ROSE

What a summer that was! Mr. Clyde sent Hazel up to the Blossoms for

July and again for September, when he, the Colonel and Mrs. Fenlick, the

Pearsells and the Masons, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo took possession of

the entire inn at Barton's River, and for a month coached and rode

throughout the "North Country," all in the cool September weather. Jack

Sherrill joined them for the last three weeks, and, this time, Maude

Seaton was not of the party.

"I just headed her off every time she made a dead set at any one of us

for an invitation," said Mrs. Fenlick one day in confidence to her

intimate, Mrs. Pearsell, as they sat on the vine-covered veranda of the

inn, "but she proved a regular octopus. She got the Colonel in her

toils one morning at the Casino, and I pretended to be faint--yes, I

did--just to get his attention for a sufficient time to make a fuss, and

get him alone in the carriage; then, of course, I settled it. Oh, dear!

men are so guileless in spots!"--Mrs. Fenlick gave a weary sigh--"What I

have n't been through with that girl! Anyway, she's been out two

winters, now, and she has n't caught Jack Sherrill yet. I don't think

there is much chance after the first season for a girl to make a really

fine match, do you?" Then they fell to discussing the pros, and cons,

of the question with evergreen interest.

Jack Sherrill, for one, had no thought of Miss Seaton. He had sent the

valentine-flowers, and the sentiment from Barry Cornwall's love-song,

with a strange kind of "kill or cure" feeling.

He had communed with himself, at twilight of one February day, as he lay

at full length on the cushioned window-seat of his room from which he

looked down upon the darkening, snow-covered campus and the anatomy of

the elms showing black against it. His pipe had gone out, but he

derived some satisfaction in pulling away at it mechanically, while he

thought out the situation for himself.

"What's the use of a man's hanging fire when he _knows_?" he thought.

"Now, I love her--love her." (Jack's hand stole into the breast of his

jacket and crushed a bit of paper there; he smiled.) "Of course she

does n't know, and won't know for a while, but it shan't be through any

neglect of mine that she does n't; and when she knows--there 's the

rub!--will she care for me, Jack Sherrill? I 've never done anything in

my life to make a girl like that care for me.

"But there's one thing I 'd stake my life on--she would n't marry a man

for his money. A man 's got to be loved for himself--not for what he

can give a woman, or do for her, but just for himself, if it's going to

be the real thing, and _last_. And what am I that a girl like that

should love me--" Jack was growing very humble. He pulled himself

together: "Anyhow, I'll send the flowers and the sentiment, _I mean it_;

I don't care what she thinks!" Jack's courage rose as he began to feel

something like defiance of Fate.

Just then his chum came in.

"There's no use, Sherrill," he said, flinging himself down upon the

cushioned seat Jack had just vacated; "we can't have the theatricals

unless you take the girl's part. It won't put you out any--smooth face

and no scrub. You 've been it once, and it will be a dead failure if you

aren't in it now."

"I don't see how I can," replied Jack, shortly, for this intrusion on

his mood irritated him. "I told you, all of you, at the Club last year,

that I would n't play after I was a Junior."

"Well, what if you did?" rejoined his chum, a little crossly. "You 're

not so uncompromisingly steadfast in other things that you can't afford

to change your mind in such a trifle as this."

"Come, don't be touchy," said Jack, good-humoredly. "Hit right out from

the shoulder, old man, and tell me what you mean."

Dawns smiled, clasped his hands under his head, and raised his merry

blue eyes to Jack, who was lighting up.

"They say over at the Club that you have thrown Maude Seaton over, but

Grayson took up the Seaton cudgels and made the statement that she had

thrown you over, and you won't take the girl's part in the play because

she is coming on for it."

Jack hesitated. He hated to play at any comedy of love when his heart

was throbbing with the genuine article. But, after all, it might be the

best way to silence the Club's tongues as well as some others in Boston

and New York.

