Nevertheless, the woman's nervous terror found an echo in Tabitha's heart, and instead of undressing, she exchanged her soiled dress for a fresh one, removed her shoes, and climbed into bed with her clothes on. For a long time she lay tossing on the unfamiliar couch, listening to the night sounds without, and the hideous brays of the wandering burros; but at last she fell into an uneasy slumber, and dreamed that she had gone away to boarding school, but instead of having Carrie for a playmate, her companions were two blazing shoes who kept offering her molasses taffy out of her father's hat. She awoke with a start, trembling in every limb, and frightened at her strange surroundings. Then she remembered how she came to be there, and lay down again on her pillow; but she could not sleep.

In the distance she heard the sound of a dog's insistent barking, and was annoyed by the plaintive howls. She stopped her ears but could not shut out the sound, and in desperation she sat up and looked out of the window, wishing that morning would dawn.

The night was very dark, but the starlight seemed to break the heavy blackness that hung like a pall over the landscape. Off toward the horizon, in the direction of the dog's barking was a faint glimmer of wavering light, and Tabitha watched it idly for a moment, wondering if there were campers in that little hollow, too. Then the light grew brighter and more flickering, the barking more frantic, and Tabitha started up in terror.

"It's the hermit's house on fire! What can I do? Neither Tom nor Dad is here to give the alarm, and town is so far away."

She flew out of bed and to the dresser where her father's pistol was kept, lifted the ugly weapon from its case and mechanically cocked it. Tom had taught her to use a rifle, but she had never been allowed to handle a revolver, though she had watched him so often that she was familiar with its mechanism, and had no thought of fear as she sped fleetly out of the house, pausing only long enough to slip on her sticky shoes.

Bang, bang, bang! went the gun in rapid succession; bang, bang, bang! Six times the report rang sharply through the still night air,—the signal of fire in this little desert town. Then tossing the empty pistol aside, she ran down the road as fast as her feet would carry her, all her terror of the night swept away in the one idea that the townspeople might be too late to help the old man if he should happen to be in the burning house. She never stopped to wonder what aid she, a child of twelve, could render, she never thought of arousing Mr. Carson, but stumbled breathlessly on in the darkness toward the shack now burning merrily.

Somewhere behind her she heard a second revolver alarm; then someone passed her in the road, and a man's voice called, "Go home, Tabitha. This is no place for you." But still she kept on, having scarcely heard the words, and hardly aware that other help than her own feeble strength was at hand.

That was a night she never forgot. In these desert mining towns where water costs a dollar a barrel and the system of piping it into the houses is yet in its infancy, fire is not an easy thing to fight, and many a time the whole camp has been destroyed before the conflagration could be checked or would burn itself out. The hermit's hut, however, was so isolated that the town was in no danger, even from the flying sparks, but there was not a drop of water to throw on the flames, and the roads were too steep and rough for the volunteer fire department to drag their chemicals to the rescue.

So the little shack burned to the ground, but Mr. Carson and Tabitha arrived in time to pull the lone occupant to safety, though it was a close call for the old miner, for he was almost suffocated with the smoke and his head and hands were badly burned.

Mr. Carson, too, suffered from his buffeting with the flames, but Tabitha came out unscathed, and when the men from town arrived, hatless and anxious, they found the child helping the brave superintendent in his efforts to revive the unconscious hermit, while the little yellow cur whined in terror at their feet, and the blaze of the burning house mounted high in the heavens.

Dr. Vane was among the crowd, and he quietly took charge of the patient, easing his suffering and binding up his wounds as best he could while someone went for a rig that the injured man might be carried back to town more easily.

"Now, put some of that stuff on Mr. Carson's hands," commanded Tabitha, who had watched the proceedings with interest, holding bandages and passing ointments under the physician's directions. "His are all scorched, too."

"How are your own?" someone asked her, noticing how drawn and white her face was in the lurid glare.

"I did that making candy last evening," she answered, displaying her blistered fingers, now raw and sore. "I forgot all about them."

Overcome by excitement, weariness and pain, she let the doctor gather her in his strong arms, and the proud citizens of Silver Bow bore their little heroine triumphantly home.



CHAPTER XII

DR. VANE HAS A VISITOR

By the next morning Tabitha had fully recovered from her terrible night's experience, but it was days before the old hermit awoke to consciousness to find himself lying in a white bed in the Miners' Hospital of Silver Bow with Dr. Vane bending over him and a motherly woman in white cap and apron moving about the room.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly.

"In the Silver Bow Hospital," answered the doctor.

"How came I here?"

"You were hurt. You mustn't talk now. When you are stronger you can ask questions."

"But I must know how I got here. Who found me? I was sick, I remember, and I think I tried to send Bobs for help, but he wouldn't leave me."

"You upset a lamp or something and set the house afire. Catt's little girl Discovered the blaze, gave the alarm and helped Carson haul you out. It was a tight pull, my man, but you will soon be all right now."

"Catt's girl? Carson?"

"Yes. No more questions at present. Save your strength and get well."

So the bandaged man lay quiet among the pillows and waited for health to return to him again; nor did he ask for further information until one day the doctor told him that on the morrow he might go for a walk in the open air if he wished.

"Could you bring that little girl to see me?" he asked, and the physician, surprised because the patient had never before manifested any interest in his rescuers, replied that he would see about it. So that afternoon when school had closed, Tabitha was met at the door by Dr. Vane and went with him to see the hermit of the hills, Surly Sim.

She found him sitting by the window, looking out toward the flaming west where the sun was already sinking behind the mountain tops, and he did not turn when she entered the room, or give any sign that he saw or heard her. She waited in silence for some moments beside his chair, and then, thinking he had not heard her enter, she said timidly,

"How do you do, Mr. Hermit? Dr. Vane said you would like to see me."

The man started at the sound of her voice and turning in his chair stared so fixedly at her that she was frightened and wished Dr. Vane had stayed with her. "Is there something—can I do anything for you? Would you like to have me speak some pieces for you?" Poor Tabitha had not the faintest idea what to say to this man, whose scarred face shocked and disconcerted her, and there was no one in the room to help her.

"What's your name?" finally asked the hermit.

"Tabitha Catt."

"Pretty name!" He laughed mirthlessly and the girl shrank as if she had been struck. She had not expected him to make fun of her and was undecided whether to be hurt or angry. He was kind to animals; she had hoped to meet that same kindness toward herself.

"It's a horrid name, but I can't help it, for I didn't name myself," she answered with dignity, resolved to hold firmly to the fiery temper that caused her so much unhappiness.

"Why don't you drop it and take some other?" he asked curiously, aware that she was making an effort to control herself.

"I did once," replied the girl with a dejected air, in such contrast to her former haughty tearing that he was amused. "But it didn't pay."

"Why not?"

"Dad made me take it all back."

"Tell me about it."

"That's all there is to tell. I let folks believe my name was something else and he made me tell them what it really was."

"What was the name you adopted?"

"Theodora Marcella Gabrielle Julianna Victoria Emeline."

"Whew! How could they ever remember it all? That's a long handle for a little girl."

"They called me Theodora Gabrielle for short."

He smiled in spite of himself. "And do you really wish your name was that whole string?"

"I did wish so once. That was when I was a little bit of a girl. I am twelve now. In next April I will be thirteen. Girls are young ladies when they get into their teens, Aunt Maria says. If I could change my name now, I would rather it would be Theodora Eugenia Louise. That is shorter, and long names are not the style any more. Theodora was my mother's name and I should want that for mine always."

"Do you look like your mother?"

"I reckon not. She died when I was too little to know anything, but if either of us looks like her it must be Tom. I am afraid I resemble Dad."

"Afraid?"

He spoke this word with a peculiar rising inflection, but she did not catch the significance of the question, and replied, "Yes. He is tall and thin and black and slab-sided. That's me, too, except I am short yet; but I expect I will grow. Besides, I've got the Catt inside of me. I scratch like fury when I am mad. Now Tom doesn't get mad, though his name is almost, or just, as bad as mine."

"What do you get mad at?"

"Lots of things, but 'specially my name. Folks make such fun of it and say the hatefullest rhymes, and when they do that I just light into them with my fists."

"And you a girl!"

"I am always sorry afterwards, but then it is too late to help it. I've got to learn to let them tease without getting mad at all and then they won't torment me, but it is a mighty hard thing to do, I think. I've been trying for twelve years now and it is almost as bad as ever. Tom says I am doing splendidly, but he doesn't know how often I get mad."

"Where is Tom?"

"Going to college at Reno."

"College, eh? He's a smart boy, is he?"

"Yes, indeed! We're both smart." He laughed at her naive reply, and her face flushed, but she continued convincingly, "I am almost as far as I can get in school here. I am ready for Latin. Mrs. Carson says if I can't go to boarding school next fall, she will teach me herself, so I can keep up with Carrie."

"Why didn't you go this year?"

"There wasn't any money."

"Would you like to go?"

"Wouldn't I!" was the emphatic exclamation, as she clasped her hands in rapturous longing.

"If you could have one wish granted what would it be?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you were told that you could have any one thing you wanted, what would you choose?"

"Only one?"

"Yes."

"Well, it would be pretty hard to choose. I want to go to boarding school awfully bad, but—I believe—I would choose a home like Carrie Carson's."

"Carrie Carson's! What is the matter with your own? Isn't your house as big as theirs or as nice?"

"No, but I wasn't thinking of houses just now. A house isn't a home always. Our house isn't. Tom and I are the home part of our house. Aunt Maria is housekeeper and Dad just stops there once in a while. They don't care about having a home, I reckon."

The man was silent with astonishment at her keen observations, and mistaking his silence for disapproval at her criticisms, she hastily resumed, "The kind of a home I mean is where all the folks in it like each other and are always nice like the Carsons."

"So your father isn't like Mr. Carson?"

"Not a bit—yet."

"Is he mean to you?"

"N-o, not exactly. He is a Catt, that's all. I reckon it is me—I, who is mean. I get mad and sass him when he shakes me, and once when he whipped me I burned up his slippers."

"Does he whip you often?"

