"I think we are going to have a thunder-storm, unseasonable as it will be," remarked Mr. Ford pleasantly, standing in the doorway. "Well, I suppose you won't mind it. Good luck to you, boys!" then the heavy front door closed.

Johnnie had never before realized what a clang it made when it was shut. The key turned with a squeaking noise, a bolt was pushed with a solid thud; all the windows came banging down, their locks were made fast, and Johnnie and Chips felt literally, figuratively, and every other way left out in the cold.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute; then Chips spoke.

"Your house is splendid and safe, isn't it, Johnnie?"

"Yes, it is."

"I wonder where we'd better lie down," pursued Chips. "I'm sleepy. Let's play we're Crusoe and Friday now."

"Oh, we can't," responded Johnnie impatiently, "not with so many com—" he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind.

The night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising.

The boys sat down on the steps and Chips edged closer to his companion. "I think it was queer actions in my mother," he said, "to leave me here without any shawl or pillow or anything."

A little chill crept over Johnnie's head from sleepiness and cold. "Our mothers don't care what happens to us," he replied gloomily. The stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it.

"What do you think?" broke in the shivering Man Friday. "Mamma says ham isn't good to eat if it isn't cooked."

"And that's the meanest old hen that ever lived!" returned Crusoe. "She hasn't laid an egg since I got her."

A distant rumble sounded in the air. "What's that?" asked Chips.

"Well, I should think you'd know that's thunder," replied Johnnie crossly.

"Oh, yes," said little Chips meekly, "and we're going to get wet."

They were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them.

"I really think, Johnnie," began Chips apologetically, "that I'm not big enough to be a good Man Friday. I think to-morrow you'd better find somebody else."

"No, indeed," replied Johnnie feelingly. "I'd rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you. If you give up, I shall."

The rain began to patter down.

"If you don't like to get wet, Chips, I'd just as lieves go and ring the bell as not," he added.

A sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly.

"No," called Chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast. "I'll be Friday till to-morrow." His last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died.

"What do you scream so for?" asked Johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came. It swept across the piazza, taking the children's breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning.

"I think, Johnnie," said Chips unsteadily, "that God wants us to go in the house."

A peal of thunder roared. "I've just thought," replied Johnnie, keeping his balance by clutching the younger boy as tightly as Chips was clinging to him, "that perhaps it wasn't right for us to run off the way we did, without getting any advice."

They strove with the wind only a few seconds more, then, with one accord, struggled to the door where one rang peal after peal at the bell, while the other pounded sturdily.

Johnnie didn't stop then to wonder how his father could get downstairs to open the door so quickly. Mrs. Ford, too, seemed to have been waiting for the pair of heroes, and she took them straight to Johnnie's room, where she undressed them in silence and rolled them into bed. They said their prayers and were asleep in two minutes, while the storm howled outside. Then, in some mysterious way, Mrs. Wood came into the room, and the three parents stood watching the unconscious children.

"That's the last of one trial with those boys, I'm sure," said Mr. Ford, laughing, and he was right; for it was years before any one heard either Johnnie or Chips mention Robinson Crusoe or his Man Friday.



CHAPTER XV

ST. VALENTINE

After that day when, on the lee side of the sand-dune the Evringham family read together the story of Johnnie and Chips, it was some time before the last tale in the story book was called for.

The farmhouse where they boarded stood near a pond formed by the rushing in of the sea during some change in the sands of the beach, so here was still another water playmate for Jewel.

"I do hope," said Mr. Evringham meditatively, on the first morning that he and Jewel stood together on its green bank, "I do hope that very particular housekeeper, Nature, will let this pond alone until we go!"

Jewel looked up at his serious face with the lines between the eyes. "She wouldn't touch this great big pond, would she?" she asked.

"Ho! Wouldn't she? Well, I guess so."

"But," suggested Jewel, lifting her shoulders, "she's too busy in summer in the ravines and everywhere."

"Oh," Mr. Evringham nodded his head knowingly. "Nature looks out for everything."

"Grandpa!" Jewel's eyes were intent. "Would she ask Summer to touch this great big pond? What would she want to do it for?"

"Oh, more house-cleaning, I suppose."

The child chuckled as she looked out across the blue waves, rippling in the wind and white-capped here and there, "When you know it's washed all the time, grandpa," she responded. "The waves are just scrubbing it now. Can't you see?"

"Yes," the broker nodded gravely. "No doubt that is why she has to empty it so seldom. Sometimes she lets it go a very long time; but then the day comes when she begins to think it over, and to calculate how much sediment and one thing and another there is in the bottom of that pond; and at last she says, 'Come now, out it must go!'"

"But how can she get it out, how?" asked Jewel keenly interested. "The brooks are all running somewhere, but the pond doesn't. How can she dip it out? It would take Summer's hottest sun a year!"

"Yes, indeed, Nature is too clever to try that. The winds are her servants, you know, and they understand their business perfectly; so when she says 'That pond needs to be cleaned out,' they merely get up a storm some night after everybody's gone to bed. The people have seen the pond fine and full when the sun went down. All that night the wind howls and the windows rattle and the trees bend and switch around; and if those in the farmhouse, instead of being in bed, were over there on the beach," the speaker waved his hand toward the shining white sand, distant, but in plain sight, "they might see countless billows working for dear life to dig a trench through the hard sand. The wind sends one tremendous wave after another to help them, and as a great roller breaks and recedes, all the little crested waves scrabble with might and main, pulling at the softened sand, until, after hours of this labor, the cut is made completely through from sea to pond."

Mr. Evringham looked down and met the unwinking gaze fixed upon him. "Then why—why," asked Jewel, "when the big rollers keep coming, doesn't the pond get filled fuller than ever?"

The broker lifted his forefinger toward his face with a long drawn "Ah-h! Nature is much too clever for that. She may not have gone to college, but she understands engineering, all the same. All this is accomplished just at the right moment for the outgoing tide to pull at the pond with a mighty hand. Well,"—pausing dramatically,—"you can imagine what happens when the deep cut is finished."

"Does the pond have to go, grandpa?"

"It just does, and in a hurry!"

"Is it sorry, do you think?" asked Jewel doubtfully.

"We-ell, I don't know that I ever thought of that side of it; but you can imagine the feelings of the people in the farmhouse, who went to bed beside the ripples of a smiling little lake, and woke to find themselves near a great empty bog."

Jewel thought and sighed deeply. "Well," she said, at last, "I hope Nature will wait till we're gone. I love this pond."

"Indeed I hope so, too. There wouldn't be any pleasant side to it."

Jewel's thoughtful face brightened. "Except for the little fishes and water-creatures that would rush out to sea. It's fun for them. Mustn't they be surprised when that happens, grandpa?"

"I should think so! Do you suppose the wind gives them any warning, or any time to pack?"

Jewel laughed. "I don't know; but just think of rushing out into those great breakers, when you don't expect it, right from living so quietly in the pond!"

"H'm. A good deal like going straight from Bel-Air Park to Wall Street, I should think."

Jewel grew serious. "I think fish have the most fun," she said. "Do you know, grandpa, I've decided that if I couldn't be your little grandchild, I'd rather be a lobster than anything."

The broker threw up his head, laughing. "Some children could combine the two," he replied, "but you can't."

"What?" asked Jewel.

"Nothing. Why not be a fish, Jewel? They're much more graceful."

"But they can't creep around among the coral and peek into oyster shells at the pearls."

"Imagine a lobster peeking!" Mr. Evringham strained his eyes to their widest and stared at Jewel, who shouted.

"That's just the way the sand-fleas look," she exclaimed.

"Well," remarked the broker, recovering his ordinary expression, "you may as well remain a little girl, so far as that goes. You can creep around among the coral and peek at pearls at Tiffany's."

"What's Tiffany's?"

"Something you will take more interest in when you're older." The broker shook his head. "The difference is that the lobster wouldn't care to wear the coral and pearls. An awful thought comes over me once in a while, Jewel," he added, after a pause.

The child looked up at him seriously. "It can be met," she answered quickly.

He smiled. He understood her peculiar expressions in these days. "Hardly, I think," he answered. "It is this: that you are going to grow up."

Jewel looked off at the blue water. "Well," she replied at last hopefully, "you're grown up, you know, and perhaps you'll like me then just as much as I do you."

He squeezed the little hand he held. "We'll hope so," he said.

