"But what's the use, I'd like to know?" persisted Alan.

"What's the use of your having so much rheumatism in your bones?" responded Polly, answering question with question.

"How should I know?" returned Alan. "To make me cross as a bear, and give mother something to worry about, as much as anything, I suppose."

"I don't believe that's all the reason," said Polly seriously; "but as long as these things are round, and have to be, just think how splendid it must be to be a doctor!"

In spite of himself, Alan shivered at the thought. The scenes of the past hour had made a strong impression on his quick, sensitive nature.

"No," he said, "I don't want to spend my whole time among such things. It would be dreadful, Poll."

"I don't think so," said Polly energetically, as she snatched at the blue cap which a sudden gust of wind was lifting from her curls. "I don't want to be one myself, but I'm glad papa is a doctor, and I've always wished I had a brother to be one, too. I know the side of it you mean, Alan, and it is dreadful at first; but after a little, you'd get used to that, and I think there could be nothing grander than to spend all your life in mending broken bones, and cutting people to pieces to take out bad places, and helping them to grow all strong and well. I'd rather be a real good doctor than the President in the White House, and I don't believe but what I'd do more good."

While she was speaking, Alan watched her with admiration, for her eyes had grown dark and deep, and her whole face was alive with the earnestness of her words.

"You ought to have been a nurse, Poll," he said, when she had finished her outburst. "That's what makes you so nice and comfortable when I'm sick. I'd rather have you than Molly any day. But don't let's talk about it any longer; I can't keep those poor babies out of my head. They just seem to stick there."

"Go to see them again, and perhaps they won't," suggested Polly quickly.

"I'll see about it," said Alan; "but it strikes me I had enough of it this morning to last me for one while." And he lapsed into silence once more, while Polly eyed him stealthily, trying to read his thought.

When he spoke again, it was on an entirely different subject, and with an evident effort to dismiss the matter from his mind. Polly did her best to fall in with his mood, with an instinctive feeling that, boy-fashion, Alan did not care to put into words all that he thought; so by the time they reached the house, they were lightly discussing all sorts of unimportant matters; the weather, the sleighing, their play, and even Job, and Alan had thrown off his momentary seriousness and become as gay as ever.

"Where did you put your war-paint and feathers?" asked Polly, as they ran. up the steps, rosy and breathless from facing the strong wind.

"My war-paint, ma'am! It's yours. I'm a civilized white man, named Smith," returned Alan, as he pulled off his coat in the hall. "I left them in a corner of the dining-room."

"I'll get them." And Polly vanished.

"You see," Alan went on, as she reappeared. "We know our parts well enough, I suppose; but I wanted to get used to seeing you in full rig, before the time came. I was afraid, if you suddenly appeared to me, I should laugh and spoil our best scene."

"Don't you dare do that!" returned Polly sternly. "If you laugh, I'll let Jean cut off your head, and not try to save you. But it's a good idea to have a chance to go through it, while we are all alone by ourselves. Our parts are best of all, and I want to do them as well as we can for Jean's sake, she has taken so much pains to write it up."

"Yes," added the captain ungratefully, "and I'd like to have you try over that rushing out and tumbling down on top of me. The last time you did it, you. nearly knocked the breath out of my body. You'd better go a little slower, Poll, or you'll kill me as surely as Jean would,—and I don't know but what her way would be about as comfortable as yours."

"We've plenty of time and the house to ourselves," said Polly meekly; "so we can try it over and over, till I get it right."

"What a prospect!" groaned Alan. "When we get through, you'll have to take me to the hospital and put me in with those youngsters, where I was to-day."

"All right," returned Polly, laughing; "but if I ever do kill you, don't expect me to tell of it. Now let's come up into mamma's room and dress in front of her long mirror."

The dressing was a prolonged and hilarious operation, for each in turn helped the other to don his costume, stopping now and then to burst out laughing at the results of their labors. Alan, it is true, made a very attractive young captain, though, with a fine disregard for dates, he was attired in the moth-eaten, faded uniform with tarnished brass buttons and epaulettes which one of his ancestors had worn during the Revolutionary War. But the ancestor had been several sizes larger than his nineteenth century descendant, and the uniform lay in generous folds over the back and shoulders, and was turned up at wrist and ankle, while the great cocked hat, pushed back to show the yellow hair in front, rested on the boy's shoulders behind. However, a truer, tenderer, more valiant heart never beat in old-time captain, than was throbbing in Alan's breast that day, when he held forlorn little Dicky Morris on his knee.

But Polly! In arranging her costume, the girls had let their individual tastes have full sway, and beyond the general notion that Indians like bright color, they had paid no attention to the traditional ideas of dress among the noble red men. Pocahontas, as she is usually pictured in her quill-embroidered tunic and dull, heavy mantle, would have laughed outright at the appearance of this vision of silk and satin, of purple and scarlet and vivid green, which was solemnly parading up and down the room, in all the enjoyment of her finery.

"'Tis splendid, isn't it, Alan?" she asked, turning, with a purely feminine delight, to survey her long red satin train as it swept about her feet.

Alan looked at her doubtfully.

"Why, yes; it's very splendid, Poll, but somehow it doesn't look much like an Indian. I didn't know they wore satin trails a mile long."

Polly's brow clouded.

"But princesses do, Alan, and I'm a princess, just as much as I'm an Indian. It's such fun to wear this. Don't you suppose it will do?"

"Yes, perhaps," said Alan, with an heroic disregard of the truth. "It isn't just like the pictures; but you look first-rate in it, honestly, Poll. Now let me fix your head."

Polly beamed under his praise, and dropped into a chair where she sat passive until he had fastened on the lofty coronet of feathers which would have formed an honorable decoration for the brow of a Sioux brave. A little red chalk supplied the complexion, and a few dashes of blue on the cheeks and forehead added what Alan was pleased to term "a little style" to the whole. Then Polly sprang up, caught her skirt in both hands, and dropped a sweeping courtesy to her friend, saying merrily,—

"Prythee, how now, Captain Smith; is it well with thee?"

And the bold captain returned, in some embarrassment, as he removed his wide-spreading hat,—

"Yes'm. Same to you, ma'am."

There was something at once so quaint and so ridiculous in the pair, that they gazed at each other for a moment, and then, sinking clown on the floor regardless of their finery, they burst out laughing.

"Oh, Alan, you're so absurd!" gasped Polly.

"You're another," responded Alan; "only you're worse." And they went off into a fresh paroxysm of giggles.

At last Polly sprang up with decision.

"How silly you are, Alan!" she said, as she marched up to the glass once more.

"Am I?" inquired Alan meekly. "How do you like the looks, Polly?"

Polly stared at herself closely and long, and a scornful expression gathered about her lips.

"It doesn't match," she said concisely, as she turned away.

It certainly did not. The face and head-dress, suggestive of the free, roving life of the plains, rose above a gown which was only suited to comic opera. Clearly, Pocahontas had made a mistake when she arranged her costume.

"What shall we do about it?" she asked disconsolately, as she faced Alan once more.

"Do? If I were in your place I'd get myself up as a real genuine Pocahontas, and not go trailing around in any such trumpery as that," returned Alan, scornfully kicking at the end of the train, as it lay across his toes.

"I suppose it would be better," said Polly faintly. "This doesn't seem to suit the part very well, but I did want to wear it." And she gazed regretfully down at her despised finery.

"I'll tell you what," suggested Alan, "why not wear this when you are at court? You'll have your face washed and your feathers off there, and this will be just the thing. When you first come on, you can have a real Indian dress. How would that go?"

"Good, Alan!" And Polly swept up and down the room once more, watching her train, over her shoulder, and listening with a rapturous countenance to the silken swish of her skirts.

"Now," said Alan, who was beginning to be tired of the question of dress, "let's begin and go over our scenes."

"We ought to have Jean here," said Polly, as she regretfully turned away from the mirror.

"No matter, we can do a good deal as 'tis. Let's take this end of the room for a stage." And Alan stretched himself out on the floor, prepared to die heroically, and began a sentimental speech of farewell to his distant home and friends.

"Now, Poll, we'll leave out what comes next. Your word is 'And so farewell! Let the fatal drop fall!'"

The most critical audience could have found no fault with the way Polly rushed in and cast herself upon the neck of the valiant captain, while she alternately defied her father, the irate Powhatan, and in elaborate broken English, cooed loving words into the ear of her "own dear John," who lay coughing and strangling in her clutches. As soon as he could regain his breath, he responded as a gallant Englishman should, and the scene went on smoothly, with many a coquettish bit of by-play on Polly's part, and a stern resolve, on the captain's side, to reduce it all to the footing of high tragedy.

"That went well!" said Polly, when they had reached their closing tableau, with John Smith on his knees, kissing the French kid shoe of Pocahontas. "I do hope it will go all right next week, for mamma says we may each invite four people, and I don't want to fail."

"We're going to have it here, after all, are we?" asked Alan.

"Yes. Florence wanted it, but her mother wasn't willing, so we're going to use the library for a stage, and put the people in the parlor. It will hold ever so many, that way. Tuesday night we're going to rehearse it there."

"I wish we could try our parts there, now," said Alan.

"Why not do it?" asked Polly. "We can, just as well as not, for there isn't a soul in the house but ourselves. Come on." And she led the way to the head of the stairs.

"Sure there isn't anybody there?" asked. Alan.

"Nobody, I am certain."

"All right, here goes, then." And followed by Polly, Alan raced down the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs,—

"'Oh, my wife and my dear children! Oh, the deaths they both did die! One got lost, and one got drownded, And one got choked on pumpkin pie!'