"I 'll help you out this once, Dawns, but I tell you plainly I won't

have anything more to do with the Club theatricals while I 'm in

college," he replied, ignoring both of Dawns' statements, which

omissions his chum noticed, and made his own thoughts: "Just like

Sherrill. You can't get any hold of him to know what he really feels

and thinks."

Jack played his part accordingly, repeating the success of the year

before, and scoring new triumphs. He was glad when it was over, and he

could go back to his room "dead tired," as he said to himself, but with

the conviction that he had settled matters to his own satisfaction if

not to that of one other.

The room was in such disorder! Evidently, Dawns had been having a

little spree before Jack's late return, and the smoke had left the air

heavy.

Jack dropped his paraphernalia in the middle of the floor--peeling

himself as he stood yawning and thanking his lucky star that he was not

born a woman to be handicapped by such things!--_decollete_ white satin

waist, long-trained satin gown, necklace--Jack gave the string a twitch,

for it had knotted, and the Roman pearls rolled into unreachable places

all over the floor. Off flew one white satin slipper--number ten, broad

at the toes!--with a fine "drop kick" hitting the ceiling and landing on

the book-shelves; the other followed suit. White fan with chain, white

elbow gloves, corsage bouquet--all dropped in a promiscuous heap. A

general stampede loosened silk under-skirt and dainty muslin petticoat,

lace-trimmed. A wrench,--corset-cover and corsets were torn from their

moorings. Jack groaned--or something worse--at the flummery, and,

leaving everything as it had dropped, rushed off into his bedroom, only

to find that he had forgotten to take off the blonde wig and wash off

the rouge.

At last, however, he was asleep, and slept the sleep of the justified.

He slept both soundly and late, but when he awoke the next morning his

first thought was of the flowers for Mount Hunger and the appropriate

sentiment. Accordingly, having reckoned the arrival of train, departure

of stage, etc., to a minute, he selected the flowers, wrote the

sentiment, not without forebodings of the usual kind, and despatched

both to Mount Hunger with high hopes, notwithstanding prescient

feelings. Then, metaphorically, he sat down to await an answer. He

waited just two months, and during that time had turned emotionally

black and blue more than once at the thought of his temerity in sending

such a message.

Hazel had written him at once from North Carolina to tell him of March's

illness, and on the same day she sent a penitent note to Rose,

confessing her shame at her attempt at deception, and explaining that it

was because she loved her cousin so dearly she could not bear to see his

gift slighted.

When March was out of danger, Rose had written to Hazel a frank, loving

letter, blaming herself for her want of self-control, and begging

Hazel's forgiveness for her harsh words:

"It's all my old pride, Hazel dear," she wrote, "that I have to fight

very often. It was most kind of Mr. Sherrill to remember me when he has

so many, many other friends whom he has known longer, and I shall write

and tell him so. Now that my heart is lighter on account of dear March,

I can write more easily.

"We miss you so! when are you coming back to us? Chi looks perfectly

disconsolate, and we all feel a great deal more than we care to say.

"I wish you were here to have the fun of the French evenings, three

times a week. You speak it so beautifully, Mr. Ford says, and I thank

you so much for all the help you gave me in teaching me. Mr. Ford

speaks it very well, too, so Miss Alton says. We all meet at our house

once a week on March's account, and then one evening in the week, Miss

Alton and I (she 's lovely) go over to the Fords' for music. He has

sent for some lovely songs for me--old English ones, and we're going to

have a little celebration for March's birthday in May. How I wish you

were to be here!

"March is lying on the settle, dreaming over that exquisite photograph

of Cologne Cathedral you sent him; I've just asked him if he had any

messages for you, and he smiled--oh, it's so good to see his dear smile

again! You can't think how tall he's grown since his illness, and he's

so thin--and said, 'I sent one to her this morning myself; she can't

have two a day.' But you know March's ways.

