager as a child to find out the secret.

"It's rather small," answered Grace.

"Fine or superfine?"

"Both," laughed Grace. "But you'll not know till Christmas night; so stifle your curiosity."

"I suppose I must wait, but it's going to be very hard," replied Mrs. Gray plaintively.

And so the party was arranged. Notes, written by Anne, were dispatched to the four boys; plans were discussed for the week's amusements, and the four girls finally started home in a state of great excitement to look over their wardrobes and furbish up their party dresses.

Only Anne had looked somewhat dubious during the conversation. How could she spend a week in a beautiful house, with parties every night and company all the time, and nothing to wear but that hideous black silk?

"Anne," called Mrs. Gray, as the young girl was about to close the front door and follow the others down the steps. "Wait a moment. I want to see you." She led Anne into the big drawing room. "Do you know that I am greatly in your debt, my child?" continued the old lady, as she drew Anne down beside her on the sofa. "I don't think I could ever possibly repay you for the good you have done me this autumn. But I am going to try, nevertheless, by making you a Christmas present before Christmas arrives. Now, when I was your age, I preferred clothes to other things. I think all young girls do; or, if they don't they are most unnatural. Therefore, child, I have decided to pay off some of my indebtedness to you by getting my dressmaker to make you some dresses, if it is agreeable to you. Why, what is this! My little girl crying?"

The tears were streaming down Anne's cheeks.

"You mustn't cry, my own child," sobbed Mrs. Gray. "For I always cry when I see other people doing it, and it's very bad for my old eyes, you know."

"You are so good to me!" said Anne. "It makes me cry because I'm so happy."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, drying her eyes and beginning to laugh. "What a couple of sillies we are, to be sure. Now go, Anne, to my dressmaker, Mrs. Harvey, who has orders to make you four dresses, two for evening and two for afternoon. Mrs. Harvey has good taste and will help you select them. But perhaps you will like the ones she and I looked at the other day. One of them I am sure you will admire. I chose it specially because it will give color to your pale cheeks."

"What is it, Mrs. Gray?" asked Anne eagerly.

"It's pink crepe de Chine, my dear."

And Anne held her breath to keep from crying again.



CHAPTER XII

MIRIAM PLANS A REVENGE

For weeks Miriam Nesbit had felt a sullen resentment toward her brother, David, because he persisted in being friends with at least two of the girls in Oakdale High School whom she disliked most.

When he announced, one morning at breakfast, that he had been included in Mrs. Gray's house party, his sister suddenly burst into tears of passionate rage.

"Please don't cry, Miriam, old girl," said David, who was not of a quarrelsome disposition. "I'm awfully sorry if I hurt you, but, you know, Mrs. Gray was one of my earliest sweethearts."

Which was perfectly true. When David was a little boy he used to crawl through the garden hedge and call on the charming old lady nearly every day.

David had hoped that Miriam would laugh at this, but she stormed all the more, while poor Mrs. Nesbit looked wretched.

"It isn't Mrs. Gray," sobbed Miriam. "But to think that my own brother would associate with Grace Harlowe, who is always working against me, and that common little Pierson girl whose sister takes in sewing!"

"Miriam, Miriam!" exclaimed Mrs. Nesbit, "I am shocked to hear you say such things. Because the girl is poor she is not necessarily common. Your grandfather was a poor man, too. He started his career as a machinist. You would never have had the money and position you have now if he had not become an inventor. Is it possible you would try to keep some one else from rising in life, when your own family struggled with poverty years ago?"

Miriam was silenced for a moment. She had seldom heard her mother speak so forcibly; but Mrs. Nesbit had seen, with growing misgivings, the innate snobbishness in her daughter's character, and for a long time she had been looking for an opportunity like the one that now presented itself.

David had risen during Miriam's contemptuous speech, and had turned very white; which was always a signal that his slow wrath had been kindled at last; but since he was a child he had had such admirable control of his feelings that it had often been remarked by older people. Miriam, however, knew the sign and resorted again to tears to draw attention to her own sufferings.

"You and mother have turned against me," she cried. "Mother, you have always loved David best, anyhow."