Hi-yi-whoop-ee!" he added, with a threatening war-whoop, as he opened the parlor door and dashed in.

There, side by side on the sofa, sat Aunt Jane and Mr. Solomon Baxter, looking up in surprise at the vision which had suddenly burst in upon their quiet conversation.

The children stopped abruptly, just across the threshold, and gazed in speechless horror, first at Aunt Jane and her caller, then at each other. For a moment, no one made any attempt to speak. Alan was the first to recover his senses.

"Good afternoon, Miss Roberts," he said, advancing, hat in hand, with one of his peculiarly bright, attractive smiles. "I hope we haven't disturbed you, but Polly said there wasn't anybody here."

Aunt Jane relaxed nothing of her rigidity, and Mr. Baxter answered for her, in an excited, nervous tone, while he waved his cane on which he had hung his stiff black hat, as if in grotesque imitation of his own long, lean body,—

"What in the world are you children doing, anyway, making such a noise? Polly—that's your name, isn't it?—you look as if you'd just come out of the mad-house."

In her astonishment at finding the parlor occupied, Polly had forgotten all about her remarkable gown, her ruddy countenance, and her towering headgear. Now, at the sudden recollection of it, she blushed until it was visible even under the chalk, and gave a vigorous pull, in the hope of removing her coronet, while she said penitently,—"I truly didn't know you were here, Aunt Jane. We were going to rehearse part of the play, and—"

"That will do, Polly," interrupted Aunt Jane stonily; "you needn't say any more about it. Go and get me a glass of water. Solo—Mr. Baxter, wouldn't you like some, too?"

"Calls him Solo—Mr. Baxter, does she!" remarked Alan, as the door closed behind the culprits. "Depend on it, Poll, there's something up in that quarter."

"I wonder if there is," said Polly. "I'm sorry for him, if it's true. But, Alan, think of our rushing in on them, looking like a pair of heathen, and that song and all! How could we!"



CHAPTER XIV.

POLLY'S DARK DAY.

The next Monday noon, Polly stood on the top of a tall step- ladder, with the hose in her hand, washing off the parlor blinds. It was a warm, clear day, so warm that there was no possible discomfort in her work, and yet Polly was in a state of great disgust over her present employment. If it had been the back blinds, even! But to Polly, it seemed that her position on the ladder, within full view of the street, was extremely undignified, and she had protested vigorously when her mother sent her out.

"It won't take but a few minutes, Polly," Mrs. Adams had said; "and they need it badly. There's no knowing when we shall have another day that is warm enough, so run right out and do it now."

Polly went, for she dared not disobey; but she went with a frowning face, and after she had slammed the door behind her, she further freed her mind by remarking, with incautious emphasis,— "I don't care, I think it's too mean!"

Of course Aunt Jane chanced to be passing along through the hall, just then. She stopped directly in Polly's pathway and said, with deliberate, cutting severity,—

"Think your mamma is mean! Why, Polly Adams, I am surprised at you! I shall feel it my duty to speak to your mother about this."

Then Polly lost all self-control.

"I think you're meaner than she is!" And the outside door hanged even more loudly than the other had done.

By the time she was on the steps, Polly longed to sit down and cry. Her temples were throbbing violently, and her throat felt swollen and aching. There were days when everything seemed to go wrong, she thought desperately; she had gone to school feeling so happy, that morning, but she had torn her gown at recess, and had failed in her history lesson, and now she must go out and wash those hateful old blinds. Well, some day when she was all nicely dead of overwork and too many scoldings, she knew they'd be sorry. Who the they in question were, she did not stop to analyze, but, forcing back the angry tears, she went away in search of the step-ladder. Soon she returned, dragging it after her and bumping it with unnecessary force against all the trees and corners of the house in her way, and, planting it in position, she slowly mounted to the top, hose in hand. She was just balanced up there, when she saw Alan come in through the gate.

"Hullo! What you up to, Poll?" he called.

"I should think you might be able to see for yourself," replied Polly, with dignity.

Alan surveyed her in astonishment, then asked,—

"Can't I help you?"

"No!" snapped Polly shortly.

The boy gave a long, low whistle, the meaning of which was so obvious as to be anything but soothing to Polly's ruffled feelings.

"Got a pain in your temper? Didn't you sleep well last night?" he inquired, with mock sympathy.

Polly vouchsafed no reply.

"Perhaps you lay awake to write another poem," he went on. "How was it, it went: 'The children went chestnutting—'?"

What unlucky chance had implanted in Alan's mind the spirit of teasing, and in Polly's, at the same moment, the spirit of perversity? What ever was the cause, the result was the same; and Polly, in her present mood, could not endure this slighting reference to her poem which she had fondly imagined was a secret between Molly and herself. Her face grew white to the very lips, as she faced the lad below.

"Alan Hapgood!" she exclaimed; "what right have you to say so? If you don't keep still, I'll turn the water on you."

"All right," said the boy composedly, never dreaming how excited she really was; "fire ahead, if 'twill give you any satisfaction. I suppose poets are always rather peppery."

The next instant, the strong, full jet of icy cold water struck him directly in the chest. Polly's aim was accurate, the force of the water great, so a few seconds had drenched the boy from his neck to his shoes. How long it might have lasted was uncertain, but a hasty misstep sent Polly head foremost to the ground, where she lay for an instant, stunned by her fall. Unmindful of his wetting, Alan ran to her side.

"Polly, are you hurt? Where is it?" he exclaimed.

But Polly sprang up fiercely.

"Go away, Alan! You needn't come here again till I send for you." And she ran into the house, and up to the safe refuge of her own room.

Once there, in quiet and alone, she quickly came to her senses and realized, with a horrible fear, all that she had done, all that it might yet do. It was her first serious quarrel with Alan, and for such a little cause she had turned upon her favorite companion. And then, with his rheumatism, what effect would the wetting have on him? Filled with this unbearable anxiety, she submitted to her mother's reproof for her words to Aunt Jane, without making any attempt to excuse herself, and silently left the house, without telling the secret of her last, worst outbreak. Lessons had begun, when she entered the schoolroom, and as she seated herself, she stole a quick glance at Alan's place. It was vacant.

She had no opportunity to see Molly alone, that afternoon, and no mention of Alan was made. After school, she walked quickly home without waiting for the girls, and taking up a book, she sat for an hour, not speaking, not reading a word, but with her eyes fixed on the roof of the Hapgood house, going over and over the scenes of the noon, longing to run to Alan and beg his forgiveness, yet too proud to do so, so soon. How she wanted to tell her mother the whole story, and ask her how to undo the harm she had done! But she dreaded to see her mother's shocked, pained face, so she held her peace. The long hours till bedtime slowly dragged away, and for once Polly went up-stairs without her usual goodnight talk. But, for some reason, sleep would not come to her, even then. Instead of that, she lay with wide-open eyes, staring into the darkness and picturing Alan as she saw him turn away, with the cold water dripping from his clothing. Suddenly she heard the bell ring sharply, violently. Springing out of bed, she stole noiselessly to the head of the stairs to listen, sure that it was a message of bad news. She was not mistaken, for she heard Molly's voice saying hurriedly,—

"Can Dr. Adams come right away? Alan is terribly ill."

Yes, he was ill, and perhaps he was going to die, and she had done it! Polly fled desperately back to bed and, pulling the blankets tightly over her head to smother the sound, she burst out crying as she had never before cried, in her life, crying with shame for herself and sorrow for her boy friend.

As soon as her first outburst was over, she raised herself on her elbow and strained her ears to listen for the sound of her father's return, convinced that he must and would bring good news. It was nothing serious, she reasoned, they were unnecessarily alarmed, for it would be too unjust for Alan to be ill, when she alone had been the one to blame.

It was long that her father was gone. A dozen times Polly had been sure that she heard his steps, but the moments dragged on and on, without bringing him. At length the door opened and he entered. Polly was out of bed in an instant and crouching at the head of the stairs, shivering with cold and fear, while she waited to hear his first words to her mother. She thought he would never get his coat off and go into the parlor. When he did, she heard something that seemed to stop her breath.

"I've only just pulled Alan through, to-night," the doctor was saying to his wife. "When I went in, I thought there wasn't much chance for him; but the worst is over, for the present."

"What was it?" asked his wife anxiously.

"Acute pneumonia, as much as anything," answered the doctor; "but it's mixed up with his rheumatism till he's a poor, forlorn little bundle of aches and pains. They sent for me just in time, too. If they'd waited till morning, we should have lost our Alan."

"What brought it on?" asked Mrs. Adams, and her voice was a little unsteady as she spoke.

"That is the strangest part of it," replied her husband. "He came in this noon, dripping wet, and Mrs. Hapgood hasn't been able to make him tell what had happened."

"Oh, mamma!"

The doctor and his wife both started up, at the sound of the strange, stifled voice. In the door directly behind them stood Polly, barefooted and with her teeth chattering violently, while her face was so swollen with tears as to be almost unrecogizable.

"Polly!"

Mrs. Adams sprang towards her, but Polly waved her off.

"Don't touch me, mamma! Don't kiss me, till you know all about it, what I've done! I'm to blame about Alan."

Without speaking Mrs. Adams caught up the afghan from the sofa and wrapped it closely about her daughter. Then, leading her to the bright wood fire, she sat down before it and took Polly into her lap, as if she had been a little child. The gentleness of her manner, the unspoken sympathy for some trouble which she did not yet know, had started Polly's tears to flowing again, and for a long time she could only cling to her mother and sob, with her head against the soft, warm cheek and a loving arm about her shoulders.