"Now I must stop; Mr. Ford is coming over on horseback and I am riding

Bob now. I wear an old riding-habit of Martie's--it fits fine! I have

more to tell you, but will finish after I get back from the ride--there

comes Mr. Ford--"

This letter Hazel duly forwarded to her cousin. "He 'll know by what

she says in it that she really was pleased, for all she acted so queer,"

she said to herself as she enclosed it in one to Jack, in which she took

special pains to inform him that he had never told her whether he had

given those verses Rose sang to Miss Seaton.

"I told Rose I was sure they were for Miss Seaton, and Rose said she did

n't mind copying them herself for you if you wished them. Do tell me if

you gave them to her. I told Rose your valentine to her last year was a

rose-heart. I hope you don't mind my telling, for, you know, Jack, all

our family think you are engaged to her--"

Jack dropped Hazel's letter at this point and gave a decided groan.

"What luck!" he muttered. "It's all up with the whole thing now. No

girl of any spirit would stand all that--and Hazel meddling so! thinking

she is doing her level best to explain matters;--What an ass I was to

send that flower-valentine to Maude--and she thinks I gave her those

verses! and there 's this Ford skulking round and having it all his own

way; he 's just the kind a girl would care for--those musical cranks are

no end sentimental. Hang it all!"

Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets, took several decided turns

up and down the room, squared his shoulders, pursed his lips, cut his

two classroom lectures, ordered up Little Shaver and rode out to the

polo grounds, where, finding himself alone, he put the little fellow

through his best paces, ignoring the fact that snow and ice wore on the

pony's nerves--and had a game out to himself.

When just two months had passed, he received a note from Rose, his

first, and it was accorded the reception due to first notes in

particular. After this, Jack developed certain wiles of diplomacy, he

had thus far, in his various experiences, held in abeyance. He wrote

sympathetic notes to Mrs. Blossom; commissioned Chi to find him another

polo pony--Morgan, if possible--among the Green Hills; sent March a set

of illustrated books on architecture, and complained to Doctor Heath of

a pain that racked his chest; at which the Doctor's eyes twinkled. He

said he would examine him later, but he was convinced it was heart

trouble, the symptoms were apt to mislead and confuse. He added

gravely: "Too much hard polo riding, Jack; get away into the

country--mountains if you can, and you 'll recuperate fast enough. I

'll make an examination in the fall."

Jack obeyed to the letter, and what a month of September that was!

There were glorious rides with Rose along the beautiful river valley and

over the mountain roads. There were delightful evenings at the Fords',

and silent, beatific walks with Rose homewards beneath the harvest moon.

There were morning rambles with Rose up over the pastures and deep into

the woodlands for late ferns and hooded gentians. There were adorable

hours of doing nothing but adore, while Rose was busy about her work,

setting the table for tea (Jack paid his board at the inn, but he lived

at the Blossoms'), or laying the cloth for dinner, or on Saturday

morning even making rolls for the tea to which the whole party at the

inn were invited.

Chi was in his glory. Little Shaver came trotting regularly every day

up through the woods'-road, and whinnied "Good-morning" first to Fleet,

then to Chi. There were general coaching-parties to Woodstock and

Brandon, in which Mrs. Blossom was guest, and a grand tea at the Fords'

for all the guests, with a musicale for a finish, and an informal dance

in the Blossoms' barn to which all the Lost Nation were invited.

They accepted, one and all. Captain Spillkins was in his element, so he

said. He and Mrs. Fenlick danced a two-step in a manner to win the

commendation of the entire assembly. Miss Elvira and Miss Melissa went

through the square dance escorted by Jack and Uncle Jo. There were

round dances and contra dances. Uncle Israel contributed an "1812" jig,

and Mr. Clyde passed round the hat for his sole benefit. There were

waltzes for those who could waltz, and polkas for those who could polka,

and schottische and minuet. "There never was such a dance since before

the Deluge!" declared Mrs. Fenlick, when Captain Spillkins escorted her

to a seat on a sap-bucket; and then they all went at it again in a grand

finale, the Virginia Reel--Chi and Hazel, Mr. Clyde and Aunt Tryphosa

for head and foot couple; Maria-Ann with Jack; Alan Ford with Mrs.

