At evening the princess received a message from Gabriel and ordered that he be sent to her.

In a minute he entered, dressed in the shabby garments in which he had leaped upon the coach step. In his hand he held a little rusty book, and his clear eyes looked steadily at the princess, with the honest light which had first made her listen to him.

"I come to say farewell, your highness," he said.

A line showed in her forehead. "What reward have they given you?"

"None, your highness."

"What have you in your hand?"

"The Book of Life."

"Come nearer and let me see it."

The ladies-in-waiting were, as usual, grouped near their mistress, and they stared curiously at the peasant boy.

Only Topaz, who at his entrance had bounded from a satin cushion as golden as his flossy coat, leaped upon him with every sign of affection.

Gabriel approached and handed the book to the princess.

She opened it and ran her eye over the gray pages. "I see no fiery letters," she said, and handed it back. The boy opened it. As usual a flaming verse arrested his eye. He pointed with his finger at the words and read aloud:—

"'He shall call upon me and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble: I will deliver him and honor him.'"

"'Tis a fair promise," said the princess, "but I see no flaming letters."

"I do, your highness," returned Gabriel simply, and looking into his eyes she knew that he spoke the truth.

She gazed at him curiously. "Where go you now, and what do you do?" she asked, after a pause.

"That I know not," replied Gabriel, "but God will show me."

"By means of that book?"

"Yes, your highness," and Gabriel bowed his head and moved toward the door. Topaz followed close at his heel. If Gabriel were going for a walk, why, so much the better. He was going, too.

The boy smiled rather sadly, for he knew the golden dog loved him, and there was no one else anywhere who cared whether he went or came. He stooped and, picking up the little creature, carried him to the princess. "You will have to hold him from following me, your highness."

The girl took the dog, but he struggled and broke from her grasp, to leap once again upon his departing friend.

"Wait," said the princess, and rose. Gabriel stood, all attention, and gazed at her, where she stood, smiling kindly upon him. "I promised a full reward to whomever returned me my dog. You have not yet received even the window-full of pink and white sweetmeats which I promised you this morning."

Gabriel smiled, too.

"Where is your home, Gabriel, and why are you not returning there?"

"I have no home. It is a long story, your highness, and would not interest you."

"Ah, but it does interest me," and the princess smiled more brightly than ever; "because if you have no home you can remain in our service."

A light flashed into Gabriel's sober face. "What happiness!" he exclaimed.

No answer could have pleased the princess better than the pleasure in his eyes. "Topaz is not willing you should leave him, and neither am I. When you are older, his majesty, my father, will look after your fortunes. For the present you shall be a page."

"Your highness!" protested the Lady Gertrude, "have you considered? The pages are of lofty birth. Will it not go hard with the peasant? Give him a purse and let him go."

The princess answered but did not remove her gaze from the boy's flushed face, while Topaz's cold little nose nestled in his down-dropped hand.

"Gabriel is my friend, be he prince or peasant," she said slowly, "and it will go hard with those who love him not." The young girl's eyes met Gabriel's and then she smiled as light-heartedly as on this morning when she wore the woolen gown. "And now make Topaz dance," she added, "the way he danced in the woods."

The boy's happy glance dropped to the dog, and he raised his finger. With alacrity Topaz sat up, and then Gabriel began to whistle.

How the court ladies murmured with soft laughter, for no one had ever seen such a pretty sight. Not for any of them, not for the princess herself, had Topaz danced as he danced to-day.

"Ah," murmured the princess, "how much more powerful than the whip is love!"

When music and dancing had ceased, she smiled once more upon Gabriel, whose happy heart was full.

"Go now," she said, "and learn of your new duties; but the chief one you have learned already. It is to be faithful!"



CHAPTER XII

THE TALKING DOLL

Mr. Evringham's horseback rides in these days were apt to be accompanied by the stories, which Jewel related to him with much enthusiasm while they cantered through wood-roads, and it is safe to say that the tales furnished full as much entertainment at second hand as they had at first.

The golden dog had deeply impressed Jewel's fancy, and when she finished relating the story, her face all alight, Mr. Evringham shook his head.

"Star is going to have his hands full, I can see," he remarked, restraining Essex Maid's longing for a gallop.

"Why, grandpa?"

"To hold his own against that dog."

Jewel looked thoughtful. "I suppose it wouldn't be any use to try to teach Star to dance, would it?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Ponies learn to dance. We shall have to go to a circus and let you see one; but how should you like it every time Star heard a band or a hand-organ to have him get up on his hind legs and begin?"

Jewel laughed and patted her pony's glossy neck. "I guess I like Star best the way he is," she replied, "but grandpa, did you ever hear of such a darling dog?"

"I confess I never did," admitted the broker.

"I should think there was some trick Star could learn," said Jewel musingly.

"Why, of course there is. Tell Zeke you wish to teach Star to shake hands. He'll help you."

This idea pleased Jewel very much, and in the fullness of time the feat was accomplished; but by the time the black pony had learned that he must lift his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress's hand, before his lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the Lady Gertrude, that there had never been a yellow dog in the world.

When next Mrs. Evringham, Jewel, and Anna Belle settled in the ravine to the reading of a story, it was Jewel's turn to choose. When her mother had finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance. Mrs. Evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute's thought, Jewel turned to Anna Belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree.

"Just excuse me one minute, dearie," she said; then, coming close to her mother's ear, she whispered:—

"Is there anything in 'The Talking Doll' to hurt Anna Belle's feelings?"

"No, I think she'd rather like it," returned Mrs. Evringham.

"You see," whispered Jewel, "she doesn't know she's a doll."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Evringham.

Jewel sat back: "I choose," she said aloud, "I choose 'The Talking Doll.'"

As Anna Belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, Mrs. Evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:—

* * * * *

When Gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming across her room, all decorated in rose and white. It was the prettiest room any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed soberly at the dancing sunbeams.

"Ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room.

"Oh, you're awake, Miss Gladys. Isn't this a fine birthday Mother Nature's fixed up for you?"

The pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into Gladys's face. "Now what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last.

"I don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "There isn't anything I want. I've been trying to think what I'd like to have, and I can't think of a thing." She said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were being unkind to her.

Ellen shook her head. "You are a very unlucky child," she returned impressively.

"I am not," retorted Gladys, looking at Ellen in astonishment. The idea that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until night as their greatest treasure, could be called unlucky! She had never expressed a wish in her life that had not been gratified. "You mustn't say such things to me, Ellen," added the child, vexed that her maid did not look sorry for having made such a blunder.

Ellen had taken care of her ever since she was born, and no one should know better what a happy, petted life she had led; but Ellen only shook her head now; and when Gladys was dressed she went down to the dining-room where her parents were waiting to give her a birthday greeting.

They kissed her lovingly, and then her mother said:—

"Well, what does my little girl want for her gift?"

"What have you for me?" asked Gladys, with only faint interest. She had closets and drawers full of toys and books and games, and she was like a person who has been feasted and feasted, and then is asked to sit down again at a loaded table.

For answer her mother produced from behind a screen a beautiful doll. It was larger and finer than any that Gladys had owned, and its parted, rosy lips showed pearly little teeth within.

Gladys looked at it without moving, but began to smile. Then her mother put her hand about the doll's waist and it suddenly said: "Ma-ma—Pa-pa."

"Oh, if she can talk!" cried Gladys, looking quite radiant for a minute, and running forward she took the doll in her arms.

"Her name is Vera," said the mother, happy at having succeeded in pleasing her child. "Here is something that your grandmother sent you, dear. Isn't it a quaint old thing?" and Gladys's mother showed her a heavy silver bowl with a cover. On the cover was engraved, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

"I don't know where your grandma found such an odd thing nor why she sent it to a little girl; but she says it will be an heirloom for you."

Gladys looked at the bowl and handled it curiously. The cover fitted so well and the silver was so bright she was rather pleased at having, such a grown-up possession.

"It is evidently valuable," said her mother. "I will have it put with our silver."

"No," returned Gladys, and her manner was the willful one of a spoiled child. "I want it in my room. I like it."

"Oh, very well," answered her mother. "Grandma will be glad that you are pleased."

An excursion into the country had been planned for Gladys to-day. She had some cousins there, a girl of her own age and a boy a little older. She had not seen Faith and Ernest for five years. Their father and mother were away on a long visit now, so the children were living in the old farmhouse with an aunt of their father's to take care of them. Gladys's mother thought it would be a pleasant change for her in the June weather, and it was an attractive idea to Gladys to think of giving these country cousins a sight of her dainty self, her fine clothes, and perhaps she would take them one or two old toys that she liked the least; but the coming of Vera put the toy idea completely out of her head. What would Faith say to a doll who could talk!

Gladys was in haste now for the time to come to take the train; and as Vera was well supplied with various costumes, the doll was soon arrayed, like her little mamma, in pretty summer street-dress and ready to start.

Gladys's father had a guest to-day, so his wife remained at home with him, and Ellen took charge of the birthday excursion.

Driving to the station and during the hour's ride on the train, Gladys was in gay spirits, chattering about her new doll and arranging its pretty clothes, and each time Vera uttered her words, the child would laugh, and Ellen laughed with her. Gladys was a girl ten years old, but to the maid she was still a baby, and although Ellen thought she saw the child's parents making mistakes with her every day, she, like them, was so relieved when Gladys was good-natured that she joined heartily in the little girl's pleasure now over her birthday present.

"Won't Faith's eyes open when she sees Vera?" asked Gladys gayly.

"I expect they will," returned Ellen. "What have you brought with you for her and her brother?"

The child shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing. I meant to but I forgot it, because I was so pleased with Vera. Isn't her hair sweet, Ellen?" and Gladys twisted the soft, golden locks around her fingers.

"Yes, but it would have been nice to bring something for those children. They don't have so much as you do."

"Of course not. I don't believe they have much of anything. You know they're poor. Mother sends them money sometimes, so it's all right." And Gladys poked the point of her finger within Vera's rosy lips and touched her little white teeth.

Ellen shook her head and Gladys saw it and pouted. "Why didn't you think of it, then, or mother?" she asked.