"No, this was the only time—so far. I spilled candy on his best hat, which is enough to make any man mad; but being a Catt, he was very mad. I haven't seen him since, because he is away on a trip, but when he comes back I am going to tell him I am sorry I burned up his shoes. I was just beginning to think maybe there was hopes of his being like Mr. Carson yet when I made him mad. Now I suppose I will have to begin all over again."

"Then you think your father is improving?"

"Why, you see, Dad has had a hard time of it. There have been so many things to make him feel bad. When he was in college he got expelled because of something dreadful another boy did, and then a man who was working with him in the mines cheated him out of all his share, and mamma died, and money has been hard to get and—well, he got cross."

"So he took his spite out on his children, eh? Who was the man who cheated him?"

"I don't know, but Dad doesn't believe in friends any more. He says there is no such thing as a true friend. Mr. Carson says that is because the man he trusted 'betrayed his confidence'—those are his very words."

The bandaged figure in the invalid chair moved uneasily, and a silence fell over the hospital room while he stared gloomily out into the fading light, and she sat lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly he roused, and his voice sounded sharp and curt as he said, "It is nearly night. Time you were going home."

Tabitha's face crimsoned at his peremptory dismissal, and she bounced out of her chair indignantly.

"You sent for me. I didn't come because I wanted to. Good-by."

She was gone before he recovered his breath, and never a word had passed between them concerning the fire which had so nearly cost him his life, though his purpose in sending for her was that he might thank her for her bravery. He called after her, but she did not hear his voice, and the door closed with an emphatic bang which told him plainer than words how angry she was.

For a long time after she left him he lay quietly by the window in the twilight, thinking over what she had told him and battling with himself; but in the end his better nature conquered. The next day he went for his walk, as Dr. Vane had suggested, and that was the last Silver Bow saw of him for some time. Some folks thought he had met with foul play, others that he had wandered too far for his strength and had either perished or been taken care of by some prospector, while still others held the opinion that he had taken French leave. Speculation as to his disappearance soon died down, however, and Surly Sim, Tabitha's hermit of the hills, was forgotten.

The holidays came, bringing Carrie home for a brief vacation, and she was bubbling over with such enthusiastic reports of life at boarding school that Tabitha found it harder than ever to let her go back to enjoy the privileges which were denied her. So great was her grief that after seeing her flaxen-haired playmate on board the train to return to her school, she rushed away to pour out her despair to sympathetic Mrs. Vane.

"I don't see why it is that some people have everything and others nothing," she sobbed bitterly. "I can't help envying Carrie. She has the nicest mother and father and the prettiest house and the loveliest books and clothes and all the money she wants. And so has Jerome. They both go away to school and have splendid times and see the world, and I can't have any of it."

"Poor little girlie!" murmured the woman to herself. "How unjust it does seem, even from a grown-up's standpoint!" So she stroked the heavy black hair and cuddled tearful Tabitha until the storm was spent; then she spoke tenderly, "That is one of the problems that has puzzled the world all these years, dear, and has caused all sorts of trouble. But it is something that we can overcome, every one of us, if we want to."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this, Puss; don't sulk and be cross because you can't have everything you want. Be happy where you were put. Did you ever hear the little poem called The Discontented Buttercup? It is the story of a buttercup who mourned because she couldn't be a daisy with white frills like her neighbor flowers, and she didn't see the loveliness of the day nor feel the softness of the breezes because she spent all her time in vain wishes. So she asked a robin who had paused to rest near her if he wouldn't try to find her a nice white frill some time when he was flying. And then these verses follow:

'You silly thing,' the robin said, 'I think you must be crazy; I'd rather be my honest self, Than any made-up daisy.

You're nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you; Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you.

Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing.'

Take this little lesson to heart, dear, and make sunshine where you are, instead of being sorrowful because you can't have what Carrie has. Maybe when you have learned the lesson thoroughly, these other things will come to you; but if they don't, then keep on making sunshine. Everyone loves a happy heart, and every smile or kind word spoken cheers the old world a little. Life is like a stairway, but because all of us can't reach the top of the flight, we should not sit down on the first step and mourn because we can't have what those on the last stair are enjoying. We must climb as fast and as far as we can if we want to make the most of our lives; but when we have done our very best, that is all we can do. If there are others who can do better than we can, we must try not to envy them, but be glad of their success. It is a question, dear, that you will understand better as you grow older. But if you will remember the buttercup verses and make the most of what you are and have, I am sure you will be happier."

"Teach me the verses, Mrs. Vane, and I will try to remember them when I get to envying again; though I still wish I could have nice dresses and go to boarding school."

Mrs. Vane smiled at her candor, but found the little poem for Tabitha, and when she skipped out into the dusk for home, she was saying over and over,

"Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing."

She had hardly disappeared over the hill when another visitor climbed the steep path to the Vane cottage and knocked. The doctor himself opened the door and was confronted by a tall stranger muffled to his ears in a heavy ulster.

"Come right in, sir," said the doctor, motioning his visitor into the cosy office, and waiting for him to state his errand.

"You don't remember me?" asked the man, as he sat down and threw open his coat. The voice sounded very familiar, but at first the doctor could place neither face nor figure. Then he remembered—it was Surly Sim.

"Well, well, where did you come from? I have often wondered what became of you. This country is a bad place for a sick man to get lost in."

The hermit laughed. "I had some business that had to be attended to and I was afraid you wouldn't let me go so soon. Can you keep a secret?"

The doctor was startled at the abrupt question, but replied gravely, "That is part of a physician's life."

"Yes, but I have no reference to your professional duties. I mean this—I want you to take this money and see that Tabitha Catt is educated—boarding school, college, whatever she likes. I think that sum will cover—"

"Why don't you take it to her yourself?"

The doctor was more than puzzled at this unusual request from such a person as Surly Sim, the supposed crazy man, the hermit of the hills.

Startled at the unexpectedness of the question, the man stammered confusedly, "I—no—I can't—not yet. I have reasons for preferring to handle the matter in this manner at present. You need have no scruples. I earned every cent of this money; it is my very own. The child saved my life, and I owe her whatever help I can give her. This is a little sum, but it is the best I can do just now. Will you take it and do as I ask?" Still the doctor hesitated. "Then see here, perhaps I can convince you of the truth of what I say. Read this." He laid on the table before the doctor a written document which the physician carefully perused, and laid back on the table. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes."

"And will you take the money for the little girl?"

"Yes, but I wish I could convince you that it would be better for you to go to Mr. Catt—"

"Not yet, not yet! I can't meet him yet. He mustn't know who I am yet. When I have righted the wrong, then I will come back; but for the present I would ask you to keep my secret and see that the little girl is sent to school. You will do this?"

"To the best of my ability."

They shook hands and out into the darkness the hermit went.



CHAPTER XIII

AUNT MARIA DECIDES THE QUESTION

"Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: 'Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone; Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?' 'Why say, sail on! and on!'

There goes another cup. I am always forgetting and letting my hands fly when I speak. Yes, Aunt Maria, I am coming."

"Hurry up with those dishes, Tabitha, I want you to run down to the McKittrick's and get me that pattern she promised to loan me. Child, what have you done? I don't know what we will eat out of when you get all these dishes broken. How did you smash that?"

"It banged against the door when I opened it."

"I'll warrant you were haranguing around with another new piece. Why don't you pay attention to what you are doing until it is finished, and then do your reciting?"

"I just hate to wash dishes and dust and sweep, Aunt Maria, but I forget all about it when I am speaking and get through with them lots quicker."

"Yes, but see how many dishes you break, and the things you spill because you will flap your arms about like a Dutch windmill instead of keeping them in the dishpan where they belong. I do wish you would learn to do one thing at a time."

"It is of no use, Aunt Maria. My thoughts won't stay on dishes, try as hard as I will to keep them there. There isn't anything splendid or inspiring in a pile of dirty dishes or those dusty chairs, is there? But those poems are simply grand! I am the best speaker at school, but I have to practice all I can to keep ahead. Just listen to this:

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And through the darkness peered that night. Ah, darkest night! and then a speck— A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew—a star-lit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn; He gained a world! he gave that world It's watch-word: 'On! and on!'

Isn't that perfectly grand?" The black eyes glowed, the face lighted with enthusiasm and her whole form swayed with the stirring inspiration of the lines.

Aunt Maria was visibly impressed. "Yes, it is fine and you certainly do put life into anything you say; but that's just it, you put too much life in it and smash up everything you touch. Hurry now and get that pattern, for I want it as soon as possible."

"All right, I will be back in a jiffy." Tabitha snatched up her sunbonnet and disappeared up the path toward town, still reciting,

"Sail on! sail on! and on!"

And silence descended upon the cottage that bright Saturday morning, for Aunt Maria was too much absorbed in some very important sewing to pay any attention to the housework and cooking still waiting to be done. In the midst of her thoughts as she sat puzzling over a fashion book, came the sound of an incessant buzzing or hissing, so unlike any noise she had ever heard that she paused in surprise to listen.

"Now, what in creation has that child done this time?" she exclaimed after a moment. "It doesn't sound like the teakettle or as if she had left the water running. What can it be? I have to follow her around like I would a baby—she is that careless!"

With an impatient sigh the woman dropped her work in the nearest chair and shuffled out to the kitchen to investigate the peculiar sound, formulating in her mind a lecture to be delivered to the erring Tabitha upon her return from McKittrick's.

But the lecture was straightway forgotten in the sight that met her gaze as she stepped into the room; and she stopped, paralyzed with horror. In the middle of the floor, coiled as if ready to strike, lay a long, hideous snake, its head raised, forked tongue darting, and hissing that ceaseless buzzing note that had attracted her attention in the first place; while around and around the reptile circling nearer and ever nearer, walked the hermit's crooked-tailed, cropped-eared cat, its back arched, tail erect, fur standing stiff all over its body, and round yellow eyes glued in fascination to the enemy luring her to death. Not a sound did the poor cat make, but continued her march with a spasmodic rhythm that would have seemed ludicrous had it not been so pathetically fearful. Even Aunt Maria's arrival upon the scene did not break the charm, and the horrified woman stood still in the doorway too frightened to move, too terrified to call, too shocked to think. It was almost as if the snake had cast its horrible spell over her, also.

"Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin."

The sound of Tabitha's hurrying steps outside, and the fresh young voice thrilling over those familiar words brought the woman to her senses, and with a cry of desperation, Aunt Maria caught up the heavy ironing board in the corner and banged it with all her strength full upon the hissing coil on the floor, regardless of the fate of the cat. But the hysterical scream of the woman had broken the charm, and the frightened feline made a frantic dash for the screen door, spitting and clawing in its frenzy to escape; while Aunt Maria, trembling and unnerved, sank into a sobbing heap on the floor, too much shaken to think of escape.

Such was the scene that confronted Tabitha, as she rushed up to the door, terrified by her aunt's cry and the wild scratching of the imprisoned cat. As she flung open the screen there was a flash of black, a quavering meow and pussy, crazed by her terrible experience, streaked out of sight up the mountainside. But Tabitha did not pause to watch her flight, so amazed was she at the sight of Aunt Maria in tears huddled in the corner and shaking as if with ague.

"Why, Aunt Maria, what is the matter?" she cried in scared tones, pausing just inside the door. "Are you hurt? Did the cat go mad? Were you ironing and the board tipped over?" She stooped to lift the heavy piece off the floor, and the woman suddenly found her tongue: "Don't touch it, don't touch it! There's a snake under it! Oh, oh, oh!"

"Are you bitten, Aunt Maria? Tell me, are you bitten?"

"Oh, that snake!"

"Shall I get the doctor?"

"Oh, that snake!"

Leaping across the board still pinning the reptile to the floor—dead or alive she did not know—Tabitha clutched the hysterical woman by the shoulder and shook her, demanding, "Tell me this minute if you are hurt!"

But Aunt Maria continued her incoherent cries, still rocking back and forth in her corner, too dazed to make any further explanations. Tabitha surveyed the scene in perplexity. What should she do? The Carsons were away from home and no one else near enough to summon to her aid. If the snake had bitten her aunt, something must be done at once. All the remedies for poisonous bites that she had ever heard of seemed to have slipped from her memory. It might be too late by the time a doctor could be called. Precious seconds were rapidly passing. Supposing the snake were not dead yet. She glanced at the board in the middle of the floor and fancied it moved. In desperation she seized the teakettle from the stove and let its scalding contents fly over the spot where the snake might be.

At that instant her eyes fell upon the flask her father carried on his trips among the mountains, and she remembered in a flash that whiskey is a good antidote for rattlesnake bites. This might not be a rattlesnake and it might not even be a poisonous one, but she would take no chances. Snatching off the cap, she poured a stream of the fiery liquid into the woman's open mouth, nearly strangling her. Choking and spluttering, Aunt Maria tried to scream, but could only gasp for breath, and to Tabitha's frightened eyes her face took on a dying look. A pail of water stood on the stand under the faucet, and catching up this, the child deluged the convulsed form in the corner.

There was a sharp in-drawing of breath, a sound of mingled surprise and wrath, and the irate aunt towered above the astonished girl, her eyes blazing as Tabitha had never seen them before.

"Tabitha Catt!" she managed to articulate, "of all outrageous things I ever heard tell of in my life! What do you think you are doing? Trying to murder me? Haven't I had enough scares this morning without your burning the skin all off my mouth and throat and choking me half to death and then trying to drown me? What do you mean by it, I say?"

"Oh, Aunt Maria, are you bit?"

"Bit, bit, bit, did you say? Yes, bit by that fire you poured into me. What did you think bit me?" She had forgotten all about the snake! And Tabitha had difficulty in explaining the situation to her.

But that decided matters for Aunt Maria. She had hated the desert ever since she had come there nearly four years ago, and this was the last straw. What did she care if the snake did prove to be a harmless thing? If she couldn't live in a house without being in danger of a snake invasion at any time, she simply would not live there at all. Her temper was thoroughly aroused, and when Mr. Catt arrived home that night she made known her decision in no gentle terms to him.

"I have lived in this forsaken hole just as long as I am going to, Max Catt! I've routed out centipedes and scorpions and poison bugs of all kinds until I am tired of it. Tabitha caught a baby tarantula under her bed the other morning, and we found something in the wood-pile last week that the folks at the hotel called a Gila monster. Why, one can't stir around here in the spring and summer without running the risk of getting killed by some of your varmints, and I've had enough of it. I am going back to civilization."

"Now, Maria, be sensible. That snake couldn't have got into the house if the screen had been shut the way it should have been."

"I suppose the spiders and centipedes come in through the open screen, too, don't they, and roost in the dishpan hanging on the wall! That is where I found one not long ago, and I caught another stowed away in my clothes when I went to dress yesterday. I don't dare go to sleep nights any more for fear they will bite me. Life is a perfect nightmare. It is bad enough to have to stay here nine-tenths of the time with nobody in the house but Tabitha, without being in constant fear of one's life all the time."

"How many people do you ever hear of being killed here on the desert by centipedes or scorpions or tarantulas, or even snakes? I tell you they aren't half as bad as they are made out to be."

"Well, I ain't going to risk my life to find out how poisonous they are, Maximilian, and you needn't think it."

"But Maria, what will become of Tabitha? She can't stay here alone and keep house," he argued.

"There ain't any need of her staying here alone. She can go to boarding school in Los Angeles with Carrie Carson. If you weren't so thoroughly selfish you would have sent her there long ago with your own money; but even now when that hermit she saved from being burned up has given her enough money to put her clear through college, you won't let her touch a penny of it."

"Maria Catt, how am I to know that money was honestly his? I believe he stole it, and I don't care to get mixed up in any robbery case. There is something underhanded about the deal or he would have come to me with the money. I may be selfish but I am not dishonest," he ended, hotly.

"Dr. Vane is satisfied, and he is a shrewd enough man to know what is what. That hermit wasn't a robber and you know that without any proof. He has mining claims here that prove where he got his money."

"Then why didn't he turn it over to me, instead of to the doctor? He has virtually made Dr. Vane trustee of those funds."

"That only shows he has some sense," his sister interrupted with energy. "You don't know how to look after a child properly. But you know well enough why he didn't come to you. How could he, with you off chasing up syndicates and other fools to buy up your claims—"

"Those claims are worth money, Maria Catt, and some day I will prove it to you. I wouldn't think of parting with one of them if I had the money to work them the way they ought to be worked. The 'Tom Cat' is particularly promising."

"That may be, but it is a sin and shame to pay more attention to those old mines than you do to your children. Here is Tom working his way through college when it is your duty to put him through—"

"I told Tom long ago that if his wanted a college education he would have to earn it. I can't see that University courses make any better men of the boys that get them than experience does of the boys that are not as well educated. In fact, I think—and always did—that experience is the best teacher."

"You've got a grouch against the world because you think it hasn't treated you right, and you're spitting your spite out on your children. Here is Tabitha, now,—as bright a child as I ever laid eyes on—"

"And as ugly a one."

"Whose fault is that, Maximilian Catt? If she had been brought up differently she would compare favorably with any child in the country. She does compare favorably in spite of her bringing up. The teacher says she never had such a bright scholar in all her school experience. She learns surprisingly quick."

"I don't see anything surprising about that. The Catts are not ignoramuses, none of them."

"I know that all right. I'm a Catt myself, and while I never set myself up to be overly quick-witted, I think I have my share of brains, and might have amounted to something if I had some more education."

"Shucks! What are you always harping on that string for? Education isn't everything in the world. Tabitha can get all the learning a woman needs right here in this town."

"Because the girl hankers for knowledge, you are just determined to make her as miserable as you can, and if she was half as much Catt as you are, she would grow up just as spiteful and selfish; but thank goodness, she has some of her mother's traits. If she was a little mite and needed my care, I would stay, even if I did get killed for my trouble; but she is big enough now so I can leave without any qualms of conscience, and I am going to leave. You can do just whatever you like with her, but I will not stay here for love or money. Find a housekeeper if you can, but whether or not you do, I am going back East just as soon as I can get my things packed. I am absolutely unnerved over that snake. I can't turn around without seeing the thing coiled ready to spring, and that poor cat chasing around like a thing crazy; and when I shut my eyes there are whole strings of 'em dancing up and down like all possessed until I am half wild. That cat never came back and I believe that is a warning. I am going to follow its example."

No arguments could prevail to change her mind, and she immediately began packing for her departure.

Poor Mr. Catt, what was he to do? The possibility of Aunt Maria's leaving them had never occurred to him, in spite of her oft repeated threats; and now that she had suddenly determined to return to her own home he was facing anything but an agreeable situation.

It was out of the question for Tabitha to take charge of the housekeeping and stay there alone much of the time as she would have to do when he was away. It was equally out of the question to secure a reliable housekeeper in this little desert town. But the idea of accepting the hermit's money and sending her away to school was very repugnant to him and he was at a loss to know what to do.

Aunt Maria's fright had given her unusual courage and she had told him some unpleasant truths, things she would never have dared say under ordinary circumstances; but after his surprise at her daring had died down he faced her accusations, fought them out one by one, recognized the truth of them and capitulated. Tabitha could go away to boarding school. Words are inadequate to express Tabitha's joy when told this delightful news; she was literally entranced with the prospect.

The night that Aunt Maria had departed for her eastern home, Tabitha sat disconsolately on the back steps, alternately patting General Grant's head resting on her knee, and trying to study her grammar lesson, but the nouns and verbs would become hopelessly mixed, and the adjectives and adverbs fought scandalously with each other. Mr. Catt, tilted back in his chair beside the window, tried to read the city paper, but found his glance wandering constantly to the lonely figure on the steps.

"I am a beast," he said to himself, as the brown hand swept a tear off the page she was supposed to be studying. "This is no place for a child like that. She has the making of a fine woman in her, and I haven't done right by her. She is bright, and Maria is right. Tabitha!"

She started violently. "Yes, sir."

"Come here."

Closing her book but keeping it clasped in her hands she went inside the house and stood waiting to know his pleasure, surprise—almost apprehension at this unexpected summons—showing plainly in her face. "You were reciting some gabble on the steps a little bit ago. Say it again."