"And besides, grandpa," she went on, for she had heard him express the same dread before, "we'll be together every day, so perhaps you won't notice it. Sometimes I've tried to see a flower open. I've known it was going to do it, and I've been just bound I'd see it; and I've watched and watched, but I never could see when the leaves spread, no matter how much I tried, and yet it would get to be a rose, somehow. Perhaps some day somebody'll say to you, 'Why, Jewel's a grown up lady, isn't she?' and you'll say, 'Is she, really? Why, I hadn't noticed it.'"

"That's a comforting idea," returned Mr. Evringham briefly, his eyes resting on the upturned face.

"So now, if the pond won't run away, we'll have the most fun," went on Jewel, relieved. "They said we could take this boat, grandpa, and have a row." She lifted her shoulders and smiled.

"H'm. A row and a swim combined," returned the broker. "I'm surprised they've nothing better this year than that ramshackle boat. You'll have to bail if we go."

"What's bail?" eagerly.

"Dipping out the water with a tin cup."

"Oh, that'll be fun. It'll be an adventure, grandpa, won't it?"

"I hope not," earnestly, was the reply; but Jewel was already sitting on the grass pulling off her shoes and stockings. She leaped nimbly into the wet boat, and Mr. Evringham stepped gingerly after her, seeking for dry spots for his canvas shoes.

"I think," said the child joyfully, as they pushed off, "when the winds and waves notice us having so much fun, they'll let the pond alone, don't you?"

"If they have any hearts at all," responded Mr. Evringham, bending to the oars.

"Oh, grandpa, you can tell stories like any thing!" exclaimed Jewel admiringly.

"It has been said before," rejoined the broker modestly.

* * * * *

When outdoor gayeties had to be dispensed with one day, on account of a thorough downpour of rain, the last story in Jewel's book was called for.

The little circle gathered in the big living-room; there was no question now as to whether Mr. Evringham should be present.

"It is Hobson's choice this time," said Mrs. Evringham, "so we'll all choose the story, won't we?"

"Let Anna Belle have the turn, though," replied Jewel. "She chose the first one and she must have the last, because she doesn't have so much fun as the rest of us." She hugged the doll and kissed her cheeks comfortingly. It was too true that often of late Anna Belle did not accompany all the excursions, but she went to bed with Jewel every night, and it was seldom that the child was too sleepy to take her into full confidence concerning the events of the day; and Anna Belle, being of a sedentary turn and given to day dreams, was apparently quite as well pleased.

Now Mr. Evringham settled in a big easy-chair; the reader took a small one by the window, and Jewel sat on the rug before the fire, holding Anna Belle.

"Now we're off," said Mr. Evringham.

"Go to sleep if you like, father," remarked the author, smiling, and then she began to read the story entitled

ST. VALENTINE

There was a little buzz of interest in Miss Joslyn's room in the public school, one day in February, over the arrival of a new scholar. Only a very little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham apron.

"Take this seat, Alma," said Miss Joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while Ada Singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, Lucy Berry, and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room.

The first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but Alma felt no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to Ada.

"Isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of Lucy, as at noon they perched on the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch together.

"Yes, she has such big eyes," assented Lucy. "Who is she?"

"Why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. Her father is dead, or in prison, or something."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the girls saw Alma Driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks flushing. "My father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming back."

Ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "What a delicate appetite you must have," she said, winking at Lucy and looking at the big pail.

"Oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied Alma, taking off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all the pail we had." Then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and took out a piece of bread and butter.

"Well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed Ada, staring at the brown gingham figure.

Alma looked up mildly. She had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat her lunch where she could look at Lucy Berry, who seemed beautiful to Alma, with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never occurred to her that she could be in the way.

Ada turned to Lucy with a curling lip. "I should hate to be a third party, shouldn't you?" she asked, so significantly that even Alma couldn't help understanding her. Tears started to the big eyes as the little girl dropped her bread back into the hollow depths of the pail, replaced the cover, and went away to find a solitary corner, with a sorer spot in her heart than she had ever known.

"Oh, why did you say that, Ada?" exclaimed Lucy, making a movement as if to slip down from the window-seat and follow.

"Don't you go one step after her, Lucy Berry," commanded Ada. "My mother doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people. She'll find plenty of friends of her own kind."

"But you hurt her feelings," protested Lucy.

"Oh, no, I didn't," carelessly; "besides, if I did, she'll forget all about it. I had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. Do you want a stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?"

"I feel as if I ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat with."

"Very well, Lucy. If you go with her, I can't go with you, that's all. You can take your choice."

The final tone in Ada's voice destroyed Lucy's courage. The little girls were very fond of one another, and Lucy was entirely under strong-willed Ada's influence.

Ada was a most attractive little person. Her father, the owner of the factory, was the richest man in town; and to play on Ada's wonderful piano, where you had only to push with your feet to play the gayest music, or to ride with her in her automobile, were exciting joys to her friends. She always had money in her pocket, and boxes of candy for the entertainment of other children, and Lucy was proud of her own position as Ada's intimate friend. So when it came to making a choice between this brilliant companion and the gingham-clad daughter of a factory hand, Lucy Berry's courage and sympathy oozed away, and she sat back on the window-seat, while Ada began talking about something else.

This first school-day was Alma Driscoll's introduction into the world outside of her mother's love. She had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted. She could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates.

Such was the state of affairs when St. Valentine's day dawned. Alma's two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. She knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, Miss Joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, Alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to Lucy Berry's side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher.

While the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of wistfulness crept over the child's face, and her eager fingers crumpled the checked apron as though Alma feared they might otherwise touch the beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and silver. Suddenly Miss Joslyn spoke her name,—Alma Driscoll; only she said "Miss Alma Driscoll," and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes.

"Did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed Ada Singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which Alma took her valentine and opened the envelope.

Poor little Alma! How her heart beat as she unfolded her prize—and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. She dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom.

"What is the meaning of that?" asked Miss Joslyn.

For answer some one handed her the picture. The young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars.

"Whoever sent this knows that Alma's mother works in the factory," she said. "It makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, Miss Joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word.

"What a fuss about nothing," said Ada Singer. "The idea of crying because you get a 'comic!' What else could Alma Driscoll expect?"

Lucy Berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon Ada.

"She has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. I wish I'd been kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but I'm going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not, just as you please;" and turning from the astonished Ada, Lucy Berry marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her stanch friend, Frank Morse, would take care of them for her. Among the valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting, and she looked at it as she walked along.

"It's the handsomest one I ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed.

"I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "I'll send it to Alma. Frank won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal or greater speed, from the opposite direction. A passer-by just then would have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk, rubbing their heads and staring at one another.

"Lucy Berry!"

"Frank Morse!"

"What's up?"

"Nothing. Something's down, and it's me."

"Well, excuse me; but I guess you haven't seen any more stars than I have. I don't care anything for the Fourth now, I've seen enough fireworks to last me a year."

Both children laughed. "You've got grit, Lucy," added Frank, jumping up and coming to help her. "Most girls would have boo-hooed over that."

"Oh, I wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "I'm too excited."

"Well, what is up?" persisted Frank. "I skipped out of the side door to try to meet you."

"Well, you did," laughed Lucy. "Oh, Frank, I don't know how I can laugh," she pursued, sobering. "I don't deserve to, ever again."

"What is it? Something about that Driscoll kid? She was crying. I was back there and I didn't hear what Miss Joslyn said; but I saw her leave, and then you, and I thought I'd go to the fire, too, if there was one."

"Oh, there is," returned Lucy, "right in here." She grasped the waist of her dress over where her heart was beating hard.

Frank Morse was older than herself and Ada, and she knew that he was one of the few of their friends whose good opinion Ada cared for. To enlist him on Alma's side would mean something.

"Is Ada still there?" she added.

"Yes, she took charge of the valentine box after Miss Joslyn left."

"Oh, Frank, do you suppose she could have sent Alma the 'comic'?" Genuine grief made Lucy's voice unsteady.

"Supposing she did," returned Frank stoutly. "Is that what Big-Eyes was crying about? I hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like that."

"You don't know. Her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid picture making fun of it. Think of your own mother earning your living and being made fun of."

"Ada wouldn't do that," replied Frank shortly. "What made you think of such a thing?"

"It was error for me to say it," returned Lucy, with a meek groan. "I've been doing error things ever since Alma came to school. Oh, Frank, you're a Christian Scientist, too. You must help me to get things straight."

"You don't need to be a Christian Scientist to see that it wasn't a square deal to send the kid that picture."

"No, I know it; but when Alma first came, Ada said her mother didn't allow her to go with girls from the factory, and so I stopped trying to be kind to Alma, because Ada wouldn't like me if I did; and it's been such mesmerism, Frank."