For some moments, the quiet of the room was only broken by the measured ticking of the clock on the mantel and the snapping of the fire on the andirons. At length Mrs. Adams said gently,—

"Now, Polly, tell me all about it."

And Polly told, sparing herself in no way, but giving all the details with a merciless truthfulness, and ending, with a sob,—

"And after all that, mamma, he tried to help me up when I fell, and I drove him off, and now—Oh, what shall I do! Scold me, if you want to; you ought to! I tried to tell you before, but I couldn't."

Mrs. Adams's arms grew tighter about her daughter, while she said gravely, very gravely,—

"Polly, dear, I am much too sorry for you, to scold you."

As she spoke, the doctor rose quietly and left the room, for he felt that what would follow was for mother and daughter alone, and even he had no right to sit by and listen to their words.

"I am sorry for you, dear," her mother went on, after a moment; "not so much for what you are suffering now, as I am because, little by little, you have let your temper get the better of you until to-day, for just this trifle, you have forgotten yourself entirely. The pain you have borne tonight on Alan's account is only a blessing to you, the natural punishment for what you have done, and it will help you to remember this another time, when you are angry. Each one of these fits of temper leaves a scar, Polly, that nothing can ever entirely heal; and I want no such scars on my Polly's womanhood, which must be above reproach. You are very dear to me, my daughter, and my whole life is bound up in my hopes for your future."

"Oh, how can I remember!" sobbed Polly. "It is all over, so in a minute, and then I just hate myself, but it doesn't do the least bit of good."

"It can't be done in a day, Polly; it will take years and years; perhaps it may be the work of a whole lifetime. But if, by watching yourself and struggling to keep back the quick words that come to you, after long years you could cure this temper, wouldn't the 'well done' be yours just as truly as if, for instance, you went on some mission abroad? It is often far more to rule yourself, than it is to spend your life working among the poor and wicked, and takes more courage and selfdenial. That may be the work which is laid out for my little daughter, and I pray that she may do it bravely and well, so that in time I may be as proud and happy in my Polly as I now am fond of her."

As her mother spoke, she rested her face against Polly's curls, and one bright tear sparkled among the soft little rings. Then she resumed,—

"And now, about Alan. I shall not scold you, Polly, for your punishment has come, as it always does, and is hard enough to bear, without my adding a word. But the danger was great, and you have only just escaped the most terrible sorrow that can ever come to any human being. Still, Alan is very ill, and may be for a long, long time to come. Anything that you can do, to make up to him for this, must be at once your duty and your pleasure, and I know that you will feel it to be so."

The talk lasted for a long time, until the fire burned out into cold, white ashes, and Polly shivered in her mother's arms. When she went up-stairs again, Mrs. Adams went with her, and always after the last quiet words in the dark, silent room, Polly felt a new reverence for her mother which never left her in the future years.

Polly went down-stairs to breakfast, the next morning, filled with gloomy forebodings, for she feared Aunt Jane's sharp glances and sharper words. But the doctor had had a plain, decided talk with Miss Roberts, the evening before, and had forbidden her to allude to Polly's trouble, so for once Aunt Jane held her peace. Soon after they left the table, Polly appeared before her mother, with her coat and cap on.

"I'm going, mamma!"

"Where?" inquired Mrs. Adams, in some surprise.

"To Mrs. Hapgood's," answered Polly, nerving herself to speak steadily. "I think I ought to tell her what I did to Alan, for he's keeping it a secret to save me, and she ought to know. Besides, I must hear how he is."

Mrs. Adams made no attempt to dissuade her, and Polly went down the street, walking more and more slowly as she neared the house, for she felt her courage fast leaving her. At the gate she paused to glance up at the window of Alan's room. The shades were drawn down, and no familiar boy face appeared there, to give her a welcome. How she dreaded to go in! The cold, raw wind swept past her, as she stood there, and it seemed to Polly that the day was strangely in harmony with her life, just then, for the warm, bright air of the morning before had given place to dull, heavy clouds which lay in long, low banners along the mountain side. As she looked up at the window above, she felt a strong, unreasoning desire to turn again and run away towards home; but just then the side door below opened softly, and Mrs. Hapgood stepped out on the piazza.

"Come in, my dear," she said. "I have good news for you; Alan had a fairly comfortable night, and now he is asleep."

"Oh, Mrs. Hapgood!" And Polly told her the story in an excited, breathless fashion, with the same unhesitating truth she had shown in talking to her mother.

If Mrs. Adams had been kind, so was Mrs. Hapgood, as well. She spoke no word of blame, but gathered the forlorn little figure into her arms, and soothed and comforted the child with assurances of her forgiveness and Alan's, too.

"Now, Polly," she said, as she rose, "I must go back up-stairs to my boy again. And if I were in your place, I would let this matter rest a secret between ourselves, your parents and Alan. I promise you that Molly and the other girls shall never know. But I am glad that you felt you could come and tell me about it. We will hope we can have Alan down-stairs before many days, and then you must run in to see him."

Two days later, a note came for Polly, just as she was starting for school.

"Alan wants to see you," it said; "come in for a few minutes."

Polly needed no second bidding, but hurried away, glad at the thought of seeing her friend once more. Mrs. Hapgood saw her coming and met her at the door, to lead her up-stairs to Alan's room. The boy was propped up with pillows, and his face looked rather white and worn, but it lighted as Polly entered, and he stretched out his hand to her eagerly.

"Hullo, Poll!" he exclaimed. "I'm no end glad to see you."

Mrs. Hapgood had left them alone together, but Polly did not stop to notice that, as she darted impulsively to the bed, saying,—

"Oh, Alan!"

Alan understood, but, being a boy, he only squeezed her hand between his, as he said lightly,—

"Bother all that stuff, Polly! Molly was mean to tell, and I was meaner to laugh at you, so I deserved to have my face washed. I sent for you because I knew you'd hear I was sick and worry about it. I didn't mean anybody to know, though."

When Mrs. Hapgood came back again, after a few moments, she found Polly sitting beside the bed, with a happier face than she had worn since the memorable Monday noon, while Alan looked as blissful as she; and when Polly took her departure, a little later, the boy called after her,—

"Come again as soon as you can, Poll. You're a jolly little nurse, and I like to have you round."



CHAPTER XV.

THE PLAY.

It was the last week in March, and the time had finally come for giving the long-discussed play, which had been delayed for some weeks on account of Alan's illness. After the first acute attack had passed, there followed, as a result of his drenching, a slow, tedious form of rheumatism which kept him shut up in the house, where he was forced to amuse himself as best he might. His sister and cousins did what they could to make the time pass quickly and pleasantly; but between school and their cooking club and their frequent calls on Bridget, they had little time for the boy except during the evenings, and he was mainly left to the society of his mother. This had been the state of affairs for more than a week, and Alan was becoming somewhat restless. He was not a saint, but only one of the next best things, a bright, lovable boy; and having rather exhausted his resources of reading, playing solitaire, and talking to his mother, the evening usually found him decidedly cross after his dull day, and he only half responded to the girls' attempts to be entertaining.

"I don't see what's come over Alan," said Molly, one afternoon, as the girls were walking home from school together. "Pie's always been so jolly, and now he's cross as can be. He doesn't act as if he wanted to have anything to say to us, and goes off to bed as soon as he can, after supper. I told him last night I thought he'd better be ashamed of himself."

As Molly spoke, they were just passing the Hapgood house. Polly glanced up at Alan's window, in the wing, to see the back of a yellow head, inside the glass. Molly followed the direction of her eyes, and said, by way of explanation,—

"Alan's not down-stairs to-day. He said he didn't feel like it."

"He isn't?"

Polly paused irresolutely at the gate, then turned in.

"What are you going to do, Polly?" asked Florence.

"I'm going up to see Alan," responded Polly.

"But I thought we were all going down to see Bridget."

"Bother Bridget!" returned Polly, with some energy. "The rest of you can go all the time, if you want to; but it's my impression that charity begins at home. Here we've all of us had that everlasting old Bridget on the brain, and let Alan get along as best he can."

"But Alan has mamma, and Bridget hasn't anybody but us," said Molly, in a virtuous tone of self-denial.

"I don't care if she hasn't," retorted Polly vehemently; "she has five of you to coddle her, and you just go there because you like the fun and think it sounds goody. There are enough of you without me, and one of you can take my afternoon, till Alan gets better."

"That's just like Polly," said Molly teasingly. "She always has liked boys better than girls."

Polly's face flushed.

"You know that's not so, Molly! I've done my fair share with Bridget, but now I think it isn't just right to go chasing off after her when we're leaving Alan all alone. If you knew—" Polly checked herself abruptly, then added more quietly, "I'll tell you what, girls, it isn't like Alan to be cross, and if he is, there's some good reason for it, so I think it's our place to find out what's the matter." And turning away, she went into the house, leaving her companions to go on to the hospital discussing, as they walked along, "Polly's last freak."

She stopped a moment to speak to Mrs, Hapgood, then ran directly up-stairs and looked in at the partly open door. Alan was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, with his book dropped, face downward, on his knee, and his hands clasped at the back of his head. Too much absorbed in his thoughts to notice her light step, his face was turned away from the door, and he was scowling moodily at a distant corner of the ceiling.

"May I come in, or are you making up a poem and don't want to be disturbed?" inquired Polly gaily, pushing the door wide open.

The boy started up with quick enthusiasm.

"Poll! How jolly of you to come in to see a fellow!"

"Then I'm not in the way?" she asked, as she pulled off her coat.

