"So you are all making the most of the moonlight, are you?"

"Oh, Papa Adams!" exclaimed Polly joyfully. "Home so early?"

"Yes," answered the doctor, as he dropped into the chair next Alan; "and I'm going to play all the rest of the evening. How comes on our future doctor?"

"Doctor!" echoed Polly. "He said to-night that he'd rather be an undertaker than anything else."

"Why, how's that?" said the doctor, laughing. "It isn't a week since Polly told me you were going to follow in my footsteps."

"Oh, Polly has doctor on the brain, just now," answered the boy. "She's started up Jessie on the subject, and they do nothing but talk of pills and skeletons. To-night we were discussing what we'd like best to do, and the girls had such wild plans that I thought I'd bring them down to earth again."

"If you can't make better puns than that, don't try to make any, Alan," said Polly severely. "But our plans weren't wild a bit; we only said just what we would do, if we had all the money in the world."

"And what was the decision," asked the doctor; "cooking and sewing, or society belles?"

"Neither," Polly was beginning earnestly, when Alan broke in,—

"I'll tell you, Dr. Adams, and you can see for yourself if they weren't a little extra. Jean was going to know everything; Molly was going to travel everywhere; Polly was going to found an orphan asylum in her house, and write poetry, besides; and Katharine wanted to support poor but honest young men by the dozen. I think that's all but Jessie. She's going to study medicine."

"Such aspiring young people!" said the doctor. "You'll need all the treasures of the earth at your disposal, if you have such magnificent plans. If you are going to undertake so much, then good-by to bread-making and Bridget. And that reminds me to tell you, children, Bridget is going home, the last of next week."

"Next week?" said Mrs. Adams. "What is that for? Her year isn't over."

"No, but she has gained faster than we thought she could, and she is now almost as well as ever. If she hadn't been taken in time, it would have been much harder to cure her; but now we think that, if she is careful, she can go home to her family again. We told her so to-night, and she was half wild for a moment; but then she began to cry, because she must leave her 'dear young ladies,' as she called you."

"Oh, dear, what shall we ever do without her?" sighed Polly. "I was really getting quite fond of her. Now I'll have to devote myself to Dicky and the other babies."

"Bridget has improved in your hands," said the doctor. "You girls, without knowing it, have been doing the best kind of mission work, and the Bridget who goes home will be a much more attractive Bridget than the one who came here, for she has learned that there is something a little beyond her old life of drudgery that she can hope for and, in the end, gain."

"Hark! What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Adams abruptly.

There was a sudden commotion in the parlor, the sound of excited voices, mingled with inarticulate cries; then Aunt Jane called, in a tone of agony,—

"Isabel! Polly! John! Quick, quick!"

Springing up, the doctor and his wife, followed by Polly and Alan, ran to the parlor door where they looked in upon a strange scene, for a full understanding of which it is necessary to go back a little, to see what had been passing inside the room, while the others had been talking on the piazza.

For the past two or three months, it had been Mr. Baxter's regular habit to spend every Wednesday evening with the woman of his choice, when he either talked of his children and their peculiarities, or his servants and their vices, or, on the other hand, Miss Roberts attempted to form his mind, as she called it, by improving and instructive conversation. Their interviews, it must be confessed, were never of the nature of a duet. Either Mr. Baxter prattled about trifles, and Aunt Jane was politely indifferent; or else Miss Roberts conversed learnedly, and Mr. Baxter dozed off into little "cat-naps," waked again with an apologetic start, and immediately assumed a look of owlish wisdom, as if to convey the idea that he listened to the best advantage with his eyes shut. Such a beginning, when they spent but one evening a week together, did not hold out very brilliant prospects of enlivening domestic intercourse; but the parties most nearly concerned appeared to be satisfied, so no one else needed to complain.

On this particular Wednesday evening, Mr. Baxter was unusually drowsy. His youngest child, he fretfully explained, had been ill all the night before, and his own rest had been badly broken. But in spite of this warning. Miss Roberts had taken up from the table a pamphlet on prison reform, and announced her intention of reading it aloud. In vain Mr. Baxter looked about for some way of escape. Seeing none, he seated himself in the darkest corner of the room, with a lingering hope that his lapses into dreamland might pass unnoticed. He was not disappointed. In a few moments, Aunt Jane had become so absorbed in her subject that she read on and on, quite unconscious of the fact that her guest, from yawning behind his hand, and nodding now forward, now backward, and now sideways, had passed on into a quiet slumber, unbroken by dreams of restless children and hardened criminals.

But Polly's sudden entrance had roused him, and he propped himself up anew, with a manful resolve to hold his eyes open, or die. Unfortunately it was by no means so easy for Mr. Baxter to hold his mouth shut, and yawn followed yawn, wider and still more wide, until his hand could no longer cover the opening. And yet Miss Roberts read on endlessly, remorselessly. Suddenly she was interrupted by Mr. Baxter who sprang up wildly and, with his body bent forward, his eyes distended and his mouth wide open, began plunging distractedly about the room, with both hands to his face, as if in mortal anguish.

