"They say buttermilk is good," suggested Molly. "Why not try that?"

"That's a good idea," said Polly. "We have some, and I don't believe it would hurt. How do you use it, Molly? I'll do it to- night, and then I could start white with your cousins, anyway; and so much depends on first impressions, you know."

"I'm not just sure about it," answered Molly; "but I think they put it on over night, and rub it in well. You'd better not do it, if you are afraid it can do any harm."

"Oh, it can't," said Polly, with assurance; "and even if it does, anything is better than looking like a fright."

"But you aren't a fright," said Molly loyally; then added, "What does keep Alan so? His errand wasn't going to take two minutes, and your mother will be tired of him."

"No, she won't," said Polly; "she likes Alan. Don't be in a hurry, Molly; this is the last chance we shall have to talk for a year."

In spite of herself, Polly's voice failed a little on the last words. She loved her friend dearly, and the coming of the cousins, with the probability of its causing a separation between them, had been her first real sorrow. For Molly's sake she tried to be eager and interested about them, but when she was alone with Jean or Alan, she was disconsolate enough over the prospect. The three or four weeks had flown past, every day bringing the change nearer, and the last evening had come. Arm in arm, the two girls had been pacing up and down the walk, while they waited for Alan, and that half-hour had made Polly realize more than ever how fond she was of this companion with whom she had spent so many contented hours. The memory of their frequent quarrels seemed to sink away into the past, and only the thought of their good times was before them then. But Alan's whistle was heard, as he came out of the house; and he and Molly went away down the street, leaving Polly standing alone at the gate. She looked after them until they disappeared in the gathering darkness; then her curly head dropped on her folded arms, and she began to sob with all the fervor of her impetuous, affectionate nature. It was over in a minute or two, and no one was the wiser for it but the birds in the tall elm trees above her head. Then she turned forlornly, and started to walk to the house; but, with Polly, the reaction always came quickly, and by the time she reached the steps, she was humming the air which Alan had just whistled, as she planned about the gown she would wear when she went to see the cousins, and pictured to herself the details of their first meeting. It was all so like Polly, to be in the depths of grief at one moment, and to be singing the next. Her sorrows were just as sincere as Molly's, while they lasted, but the very intensity of them made it impossible for them to continue long at a time. Polly's life was one of superlatives: when she was happy, she was radiant; when she was unhappy, she was miserable. There was no middle ground for her.

But to-night Polly was bent on beautifying herself. For Molly's sake, as well as for her own, she was anxious to make a good appearance in the eyes of the two girls whom she was to meet on the morrow. The last thing before she went to her room, she secretly visited the kitchen and helped herself to a generous bowl of buttermilk, which she carried up stairs. She set it down on the table and, lamp in hand, went to the mirror. In the main, Polly was not a conceited girl, nor a vain one. On the contrary, she thought little about her personal appearance, except to give an occasional sigh over her hair and freckles. But, just now, it seemed to her that beauty was the one thing to be desired, and holding up the lamp, she gazed at herself steadily, unconscious of the picture she made, with the light falling full upon her bright hair and eager young face. Then she set down the lamp with a suddenness which threatened to shatter it.

"Oh, you fright!" she said to herself, in a tone of disgusted sincerity.

She turned away and took up the bowl from the table, sniffed at it daintily, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The strong, sour odor of the buttermilk was not pleasant, certainly, but what mattered that, if it removed the obnoxious freckles? She shut her teeth, held her breath, and resolutely applied it to her face, putting it on freely, and rubbing it in until her arms ached and her cheeks burned under their unwonted treatment. The next morning she repeated the operation with even greater zeal, and ended by a vigorous application of soap and water, and a rough towel. Then she drew near the glass once more, to see and admire her soft, white skin, where no freckle would be found. As she gazed, her eyes grew round with wonder, and she stood as if transfixed at the sight before her. To say the least, it was striking. The freckles had not disappeared, but still the buttermilk had done its work, and Polly's face presented every appearance of having been varnished, for, thanks to the polishing which it had undergone, it shone like a new copper tea-kettle. For an instant, tears of mortification stood in the gray eyes; then Polly's sense of the ridiculous had its way, and, dropping into a chair, she laughed till her cheeks were crimson under their metallic surface, and her lashes were damp with hysterical tears.

"What in the world are you laughing at, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's voice at her door. "The breakfast bell has rung, and it's time you were down-stairs."

"Yes'm," replied Polly, suddenly becoming sober again, as she remembered that she must present herself to the family in this plight, and would probably be well laughed at for her pains.

She delayed in her room as long as she dared, but her mother had always insisted on perfect regularity at meal times, and Polly knew that she must appear. With one last, despairing glance at the mirror, a glance which was by no means reassuring, she turned away and silently went down the stairs and into the dining-room, hoping to take her place at the table so quietly that she could escape notice. It was not her mother whom she dreaded, but she shrank from her father's teasing and Aunt Jane's merciless comments. As she drew her chair up to the table, Aunt Jane glanced up from her oatmeal.

"Late again, Polly! Why, what have you been putting on your face, child?"

Polly's cheeks grew scarlet, but she answered, with an attempt at carelessness,—

"Oh, nothing but a little buttermilk. Why?"

"Why?" responded Aunt Jane, with needless emphasis, "I should think you'd better ask why! Have you looked in the glass this morning?"

"Yes," answered Polly faintly, for they were all staring at her, and she saw a mischievous twinkle come into her father's blue eyes.

"Well, I'd like to know what fresh piece of nonsense this is," Aunt Jane was beginning severely, when the doctor interposed,—

"Wait a minute, Jane; don't be in such a hurry to scold. Come, Polly, tell us what you have been doing to make yourself look like a South Sea Islander or a Pawnee?"

Polly dropped her eyes and played with her fork for a minute; but sulkiness was not in her nature, and after a pause, she confessed.

"Molly said buttermilk was good for freckles, so I put some on mine, but they didn't come off. You see," she added, turning to her mother with the certainty that she would find sympathy in that quarter, if in no other, "the Shepard girls are coming to-day, and Molly wanted me to go over to see them right away, and I wanted to look as well as I can."

Polly was interrupted by a hearty laugh from the doctor, who laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, to enjoy his merriment to the utmost.

"I think there's no doubt of their being struck by your looks, Polly," he said at length. Then, as he saw her bite her lips to steady them, he added kindly, "Shall I tell my little girl what I really think about it? I don't consider the freckles themselves beautiful; but I would rather see her with enough of them to prove that she lives out of doors in the sunshine, as every healthy child should, than be one of the little, pale-faced beauties brought up in the house, or under veils and broad hats. If I can't have but one, I want my Polly to have health rather than beauty, for health is beauty, especially in children."

"Better have a freckled face than a freckled soul," added Aunt Jane, feeling that here was the opportunity to make a fine moral point.

"There's more connection there than you think, Jane," responded Dr. Adams quickly. "A child is much more likely to have an unfreckled, unspotted soul, when her body has the health which comes with plenty of exposure to the air and sun. Show me a healthy child, and a small amount of care will make her a good one; I'm not so sure of the sickly ones. It's my opinion that more can be made of a healthy sinner than a feeble saint. Isn't it so, Poll?" And he leaned over to pass his broad hand caressingly down the shining face, as he added gaily, "There's one good thing about it, my dear; we shan't have to waste any gas to-night. The light of your countenance will be quite enough."

They were still sitting lingering over their meal, when Alan came in to bring a note from Molly. At sight of Polly, he started back in mock dismay, exclaiming,—

"Great Scott, Polly! What's the matter?"

"Don't tell Molly, Alan," she begged; "but I tried to get rid of my freckles, that's all."

Alan gave a low, expressive whistle.

"I'm glad it's nothing worse. We had a girl once, that told Molly if she let the moon shine on her while she was asleep, she'd all swell up and turn black, and I didn't know but you were beginning to do that."

"I thought you had given up slang, Alan," remarked Mrs. Adams, as she motioned him to a chair beside her.

"So I have, mostly. Mother didn't want me to use much, and I couldn't get along without any; so we split the difference and agreed that I could have one. I chose 'great Scott,' but it doesn't always fit the case. I say, Polly, you'll be over to- night, won't you?"

Polly looked doubtfully at her mother.

"Isn't it rather soon, Alan?" Mrs. Adams asked.

"Not a bit of it," answered the boy. "Mother will be busy with Uncle Henry, because he'll only be here one night, and we'll have to see to the girls. Molly can't manage them both, and I'm no use at all, so we need Polly to help us out. Mother said you'd better come over about five, Poll, and stay to supper."

"I don't know whether I can get bleached in time," answered Polly, laughing, as she followed him to the door; "but I'll come if I can. And don't you dare tell Molly."

"Catch me telling tales!" returned Alan, with some dignity. "That's not in my line, Poll; and not on you, anyway."