"What an idea! I was desperately lonesome, and somehow you always seem to fit in better than the others. Molly teases, and Jessie tires me. Katharine is better, only she's a little given to gushing, and boys don't like that sort of thing, you know," returned Alan frankly.

"I'm very glad if I suit you," said Polly, devoutly hoping she could succeed in avoiding the sin of teasing on the one hand, and of sentimentality on the other.

"Well, you do," replied Alan, with a heartiness which he did not often show, for he was not much given to direct praise. "You're first-rate company, Poll, and I'd been hoping you'd get time to run in, for it's stupid in the house. I knew you would, when you got round to it."

"Oh, Alan, you just make me ashamed!" said Polly contritely. "I ought to have been here before, and 'specially when I was the one to blame for all this, too."

"No use crying over spilt milk," answered Alan candidly. "I did think you'd come before this; but you're here now, and so it's all right. I've grown meek and am glad of small favors," he added, with a merry, sidelong glance from his gray eyes.

After that, not a day passed without a call from Polly. Now that her conscience was awakened, she realized that she had rather neglected her friend, and did all that lay in her power to make amends for her past forgetfulness. Her mother encouraged her visits, for she had learned from Mrs. Hapgood that they were a benefit to Alan and a help to herself, so Polly dropped in at her will, morning, noon, or night, and never failed to find a hearty welcome. The other girls laughed a little at her devotion, but it had no effect, so they went on their way, giving the boy the odds and ends of their time, while Polly and Alan spent long, cosy hours together, reading or playing games, with a perfect enjoyment of each other's society which left them no opportunity to miss their absent friends. Damon and Pythias, the girls called them, and never were two friends more closely united, with a simple, true affection, which, however, had no trace of the consciousness that one was a boy, the other a girl. Two boys could not have been more free from sentimentality, two girls were never farther from any suggestion of budding flirtation. They were just well-tried friends of long standing; and when, after four weeks, Alan went back into school again, his loyalty to Polly was, if possible, increased by the knowledge of the good times she had given up for his sake.

Aside from Alan's illness, the past weeks had brought to light another cause for excitement. Aunt Jane was about to become the second Mrs. Solomon Baxter. How, when, or where the fateful words were spoken was never known. What powerful arguments Mr. Baxter had brought to bear upon her, to overcome her aversion, to domestic life, was never revealed. However, a week after Miss Roberts had, in the presence of the children, addressed her guest as "Solo—Mr. Baxter," she had taken her sister into her confidence, and long before Alan was in school again, the matter was publicly announced by Mr. Baxter's escorting her to church, one Sunday morning, and marching up the aisle by her side, in full view of the assembled congregation.

This was the reason that, on the night of the play, Miss Roberts and Mr. Baxter occupied two armchairs placed side by side in the very front row of spectators, and that the captain's opening speech was interrupted by a little giggle, as his eyes fell on the faces before him.

The curtain, rose on a "glade in the forest primaeval," as was announced by the dozen playbills which did duty for the audience. Evergreen boughs, a few potted plants, and a dingy, greenish carpet were supposed to transform the stage into the glade in question; but the audience had little time to study the scenery, for the prompt entrance of the captain and a chosen companion called up a hearty burst of applause. The over-critical might have objected that English sailors do not, as a rule, have braids of brown hair escaping from their hats, and that the brave captain and explorer walked with some difficulty; but the speech and action of the sailor were spirited, and the captain's halting step was doubtless owing to temporary fatigue. Moreover, one glance at the boyish face under the great cocked hat was enough to make the most carping critic forget all other defects while, in strangely modern idioms and with a lofty disregard for dates, the old-time hero reminded his comrade of their long and perilous voyage over the sea, of the great wilderness which lay before them, and of the glory of reclaiming that wilderness to the civilization of the Virgin Queen. The sailor resisted his eloquence and refused to proceed, uttering mutinous threats. against his leader's life. But even in this crisis, the captain's presence of mind did not fail him, and, seeing that his persuasions and commands were of no avail, he promptly bound the sailor, hand and foot, and was preparing to carry him forward on his shoulders, when a fierce war-whopp was heard, and three ferocious savages rushed in upon them, just as the curtain fell.

The second scene, was regarded by the actors as being their most elaborate attempt. The room was darkened, and at the back of the stage, three or four dusky braves were crouched about their camp fire which, for the moment, had taken the form of an oil stove; while in the foreground lay Alan and Jessie, bound and motionless, awaiting the death which seemed inevitable. Jean had expended all her energies on this scene, and the warriors smoked the peace- pipe, inspected their medicines, and danced a war-dance with befitting solemnity, while the captain writhed uneasily, not so much with mental anguish as on account of the rheumatic twinges which his cramped position had set to running up and down his legs and back. Then, with a close fidelity to the old histories, an imposing throne was brought in, and Jean, as Powhatan, mounted the insecure structure; two stones were rolled into place at her feet, the captives' heads were arranged on these comfortless pillows, and a brave, ball-club in hand, took his place beside each. The sailor proved himself a coward, but the captain was bold to the last, and alternately defied the king and encouraged his weaker companion, who was whimpering by his side. Then, in one long speech which, absurdly out of keeping with the surroundings as it was, yet had the ring of true pathos, the captain bade farewell to home, wife, and children, and welcomed death in the name and for the honor of queen and country. Even Aunt Jane's face grew a little gentler as the boy voice went on to the close, and there was a momentary hush, followed by a hearty burst of applause, while Mrs. Adams, at the side, held Polly back, that her too hasty entrance should not mar the scene. Then Pocahontas dashed wildly in and, regardless of consequences, cast herself down on the captain's prostrate body with a force that elicited a sudden "Ow!" from the hero who had just dared to defy a savage king. But his anguish was quickly repressed, and the scene went finely to its close, when the fair Pocahontas herself loosed his fetters, raised him to his feet, and once more threw herself into his arms, while Powhatan embraced them both, with many paternal remarks uttered in the choicest Indian gutterals. While the stage was being arranged for the next scene, John and his Pocahontas were called before the curtain to receive the applause they had fully earned.

In the next two scenes, Jean had departed widely from the traditional story. In the former one, the captain took the stage alone and told over the story of his past life, dwelling with especial emphasis on his charming wife and thirteen beautiful children at home in mother England. His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of a messenger from a ship just landed, and, after a little political discussion, the messenger incidentally told him of a cyclone which had blown down his house and destroyed his entire family. The agony of the captain was tragic to behold, and moved Mr. Baxter to wipe his eyes sympathetically, and then cast a furtive glance at Aunt Jane who was apparently unmoved by this strange similarity of fate. Perhaps she was reserving her sympathy for Pocahontas. However, the captain's grief spent itself, and he finally recovered himself with the novel consolation that "thirteen always was an unlucky number." Then, dismissing the messenger, he proceeded to walk up and down his cabin and take counsel with his heart, how best to comfort himself in the future. After suggesting many a plan and rejecting it as soon as suggested, he resolved to set off immediately to Powhatan and ask for the fair hand of Pocahontas. As the curtain fell on this third scene, no one applauded more enthusiastically than Mr. Baxter.

The next scene opened with the preparations for the marriage of Pocahontas to the young planter, John Rolfe, which were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the captain, who bent on one knee before Powhatan, to ask his daughter's hand. Powhatan consented joyfully, and when Rolfe quite naturally objected, the captain proposed a duel, and killed his rival, under the very eyes of Pocahontas, who smiled rapturously as she watched the expiring agonies of her former lover. Then, turning to the captain, she said confidingly,—

"And now, dear John, everything is all prepared, so what if we get married at once?"

Accordingly, the marriage was at once solemnized, with the warriors as witnesses, while Powhatan descended from the throne to give the bride away, and Rolfe opportunely came back to life in time to serve as the clergyman who performed the ceremony.

There was a long delay between the marriage and the closing scene of the play; and while the audience discussed the past scenes, there went on a great commotion behind the curtain, sounds of murmuring and of moving furniture, mingled with excited whispers,—

"Where is my crown?"

"Do somebody see if my train is all right!"

"Where is my sword?"

"Hush! Hush!"

All this was enough to rouse the expectations of the audience, but even they were not prepared for the blaze of glory which met their eyes as the curtain rose on the court of England. Katharine and Florence sat on the throne, as pretty and dainty a royal couple as could be imagined. The play-bills had announced it as the court of Queen Elizabeth, and Florence looked the queen to perfection, in her trailing white silk gown, and with her mother's diamonds blazing in her golden hair; but opinions varied as to the identity of the haughty king by her side, for no one present was aware that Elizabeth's kingdom had any such lordly appendage. Still, it was all very picturesque and, as Polly had said, a great deal could be attributed to poetical license, so nobody complained, if the throne was a little overcrowded. Back of the queen were grouped three maids of honor, elaborately and richly dressed in gowns that rivalled the rainbow in variety and brilliancy of color; while at the king's left, as a fitting symbol of the British Lion, crouched old Leo, the Langs's great Saint Bernard. After a long pause to allow the audience to study this gorgeous scene, Pocahontas and her captain swept in and knelt at the foot of the throne. The queen bowed gracefully, in recognition of their homage, and bade them rise. Then, addressing the Lion and the maids, she called them "the free men of England" and, bidding them recall the captain's services to her realm, she announced her determination to knight him on the spot. The captain and his bride knelt again, while the queen not only gave him the royal accolade and dubbed him Sir John, but went on to extend the ceremony to his devoted wife, and saluted her as "My Lady Pocahontas, the fairest savage in all London town." Then the royal pair stepped down from the throne and, joining hands with My Lord, My Lady, and the maids, and escorted by the British Lion who amiably wagged his tail in token of approval, they advanced and bowed low to the audience as the curtain fell on the play. The applause was enthusiastic and prolonged, and the actors were rejoicing in their success when, as the clapping of hands died away, Aunt Jane's voice was heard, solemnly remarking,—

"Well, I do hope those children realize that all this story about Pocahontas has been proved to be entirely without foundation. It seems to me a great waste of time to get up a play that hasn't a word of truth in it."