"Gabble?" said the puzzled girl questioningly.

"Yes, something about Ghent."

"Oh, that wasn't gabble! That is a masterpiece, teacher says. Why, Robert Browning wrote that!"

"Um-hm. I'm not interested in Robert Browning. All I want is that piece. Speak it."

Astonished and not comprehending this demand in the least, Tabitha began falteringly, somewhat indifferently:

"I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"

But as the familiar words slipped from her tongue, the spirit of the piece came over her. Her voice grew tense with feeling and the hands that never could stay still lent their aid to the difficult art of expression.

"So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!'"

Her hand shot out toward the imaginary Aix, the ill-fated grammar was forgotten, it slipped from her loosened clasp, flew through the air and struck the elder Catt a heavy blow in the stomach.

"Uh!" grunted the startled man, the tilted chair tipped uncertainly, he clutched wildly at the smooth wall, and landed in an undignified heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, rapping his head smartly against the pantry door.

"Tabitha Catt!" She held her breath in dismay and waited for the punishment she was sure would follow. "Go on with that piece!"

Nothing could have surprised her more than that command, and for a brief moment speech forsook her. Then gathering up her scattered wits, she finished her recitation with all the vim she could muster, and waited. Though possessing a keen sense of the ludicrous, Tabitha's own troubles never appealed to her in this light, and as she stood looking down at the tall form sprawling on the floor, the amusing side of the situation never occurred to her. She was too busy wondering what would come next.

"Hm!" was the unexpected comment after a thrilling silence. "You did well in the first part, but toward the end where the excitement should increase, you let it fall. How would you like to go to boarding school with Carrie in September?"

"Oh, Dad, if I only could!" The voice and face expressed all the pent-up longings of the little heart, and Mr. Catt felt a great lump rise in his throat as he watched this one small daughter and realized his own shortcomings; but he swallowed it back and said briefly, "If you are a good girl, I reckon maybe you can go."

A long sigh of rapture burst from her, and seizing her father's black head in her arms, she gave it a quick, impetuous hug. Then, disconcerted by this unusual display of affection, she fled out of the house and up to her seat on the mountainside, overlooking the ruins of the hermit's hut, where she held an ecstatic thanksgiving service all by herself.



CHAPTER XIV

TABITHA'S ROOM-MATE

The long, hot summer weeks came to an end at last, the dainty dresses were finished, the trunk packed, the short journey completed, and Tabitha stood breathless and quaking on the great stone steps before the goal of her ambitions, with the confident Carrie and timid Mercedes beside her, waiting to be admitted to the imposing edifice.

"I can't believe yet that I am really here," she sighed.

"Oh, that feeling will soon wear off," answered Carrie, and then the heavy door swung noiselessly open and Carrie motioned the two girls into the cool shadows of a wide hall, which to Tabitha seemed more like a beautiful garden than the interior of a house, for ropes of glossy-leaved ivy festooned the long, French windows, and palms and tall vases filled with flowers occupied every available nook and corner.

"Isn't it grand?" she breathed in ecstasy. "I shall love it here, I know. I do hope I can room with you, Carrie."

"Sh! I am afraid you can't, Puss, but maybe you and Mercedes will be put together. Here comes Miss Pomeroy, the principal."

A stately, silvery-haired lady in shining black was approaching them through the great doors at the end of the hall, and Tabitha eyed her with sudden disfavor.

"I don't see how I can hope to like her when I shall always think of that sneaking Joe and Sneed Pomeroy in Ferndale every time I hear her name." But the moment the woman spoke, she forgot everything else in listening to the sweet, musical voice that somehow made one instantly feel at home and welcome.

"My dear Carrie," the lady was saying, as she kissed the rosy cheek of the flaxen-haired child. "I am so glad you have come back looking so well. And these are your little friends of the desert! Which is Tabitha, and which Mercedes? We are delighted to have two more Silver Bows with us this year. Carrie and I are great friends, and I am sure we all shall be."

"Has Cassandra come yet?" asked Carrie eagerly, and her face fell when Miss Pomeroy smilingly nodded her head.

"Why, Carrie Carson, are you sorry?"

"N-o, but if she is here I suppose I can't have Tabitha for a room-mate."

"You precious little girlie! No, I have made other arrangements for Tabitha and Mercedes. Cassandra's mother wrote and asked me particularly if her daughter might not have 'dear little Carrie Carson' for room-mate again this year, for the child adores her and will do anything in the world to please such a lovable child. Now surely after that plea you aren't going to desert poor Cassandra?"

"Oh, Miss Pomeroy, I do like Cassandra ever so much, but—I would like to have Tabitha better."

"And how about Mercedes?"

"She is almost Cassandra's age, and they are sure to be friends."

"Aha! had it all planned out, did you, little sly-boots?" laughed the woman, gently pinching the flushing cheek of the embarrassed Carrie. "There, dear, I was just teasing. I want to please all my girls, but sometimes I have to disappoint them a little. Mercedes will room with Bertha Peck who was here last year, and Tabitha we will try with Chrystobel Clayton. Come now, and I will show you your rooms. Bertha is here already, but Chrystobel has not arrived. Carrie, you have the same room you had last year, and little Cassandra is busy decorating it now—a labor of love, dear."

Up the wide, polished stairs she led them, and along the corridor, on either side of which were several doors, most of them closed, but through the two or three standing ajar Tabitha's bright eyes caught glimpses of merry-faced girls in the midst of an interesting clutter of open trunks, over-loaded beds and bureau drawers, and her quick ears heard snatches of rollicking music or the buzz of gay conversation.

"This is your room, Tabitha. Mercedes is your next-door neighbor, and Carrie is just across the hall. Go in and make yourself at home. Bertha, come welcome your room-mate."

A tall, fair-haired girl rose from the low rocker by the window, and came quickly forward, saying cordially, "Mercedes, I am glad you have come. I have been here three days and am beginning to be homesick. Isn't that a state of affairs? You don't look a bit as I thought you would. Has your trunk arrived yet? And this is Tabitha, our little kitty? You certainly must be our mascot. Your room-mate isn't here yet, so you can help yourself to whichever bed and closet hooks and bureau drawers you want. There really isn't any difference in the size of them, but it is supposed to be a great thing to have first choice."

While the older girl talked she drew Mercedes inside the room, divested her of hat and satchel, jerked out the empty drawers of the dresser, and threw open the tiny closet door with such a hospitable air that the homesick child of the desert felt cheered and comforted at once, and Tabitha found herself wishing it had been her lot to share Bertha's room.

It was lonely all by herself in the room that seemed bare in spite of its pretty furnishings, for nothing familiar greeted her eyes, and its unadorned walls looked quite depressing in their spotless creamy white. Carrie had disappeared, and Miss Pomeroy's steps were descending the stairway; so she closed her door quietly, observing that two or three curious faces were peering at her from across the hall; and with a feeling half homesick, half exultant, Tabitha hung up her hat and turned for a more studied survey of her surroundings.

"Twenty-eight hooks in the closet, fourteen for me and fourteen for Chrystobel. Isn't that the loveliest name? I never heard of it before. I wonder if she will be as nice as she sounds! But of course she will. Carrie says the girls are all nice. Four drawers in the dresser, two little ones and two big ones. I will take the bottom big drawer and the little one nearest the window. Bertha says the drawers are the same size, but the bottom one looks a little deeper. Here is a string, I will measure.—They are exactly the same. That's where you got fooled, Tabitha Catt! See what comes from being stingy?—I would like the bed nearest the window, but maybe I better leave that for Chrystobel.—Clear as crystal and sweet as a bell. I wonder if that is what her mother and father thought when they named her that. These rockers are i-den-ti-cally the same. That's fortunate. It won't be any temptation to choose the prettiest. We will have to tell them apart by putting bows on them. I will tie one of my red hair-ribbons on mine; there are four new ones in my box of ribbons. I wish they would bring up my trunk. I would like to unpack while I have nothing else to do. Wonder where Carrie is. Wish she would come in and talk to me, it seems so strange here all alone."

There was a bold knock at the door, and thinking it might be her trunk, she flung it wide open with the words, "Bring it right in, please, and set it in—oh, I thought—"

"You thought it was your trunk," giggled the lisping midget who faced her in the doorway, "but it ain't. I am Cassandra Hertford. Carrie is my room-mate. Isn't she a darling? She told me you and Mercedes McKittrick had come, and I had to run in to see you. Carrie has gone to see about the trunks. She said she would introduce you when she came back, but I couldn't wait. Where's Mercedes? Oh, she is to be with Bertha Peck, isn't she? Let's go see her."

Clutching astonished Tabitha by the hand, she dragged her out of the room and before any remonstrance could be offered, pushed open the door of the next apartment and announced her arrival with the shout, heard all over the hall, "Hello, Bertha and Mercedes! Here I am with our Tabby Catt!"

Tabitha's sensitive face flushed crimson and the angry light sprang to her eyes, but Bertha rose to the occasion with the ready tact which had made her one of the most popular girls.

"Cassandra, dear, this is our Kitty, the mascot of this floor. Come and meet her, girls;" and before Tabitha realized what had happened, six or seven laughing girls emerged from the various rooms along the hall, and surrounded her, all chattering gayly and apparently not noticing Tabitha's awkward, embarrassed manner. Carrie joined them shortly, and received an enthusiastic greeting, for it was evident that she, too, was a general favorite. And such a laughing and chattering as followed! And how the time flew! In the midst of their merrymaking a gong sounded.

"Goodness gracious, girls! is it so late? I haven't finished unpacking yet. Half an hour to get ready for tea, Tabitha;" and they dispersed to their rooms.

Tabitha followed their example and flung open the door at the end of the hall for the final touches to her toilette, but stopped on the threshold in surprise. Standing in front of the mirror, arranging her long, smooth curls, was a girl about her own age, clad in an over-trimmed gown of thin white stuff, and wearing an immense bow of white at either side of her head. At the sound of Tabitha's entrance she turned languidly and surveyed the intruder with cold, disapproving eyes. Tabitha returned the stare with one of undisguised admiration, for never had she seen anyone so beautiful. "Oh, are you Chrystobel?" she cried in rapture. "I've been wondering if you would fit your name."