"You won't have somebody to think for you all your life," returned Ellen. "You'd better be beginning to think about other people yourself, Gladys. What's that it said on your grandmother's silver bowl?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something about giving and receiving."

"Yes. 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' that's what it said," and Ellen looked hard at her companion, though with a very soft gaze, too; for she loved this little girl because she had spent many a wakeful night and busy day for her.

"Yes, I remember," returned Gladys. "Grandma had that put on because she wanted me to know how much she would rather give me things than have people give things to her. Anyway, Ellen, if you are going to be cross on my birthday I wish mother had come with me, instead;" and a displeased cloud came over the little-girl's face, which Ellen hastened to drive away by changing the subject. She knew her master and mistress would reprove her for annoying their idol. They always said, when their daughter was unusually naughty or selfish, "Oh, Gladys will outgrow all these things. We Won't make much of them."

By the time they reached the country station, Gladys's spirits were quite restored and, carrying her doll, she left the train with Ellen.

Faith and Ernest were there to meet them. No wonder the children did not recognize each other, for they had been so young when last they met; and when Gladys's curious eyes fell upon the country girl, she felt like a princess who comes to honor humble subjects with a visit.

Faith and Ernest had never thought about being humble subjects. Their rich relative who lived in some unknown place and sometimes sent their mother gifts of money and clothing had often roused their gratitude, and when she had written that their cousin Gladys would like to visit the farm on her birthday, they at once set their wits to work to think how they could make her have a good time. They always had a good time themselves, and now that vacation had begun, the days seemed very full of fun and sunshine. They thought it must be hard to live in a city street as their mother had described, it to them, and even though she was away now and could not advise them, they felt as if they could make Gladys enjoy herself.

Faith's hair was shingled as short as her brother's, and her gingham frock was clean and fresh. She watched each person descend from the train, and when a pretty girl with brown eyes and curls appeared, carrying a large doll, Faith's bright gaze grew brighter, and she was delighted to find that it was Gladys. She took it for granted that kind-faced Ellen, so well dressed in black, was her aunt, and greeted her so, but Gladys's brown eyes widened.

"My mother couldn't come, for father needed her," she explained. "This is my maid, Ellen."

"Oh," said Faith, much impressed by such elegance. "We thought aunt Helen was coming. Ernest is holding the horse over here," and she led the way to a two-seated wagon where a twelve-year-old boy in striped shirt and old felt hat was waiting.

Faith made the introductions and then helped Gladys and Ellen into the back seat of the wagon, all unconscious of her cousin's wonder at the absence of silver mountings and broadcloth cushions. Then Faith climbed over the wheel into the seat beside her brother, and the horse started. She turned about so as to talk more easily with her guest.

"What a beautiful doll!" she said admiringly.

"Yes," returned Gladys, "this is my birthday, you know."

"Oh, then, is it new? I thought it was! Hasn't she the prettiest clothes? Have you named her yet?"

"Her name is Vera. Mother says it means true, or truth, or something like that."

Ernest turned half around to glance at the object of the girls' admiration; but he thought Gladys herself a much more attractive creature than the doll.

"I suppose your cousin Gladys can't ask you to admire her doll much, Master Ernest," said Ellen. She liked these rosy children at once, and the fresh, sunlit air that had painted their cheeks.

"Oh, it's pretty enough," returned Ernest, turning back and clucking to the horse.

Gladys enjoyed Faith's pleasure. She would not try to show off Vera's supreme accomplishment in this rattlety-banging wagon. How it did jounce over occasional stones in the country road!



Ellen smiled at her as the child took hold of her arm in fear of losing her balance. "That was a 'thank-ye-ma'am,'" she said, as the wagon suddenly bounded over a little hillock. "Didn't you see what a pretty curtsy we all made?"

But Gladys thought it was rather uncomfortable and that Ernest drove too fast, considering the state of the toads.

"This wagon has such nice springs," said Faith. She was eager to take Vera into her own hands, but no wonder Gladys liked to hold her when she had only had her such a short time.

Aunt Martha was standing on the piazza to welcome the company when they arrived. She was an elderly woman with spectacles, and it had to be explained to her, also, that Ellen was not Gladys's mother.

The maid was so well dressed in her quiet street suit that aunt Martha groaned in spirit at first at the prospect of caring for a fashionable city servant; and it was a relief when the stranger looked up and said pleasantly: "I'm just Ellen."

There was an hour left before dinner, and Faith and Ernest carried Gladys off to a place they called the grove. The farmhouse was painted in light yellow and white. It was built on a grassy slope, and at the foot of a gentle hill a pretty pond lay, and out from this flowed a brook. If one kept quite still he could hear the soft babble of the little stream even from the piazza. Nearer by was a large elm-tree, so wide-spreading that the pair of Baltimore orioles who hung their swaying nest on one limb scarcely had a bowing acquaintance with the robins who lived on the other side. The air was full of pleasant scents, and Gladys followed her hosts willingly, far to the right side of the house, where a stone wall divided the grounds from a piece of woodland. Her cousins bounded over the wall, and she tried to find a safe spot for her dainty, thin shoe, the large doll impeding her movements.

"Oh, let me take her!" cried Faith eagerly, seeing her cousin's predicament; and as she carefully lifted the beautiful Vera, she added: "Help Gladys over, Ernest."

Ernest was very unused to girls who had to be helped, and he was rather awkward in trying to give his cousin assistance, but as Gladys tetered on the unsteady stones, she grasped his strong shoulder and jumped down.

"Father and Ernest cleared this grove out for us," explained Faith. All the underbrush had been carried away and the straight, sweet-smelling pines rose from a carpet of dry needles. A hammock was swung between two trees. It was used more by the children's mother than by them, as they were too active to care for it; but Gladys immediately ran toward it, her recovered doll in her arms, and seated herself in the netting. Her cousins regarded her admiringly as she sat there pushing herself with her dainty shoe-tips.

"I'll swing you," said Ernest, and running to her side began with such a will that Gladys cried out:—

"Oh, not so hard, not so hard!" and the boy dropped his hands, abashed.

Now, while they were both standing before her, was a good time for Gladys to give them her great surprise; so she put her hands about Vera's waist, and at once "Ma-ma—Pa-pa" sounded in the still grove.

Ernest pricked up his ears. "I hear a sheep," he said, looking about.

Gladys flushed, but turning toward Faith for appreciation, she made the doll repeat her accomplishment.

"It's that dear Vera!" cried Faith, falling on her knees in the pine needles before Gladys. "Oh, make her do it again, Gladys, please do!"

Her visitor smiled and complied, pleased with her country cousin's delight.

"Think of a doll that can talk!" cried Faith.

"I think she bleats," laughed Ernest, and he mimicked Vera's staccato tones.

Faith laughed, too, but Gladys gave him a flash of her brown eyes.

"A boy doesn't know anything about dolls," said Faith. "I should think you'd be the happiest girl, Gladys!"

"I am," returned Gladys complacently. "What sort of a doll have you, Faith?"

"Rag, tag, and bobtail," laughed Ernest.

"Now you keep still," said his sister. "I'll show you my dolls when we go to dinner, Gladys. I don't play with them very much because Ernest doesn't like to, and now it's vacation we're together a lot, you know; but I just love them, and if you were going to stay longer we'd have a lot of fun."

Faith looked so bright as she spoke, Gladys wished she had brought something for her. She wasn't so sure about Ernest. He was a nice-looking, strong boy, but he had made fun of Vera. At present he was letting off some of his superfluous energy by climbing a tree.

"Look out for the pitch, Ernest," said his sister warningly. "See, Gladys, I have a horse out here," and Faith went to where the low-growing limb of a pine sprang flexibly as she leaped upon it into an imaginary side-saddle. Gladys smiled at her languidly, as she bounded gayly up and down.

"I have a pony," returned Gladys, rocking gently in her swinging cradle.

"That must be splendid," said Faith. "Ernest rides our old Tom bareback around the pasture sometimes, but I can't."

Very soon the children were called to dinner, and wonderfully good it tasted to Gladys, who took note of cottage cheese, apple-butter, and doughnuts, and determined to order them at home the very next day.

As they were all rising from the table, a telegraph boy drove up in a buggy, and a telegram was handed to Ellen. Her face showed surprise as she read it, and she looked at aunt Martha.

"Could we stay here a few days?" she asked.

"What is it, Ellen?" demanded Gladys.

"Your father's friend wants him and your mother to take a trip with him, and your mother thinks you might like to stay here a while. I'm to answer, and she will send some clothes and things."

Aunt Martha had already learned to like good, sensible Ellen, and she replied cordially; so a telegram went back by the messenger boy, and Faith and Gladys both jumped up and down with pleasure at the prolonging of the visit. Ernest looked pleased, too. In spite of Gladys's rather languid, helpless ways, he admired her very much; so the children scampered away, being left this time on a chair in the parlor.

"Do you like turtles?" asked Faith of the guest.

"I don't know," returned Gladys.

"Didn't you ever see any?" asked Ernest in astonishment.

"I don't believe so."

"Then come on!" cried the boy, with a joyous whoop. "We'll go turtle-hunting."

Gladys skipped along with them until they reached the brook.

"Now Ernest will walk on that side of the water," said Faith, "and you and I will go on this."

"But what are we going to do?"

"Watch for turtles. You'll see."

Ernest jumped across the brook. Gladys walked along the soft grass behind Faith, and the bubbling little stream swirled around its stones and gently bent its grasses as it ran through the meadow.

In a minute Faith's practiced eye caught sight of a dark object on a stone directly in front of them.

It was a turtle sunning himself. His black shell was covered with bright golden spots, and his eyes were blinking slowly in the warm light.

"Quick, Ernest!" cried Faith, for it was on his side.

He sprang forward, but not quickly enough. The turtle had only to give one vigorous push of his hind feet and, plump, he fell into the water. Instantly the brook became muddy at that point, for Mr. Turtle knew that he must be a very busy fellow if he escaped from the eager children who were after him.

He burrowed into the soft earth while Ernest and Faith threw themselves flat on their stomachs. Gladys opened her brown eyes wide to see her cousins, their sleeves stripped up, plunging their hands blindly about hoping to trap their reluctant playfellow.