"Nonsense!" replied David. "You are a willful, selfish girl, jealous because a poor girl is getting ahead of you in your classes and because you are not included in the house party. Do you think Mrs. Gray would ask you to join those four nice girls in her house after that Miss Leece business? If you had learned to be polite and agreeable you would never have gotten into this state now." Having delivered himself of his opinion, and spent his rage, David walked out of the room and quietly closed the door after him.

"You see what you have done, Miriam," exclaimed Mrs. Nesbit. "You have made your brother angry. I have seldom seen him like that before, not since the stable man beat his dog. But don't cry, my child. It's all over now," and Mrs. Nesbit drew her daughter to her and stroked her hot forehead. "Why don't you give a house party, too?" she added after a moment's thought. "Would it give you any pleasure or help to heal your hurt feelings?"

"O mother!" exclaimed Miriam, looking up quickly. "I believe I will invite four girls and boys to spend Christmas week with me. Wouldn't it be fun?"

And it was in this manner that a plan for an opposition house party sprang into existence; although the son of the house had joined the other side.

All through her preparations Miriam carefully guarded the secret that she was bitterly hurt at having been left out of Mrs. Gray's party, and she meditated a revenge that was still only a half-formed idea. In the first place, she chose Julia Crosby as one of the guests of the Christmas house party; Julia Crosby the tall, mischievous sophomore who had originated the "Black Monks of Asia." Surely the two together could work out some scheme which would bring her enemies to her feet and humble little Mrs. Gray, who had dared to slight her.

Meanwhile, the holidays were approaching. The crisp, cold air resounded with the jingle of sleigh bells, for snow had fallen the first week in December and all the sleighs in Oakdale were taken from their summer quarters.

The four chums were full of secret preparations. Grace had devised a scheme of entertainment which, in the town of Oakdale, would be unique, but it required much work and practice to perfect it. In the meantime Nora O'Malley had decided to entertain her friends at a bobbing party to start the Christmas holidays. And it was at this party that Miriam seized her first opportunity to make trouble.

"Anne, you are learned in many things, but not in outdoor fun," said Grace as the young people in mufflers and sweaters started to climb the long hill where the coasting was best.

"Do you mean to say you have never been coasting, Anne?" demanded David.

"I'm afraid I'll have to admit it," replied Anne. "To tell the truth, I never did have any fun, except reading, until I started in the High School and met all of you. You see, little city children are denied all these nice things unless they go to the parks, but it's no fun going alone."

"Well, you won't be alone now," said Hippy Wingate. "There are four to a sled, and we'll put you in the middle to keep you from getting lost in the snow."

"Look out, here comes some one!" called Grace, just as a small sled shot past them like a flash, with a laugh and a cheer from its occupants, Miriam and Reddy Brooks.

"They ought not to have done that," exclaimed David. "We couldn't see them over the knob of the hill and they might have run us down."

By this time they had reached the top of the hill, and Anne's heart bounded at the sight of the long, white track made by the sled which had just passed them and disappeared far below across a flat meadow now smooth and hard as a table top.

"Don't be frightened, Anne," said David, who sat behind her on the sled.

He pinioned her arms with his own and with a wild whoop the four young people skimmed down the hill.

There was no time to be frightened, no time even to think, as they shot through the fine bracing air like a ball from a cannon. Before they knew it, they were landed at the bottom.

"O Hippy," cried Grace, her cheeks glowing like winter berries, "I feel as if I were riding the comet. But look out for the others," for the remaining sleds followed in quick succession and the air resounded with the whoops of the boys and girls as they shot past. "Is there any sport in the world that can touch it?" she demanded of the world in general.

Three or four more such rides, and Anne felt an exhilaration she had never before known. She was climbing the hill for a final trip before the party returned to Nora's for hot chocolate and sandwiches, when she heard some one cry out just behind her. She had lingered a little to watch the sleds pass, and had failed to notice a small sled with a single occupant come over the brow of the hill well out of the beaten path and make straight for her. It was Miriam Nesbit, riding flat on her stomach and going like the wind.

"Jump to the left, Anne," cried Grace's voice, "or you'll be hurt!"

Anne looked up and saw the sled. It all happened in a flash, and how David managed to get there first she never knew; but the next instant the two were rolling over and over in the snow with Miriam on top of them and a broken sled skidding on its back down the hillside.

"It was Miss Pierson's fault," exclaimed Miriam as she pulled herself out of the snow, and the others came running to the scene of the accident. "Why didn't she get out of the way? Inexperienced people ought not to come to bobbing parties. They always get hurt."