The boy smiled. "Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us about the work of the error-fairies?"

"Indeed I do. My head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. I've done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and I don't care what happens to me, or how much I'm punished, if I can only do right again."

"Who's going to punish you?" asked Frank, not quite seeing the reason for so much feeling.

"Ada. We've always had so much fun, and now it's all over."

"Oh, I guess not. Ada Singer's all right."

Lucy didn't think so. She was convinced that her friend had done this last unkindness to Alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing a portion of her suffering now.

Frank and Lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should be there for Lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would run to the Driscoll cottage with an offering.

Late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three little girls. Lucy Berry surprised hers by rushing in where Mrs. Berry was seated, sewing.

"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "I'm so sorry all over, mother!"

"Then you must know why you can't be," returned Mrs. Berry, looking up at the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her work.

Lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole story.

"To think that Ada could send it!" finished Lucy, with one big sob.

"Be careful, be careful. You don't know that she did," replied Mrs. Berry. "'Thou shalt not bear false witness.'"

"Oh, I do hope she didn't," responded Lucy, "but Ada is stuck up. I've been seeing it more and more lately."

"And how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked Mrs. Berry gently.

"Haven't I been telling you all about it? I've been just as selfish and cowardly as I could be." Lucy's voice was despairing.

"I think there's a beam there still. I think you are angry with Ada."

"How can I help it? If it hadn't been for her I shouldn't have been so mean."

"Oh, Lucy dear!" Mrs. Berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "There is old Adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. Have you forgotten that there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?"

"I don't care," replied Lucy hotly. "I've been calling evil good. I have. I've been calling Ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me."

"Was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you could do for her?" asked Mrs. Berry quietly.

Lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "She wanted me. She liked me better than anybody."

"Well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned Mrs. Berry. "Do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind love? Here are you and Ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and to-day at enmity."

"I'm going with Alma Driscoll now, and I'm going to eat my lunch with her, and everything. I should think that was unselfish."

"Perhaps it will be. We'll see. Isn't it a little comfort to you to think that it will be some punishment to Ada to see you do it?"

"I don't know," replied Lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated.

"Well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. You see, dearie, we're all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted to begin with ourselves instead of with God. The all-loving Creator of you and Ada and Alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to Him as another. If the loveliness of His creation is hidden by something discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. It says in the Bible 'When He giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' You can rest yourself with the thought of His great quietness now, and you will reflect it."

Mrs. Berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during a moment of silence.

"You know enough about Science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that weeks of an offended manner with Ada would have no effect except to make her long to punish you. You know that love is reflected in love, and that its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows God's truth."

"But you don't say anything at all about Alma," said Lucy. "She's the chief one."

Mrs. Berry smiled. "No," she returned gently. "You are the chief one. Just as soon as your thought is surely right, don't you know that your heavenly Father is going to show you how to unravel this little snarl? You remember there isn't any personality to error, whether it tries to fasten on Ada, or on you."

Lucy sat upright. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost their excited light. "Frank Morse and I are going to take some pretty valentines to Alma's as soon as it is dark," she said.

"That will be pleasant. Now let us read over the lesson for to-day again, and know what a joyous thing life is."

"Well, mother, will you go and see Mrs. Driscoll some time?"

"Certainly I will, Sunday. I suppose she is too busy to see me other days."

In the Singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and sought and found her mother.

Mrs. Singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was reading, when Ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the door behind her.

"Mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she cried.

"Of course not. What's the matter?" returned Mrs. Singer briefly, keeping her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book.

"Why, Lucy Berry is angry with me, and I don't care. I shall never go with her again!"

"Dear me, Ada. I should think you could settle these little differences without bothering me. What has the factory to do with it?"

"Why, there is a new girl at school, Alma Driscoll, and her mother works there; and she tried to come with Lucy and me, and Lucy would have let her, but I told her you wouldn't like it, and, anyway, of course we didn't want her. So to-day when the valentine box was opened, Alma Driscoll got a 'comic;' and she couldn't take a joke and cried and went home. I can't bear a cry-baby, anyway. And then Miss Joslyn made a fuss about it and she went home, and after that Lucy Berry flared up at me and said she was going to be friends with Alma after this, and she went home. It just spoiled everybody's fun to have them act so silly. Lucy got Frank Morse to bring out all his valentines and hers. I'll never go with her again, whether she goes with Alma or not!"

Angry little sparks were shining in Ada's eyes, and she evidently made great effort not to cry.

"What was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?"

"Oh, something about a factory girl. You know the verses are always silly on those."

"Well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, I must say. Who do you suppose did it?"

"No one ever tells who sends valentines," returned Ada defiantly. "No one will ever know."

"Well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so smart or so unkind as she thought she was. Mrs. Driscoll isn't an ordinary factory hand. She is an assistant in the bookkeeping department."

"Well, they must be awfully poor, the way Alma looks, anyway," returned Ada.

"I suppose they are poor. I happened to hear Mr. Knapp begging your father to let a Mrs. Driscoll have that position, and your father finally consented. I remember his telling how long the husband had been away trying for work, and what worthy people they were, old friends of his. They lived in some neighboring town; so when Mrs. Driscoll was offered this position they came here. They live"—

"Oh, I know where they live," interrupted Ada, "and I knew they were factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like Alma."

"I'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned Mrs. Singer.

"Then she'd have stuck to us if I had been. I guess you've forgotten the way it is at school."

Mrs. Singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "You ought to be kind to everybody, Ada," she said vaguely, "but I really think I shall have to take you out of the public school. It is such a mixed crowd there. I should have done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education."

Ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her story. "But what shall I do about Frank and Lucy?" she asked, half crying.

"Why, is Frank in it, too?"

"Yes. I know Lucy has been talking to him. He came back and got her valentines."

"Oh, pshaw! Don't make a quarrel over it. Just be polite to Alma Driscoll. They're perfectly respectable people. You don't need to avoid her. Don't worry. Lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever."

Mrs. Singer began to read, and Ada saw it was useless to pursue the subject. She left the room undecidedly, her lips pressed together. All right, let Lucy befriend Alma. She wouldn't look at her, and they'd just see which would get tired of it first.

This hard little determination seemed to give Ada a good deal of comfort for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show Lucy Berry what she had lost.

Meanwhile Alma Driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep.

There her mother found her when she returned from work. Mrs. Driscoll had plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend Mr. Knapp had found for her. Alma knew this, and every evening when her mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her mother's face always silenced her. She knew, young as she was, that her mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was in pretty Miss Joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew bigger, and her mother saw it.

To-day when Mrs. Driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house dark. She lighted the lamp and saw Alma asleep on the bed. "Poor little dear," she thought. "The hours must seem long between school and my coming home."

She went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came again to the bed and kissed Alma's cheek.

"Doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked.

Alma turned and opened her eyes.

"Guess which it is," went on Mrs. Driscoll, smiling. "Breakfast or supper."

"Oh, have you come?" Alma sat up. She clasped her arms around her mother. "Please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with which she went to sleep rising again in her throat.

"Why, what has happened, dear?" Mrs. Driscoll grew serious.

"I don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. I'll study just as hard."

"You'd be lonely here all day, Alma."

"I want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly.

Mrs. Driscoll looked very sober. "Let's sit down at the table," she said, "for I have your boiled egg all ready."

Alma took her place opposite her mother. Supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds.

"I want to hear all about it, Alma, but you'd better eat first," said Mrs. Driscoll, as she poured the tea.

"It isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. Everybody has some one she likes to play with."

A pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile.

"Oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,—

'Every lassie has her laddie, Nane, they say, have I, But all the lads, they smile on me, When comin' thro' the rye.'

If my Alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her."

Alma shook her head. It was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. The child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg.

"This is Valentine's Day," she said, with an effort. "They had a box in school. Everybody got pretty ones but me. They sent me a 'comic.'"

She swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron.

"Well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?"

"N-no. It was—was a hateful one. I—I can't tell you."

A line came in Mrs. Driscoll's forehead. Her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. She swallowed, too.

"Silly pictures can't hurt us, Alma," she said.

"But please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "I cried and ran away, and I know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, I can't go back!" She was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron.

Mrs. Driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering.

"Mother," said Alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?"

For a minute the mother could not reply. The last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. Her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work.

"I can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "We must pray and wait."

As she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. A very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except Mr. Knapp, once on business.

"I'll go," said Mrs. Driscoll. "Wipe your eyes, Alma."

To her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. Something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. It was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to Miss Alma Driscoll.

Her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. One glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. She brought the box to the table and seated herself.