Ernest was successful, and bringing up the muddy turtle, soused him in the water until his golden spots gleamed again.

"Hurrah!" cried Faith, "we have him. Let me show him to Gladys, please, Ernest," and the boy put the turtle into the hand stretched across to him.

As soon as the creature found that kicking and struggling did not do any good, it had drawn head, legs, and tail into its pretty shell house.

Faith put him into Gladys's hand, but the little city girl cried out and dropped him on the grass.

"Oh, excuse me," laughed Faith. "I thought you wanted to see it."

"I do, but I don't believe I want to touch it."

"Why, they're the dearest, cleanest things," said Faith, and picking up the turtle she showed her cousin its pretty under shell of cream color and black, and the round splashes of gold on its black back.

"But I saw it kicking and scratching Ernest, and putting its head way out," said Gladys doubtfully, "and I don't like to hold it because it might put out all its legs and things again."

Faith laughed. "It only has four legs and a cunning little tail; and we know how to hold it so it can't scratch us, anyway; but it won't put out its head again until it thinks we've gone away, because this is an old one. See, the shell covers my hand all over. The littler ones are livelier and more willing to put out their heads. I don't believe we've had this one before, Ernest," added Faith, examining the creature. "We nearly always use the big ones for horses," she explained, "and then there's a gimlet hole through the shell."

"Who would do that?" exclaimed Gladys, drawing back.

"Ernest. Why!" observing her cousin's look of horror. "It doesn't hurt them. We wouldn't hurt them for anything. We just love them, and if they weren't geese they'd love us, too."

"Use them for horses? What do you mean?"

"Why, they draw my smallest dolls in lovely chariots."

"Oh," returned Gladys. This sounded mysterious and interesting. She even took the clean, compact shell into her hands for a minute before Faith gathered up her dress skirt and dropped the turtle into it, the three proceeding along the brook side, taking up their watch again.

The warm, sunny day brought the turtles out, and the next one they saw was not larger than the palm of Ernest's hand. It was swimming leisurely with the current.

They all three saw it at once, but quick as Faith was, the lively little creature was quicker. As she and Ernest both darted upon it, it scrambled for her side and burrowed swiftly under the bank. This was the best stronghold for the turtle, and the children knew it.

"I just can't lose him, I can't!" cried Faith, and Gladys wondered at the fearless energy with which she dived her hand into the mud, feeling around, unmindful which portion of the little animal she grasped if she only caught him; and catch him she did. With a squeal of delight she pulled out the turtle, who continued to swim vigorously, even when in mid air.

"He's splendid and lively!" exclaimed Faith. "You can see him go on the grass, Gladys," and the little girl put the creature down, heading him away from the brook, and he made good time, thinking he was getting away from his captor. "You see, Ernest harnesses them to a little pasteboard box, and I put in my smallest dolls and we have more fun;" but by this time the turtle realized that he was traveling inland, and turned around suddenly in the opposite direction.

"No, no, pet!" cried Faith gayly. "Not yet," and she picked up the lively one. "See, you hold them this way;" she held the shell between her thumb and middle finger and the sharp little claws sawed the air in vain. "There, cunning," she added, looking into the turtle's bright eyes, "go see your auntie or uncle, or whoever it is," and she put it into her dress with the other one, and they walked on.

"I hope we shall find a prince," said Ernest, "Gladys ought to see one of those."

"Yes, indeed," responded Faith. "They're snapping turtles, really, and they grow bigger than these common ones; but they're so handsome and hard to find we call them princes. Their shells are gray on top and smooth and polished, like satin; and then, underneath, oh, they're beautiful; sometimes plain ivory, and sometimes bright red; and they have lovely yellow and black splashes where the lower shell joins the upper. I wish you could see a baby turtle, Gladys. Once I found one no bigger than a quarter of a dollar. I don't believe it had ever been in the water."

"I wish I could," returned Gladys, with enthusiasm. "I wouldn't be a bit afraid of a little, little one."

"Of course that one she found was just a common turtle, like these," said Ernest, "but a baby prince is the thing we want."

"Yes, indeed," sighed Faith ecstatically. "If I could just once find a baby prince with a red under shell, I don't know what I'd do! I'd be too happy for anything. I've hunted for one for two whole summers. The big ones do snap so that, though they're so handsome, you can't have much fun with them."

The children walked on, Gladys now quite in the spirit of the hunt. They found two more spotted turtles before they turned again to retrace their steps.

Now it proved that this was to be a red-letter day in the history of their turtle hunts, for on the way home they found the much sought baby prince. He had been in this world long enough to become a polished little creature, with all his points of beauty brought out; but not long enough to be suspicious and to make a wild scramble when he saw the children coming.

Faith's trained eyes fell first upon the tiny, dark object, sunning himself happily in all his baby innocence, and blinking at the lovely green world surrounding his shallow stone. Her heart beat fast and she said to herself, "Oh, I know it's a common one!" She tiptoed swiftly nearer. It was not a common one. It was a prince! It was a prince!

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as, holding her skirt-bag of turtles with one hand, she lightly tiptoed forward, and, falling on her knees in front of the stone, gathered up the prince, just as he saw her and pushed with his tiny feet to slip off the rock into the brook.

"Oh, oh, oh!" was all she could say as she sat there, swaying herself back and forth, and holding the baby to her flushed cheek.

"What is it? What?" cried Ernest, jumping across the brook to her side. She smiled at him and Gladys without a word, and held up her prize, showing the pretty red under shell, while the baby, very much astonished to find himself turned over in mid air, drew himself into his house.

"Oh, the cunning, cunning thing!" cried Gladys, her eyes flashing radiantly. "I'm so glad we found him!"

Gladys, like a good many beside herself, became fired with enthusiasm to possess whatever she saw to be precious in the sight of others. Yesterday, had she seen the baby prince in some store she would not have thought of asking her mother to buy it for her; but to-day it had been captured, a little wild creature for which Faith had been searching and hoping during two summers; and poor Gladys had been so busy all her life wondering what people were going to get for her, and wondering whether she should like it very well when she had it, that now, instead of rejoicing that Faith had such a pleasure, she began to feel a hot unrest and dissatisfaction in her breast.

"He is a little beauty," she said, and then looked at her cousin and waited for her to present to her guest the baby turtle.

"Why didn't I see it first?" she thought, her heart beating fast, for Faith showed no sign of giving up her treasure. "Do you suppose we could find another?" she asked aloud, making her wistfulness very apparent as they again took up the march toward home.

"Well, I guess not," laughed Ernest. "Two of those in a day? I guess not. Let me carry it for you, Faith. You have to hold up your dress skirt."

"Oh, thank you, Ernest, I don't mind, and he's so cunning!"

Ernest kept on with the girls, now, on their side of the brook. It would be an anti-climax to catch any more turtles this afternoon.

"If I could find one," said Gladys, "I would carry it home for my aquarium."

"Oh, have you an aquarium?" asked Faith with interest.

"Yes, a fine one. It has gold and silver fish and a number of little water creatures, and a grotto with plants growing around it."

"How lovely it must be," said Faith, and Gladys saw her press her lips to the baby prince's polished back.

"She's an awfully selfish girl," thought Gladys. "I wouldn't treat company so for anything!"

"You'll see the aquarium Faith and I have," said Ernest. "It's only a tub, but we get a good deal of fun out of it. It's our stable, too, you see. Did you notice we caught one of our old horses to-day? Let's see him, Faith," and Ernest poked among the turtles and brought out one with a little hole made carefully in the edge of his shell.

"It seems very cruel to me," said Gladys, with a superior air.

"Oh, it isn't," returned Faith eagerly. "We'd rather hurt each other than the turtles, wouldn't we, Ernest?"

"I guess so," responded the boy, rather gruffly. He didn't wish Gladys to think him too good.

"It doesn't hurt them a bit," went on Faith, "but you know turtles are lazy. They're all relations of the tortoise that raced with the hare in AEsop's fable." Her eyes sparkled at Gladys, who smiled slightly. "And they aren't very fond of being horses, so we only keep them a day or two and then let them go back into the brook. I think that's about as much fun as anything, don't you, Ernest?"

"Oh, I don't know," responded her brother, who was beginning to feel that all this turtle business was a rather youthful pastime for a member of a baseball team.

"You see," went on Faith, "we put the turtles on the grass only a foot or two away from the brook, and wait."

"And we do have to wait," added Ernest, "for they always retire within themselves and pull down the blind, as soon as we start off with them anywhere."

"But we press a little on their backs," said Faith, "and then they put out their noses, and when they smell the brook they begin to travel. It's such fun to see them dive in, ker-chug! Then they scurry around and burrow in the mud, getting away from us, just as if we weren't willing they should. They are pretty silly, I must say," laughed Faith, "and it's the hardest thing to make them understand that you love them; but," her tone changed tenderly as she held up the baby prince, "you'll know I love you, won't you, dear, when I give you tiny little pieces of meat every day!"

The cloud on Gladys's face deepened.

"Come on, let's hustle and put the turtles away and go for a row. Do you like to row, Gladys?" asked Ernest.

"Yes, I guess so," she responded, rather coldly.

They ran up the hill to the side of the house where was a shallow tub of water with a rock in the middle, its top high and dry. There was also a floating shingle; so the steeds could swim or sun themselves just as suited their fancy. The upper edge of the tub was covered with tin so that sharp little claws could not find a way to climb out.

"It's fun to see them go in," said Faith, placing one on the rock and one on the shingle, where they rested at first without sign of life; but in a minute out came head and legs and, spurning the perches with their strong feet, plump the turtles went into the water and to the bottom, evidently convinced that they were outwitting their captors.

"Don't you want to choose one special one for yours, Gladys? It's fun to name them," said Faith.

The visitor hesitated only a moment. "I choose the baby, then," she said. "You know I'm afraid of the big ones."

Ernest thought she was joking. It did not occur to him that any one who had seen Faith's happiness in finding the prince could seriously think of taking it from her.

"Yes," he laughed, "I guess you and I won't get a chance at that one, Gladys."

Faith's expression changed and her eyes grew thoughtful. "Hurry up, girls," continued Ernest, "come on, we won't have very much time."