"Oh, Solomon! What is it?" And Miss Roberts sprang up, in her turn.

But Mr. Solomon Baxter only paused to clasp his face more closely and groan, and then resumed his former antics. Miss Roberts was seriously alarmed. Had the man suddenly gone mad? Was he dying?

"Solomon! Solomon!" she implored him. "Tell me, only speak to me and tell me what is the matter!"

"'Y 'ou'," replied Mr. Baxter vehemently, but not very intelligibly.

"What?" Miss Roberts hurried to his side and, bending, gazed up into his face which was still turned floorward.

"'Y 'ou'; I 'aw' 'uh' 'y 'ou'," answered Mr. Baxter again, this time pointing down his throat.

Miss Roberts saw that there was some trouble with his mouth. It was a relief to find that her lover was of sound mind. From his broken speech, she was beginning to fear some new, strange form of paralysis, but his wild lunges about the room relieved those apprehensions. It was only his mouth, then. She smiled sympathetically.

"I understand," she said; "it is the toothache. It is very painful, while it lasts, but I have something that will stop it. Just shut your mouth and make yourself as comfortable as you can, and I will get it."

But Mr. Baxter shook his head sadly.

"I 'aw' 'uh' 'ih," he answered.

Then Aunt Jane's courage began to fail.

"Can't shut it! Oh, Solomon, Solomon! What is it?"

"I 'o 'oo'," he replied testily. Then, clasping his jaw in both hands, he began to walk the floor again, groaning dismally. Miss Roberts's tears were flowing. She felt sure that Mr. Baxter's hours were' numbered, and that she would soon be forced to look on at his funeral. Could she be a mother to his little ones, thus doubly bereaved? These thoughts passed in rapid succession through her brain; then, raising her voice to the utmost, she called for aid. That done, for the first and only time in the course of her life, Aunt Jane Roberts, the strong-minded, the firm, sank down on the sofa and quietly fainted away. This was the state of affairs which met the doctor's gaze, as he entered the room.

To his practised eye there was no ground for doubt. He recognized the disease and the remedy. It only needed one pull with his strong hands, one roar of anguish from Mr. Baxter, and the dislocated jaw was slipped back into place once more. Then the doctor turned to help his wife who was trying to restore Aunt Jane to consciousness. At length she gasped, opened one eye, gasped again, opened both and faintly whispered,—

"Is he dead? Tell me gently. Was it lock-jaw?"

Then the doctor's professional dignity gave way. Dropping into the nearest chair, he laughed, and laughed, and laughed again, while Mr. Baxter grew more and more shamefaced, and Miss Roberts more and more exasperated at his unseemly merriment. When he could speak again, he answered,—

"Lockjaw; no. This was all your fault, Jane. You read till the poor man was so sleepy that he fairly yawned his jaw out of joint."

And this time the doctor's shout was echoed by his wife and the two children.



CHAPTER XIX.

KATHARINE'S CALL.

The next afternoon Katharine and Florence sat on the side piazza of the Hapgood house, Florence in the hammock, Katharine curled up among the cushions of a bamboo lounge, idly stroking the back of Scott, Molly's plump tiger kitten.

"Well, Scotty," she was saying caressingly, as she held up the little creature and gazed straight into its yellow eyes, "are you feeling happy in your mind to-day? Well, so am I."

"What a queer name I" said Florence. "Where did Molly ever get it?"

Katharine laughed.

"I should think you might know," she answered. "Alan was responsible for it, of course. Don't you know how he is always saying 'Great Scott'?"

"That is it, is it?" said Florence. Then she returned to the subject of which they had just been speaking. "When do you think you will go, Katharine?"

"In about two weeks, I think," Katharine replied, as she rolled the cat over on its back and tickled it under its furry chin. "Papa wrote, some time ago, that he wanted us to be at home before July, for then he is going to start on a trip to Alaska, and we are both to go with. him. He hasn't mentioned it for a month, now, but I suppose of course he means to go. I hope so, I am sure, for I love to travel, and Jessie has never taken a real long journey, except to come here."

"To Alaska? How I envy you!" said Florence longingly.

"I wish you could go with us," answered Katharine. "It will be a lovely journey, I know, for it is so different from anything else we have seen. I'll tell you, Florence, you must come out to see us, some day, and then we'll go again. If it were not for this Alaska plan, I should hate to go home, for I have had such a pleasant year, here in New England. Sometimes I feel as if I had never known what it was to really live, till I came here; and Jessie dreads going worse than I do."

"You'll probably forget us, before you've been away a month," said Florenge lightly.

Katharine moved among her cushions until she was facing her friend.