David was binding up a cut in his wrist, which was sprinkling the snow with blood. He was too angry to trust himself to answer his sister before the others just then. They had pulled Anne out of a snowdrift and she was leaning limply against Jessica, trying to collect her senses. It seemed to her that she had been walking well out of the sled track, out of everybody's way; but it didn't make any difference since nobody was killed.

"All I can say now, Miriam," said Grace, "is that you are entirely mistaken. If you hadn't hit Anne you'd have knocked me over. I was walking just ahead of her and nobody can say I am inexperienced."

"Grace Harlowe, do you think I did it on purpose?" demanded Miriam furiously.

"I haven't insinuated anything, Miriam," replied Grace. "I simply wanted to disabuse your mind of a mistake. That was all." And she turned away from the angry girl.

All this time the other young people had said nothing. It was really an embarrassing situation, considering that David had not said a word either for or against his sister.

"I think we had better not coast any more to-night," said Nora, after a pause. "David has hurt his hand and Anne is so shaken that it would be well to give her something hot to drink. Come on, everybody."

"David, are you much hurt?" asked Grace uneasily.

"Nothing but a little cut," he said shortly, so shortly that Grace flushed. Perhaps he was angry with her for having spoken out to Miriam.

"I hope you aren't hurt much, David," said Miriam.

David made no reply.

"David," she repeated in a louder voice.

But her brother had started down the hill, his hands in his pockets. Nobody took much notice of Miriam as the young people followed after him. Reddy Brooks was secretly congratulating himself that he hadn't been riding behind her on the sled as she had wished, insisting that she wanted to do the guiding herself. It was curious, he thought, and might have resulted in a serious accident, at least to Anne if David hadn't pulled her away. If Miriam had only thought to throw herself to the right when she saw Anne in the way. Girls had no heads, anyway, that is, most girls. Grace, he decided, was almost equal to a man for coolness and good judgment. But there were few girls who could touch Grace Harlowe; and he did a series of cartwheels in the snow to emphasize his feelings, to the relief of everybody present, for the silence was becoming uncomfortable.

"Nora," said Anne when they had reached town, "if you'll excuse me I think I'll go home. I'm a little tired."

"I'll take you home, Anne," said David, who had heard her remark. "I don't feel much like partifying either after this jolt. Come along, little girl," and he tucked Anne's arm in his and marched her off without another word.

"All my party is leaving before the party," cried Nora in despair.

"No, not all," replied Hippy Wingate. "There are still a few of us left, and I promise to drink any extra chocolate you may happen to have."

"Don't give the animals sweets, Nora," exclaimed Reddy. "Especially the hippopotamus. He has a delicate stomach. You see, his keeper used to feed him chocolate drops three times a day."

Hippy grinned good-naturedly. He was a round roly-poly boy, famous for his appetite.

"Get away from here, Red Curls," he cried, hitting Reddy in the back with a snowball.

"Oh, you coward," cried Reddy, talking in a high falsetto voice, "to hit a man when his back is turned. I'll slap you for that," and he landed a snowball on Hippy's chest.

Hippy crouched behind the girls.

"I was a fool to throw at a pitcher," he cried; "he'll be sending me one of his curves in a minute."

"Hiding behind the ladies, hey?" returned Reddy, beginning to pitch snowballs at the girls.

"Let's wash his face," cried Nora to the other boys and girls coming up just then. They chased Reddy all the way to Nora's house and rolled him in the snow until he cried "enough."

Once inside Nora's cozy home, the coasters were soon doing ample justice to the good things to eat, which Nora's sister had prepared for them. Although all three of Anne's chums regretted deeply the unpleasant affair on the hill it was not mentioned again during the evening. Still, each girl felt in her heart that poor little Anne had, in Miriam Nesbit, a dangerous enemy.



CHAPTER XIII

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

"Here's the tack-hammer, Hippy, and don't fall off the ladder, please," cautioned Grace, as she assisted Hippy Wingate to tack up an evergreen garland in Mrs. Gray's drawing room.

Not in twenty years had the old house taken on such holiday attire. Great bunches of holly and cedar filled the vases and bowls and decorated the chandeliers. Fires blazed on every hearth and the warm glow from many candles and shaded lamps brightened the fine old rooms.