With an appearance of great carelessness, Polly strolled out to the hammock soon after two o'clock that afternoon, and settled herself, book in hand. But for the next hour, there was little reading done, for Polly's gray eyes often wandered from the pages before her, and fixed themselves on the distant corner around which the Shepard family must come. It was a long hour of waiting, and Polly had begun to think that the train must have been wrecked by the way, when the distant, shrill whistle was heard. At the sound, she drew herself into a more dignified position, settled her skirts about her and fell to reading with a will. But though her eyes went down the left-hand page and up again to the top of the right-hand one, she could not have told so much as the title of the book, so absorbed was she in listening for the wheels that would pass the house. She heard them drawing near, but continued to be lost in her reading until just as the carriage was in front of her. Then she glanced up, as if by accident, and was filled with confusion to see Alan leaning down from his seat on the box and pointing at her, while two broad hats and two girl faces were bent forward to survey her curiously. Alan waved his cap; she answered his salute, and the carriage went swiftly on, leaving Polly to stare at the pile of trunks strapped on behind it, with a vague feeling that her intended effect had been a little marred by Alan's demonstration.

"Served me right, though!" she remarked philosophically to herself, as she curled herself up to read in earnest, now that her excitement was over. "I needn't have tried to pose for them; that sort of thing doesn't suit me; I'd better leave it to Florence."

It was with some misgiving, that Polly, two hours later, started to take the familiar walk to the Hapgood house. Every riotous curl was brushed until it lay close to her small head, but already the golden ends were doing their best to break loose once more; thanks to her mother's efforts, her burnished skin had lost a little of its coppery lustre; and her fresh blue and white gingham gown was as dainty and trim as loving hands could make it. But Polly, as she looked in the glass before starting, only saw that her hair was red, and that her freckles would insist on showing. However, Alan's compliment came to her relief, and she dismissed the question of her looks with a smile, as something not worth a thought, and ran off down-stairs to say good by to her mother.

Alan saw her coming, and started to meet her.

"What's the matter, Alan?" she said, noticing his frown, as she joined him.

"Nothing but a crick in my knee," he explained cheerfully; "I think I took cold last night, perhaps. They're up-stairs with Molly," he added vaguely. "I'll call them down, or will you go up?"

"I'll wait here," said Polly, seating herself on the broad stone step. "What are they like, Alan?"

"Stunning beauties, both of them," responded Alan, with some enthusiasm. "Katharine knows it, that's the worst of it. I do hate a girl that thinks she's pretty. I'd rather they'd be homely as Miss Bean, and not think about themselves, all the time. But I'll go call them." And he departed, leaving Polly to meditate on his words.

The girls soon came down the old stairway behind her, and as Polly shyly rose to meet them, she felt at once the truth of Alan's description of Katharine. There was a strong family resemblance between the sisters, both were dark, and they had the same bright, brown eyes and smooth, dark brown hair; but Katharine was by far the more beautiful, with her pink cheeks, small regular teeth, full lips, and long straight nose with just a suggestion of sauciness in the slant of its tip. It was this nose that captivated Polly, and, indeed, Katharine was like a beautiful picture, in figure and feature, while her rapidly changing expressions and her brilliant health added a charm which no picture could ever have. She seemed years older than the other girls, and this effect was increased by the elegance of her dress and by her quiet, settled manners, which made Polly feel very young and shabby in her spotless gingham. Katharine shook hands with a dignity that quite overawed Polly, who turned to look at Jessie with a conscious feeling of relief. Jessie was a plump, lively young woman of twelve, with less, perhaps, of her sister's delicate beauty; but the lack was more than made good by her perfect unconsciousness of self, and her frank, winning manner, which led Polly to forget her formal greeting, and seize her hand, saying impulsively,—

"I'm so glad you've come to live here!"

Jessie laughed, showing a pair of deep dimples in her dark skin, as she answered, with a cordiality equal to Polly's own,—

"And I'm so glad Molly has such nice friends,"

That settled the matter between them, and, arm in arm, they strolled out to the tennis court, chatting like old friends, while Molly and Alan followed with Katharine, who looked about her indifferently, nodding slightly, from time to time, in answer to some question.

"I do think these old houses are splendid," Jessie was saying eagerly. "I never saw one before. Out in Omaha we call a house old that has been built twenty years."

"Haven't you ever been East before?" asked Polly, with a feeling of pity for any girl who had never known the delights of life in an old New England town.

"Never since I was a year old, so I don't remember much about it," answered Jessie. "I think I am going to like it, though, for the place is lovely, and Aunt Ruth is so sweet."

"I hope you won't be homesick, I'm sure," said Polly encouragingly.

Jessie laughed outright at the idea.

"Why should I be homesick?" she inquired, rather to Polly's surprise.

"Why, I don't know exactly, only I should think you'd be lonely without your father and mother," she began.

"That's what Aunt Ruth seemed to think," interrupted Jessie; "but I shan't be, a bit. You see, mamma is off travelling with papa ever so much of the time, and when she's at home, even, we don't see much of her, for we are in school days, and she goes out, or else has company 'most every evening."

"Is that the way people do out there?" inquired Polly, with perfect innocence.

The others were standing near and, at the question, Alan shot a sly glance at Molly, as Katharine answered, with an air of patronage,—

"Not all people, you know; but mamma is in society, and is very gay, so of course she can't be expected to have much time for us."

"Oh!" said Polly, as if a new light had dawned on her. The simple life of the old town and her own mother's devotion to her had not taught her to know that, when the question arises between them, home life must give place to social.

But Molly saw they were treading on dangerous ground, so, to ward off a possible skirmish, she suggested,—

"Let's have a game of tennis. You girls play, don't you?"

It proved that they did, and Alan was sent off to get the net and rackets, followed by Polly, who went racing after him, to help him bring out his load.

"Why, do girls run here?" asked Katharine, with an air of surprise.

"Yes, of course we do; run and play tag, and do all sorts of dreadful things," answered Molly, with some spirit. "What do you do, I'd like to know?"

"Of course it's different in a city," replied her cousin sedately. "We play tennis and skate; but we never run, all for nothing. Only little girls do that."

"What nonsense!" was Molly's comment. "I'd call myself a little girl, then, if I couldn't have any fun without. I hope you don't consider yourself a young lady—Excuse me, Katharine," she added hastily. "I didn't mean to be rude; but you'll have to take us as you find us, I'm afraid."

But Alan and Polly had reappeared, and the game began, watched by Alan, who refused all the girls' entreaties to play.

"I can't to-night, Poll," he answered to her glance; "I'm too stiff in the joints, but I'll act as umpire."

By the time the game was over, they were excellent friends, even Katharine's reserve having yielded to admiration for the playing of these two girls, who returned her swiftest balls with the precision born of long practice. As the bell rang for dinner, she dropped her racket and held out a hand to each, saying, with the winning grace she knew how to assume at her pleasure,—

"I never saw better players in my life. We shall have to try a series of match games this fall, West against the East."

"They do play pretty well, don't they?" inquired Alan from the rear, with a tone of conscious pride. "I've coached them both, and they can play every bit as well as I can."

"That's modesty," said Polly, laughing. "Alan wouldn't play, just because he was afraid you'd beat him. We play five here, quite often."

"How do you arrange it?" asked Katharine.

"Put in an extra one on the weak side," answered Polly, stooping to pick up a ball she had dropped. "It isn't quite as much fun, but there are just five of us, and it gives us all a chance," she added, as they entered the dining-room and she took her place between Alan and Jessie.

"How do you like it, Kit?" asked Jessie, when they were in their room that night.

"Like what?" inquired Katharine, with a sleepy yawn.

"Oh, auntie and Molly and all?"

"Auntie is rather nice, only she is a little bit countrified," returned Katharine critically; "and Molly is well enough; but what a funny little thing that Polly Adams is! She acts more like a boy, the way she goes rushing around with Alan."

"I like her, though," said Jessie.

"She isn't so bad," answered Katharine thoughtfully; "she's a good-hearted little thing, even if she isn't like the Omaha girls. I do like Alan, though, Jessie; don't you? He is a splendid- looking fellow, and has ever so much fun in him. He seems ever so much older than he really is."

"Perhaps it's because he has been sick a good deal," suggested Jessie.

"It may be that is it," assented Katharine, pulling off the silver bangles that clanked like a criminal's fetters at every motion of her hand; "but he doesn't look as if he'd been ill a day in his life. I'm so glad there's a boy in the family; for they always keep things going. I wonder what our school will be like."

The two girls speculated on the future until they heard Alan, in the next room, kick off his shoes and let them drop, with a thud, on the floor. Then, tired with their journey, they fell asleep.



CHAPTER VI.

POLLY ENCOUNTERS THE SERVANT QUESTION.