Fenlick; the Colonel with Mrs. Blossom whom he admired greatly; March

and Miss Alton--such a double row of them!

Poor Reub sat in one of the empty stalls and watched the fun with slow,

half-understanding smile, and Ruth Ford reclined in a rocking-chair in

the corner, and with merry laughter and sparkling wit soothed the dull

ache in her heart that the knowledge that she was henceforth to be a

"Shut-out" from all that life had at first given her.

The next day after the dance there was a grand dinner given at the inn

by the Newport party to all the Lost Nation; and, later on, private

entertainments for Mr. and Mrs. Blossom and the Fords. At last, when

the first maple leaves crimsoned and the frost silvered the mullein

leaves in the pasture, Hazel, her father, Jack, and their friends bade

good-bye to the Mountain and all its joys of acquaintance, and in some

cases, friendship, and turned their faces, not without reluctance on the

part of some of them, city-wards.

"Oh, mother! has n't it been too beautiful for anything?" exclaimed

Rose, turning to her mother, as the last of the riding-party waved his

cap in farewell to those on the porch. It was Jack.

"We have had a happy summer, Rose;--I think they have, too," her mother

added, shading her eyes from the setting sun. "You 'll be very lonely

here at home, dear, after all this gayety."

"Lonely! Why, Martie Blossom, how can you think of such a thing!" said

Rose, still scanning the lower road for a last glimpse of the riders.

"See, see, they are all waving their handkerchiefs!"

The whole Blossom family laid hold of what they could--napkins, towels,

a table-cloth, and Chi seized his shirt, which he had hung on the line

to dry, and waved frantically until the party was no longer to be seen.

"Lonesome! the idea," said Rose, turning to her mother. "Think of all

the studying March and I have to do, and the French evenings, and the

Fords, and Thanksgiving coming, and then Christmas, and then--

"Then," said Mrs. Blossom, interrupting her, "my Rose takes a little

plunge into that whirlpool of gay life and fashion in New York."

"Yes," said Rose, with a happy smile that spoke volumes to her mother,

"I do look forward to it, Martie dear; but the whirlpool shan't suck me

under; I shall come home just your old-fashioned Rose-pose."

"I hope so, dear," said her mother, a little wistfully, and called the

children in to supper.

Indeed, they found little opportunity to miss their friends in the

ensuing months; for there came kindly letters, and friendly letters, and

something very nearly resembling love-letters. The mail brought papers,

books, and magazines. The express brought to Barton's River many a box

of lovely flowers. At Christmas came more than one remembrance for them

all, including Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, and four special invitations

for Rose to visit in New York directly after the holidays. One was from

Mr. Clyde--with an urgent request from Hazel to say "yes" by telegram

and "relieve her misery," so she put it--; one from Mrs. Heath; one from

Aunt Carrie, and a gushingly cordial one from Mrs. Fenlick! Each

claimed her for a month. But Mrs. Blossom shook her head.

"No, no, dear, you would wear your welcome out. I shall need you at

home by the last of February. I think you can accept only Mr. Clyde's

and Mrs. Heath's. You can accept social courtesies from the other four

of course."

"But, mother," Rose's face was the image of despair, "what shall I wear?

Just hear what Hazel has planned--'lunches, dinners, theatre,

concerts'--why! I can never go to all those things."

"I 've thought of that, too, Rose; but the little colt shan't go bare

this time--it will take some courage, dear, to wear the same things over

and over again, not to mention the puzzle of planning for it all."