"Do you think I am so fickle as that, Florence?" she asked, and her tone was a little hurt. "If that is all my friendship amounts to, it isn't worth the having."

"I didn't mean that," said Florence; "but it wouldn't be strange if you did forget us, Kit, when you are back again among your other friends."

"What an absurd idea, Florence! Do you think I shall ever forget Bridget and Job and the cooking club, and all the rest of our good times? I shan't be nearly as likely to, just because we don't have anything like it in Omaha. And if I do come out next winter, I know that, right in the middle of all the parties and things, I shall have little homesick twinges for our frolics in the attic, and the cosy talks around Mrs. Adams's open fire."

"It must be so exciting to come out," sighed Florence. "We can't do it in this little place, for we're never in, very much. I should be sorry to leave the girls, Kit, but I almost wish I lived in a city, the way you do."

"You wouldn't, if you had tried it," said Katharine decidedly. "I used to long for the time when I could be in society, as mamma is. Why, only last year I felt as if I couldn't wait; but since I have been here, I don't care half so much about it. It will probably be fun for just a little while, and then I shall get tired of it and wish I could stop, and be cross and pale and headache-y, the way mamma used to be. But, at least, I've had this one year, and I can think about it over and over again, and remember just what we have all done and said. Perhaps sometime we can all be together at our house."

"I do wish you didn't have to go away," said Florence a little forlornly. "We feel as if you belonged to us, Katharine, and we four girls don't seem half so many as we did before you and Jessie came."

"What an idea! And, besides, you have Alan, and he is equal to all the rest of us put together. Dear fellow, how I shall miss him! I wish I had a brother. But, Florence, it isn't as if we weren't likely to drop in on you again, before long. It takes such a little while to go back and forth, now; and I mean to go to Europe in a year or two, and then I shall stop here on the way. It isn't as bad as it would be if papa couldn't afford to let us travel."

But Florence shook her head.

"No," said she, "I know how it will be. You think now that you'll come, but you'll go out there and get so interested in society that you will forget all about New England, and all about us. Or, if you do remember us, it will be when you are dancing all night, and you'll stop a minute to pity us because we go to bed and to sleep like civilized beings." And Florence laughed, in spite of herself, at the idea.

"Now, Florence, that isn't fair to me. I really don't mean to be just a silly girl who thinks of nothing but her clothes. I shall have to go into society, but I believe I can be good for a little something besides that. If I find I can't do both, why, then I'll give up the society part of it; but I won't be a do-nothing all my days. I know there are always more chances for a woman to do good than there are women to do it, and I mean to keep my eyes open to look for my own especial chance. I don't believe that all the helpful ideas auntie and Mrs. Adams have given me this year were intended to be thrown away, and I think the time will come when I can use them. If not, why were they given me? Wait a few years, Florence, and see if I am just a butterfly. It is only fair to give me the chance to win my spurs." Katharine spoke earnestly, for her whole soul was in her words. The past year had been a revelation to her, and her rapid development towards womanhood had been in the line of all that was truest and noblest in her character. She had come to New England an unformed girl whose nature was one of endless possibilities, only waiting for the word which should make them actual and turn her in one way or the other. The word was spoken and, thanks to her aunt's influence and to her association with the simple, natural girls about her, the impulse given was in the right direction. It was as if Katharine had suddenly been born into a new life. No drifting, idle maturity could satisfy her now; her womanhood must be one of purpose and of action. The time for it had come much nearer than she thought.

But now her little outburst was followed by a hearty,—

"Good for you, Kit!"

Both the girls started and looked up, to see Alan's head stretched out from his window, with a look of perfect approval on his boyish face.

"I didn't mean to listen," he said penitently. "I was up here reading and, honestly, I didn't hear a thing but Kit's last speech. That was such a good one that I did just want to pat her on the back. I'm going to stop up my ears now."

"Come down, and stay with us, Alan," his cousin, said.

"No, thanks; not even you can bribe me to leave this book. I want to know what they found in the bottom of the cave." And Alan returned to his reading.

However, the unexpected interruption had put an end to all serious talk, and the girls were chatting idly, now of this matter, now of that, when a boy stepped up on the piazza. He had a telegram in his hand.

"Miss Katharine W. Shepard?" he asked, referring to his address book.

Katharine rose, dropping the kitten on the floor.

"I am Miss Shepard," she said, taking the envelope from his hand and signing the receipt.

"I hope nothing is wrong," said Florence, eyeing the yellow paper with a true feminine dislike of a telegram.

"Wrong? Oh, no; it is probably from papa. He often telegraphs us," said Katharine carelessly, as she tore open the end of the envelope.

She glanced at the paper in her hand, then looked a little surprised.

"It's from mamma," she said. "Papa has probably changed his plans. Listen: 'Start for home first of next week. Have written.'"

"The first of next week! That is so soon, Katharine; we can't let you go." And Florence sat up in the hammock and stared at her friend in bewilderment.