As time went on, Polly's first impression of the sisters was unchanged. In fact, the girls all agreed in pronouncing Jessie "a dear," and she was at once made to feel at home with the V, which hospitably extended its arms to take her in. But with Katharine it was a different matter. Critical of others, and constantly studying the effect of all that she herself said or did, she was rather a damper on the good times of the girls. Fortunately, she usually scorned them as children, and spent much of her time with her mates in the fashionable boarding-school at which she and her sister were day pupils. And yet, she was not to blame for this artificial side of her nature. At heart she was as true and sweet a girl as Molly herself; but, bred up in the atmosphere of her western city home where there was but one end in view, to struggle up to the top of the social scale, if need be, over the bodies of one's dearest friends, what wonder was it that her growth towards womanhood was cramped by being forced out of its natural beauty into the artificial lines of fashionable society. But it was not yet too late to undo the harm, for a generous, warm heart lay under her affected indifference and ambition; and her parents had been wiser than they realized, when they sent their daughters East to be educated, and left them in the care of the motherly woman whose social position was too assured to have her feel the need for striving, and who, like Mrs. Adams, believed that a woman's highest life lay in her home and children, and that society was incidental, rather than the main end in view.

There were times, and they were by no means rare, when Katharine's native sweetness showed itself, and then the girls welcomed her to their circle. Florence was her favorite among them, while she openly courted Alan's favor, to the amusement of the boy's mother, who smiled quietly to herself over his unconsciousness of her attempts and his continued, unswerving devotion to Polly.

"But what I don't understand," she said to Florence, one day, when they were out for a walk together, "is how you girls ever happened to pick up Jean Dwight."

"Pick her up? What do you mean?" asked Florence, meeting her friend's look with a glance which was almost defiant, for she was too loyal to Jean to fail to notice the scorn in Katharine's tone and manner.

"You know what I mean, Florence, so don't pretend to be as absurd as Polly Adams and Molly are. Of course you and I both know that you three girls could have the pick of the town, if you chose; and I don't see why you take up with the daughter of a carpenter."

Polly had called Florence "a flat," but there was no suggestion of weakness in her reply now. On the contrary, she drew up her small figure to its full height, and spoke with a simple, childish dignity which might have put to shame her companion.

"You needn't say any more about it, Katharine. It is just because we do have the pick of the town that we have taken up with Jean Dwight. At least, she is too much of a lady to slander her friends behind their backs, even if she is only a carpenter's daughter."

"Don't be so crushing, Florence. I only wanted to know what was the reason you were with her so much," answered Katharine, trying to pass off the matter lightly, although she was privately resolving to cultivate the acquaintance of this girl, of whom her friends were so fond.

One bright day in early October, the V had walked up from school together as far as Molly's, where they settled themselves on the piazza to talk over the doings of the day. Katharine and Jessie had joined them, and they sat there chatting till the clock struck five. At the sound, Polly sprang up.

"Oh, dear! I ought to have gone home long ago," she said regretfully. "Is anybody else coming?"

"I'm going to stay a little longer," answered Jean. "Wait just a few minutes, Poll."

"I can't, Jean; mamma will be expecting me." And Polly picked up her hat and started for home, followed by Alan who escorted her to the gate.

She was surprised, when she entered the house, to find the lower rooms deserted and in some confusion. Her astonishment was increased when, on going up-stairs, she saw her mother with her bonnet on, busy in packing her small satchel. Mrs. Adams's red eyes and white face told her daughter that something was amiss.

"So you have come, at last!" she exclaimed, with an air of relief, as she caught sight of Polly in the door; "I was just thinking that I should have to send Mary after you."

"What's the matter, mamma; are you going away?" Polly asked anxiously.

"For a little while, dear. We have had a telegram that Uncle Charlie is very, very ill. And Aunt Jane and I are going to New York to-night."

So Aunt Jane was going too! Polly was relieved at that. Uncle Charlie she scarcely knew, so her main anxiety was for her mother, of whose devotion to this only brother she was well aware. "Is he going to die, mamma?" she asked slowly.

The tears were falling on the toilet-case in Mrs. Adams's hand, but she answered steadily,—

"I hope not, dear; but they are very anxious about him. I am sorry to leave you all alone here with papa, and he is away so much of the time, too."

"Don't you worry about me, Jerusalem," answered Polly courageously, though her heart sank, a little, as she thought of the lonely evenings.

"I presume I shan't be gone long," said Mrs. Adams thoughtfully; "but it is so uncertain. If only Aunt Jane could be here, it would be a comfort to you."

But Polly shook her head violently.

"I'd rather be alone, mamma. I shall get along beautifully, and you've no idea what good care I'll take of papa."

Mrs. Adams was crossing the room to get her slippers. As she passed Polly, she stooped to kiss her.

"And you have no idea," she said, "what a comfort it is to me that you take it so bravely. I know it will be forlorn for you, but there isn't any help for it. Papa is getting ready, now, to drive us to the station, for it is almost time for the train."

As she spoke, the doctor's voice was heard from below, calling to them to hurry; Aunt Jane swept out from her room; Mrs. Adams snapped the fastener of her bag and turned to say good by to her daughter. Polly went down-stairs behind her and stood in the door, looking after them with rather a long face, though she waved her hand bravely until they were around the corner.

Then she went back up-stairs, feeling as if, all at once, an earthquake had struck their quiet home. She and her mother had rarely been separated, and the suddenness and sadness of the present summons only added to the loneliness. The house was in that state of disorder which always follows a hurried packing, and Polly went mechanically up and down, putting the rooms in order while, in imagination, she followed the travellers to the train. Then, when, all was done, she went into her own room and sat down to consider the situation. Taken all in all, it was not an encouraging picture that the next few days presented. Her father was liable to be called away at any hour of the night, leaving her alone with Mary who slept at the far end of the house; there would be the lonely hours when she was out of school; the next day was Saturday—what should she do with herself? The prospect was too much for poor Polly and, throwing herself down on her bed, she gave herself up to the luxury of a hearty cry.

"I wish I were dead now, Or else in my bed now, I'd cover my head now, And have a good cry."

"Is this what you call a hospitable welcome?" asked a sudden voice.

Polly raised her head in surprise, and saw Molly standing in the doorway, with a smile on her face and a great bundle in her hand. Polly sprang up and threw her arms around her friend excitedly.

"Oh, Molly Hapgood! where did you come from? I never, never was so glad to see anybody in all my life."

"If that's a fact," said Molly coolly, "why didn't you come down- stairs to meet me, and not make me hunt for you, all over the house?"

"How could I meet you, when I didn't know you were coming?" demanded Polly.

"Didn't you?" asked Molly, surprised in her turn. "Why, your mother just stopped at our house and told me that she had to go away for a few days, and you wanted me to come and stay with you till she came back. She said you'd tell me all about it."

"Isn't that just like her!" exclaimed Polly rapturously. "And you're going to stay here all the time? How perfectly splendid!"

"Where's she gone?" asked Molly, as she unpacked her brown paper Saratoga.

"Uncle Charlie, in New York, is so ill they've sent for mamma and Aunt Jane," answered Polly, with sudden seriousness, "and they don't know anything more than that. It said—the telegram, I mean— 'Charles very ill, come at once,' and mamma is dreadfully worried. Of course she doesn't know how long she'll be gone. Oh, I am so glad you've come!" And Polly, with the tears still damp upon her cheeks, pranced excitedly up and down the room.

"You don't know how lonesome it was going to be," she went on, when she had quieted down a little. "Now, if only Uncle Charlie will get well, I don't care much how long they're gone. We'll just have an elegant time."

"I don't think Katharine liked my coming very well," remarked Molly, with a giggle, as she pulled out an extra gown and hung it over the foot of Polly's dainty white and gold bed. "She seems to think I can't stir, now they are at the house; but I'm not going to give up all my fun for them. They're nothing but boarders; 'tisn't as if they were on a visit; and Alan can see to them once in a while. He can't bear Katharine," she continued, after a pause; "he heard her say to Florence, once, that he was distangy looking, and he never has forgiven her since. We don't either of us know just what it means, but he thinks it has something to do with his nose."

Polly threw herself into a chair and burst out laughing.

"Oh, Molly, Molly! What will you say next? That means distinguished; it's French, you know." "I don't know anything about French, Poll; and you needn't laugh at me, for you don't know much yourself," returned Molly, with some dignity.

"I don't believe Katharine does, either," answered Polly. "The way I happened to know about that was because she said so to me once, and I asked mamma what it meant. She says she doesn't think it's nice for girls to keep putting French and German words into what they say, for it looks as if they did it to show off. Come on, let's go down and see what we're going to have for dinner."

Soon after dinner, the doctor went away to his office, and the girls decided to settle themselves for a quiet visit in front of the open fire in the parlor. This was their first evening alone together since Jessie and Katharine had come, and there was much to be talked over.

"Don't let's have any light but just the fire," Molly suggested. "Then we'll sit on the rug and have it all to ourselves."