"I 'm not 'Molly Stark' for nothing," laughed Rose, and the two women

began to plan for what Chi called "Rose's campaign." The pretty white

serge was lengthened and made over to appear more grown up, as Cherry

put it; the dark blue wash silk--Hazel's gift that had never been made

up--was fashioned into a "swell affair"--so March pronounced it; the

old-fashioned blue lawn was cut over into a dainty full waist, and then

Mrs. Blossom added her surprise--a delicate blue taffeta skirt to match

the waist. Rose went into raptures over it, and sought the best bedroom

regularly three times a day to feast her girl's eyes on the silken

loveliness as it lay in state on the best bed. A new dark blue serge

was to do duty for a street suit, with a plain felt hat. For best,

there was a turban made of dark blue velvet to match the wash silk.

"And four pairs of gloves! Martie Blossom, you are an angel, to give me

these that Hazel gave you a year ago last Christmas. Have you been

keeping them for me all this time?"

Mrs. Blossom smiled assent, and was rewarded by a squeeze that

interfered decidedly with her breathing apparatus.

The night before she left, Rose "costumed" for the benefit of the entire

family, who were assembled in the long-room, together with Aunt Tryphosa

and Maria-Ann, to see Rose in her finery.

"I 'll make it a climax," said Rose, laughing half-shamefacedly, as she

slipped upstairs to change her street suit, which had brought forth

admiring "Ohs" and "Ahs" from the children, and favorable criticism from

their elders.

Down she came in her white serge; there were nods and smiles of

approval.

Her reappearance in the wash silk and velvet turban was the signal, on

March's part, for a burst of applause, and cries of admiration from Budd

and Cherry.

"Grand transformation scene!" cried March, as Rose tripped down in the

blue taffeta, looking like a very rose herself.

"Beats all!" murmured Chi, who had become nearly speechless with

admiration, "what clothes 'll do for a good-lookin' woman; but for a

ravin', tearin' beauty like our Rose--George Washin'ton! She 'll open

those high-flyers' eyes."

"Cinderella--fifth act!" shouted March as, after a prolonged wait, he

heard Rose on the stairs.

But was it Rose?

The beautiful India mull of her mother's had been transformed into a

ball-dress. She had drawn on her long white gloves and tucked into the

simple, ribbon belt three of Jack's Christmas roses.

Maria-Ann gasped, and that broke the, to Rose, somewhat embarrassing

silence.

Marshalled by March, the whole family formed a procession, and Rose was

reviewed:--back breadths, front breadths, flounces, waist, gloves; all

were thoroughly inspected.

Chi touched the lower flounce of the half-train gingerly with one

work-roughened forefinger, then, straightening himself suddenly, sighed

heavily.

"What's the matter, Chi?" Rose laughed at the dubious expression on his

face.

"You ain't Rose Blossom nor Molly Stark any longer. You 're just a

regular Empress of Rooshy, 'n' you don't look like that girl I took

along to sell berries down to Barton's last summer, 'n' I wish you--" he

hesitated.

"What, Chi?" said Rose.

"I wish you was back again, old sunbonnet, old calico gown, patched

shoes 'n' all--"

"Oh, Chi, no, you don't," said Rose, laughing merrily; "you forget, I

shall probably see Miss Seaton down there in New York, and you wouldn't

want me to appear a second time before her in that old rig."

"You 're right, Rose-pose," replied Chi, his expression brightening

visibly. He drew close to her and whispered audibly:

"Just sail right in, Molly Stark, 'n' cut that sassy girl out right 'n'

left. She never could hold a candle to you."

"Sh-sh, Chi!" said Mrs. Blossom, meaningly, but with a twinkle in her

eye.

"I mean just what I say, Mis' Blossom. Folks can't come up here on this

Mountain to sass us to our faces, 'n' she _did_;--I've stayed riled ever

since, 'n' I hope she'll get sassed back in a way that 'll make her hair

stand just a little more on end than it did, when she gave that mean,

snickerin' giggle--"

"Chi, Chi," Mrs. Blossom interrupted him in an appeasing tone.

