BETTY’S HAPPY YEAR

I

A THANKSGIVING GUEST

“What a gorgeous day for a sleigh-ride! Did you ever see such sunny,

twinkling snow, and such crisp, crackly air? It fairly snaps off as you

breathe it!”

Betty McGuire stood on the steps of the veranda as she spoke. Her mother,

in the doorway, was smiling down at her, and her pony, Dixie, was

jingling his bells and pawing at the snow and ice in the driveway below.

It was the first trial of the pretty new cutter, and the joyous

excitement of the occasion made Betty’s cheeks as red as her scarlet

tam-o’-shanter cap, or her red cloth coat with its high fur collar. Betty

drew on her driving-gloves, still talking to her mother.

“Isn’t it a darling sleigh, Mother? Did you ever see such a pretty one?

And Dixie is so proud of it.”

“It’s a beauty, Betty. I know you’ll enjoy it. Are you taking Tilly for a

ride?”

“No; I’m going for May Fordham to-day. We’re planning for the party, you

know. I’ll take Tilly some other day.”

“Very well; be home by sundown, won’t you?”

“Yes; or very soon after. All right, Pete.”

The face of the big Irishman beamed with pleasure as he assisted Betty

into the new sleigh and tucked the fur robe round her.

“’Tis a foine turnout, Miss Betty,” he said; “an’ mosht becomin’ to

Dixie,—the proud little baste!”

“He is proud of it,” agreed Betty, as she gathered up the lines. “He’s

just vain enough to love those silver bells jingling about him. Good-by,

Mother.”

“Good-by, darling,” said Mrs. McGuire, and after watching Betty disappear

down the winding drive, she returned to the house.

Denniston Hall, though a beautiful summer place, was equally attractive

in winter. Then the wide front veranda was inclosed with glass, and,

heated by an arrangement of steam-pipes, made a delightful sun-parlor.

The house was of the old-fashioned type that has two front doors opening

into two large halls.

Large parlors between these halls and a wing on either side, provided

numerous rooms, and several of these boasted wide fireplaces where

crackling logs blazed gaily or smoldered comfortably, as occasion

required.

The family at Denniston was a rather unusual one. The place belonged to

Betty, the fifteen-year-old daughter, who had recently inherited a large

fortune from her Grandfather McGuire.

She had supposed herself an orphan, but after buying her home and

establishing herself there, she had discovered that her mother was

living, and, to their mutual delight, they were at last brought together.

Mrs. McGuire had come to Denniston to live with Betty and was more than

willing to accept also Betty’s adopted brother, Jack, and the

three-year-old baby, Polly.

And now, though Mrs. McGuire was nominally head of the household, yet, as

the details of housekeeping were looked after by capable Mrs. Kinsey,

Betty’s mother had little to do except to enjoy the reunion with her

long-lost child. As for Betty, now that her mother was restored to her,

there seemed to be no flaw in her happiness, and the merry girl danced

gaily through life, like a ray of glad sunshine.

Unused to advice or restraint of any sort, she could not at once accustom

herself to asking her mother’s permission for anything, but Mrs. McGuire

appreciated the unusual circumstances, and wisely concluded to bide her

time, and establish their rightful relationship by degrees.

Moreover, she was so happy herself, at the reunion with her idolized

child, whom she had lost as a tiny baby, that she had no wish to dictate

or to interfere with Betty’s plans. Mrs. McGuire was a gentle little

lady, with golden hair and blue eyes, and her amiability made her beloved

by all the servants and adored by the three children. She had fitted into

her niche at Denniston without disturbing any one else, and had supplied

the one want of Betty’s life, that of a real mother, who would love her

with real mother-love. And happy in the knowledge and possession of this

love, Betty felt that life had no further joys to offer her; and she was

as contented as any girl of fifteen could wish to be.

On this particular sunny afternoon, as she went skimming along the white

roads in her new sleigh, her mind was divided between the actual delights

of the bracing winter atmosphere and gay jingle of her new sleigh-bells,

and her busy imagination which was looking forward to some fine plans

that she and May Fordham had in prospect. She drove in through the open

gates of a large, well-kept place, and as she neared the house, May, who

had watched from the window, came out, all ready for the sleigh-ride.

“Oh, Betty, what a beautiful cutter!” she exclaimed, as Dixie paused and

stood in prancing attitude to be praised. “And it suits Dix perfectly,

doesn’t it?” she added, patting the pony, who showed by his actions that

he fully appreciated the applause he was getting.

May jumped in beside Betty, and in another moment, away they went, flying

along the firm, well-packed road. Betty turned away from the village, and

toward the open country, where they might dash over long stretches

without meeting much traffic, and thus have a better chance to chatter.

“Thanksgiving’s only just a week from to-day,” said May; “will there be

time, Betty, to get everything ready?”

“Well, we’ll have to fly round, of course. But if we invite everybody

to-day, they can all get to work on their costumes at once. And a week’s

time enough, I should think. I hope Tilly will like the idea, but I don’t

know about her,—she’s such a fuss.”

“We’ll soon know,” laughed May, as Dixie was gently drawn to a standstill

in front of Tilly Fenn’s home.

The well-trained little pony always stood without being tied, so the

girls jumped from the sleigh and ran up the steps, moderating their gay

laughter as they decorously pushed the door-bell.

“Come up to my room, girls,” called Tilly, over the banister, as they

were admitted.

So in a few moments the three chums were busily talking of Betty’s

project.

“A real old-fashioned Thanksgiving party,” said Betty, enthusiastically;

“everything Puritan, you know. We’ll all wear plain gray dresses and

white fichus and aprons, and dear little Puritan caps, and the boys must

rig up the right kind of clothes. What did men wear then?”

“Oh, knee-breeches and long stockings, and bunches of bows at the knees,”

said May, who was a history lover.

“Yes, and broad white collars, and sort of Norfolky jackets, and

broad-brimmed hats,” added Tilly.

“With a feather?” suggested Betty.

“Oh, no; not a feather,—I think,—that isn’t Puritanish. But a buckle,—I

think,—well, anyway we can look up pictures, and see.”

“Yes,” agreed Betty, “and I’ll fix up Jack’s clothes. Mother’ll help me.

Then we’ll have the feast of the real old-timey kind. Baked beans, you

know,—and doughnuts, and cider,—”

“And pumpkin-pies,—”

“And nuts and gingerbread;—it will be lovely!”

“Well, I like it,” said Tilly, a little hesitatingly, “but I don’t know

about a dress. Aunt won’t help me,—I’m sure;—and I simply can’t make one

myself.”

“I’ll help you,” said Betty, “and I’m sure Mother’ll make you one, if you

can’t get one any other way. But perhaps you could borrow one. The old

Adams ladies have lots of old-fashioned clothes.”

“Yes, maybe I could,” and Tilly’s eyes brightened at this way out of her

difficulty. “And I can make brown bread for the feast. That’s

old-fashioned.”

“Oh, I’ll provide all the supper,” said Betty, “because it’s my party.

And afterward, we’ll have old-fashioned dances, with a fiddler to call

out the figures.”

“I don’t believe the Puritans danced,” said Tilly.

Betty’s face fell. “Well, I don’t care to keep it too Puritanic,” she

said. “We’ll just have it as old-fashioned as we like, and have the rest

any way we want it.”

“Yes, that’s the best,” said May.

“But your table must look old-fashioned,—with candles, you know; Aunt’ll

lend you her old brass candlesticks if you want them.”

“Yes, I do; and I know where I can borrow some old blue dishes and pewter

platters.”

“Oh, it will be lovely fun!” sighed May. “How many are you going to ask?”

“About twenty. I don’t believe Jack will care much about dressing up—he

hates it; but I’ll coax him to. Well, come on, May, we must go and invite

the others. Don’t worry about your dress, Tilly. If you can’t borrow one,

Mother and I will fit you out.”

“Thanks. You’re a dear, Betty; I wish you’d let me make brown bread for

you, though. I can make it to perfection.”

“I’ll tell you what, Betty,” said May, “why don’t you have a sort of

‘Harvest Home.’ They’re lovely and picturesque. You make a great big pile

of things like cabbages and pumpkins and potatoes, and decorate it with

corn husks and things; and then, don’t you see, we can all bring

something for it, and afterward we can give the eatables to the poor

people in ‘The Hollow.’ And Tilly can donate some brown bread to them,

too.”

“That’s a fine idea,” said Betty; “we’ll ask everybody to bring something

for the Harvest Home, and then the next day we can all make the round of

The Hollow in the big box-sleigh.”

“Yes, I know some families down there who would be more than glad to get

things like that,” said Tilly.

“And well may anybody be glad to get the good bread you make,” said

Betty. “I’m coming to-morrow, Tilly, to take you for a ride in my new

sleigh, and then we can talk about your dress for the party and other

things to be done.”

Gay good-bys were said, and the two girls went jingling away in the

sleigh again.

Tilly was not so happily situated in life as Betty and May. She lived

with an aunt who, though she took good care of her, was not very

sympathetic in the matter of young people’s pleasures, and taught Tilly

to sew and to make bread, because she considered such things the

important part of a girl’s education. And she was right enough in that,

if she had only realized that a girl of fifteen wants and needs her share

of fun as well as of useful knowledge.

Moreover, Mrs. Fenn was not wealthy, and though she had had sufficient

means for comfort, she was economical by nature, and would have

considered a purchase of a dress for Tilly to wear just for one occasion,

a reckless extravagance.

But in spite of her aunt’s restrictions, Tilly was a very gay and merry

girl, and was always one of the half dozen that composed Betty’s little

clan of friends.

“I don’t believe the boys will dress up,” said May, as they drove back to

the village to deliver more invitations.

“Then they can stay home,” said Betty, promptly. “It’s going to be a

lovely party if everybody takes interest in it, and those who don’t take

an interest aren’t wanted. Now, we’ll go to Agnes Graham’s, and see what

she and Stub say about it.”

Agnes said yes at once, and declared that she could fix up a dress as

easily as anything. “Come in, Stub,” she called to her brother who was in

the next room; “somebody wants to see you.”

Stub Graham was so nicknamed because he was the thinnest and scrawniest

boy you ever saw. He was very tall for his age, and the name of Stub or

Stubby was so comical that it pleased his friends to use it.

“Hello, girls,” he called, as his smiling face appeared in the doorway.

“What, Betty, a party? Will I come? Well, I should say so! When is it to

be?”

Stub festooned his length along a sofa and gave a brotherly tweak to

Agnes’s long, thick pigtail.

“On Thanksgiving night,” said Betty, and then she told him what kind of a

party it was to be.

“Gay!” exclaimed Stub. “Of course I’ll get up a rig. Sweet little sister

will help me, and I’ll be a regular Miles Standish or somebody like that.

May I wear a cloak, I mean a golfcapey thing? I think they wore those in

Puritan days, with a dinky white collar, like Fauntleroy’s only without

lace on it.”

“Good for you, Stub!” cried Betty. “You have just the right ideas! Can’t

you help the other boys,—if they need help?”

“Sure! I’ll get them all together, and if they don’t learn quickly

enough, I’ll be a dressmaker to ’em. And I’ll help you fix your show,

Betty. You ought to have strings of red peppers and onions hung across

overhead.”

“Oh, do help me, Stub! Won’t you and Agnes come over in the morning, and

help me do those things? Oh, _won’t_ we have fun!”

After that it was easy. Very few of the girls they invited made any

objection to wearing the Puritan costume, and if the boys objected, as

some did, they were referred to Stub Graham, who soon changed their minds

for them.

“It’s going to be perfectly beautiful, Mother!” said Betty, as, after

dinner that evening, she sat on a low stool at her mother’s side.