"I can't help feeling as if Aunt Jane were likely to drop in at any minute, though," Polly remarked. "She doesn't approve of people's sitting in the dark; she thinks it is lazy."

"She's half way to New York by this time," said Molly; "but I do wish your mother was here."

"So do I," groaned Polly fervently, as she caught sight of the empty fire-place, for there was not one single stick on the andirons.

Now, to lay an open fire ready for the lighting is at once a science and a fine art, and Polly was by no means versed in the operation. Why, of all days in the year, this happened to be the one on which Mrs. Adams had neglected to arrange her usual pile of round sticks and kindlings and shavings, it would be hard to say. Some little unexpected call on her time had made her forget this regular duty, and had left her daughter as hostess to preside over a cheerless hearthstone.

"What's the trouble?" asked Molly, as she detected the discouraged ring to her friend's tone. "Don't you know how to lay a fire?"

"I never have laid one, all alone," admitted Polly, whose share in the matter, it must be confessed, had been to tuck a handful of soft, light shavings under the andirons and apply the match. "But," she added valiantly; "I've watched mamma often enough, and I know I can do it. We must have a fire; the furnace one is 'most out, for Mary forgot to put in any coal, and it's just freezing here. You sit down, and I'll go get some wood."

She came back in a few moments, tugging a great basket of wood, which she arranged in an orderly, solid pile across the andirons, much as she might have placed it, had she been packing it in a woodshed. Then she added a generous handful of shavings, and touched it off with a match.

"There!" said she, with a prolonged accent of contentment; "you see it's easy enough. It will all be going, in a minute."

"Don't you be too sure," returned Molly, doubtfully eyeing the shavings which flashed into flame and quickly died away, leaving the wood unscorched.

"What do you suppose is the matter?" said Polly, rather annoyed at her lack of success.

"Seems to me you've put the wood in too tight," said Molly, arming herself with the shovel, and trying to pry the sticks apart.

"Perhaps I have," said Polly meekly.

Regardless of soot and ashes, she pulled the wood out on the rug, and began again. This time she arranged it cris-crossing as regularly as the walls of a log-house, and, having exhausted her supply of shavings, she lighted a newspaper and thrust it into the middle opening. The girls watched it with eager eyes. It blazed up like the shavings and, like them, burned out, leaving only the blackened cinders, with here and there a line of red, to show where an edge had been. This was discouraging; the room was uncomfortably cool, and they were wasting their entire evening in preparing for their talk.

"The third time conquers," said Molly, laughing, as she saw Polly tearing down her log cabin. "What are you going to do next, Poll?"

"Lay it yourself, if you want to," retorted Polly, showing more heat than the fire had done.

"I never did such a thing in my life," Molly assured her. "Can't Mary do it?"

"I don't know," said Polly, dropping back from her knees until she sat on her heels; "anyway, she's so cross I don't dare ask her."

"What makes your mother keep her if she's so cross?" inquired Molly, leaning forward to blow the last spark which still lingered on the newspaper.

"Because she can't get anything else," answered Polly, unconsciously touching the key-note of the whole servant question.

"Well," remarked Molly, after a pause, while Polly again wrestled with the fire, "we shall catch our deaths of cold here, Polly; we may as well go to bed, for this isn't going to burn to-night."

"I'm sorry, Molly," her hostess said penitently, as they went up- stairs after leaving a note on the table addressed to the doctor, and containing the simple but alarming statement: "Good night; we've gone to bed to keep from freezing."

"I don't care a bit," said Molly. "I like to talk after I'm in bed, and we shall have ever and ever so long before we get sleepy."

At breakfast, the next morning, the girls had to bear with much teasing from the doctor on the subject of their struggles, the evening before; and, as he rose from the table, he suggested that they should ask Alan to give them a few lessons in making bonfires.

"I shan't be back to lunch," he added, as he put his head through the dining-room door again; "but I'd like dinner on time to-night, surely, for I must go down to the hospital before my evening hour."

"I'll tell Mary," said Polly, jumping up to follow him to the front door, as was her mother's custom.

"Now," she continued, as she went back to the table, "what let's do all day?"

Their plans were soon formed: a drive with Job in the morning, for, of late, after many cautions, Polly had been allowed to drive the old creature; and in the afternoon they would go to see Jean.

"I wonder if Alan wouldn't go with us, this morning," said Polly.

"I think he'd like to," answered Molly. "He caught cold a week ago, and since then he's been so stiff that he hasn't been anywhere but just to school and back; and I should think he would be glad to get away from Katharine. He says he gets so tired of her."

"We'll ask him, then," said Polly. "I think 'twould be a good idea to start early, so I'll go out to tell Mary about lunch, and have John harness right away."

She was gone for some time, and when she came back to Molly in the sitting-room, her face was flushed and her eyes were shining with an angry gleam.

"Why, Polly?" said Molly, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

"It's that horrid Mary!" responded Polly, casting herself down on the sofa with unnecessary vigor. "I don't see what we are going to do, Molly Hapgood; I've a good mind to send you right straight off home."

"You've done it before now," Molly began teasingly, but seeing the real trouble in her friend's face, she relented and asked, "What's gone wrong, Polly?"

"It hasn't gone, it's only going," answered Polly lugubriously. "It's Mary. She says mamma has been promising her a vacation for a long time, and that she's going to take it now, for it's such a good time when part of the family are away. I told her she mustn't; but she says she's going to, or else she'll go for good. I don't dare let her do that, but whatever am I going to do, Molly? She's going right off now, and you'd better go home to stay." And Polly rose and stalked tragically up and down the room, with her fingers buried in her curls.

Molly surveyed her in pity; then she rose to meet the emergency like a heroine.

"I'm not going to go home one single step, Polly," she declared. "I'll stay here and help you through with it."

"But you'll starve, Molly," remonstrated her hostess tearfully.

"Nonsense!" responded Molly. "Now you just sit down and don't go rushing round like this, and we'll talk the matter over, and take an account of stock."

This was encouraging, and Polly felt her spirits coming up again.

"Well?" she asked, as she seated herself on the sofa once more.

"In the first place," said Molly, with a calmness born of inexperience, "we'll tell her to go. I have heard mamma say, often and often, that it's easier to do the work yourself than to have a girl around that's restless and wanting to be off all the time."

There was something so impressive in Molly's manner, as she delivered herself of this sentiment, that Polly gazed at her with a new respect. She had never dreamed that her friend knew so much about housekeeping.

"And so," Molly went on, "we'll just get rid of her and do the work ourselves. I've always been dying to try it, and this is a splendid chance. We won't do much sweeping and dusting, for it will only be for a day or two—How long was she going to be gone, Polly?"

"A week," answered Polly briefly.

"A whole week!" Molly's face fell. Then she resumed, "Well, we shall get on, in some way or other."

"We needn't do much but get the meals and wash the dishes," said Polly, with renewed courage.

"We shouldn't have time, if we wanted to," returned Molly. "Now, Polly, the question is: how much do you know about cooking?"

"Not very much," Polly confessed. "I can boil eggs and make toast, and I have made coffee, once or twice, just for fun."

"That's good," said Molly enthusiastically; "you're a treasure, Polly. I can do codfish and milk, and make molasses candy, and fry griddle-cakes. We shan't have such a bad time, after all."

"We have ever so many cook-books," suggested Polly. "Can't we do something with them?"

"I'm afraid they'd be tough, unless we boiled them a good while," giggled Molly. "But really, Poll, we can work out of them; try lots of new things, you know, to astonish your father. What does he like?"

"Welsh rarebit," responded Polly promptly; "and baked macaroni, and lemon pudding, and—"

"Not too much, Polly; we can't do all that at once. We'll try something new every meal. Oh, say! don't let's tell your father Mary has gone. We'll have dinner all ready when he comes, and not let him know that we cooked it ourselves, until he's eaten it. Then we'll tell him and surprise him."

"Well," assented Polly, with a vague misgiving that her father might discover the change of cook; "I think it will be fun, Molly; and then, if we get hard up, there are plenty of crackers and preserves to fall back on."

"We shan't want them," said Molly scornfully. "I know we shall have a great deal better things to eat than if Mary stayed. Servant girls are so unreliable!" she added, with a whimsical imitation of Aunt Jane's manner.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Polly, with decision, "we must not tell the girls or Alan, for if they knew about it, they would invite themselves to meals. If we cook for us three, that is all we can do."

"What if they come here to see us?" asked Molly.

"We'll lock the door and hide," replied Polly inhospitably. "There are times when company is a nuisance,—I don't mean you, Molly, for you are head housekeeper, and I couldn't get along without you. But come, we'll go up and put our room in order, while we are waiting for her to get out of the way."

At this very moment Mrs. Adams, one hundred and fifty miles away, was congratulating herself that she had left her little daughter with such a competent servant who, though far from amiable, yet was quite capable of taking the entire charge of the house during her absence. Perhaps it was just as well that she was not within hearing of the conversation which the girls had just been holding.