"You need n't Chi me, Mis' Blossom. These children are just as near to

me as if they was my own, 'n' when they 're sassed, I 'm sassed too; 'n'

my great-grandfather fought over at Ticonderogy, 'n' I ain't bound to

take any more sass than he took--"

By this time the whole family were in fits of laughter over Chi's

persistent use of so much "sass," and, at last, Chi himself joined in

the laugh at his excessive heat:--

"Over nothin' but a wind-bag, after all," he concluded.

On the following morning, Mr. Blossom, Chi, March and Budd drove down to

Barton's to see Rose off. The old apple-green pung had been fitted with

two broad boards for seats, and covered with buffalo robes and horse

blankets. There was just room in the tail for Rose's old-fashioned

trunk and a small strapped box, which held two dozen of new-laid eggs,

six small, round cheeses, and a wreath of ground hemlock and

bitter-sweet--a neighborly gift from Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann to

Hazel and Mr. Clyde.

As the train moved away from the station, Chi watched it with brimming

eyes.

"She'll never come back the same Rose-pose, livin' among all those

high-flyers--never," he muttered to himself; but aloud he remarked, with

forced cheerfulness, turning to Mr. Blossom while he dashed the blinding

drops from his eyes with the back of his hand:

"Looks mighty like a thaw, Ben; kind of wets down, don't it?"

"Yes, Chi," said Mr. Blossom, busy with conquering his own heartache,

"we 'd better be getting on home;" and the masculine contingent of the

Blossom household climbed into the pung and took their way homeward in

silence.

But what a reception that was for the transplanted Rose!

Mr. Clyde met her at the Grand Central Station, and Rose felt how

welcome she was just by the hand-clasp, and his first words:

"We have you at last, Rose; I would n't let Hazel come because I thought

the train might be late, and there's a cold rain falling. Martin, take

this box--"

"Oh, no; I must carry that myself," laughed Rose, looking up at the

liveried footman with something like awe. "I promised Aunt Tryphosa and

Maria-Ann I would n't let any one take them till they were safe in the

house; thank you," she bowed courteously to Martin, who confided to the

coachman so soon as they were on the box: "Hi 'ave n't seen nothink so

'ansome since Hi 've bean in the States."

As the brougham whirled into the Avenue, and the electric lights shone

full into the carriage, Rose could see the luxuriously upholstered

interior, and a sudden thought of the old apple-green pung and the

buffalo robes dimmed her eyes. But it was only for a moment; Mr. Clyde

was telling her of Hazel's impatience, and how the coachman had had

special orders from her to hurry up so soon as he should be on the

Avenue, and he had hardly finished before the coachman drew rein,

slackening his rapid pace as he turned a corner, Martin was opening the

door, and Hazel's voice was calling from a wide house entrance flooded

with soft light:

"Oh, Rose, my Rose! Is it really you, at last?"

"And this, I am sure, is Wilkins," said Rose, when finally Hazel set her

arms free. "We 've heard so much of you, that I feel as if I had known

you a long time." Rose held out her hand with such sincere cordiality

that Wilkins' speech was suddenly reduced to pantomime, and he could

only extend his other hand rather helplessly towards the box that Rose

still carried. But Rose refused to yield it up.

"Here, Hazel, I promised Maria-Ann and Aunt Tryphosa I would n't give it

into any hands but yours. Oh! be careful--they 're eggs!"

"Eggs!" repeated Hazel, laughing. "Here, Wilkins, unstrap it for me,

quick--Oh, papa, look!" She held out the box to Mr. Clyde, and,

somehow, John Curtis Clyde for a moment thought with Chi, that there was

going to be a "thaw." Each egg was rolled in white cotton batting and

wrapped in pink tissue paper. The six little cheeses were enclosed in

tin-foil, and cheeses and eggs were embedded in the Christmas wreath.

On a piece of pasteboard was written in unsteady characters:

To Mr. John Curtis Clyde of New York City, with the season's

compliments.