This was Betty’s favorite position, for, though a big girl, she loved to

cuddle against her mother and caress her pretty hand, or play with the

laces and ribbons of her dainty gown. And now, in their beautiful

drawing-room at Denniston, they sat before the big open fire, while Betty

told about the party.

Jack, who lounged in a big chair on the other side of the fireplace, was

greatly interested. To Betty’s surprise he was entirely willing to wear a

Puritan costume, though he observed, incidentally, he’d rather dress as

an Indian, and Indians were quite as appropriate to the period as

Puritans.

“But they didn’t attend the Thanksgiving feasts,” said Betty; “they

lurked in the ambushes; so if you want to do that, all right.”

“Ho!” cried Jack, “I believe you think an ambush is a kind of a shrub!”

“It is, isn’t it, Mother?” asked Betty, turning her big dark eyes

confidingly to her mother’s loving face.

“No, my girlie, that’s one of your funny mistakes. But you’re right about

the Indians not joining with the Puritans at table; at least, they didn’t

often do so.”

Both Betty and Jack had been deprived of early education, and though they

were now studying very hard in a brave endeavor to “catch up” to other

children of their own age, they frequently made errors which were quite

funny enough to make any one smile.

So Jack good-naturedly explained to Betty about Indians in ambush, which

was a subject he had quite thoroughly studied in his history lessons.

“And if I can’t be an Indian,” he went on, “I’ll be a Puritan gentleman.

Grandma Jean will make my toggery; I’ll tell her just how, and I’ll make

you proud of me, Betty.”

Grandma Jean was Mrs. Kinsey, the housekeeper and general assistant to

the children, whenever they needed her capable aid.

“And what shall I wear, Mother?” asked Betty, draping the soft frills of

her mother’s trailing gown across her own slippered feet.

“I think you’ll have to be the ‘Puritan maiden, Priscilla,’ though you’re

far from the right type. Your dark curls, dancing eyes, and red cheeks

ought to be pale, fair hair in smooth bands, and a pale face with meek

eyes.”

“Ho!” laughed Jack, “you’re not very Puritanic, are you, Betty? But

you’ll look all right in a cap, I’m sure.”

“I think I’ll make you a dress of gray silk,” went on Mrs. McGuire; “with

a soft mull fichu crossed on your breast, and a starched cap, turned back

in Puritan fashion.”

“I like red,” observed Betty, looking down at her own red cashmere frock

with black velvet bows on it.

“But not for Puritan attire,” said her mother, smiling. “I’ll fix your

costume, Betty, and you must promise not to slip up-stairs and add a red

sash at the last minute.”

Betty’s fondness for bright colors, and especially red, was a household

word, and Mrs. McGuire fancied that the novelty of plain dove-gray and

white would not be unbecoming to rosy-cheeked Betty.

For the next few days nothing was talked of but the old-fashioned party.

Pete was consulted about the Harvest Home part of it, and he suggested

that an old flower stand which was out in the tool house should be

painted up, and put in one end of the dining-room to hold the donations

of fruits and vegetables.

Then, by adding a few vines and flowers, it could be made an attractive

decoration.

“Fine!” cried Betty. “That’ll be just the thing! We can put pumpkins and

cabbages down below, and apples and potatoes in the upper shelves, and

trail vines over them all.”

Ellen, the cook, was quite willing to make all sorts of goodies that were

deemed appropriate, and to the lists of baked beans and gingerbread, were

added such satisfactory dishes as roast turkey and pumpkin-pie.

But no ice-cream or dainty salads or bonbons were allowed, for Betty

wanted to keep the real atmosphere of a plain old-fashioned Puritan

Thanksgiving.

Preparations went busily on, until on Tuesday a letter came from

Grandfather Irving.

He was the father of Mrs. McGuire, and lived in Boston. Both Mr. and Mrs.

Irving had been invited long ago to spend Thanksgiving at Denniston, but

had declined because of another engagement.

Now, Mr. Irving wrote, the other engagement had been canceled, and they

were greatly pleased to say they could go to Denniston after all.

Moreover, he announced, they would bring with them a charming young lady

who was visiting them.

“She is an English girl,” Mr. Irving wrote, “Miss Evangeline Maxwell. As

she is sixteen years old, she will prove a delightful companion for

Betty, and I am glad to show her such an attractive portion of our

country, as I am sure Denniston must be. She has never visited America

before, and though she finds some of our ways strange, she tries to adapt

herself to them. We will arrive on Wednesday afternoon about four

o’clock.”

Betty read this letter with dismay. Mr. and Mrs. Irving were of an old

and aristocratic Boston family, and Betty rather stood in awe of them.

They had not yet been to Denniston, but Betty had made a brief visit to

their Boston home.

The somewhat oppressive grandeur of the great house on Commonwealth

Avenue made a strong impression on simple-minded Betty, and she had

determined that when Mr. and Mrs. Irving should visit her at Denniston

she would do all in her power to surround them with the careful formality

they seemed to enjoy.

So when she learned that on the very next day not only Mr. and Mrs.

Irving would arrive, but also a strange young lady from England, Betty

wished she had more time for preparation.

It was in vain that Mrs. McGuire told her that her grandparents were not

at all exacting.

“Why, Betty,” she said, “Mother and Father and I used to spend our

summers down in that old country house of the Rosses’, and do you suppose

there was much form or ceremony there?”

But Betty was not to be turned aside from her purpose.

“I’d be ashamed not to do the right honor by my grandfather and

grandmother,” she said. “And it’s not but what my home is good enough,

and my ways of living, but I must not have the foolish party I was going

to have. I must have a fine and bountiful Thanksgiving dinner, with soups

and fancy ice-creams and things with French names to ’em. I’d not set

before them the baked beans and pumpkin-pies, at all. And I’d not have a

rollickin’ crowd of boys and girls dressed up in the silly rags we’re

thinkin’ of!”

It was only when Betty grew very much excited that she neglected her

final g’s and _almost_ relapsed into her long-discarded Irish accent. But

she was so earnest in this matter, that she lost control of her tongue.

“An’ I’d think shame for the stylish English girl to see such cuttin’s

up, so I would! They’re all right for us Greenborough girls as likes ’em;

but the fine young lady shall find accommodations more to her taste, that

I’m bound!”

And so what did impulsive Betty do but jump into her little sleigh, and

fly round the village, recalling her invitations to a Puritan

Thanksgiving feast, and asking the young people to come instead to a

dance in the evening, and to wear their prettiest and most correct party

frocks. Then she consulted with her mother and Ellen and Mrs. Kinsey, and

among them they planned a dinner that would have pleased the most

fastidious diners-out in any city. Betty did not herself know the names

of the dishes she wanted served, but the services of a competent caterer

were to be assisted by the skilled work of the home servants, and Betty

felt that she had done the best she could to honor her relatives with a

Thanksgiving feast.

Mrs. McGuire tried to persuade her not to give up the Puritan party, but

Betty was firm.

“No,” she said, with snapping eyes; “I’ll not have the English young lady

making fun of our country games. I’ll give her as good as she has in her

own country, and I’ll do the best I can for my grandparents as well.”

“Well, I think it’s a shame!” declared Jack. “Here I’ve the loveliest

brown cloth rig you ever saw. Cloak and knickerbockers and buckled

slippers! Why, Betty, your grand Miss Maxwell would like me a heap better

in those togs than in my Tuxedo.”

Betty faltered for an instant, then said:

“Maybe she would, Jack; but the girls and boys haven’t all such fine

costumes. Some are just fixed up out of cheese-cloth and waterproofs. No,

sir, it isn’t right by quality people to give ’em the kitcheny things we

were going to have to eat at the feast, and if we leave out the

old-fashioned dinner, there’s no fun in the old-fashioned clothes.”

“All right,” said Jack, who always bowed to Betty’s commands and never

presumed to dictate.

And Betty was honest in her motives. It was not at all pride in her

handsome home and its beautiful appointments that influenced her; it was

the impulse to give of her very best to honor her dear grandparents and

their young guest, and it was a more severe disappointment than any one

knew, for her to give up the gay and jolly party she had planned for.

But Betty’s determination was of the immovable kind, and every plan for

the Puritan party was dropped, and every plan for the proper reception of

the guests was pushed forward; and so ably was all this done, that, on

Wednesday afternoon, the house was in readiness and the family, in

holiday attire, awaited their guests.

The Denniston carriage brought them from the station, and the reunion was

a most happy one.

Mr. and Mrs. Irving may have seemed a bit punctilious as to the formal

routine of their own house, but that in no way interfered with their

hearty expressions of pleasure at finding themselves under their

granddaughter’s roof. And they soon showed both by joyous words and

manner that they were genuinely glad to meet Jack and Baby Polly and

Grandma Kinsey.

Miss Maxwell was not quite as Betty had pictured her. She was quiet and

reserved, but she seemed shy rather than haughty.

Betty tried hard to draw her out, but the English girl replied in

monosyllables, and though most courteous and polite, was bafflingly

unresponsive to the cordial chatter of both Jack and Betty.

“Iceberg!” thought Jack, to himself; “I’ve a good notion to say Boo! and

see if she’d jump.”

But he didn’t, for Jack was always on his good behavior when Betty wanted

him to be.

Dinner passed off beautifully. Of course, this was not the grand

feast,—that was for to-morrow; but the well-cooked and well-served family

dinner was a credit to Betty’s household. The evening was a little stiff.

All sat primly on the brocaded chairs in the drawing-room and made polite

conversation; but there was a certain restraint, which, however, Betty

accepted as a necessary result of “having company.”

At last they all went to bed, and Betty lay awake, wondering whether it

could be her fault that Miss Maxwell didn’t seem to be enjoying herself.

“No,” said her mother, to whom Betty confided her anxiety in a little

bedtime chat. “No, dearie, it isn’t your fault, except that perhaps

you’re a little overanxious about it all. Perhaps if you’d take Miss

Maxwell a little more simply,—a little more as you take May Fordham or

Tilly Fenn,—”

“Oh, Mother, I couldn’t talk to Miss Maxwell as—as jokingly as I talk to

the other girls! Why, even her name is Evangeline!”

Mrs. McGuire smiled, as she kissed Betty good night. “It is an imposing

name,” she said, “but try not to be afraid of it.”

Next morning, Betty did try. She took Miss Maxwell for a sleigh-ride, but

they did not make much progress toward chumminess.

It was after luncheon, when the girls went up to Betty’s room for a

little chat, that Betty, more perplexed than ever, involuntarily blurted

out her anxiety.

“Are you like this at home?” she said, scarcely realizing that the

question was extremely personal. “Do you never chum with people?” Miss

Maxwell broke into a ringing laugh.

“I’m the chummiest thing in the world,” she said; “I’d love to be chums

with you, but I’m so—so afraid of you!”

“Afraid of _me_!” exclaimed Betty, opening her dark eyes wide in

astonishment. “Why, it’s scared to death I am of you!”

Then both girls went off into peals of laughter, for Betty’s quick wit

caught the real state of the case, and Evangeline, too, saw the truth.

“But I thought you so grand I must be extra polite,” said Betty, as they

became calm again.

“And I thought because you were the owner of this big house, I must

behave with great dignity! Please be chums. May I call you Betty?”

“I should hope so! I’m still too much afraid to say Evangeline, though.”

“Call me Van, then; lots of my friends do, and I like it.”

“I love it! It makes us friends at once. I think it was the ‘Evangeline’

part of you that scared me most. Why, when I heard that, I made the boys

and girls give up our baked beans dinner, and have lobster pâtés and

soufflée meringue.”