So the turtles, prince and all, were left disporting themselves in the tub, and the trio went down to the pond, where Ernest untied his boat. Faith jumped in, but Gladys timorously placed her little foot upon the unsteady gunwale, and the children had to help her into the boat as they had done over the wall.

"I wish I'd brought Vera," she said when she was seated and Ernest was pushing the boat off.

"Next time we will," replied Faith.

"I don't see why Ernest couldn't go back for her now," said Gladys. "I'm not used to walking so much and I'm too tired to go myself."

"You want me to run up the hill after a doll!" asked the boy, laughing. He began to believe his pretty cousin was very fond of joking. "Something might happen to her before you saw her," he added mischievously.

The pond was a charming sheet of water. Trees lined its edges in summer, and it was a great place for sport in winter. Faith and Ernest chattered to their cousin of all the coasting and skating, and their bright faces and jolly stories only increased the uncomfortable feeling that Gladys had allowed to slip into her heart.

Her cousins had more fun than she did. It wasn't fair. She had no eyes for the pretty scenery about her, as Ernest's strong arms sent the boat flying along. Faith noticed her changed looks and for the first time wondered how it was going to seem to have Gladys to take care of for—they couldn't tell how long; but she only tried the harder to bring back the bright look her cousin had worn at dinner time.

In a few minutes Gladys began to rock the boat from side to side.

"Don't do that, please," said Ernest.

There was a tone of command in his voice, and the spoiled child only rocked the harder.

"None of that, I tell you, Gladys," he said sharply.

"Please don't," added Faith.

But the error that Gladys had let creep in was enjoying her cousin's anxiety, and she smiled teasingly as she went on rocking. She had condescended to come out to the farm, and she would let these country children see if they could order her about.

Ernest said no more, but he promptly turned the boat around and pulled for the shore.

"What are you doing?" asked Gladys.

"Going ashore."

"I don't want to," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. "I want to go up there." She pointed to a spot in the distance. "I want to go around that corner and see what there is there."

"Not to-day," replied Ernest, pulling sturdily.

We won't look into Gladys's heart and see what went on there then, because it is too unpleasant.

"You see we're the crew," said Faith, a little scared by her cousin's flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "We have to do what Ernest says. He knows a lot about boats, Gladys, and it is dangerous to rock. The pond is real deep."

"I shall come out in the boat alone, then," declared Gladys.

"Oh, no, you won't," remarked Ernest, smiling. "People that rock boats need a keeper."

Faith's eyes besought him, "I'll take you out to-morrow if you'll promise to sit still," he went on; "but if anything happened to the boat, you see I couldn't save both of you, and I'd be likely to try to save Faith; so you'd better go ashore now and think it over."

Gladys stared at him in utter amazement that any one could speak to her so. Why had she ever come to the farm!

However, she quickly put on a little air of indifference and only said:—

"How silly to be so afraid!"

All she cared for now was to get to Ellen and pour out her troubles, and she was quite silent while she jumped ashore, although the wavering boat made her clutch Faith's hand hard.

Tender-hearted Faith felt very sorry for her cousin, so she began talking about Vera as they went up the hill saying how anxious she was to hear her speak again.

"I'll never let you!" exclaimed that strong error that had taken possession of Gladys, but her lips set tight and she was glad to see Ellen come out on the piazza.

As the children approached they saw that the maid had something bright in her hand, and that she was smiling.

"Well, Gladys," she said, "your mother's sent a trunk, and this was with your clothes. What do you think of that? I expect your mother thought you might like to have it."

Gladys recognized the silver bowl with satisfaction. She was glad to have Faith and Ernest see the sort of things she was used to.

"Oh, it looks like a wishing bowl," cried Faith in admiration.

"It is a solid silver bowl that my grandmother sent me for my birthday," remarked Gladys coolly, and she took it from Ellen.

"Let's see what it says on it," said Faith, and she read the inscription aloud. Then she added: "It does look just like the wishing bowl in our story."

"What was that?" asked Gladys.

"Why, it was a bright, beautiful silver bowl with a cover, and all you had to do if you wanted something was to say:—

Pretty little silver dish, Give me, pray, my dearest wish;

and then, when you took off the cover, whatever you had asked for was in the bowl!"

Gladys shrugged her shoulders. Then she took hold of Ellen's hand and drew her into the house and closed the door after them.

Faith and Ernest did not attempt to follow. They sat down on the steps and looked at one another.

"She's hopping, isn't she?" said Ernest softly.

"Oh, dear," returned Faith dejectedly, "and it all began with the baby prince."

"What do you mean?"

"She wants him for her aquarium."

Ernest paused a minute to think over his cousin's words and actions; then he broke out indignantly; "Well, she won't get him."

"I have hunted for him so long!" mourned Faith, "and his shell is so red; but, Ernest, didn't you notice what it said on that bowl?"

"Yes, I did; but Gladys is a great baby and she isn't going to get everything. Tell her you'll exchange the prince for that baa-ing doll of hers, if you like it. I tell you what, Faith, I've had about enough of her after that boat business. If she's going to stay on here I shall go off with the fellows."

Meanwhile Gladys had seized the beautiful Vera and drawn Ellen off upstairs to their room. The maid saw the signs of storm in her face, and her own grew troubled, for it was one thing to vex Gladys and quite another to appease her.

"I'm not going to stay here," announced the little girl, as soon as the door was closed, her breath coming fast. "Faith and Ernest are the most selfish, impolite children I ever saw!"

Ellen sighed, and, sitting down, drew the child into her lap.

She continued excitedly: "We went turtle-hunting and found a lot of scrabbly things that I couldn't bear, but Faith and Ernest like them. Then when we found a pretty little young one that I wouldn't be a bit afraid of, Faith kept it for herself. Just think, when I was company, and she had all the others beside. I'm just crazy to have it, and they're very hard to find and we can't ever find another. Shouldn't you think she'd feel ashamed? Then when, we went out in the boat, just because I moved around a little and made the boat rock, Ernest brought us in when I didn't want to come a bit. I even told him I didn't want to come in, because I wanted to see a part of the pond that looked pretty, but he brought us just the same. Did you ever hear of such impoliteness?"

Ellen had had too much experience with the little girl not to know that there was another side to this story; but she gathered Gladys down in her arms with the curly head on her shoulder, and, while a few hot tears fell from the brown eyes, she rocked her, and it comforted the little girl's sore places to feel her nurse's love.

"I'm glad Ernest brought you in," said Ellen, after a minute of silent rocking. "If anything happened to you, you know that would be the last of poor Ellen. I could never go back to town."

Gladys gave a sob or two.

"These children haven't nearly so much as you have," went on Ellen quietly. "Perhaps Faith was as happy over the little turtle as you are over your talking doll. She hasn't any rich mother to give her things, you know."

"They have lots of things. They have a great deal more fun in winter than I do," returned Gladys hotly.

Ellen patted her. "You have too much, Gladys," she replied kindly. "When I said this morning that you were unlucky, you couldn't understand it; but perhaps this visit to the farm will make you see differently. There's such a thing as having too much, dear, and that sentence on your silver bowl is as true as true. Now there's the supper bell. Let me wash your face."

Gladys was deeply offended, but she was also hungry, and she began to wonder if there would be apple-butter and cottage cheese again.

There was, and the little girl did full justice to the supper, especially to aunt Martha's good bread and butter; but when the meal was over she refused to go out and romp on the lawn with her cousins.

"Gladys isn't used to so much running around," said Ellen pleasantly to the other children. "I guess she's a pretty sleepy girl and will get into bed early."

So when Ellen had helped aunt Martha with the supper dishes, Gladys went upstairs with her, to go to bed.

She was half undressed when some one knocked softly, and Faith came into the room. The silver bowl stood on a table near the door, and the little girl paused to look at it and examine the wreath of roses around its edge. "I never saw one so handsome," she said. Then she came forward. "I thought perhaps you'd let me see you undress Vera," she added.

"She is undressed," answered Gladys shortly.

"Oh, yes!" Faith went up to the bed where the doll lay in its nightdress. "May I make her speak once?"

"No, I'm afraid you might hurt her," returned Gladys shortly, and Ellen gave her a reproachful look. Gladys didn't care! How could a girl expect to be so selfish as Faith, and then have everybody let her do just what she wanted to?

Faith drew back from the bed. "I wish you'd let me see you wish once on your bowl before I go away," she said.

"How silly," returned Gladys. "Do you suppose I believe in such things? You can wish on it yourself, if you like."

"Oh, that wouldn't be any use," returned Faith eagerly, "because it only works for the one it belongs to."

"Perhaps you wouldn't like to have me make a wish and get it," said Gladys, thinking of the baby prince's lovely polished tints and bewitching little tail.

"Yes, I would. I'd love to. Do, Gladys, do, and see what happens."

Gladys curved her lips scornfully, but the strong wish sprang in her thought, and with a careless movement she pulled off the silver cover.

Her mouth fell open and her eyes grew as big as possible; for she had wished for the prince, and there he was, creeping about in the bowl and lifting his little head in wonder at his surroundings.

"Why, Faith!" was all she could say. "Where did it come from?"

"The brook, of course," returned Faith, clapping her hands in delight at her cousin's amazement. "Take him out and let's see whether he's red or plain ivory underneath."

"Will he scrabble?" asked Gladys doubtfully.

"No-o," laughed Faith.

So the little city girl took up the turtle and lo, he was as beautiful a red as the one of the afternoon.

"Isn't he lovely!" she exclaimed, not quite liking to look her cousin in the eyes. "Where shall I put him for to-night?"

"We'll put a little water in your wash-bowl, not much, for they are so smart about climbing out."

Ellen, also, was gazing at the royal infant. "He is a pretty little thing," she said, "but for pity's sake, Faith, fix it so he won't get on to my bare feet!"

Later, when they were alone and Ellen kissed Gladys good-night, she looked closely into her eyes "Now you're happier, I suppose," she said.

"Of course. Won't he be cunning in my aquarium?" asked Gladys, returning her look triumphantly.

"Yes." Vera was in bed, also, and to please the child, Ellen stooped and kissed the doll's forehead, too. "God be good," she said gently, "to the poor little girl who gets everything she wants!"