"I am Chrystobel Clayton," answered the stranger in a frigid tone which was entirely lost on the other. "Do I fit?"

"Oh, yes, you are the handsomest girl I ever saw. Carrie Carson is pretty, but you are beautiful!"

"What is your name?" asked Chrystobel, still with a haughty air, but considerably pleased with the open admiration of her companion.

"Tabitha Catt," came the slow answer.

"What an exceedingly queer cognomen!"

Tabitha caught her breath, then said slowly, "It isn't very pretty, perhaps; but—one gets used to their name so they don't mind it."

"Well, I must say if I had such an odd name as that I would change it. I never could get used to it; but then, some people haven't as sensitive natures as others."

Tabitha made no reply, but with a queer sense of rage in her heart she walked across to the dresser and bent to open the lower drawer where she had carefully laid the few things her small grip had contained.

"Here," exclaimed Chrystobel sharply, "don't touch that drawer! That is mine. How dare you!" For Tabitha in her start of surprise had jerked the drawer free from the dresser and it fell with a bang in the middle of the floor, disclosing to view a disorderly array of garments which did not belong to Tabitha.

"What have you done with my things that were in there?" demanded the black-eyed girl indignantly. "I was here first and had the right to make first choice. It makes no difference to me, though; the drawers are just the same size and I would as soon have the other."

Without waiting for a reply, she reached for the upper drawer, but before she had a chance to open it, Chrystobel caught and held it shut as she cried angrily, "My things are in there, too. What did you expect—to keep the whole dresser for yourself?"

"That seems to be what you want," retorted Tabitha, thoroughly enraged. "What have you done with my things?"

"They are in the top drawers. You aren't entitled to more than two."

"I'm entitled to a big one and a little one, Chrystobel Clayton, just the same as you are, and I intend to have them, what's more!"

"Miss Pomeroy said it didn't make any difference which two drawers I took for my own—"

"She didn't say you could have both the big ones, and you aren't going to have them, so now!"

Snatching up the drawer on the floor, she emptied its contents on the nearest bed and turned to restore it to its place in the dresser, but the angry Chrystobel stopped her and tried to take it from her hands, declaring, "That belongs to me, and you shall not have it, I say!"

Tabitha promptly inverted the disputed piece of property and sat down upon it, saying quietly, though her eyes flashed dangerously, "Get it if you can!"

But her companion dared not make the venture, for the clenched hands looked too formidable, and the spoiled Chrystobel was an arrant coward; so she stood beside the dresser glowering at the triumphant girl astride the drawer, and at last finding vent for her anger in the spiteful remark, "Your name fits you exactly. All cats scratch!"

"Well, your name doesn't fit you at all," was the ready reply, "and I was mistaken when I said you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I take it all back. You're as ugly as sin!"

"Are you going to give up that drawer?"

"No, not if I have to sit on it all night. You can't be a pig if you are going to room with me. I took only what was my right. You have no business to claim both big drawers."

"I didn't want to room with you anyway—"

"Neither did I want you!"

"I shall tell Miss Pomeroy!" threateningly.

"I wish you would!"

"There goes the gong for tea!"

"I am willing. I'll go without supper before I will give up this drawer, and you may as well understand that first as last."

"You are perfectly hateful! You aren't even decently polite."

"I can't see that you have more than your share of manners."

"You are as horrid as your name."

"You are a great deal worse than yours!"

"Girls, girls! What is the reason that you are not down in the dining hall?" Miss Pomeroy, stately, majestic and stern, stood unannounced in the doorway.

"She won't let me have a drawer to put my things in," began the girl with curly hair and the handsome face.

"That's a lie!" screamed Tabitha, bouncing to her feet and dancing up and down in furious passion.

"Tabitha Catt! I am surprised at you!" exclaimed the principal, looking sorrowfully at the angry child. "Chrystobel, what is all this racket about?"

"I put my things in the dresser, and she said I had taken her drawer and couldn't have it."

"She did take my drawer—"

"Tabitha, I am talking to Chrystobel now."

"She took both big drawers and—"

"Tabitha!"

"Expected me to have just those two little ones in the top—"

"Tabitha!"

"She said you said she could have her choice and—"

"Will you listen to me?"

"She dumped my things out of the drawer—the bottom one—and poked them in those little mites of ones. It isn't fair—"

"Tabitha Catt!"

"For her to have two big ones and me two little ones, but—"

"Tabitha, leave the room until I call you again!"

"She wouldn't give up either one," and in a perfect storm of grief and anger, Tabitha swept out of the room, her expostulations still pouring in a torrent from her quivering lips; and throwing herself flat on the hall floor, she buried her face in her arms.

For some minutes Miss Pomeroy's low, even voice could be heard in the little room at the end of the corridor, interrupted occasionally by Chrystobel's sullen tones; then Tabitha was summoned again, and with reddened eyes she entered the door to learn her fate.

"Tabitha, Chrystobel is sorry she took your belongings out of the bottom drawer without asking your leave, and she has put them back as she found them—"

"She has opened every blessed thing and peeked at it," was Tabitha's indignant comment as she saw the mussed-up contents of the lower drawer, now restored to its place in the dresser.

"Tabitha!" Miss Pomeroy's lips twitched, but her voice was very stern, and the maid from Silver Bow flushed redder than ever, and contritely cried,

"That was very hateful of me, but really, Miss Pomeroy, she never put those things back as she found them, because I had that drawer looking very neat and now see the muddle it is in!"

"We will discuss that later. I am shocked to think any of my girls would act in such an unladylike manner as you have. Whenever any dispute arises over your possessions, you are to come straight to me, or to Madame DuBois, who has charge of this floor. Don't ever let me hear of such actions again. Now, in order to prevent any further dissension, we will decide which bed and chairs each of you is to have and which hooks in the closet."

Tabitha's eyes sought the open closet as Miss Pomeroy spoke, and now she burst out angrily, "She has taken all the hooks but seven on one end! I should have fourteen because there are twenty-eight in all."

"Tabitha, if I have to speak to you again for interrupting, I shall send you to the office to stay until bedtime. Chrystobel, take your clothes off seven of those hooks and give them to Tabitha. Now, Tabitha, which bed do you want?"

"I can't sleep near the window; mamma never allows it," spoke up the haughty Chrystobel.

"That suits me all right," thought Tabitha, but aloud she merely said, "It makes no difference to me."

"Then you may have the bed by the window. As for the chairs, they are exactly alike—"

"I want this rocker," interrupted Chrystobel again, "the other squeaks, and I can't bear that."

"Perhaps," observed Miss Pomeroy sarcastically, "it would be advisable to mark your chairs with strings or ribbons, or something so there will be no possibility of a recurrence of this dispute. Come now to the dining hall and have your tea. I won't punish you this time, but if such a disgraceful scene occurs again, I shall not be lenient with either one."

"I don't care where my things are put," said irrepressible Tabitha, "and I'm not trying to be a pig, either, even if I was here first; but I do want what belongs to me by rights!"

Miss Pomeroy smiled in the dimness of the stairway, as she replied with emphasis, "I expect all my girls to obey the rules laid down for them, and if they won't do that, then they can't stay here."

Tabitha's indignation subsided suddenly. What a dreadful thing it would be if she should be sent home! She ought to have thought of that possibility before. Now Miss Pomeroy was angry with her and she had made a miserable beginning of the delightful boarding school life she had dreamed so much about. Two hot tears gathered in her eyes again, but just at that minute she heard Chrystobel mutter between her teeth so the principal could not hear, "I hate you!"

"It's mutual!" was Tabitha's vindictive reply, and with head up, she stalked stiffly down the stairs behind Miss Pomeroy.



CHAPTER XV

THE FIRST NIGHT AT IVY HALL

That first night at Ivy Hall—for this was the name of the boarding school—was long remembered by Tabitha. Fifty bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked girls gathered with the little staff of instructors around the long tables in the breezy dining hall, laughing and chattering merrily about their happy vacations, greeting friends of the previous year with girlish enthusiasm, and welcoming the strangers among their number with a cordiality that made them feel as if they had always belonged there. It was such a wonderful experience to our little maid from the desert that she could scarcely touch the tempting meal spread before her, but sat like a statue, drinking in the happy scene with a hungry heart.

"See that little dark-eyed lady at the end of our table?" said a winsome-faced girl at Tabitha's right, who answered to the name of Jessie Wayne. "She is Madame DuBois, the French teacher, who is in charge of our floor. Your room is across from Carrie's, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Tabitha, shyly. "She looks as if she might be lovely."

"Oh, she is! Next to Miss Pomeroy, she is the most popular teacher here. The red-headed, cross-looking, fat woman at the second table is Miss White, who has classes in music and drawing. She is lots better than she looks. Miss Summers is the next teacher. People often mistake her for a pupil here. Isn't that a joke? She does look awfully young, but this is her fourth year at Ivy Hall. She is a darling, too."

"Who teaches Latin?" ventured Tabitha, as her talkative companion lapsed into silence long enough to take a bite of bread. "Carrie said there was to be a change this year."

"Yes, we have a new Latin instructor. Her name is Miss Cornwall. She is the one sitting in the corner, wearing glasses. She looks mighty severe, but I'll bet she can be jolly. Miss Pomeroy never has a cross teacher here. I heard her tell Madame that Miss Cornwall is to be on our floor, too. I suppose she will have the room next to Carrie's, as that is the only vacant one at that end of the corridor."

"Who is the tall lady at Miss Pomeroy's table?" asked inquisitive Tabitha, eager to make the acquaintance of all the staff of teachers.

"Miss King, of the domestic science department. Oh, you will like her! She is splendid!"

"That's what you've said about them all," laughed the black-eyed girl, privately thinking she had found the Garden of Eden.

"Well, they are! Really, I believe Ivy Hall is the loveliest boarding school there is in the world. We are just like one great, big family here. Miss Pomeroy makes the dearest mother."

