"Oh, Graham! Oh, Graham! You don't know—"

"Yes, I've heard all about it," Graham said in a voice not quite natural. The two boys on their way back to the city had stopped for dinner at the farmhouse where Peggy had taken breakfast, and had been favored with all the details of what Jack called the "near tragedy," though his effort at facetiousness was far from expressing his real feelings.

It was distinctly disappointing to the girls to find that their visitors planned to continue their trip next morning. "My vacation's up Saturday," explained Jack Rynson. "And Graham thinks he's loafed as long as he should."

"And Elaine is going to-morrow," sighed Peggy. "I almost wish—" She checked herself abruptly.

"Dear old Friendly Terrace," Amy murmured. "Seems as if we'd been away a year."

"Well, we'll be starting in ten days or so," said Priscilla, with an air of trying to make the best of things.

Peggy flashed a surprised glance about the circle. "Girls, why, girls! I believe we'd all like to go home to-morrow! Then let's."

There was no doubt as to the popularity of the suggestion. The strain of those few hours when shadows darker than those of night hung over Dolittle Cottage, had implanted in the hearts of all the longing for home. In the clamor of eager voices there was no dissent, only questioning whether so hasty a departure were possible. And when this was decided in the affirmative, hilarity reigned.

"You must all stay to supper," Peggy declared, overflowing in joyous hospitality. "There won't be enough of anything to go around, but there's any amount of things that must be eaten." Graham and Jack accepted the invitation as a matter of course, and Lucy and Jerry yielded, after considerable insistence on Peggy's part. And on the faces which surrounded the dinner-table, lengthened for the occasion by an extra leaf, there was little to call to mind the black dream of the night.

It was an unusual supper in many ways. There were only half a dozen ears of corn, and the lima beans served out a teaspoonful to a plate. It was understood that whoever preferred sardines to corned beef might have his choice, but that it was a breach of etiquette to take both. However, since several varieties of jellies and preserves graced the table, and there was an abundance of Mrs. Cole's delicious bread, both white and brown, there was no danger that any one would rise from the meal with his hunger unsatisfied.

Peggy was busy planning while she ate. "Oh, dear, what in the world am I going to do with Hobo? I won't leave him without a home, that's sure. And I don't know what Taffy'll say to me if I bring back another dog."

"I'll take him off your hands," said Jack Rynson.

Peggy leaned toward him with shining eyes. "Really? And would you like him? For I don't want you to take him just to oblige me."

Jack made haste to defend himself against such a charge. His home, it seemed, was on the outskirts of the city, and his mother sometimes complained that it was lonely, and would be glad, Jack was sure, of a good watch-dog. "And I'll get Graham to give him a certificate on that score," concluded Jack, with a meaning smile in the direction of his friend, who was always easily teased by references to the time when Hobo had rushed to the defence of Graham's sister against Graham himself.

"Oh, that's such a load off my mind," Peggy declared. "He can go with you to-morrow, can't he? And now there's one thing more, and that's his name."

"Yes?" Jack looked a little puzzled.

"I named him myself, and I've been ashamed of it ever since. For he never was a tramp dog, really. He wanted a home all the time, and people of his own to love and protect and be faithful to. And, if you don't mind, before he goes I'd like to change his name to Hero."

The emphasis on the last word roused Hobo, who was sleeping in the next room. Perhaps his ear was not sufficiently trained to the niceties of the English language to distinguish between this name and the other by which he had been addressed all summer. Be that as it may, in an instant he was at Peggy's elbow, looking up into her face, and wagging his tail.

"I believe he knows," cried Peggy, while the table shouted. The new name was unanimously endorsed, and with his re-christening, Peggy's canine protege discarded the last survival of his life as a wanderer.

"And now about the chickens," continued Peggy, whose face had lost its look of weariness in overflowing satisfaction. "I'm going to give them to you, Lucy. I'm sorry there's only three of them, but—"

"Two," Amy interrupted in a plaintive undertone from the other side of the table.