CHAPTER VII.

POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING.

"I'm going now, miss," remarked Mary's voice at the foot of the front stairs.

"Go on, then," said Polly, with dignity, turning to Molly to add, "She wouldn't dare do that if mamma were here. Then she never thinks of calling to us, like this."

Peeping stealthily out at the front window, the girls watched her as she walked off, dressed in her state and festival suit. Then they descended to the kitchen to survey their field of operations.

"She's left it in splendid order, and there's a hot fire; that's one good thing," said Polly, lifting the stove lid to look in.

"With a fire and a cook-book, we can work wonders," said Molly. "Now, Polly, let's plan."

"All right." And Polly sat down on the wood-box. "What shall we have for lunch? That comes first."

"I'll tell you," suggested Molly suddenly, as if struck with a brilliant idea; "let's not have much for lunch. Your father won't be here, so we can eat up whatever was left over from breakfast, and have all our time for the dinner."

"But 'tisn't time to get dinner now; it's only eleven o'clock," said Polly.

"Yes, it is time," returned Molly. "I want to try a lemon pudding for dessert, if he likes them, and it takes ever so much time, I know. We must feed him up well, so he won't look thin to your mother when, she gets back."

"Let's see how the oven is," said Polly, pulling open the door and peering in. "It feels nice and warm, so perhaps we'd better go to work."

"Where are your cook-books?" demanded Molly.

"Here." And Polly brought out a number of books and pamphlets. "We ought to find a rule in some of these."

Molly possessed herself of the largest.

"'Marion Holland'—no, 'Harland,'" she read. "Oh, I've heard of her! I'll look in this, and you take another. Let's see, where's the index? 'Soups—fish—poultry—meats—company.' Oh, where is it? 'Eggs—cake.' That sounds like it. 'Servants—puddings.' At last! 'Apple—cottage—cracker—lemon.' Here are two lemon puddings, Polly." And Molly glanced up to see Polly, with an anxious frown, reading intently from her own small book. She looked up, in her turn, to answer,—

"Here's another, so you read yours and then I'll read mine, and we'll see which we like best."

"'One cup of sugar, four eggs, two tablespoons cornstarch, two lemons, one pint milk, one tablespoon butter,'" read Molly. "You get your milk hot and put in the starch and boil five minutes— Oh, there's a lot more to do! Just see here."

Both heads were bent over the book. Then Polly exclaimed,—

"Mine is easier, I know. Listen: 'A quarter of a pound of suet, half a pound of bread crumbs, four ounces of sugar, the juice of two lemons, the grated rind of one, and one egg. Boil it well in an Agate pot, and serve with sauce.'"

There was an expressive pause.

"Yours is better, after all," said Polly. "I don't know what suet is, but I don't believe we have any; and besides, it's ever so much easier to measure cups than pounds."

The girls enveloped themselves in gingham aprons and set to work. Polly rummaged in store-room and pantry, and brought out the necessary materials for the pudding, while Molly measured and mixed.

"Polly," she called suddenly, in a tone of distress. Polly put her head out from the pantry. Her face was decorated with coal-dust from the stove and flour from the barrel, but she was too intent upon her work to care for that.

"Well," she asked, "what's the matter?"

"There isn't enough cornstarch," said Molly, showing the empty paper.

"How much more do you need?" asked Polly, looking rather blank.

"Another spoonful," replied Molly; "and the milk is all boiling now, ready for it."

"I wish we had Alan here, to send for some," sighed Polly.

"There isn't time. Don't you suppose your mother has another package?" asked Molly, stirring the boiling milk in an excited fashion that sent occasional drops spattering and hissing over the stove.

"Perhaps she has." And Polly hurried away to the store-room, jingling her keys with a comical air of consequence.

She came flying back, in a moment, with a small package in her hand.

"I wonder if this won't do just as well," she said. "It's marked elastic starch, instead of cornstarch, but it looks ever so much like the other, and it's all there is, anyway."

Molly eyed it with little favor.

"It isn't just the same," she said thoughtfully; "but if we can't get anything else, we may as well use it. Here goes, anyway." And she added a heaping spoonful.

The pudding was mixed, poured into a baking dish and set into the oven.

"There," said Molly, with an air of relief, "that's done, all but watching to see that it doesn't burn."

"And clearing up the table," sighed Polly. "It doesn't seem as if we could have used so many dishes, just for one little pudding; does it, Molly?"

"Never mind," said Molly consolingly; "when it's done, we shall feel paid for it all. I don't mind washing dishes. You put the sugar and stuff away, while I do them. I wish I felt sure about this other starch," she added, taking up the paper and glancing at it.

Polly's back was turned, when she heard an exclamation of horror. Looking around, she saw Molly who, with the package still in her hand, had dropped into a chair.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously.

"See here!" And Molly pointed solemnly to the label, then burst into another fit of merriment, as she watched Polly's face grow blank while she road aloud,—

"'Elastic Starch: Prepared for Laundry Purposes, only.'"

"Whatever do you suppose it will do to us?" asked Molly, struggling to regain her self-control, and then laughing harder than ever.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Polly. "It can't kill us, but it may stiffen us up some. I wonder if we'd better try to eat it, Molly." "I'm not going to have all my work wasted," said Molly decidedly, as she opened the oven door and peeped in. "It's browning just beautifully, and looks all right. We won't say or think anything about it, and I don't believe it will hurt us any. Even if it does, we have a doctor right in the house."

"Unless it kills him, first of all," added Polly gloomily. "But I'm tired now, Molly; we'll have lunch while that is baking, and then we can rest till time to get dinner. I never supposed it was so much work to keep house."

"What are you going to have for dinner?" asked Molly, ignoring the last remark.

"Beefsteak and potatoes and pudding," said Polly. "That's enough. We don't want to begin better than we can keep up."

Their lunch was over, and the dishes piled up, to be washed later, when they should feel more like it; the girls had made themselves presentable again after their labors, and were sunning themselves like two young turtles, on the front steps, when they saw Alan coming towards the house.

"Now, Molly," Polly cautioned her; "remember we aren't going to tell that we are housekeeping."

"What have you been doing with yourselves?" inquired Alan, as he sat down on the step below them and pulled his soft hat forward, to keep the dazzling sun out of his eyes. "I came here just before noon, but I couldn't start up anybody. Where were you?"

"How strange we didn't hear you!" said Molly innocently. "We were here all the morning. Are you sure the bell rang?"

"I should say it did," said Alan. "I pulled it till I was tired. You must have been deaf, or asleep."

"We weren't either; we were only just busy," answered Polly, with, an air of importance which would have roused Alan's suspicions, had not Molly come to the rescue by asking about her cousins.

"They're off driving, this afternoon," answered Alan. "They tried to make me go, but I told them flatly I didn't want to, so they took Florence instead. I had to play casino with Kit all last evening, and that was all I could stand. I say, I'm going to stay to dinner over here, if you ask me to." The girls exchanged glances of consternation which, happily, passed over the top of Alan's head, and were unseen.

"Well," assented Polly, with some reluctance; "you can stay, I suppose, but you won't get much to be thankful for, I warn you."

"As long as you tease so hard," responded Alan, disregarding the coolness of her tone; "I'll stay, then. I told mother I knew you'd be in a fight, by this time, and need me to make peace, so she'd better not expect me till I came. Now, honestly, aren't you glad to see me?" And he beamed up at the girls with such goodwill that they relaxed their severity, and took the lad into their confidence.

"Now, Alan," Molly began solemnly; "if you stay here, you mustn't ever tell the other girls, but Mary has gone, and Polly and I are doing the cooking ourselves."

Alan whistled; but not even his whistle was as disrespectful as was his following remark,—

"Anything left over from yesterday that I can have?"

"You must behave, if you stay, Alan," said Polly firmly. "You can go home, or else you can go to work with us, when it's time. I've told you before now that we won't have any lazy people around this house."

"All right; what shall I do first?" And Alan pulled off his cuffs and folded back the bottoms of his sleeves. "Hullo! who's this coming?" he exclaimed, as a figure turned in at the gate.

"Why, it's Mr. Solomon Baxter," said Polly, in some surprise. "How queer! He never comes here." "Perhaps he's after your father," suggested Molly, in an undertone.

"He must be," answered Polly, as she rose to meet him; "but I should think he would know that papa's at his office, not here." Mr. Baxter was a widower of fifty, whose wife had recently died, leaving him with six children under ten years old. Whatever may have been the motives leading to the match, surely Mrs. Baxter could never have married her husband either for his personal beauty or for his repose of manner; for Mr. Baxter's bald head was covered with a smooth yellow wig, and his figure presented every appearance of having its joints so tightly wired together that they could not play freely in their places, while it was a matter of common report that his nervous, excitable manner had worried his wife until she was glad to be at rest.

"How do you do? Is your aunt at home?" he answered Polly's greeting.