"It is very sudden," said Katharine slowly. "It doesn't seem as if I could go. But isn't it strange? Papa must have decided, all at once, to go to Alaska sooner than he planned, for this is such a little bit of a warning. Let me see, this is Thursday, and we can't get a letter before Monday. We must start on Tuesday. How I do hate to go!" And Katharine choked down a sudden lump that had risen in her throat. "Come in," she added. "I must tell auntie."

"No, I must go home," said Florence. "Oh, dear! Only four days more, Katharine!"

"Don't cry, dear," said Katharine protectingly. "Remember it isn't for always, for I shall come East often."

She stood and watched her guest until she was out of sight, then ran into the house in search of her aunt, to whom she showed the telegram. In spite of herself, Mrs. Hapgood was very uneasy over the sudden summons to the girls. It certainly did seem strange that the message should come from their mother; but for Katharine's sake, her aunt hid her fears as best she could, and only tried to make the girls' last days as pleasant as possible, while she waited with a burning impatience for the letter which should explain everything. However, the girls, accustomed as they were to their father's rapid changes in his plans, were not at all disturbed, but quietly made their arrangements for the journey, sure that Mr. Shepard would either come for them, or else meet them on the way.

Friday and Saturday passed only too quickly for the young people, who were dreading the approaching separation, and Sunday afternoon found them all assembled at Mrs. Hapgood's for a farewell dinner together. But it was rather a silent, subdued party that gathered about the table; the conversation was fitful and broken by long pauses, and the jokes were rather forced and feeble; while Molly's red eyes and Florence's white cheeks showed that something was wrong. If it was bad at the table, it was worse when they all sat in the front porch after dinner, with nothing to do but watch the darkness settle slowly down over the valley, and listen, to the last sleepy twitterings of the birds. They talked little as they sat there. Now and then Alan would attempt a jest, or Katharine would try to start some fresh subject; but soon the voices would die away, and another silence follow the momentary interruption. So they lingered until long past the time for separation. At length Polly started up.

"Come, girls," said she; "I can't stand this any longer. We may as well say good night now, for it won't be any easier by and by."

"Oh, why did you girls ever come here and make us so fond of you, and then have to go and leave us!" wailed Jean. "I wish you hadn't come in the first place."

"I don't," said Polly steadily; "I'm glad I've had just this one year of knowing you. It's ever so much better than nothing, and I'm thankful even for this. Besides," she added, valiantly brushing away the tears, "I don't mean to cry yet, for we have all day to-morrow, and Tuesday morning; and then, you'll come back again some day. When you are gone is time enough to do the crying." And smiling resolutely, she bade them good night, then went away up the street, with the tears running down her cheeks.

"Come, Alan," said Katharine, early the next morning; "come down to the post-office with me. My letter from home must be here by this time, and I'm in a hurry to get it, to see if papa is going to come for us. It takes Jessie so long to get ready, that we won't wait for her."

They walked away together, laughing and talking as they went, determined to forget the morrow, and only enjoy the bright, beautiful morning and their pleasure in each other's society. At the post-office, Alan ran inside, leaving his cousin to wait for him at the door.

"Here it is, sure enough, Kit," he said, as he joined her again.

"What a little thin one, and from mamma, too!" said Katharine, as she deliberately tore it open. "Papa must be away on one of his business trips, I suppose."

Alan made no reply, but left her to read her letter while he walked along at her side, whistling softly to himself. All at once he heard a low exclamation, like a half-smothered cry of pain. Turning quickly, he saw his cousin's face was ashy white, and her breath was coming in short, quick gasps.

"Katharine! What is it?" he cried, in terror at the change in her face.

For answer, she held out the letter to him. "Oh, Alan, what does it mean?"

He thought she was going to fall, and threw his arm around her to support her, but she rallied quickly.

"Read it, Alan," she begged. "I can't seem to understand it."

Alan read it. But before he was half through it, his face was as white as hers had been. "Oh, Kit!" he began; then he paused, not daring to offer one word of pity.

The short letter was the bitter outcry of a selfish woman who forgot her children's suffering in her own, for it bore its sad message abruptly and with no word to soften the blow. Mr. Shepard had proved to be a defaulter and, after he had for years been using money from the bank of which he was president, he had saved himself, on the eve of exposure, by hastily quitting the country, leaving his wife and children to bear the burden of his guilt as best they could.

"Papa has taken money that didn't belong to him; is that it, Alan?" said Katharine slowly, as if dazed by the sudden shock. "I can't believe it. How can mamma say such a cruel thing?" she added indignantly.

Alan made no reply, beyond drawing the girl's limp hand through his arm. Katharine felt the unspoken sympathy of his gesture and pressed closer to him.

"Do say you don't believe it, Alan," she urged. "You must know that papa couldn't do such a thing."