"What are the other teachers, then? Aunts?" Tabitha asked.

Jessie shouted. "I never thought of it before, but that is surely what they are, and they do give us the loveliest times, and make the lessons so interesting that it doesn't seem like study at all. But they are awfully particular. They won't take any kind of a girl here. She has to be well recommended and even then there are always about twice as many girls who want to enter as there is room for. This year there were forty who couldn't get in."

"Oh!" breathed Tabitha, recalling with alarm Miss Pomeroy's words on the stairs. "Do they ever send them away after they have begun school here?"

"I—don't—know. Why, yes, sometimes. There was a girl here last year who cheated and took things that didn't belong to her and was real saucy to the teachers; and when she went home at Christmas time she never came back. She told us that she didn't want to, but I think Miss Pomeroy wouldn't let her. There goes the signal for assembly. We always meet just after tea each evening for chapel services."

"Chapel services?"

"Yes. We sing a hymn or two and listen to a short talk from one of the teachers before going up to our rooms for study. Likely Miss Pomeroy will speak tonight, as this is the first evening. Sit anywhere you wish. Here's a hymn-book."

Tabitha accepted the book, slipped into a vacant seat in the corner, and marvelled at the sudden hush that fell over the noisy throng as the silvery-haired principal arose to address them. This wise lady was not given to sermonizing, but talked in a confidential, motherly fashion, telling them of her hopes and expectations for the school year lying before them, explaining the few rules it had been found necessary to lay down for the governing of so many active little bodies, and filling each girlish heart with inspiration and a desire to win this dear woman's approval.

"It is not our aim to make our school a prison," said the sweet voice to the attentive throng, drinking in every word. "We want our girls to be happy and light-hearted and gay; we hope to fill every hour with sunshine and music and laughter. We are anxious that each one of you shall love Ivy Hall with your whole heart—not merely because of the merry days you enjoyed inside its walls, but because of the lasting help you shall have gained here, for we are gathered under this roof to study, you know, and not to idle away the golden hours, but you will find there are many lessons to be learned in boarding school that are not contained in books. You are all away from home and its influences, many of you for the first time in all your lives; and it is the duty of this little band of teachers to train and instruct the minds and bodies intrusted to our care. This is a pleasant task for us, and we shall do our best for each individual girl, but in return we shall expect you to do your best for us.

"Our lives are like gardens; our faults are the weeds, our good traits the flowers, and we are the gardeners. If we are careless and do not try to overcome the faults, they flourish and grow stronger each year, and in the end will choke out all the flowers. While if we honestly seek to cultivate the good qualities we all possess, and to weed out the unworthy acts and thoughts, our gardens will grow beautiful and will be a pleasure to all our friends, as well as to ourselves. I hope my girls will all try to root out the weeds in your lives—the hot tempers"—Tabitha thought the kindly eyes looked straight at her as these words were spoken—"thoughtless words, selfish habits, envy, jealousy, and the countless other things that make so many lives unhappy. Cultivate kind thoughts, gentle words, good deeds, unselfishness and sunny dispositions. Don't let bickerings or harsh speeches or unkind acts mar the spirit of harmony we want in our school. Take for your motto the Golden Rule, and treat all your companions as you would like them to treat you. Be the best girl you know how to be."

From her corner of the room Tabitha sat glowering at Chrystobel opposite, trying to absorb the teacher's helpful words, while in her heart she was blaming her room-mate for the scene of the previous hour, and wondering how she could get even with the enemy. Chrystobel returned the sour looks with interest, even making a wry face occasionally behind her hand when Miss Pomeroy chanced to be looking in the other direction, for this spoiled maid was equally as sure that Tabitha was the sole cause of the disturbance.

But when the girls were all in bed that night, the lights turned out and the great building silent, Tabitha's anger abated, Miss Pomeroy's words kept repeating themselves in her mind, Jessie's unconscious warning filled her with uneasiness, gentle Mrs. Vane's motherly lectures came back to haunt her, and Mr. Carson's advice of long ago suddenly sprang into memory and would not let her rest. When she closed her eyes they rose before her inner vision in such a provoking fashion that sleep refused to come to soothe the tired, aching body.

"I have been hateful and horrid," sighed the weary girl at last, giving up the struggle and facing the accusing conscience. "No one will like me if I behave like that. I promised Mrs. Vane to be good and just see what a beginning I have made! A scolding already and I haven't been here a day. Oh, dear! Chrystobel was selfish, but maybe if I had been good, she would have given up that drawer and the hooks without any fuss. I acted like a perfect—cat! Because she was selfish and—mean, yes, I think she was mean—that was no reason for my being hateful. Oh, it is such hard work to be good! I wonder if it will ever be any easier. Carrie doesn't seem to have any trouble that way at all, and her room-mate is a spoiled darling, too. If she can put up with Cassandra, I ought to be able to deal with Chrystobel. I suppose—I—ought to—tell her I am sorry. I hate to think of doing such a thing, for maybe she will be a—cat. Perhaps I needn't tell her, but just explain to Miss Pomeroy how bad I feel to think I made such a scene—no, I didn't fight with Miss Pomeroy, and apologizing to her won't make Chrystobel feel any better toward me. Oh, dear, I suppose I must do it! Well, here goes—I've got the shivers clear to my toe-tips already, thinking of what she may say. Chrystobel!"

She spoke the name softly, but the occupant of the other bed heard, and slowly turned over facing the window, surprised, wondering whether or not her ears could have deceived her.

"Chrystobel!"

There was no mistaking that sound. Should she answer? Chrystobel, too, had passed a very uncomfortable evening, and found bed far from agreeable. Away from her mother for the first time, she was battling with pangs of homesickness as well as with her conscience, for she had suddenly come to realize just how selfish her acts must have seemed not only to the queer little girl, who was to share this room with her, but also to the white-haired principal, whom she wanted to love her. But fear that Tabitha would only say something to make matters worse held her silent when she heard the whispered name from the bed by the window.

"Chrystobel!"

The voice was not only insistent, but pleading, and the elder girl lifted herself somewhat impatiently on her elbow, as she muttered ungraciously, "Well?"

"I was afraid you would be asleep," came the relieved reply. "Say, Chrystobel, I'm sorry I got mad this afternoon. Maybe if I had had more patience I could have shown you just how selfish you were without all that fuss and squabble. Will you forget the hateful things I said and be friends with me? You can have both big drawers and twenty-one hooks in the closet if you want them."

Chrystobel gasped, overcome by mingled emotions. Surprise, anger, regret in turn filled her heart, and for a moment she was silent because the lump in her throat choked her.

Tabitha, misconstruing the deep pause, began again anxiously, "I've got the worst temper in seven counties. I reckon it's my name; I have always hated it, but that doesn't help matters any. I am always sorry after I get mad like that, but it is awfully hard to say so. I never know how to say it so the other person will believe me. But I really mean it, Chrystobel. I am sorry I was so horrid to you. We ought to be friends, and then you could help me keep from getting mad, and I could help you not to be such a pig. Will you, Chrystobel?"

"Well," breathed her astounded room-mate, "you are the queerest girl I ever saw, and you say the oddest things. I—I don't know what to think."

"I don't mean to say odd things. I am truly sorry, and I wish you would believe me."

The plaintive voice was too much for the haughty Chrystobel, and with a quick spring she scrambled out of bed and groped her way to where Tabitha lay curled under the covers, saying with more real feeling than her companion had given her credit for, "I do believe you, and I am just as sorry as you are for my actions—sorrier, for I was to blame for the whole fuss. I am a selfish pig, but no one ever dared to tell me that before, so I have gone on being thoughtless and unkind and horrid. I have no brothers or sisters at home to share things with, and I have always had my own way until I've come to expect it from everybody, I am afraid. Forgive me, Tabitha, I never knew before how really selfish I was."

Chrystobel's arms had encircled Tabitha in an impulsive embrace, and before the astonished girl had recovered her breath sufficiently for a reply, there was a quick kiss pressed upon her lips, and Chrystobel had slipped away in the dark to her own bed.

For a moment Tabitha lay motionless on her pillow, almost too surprised for utterance at this turn of affairs; then she smiled happily in the dark and whispered shyly, "I don't hate you, Chrystobel. I didn't mean all those hateful things I said to you. I was mad and that's why I spoke that way. I—I—love you."

"Then I'm glad," came the joyful answer through the blackness of the room, "I take back all the mean things I said about you, too, Tabitha. I am sure we are going to be splendid friends."

"So am I. Good-night, Chrystobel!"

"Good-night, Tabitha!"

A great peace descended upon both hearts, and the two girls drifted away to happy dreams, their differences forgiven and forgotten.

Oh, no, they did not become saints on the spot; they were only human beings like the rest of us, and many and frequent were the girlish squabbles that marred the serenity of those happy school days, but they honestly tried to do better, and that is half the battle. Chrystobel was selfish and Tabitha was a pepperpot, and neither of those faults is easily overcome, but thanks to the common sense of the kindly principal and her staff of teachers, the battle was not unsuccessfully waged.

Tabitha soon became a favorite among her mates, who were quick to discover the sweet spirit under the fierce, hot temper, and quick to feel the lonely girl's craving for affection. Understanding that her home life had never been as glad and joyous as theirs, they one and all strove to make the new surroundings bright and beautiful, succeeding so well that gradually Tabitha forgot her old griefs and vexations, and blossomed into a serene loveliness that captivated both teachers and mates.

The name which Bertha had given her the day of her arrival clung, and Kitty she became to the whole school,—the mascot of the second floor. At one time this title would have been an added affliction to her over-sensitive nature, but Tabitha was growing wise, and was learning that people do not care how ugly one's name may be, if the heart is good and beautiful. True, she had not ceased to mourn because other girls were blessed with the pretty names which had been denied her, but she was beginning to understand the sentiment:

"Laugh, and the world laughs with you, Weep, and you weep alone; For the poor old earth has to borrow its mirth, It has troubles enough of its own."