"What's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "It seems to be for you. There was nobody there, but I found that on the step."

Alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover and discovered the elaborate valentine.

"My! What a beauty!" exclaimed her mother.

The little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. The catches kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly.

"Who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked Mrs. Driscoll cheeringly.

"Somebody was sorry," returned Alma. "I wish they didn't have to be sorry for me."

"Oh, you can't be sure. When I was a little girl all the best part of Valentine's Day was running around to the houses with them after dark. How do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?"

"Because I remember it. Miss Joslyn handed it to Lucy Berry out of the school box. Lucy is the prettiest"—

Another loud knocking at the door interrupted.

Mrs. Driscoll answered the call. A big white envelope lay on the step, and it was addressed to Alma. This time the latter's smile was a little brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging cupids and inscribed "To my Valentine."

"Well, I never saw any prettier ones," said Mrs. Driscoll.

"But they weren't bought for me," returned Alma.

When soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, Mrs. Driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl.

"Alma," she said. "I think you were mistaken in saying that all the children laughed when you received that 'comic.' Now," in a different tone, "let's have some fun! Some child or children are giving you the very best they have. Let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your friends are!"

"Oh, no," returned Alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea.

"Yes, indeed. We all used to try when I was little. I'm going to stand by the door and hold it open a bit and you see if I don't catch somebody."

Alma lifted her shoulders. She wasn't sure that she liked to have her mother try this; but Mrs. Driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the dark, and stood beside it.

She did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this rather to amuse Alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and Mrs. Driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. A little scream followed, and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall.

They couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mrs. Driscoll, very much embarrassed. "I was trying to catch a valentine."

"Well, you did," laughed the stranger. "There's one on the step now, unless my skirt switched it off when I jumped. I didn't intend to come in this time, though I meant to return after I had done an errand; but now I'm here I'll stay a minute if it isn't too early."

"If you'll excuse the table," returned Mrs. Driscoll "Alma and I have a late tea." She stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where Alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she recognized the voice.

Sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was really Miss Joslyn. She could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. All the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to Alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with her mother, right in their own sitting-room.

Miss Joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "Well, well, Alma!" she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!"

"And here is another," said Mrs. Driscoll, handing the latest arrival to the little girl. Alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak. On the leaf was printed in gold letters the word Love.

"I was caught in the act, Alma," laughed Miss Joslyn, "but I guess I am too old and slow to be running about at night with valentines."

"I like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "It was bought for me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. Twenty minutes ago the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of remaining there until another Valentine's Day came around.

"Please sit down, Miss Joslyn," said Mrs. Driscoll.

"Well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered chair, "but I wish you would finish your supper."

"We had, really," replied Mrs. Driscoll, smiling, "or I shouldn't have been playing such a game by the door. You haven't been the giver of all these valentines, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, indeed. Those are from some of the school children, no doubt. I've been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work isn't done when school is out."

"I'm sure it isn't," replied Mrs. Driscoll, while Alma sat with her dove in her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these unusual surroundings. It seemed so very strange to be close to Miss Joslyn, like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to give.

She looked at Alma and spoke: "The public school is a little hard for new scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term. You are going to like it better after a while, Alma."

"I think she will, too," put in Mrs. Driscoll. "My hours are long at the factory and I have liked to think of Alma as safe in school. Does she do pretty well in her studies, Miss Joslyn?"

"Yes, I have no fault to find." The visitor smiled at Alma. "You haven't become much acquainted yet," went on Miss Joslyn. "I have noticed that you eat your lunch alone. So do I. Supposing you and I have it together for a while until you are more at home with the other scholars. I have another chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time."

Alma's heart beat fast. She had never heard that an invitation from royalty is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at home from school disappeared. The picture rose before her thought of Miss Joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. Little did Alma suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious half-hour of solitude; but Miss Joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy.

The young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night, leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her.

"Oh, mother, I don't know what all the children will say," said Alma, clasping her hands together. "I'm going to eat lunch with Miss Joslyn!"

"It's fine," responded Mrs. Driscoll, glad of the change in her little girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily comforted. "Do you suppose Valentine's Day is over, dearie, or had I better stand by the door again?"

"Oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied Alma, looking fondly at her dove. "I think Lucy Berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but I'd like to give them back."

"No, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied Mrs. Driscoll. "I'm going to stand there once more. Perhaps I'll catch somebody else to prove to you that Lucy isn't the only one thinking about you."

Mrs. Driscoll returned quietly to her post, and Alma could see her smiling face through the open door.

Alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself; but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to Lucy Berry in the school box. She was glad it had not come back to her to-night. That would have been hardest of all to bear.

Just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. The child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again Mrs. Driscoll's hand flew out, and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly.

"Well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout, elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in.

She retreated. "Oh, Mr. Knapp, please excuse me! I thought you were a valentine!"

"Nobody'd have me, ma'am. Nobody'd have me. Not a mite o' use to try to stick a pair o' Cupid's wings on these shoulders. It would take an awful pair to fly me. Well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at the laughing mother and child, "I'm right down glad to see you playin' a game. I've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow overlooked this afternoon, I decided I'd bring it along. Might be fetchin' you a fortune, for all I knew."

Mrs. Driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the good-humored red face, as Mr. Knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which Alma's mother flushed and paled.

"You have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl.

"Yes, it is from father. Won't you sit down, Mr. Knapp?"

"No, no, I'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. I know you want to, and I hope it brings good news. If it don't, you just remember it's always darkest before day. Frank Driscoll's bound to come out right side up. He's a good feller."

So saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and Mrs. Driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope.

At the first four words, "It's all right, Nettie," she crushed the paper against her happy eyes and then hugged Alma.

It was all right. Mr. Driscoll had a position at last, and by the time summer should come he was sure they could be together again.

After the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning Mrs. Driscoll went off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be opened beside Miss Joslyn's desk.

There were two other excited children getting ready for school that morning. They had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently prepared to meet the day. Ada Singer's mental attitude was, "I'll never give in, and Lucy Berry will find it out."

Lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch with Alma and being punished by Ada in consequence. Her heart fluttered at the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves.

"There isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "Anything which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some time."

"Not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought Lucy stoutly, and then a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing Alma shouldn't come to school at all!

But Alma was there. Ada Singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. Frank Morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to another of the three girls and shook his head at his book.

At the first recess Ada Singer spoke to him as he was going out. "Wait a minute, Frank. It is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school with the auto. We're going to take a long spin. Wouldn't you like to go?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Frank; "but don't you want to take Lucy in my place?" He was a little uncomfortable.

"If I did I shouldn't ask you," returned Ada coolly.

"All right. Thank you," said Frank, but as he joined the boys on the playground he felt still more uncomfortable.

Lucy Berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to Alma. Her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness.

Alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she didn't know whether to thank Lucy for the valentines or not.

The latter did not give her time to speak. She said: "I came to see if you won't eat your lunch with me to-day."

Alma colored. How full the world was of kind people! "I'd love to," she answered, "but I think Ada wants to have you all alone and"—

"But I'd like it if you would," said Lucy firmly, "because I want to get more acquainted. My mother is coming to see yours on Sunday afternoon, too."

"I'm real glad she is," replied Alma, fairly basking in the light from Lucy's eyes. "I'd love to eat lunch with you, but Miss Joslyn invited me to have it with her to-day."

"Oh!" Lucy's gaze grew larger. "Why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed tone.

They had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over. As the children took their way to their seats, Alma was amazed to see Ada Singer pass Lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking at her. The child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation from Lucy as connected with it.

At the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her pleasure in the visit with Miss Joslyn, who was a charming hostess. Many a girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was circulated that Alma Driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner.

Miss Joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for Alma's, spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. She soon told the teacher about the good news that came after she left the night before, and Miss Joslyn was very sympathetic. "It's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only—only there's one thing, Miss Joslyn."

"What is it?"

"I think Lucy Berry and Ada Singer have had a quarrel."

"Oh, the inseparables? I guess not," the teacher smiled.

"Yes'm. The worst is, I think it's about me. Could I go out in the dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual window-sill?"

"Yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier."

So Alma went out and soon returned. Lucy and Ada were not on their window-sill. Each was sitting with a different group of girls.

Miss Joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of Mr. Driscoll's new prospects.

But as soon as recess was over, Alma's thoughts went back to Ada Singer, for she felt certain that whatever had happened, Ada was the one to be appeased. The child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble coming to dear, kind Lucy.