“A baked beans dinner! What do you mean? My! but that sounds jolly!”

So Betty told Evangeline of the Puritan party that had been set aside

because of the unexpected guests.

“Oh, what a shame!” cried Van. “I should have _loved_ it; can’t you get

it up again? I can scrabble up a frock, I’m sure! It would be so _much_

more fun than a grand dinner! oh, a thousand times more! Pumpkin-pie and

cider and candle-light! Oh! Oh! _Can’t_ you get it back?”

“I don’t see how I could, Van. It’s after two now, and dinner’s at seven.

But let’s try. Jack! Jack!”

Jack came at Betty’s call, and he was informed of the wonderful

discoveries the two girls had made concerning each other. He looked a

little disgusted at Betty’s lack of intuition in the matter, and said:

“Whew! what queer things girls are!” but he accepted the new situation,

and set his wits to work to help Betty out.

“Why, I should think we could manage it somehow,” he said. “Give Pete and

Ellen charge of the dinner part of it; send word to your gorgeous caterer

man that the dinner is postponed; and you, Betty, hop into the cutter and

fly round and tell those who haven’t any telephone, while I stay here and

call up all those who have. I’ll wager they’ll all come.”

Come they did, every one of them. They wore quaint Puritan costumes,

which were delightful to look at, if they were made of such humble

materials as cheese-cloth and silkoline. The boys were stunning in their

picturesque suits, and the dining-room was truly old-fashioned with its

onions and red peppers strung from the rafters. The homely viands were

eaten with decided enjoyment, and afterward even old Mr. Irving joined in

the Virginia Reel.

“I’m so glad,” said Betty, as she and Van went to their rooms after the

party was over, “that I learned of your ability to ‘chum,’ before it was

too late.”

“I’m glad, too,” said her English guest; “I wouldn’t have missed this

experience for anything. I shall always remember what is probably the

only Thanksgiving party I shall ever attend.”

II

A CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION

“Why, of course,” said Betty, “Christmas will be fun, whatever we do; but

I mean I’d like to do something specially exciting.”

“Such as?” demanded Jack, her adopted brother.

“Oh, I don’t know; I can’t think of anything. But we can have a party

here any time; I’d like to go somewhere else for the day—somewhere where

there’s something to see and do.”

“Restless little Betty,” said her mother, smiling. “Well, what do you

think of going to Lakewood for a few days?”

Betty looked dubious.

“Lakewood is lovely,” she said, “and I do want to go there again

sometime; but it doesn’t seem just right for Christmas. I want to do

something more—more—”

“Rackety,” suggested Jack.

“Yes, more gay and festive. I’d like to fly to the North Pole in an

air-ship.”

“With flags waving and bands playing?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t it be fun? What could we do, Mother?”

Her mother caressed Betty’s curly head and smiled indulgently at her, as

she said:

“Let me think a minute. There must be plenty of places if you’re bent on

going away somewhere. How about New York?”

“Oh, that’s just right!” cried Betty. “Let’s all go to New York to spend

Christmas, and see the beautiful things there. Oh, _wouldn’t_ we have

fun!”

Betty’s eyes fairly shone with delighted anticipation, and she threw a

sofa-pillow at Jack to stir him to greater enthusiasm.

“Wake up, Sleepyhead!” she cried. “Come on, let’s plan it all.”

“If you choose,” said her mother, “you might invite Agnes Graham and her

brother to go with you.”

“Oh, Mother! That will be grand! We’ll have the greatest time anybody

ever had!”

“Glorious!” said Jack, roused to enthusiasm at last. “It will be fine if

Jamie, or ‘Stub’ as we call him, is along. When shall we start?”

“Christmas is next week, Thursday, Betty,” said her mother. “Suppose we

start about Tuesday and come home on Friday?”

“Just right!” said Betty. “And stay at a fine hotel and go to the

shops—and the play? Oh, Mother, could we go to the play?”

“Yes, I think we’ll go to a matinée,” said her mother. “Do you think Mrs.

Graham would spare both her children on Christmas day?”

“I don’t know,” said Betty, a little doubtfully, “but I’ll ask her, and I

know Agnes and Stub will be crazy to go, so prob’ly we can coax her into

it.”

Wheedlesome Betty did “coax Mrs. Graham into it,” though that lady was

loath to be separated from her son and daughter at the Christmas season.

But the proposed trip was so tempting that permission was finally given,

and the four young people were radiant with happiness at the prospect.

“I shall take Lisette,” said Mrs. McGuire, speaking of her own maid, “and

if I get too tired to take you children around to all the places you want

to go to, she can go with you; she is thoroughly reliable and capable.”

So everything was arranged.

Tuesday proved to be a clear, cold day, and the party started off in high

spirits. Of course the Grahams were Betty’s guests for the whole trip.

Though Betty’s large fortune, inherited from her paternal grandfather,

was all her own, her mother had been appointed her guardian until she

should come of age; and while conscientious and prudent as to

expenditures, she also was determined that Betty should be allowed a

goodly number of the harmless pleasures that her large income justified

her having.

So when the New York trip was decided upon, Mrs. McGuire made every

effort to give the children the most enjoyable time possible.

And it was for this reason she proposed taking the two Grahams as guests.

Lisette had been with her mistress a long time, and was well versed in

looking after the luggage and all such details, so the party had nothing

to do but enjoy every moment. But, noticing a tendency on Jack’s part to

make himself useful and attentive, Betty’s mother wisely encouraged it,

knowing it was for the boy’s own good.

When they reached New York, the children, used to the quiet village life

of Greenborough, were fascinated and almost bewildered by the noise and

confusion. Jack had never been in New York before, and Betty only once,

but the bustle and rush of the city appealed to them both, and many

kindly people smiled as they noted the shining eyes and eager faces of

the four friends.

“A taxicab will not hold us all,” said Betty’s mother, “so, Lisette, you

take the young ladies and Master James in that one, and, Jack, will you

kindly call that electric hansom for you and me?”

Proud to be of service, Jack beckoned to the hansom driver, and soon the

two vehicles were whizzing away to the Plaza Hotel, where rooms had been

engaged for the party.

“Well, if this isn’t great!” said Stub Graham, who, though addressed by

Lisette as “Master James,” was “Stub” to the others. “I say, Betty,

you’re the brickiest sort of a brick to ask us to this splendiferous

treat!”

Betty smiled happily. She was looking out at the hurrying throngs of

people, the tall buildings, the gay shop-windows, and the jam of traffic,

with unspeakable delight in the novelty and excitement of the scene.

“And to think of three days of this gorgeousness! Three whole days!” said

Agnes, squeezing Betty’s arm in her glee.

They soon reached the hotel and found Betty’s mother and Jack already

there and waiting for them in the great entrance-hall.

Betty was a little awed by the splendor all about her, and Agnes and Stub

were frankly delighted, and looked around with undisguised interest.

But Jack, feeling a new responsibility as the escort of Mrs. McGuire,

had, quite unconsciously, acquired a manner as of one accustomed to

elaborate hotels and in no way impressed by them. He seemed quite at home

and he paid no attention to the surroundings, but in a simple,

unaffected, but perfectly correct fashion, he stood by Betty’s mother,

carrying her wrap gracefully over his arm, and holding himself in

readiness to obey her slightest wish.

“Where did Jack get that manner?” thought Betty, in amazement, and then

she realized that he was acquiring it merely by association with her

mother, and through a natural ability to adapt to himself her innate

refinement and gracious ways.

Betty was impulsive herself and now, though secretly moved to mirth by

Jack’s quiet elegance of manner, she resolved to try harder to improve

her own demeanor.

They all went at once to the rooms reserved for them, a beautiful

apartment overlooking Central Park.

It was quite a little home of itself, as there was a comfortable

sitting-room, attractive dining-room, and four bedrooms with

dressing-rooms and baths.

A large room with two beds was allotted to Betty and Agnes, and a similar

one across the entrance-hall was for the two boys. Lisette had a small

room opening from Mrs. McGuire’s own which adjoined the girls’ room. In a

short time bags and trunks were unpacked and a few individual belongings

scattered about, and the apartment seemed quite like a private home.

“Why do we have a dining-room?” asked Betty. “Can’t we eat in the big

restaurant down-stairs?”

“Sometimes, if you choose,” said her mother. “But I think our Christmas

dinner is a personal sort of feast, and I’d like it better here by

ourselves.”

“So should I,” agreed Jack. “Lots more fun, Betty.”

“But we’ll dine down-stairs to-night,” went on Mrs. McGuire; “so skip

away, girlies, and put on pretty frocks for the occasion.”

“Isn’t it larks!” said Betty, as she and Agnes went to their room to

dress. “Look at the beautiful Park! To-morrow we’ll take a ride in it. I

wish we could go to-night.”

“I don’t want to go to-night,” returned Agnes. “I’d rather stay here in

this beautiful hotel. There’s so much to see.”

“So there is. Hurry and dress. What are you going to wear?”

“I brought my blue voile,” said Agnes. “Mother thought that would be

right.”

“So it is; you look lovely in blue. I’m wearing this Dresden silk. They

go nicely together.”

Betty expeditiously arranged herself in the pretty light silk frock, and

the girls hooked each other up and tied each other’s hair-ribbons, so

that when Lisette came to offer her services, they were quite

unnecessary. The boys, too, had made good time with their dressing and

awaited the girls in the sitting-room.

“Oh, I wish we were going to dance!” said Agnes. “But I suppose we

couldn’t in a hotel.”

“We can dance up here after dinner,” said Jack. “Mother will play for us,

I am sure; for see, there’s a piano here!”

Though an adopted son, Mrs. McGuire had asked Jack to call her “Mother,”

and the boy had been only too glad to do so.

“Play for you? Of course I will,” said the lady herself, entering the

sitting-room. “And now we will go down to dinner. Lisette will stay here

in charge of everything.”

Jack sprang to open the door.

He held it open till the last of his party went through it, and then he

closed it and followed them. Somehow he was again in place to push the

elevator bell, and Mrs. McGuire looked at him with pride as she noticed

his quiet quickness and graceful ways.

Dinner was a delightful experience. Betty was a little bewildered by the

array of silver and glass, and Stub frankly inquired which fork to use

first, but Jack seemed to know by intuition.

“I’d like to live in a place like this always,” said Stub, as he ate his

ice-cream.

“So wouldn’t I,” said Jack. “A hotel is all very well for a few days, but

it isn’t a home.”

“That’s so,” agreed Agnes; “I suppose we’d get tired of it if we had it

all the time.”

“Well, it’s good enough for me,” returned Stub. “When I’m a man, I’m

going to live in one. I don’t see many boys here, though,” he added,

looking round.

“No,” said Mrs. McGuire, smiling; “most boys prefer a home.”

And then dinner was over, and they all strolled through the hotel

corridor and bought some flowers at the flower-stand, and some

illustrated papers at the news-stand, and then went up to their own

apartment.

Mrs. McGuire played the piano for them, and they danced a little, and

then, after some planning for the next day’s entertainment, they all went

to rest.

The next day was clear and pleasant, and when breakfast was served in

their own dining-room, all the party were ready and eagerly awaiting it.

“Then it is decided,” said Mrs. McGuire, “that we have our Christmas tree

this evening?”

“Oh, yes,” said Betty; “Christmas eve is the time for a tree, and

to-morrow, on Christmas day, we’ll have our feast, our real Christmas

dinner. Don’t you think so, Agnes?”

“Yes, indeed. And then the tree can stay here, can’t it, all day

to-morrow? I love to look at a Christmas tree.”

“So do I,” said Betty. “And as I never had one before, I’ll keep this one

as long as I can.”