"Isn't that just like Aunt Jane!" whispered Pocahontas in disgust. "I wonder if she'd have liked it any better, if we'd acted out all about her and her Mr. Baxter."

A few moments later, the actors appeared, all in costume, to bring small trays laden with good things for the refreshment of their guests, and to receive congratulations on their play. Then they gathered in the dining-room to have their share of the goodies and discuss the evening, feeling that the best part of the whole was the merry time of talking it over afterwards.

"Oh," groaned Alan, taking off his hat as he helped himself to a macaroon; "I didn't much think I should ever breathe again, to say nothing of eating, after Pocahontas came down on me. Polly, I do wish you'd go and get weighed, in the morning." "There's one favor I'd like to ask," said Jessie. "If we ever play it over again, I wish that when you get ready to kill us, you'd put us inside the curtain. You were so eager about untying Alan that you forgot all about me, and when the curtain came down, I was half inside it and half outside, so that Mrs. Adams had to come and pull me back, before I could get up."

"If we ever play it again!" echoed Jean. "But you never will, with my consent. I thought 'twas splendid, while I was writing it; when we were rehearsing it, I thought 'twas pretty good; but while we were playing it to-night before all those people, I thought it was simply dreadful, and I was ashamed of myself for ever trying to write such trash."

"If you don't like it, you can write us another," said Jessie; "but, for my part, this is good enough for me."

"Are you through eating, children?" asked Mrs. Adams, putting her head in at the door. "Mrs. Hapgood wants you all to sing something, just to finish up the evening."

It was an unexpected request, and for a moment, the actors demurred, then held a hasty consultation. A few minutes later, they appeared in Indian file, John Smith and his sailor leading the way, and the rest following in their Indian costumes. Katharine sat down at the piano and played a few solemn, slow chords, then the others took up the chorus, the words of which they had adapted for the occasion:

"John Smith had a little Injun, One little Injun girl."



CHAPTER XVI.

JOB GOES TO A FUNERAL.

"Do you know what a first-rate substitute for roast oysters these are?" asked Alan, twirling the great metal spider with purplish back and spiral wire legs that hung from the gas fixture.

"No, nor you either, Alan," said Jessie. "They do, now honestly. If you heat them up real hot, they smell just like roast oysters. I knew a family once, that always kept one on hand, and when provisions ran low, they'd set it to frying, and all sit round and smell of it. It was 'most as good as eating them," persisted the boy soberly.

"Alan Hapgood," said his sister, "if you tell any more such taradiddles, I'll send you home."

"But what if I don't choose to go?" returned Alan. "Mrs. Adams asked me here to spend the afternoon, and you wouldn't any of you have known what was going on, if it hadn't been for me."

"You shall stay and tell all the stories you like, Alan," said Polly, coming to his defence as usual. "And if Molly doesn't like it, she shall go home, her own self."

"Come, Alan," urged Florence; "tell us another story, a real long one, to help pass the time."

"Hm! Let's see," mused Alan. "I don't know as I know any. I'll tell you, I read one a while ago that I liked pretty well, and if I get hard up, I can put in some of that. How'll that do?"

"Beautifully," said Polly, with enthusiasm. "You do tell such splendid stories, Alan."

The group in Mrs. Adams's parlor had gathered there for a strange purpose, that day. An old negro, well-known throughout the town, had died, two days before, and Alan had discovered, only that noon, that the man was to be buried with military honors. The line of march to the cemetery lay past the Adams house, so Mrs. Adams had asked them all to come there, to watch the solemn pageant. It was a cold, gray April day, threatening rain at any moment. As the girls and Alan reached the gate, they had paused, for a minute, to watch the fast-gathering crowd as it hurried away up the street to the old brown house, just visible in the distance, whose end, jutting out on the street, was surrounded with the members of the company, who had assembled to pay the last honors to their sleeping comrade. Under the dull, leaden sky, and in the shade of the arching elms, the old house and the road and the gray-coated men looked to the children as if the heavy shadow which rested over the silent room within had extended over them all, and was enveloping them in its sombre gloom. Though only a moment before, they had been laughing and talking in mere curious interest, they grew suddenly quiet, as they realized that the swift, mysterious summons had come to old Pete, whom they had known so well.

"And they say," said Alan, as Polly joined them at the gate, and they lingered there, "that Pete's little dog won't leave the room one minute, but just lies there and watches him. They tried to get him away, for the funeral, but he snarled at them so they had to let him be."

Katharine's face softened.

"That's a friend worth having," said she thoughtfully. "Some people say 'only a dog,' but if he is faithful to his master, even after death has come, what more can he do?"

"Oh, dear me; there's Job!" exclaimed Polly suddenly, as the old creature stalked into sight. "How did he get out?"

"I wonder if we could get him in," said Alan.

"It's no use; he'd only kick you," returned Polly. "We may as well come into the house, and let him alone; then perhaps he'll go in. He's awfully obstinate, you know."

"I think I've noticed something of the kind," said Jessie, as they ran up the steps, and left Job to the quiet workings of his conscience.

By the time they were gathered in the parlor windows, their momentary quiet was over, and they were talking as gaily as ever while they gazed up the street, watching for the first signs of the procession. But the funeral services were long, and the girls' patience was rapidly becoming exhausted when Florence had suggested Alan's telling them a story, to while away the time of waiting. The girls arranged themselves before the two long front windows, to look and listen at the same time, Katharine, Florence, and Jean at one, Molly and Jessie at the other, with Alan and Polly on the floor at their feet, and the lad began his tale.

"Once upon a time, about sixty-seven years and nine months ago, there was a young man in England that was rich and handsome and brave and good, and his name was—Oh, give us a name for him, Poll."

"Mortimer Vincent Augustin Thome," responded Polly promptly. "I think that's a lovely name."

"Too long," objected Alan. "Something shorter, not but one."

"Malcolm, then; will that suit?" asked Florence, from the other side of the room.

"Yes, that's good. Well, his name was Malcolm, and he fell in love with a girl named—"

"Gertrude," suggested Jean, without waiting to be asked.

"No, Margaret," said Polly. "That's ever so much better."

"All right, call her Margaret," said Alan; "but if you girls don't keep still, I never can tell you any story. Malcolm loved Margaret and wanted her to be his bride, but she was kept a captive in a tower, by a wicked uncle who had gone on a crusade to the Holy Land."

"But they didn't go on crusades sixty-seven years ago," said Jean, whose strong point was history.

"Will you keep still, Jean?" said Polly. "This isn't a true story, and he has as good a right to poetical license as you had in the play."

"The Holy Land," resumed Alan, not noticing the interruption; "and he had taken the keys to the tower in his pocket, so Malcolm didn't really know just what to do. At last, after he had tried all sorts of things, he took his banjo and went under the tower window and sang a little song that Margaret had made up, when they were children together." Here Alan paused to smile meaningly at Polly, before he went on. "It was a very sweet song, and his voice was loud enough so Margaret heard him and opened a window to peek out. She knew him as soon as she saw him, and she wrote a letter and tied it to a string and let it down to him. He read it and wrote an answer, and was just getting ready to send it up, the same way, when a great, fierce ruffian with a bloodhound pounced on him, and threw him into the very darkest dungeon in the cellar of the tower. He was pretty much scared, for he was all in the dark, and he was without any food or anything to drink, and he only had his banjo to comfort him. But he was so glad it wasn't Margaret that was there, that he didn't much mind anything else. But that wasn't the worst of it. His prison walls kept growing smaller and smaller, till by and by it began to get so tight that it hurt him. It didn't stop, even then, but it grew so small that his bones began to break, till finally he found that he only had one whole one left. That stirred him up, and he said to himself, 'If I don't find a way out, I shall be a dead man!' So he pounded on the walls, to see what they were made of, and found they were iron; but he knew the floor was earth, so he began to dig as fast as he could, and he used his banjo for a scoop, to carry off the earth in."

"Where'd he carry it to?" inquired Jessie. "I thought he didn't have any room to move round."

"He didn't, very much," said Alan; "but he made the most of every little corner, and before long he had dug down far enough to come to just the jolliest little secret passage you ever saw. He slipped down into it, and followed it along and along ever so far, till at last he came up to the light again, outside the walls of the tower. He swung his hat in the air and shouted, 'Three cheers for Queen Victoria!' and then he ran round under Margaret's window and took his banjo and sang the song once more, to let her know he was alive. Then, without wasting any more time, he ran off through the forest. But when he came to the top of the very first hill, he looked back and saw Margaret leaning out of the window, waving a pale blue flag with the word courage on it, in gilt letters."

"Where did she get such a thing?" asked Jean.