"Oh, Kit, I wish I knew what to say!" the boy burst out. "I am so awfully sorry for you, dear." But Katharine stopped him with a motion of her hand.

"Don't pity me, Alan, or I shall begin to cry; and I mustn't do that here. We must hurry home to tell auntie." And she quickened her pace, almost to a run.

Alan kept by her side, watching the white, set face, and marvelling that she did not give way to her sorrow. His own eyes were full of tears, and his throat was aching with a dull, dry pain; but his cousin, after her first exclamations, was perfectly quiet. So they went up the long, sunny street, deaf to the gay bird-songs, blind to the sunlight that slanted down through the arching elms and set the dewdrops to twinkling, only anxious to reach the safe refuge of the old house, and the motherly woman within it.

They found her on the piazza watching for them, eager for the news the letter must bring.

Even then, Katharine's self-control did not leave her. Pausing before her aunt, she said quietly, as she held out the letter,—

"Do you remember our talk last fall, auntie? My call has come, and I must answer: 'ready.'"

"Katharine!"

Mrs. Hapgood snatched the note, read it, and turned impulsively to the young girl before her.

"You poor child!" she began; but Katharine interrupted her, as she had done Alan.

"Don't worry about me, auntie. But can you tell Jessie now, please? I am afraid I can't." And she turned away and went into the house.

When Mrs. Hapgood came down-stairs, an hour later, it seemed as if a shadow had always rested on the house, the sorrow it contained had so soon become a part of their lives. Up-stairs, Jessie had cried until she was tired, stopped to listen vaguely to her aunt's comforting words, then cried again, but all without any real understanding of the trouble which had come upon her. Down-stairs, Alan and Molly were walking the room, arm in arm, with a settled look of sadness which was strangely out of place on their young faces. Alan had told his sister the news as gently as he could, and she could only cling to him and cry, as she took in all the meaning of the shame and disgrace, all the consequences of the father's sin upon the coming life of his children.

"But where is Katharine?" asked Mrs. Hapgood anxiously.

"Isn't she up-stairs?" said Molly.

"I haven't seen her," answered her mother.

"Why, we supposed she was with you!" And Alan hurried away to look for his cousin.

At last he found her. Up in the familiar old garret that she had loved so well, close by the great gray chimney which seemed to be shielding her with its giant strength, there lay Katharine on the shabby old sofa, sobbing as if her heart must break. To the young lad, these unrestrained tears were much more alarming than her former quiet, and he dared not speak, as he sat down on the floor by her side, and put his brown hand against her cheek.

"Oh, Alan!"

"Yes, Kit; I know."

"Let me have my cry out now," she said brokenly. "It must come sometime; then I can be brave for mamma and Jessie."

Alan stole away to tell his mother where Katharine was, and then went back to her side. All the morning he remained there, saying little, but keeping near her with a simple, boyish devotion of which, in after years, she never lost the memory.



When Katharine went down-stairs again, she appeared to have grown years older during that one morning. It was not that she was less beautiful than she had been; but she seemed to have gained a new, gentle dignity which suddenly changed her from a child into a woman. As she entered the room, with her hand on Alan's shoulder, she met them with a perfect composure which gave no hint of her trouble; but they all felt instinctively that it was as she had said to her aunt, her call had come, and she had answered "ready."

The day wore slowly away. They were to start on their journey, late the next afternoon, accompanied by Mrs. Hapgood, who had made up her mind to go to her sister for a few weeks, to help her through the sad changes which must inevitably follow. Late in the day, Mrs. Adams and Polly came in, for Molly had told them of the letter. Mrs. Adams took both the girls into her motherly arms, and her few whispered words were very tender, while Polly threw her arms around Katharine, as she said,—

"Alan has told me what you said, Kit, about your call's coming, and I think it was grand; but it isn't one bit more so than we expected, only it makes us proud to be your friends."

At length it was bedtime, and for the last time the girls went up to their pleasant room in the old Hapgood house. The whole place was in confusion, and trunks stood in the middle of the floor, with piles of clothing, books, and pictures heaped about them, just as they had been left in the morning. At sight of them, Jessie threw herself down on the bed.

"Oh, Kit!" she cried; "what are we going to do?" "Please don't cry so, Jessie," said Katharine wearily. "We must try not to be babyish about it."

"Babyish!" And Jessie turned on her petulantly. "I do believe you don't care, Katharine. Oh, poor papa!" Then, as she saw the pain in her sister's face, she added, "Forgive me, Kit! I know you do care; but how can you keep so quiet? It's all so dreadful, and we shall be poor and alone, and nobody will care for us."

"Hush, Jessie!"

Her sister spoke almost sharply, for she felt her own courage fast giving way. Then, sitting down on the side of the bed, with her beautiful brown hair waving loose about her shoulders, she took her sister's hand in hers.