It was less than a year since Betty had inherited her fortune, and before

that she had been a poor little waif, without money and without a home.

Her mother’s heart thrilled with gladness to think that Betty would have

a tree this year, and she resolved to do everything in her power to make

it a beautiful one.

Very soon after breakfast they started on a shopping expedition.

Two taxicabs were engaged, and the two girls, with Lisette, occupied one,

while Mrs. McGuire and the boys rode in the other.

Such fun as they had shopping! They fairly tumbled out of one shop into

another. The tree had been ordered from the hotel, but they bought

ornaments and candles and festoons of tinsel rope, and Mrs. McGuire

bought some other things secretly, as she wanted to have some surprises

for the young people. Then everybody bought presents for everybody else.

Betty found lovely things for the dear ones who had remained at

Denniston, and for the faithful servants there, as well.

She bought presents for her young friends in Greenborough, too, and all

these things they had expressed directly home. But the fun was in buying

presents for each other. These, of course, must be kept very secret, and

Betty would urge Jack in a whisper to take Agnes to another counter and

keep her there, while Stub helped Betty choose the present for his

sister.

And so with the whole four. Each must be safely removed from the scene of

action while his or her gift was purchased.

Betty’s mother cautioned the young folks that all gifts be simple and

inexpensive.

So Agnes bought for Betty a pretty little white fan that she might carry

to evening parties, and Betty bought for Agnes a slender gold bangle.

The boys bought knives for each other, which caused the girls much

amusement, for neither Jack nor Stub knew that each had bought a knife,

and the girls knew that the knives were exactly alike. Of course Betty

wished to give more valuable gifts to Jack and her mother, so, under the

guidance of Mrs. McGuire, she bought a beautiful little gold watch and

fob for Jack. It was a beauty, and Betty knew it would give the boy the

keenest pleasure.

For her mother she wanted to get something very nice indeed, but she had

no one with whom to consult. Jack and the Grahams were no better able

than herself to advise on such a subject, and Lisette could not be

expected to know much about it.

But, by a fortunate occurrence, the way was made easy. Betty and her

mother had gone to a great jewelry shop to buy Jack’s watch, and, after

the purchase was completed, they strolled about the shop looking at the

beautiful things displayed in the cases.

Suddenly Betty spied a lady whom she recognized. It was Mrs. Sanderson,

at whose house in New York Betty had first met Grandma Kinsey.

“Mother,” said Betty, speaking very quickly, “will you stay right here

and not look around for a few minutes?”

“I can’t let you go away from me alone, Betty,” said her mother, smiling

at the earnest little face.

“But, Mother, I’m only going to the very next counter, and there’s a lady

that I know.”

“Very well; I trust you not to go farther than the next counter; and I’ll

wait for you here.”

“Don’t turn round.”

“No, but don’t be too long.”

Betty hurried to Mrs. Sanderson, who was looking at jewels at the next

counter.

“How do you do, Mrs. Sanderson?” she said, speaking politely, but very

rapidly. “Do you remember me? I’m Betty McGuire, and I was at your house

last year with Mrs. Van Court, and I found Mrs. Kinsey there, and now she

lives with me.”

Mrs. Sanderson looked at the excited little girl, and at last she

remembered her.

“Oh, yes,” she said; “the little Irish girl who came into a fortune.”

“Yes’m,” said Betty. “That’s me, ma’am. And since then I’ve found my

mother, and she’s here with me. But I want to buy her a Christmas present

unbeknownst to her, and I thought you’d be willing to help me a bit if I

asked you.”

“What a strange child!” said Mrs. Sanderson, putting up her lorgnette to

look at Betty again.

“Yes, I am, ma’am. But will you help me buy the present, and then I’ll

introduce my mother; you’ll love her, ma’am, she’s that sweet!”

Always when Betty was embarrassed or excited she slipped back into her

almost forgotten brogue. And perhaps it was that and the persuasive

little voice that touched Mrs. Sanderson’s sympathies, for she said

kindly:

“Why, certainly, my dear; I’ll help you with pleasure. What do you want

to buy?”

“I want a small diamond brooch, please, and not too grand a one; my

mother doesn’t like things too grand. But a plainish one that she could

wear every day, and yet a good one at that.”

Mrs. Sanderson smiled, but she seemed to understand, and as the affable

salesman showed them various styles, she selected one that seemed to fit

accurately Betty’s requirements.

“This, I think, is lovely,” she said; “I’m sure your mother would like

it.”

“I’m sure, too,” said Betty, “and it’s the very one I like best myself.”

The purchase was completed, and, with the little box in her hand, Betty

took Mrs. Sanderson to the next counter to meet her mother. The ladies

seemed too pleased to know each other, and Betty was very happy.

Then good-by greetings were exchanged and, as it was luncheon-hour,

Betty’s mother marshaled her brood together.

“I think we won’t go back to the hotel for luncheon,” she said; “for it’s

after one o’clock, and we still have some errands to do. So we’ll go over

to the Waldorf and lunch there, which will give you hotel-loving children

another glimpse of a New York Christmas crowd.”

This plan was carried out, and the young quartet watched with sparkling

eyes the throngs of people on Christmas errands bent.

“Now to finish our errands, and then home,” said Mrs. McGuire, after

luncheon was over.

But when they reached the hotel again, about mid-afternoon, Betty didn’t

want to go in.

“Oh, Mother,” she pleaded, “the streets are so gay, and the people are

all going along with bundles and holly wreaths, and it’s all so

Christmas-evey, can’t we stay out longer?”

Her mother considered.

“I must go in,” she said, “and I want Lisette to help me. But, if you

wish, you four may go for a ride in the Park or along the Avenue. But you

must promise not to get out of the cab. The chauffeur is entirely

reliable, and if you stay in the cab, you cannot get lost. Be back here

in one hour, please.”

“We will,” chorused the four, so Mrs. McGuire and Lisette went into the

hotel, and the four delighted young folk went for a further ride.

Their course down the Avenue was slow, owing to the crowded traffic; they

had ample opportunity for observing the people, an amusement of which

Betty never tired. Then afterwards a short spin in the Park, where the

lights had already begun to gleam through the early winter dusk.

“Now for home,” said Jack decisively, when the hour had elapsed; and back

they went to their hotel.

But when they entered their own sitting-room, nobody was there,—no tree,

no presents, and no sign of any human being.

Betty opened the door of her mother’s bedroom, but that, too, was

unoccupied, as, indeed, were all the bedrooms.

Betty looked frightened, and said, in a half-whisper: “Oh, _do_ you

suppose anything has happened to Mother?”

Then Jack laughed outright.

“Oh, Betty,” he said; “can’t you guess? I’ll wager Mother and Lisette are

in the dining-room, and they’re fixing the tree in there!”

Sure enough, the dining-room door was closed, and when Betty flew to open

it, she found it was locked as well.

“Let us in, Mother; let us in!” she cried.

“Not yet, my child,” said Mrs. McGuire, opening the door a tiny crack and

peeping out. “You must all amuse yourselves till dinner-time.”

“Oh, can’t we help fix it?” said Jack.

“No; I’ve plenty of help in here, and you must keep out and not bother.”

Then the door was shut and locked again, and the young folks laughed to

find themselves with occupation gone.

“All right; let’s get up a surprise for _her_,” said Betty.

“Oh, yes!” cried Jack; “just the thing! What’ll it be?”

“Wait. I’ll have to think. Oh, I’ll tell you, Jack; you go down to the

flower place, and get a lot of white carnations—just heaps of ’em. And

then get a lot of holly, and bring ’em all up, and I’ll show you. Oh,

wait—get the biggest holly wreath you can find, and a paper of pins!”

Obediently Jack went off, and as the big hotel was able to supply such

demands, he brought back everything Betty asked for.

“It won’t be much,” said Betty, as she tied a big towel over her pretty

frock for an apron. “Come in my room, all of you, so she won’t see it if

she comes out.”

The other three followed Betty, and she disclosed her plan. First she

filled the center of the big wreath with white carnations, having first

crisscrossed it closely with string, to keep the blossoms in place. Then

she set the others to work picking off the red berries from the bunch of

holly Jack had brought, sticking a pin through each. With these prepared

berries Betty formed letters on the white background, and as she deftly

did her task they saw the words grow under her fingers, “Merry Christmas

to Mother.”

“Fine!” cried Stub. “Betty, you’re a real genius! I declare it’s the

prettiest wreath I ever saw!”

It _was_ pretty, for the holly wreath framed the loving greeting spelled

out on the white carnations, and Betty’s true eye had spaced the letters

admirably.

It was not quite finished when Mrs. McGuire emerged from the dining-room.

But Betty hastily stuck in the remaining pins with their red berry heads,

and Jack asked Mrs. McGuire not to peep into Betty’s room.

“Indeed, I won’t,” was the reply. “I’ve only time to dress for dinner,

and you young people had better scamper if you want to have any evening

left for your tree.”

Scamper they did, and soon a very hungry but jolly party made its way

down to the dining-room.

The girls were in festival dress because it was Christmas eve. Their

white frocks of filmy mousseline were cut out a little at the throat, and

red sashes and hair-ribbons gave an air of Christmas to their costumes.

Each wore a holly spray in her hair, and Jack declared himself proud of

the visions of loveliness that graced his party.

But notwithstanding the jolly time they were having, and the excitement

of it all, there was no lingering after dinner.

Though the girls would have liked to stay down-stairs and listen to the

music and watch the people, yet the tree seemed to call loudly to them

even through the closed door. So up they went, Betty’s little face fairly

aglow with the happiness of her first real Christmas. She held her

mother’s hand tightly as, at last, Lisette threw open the door of the

dining-room, and they all went in.

The tree was a marvel. Stalwart porters of the hotel had set it in place,

and had assisted Mrs. McGuire to decorate it. It shimmered and glittered

with tinsel ropes; it sparkled with shining ornaments; it trembled with

tiny lighted candles, and it fairly blazed with hundreds of tiny electric

lights of all colors. This was one of Mrs. McGuire’s surprises. Even the

Grahams had never seen a Christmas tree electrically lighted, and as for

Stub—he fairly whistled in ecstasy.

“Oh, _what_ a corker!” he exclaimed, for more grammatical language seemed

inadequate.

Betty drew closer to her mother’s side and slipped her arm around her

waist, as she stood speechless before the beautiful tree.

“For me!” she exclaimed, her eyes as bright as the electrics themselves.

“Yes,” said her mother, bending to kiss the top of her child’s head. “And

for Jack,” she added, holding out her other hand to the boy, who came, a

bit shyly, to her embrace.

“And for all of us,” shouted Stub gaily; “you can’t leave us out, Mrs.

McGuire, and though my small sister seems for the moment to be

speechless, yet I can assure you she thinks it’s a very nice tree.”

“_Very nice tree!_” cried Agnes; “it’s the gorgeousest, wonderfulest tree

that ever was on the face of the earth! I know it is!”

After they had admired it over and over, Mrs. McGuire proposed that they

take off the gifts, assuring them that such a proceeding would not mar

the effect of the tree.

So the ever polite and ready Jack, aided by Stub when the gifts were

flung high, took down the presents one by one, and delivered them to

those whose names were written on them.

Somehow there seemed to be lots of gifts. For five people, each giving to

every one else, made a good many, and then there were a lot of extra ones

that just seemed to come from Santa Claus himself.

Of course Lisette was not forgotten, and she stood in the background,

delighted beyond words to see Betty’s pleasure in her beautiful Christmas

tree.

Mrs. McGuire’s present to her daughter was a gold locket containing a

miniature of her own lovely face. It hung from a slender gold chain, and

no gift could have pleased Betty more.