When school was dismissed, Ada Singer, her head carried high, put on her things in the dressing-room within a few feet of Lucy, but ignoring her presence. "I love her," thought Lucy, "and she does love me. Nothing can cheat either of us."

Ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for Frank Morse. Alma Driscoll hastened up to her.

Ada drew away. Alma needn't think that because she had shared Miss Joslyn's luncheon she would now be as good as anybody.

"Can I speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet meekly, that Ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, Alma did not know how to proceed. She hesitated and clasped and unclasped her hands over the gingham apron. "Please—please"—she stammered, "don't be cross with Lucy. She felt sorry for me, but I'll never eat lunch with her,—truly."

"You don't know what you're talking about," rejoined Ada coldly.

"Yes, she does." It was Frank Morse's voice, and Ada, turning quickly, saw him and Lucy standing a few feet behind her. The four children were alone in the deserted hall.

"Here," went on Frank bluntly, "I want you two girls to kiss and make up."

Ada blushed violently as she met Lucy's questioning, wistful look.

"Are you coming down to the auto, Frank?" she asked coolly. "Mother will be waiting."

"Oh, come now, Ada, be a good fellow. If you and Lucy want to put on the gloves, I'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look business. Great Scott, I'm glad I'm not a girl!"

The genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb Ada a little, and then Lucy added at once, beseechingly:

"Oh, it's like a bad dream, Ada, to have anything the matter between us!"

"Whose fault is it?" asked Ada sharply. "Why did you fly at me so yesterday?"

Both girls had forgotten Alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress.

"You just the same as accused me of sending Alma the 'comic,'" continued Ada.

"Oh, didn't you send it?" cried Lucy, fairly springing at her friend in her relief. "I don't care what you do to me then! I deserve anything, for I really thought you did."

Her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in Ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but at least with an element of nobility. She foresaw that the dishonesty was going to be more than she could bear.

"I did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. Then, ignoring Frank and Lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward Alma. "I sent you the 'comic,'" she went on. "I thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and I'm sorry. I should like to have you forgive me."

Her tone was far from humble, but it was music to Alma's ears. The little girl clasped her hands together. "Oh, I do," she replied earnestly, "and it made everybody so kind! Please don't feel bad about it. I got the loveliest valentines in the evening, and Miss Joslyn came to see us, and we had a letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and—and everything!"

Ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. Alma's eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the 'comic' touched her. In her embarrassment she took another determination.

"If you'll excuse me, Frank," she said turning to him, "I think I'll take Alma home in the auto, instead of you."

"All right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "You're a brick, Ada!"

This praise from one who seldom praised gave Ada secret elation, and made her resolve to deserve it. "Good-by, Lucy," was all she said, but the girls' eyes met, and Lucy knew the trouble was over.

As Ada and Alma went downstairs, Lucy ran to the hall window, and Frank followed. "Don't let them see us," she said joyfully.

So, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile waiting. Mrs. Singer was sitting within and they saw Ada say something to her; then Alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, Ada after her, and away they all went.

Lucy turned to Frank with her face glowing.

"It's all right now," she said. "When Ada takes hold she never lets go; and now she's taken hold right!"



CHAPTER XVI

A MORNING RIDE

Mrs. Evringham's listeners thanked her, then discussed the story a few minutes.

"I'd like to get acquainted with Alma," said Jewel, "and help be kind to her."

"Oh, she's going to have a very good time now," replied Mr. Evringham. "One can see that with half an eye. Were there any Almas where you went to school, Jewel?"

"No, there weren't. We didn't bring lunches and we went home in a 'bus."

"Jewel went to a very nice private school," said Mrs. Evringham. "Her teachers were Christian Scientists and I made their dresses for them in payment."

The logs were red in the fireplace now, and the roar of the wind-driven sea came from the beach.

"Well, we've a good school for her," replied Mr. Evringham, "and there'll be no dresses to make either."

His daughter looked at him wistfully. "I'm very happy when I think of it," she answered, "for there is other work I would rather do."

"I should think so, indeed. Catering to the whims of a lot of silly women who don't know their own minds! It must be the very—yes, very unpleasant. Yes, we have a fine school in Bel-Air. Jewel, we're going to work you hard next winter. How shall you like that?"

"My music lessons will be the most fun," returned Jewel.

"And dancing school beside."

"Oh, grandpa, I'll love that! I used to know girls who went, in Chicago."

"Yes, I'm sure you will. You shall learn all the latest jigs and flings, too, that any of the children know. I think you ought to learn them quickly. You've been hopping up and down ever since I knew you."

Jewel exchanged a happy glance with her mother and clapped her hands at the joyful prospect.

Mrs. Evringham looked wistfully at her father-in-law. "I hope you'll be willing I should do the work I want to, father."

"What's that? Writing books? Perfectly willing, I assure you. I think you've made a very good start."

Mrs. Evringham smiled. "No, not writing books. Practicing Christian Science."

"Well, you do that all the time, don't you?"

"I mean taking patients."

"What!" Mr. Evringham straightened up in his chair and frowned at her incredulously. "Anybody? Tom, Dick, and Harry? You can't mean it!"

His tone was so severe that Jewel rose from her place on the rug and, climbing into his lap, rested her head on his breast. His hand closed on the soft little one unconsciously. "I suppose I don't understand you," he added, a shade more mildly.

"Not in your house, father," returned Julia. She had been preparing in thought for this moment for days. "Of course it wouldn't do to have strangers coming and going there."

"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear girl," brusquely, "put it out of your head at once. There is no need for you to do anything after this but bring up your child and keep your husband's shirt buttons in place."

"I won't neglect either," replied Julia quietly; "but Mr. Reeves says there is great need of practitioners in Bel-Air. You know where the reading-room is? There is a little room leading out of it that I could have."

"For an office, do you mean? Nonsense," exclaimed Mr. Evringham again. "Harry wouldn't think of allowing it."

Julia smiled. "Will you if he does?"

"What shall I say to her, Jewel?" The broker looked down into the serious face.

"I suppose mother ought to do it," replied the child. "Of course every one who knows how and has time wants to. You can see that, grandpa, because isn't your rheumatism better?"

"Yes. I like our resident physician very much; but we need her ourselves. I don't think I shall ever give my consent to such a thing."

"Oh, yes, you will, grandpa, if it's right." The flaxen head on his breast wagged wisely. "Some morning you'll come downstairs and say: 'Julia, I think you can go and get that office whenever you like.'"

Mrs. Evringham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. The couple in the armchair were so absorbed in one another that they did not observe her, and the broker's face showed such surprise.

"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, after a minute. "Upon my word!"

"Are you all through talking about that?" asked Jewel, after a pause.

"I am, certainly," replied Mr. Evringham.

"And I," added his daughter. She was content that the seed was planted, and preferred not to press the subject.

"Well, then," continued Jewel, "I was wondering, grandpa, if the cracks in that boat couldn't be stuffed up a little more so I wouldn't have to bail, and then I could learn how to row."

"Ho, these little hands row!" returned Mr. Evringham scoffingly.

"Why, I could, grandpa. I just know I could. It was fun to bail at first, but I'm getting a little tired of it now, and I love to be on the pond—oh, almost as much as on Star!"

Mr. Evringham's eyes shone with an unusually pleased expression. "Is it possible!" he returned. "It's a water-baby we have here, a regular water-baby!"

"Yes, grandpa, when I know how to swim and row and sail—yes," chuckling at the expression of exaggerated surprise which her listener assumed, "and sail, too, I'll be so happy!"

"Oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!"

"I'll be nine in five weeks, nine years old."

"Well," Mr. Evringham sighed, "that's better than nineteen."

"Why, grandpa," earnestly, "you forget; perhaps you'll like me when I'm grown up."

"It's possible," returned the broker.

How the sun shone the next morning! The foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white. Essex Maid and Star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing.

Star had to stretch his pretty legs at a great rate, to keep up with the Maid this morning, though her master moderated her transports. The more like birds they flew, the more Jewel enjoyed it. She knew now how to get Star's best speed, and the pony scarcely felt her weight, so lightly did she adapt herself to his every motion.

With cheeks tingling in the fine salt air, the riders finally came to a walk in the quiet country road.

"I've been looking up that boat business, Jewel," said Mr. Evringham. "The thing is hardly worth fixing. It would take a good while, just at the time we want the boat, too."

"Well, then," returned the child, "we'll have to make it do. There are so many happinesses here, it isn't any matter if the boat isn't just right; but I was thinking, grandpa, if you wouldn't wear such nice shoes, I'd go barefooted, and then we could both sit on the same seat and let the water come in, while I use one oar and you the other; or"—her face suddenly glowing with a brilliant idea—"we could both wear our bathing-suits!"