MOUNT HUNGER, VERMONT, January 6th, 1898.

"And you 've had such lovely flowers come for you, five boxes of them,

Rose, and piles of invitations. I 'm sure you 're engaged up to Ash

Wednesday."

"Come, Chatterbox," said her father, smiling at her volubility, "Rose

has just time to dress for dinner; you know Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo are

coming to-night."

"Oh, I forgot all about them; you 'll have to hurry, Rose. Wilkins,

bring up the flowers. Come on," Hazel ran up the broad flight of

stairs, carpeted with velvety crimson, to the first landing, from which,

through a lofty arch in the hall, Rose caught a glimpse of softly

lighted rooms, the walls enriched with engravings and etchings, with

here and there a landscape or marine in watercolors. Rose drew a long

breath. This, then, was what Chi meant when he said "Hazel was rich as

Croesus."

"But, Hazel, my trunk has n't come," said Rose, as she followed her

hostess into the spacious bedroom, which was separated from Hazel's only

by a dressing-room.

"It 'll be here in a few minutes; papa has a special man, who always

delivers them almost as soon as we get here."

Sure enough, the trunk came in time; and Rose, as she unpacked, finding

evidences of the loving mother-care in every fold, cried within her

heart, looking about at the exquisite appointments of her room and

dressing-room:

"Martie, Martie, what would all this be without you!--Oh, I know now,

what dear old Chi meant when he said Hazel was poor where we are

rich--only a housekeeper to see to all Hazel's things--"

"Rose, what flowers are you going to wear?" called Hazel from her room.

"I have n't had time to look," Rose called back, surveying her white

serge with great satisfaction in the pier-glass.

"Do look, then, and see who they 're from."

"Oh, Hazel, do come and see. How kind everybody has been! Here are

cards from Mrs. Heath and Doctor Heath, and your Aunt Carrie, and Mr.

Sherrill, and Mrs. Fenlick, and even that Mr. Grayson who was up at our

house to tea a year ago!"

"They are lovely. Whose are you going to wear?"

"I 'll make up a bunch of one or two from each, that will show my

appreciation of all their favors."

Hazel looked slightly crestfallen. "I hoped you 'd wear Jack's--they

're the loveliest with white--" she lifted the white lilacs--"and they

're so rare just now. I heard Aunt Carrie say that one of the girls had

put off her wedding for six weeks, just because she couldn't have white

lilacs for it."

"They 'll last with care three days surely, and I can wear them

to-morrow evening," replied Rose, bending to inhale their delicate

fragrance.

"So you can, for papa is going to give a dinner for you to-morrow night,

and afterwards, he has promised to take you to a dance at Mrs.

Pearsell's. I can't go, you know, for I 'm not grown up; but you can

tell me all about it. We 're going to have lots of fun this week, for

school does not begin for several days. Come."

Together they went down to the drawing-room, and Wilkins announced that

dinner was served.

After it was over he sought Minna-Lu in her own domains, and gave vent

to his long pent emotions.

"Minna-Lu," he whispered, mysteriously, "dere 's an out an' out angel

ben hubberin' 'bout de table--"

"Fo' de Lawd!" Minna-Lu turned upon him fiercely, for she was

superstitious to the very marrow. "Wa' fo' yo' come hyar, skeerin' de

bref out a mah bones wif yo' sp'r'ts! Yo' go long home wha' yo'

b'long."

But Wilkins was not to be repulsed in this manner. "Nebber see sech

ha'r, an' jes' lillum-white--"

"Oh, go 'long! Lillum-white ha'r," interrupted Minna-Lu, with scathing

sarcasm. "Huccome yo' know de angels hab lillum-white ha'r?"

"Huccome I know?--'Case I see de shine, jes' lake yo' see in de

dror'n-room."