“I shall always wear it,” she said, as her mother clasped it round her

throat; “and, Mother, you must always wear my gift.”

Her mother was greatly surprised at the diamond brooch, and wondered how

Betty had sufficient taste and judgment to select such a beauty. So Betty

told how Mrs. Sanderson had helped her, and all admired the lovely jewel

when it was pinned at the top of its owner’s delicate lace bodice.

The tables were filled with the various trinkets and knickknacks, and the

floor was strewn with tissue-papers and narrow red ribbons. Then Jack and

Stub brought in the big Christmas greeting Betty and the others had made,

and her mother was delighted at the pretty attention.

It was late indeed when they sought their beds, for a refection of ices

and cakes had to be attended to, and some Christmas carols sung, and a

Christmas dance indulged in. But at last all the lights were out, and the

stars twinkled down on one of the happiest girls in the great city, a

girl who was restfully sleeping after the joys of her first real

Christmas.

III

BETTY AT BOARDING-SCHOOL

It was New Year’s eve, and Betty, with her mother and Jack, was spending

a few days at the Irvings’ in Boston. Betty was a great favorite with her

grandfather, and the two spent delightful hours together as the old

gentleman showed Betty the many places of interest in the city.

Mr. Irving was of somewhat eccentric nature, and he declared that he much

preferred Betty’s frank and sometimes blunt straightforwardness to what

he called the “airs and graces” of more fashionably trained young girls.

But Mrs. Irving did not share her husband’s views. She thought Betty

decidedly lacking in many details of correct deportment, and she urged

Mrs. McGuire to send Betty to a boarding-school for a year or two, that

she might be properly trained to take her place in society later, with

the demeanor becoming a well-bred young lady and an heiress.

“But Betty isn’t a young lady yet,” said Mrs. McGuire, looking troubled

when these arguments were laid before her.

“Not exactly, perhaps,” returned her mother. “But she will live in a city

ere long, and, as our descendant, should be made familiar with the finer

points of correct behavior. Jack seems to pick up such things

immediately, but Betty, though a dear child, is crude in her manner.”

“Small wonder,” said Mrs. McGuire, thinking of the lack of advantages in

Betty’s early life.

“True enough; and that’s all the more reason why she should be placed in

an atmosphere of correct deportment at once. She will learn much more by

association with cultured young girls of her own age than by your

individual tuition. You spoil her by letting her have her own way

entirely too much, and you are blind to her faults. You know perfectly

well, my dear, I have only Betty’s good at heart in the matter.”

Mrs. McGuire did know this, and yet she could not bear the idea of

separation from her daughter, with whom she had been so lately reunited.

On New Year’s eve the Irvings had made a party for Betty. They had

invited young people from some of the best families they knew, and both

Betty and Jack were greatly pleased when they learned of it.

It was a very citified party, and quite unlike the merry gatherings of

Greenborough children. The hours were from seven to ten, and the first

part of the evening the guests sat round the rooms, in small gilt chairs

that had been brought in for the occasion, and listened to the songs and

stories of a professional entertainer.

It was a charming young woman who told the stories and sang the songs,

and after each number the children clapped their hands sedately and

waited for the next.

Secretly Betty thought it rather tame, and would have preferred a

rollicking game or a merry dance. But she applauded with the others and

tried to appear politely pleased.

After the program all marched decorously to the dining-room, where a

pleasant little supper was served. Then the guests took leave, each

making a correct courtesy to the hostess, and expressing their pleasure

as if by rote.

“Well, if that wasn’t the _stiffest_ party!” said Betty to her mother,

when they were alone later. “Those children were just like wooden

images.”

Mrs. McGuire looked troubled.

“Betty dear,” she said, “you don’t see these things quite rightly. Your

grandmother thinks those children act correctly, and that you don’t. But,

you see, city life is quite different from that of a small village. How

would you like to move to live in a big city, Betty?”

“And give up Denniston? My beautiful home! Oh, Mother, I don’t want to do

that!”

“No, and I don’t want you to. Well, we’ll see what can be done.”

The “seeing” resulted in long talks by the elders of the family, and

these talks resulted in a decision to send Betty at once to a

boarding-school at Hillside Manor, a fine country place about a hundred

miles away.

As the winter term was just beginning, she was to go directly, without

returning to Greenborough.

The school was most highly recommended, and Mrs. McGuire was persuaded

that it would give Betty the “finish” she needed.

But the plan did not please Betty at all. She did not rebel,—that was not

her way,—but she expressed her feelings in the matter so clearly that

there was no doubt as to her state of mind.

“I don’t want to go, Mother,” she said; “I hate to be with a lot of

girls—I want my own family and my _home_. Oh, Mother, must I leave my

home when I love it so?”

“Yes, Betty darling,” said her mother, though strongly tempted to say

“No”; “I see it is for your good to send you away, and I’m sure you ought

to go. But I shall miss you dreadfully, and just count the days till your

return.”

“It’s hard lines, Betty,” said Jack; “but as long as they all think you

ought to go, I should think you’d be glad to go and learn the right sort

of thing, whatever it is. Old Tutor Nixon is wise and all that, but he

can’t fill the bill in other ways. At least that’s what Grandma Irving

thinks, and so do I, too.”

In fact, there was no one who agreed with Betty’s ideas except her

grandfather.

“All bosh,” he said. “My granddaughter is a natural, unaffected,

unspoiled girl. You send her off to Madam Tippetywitch, or whoever she

is, and she’ll come back an artificial young miss, with no thought but

for fashions and foolishness.”

But the old gentleman was entirely overruled by the determination of his

wife, and Betty was sent away.

None of the family accompanied Betty to the school, as Mrs. Irving felt

sure the child would be less homesick if she started off with a gay party

of girls who were going back to their classes.

And so good-bys were said at the station in Boston, and Betty made the

trip to Hillside in company with half a dozen school-girls, in charge of

one of the teachers. It was a strange position in which Betty found

herself. An heiress in her own right, she yet felt a sense of inferiority

which she herself could not explain.

Her Irish ancestry revealed itself in her warm-hearted willingness to be

friends with the girls, and her inherited New England nature made her

reserved and sensitive to either real or apparent slights from them. The

girls, notwithstanding their inborn good breeding and their past seasons

at Hillside Manor, looked at Betty with ill-concealed curiosity. They

knew she was an heiress, and that very fact made them hold aloof from

her, lest they be suspected of a spirit of toadying to wealth.

But Betty did not appreciate this point, and assumed that the girls were

not very cordial because they considered themselves her superiors. Each

one spoke to her, politely enough, but in constrained, perfunctory

fashion, and then, feeling their duty done, they resumed their own

chatter about matters unknown to Betty. Miss Price, the teacher, was a

pleasant-faced lady, but, after a few courteous words, she became

absorbed in a book, looking up only now and then to glance at her young

charges. After a time Betty’s spirit of independence became aroused. She

wondered if she were excluded from the girls’ sociability because she

herself was lacking in cordiality. Smiling pleasantly, she said to Ada

Porter, who sat next to her: “Are you in my classes?”

“I don’t know, really,” said Ada, not unkindly, but entirely

uninterested. “What classes are you in?”

“I don’t know,” said Betty, smiling at the absurdity of the conversation.

But Ada didn’t seem to think it humorous, and merely stared at Betty, as

she said, “How queer!”

Betty colored. She felt awkward and tongue-tied, and yet, the more she

realized her inability to impress these girls pleasantly, the more she

determined to do so.

Then Betty bethought herself of a box of fine candies in her satchel, and

taking it out, she passed it around to the other girls.

Murmuring conventional thanks, each accepted one bonbon, but declined a

second one, and then Betty found herself with her box in her lap, gazing

out of the window, as much alone as if there had been no one in the car.

But at last the three hours’ ride was over, and Betty’s hopeful nature

looked forward to finding some among the pupils who would be more

friendly than her traveling associates.

Omnibuses from the school met them at the station, and by chance Betty

was put in with a dozen girls none of whom had been with her in the car.

But conditions were no better than before. They nodded diffidently to

Betty, and then began to chatter to each other with the gay freedom of

old acquaintances.

One girl, however, who sat opposite Betty, was also a new pupil. She had

coal-black hair and bright black eyes, that darted quickly about, seeming

to take in everything.

“You’re new, too, aren’t you?” she said at last, leaning over to seize

Betty’s hand.

“Yes,” replied Betty, grateful for the word spoken voluntarily to her.

“So am I. I think the other girls are hateful to ignore us so. But don’t

you mind; we’ll show them!”

Though this was independence of spirit, Betty couldn’t quite approve of

the way it was expressed, nor of the belligerent wag of the head with

which it was emphasized.

But the girl’s attitude was friendly toward her, if rather hostile toward

the others, and lonely little Betty yearned for friendliness.

“Well, you see, they all know each other,” she said, smiling at the

black-eyed one; “that makes such a difference, and they’ve so much to

tell.”

“All right; let us know each other, then. My name’s Madeleine Gorman;

what’s yours?”

“Betty McGuire,” said Betty, smiling into the friendly eyes.

“Betty! My, you are new! You must call yourself Elizabeth up here.

Nicknames don’t go.”

“Well, I’d just as lief be called Elizabeth; I don’t mind. But I’m Betty

at home.”

“Yes; I’m Maddy at home, and Mad, and Mother calls me Lina. But I’m sure

Madeleine’s the ticket in a fashionable boarding-school.”

“Then you’ve been here before?”

“No, not here. But to three other grand schools. Mother’s always changing

about when she hears of a more ‘select’ one.”

Betty was a bit bewildered. Surely the ambitions of Madeleine’s mother

were in line with those of Mrs. Irving, and yet Betty couldn’t imagine

her grandmother talking like that! She felt sure the Irvings _were_

“select,” but she felt equally sure they would never proclaim it in

words.

She gave up the problem as too difficult, but, greatly cheered by

Madeleine’s cordiality, she met her friendly advances half-way, and when

they reached the school they felt really well acquainted. Together they

went to the principal.

Miss Frelinghuysen was an imposing-looking lady with sharp features and

sharp eyes. She welcomed them with effusion, called each “my dear child,”

and expressed hope that each would be happy and contented at the school.

“May we room together, Elizabeth and I?” Madeleine asked.

Miss Frelinghuysen appeared to hesitate.

“Do you wish it, my dear?” she asked of Betty.

“Yes,” replied Betty, hastily, concluding that a girl she knew to be

friendly was preferable to any utter stranger; “yes, I should like it.”

“Very well, then you may, my dear.”

“You’re a trump,” said Madeleine, squeezing Betty’s arm as they went

away; “I was so afraid you wouldn’t room with me.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You might feel too grand. You’ve just come into a lot

of money, they tell me.”

“But that doesn’t make any difference to young girls,” said Betty,

simply.

“Ho! doesn’t it?” said Madeleine, at which Betty laughed outright. She

felt sure it couldn’t be true.

Hillside Manor was a large and rather magnificent house, yet when Betty

and Madeleine reached their room, they found it small and cramped. There

was only one window, and though the two beds were narrow, they left but

little space to move about. There was only one wash-stand, and,

accustomed of late to having nice things about her, Betty looked around

in dismay.

It was not that she so much minded not having elaborate furnishings, but

such close quarters to be shared with another made her feel hampered, and

she thought longingly of her lovely big room at Denniston, with the

dainty fittings all her own.

And yet she knew she would not like to room alone at the school. That was

an awful loneliness to look forward to.

So she began unpacking her things to dress for dinner. Madeleine

chattered all the time, seeming not to care whether Betty answered or

not.