Peggy stared. "What! Has anything happened to Freckles?"

"No, he's all right. And so's the yellow hen, of course. But, Peggy, the other chicken has disappeared. Lucy noticed this morning that it was gone, and when all those people were here, she and I hunted everywhere. And the old hen keeps on scratching and clucking just the same."

Peggy's countenance reflected the disgust of Amy's voice. "It isn't much of a gift, Lucy. That yellow hen is really the worst apology for a mother I ever imagined. Freckles is a nice chicken, but he's got some very bad faults. He will come into the house whenever the screen door is left open, and he seems to have a perfect mania for picking shoe-buttons and shoe-strings. I suppose it's because of the way he's been brought up, but he's so fond of human society that he makes a perfect nuisance of himself."

"Chicken pie would cure all those faults," suggested Graham, and they all laughed again at Peggy's expression of horror. "Didn't you tell me they'd bring forty cents a pound," the young man persisted, teasingly.

"Yes, but that was before I got acquainted with them. I couldn't turn even the yellow hen into chicken pie, much as I dislike her. The wonder to me," Peggy ended thoughtfully, "is that anybody ever makes money out of raising chickens."

Between the supper and the early bedtime there was much to be done. Trunks were packed, except for the bedding and similar articles, which could not be dispensed with before the morning. The remnants of the groceries were bestowed on Mrs. Snooks, and some matters which the girls did not have time to attend to were left in charge of the capable Mrs. Cole. Against everybody's protest, Peggy insisted on running over to the Cole farmhouse to say good-by. Graham acted as her escort, and the two were admitted by Rosetta Muriel, at the sight of whom Peggy gave an involuntary start.

"Do you like it?" asked Rosetta Muriel, immediately interested. The fair hair which she usually arranged so elaborately, was parted and drawn back rather primly over her ears, giving her face a suggestion of refinement which was becoming, if a little misleading.

Peggy was glad she could answer in the affirmative. "Indeed, I do. The simple styles are so pretty, I think."

"There was a picture of Adelaide Lacey in the paper, with her hair done this way. She's going to marry a duke, you know." It was characteristic of Rosetta Muriel thus to excuse her lapse into simplicity, but though the ingenuous explanation was the truth, it was not the whole truth. Even Rosetta Muriel was not quite the same girl for having come in contact with Peggy Raymond, and her poor little undeveloped, unlovely self was reaching out gropingly to things a shade higher than those which hitherto had satisfied her.

The news of the hasty departure was magically diffused. Amy said afterward that she began to understand what they meant when they talked about wireless telegraphy. For as the stage rattled and bumped along the dusty highway the next morning, figures appeared at the windows, handkerchiefs fluttered, and hands were waved in greeting and farewell. In many a harvest field, too, work halted briefly, while battered hats swung above the heads of the wearers, as a substitute for a good-by. And at the station, to the girls' astonishment, quite a company had collected in honor of their departure.

Graham and Jack had deferred their start till they had put the girls on the train, and they regarded the gathering in amazement. "Sure they're not waiting for a circus train?" Graham demanded. "Are you responsible for all this? Rather looks to me, Jack, as if we weren't quite as indispensable as we fancied."

The stage was never early, and the girls hardly had time to make the rounds before the whistle of the train was heard. "Come back next summer," cried Mrs. Cole, catching Peggy in her arms, and giving her a motherly squeeze. "I declare it'll make me so homesick to drive by the cottage, with you girls gone, that I shan't know how to stand it."

Peggy was saying good-by all over again, but she saved her two special favorites for the last. "Now, Lucy," she cried, her hands upon the shoulders of the pale girl, whose compressed lips showed the effort she was making far self-control, "you must write me now and then. I want to know just how you're getting along."

"Yes, I'll write," Lucy promised. "But you mustn't worry about me. I'm not going to get discouraged again, no matter what happens." The train was coming to a snorting halt and Peggy had time for just one more word.

"Good-by, Jerry. Don't forget."