A few minutes after the light was out and Ellen had gone, Gladys pulled Vera nearer to her. "Wasn't that a silly sort of thing for Ellen to say?" she asked.

"I don't think so," returned Vera.

Gladys drew back. "Did you answer me?" she said.

"Certainly I did."

"Then you really can talk!" exclaimed Gladys joyfully.

"At night I can," said Vera.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad!" and Gladys hugged her.

"I'm not so sure that you will be," returned Vera coolly.

"Why not?"

"Because I have to speak the truth. You know my name is Vera."

"Well, I should hope so. Did you suppose I wouldn't want you to speak the truth?" Gladys laughed.

"Yes. You don't hear it very often, and you may not like it."

"Why, what a thing to say!"

"Ellen tries, sometimes, but you won't listen."

Gladys kept still and her companion proceeded:

"She knows all the toys and books and clothes and pets that you have at home, and she sees you forgetting all of them because Faith has just one thing pretty enough for you to wish for."

By this time Gladys had found her tongue. "You're just as impolite as you can be, Vera!" she exclaimed.

"Of course. You always think people are impolite who tell you the truth; but I explained to you that I have to. Who was impolite when you rocked the boat, although Ernest asked you not to?"

"He was as silly as he could be to think there was any danger. Don't you suppose I know enough not to rock it too far? And then think how impolite he was to say right out that he would save Faith instead of me if we fell into the water. I can tell you my father would lock him up in prison if he didn't save me."

"Well, you aren't so precious to anybody else," returned Vera. "Why would people want a girl around who thinks only of herself and what she wants. I'm sure Faith and Ernest will draw a long breath when you get on the cars to go back."

"Oh, I don't believe they will," returned Gladys, ready to cry.

"What have you done to make them glad you came? You didn't bring them anything, although you knew they couldn't have many toys, and it was because you were so busy thinking how much lovelier your doll was than anything Faith could have. Then the minute Faith found one nice thing"—

"Don't say that again," interrupted Gladys. "You've said it once."

"You behaved so disagreeably that she had to give it to you."

"You have no right to talk so. The prince came up from the brook, Faith said so."

"Oh, she was playing a game with you and she knew you understood. It isn't pleasant to have to say such things to you, Gladys, but I'm Vera and I have to—I shouldn't think you could lift your head up and look Faith and Ernest in the face to-morrow morning. What must Ernest think of you!"

Gladys's cheeks were very hot. "Didn't you see how glad Faith was when she gave—I mean when I found the prince in the bowl? I guess you haven't read what it says on that silver cover or you wouldn't talk so."

"Oh, yes, I have. That's truth, too, but you haven't found it out yet."

"Well, I wish I had brought them something," said Gladys, after a little pause. "Why," with a sudden thought, "there's the wishing-bowl. I'll get something for them right now!"

She jumped out of bed, and striking a match, lighted the candle. Vera followed her, and as Gladys seated herself on one side of the little table that held the silver bowl, Vera climbed into a chair on the other side. Gladys looked into her eyes thoughtfully while she considered. She would give Faith something so far finer than the baby prince that everybody would praise her for her generosity, and no one would remember that she had ever been selfish. Ah, she knew what she would ask for!

"For Faith first," she said, addressing Vera, then looking at the glinting bowl she silently made her wish, then with eager hand lifted off the cover.

Ah! Ah! What did she behold! A charming little bird, whose plumage changed from purple to gold in the candle light, stood on a tiny golden stand at the bottom of the bowl.

Gladys lifted it out, and as soon as it stood on her hand, it began to warble wonderfully, turning its head from side to side like some she had seen in Switzerland when she was there with her mother.

"Oh, Vera, isn't it sweet!" she cried in delight.

"Beautiful!" returned Vera, smiling and clapping her little hands.

When the song ceased Gladys looked thoughtful again. "I don't think it's a very appropriate present for Faith," she said, "and I've always wanted one, but we could never find one so pretty in our stores."

Vera looked at her very soberly.

"Now you just stop staring at me like that, Vera. I guess it's mine, and I have a right to keep it if I can think of something that would please Faith better. Now let me see. I must think of something for Ernest. I'll just give him something so lovely that he'll wish he'd bitten his tongue before he spoke so to me in the boat."

Gladys set the singing bird in her lap, fixed her eyes on the bowl, and again decided on a wish.

Taking off the cover, a gold watch was seen reposing on the bottom of the bowl. "That's it, that's what I wished for!" she cried gladly, and she took out the little watch, which was a wonder. On its side was a fine engraving of boys and girls skating on a frozen pond. Gladys's bright eyes caught sight of a tiny spring, which she touched, and instantly a fairy bell struck the hour and then told off the quarters and minutes.

"Oh, it's a repeater like uncle Frank's!" she cried, "and so small, too! Mother said I couldn't have one until I was grown up. Won't she be surprised! I don't mean to tell her for ever so long where I got it."

"I thought it was for Ernest," remarked Vera quietly.

"Why, Vera," returned the child earnestly, "I should think you'd see that no boy ought to have a watch like that. If it was a different kind I'd give it to him, of course."

"Yes, if it wasn't pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you'd give it to him, I suppose; and if the bird couldn't sing, and had dark, broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you'd give it to Faith, no doubt."

Gladys felt her face burn. She knew this was the truth, but oh, the entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another? How could she endure to see Ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its wonders!

"Selfishness is a cruel thing," said Vera. "It makes a person think she can have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out that she has chains on that cannot be broken. You think you can't break that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another child have something that you haven't. Poor, unhappy Gladys!"

"Oh, but this bird, Vera!" Gladys looked down at the little warbler. What did she see! A shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken. She lifted it anxiously. No song was there. Its poor little beady eyes were dull.

She dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch. What had happened to it? The cover was brass, the picture was gone. Pushing the spring had no effect.

"Oh, Faith and Ernest can have them now!" cried Gladys. Presto! in an instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child's eyes and ears until she could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from her eyes, for she had a new thought.

"What does this mean, Vera? Will they only be beautiful for Faith and Ernest?"

"You asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep for yourself. Beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull."

"How?" asked Gladys tearfully.

"That is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that her possessions disgust her after a while. There is only one thing that lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,—that is thoughtful love for others. There's nothing else, Gladys, there is nothing else. I am Vera."

"And I have none of it, none!" cried the unhappy child, and rising, she threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed.

Ellen heard her and came in from the next room.

"What is it, my lamb, what is it?" she asked, approaching the bed anxiously.

"Oh, Ellen, I can't tell you. I can never tell you!" wailed the child.

"Well, move over, dearie. I'll push Vera along and there'll be room for us all. There, darling, come in Ellen's arms and forget all about it."

Gladys cuddled close, and after a few more catches in her breath, she slept soundly.

When she wakened, the sunlight was streaming through the plain room, gilding everything as it had done in her rose and white bower yesterday at home. Ellen was moving about, all dressed. Gladys turned over and looked at Vera, pretty and innocent, her eyes closed and her lips parted over little white teeth. The child came close to the doll. The wonderful dream returned vividly.

"Your name is Vera. You had to," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

"How is the baby prince?" she asked, after a minute, jumping out of bed.

"He's lively, but I expect he's as hungry as you are. What's he going to have?"

"Meat," replied Gladys, looking admiringly at the pretty little creature.

"I brought in my wash-bowl for your bath. I suppose princes can't be disturbed," said Ellen.

While she buttoned Gladys's clothes, the little girl looked at the silver bowl, and the chairs where she and Vera had sat last night in her dream. She even glanced about to see some sign of watch and bird, but could not find them. How busily her thoughts were working!

Sensible Ellen said nothing of bad dreams; and by the time Gladys went downstairs, her face looked interested and happy. After all, it wasn't as though there wasn't any God to help a person, and she had said a very fervent prayer, with her nose buried in Vera's golden curls, before she jumped out of bed.

She had the satin shell of the baby prince in her hand. He had drawn into it because he was very uncertain what was going to happen to him; but Gladys knew.

She said good-morning to her cousins so brightly that Faith was pleased; but pretty as she looked, smiling, Ernest saw the prince in her hand and was more offended with her than ever.

"I want to thank you, Faith," she said, "for letting the baby stay in my room all night. I had the most fun watching him while I was dressing."

She put the little turtle into her cousin's hand.

"Oh, but I gave him to you," replied Faith earnestly.

"After you hunted for him for two summers, I couldn't be so mean as to take him. I'm just delighted you found him, Faith," and Gladys had a very happy moment then, for she found she was happy. "Let's give him some bits of meat."

"She's all right," thought Ernest, with a swift revulsion of feeling, and he was as embarrassed as he was astonished when his cousin turned suddenly to him:—

"If you'll take me in the boat again," she said, "I won't rock. I'm sorry I did."

"It is a fool trick," blurted out Ernest, "but you're all right, Gladys. I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

Ellen had heard this conversation. Later in the morning she was alone for a minute with Gladys, and the little girl said:—

"Don't you think it would be nice, Ellen, when we get home, to make up a box of pretty things and send to Faith and Ernest?"

"I do, that," replied the surprised Ellen.

"I'm going to ask mother if I can't send them my music-box. They haven't any piano."

"Why, you couldn't get another, Gladys."

"I don't care," replied the child firmly. "It would be so nice for evenings and rainy days." She swallowed, because she had not grown tired of the music box.

Ellen put her hands on the little girl's brow and cheeks and remembered the sobbing in the night. "Do you feel well, Gladys?" she asked, with concern. This unnatural talk alarmed her.

"I never felt any better," replied the child.

"Well, I wouldn't say anything to them about the music-box, dearie."

Gladys smiled. "I know. You think I'd be sorry after I let it go; but if I am I'll talk with Vera."

Ellen laughed. "Do you think it will always be enough for you to hear her say 'Ma-ma, Pa-pa?'" she asked.

Gladys smiled and looked affectionately at her good friend; but her lips closed tightly together. Ellen knew all that Vera did; but the nurse loved her still! The child was to have many a tussle with the hard mistress whose chains she had worn all her short life, but Truth had spoken, and she had heard; and Love was coming to help in setting her free.