“You may have the top drawer of the dresser, and I’ll take the next,”

said Madeleine, good-naturedly; “and we’ll divide the hooks in the

wardrobe evenly. Which bed do you want?”

“I don’t care,” said Betty; “take your choice first.”

“All right; I’ll take this one,” and Madeleine flung two large hats on

the bed she selected.

But as she immediately afterward piled a lot of her things on the other

bed, it seemed to make little difference.

“Don’t mind those clothes,” she said apologetically. “Pile your own right

on top of ’em. We’ll get ’em put away somehow.”

But there was no time then, as they must dress for dinner, and the gong

would sound shortly.

Madeleine greatly admired Betty’s pretty rose-colored voile trimmed with

delicate lace, and she was loud in her praise of Betty’s simple bits of

jewelry.

“Oh, what a lovely locket!” she cried. “Let me wear it to-night, won’t

you? I’d love to!”

Betty hesitated; she disliked to refuse her friend’s first request, but

she couldn’t let any one else wear her locket, with her mother’s picture

in it, too.

“I want to wear that myself,” she said frankly; “I always wear it

afternoons. But you may wear my bangle instead, if you like.”

“Oh, yes, I’d love to,” and Madeleine slipped the pretty gold bangle on

her wrist. “Won’t you lend me a hair-ribbon, Elizabeth, too? I see you’ve

plenty of them, and mine are so old.”

“Certainly,” said Betty, willingly offering her box of new ribbons.

Madeleine selected a pair of wide red ones, and gaily tied them on her

black curls. As it happened, these were Betty’s favorite ribbons, and she

had no other red ones, but she was wearing white ones herself, and she

said nothing.

Madeleine helped herself to Betty’s cologne-water, and made free with

several of her toilet appurtenances, and at last, after saying, “Oh, my

dear, please lend me a handkerchief; mine are full of holes!” they went

down-stairs.

Dinner was an awful ordeal. The girls sat at long tables, each headed by

a teacher, and were expected to converse on light topics. Betty rather

envied the ease with which most of them uttered trivial commonplaces, but

she couldn’t help feeling that their accents and shrill little notes of

laughter were artificial. Without even formulating her own thoughts, she

felt that the girls were all self-conscious and critical of one another,

and she conceived a sudden and violent antipathy to the whole atmosphere

of the school that she knew she could never conquer.

Entirely unconscious of herself, Betty did not realize that she was not

taking any part in the “light” conversation, and it was a shock when Miss

Price said, in a somewhat mincing tone: “We want you to join in our chat,

Miss McGuire. Suppose you tell us how you spent your Christmas day.”

Straightforwardly Betty said:

“We spent our Christmas day in New York, at the Plaza Hotel.”

No sooner had she said this than she saw, by the expressions on the

girls’ faces, she had made a mistake.

“How interesting!” said Miss Price; but it suddenly flashed on Betty that

they all thought her remark ostentatious, and that it was, in some way,

inexcusable to spend Christmas day away from one’s home.

She couldn’t help looking distressed, for there was not a trace of

ostentation in her whole nature, and her enjoyment of her wealth was

merely in the simple pleasures that it brought her, without thought of

vanity or pride in the possession of it.

Never before had she been accused of this, nor was she now, in words, but

there was no doubting the meaning of the looks directed at her.

Miss Price tactfully changed the subject, but Betty made no more

contributions to the “light” conversation of that dinner.

The hour in the drawing-room that followed was worse still. Had Betty

only known it, her experience was not so very different from that of any

new pupil at a strange school; for of course those who have known each

other in previous terms naturally get together to talk over their

vacation, and new-comers are left to be taken into favor later, if they

qualify for it.

But Betty didn’t know this, and she felt it a personal slight that nobody

talked to her and nobody seemed responsive if she opened a conversation.

Madeleine stayed by her side, but the more Betty talked with her, the

more she was convinced she didn’t like her. “And it’s most ungrateful of

me,” thought poor Betty to herself, “for she’s the only one who has shown

me decent friendliness, so she is.”

At last it was bedtime, and the girls filed out of the room, saying good

night to Miss Frelinghuysen as they passed.

“Hold your hand a little higher,” she said to Betty, “and your head just

a trifle to one side,—so.”

Betty imitated the model, alas, only too well! So anxious was she to do

as she was told, that her attitude was an exaggeration of the

principal’s; indeed, it seemed a mockery, though nothing was farther from

Betty’s intention.

The girls behind her giggled outright, which didn’t speak very well for

their innate good breeding.

Miss Frelinghuysen turned scarlet, and said: “Report to me in my study

to-morrow morning at ten, Miss McGuire. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Betty, all unaware of what she had done wrong.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you were killing!” declared Madeleine, when they reached

their room. “But how dared you do it?”

She went off in peals of subdued laughter, only pausing at Betty’s

amazed, “What _do_ you mean?”

“Why, the way you mimicked the principal! It was great! You looked _so_

ridiculous, and that made her seem silly. Oh, it was too good!”

“Why, I didn’t mean to do any such thing!” said Betty, ready to cry at

the idea of having added a misdemeanor to her other troubles.

“Well, you did! And she’ll never believe you didn’t mean to. I couldn’t

believe it myself if you didn’t look so scared to death. Oh, you’ll catch

it to-morrow!”

Miserable indeed now, Betty began to prepare for bed. She could scarcely

find room for her things, for Madeleine had appropriated far more than

half of the cupboards and pegs; and the table and two chairs were strewn

with her not very orderly wardrobe.

“Say, Elizabeth,” she said, suddenly coming toward Betty as they were

almost ready to put out the light, “I want to ask you something. I’m sure

you won’t mind, for of course it’s nothing to you, but will you lend me a

little money? Just till my allowance comes, you know.”

“Why, yes,” said Betty, who, never having heard such a request before,

supposed it was polite to grant it. “How much do you want?”

Encouraged by such prompt compliance, Madeleine doubled the amount she

had meant to ask for.

“Could you—could you make it twenty dollars?” she said.

“Certainly; but what is there to spend money for here? I didn’t bring so

very much with me.”

“Oh, I want to join a society to-morrow; I’m ’most sure I can get in, but

you have to pay dues in advance.”

Betty gave Madeleine the money without further remark, and the two girls

went to bed.

But Betty could not sleep. She lay there in the dark, wondering how she

could live in this awful school. Madeleine’s mention of a society alarmed

her. She would be glad to join a society if the girls would be nice to

her; but to join one and have the members cool and unpleasant toward her

would be awful.

And already she disliked Madeleine. Not because she had borrowed money,

though somehow Betty felt that was not a right thing for a young girl to

do, but because she was so careless with her things and so pushing and

forward in her intimacy with Betty. Betty laughed to herself at this

thought! Madeleine was _too_ friendly, and the other girls were not

friendly enough. Well, that was true. And Betty had looked at their faces

carefully that evening. Not one had given her a glance of simple, kindly,

girlish friendship. They had looked at her curiously, inquisitively, and

even enviously, but for some reason she knew they didn’t like her.

Poor little Betty knew nothing of class distinction, and little dreamed

that her warm-hearted, generous nature could easily conquer these

difficulties in a short time. She fell at last into a troubled sleep,

only to awaken long before dawn, with a heavy heart and a feeling of

despair.

She lay in her narrow bed, thinking over the experiences of the day

before, and looking forward to the interview with the principal to which

she was summoned at ten o’clock.

And as she thought of that, her spirit revolted. She had not mimicked the

lady’s manner. She had simply tried to do as she was told, and she would

not be punished for it!

A great resolve came to her, so great that she could scarcely formulate

it to herself.

But, prompted by her indomitable Irish will-power, and urged on by her

outraged sense of justice, she rose slowly from her bed, and, moving

softly about the room, began to dress herself. The first touches of dawn

gave her just light enough to distinguish the larger objects in the room,

and by the time she was fully dressed she could see almost clearly. She

had put on the traveling-suit she had worn from Boston, and carried her

small satchel, leaving her trunk partly unpacked.

She could send for her clothes afterward, or she did not care if she

never saw them again. What was the use of a fortune if it didn’t enable

one to run away from a terrible place without worrying about one’s

clothes?

She glanced at sleeping Madeleine, and then, on an impulse, she wrote a

hurried note, which she pinned to her own pillow:

Dear Madeleine: I did not mimic the lady, and I do not wish to be

punished for what I didn’t do. Also, I do not like the school, and I am

going home.

Elizabeth McGuire.

P. S. You may keep my bangle to remember me by.

It was the sight of the bangle still on Madeleine’s wrist that prompted

this postscript, and then, taking her satchel, Betty softly opened the

door and closed it behind her.

The hall was almost dark, and Betty had no notion how she was to get out

of the house, but at least she meant to try in every possible way.

The large front door was so firmly fastened with chains and heavy bolts

that she didn’t even attempt to open that, but she remembered the great

window in the drawing-room. She easily unfastened one of those long

French windows opening on the veranda, and in a moment was walking

rapidly down the drive. It was a long walk to the railroad station, but

the way was unmistakable, and Betty trudged on, her heart growing lighter

at every step.

The sun was shining brightly when she reached the station, and the

ticket-agent told her a train for Boston would stop there at a quarter

before eight. It was nearly that then, and Betty bought her ticket, and

hoped fervently she could get away before any one from the school should

follow her. Not that she intended to return with them if they did. She

had no thought of running away; she knew only that she could not live at

Hillside Manor, so she had left it.

The ticket-agent scanned her curiously, but Betty looked perfectly

unconcerned, and he saw no occasion to question her.

About eleven o’clock she reached Boston. On the journey she had been

thinking over the situation, and, though she had no fear of her mother’s

displeasure at her return, she knew her Grandmother Irving would be

extremely annoyed.

Not so, though, her grandfather.

And, with true Irish ingenuity, Betty concluded to go straight to him.

She took a cab at the Boston station, and her calm dignity seemed to

forbid any surprise on the part of the cabman, and she gave the address

of Mr. Irving’s business office.

Paying the cabman and dismissing him, she went straight to her

grandfather’s private room and walked in.

“Well, I’ve come home, Grandfather,” she announced cheerfully.

“Bless my soul! Betty, is that you? What are _you_ doing here? Are you

ill?”

“No, indeed,” and Betty’s spirits rose at the sight of the dear, familiar

face. She threw her arms around his neck, and said:

“Oh, Grandfather, _you’ll_ help me out, won’t you? I _couldn’t_ stay

there! Their manners are _awful_! And they thought I mocked at the lady,

but I didn’t. And I know Grandmother won’t like my coming home, but I

just _had_ to! So you fix it up with her, won’t you? And what do you

think? I haven’t had a scrap of breakfast, and I just couldn’t eat my

dinner last night, so I’m fearfully hungry.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Irving again. “Why, you poor child!

Wouldn’t they give you any breakfast?”

“Oh, you don’t understand! I came away before anybody was up. I took the

7.45 from Hillside station, and, you see, coming off suddenly as I did,

I—I couldn’t stop for breakfast. Why, Grandfather, I—I _ran away_!”

“You little rascal! I haven’t the heart to blame you. But, as you

suspect, your grandmother won’t be glad! Betty, you’re a caution! Did you

have any money with you?”

“Yes, but a girl borrowed twenty dollars last night, so I didn’t have

much to spare!”

Mr. Irving shook with laughter.

“Oh, Betty, to think of a young lady at a finishing-school borrowing from

a little unfledged pigeon like you! Well, that ought to trouble your

grandmother! But come on, you blessed baby; let’s go and get some

breakfast at the nearest restaurant, and then go home to break the news

to your relatives! Yes, Betty, your old grandfather’ll stand by you for a

plucky little martyr.”