"Jessie dear," she said gently; "listen to me, please. You and I mustn't give up so and cry about this; we must be brave and cheerful for mamma's sake. Poor mamma is out there all alone, and we must go to her and help her to bear it all. We are stronger than she is, and we have each other, so we must help each other and help her. We've had a great many good times already, and nothing can take those away; but now comes the chance to show what we are, and whether we have any courage. There will be a great deal to do when we get home, so we have no right to give up and make ourselves ill with crying. Now we must go to bed and try to sleep, so we can be ready for to-morrow; and—Oh, Jessie, if we only knew where papa was to-night! He was always so good and kind that I know he has never done anything wicked."

Katharine's head went down on the pillow beside Jessie's, and the two daughters sobbed together over their father's guilt.

They were all at the station to see them off the next night. The sun was just setting as the train moved away, and the little group of three on the rear platform looked back to see its golden light fall upon the friends they were leaving: the girls, Alan, Dr. and Mrs. Adams, and even patient old Job, who stood quietly in the background, watching the scene about him with a half wondering air of sympathy.

Jessie turned to enter the car.

"Wait just a minute more," said Katharine wistfully.

A sudden opening between the buildings gave her one more glimpse of the figures still standing there as they had left them, and Katharine strained her eyes to catch the parting wave of Alan's cap, while her lips quivered. Then she exclaimed excitedly,—

"See, Jessie! See!"

They were just passing within sight of the hospital and, from a well-known window, a hand was waving a farewell to them. It was Bridget, who had begged to be moved to the window, that she might be the one to say the final good by, before the train went rushing away into the gathering twilight.

"I feel as if I had just been to a funeral," sighed Molly, as she walked home with Polly; for she and Alan were to stay with Mrs. Adams during their mother's absence.

"It was just like one," said Jean sorrowfully. But Polly objected.

"No, girls," she said; "no funeral was ever like this, for a funeral is all sad, and this isn't. I'm sorry for them, more so than I can tell; but, after all, it has given Katharine a chance to show how glorious she is. It just makes me glad to know such a magnificent girl."

And Alan added,—

"Yes, you may talk all day about your heroines; but I've just seen one of them, and it's a sight I shan't forget soon, either."



CHAPTER XX.

ONE LAST GLIMPSE.

Indian summer had come once more, and the same soft haze which, only last year, the girls had seen over the blue Connecticut with its meadows and mountains, now rested quite as lovingly upon the dull waters of the Missouri, as they wound along between their low bluffs and level prairies. There, there had been the restful quiet of the old town, peacefully living on the reputation of its two centuries of strong, honorable life, justly proud of the famous names it had given to its state and country; here, there was the ceaseless, unwearying bustle of a new civilization, the restless activity of a city whose glory was yet to be and whose present ambition was only to grow and to accumulate riches. All the contrast between the two places, all the change from the surroundings of a year ago to the life of to-day were keenly felt by the young girl who was sitting on the piazza of a little house in Omaha, one morning, idly enjoying the late autumn sunshine.

"Come out here a minute, Jessie," she called suddenly, as she heard some one coming down the stairs behind her. "We shan't have many more days like this, and do let's take a few minutes to enjoy this one."

"But Aunt Jane would say it was sinful to waste the golden moments," said Jessie, laughing, as, duster in hand, she came out on the steps.

"Not a bit of it," said the other. "I haven't sat down before this since my breakfast, and I know that lunch will be all the better, if I take a few minutes to rest and breathe this lovely air. Where's mamma?"

"She's lying down; she said her head ached. Oh, Kit, doesn't this make you homesick for last year and all the girls?"

"And Alan, too," added Katharine. "Yes, it does, Jessie, whenever I stop to think of it. We did have a perfect year at auntie's, and once in a while I wish we were back there. Do you remember the day Job was loose, and they couldn't catch him?"

"'I feel it in my bones,' as Miss Bean would say," said Jessie; "that the time will come when we shall all be together again. At least, we made the very most of our time."

"True," said Katharine thoughtfully; "and I don't know what we should have done this summer, Jessie, if we hadn't had those lessons in cooking. I had no idea then that we shouldn't always have servants, and if we'd stayed here, we never should have known anything about housekeeping. And the worst of it is, I like it. I always knew I had plebeian tastes and, now I am used to it, I fairly revel in washing dishes."

"I'm not half so homesick for the old house as I thought I should be," said Jessie, while she meditatively folded a series of tucks in her gingham apron. "It was dreadful at first, having to leave the old place and the servants and the furniture; but, after all, we haven't had such a bad time. I don't know as I want to do housework for a living, I prefer medicine; but I don't mind it a bit, for a while. If I'm to keep old maid's hall, I want to know how to do it."

"Yes; but we can't go on like this much longer, Jessie," her sister replied. "I was talking about it to mamma, only a few days ago. We must try to get a young girl to help about the house, for it is settled that you are to go back into school after Christmas."