"Yes," returned the broker, "I think if you were to row we might need them."

The child laughed.

"No, Jewel, no; we'd better bathe when we bathe, and row when we row, and not mix them. You couldn't do anything with even one of those clumsy oars in that tub of a boat."

As Mr. Evringham said this, he saw the disappointment in the little girl's face as she looked straight ahead, and noted, too, her effort to conquer it.

"Well, I do have so many happinesses," she replied.

"It will be a grand sight at the beach this morning, with the sunlight on the stormy waves," said Mr. Evringham. "The water-baby will have to keep out of them, though."

Jewel lifted her shoulders and looked at him. "Then we ought to row over, don't you think so?"

"You're not willing to be a thorough-going land lubber, are you?" returned the broker.

"No," Jewel sighed. "I'd rather bail than keep off the pond. Oh, but I forgot," with a sudden thought, "mother'd get wet if she rowed over and it would be too bad to make her walk through the fields alone."

There was a little silence and then Mr. Evringham turned the horses into the homeward way.

"I begin to feel as if breakfast would be acceptable, Jewel. How is it with you?"

"Why, I could eat"—began the child hungrily, "I could eat"—

"Eggs?" suggested the broker, as she paused to think of something sufficiently inedible.

"Almost," returned the child seriously. Another pause, and then she continued. "Grandpa, wouldn't it be nice if mother had somebody to play with, too, so we could go out in the boat whenever we wanted to?"

"Yes. Why doesn't your father hurry up his affairs?"

Jewel looked at the broker. "He has. He thought it was error for him not to let the people there know that he was going to leave them after a while; so they began right off to try to find somebody else, and they have already."

"Eh?" asked the broker. "Your father is through in Chicago, then? When did you hear that?"

"Mother had the letter yesterday and she told me when I went to bed last night."

"Why, then he'll be coming right on."

"We'd like to have him," returned Jewel; "but mother wasn't sure how you would feel about it, to have father here so long before business commences."

"Why didn't she tell me last evening?" asked Mr. Evringham.

"I think," returned Jewel, "that she wanted father so much—and—and that she thought perhaps you wouldn't think it was best, and—well, I think she felt a little bashful. You know mother isn't your real relation, grandpa," the child's head fell to one side apologetically.

Mr. Evringham stroked his mustache; but instantly he turned grave again. His eyes met Jewel's.

"I think, as you say, it would be rather a convenience to us if your mother had some one to play with, too. Suppose we send for him, eh?"

"Oh, let's," cried the child joyfully.

"Done with you!" returned the broker, and he gave the rein to Essex Maid. Star had suddenly so much ado to gallop along beside her, that Jewel's laugh rang out merrily.

When, a little later, the family met in the dining-room for breakfast, Mr. Evringham accosted his daughter cheerfully:

"Well, this is good news I hear about Harry."

Julia flushed and met his eyes wistfully. The broker had never seen any resemblance in Jewel to her until this moment; but it was precisely the child's expression that now returned his look.

"It's my boy she wants, too," he thought. "By George, she shall have him."

"I wasn't sure that you would think it was good news for Harry to give up his position so soon, but there wasn't any other honest way," she replied.

"The sooner the break is made, the better," returned Mr. Evringham. "I shall wire him to close up everything at once and join us as soon as he can."

Mother and child exchanged a happy look and Jewel clapped her hands. "Father's coming, father's coming!" she cried joyfully.

The broker bent his brows upon her.

"Jewel, are you strictly honorable?" he asked.

"I don't know," returned the little girl.

"You said a few minutes ago that it was a playfellow for your mother that you wanted. Your enthusiasm is unseemly."

"Oh, father's just splendid," said Jewel.

After breakfast the three repaired to a certain covered piazza where they always read the lesson for the day; then Mr. Evringham suggested that they go promptly to the beach to see the splendid show before the rollers regained their usual monotonous dignity.

"Jewel and I thought we would go over in the boat instead of through the fields, but that old tub is rather uninviting for a lady's clothes."

"I think I will take the solitary saunter in preference," returned Mrs. Evringham. "You and Jewel row over if you like."

"No, we'd rather walk with you," said the child heroically.

Julia smiled. "I don't want you. There are birds and flowers."

"Well, come down and see us off, anyway," said Mr. Evringham; so the three moved over the grass toward the pond; two walking sedately and one skipping from sheer high spirits.

As they drew near the little wharf the child's quick eyes perceived that there were two boats floating there, one each side of it.

"See that, grandpa! There's some visitor around here," she said, running ahead of the others. A light, graceful boat rose and fell on the waves. It was golden brown within and without, and highly varnished. Its four seats were furnished with wine-colored cushions. Four slim oars lay along its bottom, and its rowlocks gleamed. Best of all, a slender mast with snowy sail furled about it lay along the edge.

"Grandpa, p-lease ask somebody whose it is and if we could get in just a minute!" begged Jewel, in hushed excitement.

"Oh, they're all good neighbors about here. They won't mind, whoever it is," returned Mr. Evringham carelessly, and to the child's wonder and doubt he jumped aboard.

"Pretty neat outfit, isn't it?" he continued, as he stood a moment looking over the lines of the craft, and then lifted the mast.

"Oh, it'll sail, too, it'll sail, too!" cried Jewel, hopping up and down. "Oh, mother, did you ever hear of such a pretty boat?"

"Never," replied Mrs. Evringham. "It must be that some one has come over from one of those fine homes across the pond."

Privately, she was a little surprised by the manner in which Mr. Evringham was making himself at home. He set the mast in its place and then, his arms akimbo, stood regarding Jewel's tense, sun-browned countenance and sparkling eyes.

"How would it be for me to go up to the house and see if we could get permission to take a little sail?" he asked.

"Oh, it would be splendid, grandpa," responded Jewel, "but—but he might say no, and could I get in just a minute first?"

"Yes, come on." The child waited for no second invitation, but sprang into the boat and examined its dry, shining floor and felt its buttoned cushions with admiring awe.

"Hello, see here," said Mr. Evringham, bending over the further side. "Easy, now," for Jewel had scrambled to see. He trimmed the boat while her flaxen head leaned eagerly over.

Beautifully painted in shining black letters she read the name JEWEL.

The child lifted her head quickly and gazed at him, "Grandpa, that almost couldn't—happen" she said, in amazement, catching her breath.

He nodded. "There's one thing pretty certain, Nature won't draw off the pond now that this has come to you."

"Me, me!" cried the child. Her lips trembled and she turned a little pale under the tan as she remembered how the pony came. Then her eyes, dark with excitement, suffused, and recklessly she flung herself upon the broker's neck while the boat rocked wildly.

Mr. Evringham waved one hand toward his daughter while he seized the mast. "Tell Harry we left our love," he cried.

"Dear me, Jewel, what are you doing!" called Mrs. Evringham.

"It's mine, mother, it's mine," cried the child, lifting her head to shout it, and then ducking back into the broker's silk shirt front.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Evringham, coming gingerly out upon the wharf, which was such an unsteady old affair that she had remained on terra firma.

"Why, you see," responded Mr. Evringham, "the farmhouse boat wasn't so impossible for two old sea-dogs like Jewel and me, but when it came to inviting her lady mother to go out with us, I saw that we must have something else. Well, it seems as if Jewel approved of this."

He winked at his daughter over the flaxen head on his breast.

"What a fortunate, fortunate girl!" exclaimed Julia. "I can hardly wait to sit on one of those beautiful red cushions."

"Jewel will invite you pretty soon, I think," said Mr. Evringham. "I hope so, for one of my feet is turned in and she is standing on it, but I wouldn't have her get off until she is entirely ready."

He could feel the child swallowing hard, and though she moved her little feet, she could not lift her face.

"Grandpa," she began, in an unsteady, muffled tone, "I didn't tease you too much about the old boat, did I?"

"No,—no, child!"

"Shall you—shall you like this one, too?"

"Well, I should rather think so. I have to give all my shoes to the poor as it is. I've nothing left fit to put on but my riding-boots. How shall we go over to the beach this time, Jewel, row or sail? Your mother is waiting for you to ask her to get in."

Slowly the big bows behind the child's ears came down into their normal position. She kissed her grandfather fervently and then turned her flushed face and eyes toward her mother.

"Come in, so you can see the boat's name," she said, and her smile shone out like sunshine from an April sky.

"Give me your hand, then, dearie. You know I'm a poor city girl and haven't a very good balance."