"Oh, she'd been making it, while he was in the dungeon," answered Alan. "So he went away to the Holy Land, to look for the wicked uncle. He walked every step of the way, and swam rivers and climbed up mountains and slid down on avalanches on the other side, and at last he came to Jerusalem. He found the uncle just leading four regiments against the city gates, mounted on a splendid white horse. And he looked down and smiled scornfully and said, 'What ho, Malcolm! You here?' That made Malcolm very mad, so he pulled the uncle off his horse and hit him, thump! with his banjo, and killed him. Then he looked in his pockets and found ever so much money; but, hard up as he was, for he'd had his pockets picked on the way, he didn't take the money, for he wanted something else. It was found at last, a little gold key hung round his neck on a silver chain; so Malcolm took the key and went home, riding the uncle's horse, and let out Margaret, and they lived happy and died happy, and she was heir to all the tower and the servants. But the first thing she did was to block the walls of the dungeon, so they couldn't move any more."

"Oh, Alan, Alan! Where did you get such a story?" said Katharine, laughing until the tears came.

"Get it? Made it up, of course," returned the boy, with evident pride in his tale.

"It must be splendid to be able to make up such stories!" sighed Polly enviously. "I'd give almost anything if I could do it."

"I should hope if you tried, yours would hang together a little better," said Molly who, in virtue of her relationship, felt privileged to be as critical as she chose. "It's a mystery to me how he could move round to dig up the floor when all his bones were broken, and I never heard that you could use a banjo for a shovel and then play on it, or hit a man hard enough to kill him, and not break it.'

"I don't care for all that," said Polly enthusiastically. "Anybody could tell a story and get rid of those things. What I like is the things he did, he was so brave and so true, and then his not touching any of the uncle's money was the best part of it all, when he needed it so much."

"But he stole the uncle's horse," objected Jean.

"He didn't steal it, he only took it home. And speaking of horses, I wonder what's become of Job." And Polly leaned forward to peer out of the window.

"There he is, over in the next lot," said Jessie.

Dr. Adams's house stood far back from the street, and next to it was a deep, vacant lot at the very rear of which Job was aimlessly wandering about, pausing now and then to nip at the tender green blades that were pushing their way up through the brown, dead turf.

"What ever sent him in there!" said Polly. "I don't see how we can get him home."

"Let him alone long enough, and he'll come," predicted Molly. "It's no use to chase him round and round, and if you drive him out into the street, he'll run away."

"I wish he would," said Polly explosively, "and never come back again! He's more trouble than he's worth, and he knows more than all the rest of us put together."

"Give him to Aunt Jane for a wedding present," Alan proposed.

"She'd think 'twas signing her death warrant," answered Polly, laughing. "You know he did duty at the funeral of Mrs. Baxter the first."

"Oh dear, it seems as if they never would come!" sighed Jessie impatiently. "What does keep them so long?"

"Do somebody tell another story," said Florence. "Can't you, Katharine?"

"I should never dare, after Alan's wonderful success," replied Katharine lightly, as she took out the daffodil she had been wearing in her buttonhole and tossed it over to her cousin. Then she added soberly, "It isn't any story at all, but I believe, while we wait, I'll tell you about the saddest funeral I ever saw in my life."

"Go on, Kit; you have the floor," said Alan encouragingly.

"It isn't much to tell, but you've no idea how pitiful it was to see," the girl went on thoughtfully. "Just a year ago this spring, papa had to go West on business, and he took me with him. We had to stay two or three days in a little bit of a town up in the Rocky Mountains, and while we were there, a young woman died. She had only been married a month, and had just come out from New England, to live in the cunning little new house that her husband had built. It was a winter of very deep snow, even for that region, and when it melted, it grew soft all the way down through, before it seemed to go away, any at all. The cemetery was away from the town, up on the side of the mountain, just the loneliest, most desolate place you can imagine; and it seemed so sad to take her away and leave her there all alone. It was a long, long procession, and papa and I stood at the window to watch it, as it went through the town, and on out into the open country, where no road had been broken. Then, for a mile or two, the long black line crawled along over the snow, while the horses floundered about, half buried in the drifts, and the hearse tipped this way and that, as first one wheel would sink down out of sight, and then another. At last it wound around the foot of the hill, and we couldn't see it any more; but I kept feeling so sorry for the poor little wife and for the lonely husband in his new house."

Katharine paused, but there was no word spoken, so she went on,—

"A month later we spent Sunday there, on our way home. The snow had all melted and, in the afternoon, I teased papa to walk up to the cemetery with me. We remembered the name, so we could find the grave easily enough. It was perfectly bare, without any grass on it, but at the head was a rough little cross made of two boards nailed together, with her name painted on it, in black letters that were a little unsteady, as if somebody's hand shook when he was making them; and at the foot of the cross lay one tiny bunch of white immortelles, to show that she wasn't quite forgotten. But when we turned to look at the view, it didn't seem sad, any more. The little, low, dingy town lay below us, as if she had risen above it, and all around us, the great, soft, kind mountains stood up in the sun to guard her and watch over her, in her sleep. The shabby cross and the little posy and the magnificent brown mountains were all so much more kind and loving than our piles of marble and fussy flowers arranged for show, that when I came down the hill, I didn't feel sorry for her, any longer."

The hush that followed Katharine's simple story was unbroken for some moments. Then Polly sprang up excitedly,—

"The drums! Don't you hear them?" And she rushed away to call her mother.

The procession was moving, at last, and the distant roll of muffled drums could be plainly heard by the girls, as they pressed closely to the window. Touched, as they had been, by the account of that far-away funeral among the mountains, they were in just the mood to be impressed by the scene which was passing before them. And, in truth, any one who stood looking on, that day, must have felt the impressiveness of the long line as it slowly filed down the broad street under the graceful arches of the tall old elms, in the cold light of the cloudy afternoon. First came the drum corps, with wailing fife and muffled drum; next appeared the gray uniforms of the company who marched two by two, with bowed heads and reversed arms, to escort the hearse in their midst. Directly behind the hearse trotted a small, yellow figure, at sight of whom Alan stealthily drew his hand across his eyes. It was Pete's faithful friend, the little Scotch terrier, who was following his master to his last resting-place, with a sturdy determination not to leave his good old master with whom he had spent such a happy little life. Then followed the line of carriages and the straggling groups on foot; but the girls paid little heed to them, for Polly said, in a sudden whisper,—"Just look at Job!"

For a long time the old horse had been quietly grazing, without so much as raising his head to take breath and look about him, so greedy was he for the first tender grass-blades of the spring. Suddenly he heard the roll of the drums and threw up his head to listen, with eager ears and dilating eyes, as if the sound recalled to him some vague memory of his far-off youth. So proud and spirited he looked as he stood there, that it was evident that, in fancy, he was living over his former days, perhaps listening to the triumphant strains of music which heralded the close of the rebellion. As the sound came nearer, and yet nearer, he appeared to be under its spell and slowly moved down towards the street, arching his glossy neck and stepping high, in perfect time to the music. Fifty feet from the fence, he stopped and gazed at the scene before him, still spellbound by the martial sounds and the memories they called up in his mind, while the group in the Adams's windows watched him intently, amazed at the life and fire in the old creature's pose and manner. Still Job stood watching the soldiers, listening to the band until it had moved onward, past the spot where he was. Then his eyes fell on the hearse, and he took one eager step forward. Surely that was a familiar sight! The carriages came next, and by that time there was no hesitancy in his mind; for at length he recognized all the solemn import of the procession. It was a funeral, and in funerals Job had often borne a conspicuous part. The band was doubtless his call to duty; and should any one say that he had failed, even in his old age, to respond to this call? He took another step forward, paused again, for only one instant; then, just as the last carriage passed the gate, he swung his aged tail round and round, in two rapturous, joyful whisks, and with tossing head and flying mane, he trotted rapidly out into the street, overtook the procession and, dropping into a decorous walk just as his nose touched the back of the rear carriage, he marched solemnly off down the street, with patient resignation and unending sadness depicted in every line of his old brown body.

Inside the parlor the girls, without a thought of their past interest in Pete's funeral, turned and gazed at each other in silence for a moment, then sank to the floor, in uncontrollable, though noiseless laughter.



CHAPTER XVII

MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED.

Still another month had passed and it was late in May when, one bright Saturday morning, Jessie, Polly, and Alan drove away through the town and out over the western hills. Cob was as full of life and spirits as they were, and they went gaily onward with no particular destination in view, but only intent on enjoying the soft, warm air and the abundance of spring life all about them. Birds in every tree, green leaves and bright blossoms on every hand, and over them all the clear, yellow sunlight, these were enough for the happy young people in the carriage.

"Dear me!" sighed Polly. "When we begin to have days like this, it does seem as if vacation never, never would come. I can't bear to stay in school and work over books in such weather. I'd much rather stay outside and watch things grow."

"Let's cut school for the rest of the term, Polly," suggested Alan, "and take Job and drive off out of the world somewhere, and not come back till winter."

"Thank you, no. I'll take Cob, if Jessie is willing, for we couldn't get outside of the town with Job, if we had any idea of getting back by Christmas," rejoined Polly, laughing.

"Take Cob and welcome, if I can go with you," said Jessie. "Seems to me I never felt so before, but I don't want to stay in school any more than Polly does. Perhaps it's because your springs are pleasanter than ours."

"I shouldn't wonder if they were," said Polly reflectively, as regardless of freckles, she took off her hat and let the sun strike full upon her ruddy curls. "Isn't this perfect?" she added, with a sigh of content. "I do believe everything is nicer in Massachusetts than it is anywhere else. I'm glad I happened to be born in the Bay State."

Jessie laughed outright at the fervor of her tone. Then she said, as she drew Cob down to a slow walk, to enjoy a bit of road that lay under a group of tall pines,—

"After all, I shall be sorry to have vacation come, for as soon as this term is over, we shall have to go home, and I don't want to, one bit."