This was unexpected, but Polly reflected that they might be on some committee together.

"I am sorry, but she and mamma were sent for to go to New York," she explained courteously. "Their brother is ill. Won't you come in, sir?"

"Just for a little while, perhaps," said Mr. Baxter, following her into the parlor. "If they're away, who's keeping house?"

"We are, Molly Hapgood and I," answered Polly, a little surprised at the question.

"A good girl?"

Polly looked up in astonishment, thinking that he had taken that way of praising her. On the contrary, she discovered that this was intended as a question.

"What was it you said," she asked.

"Have you a good girl?"

"We haven't any," replied Polly meekly; "ours went away this morning."

"Just like them! They're the greatest plague in the world!" said Mr. Baxter explosively, and so rapidly that his words appeared to be tumbling over each other, in their haste to escape from his lips. "They haven't any honor; mine went off yesterday, and I haven't any to-day. She was a splendid girl with a great trunk full of real nice clothes, and such refined tastes, she always drank English breakfast tea. But she wouldn't stay, because I would not let her have all the soap she wanted. Extravagant things!" Mr. Baxter suddenly reined in his tongue; then added abruptly, "Who's housekeeper generally, your mother or your aunt?"

"Mamma is," replied Polly.

"Oh!" Mr. Baxter's tone was rather annoyed. There was a prolonged pause, while Polly watched the clock and reflected that it was time to put on the potatoes.

"Are your children well?" inquired Molly politely, feeling that it was her duty to say something.

"Quite well, only the baby has the croup almost every night. They have a great many colds, but I tell them that it's good enough for them, and perhaps it may teach them to be a little more careful," answered their fond parent sympathetically.

"I had a cold last winter," remarked Alan, launching himself into the conversation with this bit of personal reminiscence.

"Oh," said Mr. Baxter again.

There was another pause, a long one this time. Polly broke it, for she saw that both Molly and Alan were on the point of laughing.

"It is a beautiful day," she began. "We were going to ride this morning with Job, but—" She paused abruptly. Job had done conspicuous duty in Mrs. Baxter's funeral procession, in fact, he had helped to bear the disconsolate widower and his children to her grave. Polly felt that further mention of him would be ill- timed. Mr. Baxter appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "Is Miss Roberts well?" he asked, after another interval.

"Very," answered Polly.

"Not given to being sick much?"

"No, she is very strong."

"Well," said Mr. Baxter, rising with an air of relief, "I must be going. Just tell your aunt, sissy, that I called on her. Where's my hat?"

He had mislaid it somewhere, and while he charged up and down the parlor looking for it, Alan and Molly prudently withdrew, to laugh unseen. At length he discovered it in the hall, and went away, leaving the children to speculate vainly on the cause of his visit.

"Sissy!" exclaimed Polly violently. "Sissy! I wonder how he'd like me to call him bubby! I'll try it, the next time he comes. But he stayed so forever that we shan't have time to cook any potatoes for dinner."

They surely would not, for the fire was out and the stove was cold.

"Your poor father!" groaned Molly. "And we weren't going to let him know that anything was wrong."

"Never mind," said Polly; "we'll give him just meat and pudding. That's enough for any man."

They cheered up at that, and, with Alan's help, they went to work to build a fire, making many discoveries during the operation about dampers and grates and their uses. But time, always unaccommodating, refused to wait for them, and six o'clock came far too soon, and brought the doctor in its train.

Dr. Adams was rather perplexed when he went into the house and was met by no one at the door. Polly and her mother usually greeted him, but to-night the front of the house was deserted.

"The girls must be off somewhere," he said to himself. "Well, I'll go out and tell Mary to give me my dinner now, without waiting for them."

He made his way to the kitchen, noting to his surprise, as he passed through the dining-room, that the table was only half set for the meal, and that the few articles on it had a little the appearance of having been thrown at it from a distance. Dr. Adams was an orderly, methodical man, and his wife's careful housekeeping was quite to his liking. However, he reflected that, during her absence, there must and would be irregularities, and passed on to the kitchen. As he opened the door, he was met by a cloud of dense, bluish white smoke which brought the quick tears to his eyes. Through the thick air he could see, not the ample proportions of his usual cook, but three small figures that were hurrying to and fro with a purposeless, ineffectual bustle which yet accomplished nothing. One of the figures hailed him in disconsolate tones,—

"Oh, papa! are you home so soon?"

"So soon?" he answered, as well as he could for coughing; "it's six o'clock now. Is dinner ready? What are you doing out here?"

It took but a moment to explain the matter, and then the doctor showed that it was not without reason that Polly called him the best father in the world. He was just back from a long drive out into the country with a fellow doctor, to pass judgment upon a critical case; he must visit a man in the hospital before his evening office hour; he was tired, hungry, and in a hurry, and there was no immediate prospect of dinner. But the three weary, heated, crocky faces before him moved him to pity, and he threw open the outer door, saying briskly,—

"Let's have a little air here, and see what's the matter."

"The fire won't seem to burn," said Alan. "It just smokes and goes out."

"So I see," said the doctor laughing. "Perhaps it would go better, my boy, if the dampers were not shut up tight. All it needs is a little draught,—see?" And in a moment there was a comfortable crackling sound going on inside the stove.

Before his marriage, the doctor had been in the habit of camping out every summer, and his old experiences came to his aid in the present crisis. While the girls flew in to set the table, he quickly brought the fire into order, and cooked the meat as handily as a woman. Thanks to him, the supper proved a merry one in spite of the smoky dining-room, the meagre bill of fare, and the great white blister on the side of Alan's hand, which the lad was doing his best to keep out of the doctor's sight. Molly raised her eyebrows and darted a comical glance at Polly when the doctor asked for a second plate of the pudding, and it was not until long afterwards that the girls knew of the manful effort he had made to swallow the sticky compound.

"Can I do anything more to help you?" he asked, stopping behind Alan's chair as he was going away.

"You've done enough already, I should think," answered Molly gratefully.

"It was too bad for Mary to leave you in the lurch," he replied. Then, as his eyes fell on Alan's hand, he added, "That's a hard burn, my boy! Why in the world didn't you say something about it?"

"What was the use?" inquired Alan calmly. "Grumbling about it wouldn't do it any good."

"No; but I could," responded the doctor. "I like your pluck, but there's no use making a martyr of yourself for nothing. Come into my den and let me put something on it." And after a moment's delay, he went striding away down the street, looking at his watch as he walked.

"How do people ever manage to keep house?" sighed Molly, an hour later.

The dishes were washed, the rooms in order, and the two girls were luxuriously settled on the sofa, which they had drawn up in front of Alan's blazing fire on the hearth. Alan himself was stretched out on the rug, with his yellow head resting against the seat of the sofa, beside Polly's hand. Too tired to talk, the children had sat there quietly watching the fire until Molly broke the silence.

"I don't see, I'm sure," returned Polly. "It never seems as if mamma did much, even when we haven't any girl; and I'm tired almost to death, with what little we've done."

"I'm slowly getting to think," said Molly reflectively; "that our mothers are wonderful women. If it takes three of us to spoil one dinner, how do they get along, to do all the housekeeping and look out for us and sew and all?"

"Perhaps they know more to start with," suggested Alan, ducking his head out of reach of Polly's threatening fingers.

"If you hadn't been and gone and burned yourself in our service, Alan," she said, laughing, "I would turn you out of the house."

But Molly was too much in earnest to heed this by-play.

"I believe I'll learn to cook," she went on. "I don't mean fancy cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on."

"Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly.

"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden flurry of rain swept against the windows.

"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."

"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."

"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."

"I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in my head and—Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door opened and shut.

"No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.

"Jerusalem!" and Polly sprang up with a glad cry. "Wherever did you come from?"

She was surrounded and dragged forward to the sofa, where Alan took her cloak, Molly her bonnet, and Polly pulled off her gloves.

"This is delightful to be so waited on," said Mrs. Adams. "It is worth while going away, to have the pleasure of coming back to my three children. Now come and sit down, and tell me all about it." And with a girl at each side and a boy at her feet, she prepared to hear the story of their doings.

"First, how is Uncle Charlie?" asked Polly, sure from her mother's bright face that there was no bad news.

"It was a sudden attack of indigestion, and he was much better before we reached him; but for a little while they thought there was no chance for him. Aunt Jane is going to stay for a week or two, but I was in a hurry to come back to my baby. And that reminds me, I stopped at your house, Alan, to tell your mother I had come and that Molly would stay here till Monday; and when I found that you were here, I said I should keep you, too, till morning. But now you must tell me how you've been amusing yourselves."

"With cooking," said Polly, with a tragic groan. "Mary's gone off for a week, and the fire went out, and Alan burned himself, and we nearly starved. I'm glad you've come back; oh, you can't guess how glad!"

By degrees they told the tale of their woes, not omitting the slightest detail, while Mrs. Adams leaned back on the sofa and laughed till the tears came.