"My dear young people," exclaimed Mrs. Gray, coming in just then, "how happy you make me feel! I do wish you were all really my children and could forever stay just the ages you are now."

"This house would be like the palace of everlasting youth, then, wouldn't it, Mrs. Gray?" suggested Anne.

"Until some meddlesome little Pandora came along, opened the box and let all the troubles out," interposed David, who was still feeling very bitter toward his sister Miriam, and glad to leave home for a time until his anger had cooled.

"Ah, well, we have no Pandoras here," answered Mrs. Gray, smiling on the young guests. "You are all girls and boys after my own heart, and I trust we shall have a beautiful time together. But here comes that nephew of mine, Tom Gray. I wonder if he's grown out of all recollection."

While she was speaking one of the town hacks had driven up to the steps, and there was a violent ring at the bell.

"Mr. Thomas Gray," announced the old butler at the door and Tom Gray, who had been the subject of endless speculation and conjecture, entered the room.

"If he turns out to be disagreeable or stupid or anything," the girls had been whispering, "it would be such a pity because everybody else is so nice."

Neither had the boys felt inclined to be prepossessed in Tom Gray's favor. He was a stranger, from New York, older than themselves and in college.

"I wish he wasn't going to butt in with his city manners," Reddy Brooks was thinking regretfully. "He is sure to have a swelled head and try to boss the crowd."

They had pictured him as a sort of dandy, with needle-toed patent leather shoes and a coat cut in at the waist and padded over the shoulders.

Even David had voiced a few thoughts on the subject of Tom Gray.

"I'll bet he's an English dude," he said. For Mrs. Gray's nephew had spent most of his life in England. "He'll probably carry a cane and wear a monocle."

They were not surprised, therefore, when a young man entered the room who bore out somewhat the picture they had conjured. He was tall and slender, very dapper and rather ladylike in his bearing. His alert, dark eyes were set too close together, and his face had a narrow, sinister look that made them all feel uncomfortable. He spoke with a decided English accent, in a light, flippant voice which sent a quiver of dislike up and down David's spine, and made Reddy Brooks give his right arm a vigorous twirl as if he would have liked to pitch something at the young man's head.

Mrs. Gray was the most surprised person in the room. It must be remembered that she had not seen her nephew since he was a child, and she had hoped for better things than this. However, always the most courteous and loyal of souls, she now made the best of the situation and greeted the newcomer cordially, though she did not bestow upon him the motherly kiss she had been saving.

Tom Gray bowed low over his aunt's hand.

"You are so much changed, Tom; I should hardly have known you," exclaimed the old lady, trying to conceal her disappointment and dismay. "England has weaned you away from your own country. You look as if you had just stepped out of Piccadilly."

"And so I have, aunt," replied the young man, using a very broad "a." "I have been in this country only a few months. England is the only place in the world for me, you know. I can't bear America."

Hippy Wingate gave himself an angry shake, which made all the ornaments on the mantelpiece rattle ominously.

"You must let me introduce you to my young friends, Tom," said Mrs. Gray, changing the subject quickly.

The introductions having been accomplished, she took his arm and led the way back to dinner.

"Do you think we can stand him for a week?" whispered David to Grace, as they followed down the hall.

"We'll have to," replied Grace, "or hurt Mrs. Gray's feelings. But isn't he the limit?"

"Asinine dandy!" hissed Hippy.

"I knew he'd be a Miss Nancy," exclaimed Reddy.

The girls did not express their disappointment, but as the meal progressed the conversation was strained and stupid.

"How did you leave your cousins in England, Tom?" asked Mrs. Gray, trying to keep the ball rolling and inwardly wishing she had never asked her nephew down.

"Quite well, thank you, aunt," replied Thomas Gray. "I expect to leave this beastly country and join them very soon."

"Indeed?" answered Mrs. Gray, flushing and with difficulty keeping back the tears of disappointment. To think a nephew of hers could have turned out like this!

"Do you play football?" demanded Hippy abruptly.

"Really, I don't care for the game," answered Thomas. "It's awfully rough, don't you know."

"Perhaps you prefer baseball?" suggested Grace.

"No," continued the young man, "I can't say I do. The truth is, I don't like outdoor games at all."