The name was duly examined, and Mrs. Evringham's "oh's" of wonder and admiration were long-drawn.

"See the darling cushions, mother. You can wear your best clothes here. It's just like a parlor!"

"A very narrow parlor, Jewel. Move carefully." Mrs. Evringham had seated herself in the stern. "Perhaps I can help with the rudder," she added, taking hold of the lines.

"Just as the admiral says," returned the broker.

"Oh, grandpa, you'll have to be the admiral," said Jewel excitedly. "I'll be the crew and"—

"And the owner," suggested Mr. Evringham.

"Yes! Oh, mother, what will father say!"

"He'll say that you are a very happy, fortunate little girl, and that Divine Love is always showing your grandpa how to do kind things for you."

The child's expression as she looked up at the admiral made him apprehend another rush.

"Steady, Jewel, steady. Remember we aren't wearing our bathing-suits. Which are we going to do, row or sail?"

"Oh, sail," cried the child, "and it'll never be the first time again! Could you wait while I get Anna Belle?"

"Certainly."

Like a flash Jewel sprang from the boat and fled up the wharf and lawn.

Mr. Evringham smiled and shook his head at his daughter. "A creature of fire and dew," he said.

"I don't know how to thank you for all your goodness to her," said Julia simply.

"It would offend me to be thanked for anything I did for Jewel," he returned.

"I understand. She is your own flesh and blood. But what I feel chiefly grateful for is the wisdom of your kindness. I believe you will never spoil her. I should rather we had remained poor and struggling than to have that."

Mr. Evringham gave the speaker a direct look in which appeared a trace of humor.

"I think I am slightly inclined," he returned, "to overlook the fact that you and Harry have any rights in Jewel which should be respected; but theoretically I do acknowledge them, and it is going to be my study not to spoil her. I have an idea that we couldn't," he added.

"Oh, yes, we could," returned Julia, "very easily."

"Well, there aren't quite enough of us to try," said the broker. "I believe while we're waiting for Jewel, I'll just step up to the house and get some one to send that telegram to Harry."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Julia eagerly; and in a minute she was left alone, swaying up and down on the lapping water, in the salt, sunny breeze, while the JEWEL pulled at the mooring as if eager to try its snowy wings; and happy were the grateful, prayerful thoughts that swelled her heart.



CHAPTER XVII

THE BIRTHDAY

One stormy evening Harry Evringham blew into the farmhouse, wet from his drive from the station, and was severally hugged, kissed, and shaken by the three who waited eagerly to receive him. The month that ensued was perhaps the happiest that had ever come into the lives of either of the quartette; certainly it was the happiest period to the married pair who had waited ten years for their wedding trip.

The days were filled with rowing, sailing, swimming, riding, driving, picnics, walks, talks, and dolce far niente evenings, when the wind was still and the moon silvered field and sea.

The happy hours were winged, the goldenrod strewed the land with sunshine, and August slipped away.

One morning when Jewel awoke it was with a sensation that the day was important. She looked over at Anna Belle and shook her gently. "Wake up, dearie," she said. "'Green pastures are before me,' it's my birthday."

But Anna Belle, who certainly looked very pretty in her sleep, and perhaps suspected it, seemed unable to overcome her drowsiness until Jewel set her up against the pillow, when her eyes at once flew open and she appeared ready for sociability.

"Do you remember Gladys on her birthday morning, dearie? She couldn't think of anything she wanted, and I'm almost like her. Grandpa's given me my boat, that's his birthday present; and mother says she should think it was enough for ten birthdays, and so should I. Poor grandpa! In ten birthdays I'll be nineteen, and then he says I'll have to cry on his shoulder instead of into his vest. But grandpa's such a joker! Of course grown-up ladies hardly ever cry. If father and mother have anything for me, I'll be just delighted; but I can't think what I want. I have the darlingest pony in the world, and the dearest Little Faithful watch, and the best boat that was ever built, and I rowed father quite a long way yesterday all alone, and I didn't splash much, but he caught hold of the side of the boat and pretended he was afraid"—Jewel's laughter gurgled forth at the remembrance—"he's such a joker; and I do understand the sail, too, but they won't let me do it alone yet. Father says he can see in my eye that I should love to jibe. I don't even know what jibe is, so how could I do it?"

Jewel had proceeded so far in her confidences when the door of her room opened, and her father and mother came in in their bath-wrappers.

"We thought we heard you improving Anna Belle's mind," said her father, taking her in his arms and kissing both her cheeks and chin, the tip of her nose and her forehead, and then carefully repeating the programme.

"But that was ten!" cried Jewel.

"Certainly. If you didn't have one to grow on, how would you get along?"

Then her pretty mother, her brown hair hanging in long braids, took her turn and kissed Jewel's cheeks till they were pinker than ever. "Many, many happy returns, my little darling," she said. "I didn't know you weren't going riding this morning."

"Yes, grandpa said he expected a man early on business, and he had to be here to see him. Father could have gone with me," said Jewel, looking at him reproachfully, where he sat on the side of the bed, "but when I asked him last night he said—I forget what he said."

"Merely that I didn't believe that horses liked such early dew."

"Oh, Jewel!" laughed Mrs. Evringham, "your father is a lazy, sleepy boy. It's later than you think, dearie. Hop up now and get ready for breakfast."

They left her, and the little girl arose with great alacrity, for ever since she was a baby her birthday present had always been on the breakfast table.

As soon as she was dressed, she put a blue cashmere wrapper on Anna Belle and carried her downstairs to the room where the Evringham family had their meals, separate from the other inmates of the farmhouse.

Mr. Evringham was standing by the window, reading the newspaper as he waited, and Jewel ran to him and looked up with bright expectation.

"H'm!" he said, not lifting his eyes from the print, "good-morning, Jewel. Essex Maid and Star would hardly speak to me when I was out there just now, they're so vexed at having to stay indoors this morning."

The child did not reply, but continued to look up, smiling.

"Well," said the broker at last, dropping the paper. "Well? What is it? I don't see anything very exciting. You haven't on your silk dress."

"Grandpa! It's my birthday."

The broker slapped his leg with very apparent annoyance. "Well, now, to think I should have to be told that!"

Jewel laughed and hopped a little as she looked toward the table. "Do you see that bunch under the cloth at my place? That's my present. Isn't it the most fun not to know what it is?"

Mr. Evringham took her up in his arms and weighed her up and down thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I believe you are a little heavier than you were yesterday."

The child laughed again.

"Now remember, Jewel, you're to go slow on this birthday business. Once in two or three years is all very well."

"Grandpa! people have to have birthdays every year," she replied as he set her down, "but after they're about twenty or something like that, it's wrong to remember how old they are."

"Indeed?" the broker stroked his mustache. "Ladies especially, I suppose."

"Oh, no," returned Jewel seriously. "Everybody. Mother's just twenty years older than I am and that's so easy to remember, it's going to be hard to forget; but I've most forgotten how much older father is," and Jewel looked up with an expression of determination that caused the broker to smile broadly.

"I can understand your mother's being too self-respecting to pass thirty," he returned, "but just why your father shouldn't, I fail to understand."

"Why, it's error to be weak and wear spectacles and have things, isn't it?" asked Jewel, with such swift earnestness that Mr. Evringham endeavored to compose his countenance.

"Have things?" he repeated.

Jewel's head fell to one side. "Why, even you, grandpa," she said lovingly, "even you thought you had the rheumatism."

"I was certainly under that impression."

"But you never would have expected to have it when you were as young as father, would you?"

"Hardly."

"Well, then you see why it's wrong to make laws about growing old and to remember people's ages."

"Ah, I see what you mean. Everybody thinking the wrong way and jumping on a fellow when he's down, as it were."

At this moment Jewel's father and mother entered the room, and she instantly forgot every other consideration in her interest as to what charming surprise might be bunched up under the tablecloth.

"Anna Belle can hardly wait to see my present," she said, lifting her shoulders and smiling at her mother.

"She ought to know one thing that's there, certainly," replied Mrs. Evringham mysteriously.

Jewel held the doll up in front of her. "Have you given me something, dearie?" she asked tenderly. "I do hope you haven't been extravagant."

Then with an abrupt change of manner, she hopped up into her chair eagerly, and the others took their places.

The very first package that Jewel took out was marked—"With Anna Belle's love." It proved to be a pair of handsome white hair-ribbons, and the donor looked modestly away as Jewel expressed her pleasure and kissed her blushing cheeks.

Next came a box marked with her father's name. Upon opening it there was discovered a set of ermine furs for Anna Belle,—at least they were very white furs with very black tiny tails: collar and muff of a regal splendor, and any one who declined to call them ermine would prove himself a cold skeptic. Jewel jounced up and down in her chair with delight.