"' Sufficient unto the day,'" said Jessie, laughing. "You know I'd much rather stay at home and help you than go back to school. Why must I go, any more than you?"

"I was supposed to be finished last year, ready to come out," answered Katharine; "and so I ought to be finished enough to stay in. But when we get settled down for the winter, I mean to go on and do a little studying by myself, history or something. I don't know yet just what it will be. You've had a hard summer and fall, Jessie," she added, surveying her sister with a motherly air; "but you've gone through it splendidly, and I'm proud of you."

"It's no harder for me than for you," responded Jessie sturdily; "and it hasn't made half the difference in my plans. But there are times, Kit, when I do feel as if I must see papa again."

"I don't dare let myself think about him much," said Katharine slowly. "It is one of the things we can't undo, and must take as they come." She was silent for a few moments, then added, with an evident effort to turn the conversation, "Here comes the postman. I don't suppose he has anything for us, though."

"Maybe he has," answered Jessie hopefully. "It is ever and ever so long since we heard from any of the girls."

The sisters sat watching the man as he came slowly down the street, stopping here and there to leave a part of his precious burden.

"Don't you ever wish you could know just what is in all those letters?" asked Jessie, as she rested her chin in her hands.

"No, I don't know as I do," replied Katharine. "If it were all funny or interesting, it would be well enough; but think of all the letters that have sad or ugly things to tell. I do wish he would bring us one, though."

"Perhaps he will. Yes, he's going to!" And Jessie sprang down the steps to meet the man, who paused long enough to hand her a thick envelope, and then went on out of sight, quite disregarded by the girls who were all-absorbed in their mail.

"It's yours," said Jessie, as she deliberately mounted the steps once more; "but I can't make out whose writing it is. Part of it looks like Alan's, and part like Polly's. It's from some of them, anyway. Do see if you can make it out." And she tossed the envelope into her sister's lap.

No true woman ever opens a letter to find out from whom it comes. Katharine carefully and minutely studied the one in her hand, without attempting to resort to the most natural method of obtaining an answer to the question. At length she raised her head with a laugh.

"It's from them all," she said. "Polly wrote my name, Molly the city, and Alan the state. This is one of that boy's pranks."

"Do hurry to open it," said Jessie impatiently.

Katharine recklessly tore it open and' drew out four separate sheets.

"I told you so," she said triumphantly. "And one from Mrs. Adams, too! Which shall I take first? None of them are very long."

"Begin with Molly," said Jessie, settling herself comfortably to listen while her sister read,-

"DEAR KATHARINE AND JESSIE,—I haven't any idea who owes the other a letter, but I am getting so homesick for you that I shall write to you anyway. It isn't that I have much to say, for it does seem as if nothing had happened since you left here. I wrote you, didn't I, that the Langs have all gone abroad for a year? Only half of us left here, now! I miss Florence, and I rather envy her; but, after all, my first journey is going to be to Omaha. Jean and Polly and I are here, just the same as ever, only Jean is getting dignified and doesn't walk fences, any longer. But you have no idea how proud we are of Polly. She had the dearest little poem in the school paper last month; and this month she is to be editor, the first time a girl has ever done it. She and Alan are writing, too. They came in and found out what I was doing, so they said they were each going to put in a note. I don't think it is quite fair, for I know they will tell you all the news.

"You ought to have seen the new clothes Florence had, before she went away. I went there once to see them, and it was like a whole dry-goods store. She sent for Bridget, one day, and gave her ever so many of her old things, to be made over for the children; and Bridget went off hugging the great bundle and crying because she was 'afraid Miss Florence would get drownded on the way.'

"Polly has just showed me what she has been writing about Aunt Jane. I do wish you could be here for the wedding. I think Job almost ought to march in the bridal party, for he helped Mr. Baxter to get ready for a second marriage.

"Mrs. Adams has just come in, and wants my pen to write a little note while she waits for mamma to get ready to go out with her, so I'm not going to write another single word till I hear from you. Answer this soon, like dear girls. Mamma would send love, if she knew I was writing.

"Your loving cousin,

"MOLLY HAPGOOD."

"That's short enough, I should think," said Jessie ungratefully. "My last letter to her was two whole sheets long."

"Nevermind," answered Katharine; "let's see what Mrs. Adams says. Isn't it good of her to write?"

"My DEAR GIRLS,—This is only a little note to tuck inside Molly's letter; but I did just want to say how glad I am to hear of the way my two girls are doing the work that has come to them. I am proud of them and happy in them, for they both seem almost like my own daughters.

"And this brings me to my new plan. It occurred to me, the other day, that we shall be a very lonely, forlorn pair of old people, when Polly goes off to college. Why wouldn't it be a good idea for Jessie to plan to come back to us then, and take Polly's place for the four years, bring a little young life into the home, and study medicine with the doctor while she does it. It is too soon, of course, to decide; but I want you both to be thinking about it, for it seems to me an excellent idea.