"Sorry to leave me, aren't you, Cousin Jessie?" asked Alan, with, mock sentiment.

"Don't flatter yourself, young man," said Polly, in parenthesis, as Jessie went on. seriously,—

"Why, yes, I suppose I shall miss you, Alan; but it's the girls that I care most for. We've had such good times doing things together, and next year I shall be forlorn enough, for Kit will come out, and I shall be left all to myself."

"Come back here," suggested Alan quite hospitably, considering the frank way in which Jessie had spoken of her slight regret at leaving him.

"Without Kit? Never!" replied Jessie earnestly. "I'd rather be with her and have only a dozen words a day from her, than have to be separated from her. I've always been fond of her, but it seems to me she was never half so lovely as she's been this last year."

Polly stepped on Alan's toe, under cover of the robe, and was met by an answering flash from the gray eyes, but neither spoke, as Jessie continued,—"You do so many more things here, and have so much better times, you girls, that Kit and I both wish papa and mamma would come back here to live. Omaha is pleasant enough, and the river is lovely,—when it isn't muddy; but I shall miss these hills and the elms and the lazy look of the old town. I like old things best. And what do you suppose I shall miss, most of all?"

"Job" and "Aunt Jane," suggested Alan and Polly, in a breath.

"You're too bad to laugh at me." And Jessie tried to pout, but it was too hard work, so she gave up the attempt and laughed instead. "No, it's the garret at your house, Alan, with all the old spinning wheels and warming pans. Some day, when I get my cats, I'll come back here to live, see if I don't." And Jessie nodded with decision as she started up Cob once more.

"Oh, dear! Next year doesn't mean much fun for me," groaned Polly. "I shall have to begin Latin and Greek and all sorts of dreadful things, so as to get ready for college."

"Then you are really going," said Jessie. "What makes you do it, if you don't want to?"

"It's been the family plan ever since I was a baby," said Polly; "and there's no use in trying to change it. Besides, I don't think I mind it much, or shan't when I once get there. I want to know a few things when. I'm grown up, even if I'm not a lawyer or a doctor,—but I'm going to leave that for Alan,"

"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor, anyway."

"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again, that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said yes. He said—" Polly came to a sudden pause.

"Said what, Poll? Out with it."

"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited," returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown freckles on her cheeks.

Alan's face flushed and his eyes were shining, as he asked eagerly,—

"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"

"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."

"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."

"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers talk; doctors do."

"Some ministers do," said Jessie.

"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more good than papa does."

"Not many doctors, either," suggested Alan.

"That may be; but just his doing it proves that it can be done, if anybody is willing to try. Don't shirk that way, Alan; it isn't like you. You can do it just as well as he can, and I mean you shall, some day, if teasing can do any good."

"Do you know, Polly," said Jessie; "you've talked about it till you make me want to be a doctor, myself. I don't suppose mamma would ever let me, but I'd like to try, and I think I could do it."

"Why don't you, then?" asked Polly heartily. "I don't want to myself, and I shouldn't succeed. I should be like the old doctor papa tells about, that used to swear at his patients when they didn't mind him. I never could keep cool when things went wrong. Besides, I think it's a man's work, more than a woman's."

"I'd like to be one, and prove that you are wrong," returned Jessie, with some spirit.

"If I really made up my mind to be a doctor, I'd be a good one, if I had to give up everything else for the sake of it; but it isn't in my line," said Polly a little regretfully. "But when you and Alan are famous all over the world, I'll go around telling everybody how I was the first one to start you in that line; and they'll all be grateful to me, even if I haven't any career, see if they aren't."

"In the meantime," said Alan, suddenly breaking off the conversation, "has anybody the slightest idea where we are?"

"I haven't," said Jessie, pulling up Cob abruptly. "I've been so busy talking and thinking that I haven't paid any attention to where we were going."

"I never saw this road before," said Polly. "It's too far out of town for Job's wanderings. But go on; we shall come to a house or a guideboard before long."

"To judge by the sun and by my appetite," remarked Alan pensively, "it must be almost noon."

"Oh, that makes me think!" exclaimed Polly. "Get up, Alan; you're right on them!"

"On what?" inquired the boy lazily, without stirring.

"On the gingersnaps. Mamma gave me some to put in my pocket, in case we should get hungry, and here you've been sitting on top of them, all the way!" There was an accent of despair in Polly's tone.

Alan rose, and she plunged her hand into her pocket.

"Just look here!" she said accusingly, as she drew out a crumpled paper bag.

Alan caught it from her hand and peered down into it.

"Pulverized gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "Want some, Jessie?"

"I'm so hungry, I'm thankful for anything," she replied. "Let's eat up the largest pieces ourselves, Polly, and make Alan take the dust for his share, for he was the one to blame."

"I know it, and now he'll never know how good they were," returned Polly relentlessly, as the girls devoured the contents of the bag, even to the last crumb. "He deserves to go hungry."

"But what's that building over there?" asked Jessie, a little later, pointing to a great red house on the side of a distant hill.

"That? That's the poorhouse," replied Polly, after studying it for a minute or two. "I came here once with papa, ever so long ago. I'd like to know how we ever managed to get here; it's seven or eight miles from town."

"Seven or eight miles from town! And we are dying of starvation," said Alan.

"Speak for yourself, please; Jessie and I have had lunch," said Polly. "But," she went on, struck with a sudden thought, "let's go and see Miss Bean, and maybe she'll invite us to dinner. She ought to, for she's been fed at our house often enough."

Jessie fell in with the idea.

"Let's try it, anyway," she said. "I've always wanted to see what they do in such a place, and I don't believe there would be any harm in it."

"What harm could there be?" said Polly. "We needn't tell her we've come to dinner; only, if she should happen to ask us, we could stay, after she's teased a little."

Turning from the main road, they drove under the great gateway and followed a winding drive up to the very door of the house. A few old crones sat in a row by the door, chattering like so many venerable crows; but when they caught sight of the children, their voices sank to whispers, as they watched Alan spring to the ground, hold up his arms to help Polly and Jessie, and then deliberately tie Cob to the nearest post.

At sight of the women in their plain white caps and dark calico gowns, Jessie was seized with a nervous desire to laugh, and hid behind Polly, whispering,—

"You do the talking, Polly; I can't."

"But what shall I say?" returned Polly, in the same tone.

"Isn't there a matron or something?" said Jessie doubtfully. "Ask for her."

By this time, Alan had joined them and they held a hasty consultation, as a result of which Alan walked straight up to the old women. Hat in hand, and a smile on his bright, boyish face, he bowed low before them and asked if he could be directed to the matron's room. Alan's smile never failed to move a woman's heart, no matter whether she was old or young. In the present instance, one of the aged dames tottered to her feet, saying,—

"Bless your heart, sonny! I'll show you, myself, to pay for your sweet manners." And she toddled away, followed by the girls and by Alan whose sweet manners had collapsed into a stifled giggle at the unlooked-for compliment.

They were taken into a long, wide hall through the middle of which ran a strip of rag carpet, edged with plain wooden settees. Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, but the only ornament in sight was a stuffed poodle under a glass case, above which hung the somewhat inappropriate motto: God loveth a cheerful giver. Here they were told to sit down, while the old woman went in search of the matron. The next few moments were rather uncomfortable for all three of the children. Now that they were really inside the institution, they were a little frightened at what they had done; and yet the ridiculous side of their being there struck them so keenly that they dared not speak, for fear of being found laughing, when the all-powerful matron should make her appearance. At length she came, a trim little woman, with an earnest face and a business-like manner. At Polly's request to be allowed to see Miss Bean, she shook her head doubtfully.

"It isn't one of our regular visiting days," she began." Was your errand an important one?"

"Not very," returned Polly, with a lingering accent on the second word, as she caught the sound of a distant clatter of dishes and breathed in a vague odor of boiled beef.

"I am sorry to disappoint you," the matron went on; "and if you have come all the way from town, it is too bad to send you back without seeing her, for a minute. Call Miss Bean," she said to a servant. "What name shall I tell her?" she asked Polly.

"Polly Adams, ma'am," answered Polly.

The matron became suddenly cordial, like a snowbank under the rays of the spring sun.

"Isn't this Dr. Adams's daughter?" she asked. "I thought I saw a familiar look about the lower part of the face."

"Yes, Dr. Adams is my father," said Polly, whose hopes of staying sprang into life once more.

"Indeed! I am very glad to see you for his sake," returned the matron. "Perhaps he sent you?"

"No—o, he didn't send us; we came," faltered Polly.

"Never mind; I am glad to see you, anyway. And these are your young friends, I suppose. Wouldn't you all like to stay and have dinner here? It is almost ready," she added, in a generous burst of hospitality.

"Thank you, we should be delighted," said Alan hastily, fearing Polly might lose the opportunity by politely hesitating.

"Well, Polly Adams, where in the name of time did you come from?" asked Miss Bean's voice behind her.

Polly turned around. Could this be Miss Bean, this little, withered figure in the calico gown and white cap? Where was the green and black gown? Where were the lace mitts and the shaker bonnet? However, there could be no doubt of Miss Bean's identity when she said, in her usual abrupt manner,—

"How's your ma? And who are these children?"

"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends; "and this is Jessie Shepard."

"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in Omaha?"

"Yes."

Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarrassment by critically scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,—

"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"

This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.

"Did your ma send you?"

"No, ma'am," said Polly.

"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.

"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.

"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think of it."

Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,—

"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their victuals."

"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year, rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."

"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good times, in their way."

"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it isn't mine."