"De shine ob lillum-white ha'r in de dror'n-room! 'Pears lake yo' head

struck ile--"

"Yo' hol' yo' tongue, Minna-Lu," retorted Wilkins, irritated at the

continued evidence of disbelief on the part of his coadjutor. "Jes' yo'

hide back ob de dumb-waitah to-morrah ebenin' when de dessert comes on,

an' see fo' yo'se'f!" He departed in high dudgeon, and Minna-Lu gurgled

long and low to herself, but, in her turn, was interrupted by the sound

of tripping steps on the basement flight.

Minna-Lu hastily put her fat hands up to her turban to see if it were on

straight, and smoothed her apron, muttering:

"Clar to goodness, ef it ain't jes' mah luck to hab little Missus come

into dis yere hen-roost?" she rapidly surveyed her immaculate kitchen

with anxious eye.

"Minna-Lu, this is my friend, Miss Rose; the one who did up those lovely

preserves, and here are some new-laid eggs and some cheeses that Miss

Maria-Ann Simmons--you know I told you all about her and the hens--has

sent papa."

Minna-Lu gazed at Rose in open admiration. The faithful colored

retainer had her thorny side and her blossom one.

Rose put out her hand, and Minna-Lu took it in both hers. "I 'se mighty

glad yo' come, Miss Rose, dere ain't no strawberry-blossom nor no

rose-blossom can hol' a can'le to yo' own honey se'f. Dese yere cheeses

is prime." She examined one with the nose of a connoisseur. "Jes' fill

de bill wif de salad-chips to-morrah." She stemmed her fists on her

hips, and her mellow, contented gurgle caused Rose and Hazel to laugh,

too.

"What is it, Minna-Lu?" said Hazel, reading the signs of the times.

"Dat Wilkins done tol' me to git back ob de dumb-waitah, to-morrah

ebenin' to see Missy Rose, but I 'se gwine to ask rale straight to jes'

see her 'fo' de comp'ny come."

"Of course you may. Come up to my room about seven, and we 'll be

ready."

"Fo' sho'," said Minna-Lu, with beaming face.

"Good-night," said Rose, beaming, too, for she found the black faces and

ways irresistibly amusing.

"De Lawd bress yo' lily face, Missy Rose."

When the two girls were alone, at last, in Hazel's room, there was no

thought of bed for an hour. There were numberless questions on Hazel's

part concerning all the dear Mount Hunger people, and speechless

astonishment on Rose's at the number of invitations that were waiting

for her. They chatted all the time they were undressing, calling back

and forth to each other as one thing or another suggested itself.

Finally, Hazel made her appearance in Rose's room. She went up to her,

put her arms about her neck, and, looking up with eyes full of loving

trust, said:

"Rose-pose, won't you come into my room and say 'Our Father' with me as

Mother Blossom used to do on Mount Hunger? You can't think how I miss

it."

"Why, Hazel darling, of course I will--then I shan't feel homesick

missing that precious Martie."

She followed Hazel into her room, and after she was in bed, Rose knelt

by her side, and together they said, "Our Father." Then Rose bent over

to receive Hazel's loving kiss and whispered, "Oh, Rose, I 'm so happy

to have you here," and whispered back, "And I 'm so happy to be with

you, Hazel--good-night."

"Good-night."

Rose went back to her room. At last she was alone. She drew one of the

easy-chairs up before the wood-fire that was dying down, put her bare

feet on the warm fender, and, for a while, dreamed waking dreams. It

was all so strange. The cathedral clock on the mantel chimed twelve.

They were all asleep in the farmhouse on the Mountain--it was time for

her to be. She rose, tiptoed softly into the dressing-room, took from

the bowl the spray of white lilacs she had worn with the other flowers

that evening, shook off the water, and drew the stem through a

buttonhole in the yoke of her simple night-dress. She tiptoed back

again into her room, looked up at the dainty, canopied bed, then laid

herself down within it, and, almost immediately, fell asleep--with her

hand resting on the white fragrance that lay upon her heart.