"What do you like, then?" demanded Nora, giving him a glance of ineffable scorn.

"I like afternoon tea," he answered, "and bridge."

Reddy almost groaned aloud, but he remembered his manners and choked his outburst of disgust.

"It is a pity," said Tom's aunt, turning her nearsighted blue eyes on him in amazement and displeasure. "Our Oakdale boys are all athletes. Even David here, the scholar and inventor, I'll venture to say, knows football and baseball as well as his friends."

"I'm not much of an inventor, Mrs. Gray," protested David. "You know my airship tumbled down before it got half way across the gym. But I shall never lose hope."

"Ah, airships?" exclaimed Thomas Gray, and deliberately taking a monocle from his pocket, he stuck it in his eye and stared at David, who choked and sputtered in his glass of water, while Hippy dropped a fork that fell on his plate with a great clatter.

Mrs. Gray raised her lorgnette and looked at her nephew.

"Thomas," she said sternly, "don't wear that thing here. It's not the custom in this town or in this country, for that matter. If you are nearsighted, buy yourself a pair of spectacles."

"Certainly, aunt, certainly; it shall be as you wish," replied Thomas, without a tinge of embarrassment. "I am so unused to America, you know."

Then Nora relieved the painful situation by laughing. She was taken with the giggles and she laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. The others laughed, too, even Mrs. Gray, who felt that she might give way to hysterics at any moment.

After dinner Thomas Gray detained his aunt in another room, while the girls and boys returned to the parlor. The two were closeted together for some time, and when they finally appeared, Mrs. Gray looked strangely flushed and nervous. But there was a smile on her nephew's thin lips and a dangerous flicker in his crafty eyes.

"I'll stake my last cent he's been getting money out of his poor little aunty," said David to Grace. "He's just the kind to do it."

"Poor Mrs. Gray!" exclaimed Grace. "I am so sorry for her. You can't think how she's been planning this party for months. Why did she ever ask down that wretch of a nephew? David, do try and make friends with him. Maybe there's something good in him after all, and it will help things along if Mrs. Gray feels that we want to like him."

"All right," promised David. "It goes against my grain to talk with a Miss Nancy dandy like that. It gives me a feeling in my chest like indigestion and bronchitis combined—but I'll make the effort."

So he went over and joined the Anglo-American, and began to talk with him in an easy, friendly sort of way.

"Won't you come over by the fire," he said. "I think we are going to play some games the girls have planned."

"Thanks, no," said the other, stifling a yawn. "I think I'll retire. I've had a long journey and I'm awfully knocked out. By the way, old chap," he continued, coming closer to David and whispering in his ear, which made that sensitive young man draw back with a quiver of dislike, "you couldn't favor me with a few dollars, could you? I left my check book in my portmanteau, which is still on the way and I find I haven't a cent. I'll return it to-morrow."

David regarded him with amazement. Here was a man whom he had met only an hour before, already trying to borrow money from him. Schoolboys are not likely to have money about them, but David did happen to have five dollars in his pocket.

"Certainly," was all he said, as he handed over the money.

The transaction had only taken a moment and when David drew out the five dollar bill, he was careful not to let anyone see him do it. However, Mrs. Gray, who had been out of the room, returned at the very moment the money was changing hands. In a flash she saw what her nephew had done. Without stopping to think she made straight for the two young men.

"Tom Gray," she said, speaking too low for anyone except her nephew and David to hear, "how dare you ask me for money and then borrow from one of my guests? You are a disgrace to your father, and to the name of Gray! I am ashamed of you and I command you to give that money back to David instantly."

Tom Gray was as angry as his aunt. His face went from red to white, and he looked as if he would like to break a vase or tear something to pieces.

"'Eavens, awnt, don't make a scene. I wouldn't a' awsked 'im, h'if I 'adn't needed more money. I'll pay him to-morrow."

Mrs. Gray and David were too surprised to speak. It was plain that, when Tom Gray was angry, he dropped his h's.

David looked at him curiously, then he drew the old lady's arm through his.

"Don't bother, Mrs. Gray," he said. "It was only a small loan, and I was glad to be of service. I believe Mr. Gray wants to go to bed now. He just said he was very tired. Shall I take him up?"

"If you will," replied Mrs. Gray, quieting down. "His room is next yours, David. Will you show him the way?"