“I thought you would,” said Betty, tucking her little hand in his arm, as

they started out together.

IV

AN ACCEPTABLE VALENTINE

The McGuires had lived for more than a month in their pleasant home on

Commonwealth Avenue, and Betty had begun to feel at home there.

The house was only rented for the winter, and Denniston Hall was

temporarily closed until the summer-time, when they expected to go back

there. The whole arrangement had been made in order that Betty might

attend school in Boston, and she was a day-pupil in Miss Whittier’s

school for girls, which was quite near her home.

The school was very much to Betty’s liking. She had started in under very

pleasant auspices, as she had become acquainted with two or three of the

girls before she went. She soon made friends with the others, and, as

school hours lasted only from nine o’clock till one, she had the

advantage of being most of the time in her own home.

The house, completely furnished, had been rented from some friends of

Mrs. McGuire’s who were traveling abroad, but Betty had had some of her

favorite belongings sent up from Denniston.

Good-natured Pete had taken Betty’s list and had carefully packed and

forwarded every item on it, and then, after securely locking up the

house, had followed the family to Boston, and was installed there as

general utility-man, and a very valuable one at that.

Grandma Jean and little Polly were also there, and Jack, who had entered

the Institute of Technology, was delighted with his new opportunities for

progress in his studies.

Mrs. McGuire had wisely concluded not to make very desperate efforts to

improve Betty’s “manners,” but to trust to the general influences of a

well-ordered school and well-bred companions.

And so Betty was happy in her new school life, and was rapidly making

firm friends among the pupils there.

Indeed, given a fair start, she could not fail to be a general favorite,

for her warm-hearted unselfishness and her cheerful good nature were

unfailing, and she was always ready to do a favor or to enter into a plan

with enthusiasm.

Though friendly with the others, Betty liked Jeanette Porter and Dorothy

Bates best of all the girls, and this trio were often together, both in

and out of school hours.

Jeanette was a slender, rather delicate, girl, with a sweet countenance

and large, serious eyes. Dorothy was a gay, roly-poly sort of a being,

who was always smiling, and irrepressibly inclined to mischief. But they

both loved Betty, and she was fond of them, and never a cross word marred

the happiness of their intimacy. Sometimes, if Jeanette seemed too

sober-faced, the other two would tease her a bit or play a merry joke on

her, but always in a spirit of harmless fun, and when their victim could

no longer keep from smiling at their foolery, they declared themselves

satisfied.

But one day, as they walked home from school together, Jeanette was

really troubled about something, and though she tried to conceal it, she

was on the very verge of tears.

“What’s the matter, Jeanie?” said Betty, tucking her arm through her

friend’s, while Dorothy walked on her other side.

“Nothing, Betty,” said Jeanette, not crossly, but decidedly. “Please

don’t ask me about it.”

“Indeed we will ask you about it!” declared Dorothy. “You just must tell

us what’s up, because we’re your trusties and trues—aren’t we, Betty?”

“Of course we are! What’s up, Jeanette? Anybody been scolding you?”

“No, it isn’t that. Oh, girls, I don’t want to tell you!”

“Well, I like that!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Now, you just out with it, Miss

Secret-Keeper, and pretty quick, too!”

“Oh, well, it’s nothing, anyhow,” said Jeanette, with a heightened color;

“it’s only that I can’t go to the reception.”

“Not go to the reception!” cried Betty and Dorothy together. “Why not?”

“Well, because—because I can’t have a new dress.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Betty. “Why, I’ll give you a new dress.”

To Betty’s amazement, Jeanette turned to her with a look she never

forgot.

“How _dare_ you say such a thing, Betty McGuire? If you weren’t one of my

best friends, I’d never forgive you!”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” stammered Betty, quite crushed by Jeanette’s

offended look.

“Of course she didn’t,” chimed in Dorothy; “in fact, she didn’t mean it

at all.”

Betty was about to speak, but Dorothy pinched her arm to be silent, and

went on herself.

“You don’t need a new dress, Jeanette. Your white muslin with the lace

yoke is a very pretty dress?”

“It was; but it’s just been done up, and it went all to pieces. It’s so

old, you know. Mother said she didn’t believe it would stand washing

again. So I can’t go, and I told Miss Whittier to-day that I wouldn’t

select a piece.”

“Oh, what a shame!” cried Betty; “and you recite so well, too. Can’t you

wear some other dress?”

“No, I have nothing fit for an evening affair, and Mother says I can’t

have a new one. So I’m not going.”

At Miss Whittier’s school a reception was given each winter, and always a

very important event. The parents and friends of the pupils were invited,

and elaborate preparations were made for the occasion. The girls wore

their prettiest frocks, and a program of entertainment was given in which

the pupils who excelled in singing or declamation took part.

Usually this reception was held on the date of some poet’s birthday, and

this year the 27th of February, Longfellow’s birthday, had been chosen.

It was now the 10th, but the intervening time was none too long in which

to prepare for the great event.

Betty, Jeanette, and Dorothy were all among the ones chosen to recite

from the poet’s works, and a prize would be rewarded to the one who best

deserved it.

Each contestant was allowed to make her own selection, and already Betty

was practising on “The Wreck of the _Hesperus_,” while Dorothy had chosen

“The Skeleton in Armor.”

These decisions were profound secrets among the school-girls, only Miss

Whittier being supposed to know what each girl was to recite. But of

course our three little friends told each other in the strictest

confidence, and when Jeanette announced her intention of staying away

from the reception, both Betty and Dorothy were astounded.

But argumenting and coaxing were in vain, and when Jeanette turned in at

her own gate, the other two said good-by and went on toward their homes.

“Whatever made Jeanette so angry when I offered to give her a dress?”

exclaimed Betty as soon as she and Dorothy were alone.

“Why, you goose, of course she wouldn’t accept a dress from anybody! You

ought to have known that the mere mention of such a thing would offend

her!”

“But I don’t see why. I’d love to give it to her.”

“It would hurt her pride too much. Don’t you see, the Porters are not at

all well off,—I don’t mean quite poor, but I mean they have to scrimp to

get along,—but they’re fearfully proud. Jeanette would be quite willing

to say she couldn’t afford a new frock, but she’d die before she’d let

any one give her one.”

“Well, I think that’s silly. Just because I happen to have more money

than she has, is the very reason I ought to give her a dress.”

“It does seem so,” admitted Dorothy, “but it isn’t so, and don’t you ever

propose it to her again, for it won’t be a bit of good, and it only makes

her angry.”

“Well, I won’t, then, but won’t it be horrid not to have Jeanette at the

reception? It takes all the fun out of it for us, I think.”

“Yes, I think so, too; and look here, Betty, don’t you tell anybody the

reason why Jeanette’s not coming. She told us, of course, but she knew we

wouldn’t tell.”

“Didn’t she tell Miss Whittier?”

“Of course not, silly. Though most likely Miss Whittier guessed.”

“But you said Jeanette would just as lief tell it.”

“Well, she might tell it to us, not to any one else. I declare, Betty,

you don’t seem to have any gumption about some things!”

“No,” said Betty, rather meekly, for she was often bothered by her lack

of “gumption” about matters which were new to her experience.

On reaching her own home, she went straight to her mother with the story.

Mrs. McGuire sat reading in the pleasant library, and looked up with a

loving smile as Betty entered rather abruptly.

“And will you tell me, Mother,” she concluded, after she had poured out

her indignation, “why Jeanette should get so angry at what I said?”

“You can’t understand, deary,” said her mother, smoothing Betty’s tangled

dark curls, “that peculiar pride which revolts at accepting anything of

money value from anybody outside one’s own family. It is, perhaps,

especially a New England trait, and your own Irish heart is so big it

leaves no room for the Puritan instincts which are also yours by

inheritance. But Dorothy is right, dear, and you must not repeat your

offer to Jeanette, though I, too, am sorry that it is not possible.”

“But, Mother, if I could think of some way to give her a dress without

letting her know where it came from, wouldn’t that do?”

“Hardly, dear. She would know at once that you had sent it, and would, of

course, be offended.”

“Oh, dear! I think people are just silly.”

“That may be, but you can’t make the world different in a moment. Come to

luncheon now, and tell me all about your own plans for the reception.”

“All right; but, Mother, I’m going to find some way for Jeanette to go to

it, too. I don’t know how yet, but you see if I can’t fix it somehow!”

“Very well, Betty; but don’t do anything without consulting me.”

“No, I won’t, and I haven’t thought of anything yet, but I’m sure I

shall.”

All the rest of that day, Betty thought hard, but it was not until after

she had gone to bed at night that an idea flashed upon her. Such a

beautiful idea! She wondered that she hadn’t thought of it sooner!

She felt she must discuss it with her mother at once, for if it wouldn’t

do, she wanted to think up something else. But surely it would do! Such a

grand idea _must_ be all right!

She jumped up and put on her blue kimono, and poking her bare feet into

little bedroom slippers of blue quilted satin, she ran out into the hall

and called over the banister:

“Mother, are you alone? May I come down?”

In response to the “Yes, Betty dear; what is it?” she ran down-stairs,

and, flinging a sofa-cushion on the floor, nestled against her mother’s

knee.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I’ve thought of the beautifullest plan to give

Jeanette a dress and not offend her! Oh, do approve of it, Mother, please

do! It’s such a good plan!”

“Tell me about it, Betty, so that I can enjoy it, too.”

“Well, you see, Mother, to-day’s the tenth. So next Saturday’s the

fourteenth—Valentine’s Day, you know. Now, I want to get a lovely dress

for Jeanette, and make it into a valentine, and send it to her! Don’t you

see, nobody could get angry at a valentine, and you can’t put your name

to it, and so she’d have to keep it!”

Betty looked so radiant over her plan that Mrs. McGuire hadn’t the heart

to disapprove of it, though she felt a little dubious about its wisdom.

“Let me think it over,” she said quietly.

“But remember, Mother, I mean to make it like a real valentine. Put it in

a box, you know, and lace paper around it, and sort of hearts and darts

and things, and a verse, a lovely, loving verse. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Yes; that effect would greatly help it, for valentines nowadays often

contain a lace handkerchief or bonbons or something by way of a gift.

Your plan seems to grow on me, Betty.”

“Oh, Mother, how lovely you are!” Betty jumped up from her low seat to

give her mother a most enthusiastic squeeze, and then, big girl though

she was, stayed cuddled in her arms while they continued the

conversation.

“How can you get a dress to fit her, my child?”

“I thought about that. But if we just buy one all ready-made, you know,

about my size, I’m sure it will be about right for her. And Mrs. Porter

can take it in or let it out, or whatever it needs. A soft, white kind of

a one, I mean.”

“Chiffon?”

“Yes, with lace here and there, and cunning little ribbon bows, and knots

of velvet, or something fancy-like for evening.”

“Well, we’ll go together to select it.”

“To-morrow afternoon, after school?”

“Yes, or next day. Of course you won’t send it until Saturday?”

“No; but we have to fix it up valentine-y, you know, so we’d better go

to-morrow. Then we must write the verse. Mother, won’t you make up the

verse? I don’t want a ‘Roses red, violets blue’ sort of a one.”

“Very well; skip back to bed, and I’ll see what I can do in the poetry

line.”

“Oh, you dear Mother! You _are_ so sweet!” And with a final, rather

smothering embrace, Betty said good night, and ran back to her bed to

dream of valentines and Longfellow and Jeanette, all in a grand jumble.

It was hard next day to say nothing of her plan to Dorothy, but Mrs.