"But there's one good thing about it all," observed Molly, in conclusion. "We've had a perfectly dreadful time, but it will teach us to appreciate our mothers and know a little what they are doing, the whole time."

CHAPTER VIII.

HALLOWE'EN.

"You have such a different way of looking at things from what mamma did," said Katharine.

"Perhaps it is because we have lived so differently," Mrs. Hapgood answered her.

It was a cold, gray day in late October, a day which showed that November was close at hand. The other girls were off for some frolic, Alan was reading and dozing on the sofa in the next room, so Mrs. Hapgood and Katharine had the parlor to themselves, and were snugly settled in two willow chairs drawn up in front of the fire, Katharine busy on a dainty bit of embroidery, Mrs. Hapgood putting a new sleeve into a gown which had yielded before Molly's energetic elbows.

"I wonder if that is it." And Katharine laid down her work and fell to pondering on the matter. After a time, she resumed, "After all, auntie, I don't know but I like your way better. I thought at first it was going to be slow here. At home, there's never any time for quiet talks like this; it's just nothing but a hurry and a scrabble, and when we get through, we've nothing to show for it. I've only been here six weeks, but I really feel as if I know you now better than I do mamma." And Katharine rested her head against the back of her chair, while the dark eyes fixed on the fire grew a little dim.

Mrs. Hapgood leaned over and rested her hand on the girl's, as it lay on the arm of her chair.

"I'm glad to have you say so, Katharine," said she. "For this year, I am to stand in place of a mother to you, you know, and I like to have you feel at home here."

"I know all that," answered Katharine; "and I'm glad they sent me here, only it mixes me all up. When I was at home and kept hearing little bits about it, the parties and the flowers and the pretty gowns, I felt as if I couldn't wait to be old enough to be in it all. When I came away, mamma said I was to be here a year, and then, go home to come out, so I could be ready to be married at eighteen, as she did. A year is such a little while to wait that I thought I was almost there. But when I came here, I found the girls of my age acting like children, and having splendid times doing what I had always thought was silly, and not caring the least bit about society and all that. I shall just get used to this and like it, and then go back into the other once more."

"But not in just the same way, I hope."

"I suppose not, auntie; but it won't make so very much difference, after all."

"Perhaps not," her aunt answered; "but it may make a little. If you hadn't come to us, you would never have seen the other side, that there are a few good times outside of the parties and the young men. And even if you go back into it when you go home, as you probably will, Katharine, it won't do any harm for you to have had a year to stop and think, and talk matters over, before plunging into the 'scrabble,' as you call it."

"It seemed so queer, when I first came East," said Katharine, as she took up her work again, "to see you and Molly sit down and talk for an hour at a time. Mamma hasn't ever done it with us, only to joke with us, or ask about our lessons once in a while. But everything that comes up, Molly and Polly Adams say, 'Mamma says so,' or 'Mamma thinks so.'"

She sewed steadily for a few moments, then she broke off, to ask, with an air of mock tragedy,—

"Mamma says she wants me to marry at eighteen; but what in the world should I do, auntie, if nobody should ask me?"

"Not get married, I suppose," returned her aunt composedly.

Katharine's face fell.

"What! be an old maid, like Polly's Aunt Jane!" she exclaimed.

"It isn't necessary that you should be like her, even if you shouldn't marry." And Mrs. Hapgood laughed at the horror in Katharine's tone. Then she went on, seriously, "Katharine, may I talk very plainly with you, just as if you were really my daughter?"

"Please do, auntie." And Katharine drew her chair a little closer to her aunt's.

"You were just saying that your mother and I look at things differently, Katharine, and it is true that we do. I wouldn't find fault with her for anything, for she has been a dear, good sister to me; but it seems to me that she has made a little bit of a mistake in letting your head get filled with all these thoughts of being married. You are only a child yet, my dear, and it is years before such ideas ought to come to you. But now they are here, I am going to tell you just what I think about it all. Not all women are fitted to marry; some would be happier and better without it. The day is long past when a woman must either marry or be laughed at as an old maid. What I want my girls to do is to grow into strong, noble women who are fitted to fill any position that opens before them, and to fill it well, with no thought of self, but only for the good of others. Then, if the time ever comes that you are asked to be the wife of a man, for the sake of whose love and companionship you are ready to give up all else, then you will do right to marry him, but not until then."

There was another pause. Mrs. Hapgood went on,—

"And since we are on the subject, Katharine, there is one more word to say. If the time ever comes for you, remember, in making your great decision, that married life is not all sunshine, but that there are the same little every-day worries after marriage as there were before. If a woman is strong enough to be a true, devoted wife, she can have no happier, better life than in her own home. But she has no right to promise without thinking it all over, whether she can sacrifice and work, can suffer hardship and even wrong for her husband's sake. Those are solemn words, dear, and should never be spoken thoughtlessly: 'For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health—'"

"You make it all mean so much more than mamma did," said Katharine thoughtfully. "She never talked to me like this. You make me half afraid of it, auntie."

"So much the better," her aunt replied. "It isn't anything that you can do one day, and undo the next; but it is a matter of life— and death," she added, as if to herself. Then she went on, with an entire change of tone, "Now, Kit, we have been talking about a very serious matter, and I am nearly through. But we may never speak of it again, so before we leave it, I want to just say that I wish you could put this whole subject out of your head for years, until the great question comes to you,—better still, if it had never been put into your head in the first place. However, that mischief is done. Still, try as hard as you can, for this year at least, to forget all about it. Then, if you must remember it at all, remember it as we have spoken of it, a serious question which must be settled between you and your conscience. In the meantime, do the very best you can to develop yourself into a helpful woman, ready for any call that may come. Your call will come, in one way or another, and all you have to do is to be prepared to answer 'ready.' And the grand secret of this preparation lies in perfect unconsciousness of self. It is all hidden in you, Kit, if you only try to make the most of it. And now I shouldn't at all wonder if we were better friends than ever for this frank talk, should you?"

The girl did not speak, but, bending over, she kissed her aunt impulsively and left the room.

"The child is finding her soul at last," said Mrs. Hapgood to herself. "Kate had smothered it and buried it under her false ideas of womanhood; but it is there, and Katharine might so easily make a woman to be proud of, with her warm, loving nature, if only she could be kept out of the 'scrabble' for a few years longer. Well, my son, what is it?" she added aloud, as Alan came in, yawning and stretching, and dropped into the chair just vacated by Katharine.

"Nothing, only I'm sick of reading, and came in for my share in the talk. Has Kit gone?"

"She just went up-stairs," answered his mother, surveying her boy with fond pride, for, in all truth, Alan was good to look at as he sat there, a real bonnie boy who might gladden any mother's heart. Mother-like, she passed a caressing hand over his yellow hair, and straightened out his coat-collar, but she only said, "Alan, you are positively growing tall, every single day."

"Am I?" asked the boy absently. Then he went on. "Speaking of Kit, mother, has it struck you that she is leaving off a little of her airs and graces? She isn't near as silly as she was when she first came."

"I don't think Katharine is silly," his mother replied; "it is only a little way she has. You are too critical of her, Alan."

"Well, she makes me tired," responded the boy, rolling up his eyes at his mother, whose deep-seated objection to that phrase he well knew. "She wants to be the very middle of things when we're together, and must have just so much fuss made over her. She'd be well enough, if it wasn't for that."

"Katharine has a great deal of character, after all," said his mother. "You aren't quite fair to her, Alan. If Polly or Florence did the same things she does, you would think it was all right."

"Polly and Kit aren't to be spoken of in the same breath," answered Alan energetically. "Florence doesn't count, one way or the other; but Polly is a splendid girl, and about the best friend I have. She always fights for me, and it would be mean if I didn't return the compliment once in a while. Here comes Mrs. Adams now," he added, as he glanced out of the window.

It was only an errand, not a call, she hurriedly explained. Friday night was going to be Hallowe'en, and wouldn't Alan and the girls come over to celebrate, as a surprise to Polly? Jean and Florence would be there, too. Then she went away again, leaving Alan to discuss the matter with his mother.

Friday evening came, and the surprise was kept a profound secret. Mrs. Adams had called Polly up-stairs to try on a new gown which she had just finished, and Polly was still revolving in front of the mirror, making vain attempts to view her back, when the bell rang.

"You go down, Polly," said her mother. "I am all covered with basting-threads."

So Polly, in all the glory of her new gown, went running down the stairs to the door, and started back in astonishment as her six guests came solemnly marching into the house, dressed in their best, to do honor to the occasion.

"Why, what are you doing here?" she was beginning rather inhospitably, when her mother unexpectedly came to her relief and invited the girls to take off their things.

"We're a party, Polly," exclaimed Jessie. "How stupid you are not to see it!"

"It's Hallowe'en," added Florence; "and we've been asked to come to celebrate it."