"Young people," she said, going across to the boys and girls, who had gathered around the fire and were laughing and talking in low voices, "would you mind if we all went up early to-night? I feel a little out of sorts—bewildered—I don't know what. Children change so as they grow up," she added, sighing.

The poor old lady's eyes filled with tears. She slipped her arm around Anne's waist.

"You will never change, my dear boys and girls. You will all grow into fine men and women, I feel certain, and be devoted citizens of this splendid country of ours, which has always been good enough for our mothers and fathers, and ought to be quite good enough for us."

"Three cheers for America!" cried Hippy Wingate, giving his plump figure a twist like a whirling dervish.

Mrs. Gray laughed.

"Yes, indeed, my dears, America is a splendid country and every American should be proud to say so."

"And Oakdale is one of the nicest places in America," piped up Anne.

"Hurrah for Oakdale!" cried Hippy again.

"And Oakdale High School!" added Anne.

"And hurrah for the sponsor of the freshman class!" exclaimed Grace.

Whereupon they formed a circle, with Mrs. Gray in the middle, and danced about her laughing and singing:

"Hurrah for Mrs. Gray!"

The pretty, little old lady beamed happily upon her adopted family, as she called them.

"My darling children!" she cried. "Kiss me good night, every one of you, and we'll all go up to our beds."



CHAPTER XIV

A MIDNIGHT ALARM

The dry, cold air of the outdoors, and the warm fires inside the old house, certainly had the effect of making a very sleepy crowd of boys and girls who were not sorry, after all, to turn in early.

Grace and Anne occupied a room together so large that it could easily have been turned into two apartments and each have been the size of ordinary bedrooms.

"I'm glad our beds are close together, anyway," said Grace. "The rest of the furniture in this room seems to be miles apart."

Mrs. Gray's room was just in front; Nora and Jessica were in a smaller one back of theirs, and across the hall were the boys' rooms.

"Isn't it a wonderful old house?" replied Anne. "I never slept in such a big room in all my life. And how kind Mrs. Gray is! There is nothing she hasn't remembered."

Each girl had found on her bed a pretty dressing gown of silk and wool and beside it a pair of bedroom slippers. There was a bowl of fruit on a table, and just before they dropped off to sleep a maid brought in a tray of glasses with a pitcher of hot milk.

"Mrs. Gray says this will warm you up before you go to bed," explained the maid.

"Dear, sweet Mrs. Gray," continued Anne, as she curled up on a rug before the fire to sip the warm drink, "she has planned so many things for this party. I am so sorry she has been disappointed."

"He's not a bit like her, Anne," replied her friend, not caring to mention names. "I do wish she had never asked him."

"My only hope," said Anne, "is that we will all seem so young and childish to him that he will get bored and leave."

"Well, just strictly between us and as man to man, as David is always saying, don't you think he is horrid? He has no manners at all, and it's hard to believe he's a product of the Gray family."

"He has such shifty eyes," said Anne, "and I had a feeling that his dislike for America was all put on to shock us. I feel so warm and sleepy," she continued drowsily when the lights were put out and they had snuggled down in the soft, comfortable beds.

"I heard him drop an 'h' once," whispered Grace, in a sleepy voice.

But there was no reply. Anne was already dreaming of her four beautiful new dresses.

It might have been midnight, perhaps a little later when Grace awoke with a start. Not a sound disturbed the peace of the old house except the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the occasional crackling of dying embers in the fireplace. Yes; there was one sound and it aroused her. A loose board creaked in the floor, or was it a door which opened and closed softly? Perhaps it was nothing after all. And she closed her eyes and drew the eiderdown quilt close about her shoulders.

No; there it was again. A distinct footfall. She raised herself on her elbow and peered into the shadows. Far over at the other side of the chamber—it seemed an infinite distance just then—stood a figure. Grace looked at it calmly. She had never been a coward and she was not frightened now, only she wondered who could be invading their room at this hour. Perhaps Mrs. Gray; perhaps one of the servants. No, it was neither; of course it couldn't be because it was the figure of a man. She saw him now plainly enough hovering over the dressing table.

A small, cold hand slipped into hers. Anne was awake too. She had seen the figure and lay quite still watching it. Grace silently returned the pressure; then the two lay watching the man's stealthy motions for a moment, while Grace's mind was busy devising a plan by which the robber might be caught.