The girls scrambled aboard, followed by a chorus of good-byes. "What's this? Old Home week?" asked an interested old gentleman, dropping his newspaper and crossing the aisle, to get a better view of the crowd on the platform. And, meanwhile, Amy was tugging at the window, crying excitedly, "Oh, help me, quick, Peggy, or it'll be too late."

The window yielded to the girls' combined persuasion. Amy's camera appeared in the opening, and a little click sounded just as the train began to move. "Oh, I hope it'll be good," cried Amy, whose successes and failures had been so evenly balanced that her attitude toward each new effort was one of hopeful uncertainty. "It would be so nice to have something to remember them by." But Peggy, looking back on the station platform, was sure that she needed no aid to remembrance, Amy's camera might be out of focus, and the plate blurred and indistinct, as so often happened, but the picture of those upturned, friendly faces was printed upon Peggy's heart, a lasting possession.

"Well, old man!" It was Jack Rynson speaking over Graham's shoulder. "Guess we might as well start. Come on, Hobo—beg pardon, Hero." And the dog who had whimperingly watched the train which bore Peggy out of sight, only restrained by Jack's hand on his collar from rushing in pursuit, yielded to the inevitable, and followed his new master with the curious loyalty which does not change, no matter how often its object changes.

The people were breaking up into groups of twos and threes, and moving away, but Lucy Haines and Jerry stood motionless, their gaze following the vanishing speck which was the south-bound train. Then slowly Lucy's head turned. She had never been friendly with Jerry Morton. She had shared the disapproval of the community, intensified by her inherent inability to understand the temperament so unlike her own. Yet all at once she found herself feeling responsible for him. To be helped means an obligation to help, at least to unselfish natures.

She went toward Jerry half reluctantly. But when she was near enough to see that he was swallowing hard, apparently in the effort to remove some obstruction in his throat which would not "down," the discovery seemed to create a bond between them. Her voice was eager and sympathetic as she said: "It's fine that you're going to start school again, Jerry. And if I can help you with anything, I'll be glad to." She hesitated, and then, in spite of her natural reserve, she added: "We mustn't disappoint her, either of us."

Jerry had to swallow yet again before he could reply. But his answer rang out with a manful sincerity which would have gladdened Peggy's heart had she heard it.

"Disappoint her! Not on your life!"



SAVE THE WRAPPER!

If you have enjoyed reading about the adventures of the new friends you have made in this book and would like to read more clean, wholesome stories of their entertaining experiences, turn to the book jacket—on the inside of it, a comprehensive list of Burt's fine series of carefully selected books for young people has been placed for your convenience.

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THE ANN STERLING SERIES

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Stories of Ranch and College Life For Girls 12 to 16 Years

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ANN STERLING

The strange gift of Old Never-Run, an Indian whom she has befriended, brings exciting events into Ann's life.

THE COURAGE OF ANN

Ann makes many new, worthwhile friends during her first year at Forest Hill College.

ANN AND THE JOLLY SIX

At the close of their Freshman year Ann and the Jolly Six enjoy a house party at the Sterling's mountain ranch.

ANN CROSSES A SECRET TRAIL

The Sterling family, with a group of friends, spend a thrilling vacation under the southern Pines of Florida.

ANN'S SEARCH REWARDED

In solving the disappearance of her father, Ann finds exciting adventures, Indians and bandits in the West.

ANN'S AMBITIONS

The end of her Senior year at Forest Hill brings a whirl of new events into the career of "Ann of the Singing Fingers."

ANN'S STERLING HEART

Ann returns home, after completing a busy year of musical study abroad.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, Publishers, 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK



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CATHALINA AT GREYCLIFF THE GIRLS OF GREYCLIFF GREYCLIFF WINGS GREYCLIFF GIRLS IN CAMP GREYCLIFF HEROINES GREYCLIFF GIRLS IN GEORGIA GREYCLIFF GIRLS' RANCHING GREYCLIFF GIRLS' GREAT ADVENTURE

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THE END