CHAPTER XVI

MADAME'S ADVICE

One bright, warm, November day—for such days are the usual order in sunny California—Tabitha stood at the little window in one end of the long corridor, looking disconsolately down into the garden, shimmering in its rain-washed greenness, and thinking of the approaching holidays and her own slender purse. The other girls were making such elaborate gifts for each other, to say nothing of the beautiful things laid by for the home folks and friends, and she felt keenly the fact that she would have so little to offer. To be sure, there were few to remember outside the school circle of girls and teachers, but she longed as never before to do as the others did and have what they had.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, "it's hard to be pinched all the time! I wish I could have as much money to spend as even Mercedes has, and that isn't a great deal, either. Here I have only five dollars for Christmas, and there are about twenty girls, who, I know, are going to give me something, besides the other people I want to remember—Tom and the Vanes and Carrie's mother and father. They are always giving me something beautiful, and I never have anything for them but home-made candy. There is Aunt Maria, too. I would like to send her a little something so she won't think I have forgotten her; and then—Dad—but he won't expect anything or care. I don't suppose he will even remember that it is Christmas. Oh, hum! I wish there wasn't such a a day!"

"Such a day as what?" asked a soft, sweet voice behind her, and an arm crept gently, almost shyly around her waist.

"Oh, Madame DuBois!" cried the startled girl, looking up into the winning brown eyes of the little French teacher. "Did you hear what I said? I was wishing there was no Christmas Day."

"No Christmas Day!" echoed the scandalized woman with charming accent, "Ah, zat is ze Christ's birthday!"

"I was very wicked," murmured Tabitha, humbly. "I didn't stop to think how we happen to have that holiday. I was mourning because I have not as much to spend for pretty things as the other girls have."

"Oh, but zat is very wrong!" protested her companion, shaking her head in a disapproving fashion. "You Americans sink only of how much money you spend for Christmas and if your gift to your friend cost as much as ze one she give you. Zat isn't gift! Zat is exchange. One should give only from ze happiness of ze heart. If ze pocketbook is flat, zen pick a little flower, write a little letter, give a merry smile. All true friends like zat better zan silk dresses or gold watches. Do you forget one of your great poets has said:

'Not what we give but what we share, For ze gift without ze giver is bare.'"

"I see what you mean, Madame," said Tabitha slowly. "Folks think too much about the cost of their gifts, instead of the spirit in which they are given. But wouldn't you feel badly if you knew that fifteen or twenty girls were planning splendid things for you and there was only five dollars to buy remembrances for all of them, besides the other friends? Cassandra told me yesterday that Bertha Peck is embroidering a silk scarf for me, and here I haven't a thing for her!"

Madame smiled indulgently at the tragic tones, and gently shook the slender maid, as she answered, "Wie, I understand some how you feel, Tabitha; but it isn't worth fretting about. A little handkerchief, a card maybe—"

"One can't get a really nice handkerchief for even two bits, and it would take my whole five dollars for just the girls alone. I would have nothing left for Tom or the rest."

The little French woman was silent for a moment, and a deep frown wrinkled her usually placid brow; then she impulsively caught Tabitha's brown hands in her own and skipped joyfully as if she, too, were a girl in her teens, exclaiming excitedly, "I have it—zat what you say? You crochet. I have seen you sometimes when you study and I wonder how you count ze stitches and learn, too, but you always have your lessons well."

Tabitha's face flushed with pleasure at this unexpected praise, and she laughingly replied, "Oh, I can't always. It is just when I am memorizing something or learning French conjugations. Now with algebra, I have to use my hands as well as my brains."

"Sly-boots! But you make pretty sings with your crochet hook—ze lace on Carrie's collar, n'est pas?"

"Yes, I made that for her birthday. Mrs. Vane taught me how last year in Silver Bow so I wouldn't be so lonely."

"It takes only a little time?"

"Not very long now. I have made so much of it I can almost do it in my sleep, and I can pick up new patterns from magazines by myself."

"Good! I, too, crochet—many sings once. I show you how if you wish."

"Oh, thank you, Madame DuBois! I shall be glad to learn."

"It is six, seven weeks before Christmas Day, and in zat time lots can be done. Come now to my room and we plan out zat five dollars—if you like—spend it on paper." She hurried the amazed girl down the long hall to her cozy room and was soon deeply absorbed in making out lists and figuring the cost of material.

"There are twenty-one girls I should like in particular to remember," said Tabitha, curiously watching every movement of her companion. "I wish I had something for each scholar. And five people in Silver Bow, and Tom in Reno, and—I wish Miss Pomeroy didn't limit us to such a little bit for the teachers."

"Ah, but she is wise!" laughed Madame, rapidly turning the pages in a fancy-work book. "See, here is what I mean. Twenty ties like zat take so little time and are so pretty and very acceptable. Every girl this day likes such sings. One spool of cotton thread, very fine, makes four or five, maybe more; a little scrap of linen to mount it on, and voila! a beautiful little gift that cost much at the store. Watch me now, how I do it." She caught up her crochet hook and thread, and deftly, swiftly, traced the delicate little pattern that Tabitha might see how it was done.

"That looks so easy," murmured the girl, watching the flying fingers with fascinated eyes. "I believe I could do it already."

"Yes? But you take the book to be sure. The directions are easy. That settles the girls except maybe the little friend, Carrie. How would she like some slippers? I make them very pretty and they cost so little; two or three skeins of yarn for one pair and the soles are cheap, too."

"That would be fine for Carrie—and for Chrystobel. Cassandra says she has something beautiful for me, but Chrystie threatened to give her nothing for Christmas if she told; so she has managed to keep it secret so far."

"Cassandra has a lively tongue," laughed Madame, "and she finds it hard to control. Now for the rest of your friends, how would calendars do? You make beautiful water-coloring. Miss White shows me her pretty work, and always zere is one of your drawings. Cardboard is easy to get; a little bunch of flowers or some ozer design in colors, maybe a picture of yourself, and zat makes a nice gift."

"I had thought of pictures at first, but good ones cost so much that I couldn't get enough to go around."

"Pictures? Photographs, you mean. But maybe some friend has a camera and will take a—what you call it?—snap-shot? I know such a boy. He does excellent work and I am sure Miss Pomeroy will let you go there some day with me. He charges very low. I sink one dollar would be all. Zen see! You have still one dollar and a half left out of your five dollars to buy ribbon, tissue paper, Christmas cards, postals or what you will, and all your friends are planned for."

Tabitha stared at the neat list with unbelieving eyes, then with a little jump of delight, she threw both arms around Madame's neck, crying happily, "Oh, you darling, you witch! I have been wondering and puzzling for a week to know how I could possibly get thirty-three presents out of five dollars, but it looks as easy as a, b, c, now. Thank you a thousand times! I am going to begin right away on my gifts, so everything will surely be finished in time."

"But you must attend to the lessons first," warned the teacher, shaking her finger playfully at the excited girl.

"Oh, I will, I surely will," she promised, gathering up book and papers. "I am so glad this is Saturday, for I can commence work at once. All my Monday's lessons are learned, Chrystobel and Cassandra have gone home for Sunday, and there is nothing to interfere."

"Then mind you don't work too hard, or I shall be sorry I helped you stretch your little gold mine."

"I will be very careful, but I must hurry, for there are only seven weeks before Christmas."

With a parting smile she slipped out of the door and rushed away to her own room, eager to make with her own hands the pretty lace Madame had begun for her; and from that moment all her leisure time was devoted to crocheting ties or painting calendars for her loved ones' Christmas Day. With the first gleam of dawn she was up in the morning, busy with brush or hook long before the breakfast bell called them to the day's routine; at recess and during the noon hour, she was hidden away with Bertha or Carrie in some nook of the great gardens, making frantic use of every opportunity; and when the lessons were learned in the evening, back to back with Chrystobel, she toiled with patient fingers, sighing with relief as each dainty tie was laid in state beside its finished mates in her big hat box.

Madame's young friend was glad to take some kodak pictures of the eager girl, the prints were splendidly clear-cut, and Tabitha was delighted with the result. So when her busy brush had painted all the cardboard squares in soft colors, and the carefully trimmed snapshots were mounted, Tabitha's calendars were really works of art; and her heart was filled with happiness over what she had achieved.

Just a week before Christmas she slipped the last gift into the hat box and sat down before it to gloat over her treasures with loving eyes.

"All done—everything! I didn't suppose I could do it when I began. Now, I shan't be ashamed to receive gifts from the girls. It isn't right to feel that way, I know, but really I hated to think of not being able to give them something nice when they are so good to me. It isn't that I am exchanging, as Madame calls it; for I shall appreciate whatever gifts I get—silk dresses, Christmas cards, or just a friendly word; but this is the very first time I ever made things myself to give away at such a time, and I guess it has gone to my head. I like to receive presents, but I think it is lots more fun to give them. I have enjoyed making every single one of those.

"There are twenty-two ties, nineteen for the girls, and one each for Mrs. Vane, Carrie's mother and Aunt Maria; there's a silk tie for Rosslyn McKittrick—I never would have thought of using up that bias piece for such a thing if I hadn't seen Jessie making her little brother one. I don't know which I like best, Carrie's blue slippers or Chrystobel's pink ones—they are both so dear. But my calendars are my darlings! When Madame suggested them, I was afraid they would be awfully cheap-looking, but Miss White says the coloring is the best I ever did, and those splendid pictures just finish them. I had no idea I was so good-looking. There is one apiece for each teacher, one for Tom, one for Dr. Vane, and one for Mr. Carson. That leaves me three over; and there may be someone I have forgotten in my list, so these will probably come in handy yet. And that prying Cassandra hasn't found out about a thing that I have made!

"Now I must get my hat and coat if I go with Madame for the tissue paper. How glad I am that I can get a pretty postcard for each of the other girls! Even then, I will have more than half a dollar left. Perhaps I can find a piece of linen and make Tom a handkerchief or two. I'll ask—"

"Puss, Puss!" called an excited voice in the corridor, and an impatient fist pounded loudly on the door. Tabitha started nervously, dropped the cover down over her treasures and pushed the box hurriedly into the closet, calling cheerily, "Come in, Carrie!"

"I can't; you have locked the door!"