Oakdale was a quiet, prosperous place, and burglars were unusual. Occasionally the hands in the silk mills made a disturbance, and there had been a few highway robberies, but an actual house-breaker seldom troubled the law-abiding town. The two girls, as they lay watching him from under the covers, guessed that this man was a real burglar. He wore a black soft hat and carried a small electric lantern, while, with a practised hand, he picked the lock of a small drawer in the dressing table where the girls had put their purses. Once he turned the light toward the beds. Instantly the girls' eyelids dropped and they lay as still as mice. Having satisfied himself that all was well, the prowler went on with his work, finally tiptoeing into the front room where Mrs. Gray was sleeping. Evidently he had made a circuit of the three bedrooms on that side of the house. As he slipped out Grace leaped from the bed. Now was the time for action. Putting on her dressing gown and slippers she dashed to the door leading into the hall, only to come upon the burglar again who had probably been frightened in his last venture and had retired to the hall for safety.

Fortunately he was standing with his back to her while he closed the door, and feeling that she was safe for the moment, she crouched in the shadow of the doorway. The thief evidently thought he also was safe, for he seized a large, heavy-looking valise from the floor and made straight for the steps without looking to right or left.

Now a door across the hall opened and another figure appeared. Grace trembled for a moment, fearing it might be another thief. She had always heard they traveled in pairs. But it was David, wrapped in a long gray dressing gown, looking for all the world like a monk.

He glanced up and down the hall for a moment, then tapped on the door of the next room and without waiting for an answer walked in. In an instant he was out again and had started swiftly down the stairs, Grace following him. She had intended to speak to him, but it had all taken place so quickly there was no time. David made straight for the dining room, opening the heavy door. The room was brightly lighted. In a flash, Grace saw on the table a pile of the beautiful Gray silver, brought over from England by past generations of Grays. Grace never knew what instinct prompted her to enter the dining room by the butler's pantry at the very end of the long hall. As she pushed the swinging door, she heard David say:

"You low blackguard, what do you mean by stealing your aunt's silver?"

Grace started at the mention of the word "aunt." It was, then, the wretched Tom Gray who was robbing his own relative!

"Get out!" returned the other coldly, "and attend to your own business. You are only a kid."

"Give up those things you have stolen, or I'll pound you to a jelly!" cried David, making a rush at the burglar, who dodged nimbly.

Then Grace had an inspiration, which assuredly saved David from very disagreeable consequences. Real burglars, like rattlesnakes, are not likely to be dangerous except when they are disturbed. It is then that they become dangerous characters. Grace slipped back into the pantry, swiftly opened one of the linen drawers and drew forth what turned out later to be a breakfast cloth, which was lucky because it was small and easy to manage.

When, in the next instant, she had pushed the door open, what she saw made her blood run cold. Tom Gray had whipped out a small pistol and pointed it straight at David's head.

"Get out of here, quick!" he said just as Grace opened the table cloth with a jerk and flung it over his head. A pistol shot rang out, but David had dodged in time and the bullet was buried in the mahogany wainscot back of him. The astonished burglar dropped the weapon, and began to struggle violently to release himself.

Instantly David pinioned his arms from the back. But the fellow might even then have struggled free, if Reddy Brooks and Hippy Wingate had not burst into the room, followed by Anne, who had roused them after Grace had gone. The three boys swiftly overpowered Tom Gray and tied him to a chair with cord Grace had found in the pantry.

But now, what was to be done? Undoubtedly the noise would awaken Mrs. Gray and she would have to be told that her nephew was a burglar about to make off with the family silver.

Perhaps the loss of the silver would hurt less than family disgrace.

In the midst of their council Mrs. Gray herself appeared.

"What in the world is the matter?" she demanded.

No one replied for a moment. It was a very uncomfortable situation for the young guests of the house party. If only the burglar had not been a member of the Gray family!

Then Tom Gray himself spoke.

"I must say this is a nice 'ospitable way to treat a guest and a relation. 'Ere I am taken by a lot of silly children for a burglar. I, your own nephew, awnt, who 'ad come down stairs on the h'innocent h'errand of finding some h'ice water."

Mrs. Gray looked from one to another of the silent group. Her eyes took in the silver piled on the table, the pistol on the floor and the burglar's tools and lantern.