"Oh-h-h!" And a new light dawned on Polly. "It's a surprise party, is it? Who started it? You, Jerusalem?"

"Why don't you take your little friends into the parlor and converse with them, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's prim voice. "Don't you know that it isn't polite to leave them standing here?"

A sharp reply was trembling on the tip of Polly's tongue; but she caught her mother's warning glance, so she resolutely turned her back on the blue satin bow which Aunt Jane had donned for the party, and led the way into the parlor.

Then the fun began, for Mrs. Adams had studied to find all the amusing tricks, whether they belonged to Hallowe'en or not. She was the gayest of the gay, entering into all the frolic, and doing her best to make Aunt Jane unbend and have a share in the games. But there must be a skeleton at every feast, and Miss Roberts played the part to perfection, sitting back against the wall, and only smiling indulgently, now and then, as the room rang with the shouts of the young people. It all started with a tub and a plate of apples which mysteriously appeared in the dining-room, and soon they were all in a kneeling circle around the tub, bobbing for the apples, that took a malicious delight in ducking under the water and rolling away, just as the white teeth were ready to seize the stem. The captured apples were only just pared and the seeds counted, when Mrs. Adams called them away to try their fate on one single apple which hung by a string from the top of the room.

"It is an unfailing test," she said. "If you can take a bite out of this apple without touching it, except with your teeth, you will live to get married. Otherwise, you will die an old maid."

Now, it sounds like a very easy matter to bite an apple; but when it is free to swing this way and that as you touch it, the success is not so sure. Alan first chased the apple up and down, gnashed his teeth and retired. Next Florence took her turn, with no better success. Jessie, too, failed to get a taste, even of the skin. Then Jean advanced to the charge.

"Now watch," she said, laughing. "I'm going at this on scientific principles. See here!"

She hit the apple with such force as to throw it far up and out, waited with wide-open mouth until, pendulum-like, it swung back and, at the instant of its reaching her, before it had turned, she struck her strong, young teeth into the side and brought away a generous mouthful.

"There!" said she triumphantly, as she marched back to her place. "I defy anybody to do better than that."

They melted lead and poured it into water, to learn from the shape as it cooled the secret of their future work; they floated needles on water, watching them sink, or swim and gather in groups; they roasted nuts in the ashes, and tried the old, old test of the three dishes of water. But the prettiest trick of all was one that brought them back to the great tub once more, to float the walnut- shell boats, with their burning candles fixed in each. As the girls took their pairs of shells, one with a pink, the other with a blue candle placed in the middle like a mast, it was curious to see the difference in their ways of launching them on this mimic ocean of life. Jean and Jessie dropped theirs in thoughtlessly, only intent on the fun of the moment. Florence put hers in daintily and with care not to wet her fingers, and Molly and Katharine launched theirs out boldly, following them up with a little ripple which sent them rocking away into the midst of the tiny fleet. But Polly, Polly who did not believe in signs, had an anxious pucker about her eyebrows as she started out her wee vessels, and hurried them all their way with a mighty splash which threatened to capsize them, there and then.

Mrs. Adams stood back, watching the group of bright-colored gowns and eager faces, as the young people gathered more closely about the tub to see the fate of their lights, now exclaiming in chorus at some crisis, now in anxious silence while they waited for new developments.

"My light has failed, first of all," said Katharine regretfully.

"Which is it?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"The pink one."

"That is the man," she answered, bending over to look at the poor little end of candle, with only a smouldering wick to show that any life was left.

"It may come up again, Kit," said Florence consolingly. "While there's life, there's hope."

"They are alive as long as they float," Mrs. Adams interpreted. "When they sink, they are dead; but this one is only ill, or else his plans have failed."

"That's almost as bad," said Jean. "But isn't this just like Florence? Her two have cuddled up side by side, and are blazing away in a corner, all by themselves." "Look at Polly's and mine," said Molly. "We have joined hands. We must be going to live together, all four of us."

"In a New York tenement house," suggested Alan unkindly.

"No such thing," returned Polly. "Molly shall keep house, and I'll board with her. I hope my man will be proprietor of a restaurant, though," she added, in an aside to Alan.

Suddenly there came a wail from Jessie.

"Girls, girls! Just look at mine!"

"Where are they?" asked Molly.

"Here." And Jessie pointed tragically to one side of the tub, where the blue candle lay at the bottom of the sea, and the pink one, though still floating above it, had burned out and tilted to one side in an attitude of profound dejection.

"'Where was Moses when the light went out? Where was Moses, what was he about?'"

sang Alan teasingly.

But even while he was singing, an energetic wave from Jean's side overturned his own small ships and left them floating bottom upwards.

"Just my luck!" he remarked, as he rose. "I knew I should come to some untimely end. As Poll says, I don't believe in signs, anyway."

The chocolate and wafers had been passed, and the fateful loaf of cake had been cut, bringing the ring to Florence, and the thimble, fitting symbol of single blessedness, to Jean; and still there was time for a little more of the fun. Some one suggested a game of forfeits, and a pile of them was soon collected, to be held over the head of Jessie who was chosen judge, as being the youngest girl present. Her ingenuity was endless, and she kept them laughing over her ridiculous fines, until nearly all had been redeemed.

"Only two or three more," said Jean encouragingly. "Here's one of them, now."

"Fine or superfine?"

"Fine."

"Fine? Let's see, I know whose 'tis," meditated Jessie. "Oh, I haven't any ideas left! Let him.

"'Bow to the wittiest, Kneel to the prettiest, And kiss the one he loves best.'"

Like most sensible mothers, Mrs. Adams had a horror of anything like kissing games; and now she frowned a little, in spite of herself. No one of the V, she felt sure, would have pronounced this fine. She turned to glance at Alan who stood for a moment, blushing as his eye moved over the group. Then he walked up to Polly and bowed low, passed on to Katharine's chair where he dropped on one knee, and then, walking straight to Mrs. Adams, he bent down and kissed her cheek with a heartiness which was not all play. She put out her hand and drew him down on the sofa, at her side.

"Thank you, dear," she whispered. "It was a pretty compliment, and we old people enjoy such things, you may be sure."

"It was true," said Alan simply, as he settled himself beside her with a confiding, little-boyish motion.

The last forfeit had not been redeemed, when the heavy portieres swung open, and a figure swathed in dark draperies and with a veil over her face came slowly into the room. The girls gazed doubtfully at this ghostly apparition, till a brown hand—was extended and a deep voice spoke from under the veil,—

"I am here to reveal the future. To-night is the time to know the secret of your coming lives. Let the oldest advance first."

Katharine, still a little in awe of the mysterious stranger, stepped forward and laid her hand on the dark one before her. The being scanned it closely.

"A long life," she said, "and a happy one, for you will slowly learn the joy of doing good to those around you and forgetting yourself for others. Then, wherever you go, you will be surrounded with friends and your name will long be remembered."

Katharine smiled, as she stepped back and Jean took her place.

"You will have the best possession the earth can give, a contented mind. I see in the future a little house presided over by a strong, quiet woman whose life is in her home."

Then Molly's turn came. Her fate was quickly spoken.

"Yours is a husband six feet tall, and your children will number nineteen, as they sit about your meagre table."

Molly groaned, as she yielded her place to Florence.

"I see a lordly house, richly furnished and filled with servants. Within is a devoted husband who watches over a wife with golden hair."

"How elegant!" said Polly. "Now it's my turn." And she held out her hand with a smile.

"You will suffer much and have much happiness," the voice went on. "You will love deeply and be loved in return, and the end will more than repay the beginning."

"Isn't that queer!" And Polly withdrew, to ponder on her mystical fortune.

"Now Jessie," said Mrs. Adams; "see what fate has in store for you."

"I'm half afraid," she said, laughing.

"Love, happiness, and sunshine," was what she heard. "A tiny cottage simply furnished with a teapot and eleven cats."

There was a shout.

"Now, Alan."

The brown hand trembled a little, and the eyes under the veil looked right into Alan's, as she spoke. "Some pain, much joy; a slow, even growth into a glorious manhood that knows no wrong, but lives for truth. Whatever else maybe is hidden from my sight."

"What a splendid one, Alan!" exclaimed Polly, her face flushing, as she took in all the meaning of the words.

And Katharine added quietly,—

"You have read us very well, Aunt Ruth."

"Mamma?" exclaimed Molly and Alan, in a breath.

"Yes, mamma," answered Mrs. Hapgood's voice, as she quickly shed her wrappings. "I thought I would have a finger in this pie, too. But how did you know me so soon, Katharine?"

"I knew nobody else would say what you did, for it was just a part of our talk the other day," she replied, as she unpinned the thick veil from Mrs. Hapgood's hair.

"Good-night, Mrs. Adams," said Jean, as they stood grouped about her in the hall. "This has been a lovely Hallowe'en, and I shall always remember it, I know."

"I hope you will, too, till next year," added Alan suggestively, as he went out into the bright starlight.