The black-eyed girl flew to turn the key, and rosy, excited Carrie burst into the room, crying, "See what I got for papa! It just came from the store. Miss Pomeroy helped me choose it. I wanted to show it to you first. Isn't it splendid? And won't he like it?" She laid a beautifully carved box on the table and danced gleefully about the room while Tabitha examined the purchase.

"Well, I should think he would," she said enthusiastically in answer to Carrie's question. "What is it for?"

"It's a sort of a writing-desk for him to carry around in his grip when he goes away, so he can write any time he wants to. See the paper, business size, letter and note paper. Here is a box for stamps, and there is a place for pen and pencils. I wanted to get him a fountain pen, too, but mamma said she would attend to that, to be sure it was a nice one. I can just see him now when he opens it. Oh, I wish Christmas would hurry! What are you going to give your father, Puss?"

Tabitha's face flushed scarlet, and she murmured in embarrassment, "I don't believe he cares anything about Christmas. He never has observed it since I can remember."

"Oh!" said Carrie. "Well, I must take my box back and wrap it up. Where are you going?"

"It is nearly time for our walk and Miss Pomeroy has promised some of us a tramp to town for tissue paper, ribbon, cards and such little things that won't take long to get. Didn't you know? Ask her if you can't go. I think there are only six or seven of us so far. One more will only make it the jollier."

"I would like to," answered Carrie wistfully, "but this is my hour to practice for the cantata. Bye-bye!"

Carrie whisked across the hall to her room and Tabitha, haunted by that careless question, descended the stairs to wait for the group of shoppers to gather.

The day was bright and warm, the winter rains had washed the dusty foliage clean, and it seemed as if spring had already begun in this California city; but there was no answering note of joy in Tabitha's heart. Why had Carrie shown her the pretty writing-desk? What had prompted her to speak such disquieting words? Ought she to send something to the stern father who did not care?

"One should give only from ze happiness of ze heart, Madeline."

Madame's gentle voice floated back to Tabitha, speaking the same sentiment she had voiced to the black-haired girl a few weeks before. "A gift from a sense of duty is no gift at all."

"Then," thought Tabitha, "that settles my difficulty. I could give only from a sense of duty. I should like to love him, but he won't let me."

"But sink how lonely he may be, ze cross old uncle you talk about! Doesn't it make you sorry?" came another snatch of conversation. "Perhaps he loves you more zan you sink. Oh, yes, I should get him somesing—a calendar or a card or maybe write a letter; but don't do it because you sink you ought. If he feels zat you really want to cheer him, it will make him happy even if he is cross."

The sunshine grew suddenly brighter to Tabitha, her heart grew wonderfully lighter, her lips unconsciously hummed a little tune and the walk the rest of the way to town was beautiful. But the first thing she did when Ivy Hall was reached, was to run up to her room, select the prettiest of the three left-over calendars, wrap it daintily in tissue paper and gold cord and address it to her father at Silver Bow. Then with a happy sigh she dropped it back into the box to await the proper time for mailing, and skipped off to tell Madame that her Christmas work was all done.



CHAPTER XVII

HOLIDAY PLANS

"Girls, girls!" cried Jessie Wayne, bursting unannounced into Bertha Peck's room where ten or twelve of her mates were feverishly at work on Christmas mysteries, anxious to have everything complete before the morrow saw them scattered in their many homes for their holiday vacation. "Just listen to this. Mamma is going to give me a party Christmas Eve, and there are a hundred invitations sent out. Isn't that gorgeous? The parties mamma gives are simply fine; almost everyone we invite comes. I wish we lived here in this city so I could have all of you. And New Years Day she is going to take six of us over to Pasadena in the auto to see the Tournament of the Roses and the chariot races. I have often been there, we go every year, but it is lots more fun with a crowd of people your own age. One day we are going up Mt. Lowe, and another day if it is warm enough she has promised to take us to one of the beaches for bathing, I just love the ocean. Isn't my vacation going to be dandy?"

"I should think it is," exclaimed Chrystobel. "That's what I like—plenty of excitement. I tried to coax mamma to let me spend the holidays with my cousins in San Francisco, but she said to wait until next summer when she and papa could go, too. I don't know what they are planning for this Christmas, but I expect to have a jolly time."

"So do I," piped up the spoiled Cassandra, who could not be bribed or forced to stay away from these secret sewing bees, though she never pretended to do anything but pry. "We are going to San Diego to grandma's house for Christmas, and there is to be a real evergreen tree and loads of presents. I'm going to get a gold watch. I know, 'cause I teased mamma until she said she would buy me one."

"We have a family reunion at Redlands," said active Julia Moore. "There will be forty of us in all. Won't we have a merry time? I have two cousins whose birthdays are in the same week with mine, and folks call us the triplets, though Jack is a year older than I and Fred is a year younger. They are the greatest teases, always playing jokes on me; so I have fixed up these two turkey wishbones to get even with them this year. Do you suppose they can find anything worse-looking to give me?" She held up two grotesque figures of wishbone and wax, dressed like Dutch boys in baggy trousers and queer caps, and the girls shouted derisively.

"If only I had seen them in time to plan one for Uncle Tim!" sighed mischievous Grace Tilton. "I owe him a philopena, and that would have been a splendid way to pay it."

"But it takes only a few minutes to make one," answered Julia. "I will show you how. Cousin Minnie cut the pattern for the trousers."

"I haven't the wishbone, though," returned Grace. "But never mind; Carrie is going home with me for Christmas, and we will think up something ridiculous."

"Why, Carrie!" cried Mercedes. "I thought you and Kitty were going home to Silver Bow."

"That is what we had expected to do, but just yesterday I got a letter from mamma telling me I might accept Grace's invitation, because papa has to go East right away on business and she is going with him."

"Then what are you going to do, Kitty?"

"Stay here at school," answered Tabitha briefly, stitching busily away on Tom's handkerchief, trying hard not to betray her keen disappointment at this unexpected change of plan.

"Oh, are you?" cried Bertha, dropping a dainty apron she was frilling with lace, and clapping her hands softly. "I am so glad! I was afraid I was to be the only girl left at school. I have to spend my vacations here, because I could hardly get home to Canada and back again before lessons would begin once more. Last year at Christmas there were three of us left-overs, besides Miss Pomeroy and Miss Summers; but during our spring vacation I was the only girl in the building, and perhaps I wasn't lonely, even though Miss Pomeroy was lovely. She always does everything she can think of to make the hours pleasant, and we had some grand visits together."

Tabitha's face had grown visibly brighter during this recital, but the shadow of bitter disappointment still lingered in the somber black eyes, for she had counted much on having Carrie to herself for this brief fortnight and it was hard to give up such fond hopes. Ever since boarding school life had begun these two bosom friends had seen little of each other, as Tabitha had now far outstripped Carrie in her classes, and Cassandra skilfully managed to monopolize her good-natured, loving little room-mate most of their leisure hours. Grace's invitation had included Tabitha, to be sure, but there was no money in the little purse for railroad fare, and of course it was now too late for her father to send her any, even if she had dared to ask him. So she stifled back her longings and tried to look happy as she said saucily, "Well, 'two is company, three is a crowd, four in the schoolhouse are not allowed'."

"Oh," cried Cassandra, "you changed that—"

"Just to fit the occasion, my child," interrupted Bertha with a patronizing air which usually made the meddling infant grit her teeth and hold her tongue.

But in spite of Tabitha's efforts to be brave, Carrie saw the look in the black eyes and understood; and Chrystobel, detecting the slight quiver in the voice meant to be merry, understood also; and a sudden silence fell over the room of busy workers. The waning afternoon deepened into dusk, Bertha rose and turned on the lights, the girls moved their positions so the bright rays would fall to best advantage on their work, but for many minutes not a sound was heard in the crowded room save the rustle of linen and lawn, and the snip, snip of glittering scissors. Then the tea-bell pealed out its summons, and the toilers sprang to their feet in dismay.

"So late! And my collar isn't done yet!"

"I have only the belt to put on my apron."

"All but about an inch of hemstitching done on this handkerchief."

"The initials are a little crooked on this glove-case, but I have finished. Thank goodness!"

Chrystobel said never a word, but gathering up her work with unusual haste, she flew to her room, switched on the lights, gave her beautiful curls a brush or two, jerked her collar over a fraction of an inch, and disappeared down the stairway before Tabitha had reached the door of Bertha's room. Straight to the principal's office she ran, knocked lightly, and almost before she heard the gentle summons from within, she burst into the room with the breathless question, "Oh, Miss Pomeroy, can I stay here at school for the holidays? May I, I mean?"

"Why, my dear," smiled the white-haired lady, "my girls are always welcome here."

"But I thought during vacations you let only those who had nowhere else to go stay here."

"That is just because the girls who have homes to go to prefer to spend their holidays there, Chrystobel. It is unusual for a pupil to elect to stay here on such occasions, particularly at Christmas time. What is the trouble, dear? Have your parents—"

"Oh, no, it isn't that. They expect me, but can't I telegraph them that I want to stay here? They won't object. They always let me have my own way, Miss Pomeroy."

"But still I cannot understand your sudden decision, Chrystobel."

"It's on account of Kitty—Tabitha. She can't go home, and now that the Carsons have to leave for the East, she can't spend her vacation with Carrie, and she does feel so sorry!"

"What makes you think that?" asked the principal with a curious tightening of her throat.

"Just her mouth, and because I know her. She laughs and pretends she doesn't mind, but I couldn't help seeing her lips; and she has never had the good times I have, and I—I thought maybe if I stayed here with her and Bertha, it would make them both feel happier."

Miss Pomeroy looked down into the eager, flushed face and wondered how she had ever called Chrystobel selfish; then she asked, "Have you counted the cost? If you stay here to make Tabitha's Christmas happy, she must never suspect any regrets you may feel because your own plans have been laid aside."

"I have thought about all that, Miss Pomeroy. She has been so good and patient with me that I should feel terribly mean to go home for a jolly vacation and leave her here."

"Very well, if you are sure you want to stay, you may telegraph your people for permission. Living so close to the city, you ought to get a reply in the morning before time to start for your home, if that is their wish in the matter."