CHAPTER XIII

A HEROIC OFFER

Jewel told her grandfather the tale of The Talking Doll while they walked their horses through a favorite wood-road, Mr. Evringham keeping his eyes on the animated face of the story-teller. His own was entirely impassive, but he threw in an exclamation now and then to prove his undivided attention.

"You know it's more blessed to give than to receive, don't you, grandpa?" added Jewel affectionately, as she finished; "because you're giving things to people all the time, and nobody but God can give you anything."

"I don't know about that," returned the broker. "Have you forgotten the yellow chicken you gave me?"

"No," returned Jewel seriously; "but I've never seen anything since that I thought you would care for."

Mr. Evringham nodded. "I think," he said confidentially, "that you have given me something pretty nice in your mother. Do you know, I'm very glad that she married into our family."

"Yes, indeed," replied Jewel, "so am I. Just supposing I had had some other grandpa!"

The two shook their heads at one another gravely. There were some situations that could not be contemplated.

"Why do you suppose I can't find any turtles in my brook?" asked the child, after a short pause. "Mother says perhaps they like meadows better than shady ravines."

"Perhaps they do; but," and the broker nodded knowingly, "there's another reason."

"Why, grandpa, why?" asked Jewel eagerly.

"Oh, Nature is such a neat housekeeper!"

"Why, turtles must be lovely and clean."

"Yes, I know; and if Summer would just let the brook alone you might find a baby turtle for Anna Belle."

"She'd love it. Her eyes nearly popped out when mother was telling about it."

"Well, there it is, you see. Now I'd be ashamed to have you see that brook in August, Jewel." Mr. Evringham slapped the pommel of his saddle to emphasize the depth of his feelings.

"Why, what happens?"

"Dry—as—a—bone!"

"It is?"

"Yes, indeed. We shan't have been long at the seashore when Summer will have drained off every drop of water in that brook."

"What for?"

"House-cleaning, of course. I suppose she scrubs out and sweeps out the bed of that brook before she'll let a bit of water come in again."

"Well, she is fussy," laughed Jewel. "Even Mrs. Forbes wouldn't do that."

"I ask you," pursued Mr. Evringham, "what would the turtles do while the war was on?"

"Why, they couldn't live there, of course. Well, we won't be here while the ravine is empty of the brook, will we, grandpa? I shouldn't like to see it."

"No, we shall be where there's 'water, water everywhere.' Even Summer won't attempt to houseclean the bottom of the sea."

Jewel thought a minute. "I wish she wouldn't do that," she said wistfully; "because turtles would be fun, wouldn't they, grandpa?"

Mr. Evringham regarded her quizzically. "I see what you want me to do," he replied. "You want me to give up Wall Street and become the owner of a menagerie, so you can have every animal that was ever heard of."

Jewel smiled and shook her head. "I don't believe I do yet. We'll have to wait till everybody loves to be good."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Then the lions and tigers will be pleasant."

"Will they, indeed?" Mr. Evringham laughed. "All those good people won't shut them up in cages then, I fancy."

"No, I don't believe they will," replied Jewel.

"But about those turtles," continued her grandfather. "How would you like it next spring for me to get some for you for the brook?"

Jewel's eyes sparkled. "Wouldn't that be the most fun?" she returned,—"but then there's summer again," she added, sobering.

"What's the reason that we couldn't drive with them to the nearest river before the brook ran dry?"

"Perhaps we could," replied Jewel hopefully "Doesn't mother tell the nicest stories, grandpa?"

"She certainly does; and some of the most wonderful you don't hear at all. She tells them to me after you have gone to bed."

"Then you ought to tell them to me," answered Jewel, "just the way I tell mine to you."

Mr. Evringham shook his head. "They probably wouldn't make you open your eyes as wide as I do mine; you're used to them. They're Christian Science stories. Your mother has been treating my rheumatism, Jewel. What do you think of that?"

"Oh, I'm glad," replied the child heartily, "because then you've asked her to."

"How do you know I have?"

"Because she wouldn't treat you if you hadn't, and mother says when people are willing to ask for it, then that's the beginning of everything good for them. You know, grandpa," Jewel leaned toward him lovingly and added softly, "you know even you have to meet mortal mind."

"I shouldn't wonder," responded the broker dryly.

"And it's so proud, and hates to give up so," said Jewel.

"I'm an old dog," returned Mr. Evringham. "Teaching me new tricks is going to be no joke, but your mother undertakes it cheerfully. I'm reading that book, 'Science and Health;' and she says I may have to read it through three times before I get the hang of it."

"I don't believe you will, grandpa, because it's just as plain," said the child.

"You'll help me, Jewel?"

"Yes, indeed I will;" the little girl's face was radiant. "And won't Mr. Reeves be glad to see you coming to church with us?"

"I don't know whether I shall ever make Mr. Reeves glad in that way or not. I'm doing this to try to understand something of what you and your mother are so sure of, and what has made a man of your father. More than that, if there is any eternity for us, I propose to stick to you through it, and it may be more convenient to study here than off in some dim no-man's-land in the hereafter. If I remain ignorant, who can tell but the Power that Is will whisk you away from me by and by."

Jewel gathered the speaker's meaning very well, and now she smiled at him with the look he loved best; all her heart in her eyes. "He wouldn't. God isn't anybody to be afraid of," she said.

"Why, it tells us all through the Bible to fear God."

"Yes, of course it tells us to fear to trouble the One who loves us the best of all. Just think how even you and I would fear to hurt one another, and God is keeping us alive with his love!"

Half an hour afterward their horses cantered up the drive toward the house. Mrs. Evringham was seated on the piazza, sewing. Her husband had sent the summer wardrobe promptly, and she wore now a thin blue gown that looked charmingly comfortable.

"Genuine!" thought her father-in-law, as he came up the steps and met a smiling welcome from her clear eyes. He liked the simple manner in which she dressed her hair. He liked her complexion, and carriage, and voice.

"I don't know but that you have the better part here on the piazza, it is so warm," he said, "but I have been thinking of you rather remorsefully this afternoon, Julia. These excursions of Jewel's and mine are growing to seem rather selfish. Have you ever learned to ride?"

"Never, and I don't wish to. Please believe how supremely content I am."

"My carriages are small. It is so long since I've had a family. When we return I shall get one that will hold us all."

"Oh, yes, grandpa," cried Jewel enthusiastically. "You and I on the front seat, driving, and mother and father on the back seat."

"Well, we have more than two months to decide how we shall sit. I fancy it will oftener be your father and mother in the phaeton and you and I on our noble steeds, eh, Jewel?"

"Yes, I think so, too," she returned seriously.

Mr. Evringham smiled slightly at his daughter. "The occasions when we differ are not numerous enough to mention," he remarked.

"I hope it may always be so," she replied, going on with her work.

"This looks like moving," observed the broker, wiping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief and looking about on the still, green scene. "I think we had better plan to go to the shore next week."

Julia smiled and sighed. "Very well, but any change seems as if it might be for the worse," she said.

"Then you've never tried summer in New Jersey," he responded. "I hear you are a great story-teller, Julia. If I should wear some large bows behind my ears, couldn't I come to some of these readings?"

As no laugh from Jewel greeted this sally, he looked down at her. She was gazing off wistfully.

"What is it, Jewel?" he asked.

"I was wondering if it wouldn't seem a long time to Essex Maid and Star without us!"

"Dear me, dear me, how little you do know those horses!" and the broker shook his head.

"Why, grandpa? Will they like it?"

"Do you suppose for one minute that you could make them stay at home?"

"Are they going with us, grandpa?" Jewel began to hop joyfully, but her habit interfered.

"Certainly. They naturally want to see what sort of bits and bridles are being worn at the seashore this year."

"Do you realize what unfashionable people you are proposing to take, yourself, father?" asked Julia. She was visited by daily doubts in this regard.

The broker returned her glance gravely. "Have you ever seen Jewel's silk dress?" he asked.

The child beamed at him. "She made it!" she announced triumphantly.

"Then you must know," said Mr. Evringham, "that it would save any social situation."

Julia laughed over her sewing. "My machine came to-day," she said. "I meant to make something a little fine, but if we go in a few days"—

"Don't think of it," replied the host hastily. "You are both all right. I don't want you to see a needle. I'm sorry you are at it now."

"But I like it. I really do."

"I'm going to take you to the coolest place on Long Island, but not to the most fashionable."

"That is good news," returned Julia, "Run along, Jewel, and dress for dinner."

"In one minute," put in Mr. Evringham. "She and I wish your opinion of something first."

He disappeared for a moment into the house and came back with a flat package which Jewel watched with curious eyes while he untied the string.

Silently he placed a photograph in his daughter's lap while the child leaned eagerly beside her.

"Why, why, how good!" exclaimed Mrs. Evringham, and Jewel's eyes glistened.

"Isn't grandpa's nose just splendid!" she said fervently.

"Why, father, this picture will be a treasure," went on Julia. Color had risen in her face.

The photograph showed Jewel standing beside her grandfather seated, and her arm was about his neck. It was such a natural attitude that she had taken it while waiting for the photographer to be ready. The daisy-wreathed hat hung from her hand, and she had not known when the picture was taken. It was remarkably lifelike, and the broker regarded it with a satisfaction none the less keen because he let the others do all the talking.

"And now we don't need it, grandpa," said the child.

"Oh, indeed we do!" exclaimed the mother; and Jewel, catching her grandfather's eyes, lifted her shoulders. What did her mother know of their secret!

Mr. Evringham smoothed his mustache. "No harm to have it, Jewel," he replied, nodding at her. "No harm; a very good plan, in fact; for I suppose, even to oblige me, you can't refrain from growing up. And next we must get Star's picture, with you on his back."

"But you weren't on Essex Maid's," objected Jewel.

"We'll have it taken both ways, then. It's best always to be on the safe side."

From this day on there was no more chance for Jewel to hear a tale in the Story Book, until the move to the seashore was accomplished, for hot weather had evidently come to stay in Bel-Air Park. Mrs. Evringham felt loath to leave its green, still loveliness and her large shady rooms; but the New Jerseyite's heat panic had seized upon her father-in-law, and he pushed forward the preparations for flight.

"I can't pity you for remaining here," Julia said to Mrs. Forbes on the morning of departure.