"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."

"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder, while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to rusting out."

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more, and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the gate, watching for them.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you hungry? Where have you been?"

"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."



CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP.

They had all been at the Langs's that afternoon. The third of June was Florence's fourteenth birthday, and Mrs. Lang had celebrated the day by giving a little afternoon tea on the broad piazza, overlooking the grounds. It had been a pretty sight, with the dainty gowns of the girls, and the active figures of the few boys who had been favored with invitations to share in the games on the lawn. The ever-present amateur photographer had thought so too, apparently, and from his position in the street, he had already aimed his detective camera at them, when Alan discovered him and gave the alarm, only just in time to prevent his stolen success.

Polly and Jean walked home with the Hapgoods in the early twilight, and, refusing Mrs. Hapgood's invitation to go into the house, the girls settled themselves on the two high-backed seats at either side of the broad front porch, and gave themselves up to the luxury of talking over the event of the day.

"It must be fun to be able to have company, and do it up in such splendid style as Mrs. Lang does," said Jean a little enviously, as she pulled out the bunch of pink clover she had worn at her belt.

"It was lovely, wasn't it?" assented Molly. "Mrs. Lang doesn't do it often, but when she does have a party, it is always perfect."

"After all," said Katharine, "it's all from the outside, somehow. I don't know whether you understand what I mean, but I know, myself."

"I'm glad you do, Kit," said her sister disrespectfully; "for it's certain that nobody else does. Remember that we are young, and explain yourself a little."

"I did really mean something, Jessie," said Katharine. "With Mrs. Lang, it seems as if she set the day and gave her orders to the servants, and that's all there was about it. Of course she entertains charmingly, and all that; but it makes me feel, all the time, as if she did it to pay her debts, and not because she likes to have us there. When we go to—well, to Polly's, for instance, I. never think of that, for Mrs. Adams always acts as if she enjoyed us as much as we enjoy being there."

"She does," answered Polly, with conviction. "She says she never half grew up, for she likes young people now better than she does those of her own age."

"It must be horrid to have to give parties, whether you want to or not, just because somebody else has invited you," remarked Molly.

"That's the way they all do in society, though," said Jessie, with a knowing air.

"Well, if that's society, then. I don't want any of it," said Polly ungratefully, while she ran her fingers through her hair and stood it wildly on end. "I just want my friends, and I want them whenever I feel like it; but I don't care anything about having a crowd of people round in the way, just because it's fashionable, when I don't, care a snap for them. If I ever grow up and come out, as they call it, I'm going to like my friends for themselves, and not for their clothes and their parties and their good dinners. I can buy those at a hotel, if I get hungry."

"And when hotels fail, there is always the poorhouse," suggested Jean. "But, girls, do you ever want to be very, very rich, just for a little while?"

"I don't think I ever stopped to think much about it," answered Polly; "but I suppose it would be fun."

"'Tisn't so much that I want more things than I have," said Jean; "but, not often, only just once in a while, I do so wish I could go ahead and be real extravagant, spend ever so much money for all sorts of foolish things, have parties and fine clothes, and travel everywhere I wanted. I know perfectly well that I shouldn't enjoy myself half so much as I do now, when I have to work for all I get; but still, I'd like to try the other, just for a change."

"And then, after a little while, you'd be longing to get back again," returned Polly. "I don't believe life is all fun, even to people that are very rich. I never saw anybody yet that I wanted to change places with."

"Let's all tell what we would do, if we were very rich and could have just what we wanted," suggested Alan, from the step.

"All right, only do come in under cover, child," said Polly, in a maternal tone; "or else you'll be so stiff to-morrow that you can't move." And she tucked up the skirt of her best gown, to make room for the lad, who obediently settled himself between her and Katharine.

"Go it, Jean," he said; "you started us to wishing, so it's only fair you should speak first. What would you do, if you could have your choice?"

"Study, till I knew everything there was to be known," returned Jean, without hesitation. "I'd go to college here, and then I'd go to Europe, to one city after another, and learn all I could in each."

"You'd be a perfect valley of dry bones, then," commented Polly. "People that know everything are very stupid."

"I wouldn't be," said Jean. "I'd found colleges with my money, and go round lecturing to them, till they knew just as much as I did."

"H'm!" said Alan. "What will you do, Poll?" Polly laughed.

"It would be hard to choose, but I think I'd begin by adopting about twenty small boys. Then, if I had any time left, I'd—I'd— oh, I think perhaps I'd like to write a book of poems."

"Good for you, Poll! How I envy the boys, only you'd make them all into doctors. Molly?"

"I would travel, all over the whole world, and down into Australia," returned Molly. "I'd go to Russia and Spain and China and the Nile, and stay everywhere just as long as I wanted to."

"Who wouldn't like to do that?" said Jean. "Katharine, what will you do?"

"I'd have a lovely house somewhere in Europe, Venice, perhaps, or else Paris, and it should be full of magnificent pictures. And then I'd have my friends come and stay with me for a year at a time; and I'd have young artists come and live there, and give them lessons,—not teach them, you know, but pay for them, to give them a start, when they couldn't afford it. And when they had learned to paint and were ready to go home, I'd pay their expenses for a year, till they were able to support themselves. And then I'd help poor students through college, and do ever so many things like that."

"Katharine, you are modest in your plans!" said Molly, laughing. "How much of an income do you expect to have?"

"I didn't know we were limited," Katharine answered. "I thought we could have whatever we wished."

"That was the idea," said Alan. "Go on, Jessie; what would you do if you had all the money in the world?"

"Just what I intend to do now," she replied coolly, "be a doctor."

"What!" And Molly stared at her cousin with wide-open eyes.

"Yes, I think that's what I mean to do," answered Jessie. "I believe I should rather like it, and if I can tease mamma into letting me try, I'm coming East again, in a few years, to study."

"Well, you must be in want of something to do," said Molly, "if you have any idea of patching up broken bones and getting yourself exposed to small-pox and all sorts of fevers. But go on, Alan; it's your turn."

"Let's see," said Alan reflectively; "first of all, I'd get over my rheumatism, and then, for a few years, I'd be the very best base-ball player in the world. Then, after I was too old for that, I'd travel round a little while, and then I'd settle down and be— "

Polly listened breathlessly for the decision.

"Be what?" she asked eagerly.

"An undertaker."

"Oh, Alan, how mean of you!" protested Jessie. "Here we've all been and told our wishes as truly as we could, and now you are just making fun of us. That isn't fair."

"Isn't it?" And Alan laughed teasingly. "How do you know I haven't told truly? But, to be honest, I think I'd go into partnership with either Polly or you. I'd like to be a first-class doctor, or else a great author."

"Poems?" inquired Polly sympathetically.

"Poems! No; nor novels either, nor any such trash as that," returned the boy scornfully. "I'd write great, long books with real solid work in them, history, or else some kind of science, books that wouldn't be forgotten just as soon as they were read, but ones that would help the world along by making people know more and more, the more they studied them."

"I wonder if we shall any of us ever get what we want," said Jean thoughtfully." Jessie stands the best chance."

"You wouldn't say so, if you knew mamma as well as Kit and I do," returned Jessie, laughing. "I shan't have an easy time, when I try to persuade her to let me carry out my plan. She wouldn't be any more horrified if I wanted to be a farmer and plant my own potatoes."

"What will Florence be, I wonder," said Polly. "It would have to be something very pretty and dainty, or it would never suit her."

"Florence? Her future is all cut out," said Jean. "Didn't Mrs. Hapgood tell it, last Hallowe'en, a devoted husband and a beautiful home? She'll have everything she can possibly want, and she'll keep it all in apple pie order, and she and her husband will do nothing but bill and coo all day long."

"I don't believe it," said Molly, laughing at the sentimental picture which Jean had called up. "I think Florence has more to her than all that."

"What more can she want?" asked Katharine. "If she is a perfect wife in a happy home, there isn't anything much better for any woman."

"But it's getting dark, and I must go," said Polly, as she rose. "Come, Jean; mamma will think I am lost. Good night, girls."

In spite of their assurances that they were not at all timid, Alan insisted on going with the girls; so they stopped to speak to Mrs. Adams, then walked on together as far as Jean's gate, where they lingered, talking, for a minute or two.

"Come in now, Alan," said Polly, as they reached her house again; "it's early, really, and Jerusalem's out there on the piazza, all alone. You know she always likes to see you."

Alan hesitated for a moment, but the last fading light of the warm June day was too tempting, and he went in. Mrs. Adams rose from her piazza chair to meet them, and stepped forward into the faint light which shone out through the closely drawn shade of the parlor window.

"Yes, it is pleasant out here," she answered Polly; "but if you children are going to sit outside, you must have some wraps, for it is quite cool. Polly dear, just run in to get a shawl to put on, and bring the afghan to tuck around Alan. It's on the parlor sofa."

Polly vanished through the open door. When she came back, she was laughing.

"Why didn't you tell me they were in there, Jerusalem?" she asked, as she tossed the afghan to Alan, and then settled herself on a sweet-grass mat at her mother's feet. "Aunt Jane is reading aloud a report of something or other, and Mr. Baxter looks so bored. He yawned like a chasm when I went in."

"Perhaps you disturbed him in the middle of a nap," suggested Alan.

"Maybe I did. I don't blame him for getting sleepy," responded Polly pityingly. "It all seemed to be about convict labor and penal servitude and such things. I shouldn't wonder if something was the matter in Russia."

Then they were silent, watching the lazy shadows from the full moon creep over the lawn, till there came a footstep on the walk and a voice called,—