"Winter's coming, you know, Jewel, and Bel-Air Park is a very swell place," said her father.

"And perhaps I'll have a sled at Christmas and draw Anna Belle on it," said the child joyously. "Here, dearie, let's see how they fit," and on went the furs over the blue cashmere wrapper, making Anna Belle such a thing of beauty that Jewel gazed at her entranced. The doll was left with her chubby hands in the ample muff and the sumptuous collar half eclipsing her golden curls, while the little girl dived under the cloth once more for the largest package of all.

This was marked with her mother's love and contained handsome plaid material for a dress, with the silk to trim it, and a pair of kid gloves.

Jewel hopped down from her chair and kissed first her father and then her mother. "That'll be the loveliest dress!" she said, and she carried it to her grandfather to let him look closer and put his hand upon it.

"Well, well, you are having a nice birthday, Jewel," he said.

"Yes," she replied, putting her arm around his neck and pressing her cheek to his. "We couldn't put the boat under the tablecloth, but I'm thinking about it, grandpa."

After breakfast they all went out to the covered piazza to read the lesson. It was a fine, still morning. The pond rippled dreamily. The roar of the surf was subdued. From Jewel's seat beside her grandfather she could see her namesake glinting in the sun and gracefully rising and falling on the waves in the gentle breeze.

They had all taken comfortable positions and Mrs. Evringham was finding the places in the books.

Mr. Evringham spoke quite loudly: "Well, this is a fine morning, surely, fine."

"It is that," agreed Harry, stretching his long legs luxuriously. "If I felt any better I couldn't stand it."

As he was speaking, a strange man in a checked suit came around the corner of the house.

Jewel's eyes grew larger and she straightened up.

"Oh, grandpa, look!" she said softly, and then jumped off the seat to see better. All the little company gazed with interest, for, accompanying the man, was the most superb specimen of a collie dog that they had ever seen. "It's a golden dog, grandpa," added Jewel.

The collie had evidently just been washed and brushed. His coat was, indeed, of a gleaming yellow. His paws were white, the tip of his tail was white, and his breast was snowy as the thick, soft foam of the breakers. A narrow strip of white descended between his eyes,—golden, intelligent eyes, with generations of trustworthiness in them. A silver collar nestled in the long hair about his neck, and altogether he looked like a prince among dogs.

Jewel clasped her hands beneath her chin and gazed at him with all her eyes. He was too splendid to be flown at in her usual manner with animals.

"What a beauty!" ejaculated Harry.

"It is a golden dog," said Jewel's mother, looking almost as enthusiastic as the child.

"What have you there?" asked Mr. Evringham of the man. "Something pretty fine, it appears to me."

"Yes, sir, there's none finer," replied the man, glancing at the animal. "I called to see you on that little matter I wrote you of."

"Yes, yes; well, that will wait. We're interested in that fine collie of yours. We know something about golden dogs here, eh, Jewel?"

"But this dog couldn't dance, grandpa," said the child soberly, drawing nearer to the creature.

"I should think not," remarked the man, smiling. "What would he be doing dancing? I've seen lions jump the rope in shows; but it never looked fitting, to me."

"No," said Jewel, "this dog ought not to dance;" and as the collie's golden eyes met hers, she drew nearer still in fascination, and he touched her outstretched hand curiously, with his cold nose.

"Oh, well, but we like accomplished dogs," said Mr. Evringham coldly.

"Who says this dog ain't accomplished?" returned the man, in an injured tone. "Just stand back there a bit, young lady."

Jewel retreated and her grandfather put his hand over her shoulder. The man spoke to the dog, and at once the handsome creature sat up, tall and dignified, on his hind legs.

The man only kept him there a few seconds; and then he put him through a variety of other performances. The golden dog shook hands when he was told, rolled over, jumped over a stick, and at last sat up again, and when the man took a bit of sugar from his pocket and balanced it on the creature's nose, he tossed it in the air, and, catching it neatly, swallowed it in a trice.

Jewel was giving subdued squeals of delight, and everybody was laughing with pleasure; for the decorative creature appeared to enjoy his own tricks.

The man looked proudly around upon the company.

"Well," said Mr. Evringham to Jewel, "he is a dog of high degree, like Gabriel's, isn't he? But he's such a big fellow I think the organ-grinder wouldn't have such an easy time with him."

At the broker's voice, the dog walked up to him and wagged his feathery tail. Jewel's eager hands went out to touch him, but Mr. Evringham held her back.

"He's a friendly fellow," he went on; then continued to the man, "Would you like to sell him?"

The question set the little girl's heart to beating fast.

"I would, first rate," replied the man, grinning, "but the trouble is I've sold him once. I'm taking him to his owner now."

"That's a handsome collar you have on him."

"Oh, yes, it's a good one all right," returned the man. "The dog is for a surprise present. The lady I'm taking him to is going to know him by his name."

"Let's have a look at it, Jewel," said Mr. Evringham, and he took hold of the silver collar, a familiarity which seemed rather to please the golden dog, who began wagging his tail again, as he looked at Mr. Evringham trustingly.

Jewel bent over eagerly. A single name was engraved clearly on the smooth plate.

"Topaz!" she cried. "His name is Topaz! Grandpa, mother, the golden dog's name is Topaz!"

Mrs. Evringham held up both hands in amazement, while Harry frowned incredulously.

"Did you ever hear of anything so wonderful, grandpa? How can the lady know him by his name so well as we do?" The child was quite breathless.

"What? Do you know the name?" asked the man. "Supposing I'd hit on the right place already. Just take a look under his throat. The owner's name is there."

Jewel fell on her knees, and while Mr. Evringham kept his hand on the dog's muzzle, she pushed aside the silky white fur.

"Evringham. Bel-Air Park, New Jersey," was what she read, engraved on the silver.

She sat still for a minute, overcome, while a procession of ideas crowded after each other through the flaxen head. It was her birthday; grandpa couldn't get the boat under the tablecloth. This beautiful dog—this impossibly beautiful dog, was a surprise present. He was for her, to love and to play with; to see his tricks every day, to teach him to know her and to run to her when she called. If she was given the choice of the Whole world on this sweet birthday morning, it seemed to her nothing could be so desirable as this live creature, this playmate, this prince among dogs.

When she looked up the man in the checked suit had disappeared. She glanced at her father and mother. They were watching her smilingly and she understood that they had known.

She looked around a little further and saw Mr. Evringham seated, his hand on the collie's neck, while the wagging, feathery tail expressed great contentment in the touch of a good friend.

At the time the story of the golden dog had so captivated Jewel's imagination, the broker began his search for one in real life. He had already been thinking that a dog would be a good companion for the fearless child's solitary hours in the woods. As soon as the collie was found, he directed that all the ordinary tricks should be taught it, and every day until he left New York he visited the creature, who remembered him so well that on the collie's arrival late last evening, he had feared its joyous barking out at the barn would waken Jewel.

She rose to her knees now, and, putting her arms around the dog's neck, pressed her radiant face against him.

Topaz pulled back, but Mr. Evringham patted him, and in an instant he was freed; for his little mistress jumped up and, climbing into her grandfather's lap, rested her head against his breast.

"Grandpa," she said, slowly and fervently, "I wonder if you do know how much I love you!"

Mr. Evringham patted the collie's head, then took Jewel's hand and placed it with his own on the sleek forehead. The golden eyes met his attentively.

"You're to take care of her, Topaz. Do you understand?" he asked.

The feathery tail waved harder.

Jewel gazed at the dog. "If anything could be too good to be true, he'd be it," she said slowly.

Mr. Evringham's pleasure showed in his usually impassive face.

"Well, isn't it a good thing then that nothing is?" he replied, and he kissed her.



CHAPTER XVIII

TRUE DELIGHT

When evening came and put a period to that memorable birthday, Topaz was a dog of experiences. If he was a happy discovery to Jewel, she was none the less one to him. He was delighted to romp in the fields, where his coat vied with the goldenrod; or to scamper up and down the beach, barking excitedly, while his friends jumped or swam through the cool waves.

Jewel was eager that her horse and dog should become acquainted; so, when late in the afternoon Essex Maid and Star were brought out at the customary hour, saddled and bridled, she performed an elaborate introduction between the jet-black picture pony and the prince among dogs. Star arched his neck and shook his wavy mane as he gazed down at the golden dog with his full bright eyes. He had seen Topaz before; for the collie had spent the night in the barn, making sunshine in a shady place as he romped about the man in the checked suit.