"No, ma'am, you don't need to," returned the housekeeper. "Zeke and I are going off on trips, and we, calculate to have a pretty good time of it. I've been wanting to speak to you, Mrs. Evringham, about a business matter," continued Mrs. Forbes, her manner indicating that she had constrained herself to make an effort. "Mr. Evringham tells me you and Mr. Harry are to make your home with him. It's a good plan," emphatically, "as right as right can be; for what he would do without Jewel isn't easy to think of; but it's given me a lot to consider. I won't be necessary here any more," the housekeeper tried to conceal what the statement cost her. She endeavored to continue, but could not, and Julia saw that she did not trust her voice.

"Mr. Evringham has not said that, I am sure," she returned.

"No, and he never would; but that shouldn't prevent my doing right. You can take care of him and his house now, and I wanted to tell you that I see that, plainly, and am willing to go when you all come back. I shall have plenty of time this summer to turn around and make my plans. There's plenty of work in this world for willing hands to do, and I'm a long way off from being worn out yet."

"I'm so glad you spoke about this before we left," replied Mrs. Evringham, smiling on the brave woman. "Father has said nothing to me about it, and I am certain he would as soon dispense with one of the supports of the house as with you. We all want to be busy at something, and I have a glimmering idea of what my work is to be; and I think it is not housekeeping. I should be glad to have our coming disturb father's habits as little as possible, and certainly neither you or I should be the first to speak of any change."

Mrs. Forbes bit her lip. "Well," she returned, "you see I knew it would come hard on him to ask me to go, and I wanted you both to know that I'd see it reasonably."

"It was good of you," said Julia; "and that is all we ever need to be sure of—just that we are willing to be led, and then, while we look to God, everything will come right." The housekeeper drank in the sweet expression of the speaker's eyes, and smiled, a bit unsteadily. "Of course I'd rather stay," she replied. "Transplanting folks is as hard and risky as trees. You can't ever be sure they'll flourish in the new ground; but I want to do right. I've been reading some in Zeke's book, 'Science and Health,' and there was one sentence just got hold of me:[1] 'Self-love is more opaque than a solid body. In patient obedience to a patient God, let us labor to dissolve with the universal solvent of Love the adamant of error—self-will, self-justification, and self-love!' Jewel's helped me to dissolve enough so I could face handing over the keys of this house to her mother. I'm not saying I could have offered them to everybody."

[Footnote 1: S. and H., page 242.]

Mrs. Evringham smiled. "Thank you. I hope it isn't your duty to give them, nor mine to take them. We'll leave all that to father. My idea is that he would send us all back to Chicago rather than give you up—his right hand."

Mrs. Forbes's face relaxed, and she breathed more freely than for many days. As she took her way out to the barn to report this conversation to Zeke, her state of mind agreed with that of her employer when he declared his pleasure that Julia had married into the family.



CHAPTER XIV

ROBINSON CRUSOE

A long stretch of white, fine sandy beach, packed hard; an orderly procession of waves, each one breaking in seething, snowy foam that ran or crept after a child's bare feet as she skipped back and forth, playing with them; that was Long Island to Jewel.

Of course there was a village and on its edge a dear, clean old farmhouse where they all lived, and in whose barn Essex Maid and Star found stables. Then there were rides every pleasant day, over cool, rolling country, and woods where one was as liable to find shells as flowers. There were wide, flat fields of grain, above which the moon sailed at night; each spot had its attraction, but the beach was the place where Jewel found the greatest joy; and while Mr. Evringham, in the course of his life, had taken part to the full in the social activities of a summer resort where men are usually scarce and proportionately prized, it can be safely said that he now set out upon the most strenuous vacation of his entire career.

It was his habit in moments of excitement or especial impressiveness to address his daughter-in-law as "madam," and on the second morning after their arrival, as she was sitting on the sand, viewing the great bottle-green rollers that marched unendingly landward, she noticed her father-in-law and Jewel engaged in deep discussion, where they stood, between her and the water.

Mr. Evringham had just come to the beach, and the incessant noise of the waves made eavesdropping impossible; but his gestures and Jewel's replies roused her curiosity. The child's bathing-suit was dripping, and her pink toes were submerged by the rising tide, when her grandfather seized her hand and led her back to where her mother was sitting.

"Madam," he said, "this child mustn't overdo this business. She tells me she has been splashing about for some time, already."

"And I'm not a bit cold, mother," declared Jewel.

"H'm. Her hands are like frogs' paws, madam. I can see she is a perfect water-baby and will want to be in the waves continually. She says you are perfectly willing. Then it is because you are ignorant. She should go in once a day, madam, once a day."

"Oh, grandpa!" protested Jewel, "not even wade?"

"We'll speak of that later; but put on your bathing-suit once a day only."

Mr. Evringham looked down at the glowing face seriously. Jewel lifted her wet shoulders and returned his look.

"Put it on in the morning, then, and keep it on all day?" she suggested, smiling.

"At the proper hour," he went on, "the bathing master is here. Then you will go in, and your mother, I hope."

"And you, too, grandpa?"

"Yes, and I'll teach you to jump the waves. I taught your father in this very place when he was your age."

"Oh, goody!" Jewel jumped up and down on the warm sand. "What fun it must have been to be your little boy!" she added.

Mr. Evringham refrained from looking at his daughter-in-law. He suspected that she knew better.

"Look at all this white sand," he said. "This was put here for babies like you to play with. Old ocean is too big a comrade for you."

"I just love the foam," returned the child wistfully, "and, oh, grandpa," eagerly, "I tasted of it and it's as salt!"

Mr. Evringham smiled, looking at his daughter.

"Yes," said Julia. "Jewel has gone into Lake Michigan once or twice, and I think she was very much surprised to find that the Atlantic did not taste the same."

"Sit down here," said Mr. Evringham, "and I'll show you what your father used to like to do twenty-five years ago."

Jewel sat down, with much interest, and watched the speaker scoop out a shallow place in the sand and make a ring about it.

"There, do you see these little hoppers?"

Julia was looking on, also. "Aren't they cunning, Jewel?" she exclaimed. "Exactly like tiny lobsters."

"Only they're white instead of red," replied the child, and her grandfather smiled and caught one of the semi-transparent creatures.

"Lobsters are green when they're at home," he said. "It's only in our homes that they turn red."

"Really?"

"Yes. There are a number of things you have to learn, Jewel. The ocean is a splendid playmate, but rough. That is one of the things for you to remember."

"But I can wade, can't I? I want to build so many things that the water runs up into."

"Certainly, you can take off your shoes and stockings when it's warm enough, as it is this morning, if your mother is willing you should drabble your skirts; but keep your dress on and then you won't forget yourself."

Jewel leaned toward the speaker affectionately. "Grandpa, you know I'm a pretty big girl. I'll be nine the first of September."

"Yes, I know that."

"Beside, you're going to be with me all the time," she went on.

"H'm. Well, now see these sand-fleas race."

"Oh, are they sand-fleas? Just wait for Anna Belle." The child reached over to where the doll was gazing, fascinated, at the advancing, roaring breakers.

Her boa and plumed hat had evidently been put away from the moths. She wore a most becoming bathing costume of blue and white, and a coquettish silk handkerchief was knotted around her head. It was evident that, in common with some other summer girls, she did not intend to wet her fetching bathing-suit, and certainly it would be a risk to go into the water wearing the necklace that now sparkled in the summer sun.

"Come here, dearie, and see the baby lobsters," said Jewel, holding her child carefully away from her own glistening wetness, and seating her against Mrs. Evringham's knee.

"If lobsters could hop like this," said Mr. Evringham, "they would be shooting out of the ocean like dolphins. Now you choose one, Jewel, and we'll see which wins the race. We're going to place them in the middle of the ring, and watch which hops first outside the circle."

Jewel chuckled gleefully as she caught one. "Oh, mother, aren't his eyes funny! He looks as surprised all the time. Now hop, dearie," she added, as she placed him beside the one Mr. Evringham had set down. "Which do you guess, Anna Belle? She guesses grandpa's will beat."

"Well, I guess yours, Jewel," said her mother; but scarcely were the words spoken when Anna Belle's prophecy was proved correct by the airy bound with which one of the fleas cleared the barrier while Jewel's choice still remained transfixed. They all laughed except Anna Belle, who only smiled complacently.

Jewel leaned over her staring protegee. "If I only knew what you were so surprised at, dearie, I'd explain it to you," she said. Then she gently pushed the creature, and it sped, tardily, over the border.

They pursued this game until the bathing-suit was dry; then Mr. Evringham yawned. "Ah, this bright air makes me sleepy. Haven't you something you can read to us, Julia?"

"Yes, yes," cried Jewel, "she brought the story-book."

"But I didn't realize it would be so noisy. I could never read aloud against this roaring."

"Oh, we'll go back among the dunes. That's easy," returned Mr. Evringham.

"You don't want to hear one of these little tales, father," said Julia, flushing.

"Why, he just loves them," replied Jewel earnestly. "I've told them all to him, and he's just as interested."

Mrs. Evringham did not doubt this, and she and the broker exchanged a look of understanding, but he smiled.

"I'll be very good if you'll let me come," he said. "I forgot the ribbon bows, but perhaps you'd let me qualify by holding Anna Belle. Run and get into your clothes, Jewel, and I'll find a nice place by that dune over yonder."

Fifteen minutes afterward the little party were comfortably ensconced in the shade of the sand hill whose sparse grasses grew tall about them.

Jewel began pulling on them. "You'll never pull those up," remarked Mr. Evringham. "I believe their roots go down to China. I've heard so."

"Anna Belle and I will dig sometime and see," replied Jewel, much interested.

"There are only two stories left," said Mrs. Evringham, who was running over the pages of the book.

"And let grandpa choose, won't you?" said Jewel.

"Oh, yes," and the somewhat embarrassed author read the remaining titles.

"I choose Robinson Crusoe, of course," announced Mr. Evringham. "This is an appropriate place to read that. I dare say by stretching our necks a little we could see his island."

"Well, this story is a true one," said Julia. "It happened to the children of some friends of mine, who live about fifty miles from Chicago." Then she began to read as follows:—

ROBINSON CRUSOE

"I guess I shall like Robinson Crusoe, mamma!" exclaimed Johnnie Ford, rushing into his mother's room after school one day.