McGuire had decided if it were to be successful it must be kept

absolutely secret. So not even Jack was told about it, and, after

luncheon, Mrs. McGuire and Betty started off to buy the frock. Mrs.

McGuire had slight misgivings about it all, but she determined to try the

experiment, for it was the only way that the thing could possibly be

accomplished, and she felt very sorry for Jeanette. After looking at

several pretty, girlish dresses, they decided upon a lovely one of

cream-white chiffon, made over white silk. It had a soft lace bertha,

bordered with a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds. It was a simple, dainty

little gown, but very effective, and Betty agreed that it would suit

Jeanette perfectly.

The saleswoman was asked to provide an especially nice box, and Betty

examined it herself, to be sure that the corners were unbroken.

Then, with explicit directions about careful packing and wrapping and

speedy sending of it home, they went away.

“Of course, Mother, I must send Jeanette another valentine, too; a real

one, you know, so she won’t suspect about the dress. And, anyway, I want

to buy at least twenty other valentines to send. Will you go with me?”

So they went to another shop, and Betty bought valentines for a few

school-girls and other friends she had made in Boston; for Jack and Polly

and Grandma Jean, and for some of her Greenborough friends.

Nor were Pete and Ellen forgotten, for Betty well knew how they would

prize valentines from her. And so engrossing was the selection of all

these that the afternoon slipped away, and when they reached home, to

their great joy the new dress had already arrived.

Behind the locked doors of her mother’s room, Betty carefully lifted the

lovely thing from its tissue-papers, and exclaimed with delight at its

beauty. It looked even prettier than it had in the shop, and Betty was

sure her plan would be a fine success.

“I hope so,” said Mrs. McGuire; “at any rate, we’ll try it, and if it

doesn’t turn out as well as we hope, I’ll take the matter in charge, and

go and see Mrs. Porter about it.”

The next afternoon Betty devoted to fixing what she called the

“valentine-y” part of it.

The big box was of fine white pasteboard, of a watered design, with gilt

edges, and the firm’s name in gilt letters on the cover.

Over this name Betty pasted a large valentine that completely covered it.

Then, with considerable cleverness, she cut up several other pretty

valentines, and of the rose garlands and doves and cupids she obtained in

this way, she contrived a sort of wreath, which, when pasted into place,

made a border all round the box cover.

Inside the box were two large leaves of satin paper which closed like

shutters over the dress when it was folded in place. These leaves Betty

decorated in similar fashion to the cover, and replaced the white tapes

with narrow blue ribbons. The leaves closed together and were fastened

with a large red paper heart, garlanded with flowers, and pierced by a

gilt arrow.

Fastened to the heart by the arrow was the verse Betty’s mother had

composed and had copied on the blank page of a real valentine. This was

in an embossed envelop and was addressed “_To Jeanette from St.

Valentine_.”

The verses which her mother wrote read thus:

On Cupid’s Day

One may, they say,

Send tokens to a friend,

Of love most true,

As mine for you,

A love that ne’er shall end.

Accept then, dear,

The token here,

That tells this love of mine;

Or else a dart

Will pierce the heart

Of your fond Valentine.

“Mother, it is perfectly lovely!” cried Betty, as she read the verses.

“And, don’t you see, saying ‘from St. Valentine’ is the same as saying

‘from Santa Claus,’ so I _don’t_ think she’ll mind, do you?”

As this was about the fiftieth time Betty had asked the same question,

Mrs. McGuire could only make the same reply:

“I don’t know, dear, but don’t worry about it. If she ‘minds,’ I will

undertake to set the matter right again.”

Then the box was carefully wrapped in white paper, and sealed up with

gilt hearts. Mrs. McGuire addressed it, and she had also written the

verses, for Jeanette would have recognized Betty’s penmanship at once.

It was hard to wait for Valentine’s Day, but, as Betty had much to do

getting ready her other valentines to be dispatched, the time flew

quickly. Jack also had many to send, and as, except for the dress, Betty

need make no secrets of hers, they spent the afternoon of the thirteenth

together in the library, addressing the pretty missives.

“This is a beauty!” said Jack, holding up a lovely affair of gilt

latticework, which, if you pulled a cord, burst into a mass of flowers

and birds. “I think I’ll send this to Jeanette Porter. She’s one of the

nicest girls we know, don’t you think so, Betty?”

“Yes, I do. She and Dorothy Bates are my dearest friends, and they’re

coming over this afternoon, so let’s get theirs out of the way first.”

“All right. I’ll send this one to Dorothy. She’s a jolly girl, but

Jeanette’s my choice. She’s so quiet and pretty-mannered.”

“I’m fond of Jeanette myself, Jack,” said Betty; “and—oh, here they come!

Slip theirs in here, quick!”

They whisked the valentines into a table drawer, just in time to escape

the eyes of the girls as they came in.

“Hello!” said Betty, gaily. “We’re addressing valentines. As there aren’t

any here for you two, you may look at them all you like. I hope you’re

not expecting us to send you any!”

“Oh, no!” said the visitors, laughing, for well they knew they would all

send valentines to each other.

“Isn’t it jolly that Valentine’s Day comes on Saturday?” said Dorothy. “I

shall sit on the lowest step of the staircase all day long to be ready to

fly to the door every time the bell rings.”

“Oh, girls,” cried Betty, “wouldn’t it be fun if you’d all come over here

to-morrow afternoon and bring your valentines! We can have a regular show

of them!”

“All right, I’ll come,” said Dorothy, and “So will I,” said Jeanette.

“Oh, what a beauty this is! Betty, I don’t see where you found such

lovely ones.”

“That’s left over,” said Betty, carelessly; “you may have it, if you care

for it.”

The thoughtless words were no sooner spoken than Betty’s heart stood

still with a sudden fear that Jeanette would be offended again.

But, to her amazement, she replied as carelessly:

“Don’t you want it? Oh, thank you, I’d love to have it. I got mine at

Morrison’s, and they’re not nearly so pretty as this one.”

Betty was bewildered.

Why was Jeanette so ready to accept a valentine, and so angered at the

offer of a dress? To be sure, the valentine cost but a trifle, and the

frock considerably more, but that was a matter of degree, and if it was

on account of principle, Betty thought the cases were the same. But Betty

gave up trying to understand these fine distinctions, and awaited results

of her enterprise.

On Saturday a messenger was sent with the precious box. He was given

special directions, if any one should ask him where the box came from,

not to give the slightest hint.

“Trust me, ma’am!” said the boy, and taking the box carefully, he went on

his errand. Then there was suspense indeed. Betty hovered near the

telephone, though she had no real reason to think Jeanette would call her

up. Had her mind not been distracted by the continuous arrival of

valentines to herself, she could scarcely have kept from flying over to

Jeanette’s house.

But valentines of all sorts and styles came pouring into the house all

day. Betty and Jack received them in every mail, and also between mails

by messenger.

Polly had enough to make her baby heart over-flow with glee, and though

she ruined most of them with her affectionate pats and kisses, she liked

them just as well in their shabby condition.

About four o’clock the young people arrived. Betty had invited a dozen or

more, both girls and boys, and though valentines are particularly meant

for the fair sex, yet the boys had a goodly number to exhibit also.

The young folk gathered in the drawing-room and set their treasures

around on tables, mantels, piano, and even on chairs, so many there were.

Eagerly Betty watched Jeanette to see what her demeanor might be.

To her amazement, Jeanette was positively gay! She seemed like one

transformed. Her eyes danced, and her face fairly beamed, as if she were

bubbling over with happiness.

Jack admired her more than ever, and wondered if the receiving of a few

valentines pleased her as much as all that. Betty didn’t quite

understand, but she saw that Jeanette was radiantly happy, and she felt

sure that it _must_ be because of the new dress.

“Oh, I know the valentine _you_ sent me, Betty!” she cried soon after she

came in.

“Which?” said Betty, her heart in her throat with excitement.

“This one!” cried Jeanette, triumphantly holding up the pretty paper

valentine that Betty had sent.

“Right you are, Jeanette,” she replied; “I did send you that, because I

knew you’d love that landscape with the blue trees and green sky.”

“It isn’t that way!” cried Jeanette. “You needn’t make fun of my

prettiest valentine of all—or nearly,” she added, with a funny little

smile.

Betty was mystified, but said nothing, but after the others had gone and

only Jeanette and Dorothy remained, she said, unable longer to restrain

her curiosity:

“Whatever is the matter with you, Jeanette? I never saw you so gay and

festive.”

“Indeed, I should think I would be!” exclaimed Jeanette. “I waited till

the others had gone, to tell you. Girls, I’m going to the reception!”

“You are!” cried Dorothy. “How perfectly lovely!” And Betty said: “Oh,

Jeanette, I’m so glad!”

“How did you happen to change your mind?” asked Dorothy.

“Oh, I had a dress for a valentine! The loveliest dress you ever saw!

It’s just a dream! All filmy chiffon, and the darlingest little pink

rosebuds, and exquisite lace—oh!”

“A valentine!” cried Dorothy, and Betty said eagerly: “Who sent it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jeanette, turning her eyes on Betty, so honestly

ignorant that Betty knew she didn’t suspect in the least. “I’ve no idea.

It came in the most beautiful box, all fixed up like a lovely big

valentine, and the sweetest verse, all written out. I never saw the

handwriting before, and I can’t imagine—I haven’t the least idea—who sent

it to me.”

“Are you glad?” said Betty.

“Glad? Well, I just guess I am. Now I can go to the reception, and I’m

going to recite ‘The Famine’ lines from ‘Hiawatha.’”

“But haven’t you any way to find out who sent it?” persisted Dorothy,

thereby asking the very question Betty wanted to.

“No, and I don’t want to try. You see, you’re not supposed to know who

sends a valentine, and of course it would turn out to be Aunt Esther, or

Grandmother Harrington, and that would take away all the beautiful

mystery and romance. It’s _so_ lovely not to know where it came from.

It’s a true valentine.”

“So it is,” agreed Betty, her heart fairly bounding with joy at the

complete success of her little plan.

“Come on home with me and see it,” urged Jeanette; but Betty felt she

must tell her mother about it at once, so she said, “No, it’s too late.

I’ll run over to-morrow to see it.”

“All right, then; be sure to come,” and happy Jeanette went away with

Dorothy, leaving an equally happy Betty behind her.

“And don’t you mind if she _never_ knows you gave it to her?” asked Mrs.

McGuire after she had the story.

“Why, no, Mother. What a question! The whole trouble was for fear she

_would_ know that. And now she has the dress, and she’s so happy about

it, indeed I _don’t_ want her _ever_ to know where it came from!”

Betty’s own joy in the gift she had made was purely unselfish, and she

felt amply rewarded in the pleasure she had given Jeanette.

So when the night of the reception came, Betty took quite as much

satisfaction in seeing Jeanette in the lovely and becoming frock as she

did in wearing her own beautiful new one.

And when Jeanette received the prize for her wonderfully well-done

recitation, Betty squeezed her mother’s hand and looked up at her with

eyes fairly beaming in triumph at the thought that she had made it

possible for Jeanette to win.

V

THE PALACE OF TIME

“I think the club ought to be for something that will improve our minds,”

said Constance Harper.

“Well, I don’t!” declared Lena Carey; “we get our minds improved in

school. I cram improvement every day, until my mind is fairly bursting

with it. I think the club ought to be just for fun.”

“I think so, too,” agreed Betty. “At least, I don’t vote for the

improvement part. My mind needs improvement, goodness knows! But I don’t

believe we’d ever get much out of a club of our own.

“But I do think it ought to be for something besides just fun,” went on

Betty.

“What do you mean?” demanded Lena. “If you don’t study or have papers,

what can you do but have fun?”