"And now I must run away and make a call with Aunt Ruth.

"With a great deal of love from

"'AUNT ISABEL.'"

"Oh-h-h!" And Jessie gave a sigh of rapture.

"Yes, it is lovely of her, and just like her," said Katharine; "and I don't see why you can't go. But now let's take Alan's letter. It will be sure to be a good one, even if it is short. Listen I"

"DEAR KIT,—Is it six months or six years since you went home? We are all in the dumps without you, and don't have anybody to pull us out. How comes on your housekeeping? Molly made some biscuits, last night, that were so hard we had to get hammers to crack them open, before we could put on any butter. I told her she'd better send one to you girls, for a curiosity, but she said they were so heavy that she couldn't afford to pay postage on them.

"Did you know Poll and I are taking Latin lessons together of Professor Smythe? We go to him twice a week, and have been at it a month, now. We're racing each other as hard as we can. First she asks for a longer lesson, just to tease me, then I return the compliment, and neither of us will give in, so it keeps us studying all the time, mostly. We don't care much, for nothing seems to be happening, this year. We must have used up all the fun, last winter. You and Jessie are gone, Florence is gone, Bridget is gone, Aunt Jane is going, and the rest of us will follow her pretty soon, unless Molly gives up trying to cook.

"By the way, Miss Bean—Polly says I shan't tell, but I'm going to—asked Mrs. Adams, the other day, how she made that oyster broth she had for first course, the day Polly gave her dinner. She thought the lumps were oysters.

"That's all for this time.

"ALAN O. HAPGOOD."

"P.S. I entirely forgot to send my love to Jessie."

"Saucy boy!" exclaimed Jessie, laughing.

"Isn't he an imp?" said Katharine, as she folded the letter. "He made up all that about Miss Bean, I know, for she didn't take any soup that day. I remember her refusing it. Do you remember—"

"Do you remember?" echoed Jessie mockingly. "I wonder how many times we have said that, Kit. As if we didn't both of us remember every single thing that happened through all the year we were East! What does Polly say?"

"Hers is longer," said Katharine, as she opened it. "She is the best of them all to write, and her letters sound just like her funny, topsy-turvy self."

"DEAR GIRLS,—First of all, I must tell you the one grand item of news. Aunt Jane is going to be married on Thanksgiving Day. The Baxter children have all been exposed to chicken-pox, and Aunt Jane has made up her mind to be married at once, so she can take care of them when they come down with it. Isn't it good of her, really? I don't think she minds much, though, for she acts fond of them. Uncle Sol, as I call him behind his back, brought the youngest here, one day early in the fall; and when I went into the room, there,—fancy it!—there sat Aunt Jane with the baby in her lap, playing pat-a-cake with it, just as nice as could be. I was so surprised that I almost dropped down on the floor. But she insists on being married in black silk, she says it will be so serviceable. I think it will look just as if she were in mourning for the first Mrs. Baxter. Alan says that if the children all have chicken-pox, they won't need to buy a turkey for Thanksgiving.

"Papa wants me to tell you that Bridget keeps just as well and strong as can be. He drove up there to see her, two or three weeks ago, and she asked all about yon both. I go to the hospital once in a while, to see the small boys, and I make Alan go with me whenever I can. He has cut me all out with Dicky, and the child won't have anything to say to me, when he can get Alan. You would hardly know Alan, he has grown so tall; and we think he is getting quite good-looking, too. Of course, he is always a duck.

"Molly and I are growing good. We haven't had a squabble since Florence went away. I suppose, now she can't get anybody else, she has to put up with me. She has just three ideas in her head at present: cooking, some singing lessons she is going to begin next month, and her new gown. I suppose she would say I'm envious, for my new gown this winter is one of mamma's made over.

"Miss Bean came to spend the day, last week. She appeared early, for she said she wanted time to look over all Aunt Jane's new things, 'seeing's how' she made the match. She did look them over, too, and asked what everything cost, and why she didn't have something else, and then she gave her any quantity of advice about how to bring up the children.

"I almost forgot to tell you anything about Job. He ran away, the other day, going up a hill. A bee lighted on the side of his neck and stung him, and it astonished him so that he just started off and ran. for almost a quarter of a mile. Then, all of a sudden, he sat down with all four legs at once, and that stopped him. Poor fellow, he is getting so old!

"What a long letter I am writing! The others are through, and waiting for me to carry this to the mail. Alan is making such a noise that I can't hear myself write. He is singing:

"'Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles.'

"I don't know whether he means us with Job, or Aunt Jane with the Baxter babies, or you with the housekeeping. Perhaps it is for all three. Anyway, it is good advice.

"Now I must stop. Oh, you dear girls, how I do want to see you! Papa and Jerusalem always send love. I could go on for ever so much longer, but at last I must say good by.

"Your friend,

"POLLY ADAMS."

THE END