"You would be an odd kind of boy if you did not," replied Mrs. Ford, "and yet you didn't seem much pleased when your father gave you the book on your birthday."

"Well, I didn't care much about it then, but Fred King says it is the best story that ever was, and he ought to know; he rides to school in an automobile. Say, when'll you read it to me? Do it now, won't you?"

"If what?" corrected Mrs. Ford.

"Oh, if you please. You know I always mean it."

"No, dear, I don't think I will. A boy nine years old ought to be able to read Robinson Crusoe for himself."

Johnnie looked startled, and stood on one leg while he twisted the other around it.

"If you have a pleasant object to work for, it will make it so much the easier to study," continued Mrs. Ford, as she handed Johnnie the blue book with a gold picture pressed into its side.

Johnnie pouted and looked very cross. "It's a regular old trap," he said.



"Yes, dear, a trap to catch a student;" and pretty Mrs. Ford's low laugh was so contagious that Johnnie marched out of the room, fearing he might smile in sympathy; but he soon found that leaving the room was not escaping from the fascinating Crusoe. Up to this time Johnnie had never taken much interest in school-books beyond scribbling on their blank margins. Was it really worth while, he wondered, "to buckle down" and learn to read? He knew just enough about the famous Crusoe to make him wish to learn more, so he finally decided that it was worth while, if only to impress Chips Wood, his next-door neighbor and playmate, a boy a year younger than himself, whom Johnnie patronized out of school hours. So he worked away until at last there came a proud day when he carried the blue and gold wonder book into Chips' yard, and, seated beside his friend on the piazza step, began to read aloud the story of Robinson Crusoe. It would be hard to tell which pair of eyes grew widest and roundest as the tale unfolded, and when Johnnie, one day, laid the book down, finished, two sighs of admiration floated away over Mrs. Wood's crocus bed.

"Chips, I'd rather be Robinson Crusoe than a king!" exclaimed Johnnie.

"So would I," responded Chips. "Let's play it."

"But we can't both be Crusoes. Wouldn't you like to be Friday?" asked Johnnie insinuatingly, "he was so nice and black."

"Ye-yes," hesitated Chips, who had great confidence in Johnnie's judgment, but whose fancy had been taken by the high cap and leggings in the golden picture.

"Then I've got a plan," and Johnnie leaned toward his friend's ear and whispered something under cover of his hand, that opened the younger boy's eyes wider than ever.

"Now you mustn't tell," added Johnnie aloud, "'cause that wouldn't he like men a hit. Promise not to, deed and double!"

"Deed and double!" echoed Chips solemnly, for that was a very binding expression between him and Johnnie.

For several days following this, Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Ford were besieged by the boys to permit them to earn money; and Mrs. Ford, especially, was astonished at the way Johnnie worked at clearing up the yard, and such other jobs as were not beyond his strength; but, inquire as she might into the motive of all this labor, she could only discover that Chips and Johnnie wished to buy a hen.

"Have you asked father if you might keep hens?" she inquired of Johnnie, but he only shook his head mysteriously.

Chips' mother found him equally uncommunicative. She would stand at her window which overlooked the Fords' back yard, and watch the boys throw kindling into the shed, or sweep the paths, and wonder greatly in her own mind. "Bless their little hearts, what can it all be about?" she questioned, but she could not get at the truth.

Suddenly the children ceased asking for jobs, and announced that they had all the money they cared for. The day after this announcement was the first of April. When Mr. Ford came home to dinner that day, he missed Johnnie.

"I suppose some of his schoolmates have persuaded him to stay and share their lunch," explained Mrs. Ford.

She had scarcely finished speaking when Mrs. Wood came in, inquiring for Chips. "I have not seen him for two hours," she said, "and I cannot help feeling a little anxious, for the children have behaved so queerly lately."

"I know," returned Mrs. Ford, beginning to look worried. "Why, do you know, Johnnie didn't play a trick on one of us this morning. I actually had to remind him that it was April Fools' Day."

Mr. Ford laughed. "How woe-begone you both look! I think there is a very simple explanation of the boys' absence. Chips probably went to school to meet Johnnie, who has persuaded him to stay during the play hour. I will drive around there on my way to business and send Chips home."

The mothers welcomed this idea warmly; and in a short time Mr. Ford set out, but upon reaching the school was met with the word that Johnnie had not been seen there at all that morning. Then it was his turn to look anxious. He drove about, questioning every one, until he finally obtained a clue at the meat market where he dealt.

"Your little boy was in here this morning about half past ten, after a ham. He wouldn't have it charged; said 'twas for himself," said the market-man, laughing at the remembrance. "He didn't have quite enough money to pay for it, but I told him I guessed that would be all right, and off they went, him and the little Wood boy, luggin' that ham most as big as they was."

"Then they were together. Which way did they go?"

"Straight south, I know, 'cause I went to the door and watched 'em. You haven't lost 'em, have you?"

"I hope not," and Mr. Ford sprang into his buggy, and drove off in the direction indicated, occasionally stopping to inquire if the children had been seen. To his great satisfaction he found it easy to trace them, thanks to the ham; and a little beyond the outskirts of the town he saw a promising speck ahead of him on the flat, white road. As he drew nearer, the speck widened and heightened into two little boys trudging along before him. His heart gave a thankful bound at sight of the dear little legs in their black stockings and knee breeches, and leaving his buggy by the side of the road, he walked rapidly forward and caught up with the boys, who turned and faced him as he approached. Displeased as he was, Mr. Ford could hardly resist a hearty laugh at the comical appearance of the runaways. Chips carried the big, heavy ham, and Johnnie was keeping firm hold of a hen, who stretched her neck and looked very uncomfortable in her quarters under his arm.

"Why, father!" exclaimed Johnnie, recovering from a short tussle with the poor hen, "how funny that you should be here."

"No stranger than that you should be here, I think. Where, if I have any right to ask, are you going?"

"To Lake Michigan," replied Johnnie composedly. "Oh, I do wish this old hen would keep still!"

"Then you have fifty miles before you," said Mr. Lord.

"Yes, sir," replied Johnnie, "but it would have been a thousand miles to the ocean, you know."

"Ha, ha, ha!" roared Mr. Ford, mystified, but unable to control himself any longer at sight of Johnnie and the hen, and patient-faced Chips clutching the ham.

"I am glad you don't mind, father," said Johnnie. "I thought it would be so nice for you and mother and Mrs. Wood not to have Chips and me to worry about any more."

"It was very thoughtful of you," replied Mr. Ford, remembering the anxious faces at home. "And what are you going to do at Lake Michigan?"

"Take a boat and go away and get wrecked on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe," responded Johnnie glibly, at the same time hitching the hen up higher under his arm.

"And how about Chips?"

"Oh, I'm Man Friday," chirped Chips, his poor little face quite black enough for the character.

"I am so sorry we had to tell you so soon," said Johnnie. "We were keeping it a secret until we got to the lake; then we were going to send you a letter."

Mr. Ford looked gravely into his son's grimy face. It was an honest face, and Johnnie had always been a truthful boy, and just now seemed only troubled by the restless behavior of his hen; so the father rightly concluded that the blue and gold book had captivated him into the belief that what he and Chips were doing was admirable and heroic.

"What part is the hen going to play?" asked the gentleman. "Is she going to help stock your island?"

"Oh, no, but we couldn't get along without her, because she's going to lay eggs along the way."

"Lay eggs?"

"Yes, for our lunch. At first we weren't going to take anything but the hen, but Chips said he liked ham and eggs better'n anything, so we decided to take it."

Another pause; then Mr. Ford said: "You both look tired, haven't you had enough of it? I'm going home now."

"No, no," asserted the boys.

"And have you thought of your mothers, whom you didn't even kiss good-by?"

Johnnie stood on one leg and twisted the other foot around it, after his manner when troubled.

"I thought you knew, Johnnie, that nothing ever turns out right when you undertake it without first consulting mother."

"I wish now I'd kissed mine good-by," observed Friday thoughtfully.

"Come, we'll go back together," said Mr. Ford quietly, moving off as he spoke, "and we will see what Mrs. Wood and mother have to say on the subject."

Johnnie and Chips followed slowly. "Father," said the former emphatically, "I can't be happy without being wrecked, and I do hope mother won't object."

His father made no reply to this, and three quarters of an hour afterward the children jumped out of the buggy into their mothers' arms, and as they still clung to their lunch, the ham and the hen came in for a share of the embracing, which the hen objected to seriously, never having been hugged before this eventful day.

"Never mind, mother," said Johnnie patronizingly, "father'll tell you all about it while I go and put Speckle in a safe place." So the boys went, and Mr. Ford seated himself in an armchair, and related the events of the afternoon to the ladies, adding some advice as to the manner of making the boys see the folly of their undertaking.

Mrs. Wood and Chips took tea at the Fords' that evening, and the boys, once delivered from the necessity of keeping their secret, rattled on incessantly of their plans; talked so much and so fast, in fact, that their parents were not obliged to say anything, which was a great convenience, as they had nothing they wished to say just then. It had been a mild first of April, and after supper the little company sat out on the piazza for a time.

"As Johnnie and Chips will be obliged to spend so many nights out of doors on their way to Lake Michigan, it will be an excellent plan to begin immediately," said Mr. Ford. "You'll like to spend the night out here, of course, boys. To be sure, it will be a good deal more comfortable than the road, still you can judge by it how such a life will suit you."

Johnnie looked at Chips and Chips looked at Johnnie; for the exertions of the day had served to make the thought of their white beds very inviting; but Mr. Ford and the ladies talked on different subjects, and took no notice of them. At last the evening air grew uncomfortably cool, and the grown people rose to go in.

"Good-night, all," said Mrs. Wood, starting for home.

Chips watched her down to the gate. "Aren't you going to kiss me good-night?" he called.

"Of course, if you want me to," she answered, turning back, "but you went away this morning without kissing me, you know." Then she kissed him and went away; and in all his eight years of life little Man Friday had never felt so forlorn. Johnnie held up his lips sturdily to bid his father and mother good-night.