“Why, it might be for charity,” suggested Jeanette Porter.

“Yes,” said Betty; “that’s what I mean. We can have lots of fun getting

up things for charity, and do good besides.”

“I’d like that, I think,” Constance said; “you can have lovely fairs and

garden-parties and all sorts of things for charity.”

“We won’t have a garden-party just yet,” said Lena, as she drew closer to

the blazing fire.

“No,” returned Constance, a little shortly; “I didn’t mean to. But I

suppose the club will last through the summer.”

“Of course it will,” said Betty, who always interrupted when Lena and

Constance began their sharp little speeches. “And before summer comes

we’ll have an entertainment in the house.”

It was now the first week in March, and, as the weather was raw and

disagreeable, the girls were glad to gather in Betty’s cozy library, and

nestle in soft, cushioned chairs drawn up to the big fireplace, with its

crackling logs.

The four girls had come over for the express purpose of forming a club of

some sort, though the details of the plan were not yet thought out. Of

course, Jack had been promptly excluded from the conference, as it was to

be a girls’ club.

“All right,” he said, as he went unwillingly away; “we boys will get up a

rival club, and it’ll be so jolly you’ll want to disband yours and join

ours.”

“All right; when that happens, we’ll do it,” sang out Lena, as the door

closed behind the reluctant Jack.

But after it was decided to have the club a charitable one, no one could

think of just the right form that it should take. “Mother went to a

concert last night for the aid of the Orphan Asylum,” suggested

Constance, and Lena promptly responded:

“Then they don’t need our help. Let’s think of something else.”

“How about the Fresh Air Fund?” said Jeanette.

“Just the thing!” cried Dorothy. “I’d rather work for little children

than anybody else.”

“All right, then; our object is settled,” said Constance; “now what shall

we name the club?”

“Oh, wait,” said Lena; “first we must elect officers and all that.”

“First,” said Betty, “we must decide on our members, We five, of course,

and I’d like to ask Martha Taylor, too.”

“Then you can leave me out,” said Constance, promptly.

“Nothing of the sort!” said Betty. “You’re perfectly silly, Constance. I

don’t see why you don’t like Martha. And she’d feel slighted to be left

out of a thing like this.”

“Nobody likes Martha Taylor,” observed Jeanette. “I don’t think we need

ask her, Betty.”

“Well, I do! And if you don’t, you may leave me out, too!”

“Oh, Betty! Betty! Of course we wouldn’t leave you out! Why, there

couldn’t be a club without you.”

“All right, then. It’s Martha Taylor, too.”

It was not often that Betty asserted herself so strongly, but when she

did the others generally yielded the point. Martha Taylor was not a

favorite; although a member of the girls’ class, none of them liked her,

and she had no chum and almost no friend. There was no especial reason

for this, for Martha was not ill-natured or disagreeable; but she was

heavy and uninteresting, and never seemed to understand the others’ jokes

and fun.

But Betty felt sorry for her, and, seeing she was neglected by the other

girls, she stood up for her and insisted on having her for a member of

the club.

“Well, you’ll have to look after her,” said Lena. “I never know what to

say to her. She only says ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ or ‘I don’t care,’ when you ask

her anything.”

“Well, she won’t make any trouble in the club, anyhow,” observed

Jeanette. “I don’t see why Betty wants her, but if we have to have her,

we have to, I suppose.”

“Yes, we have to,” said Betty; “and I’m going to telephone her now, and

ask her if she wants to come.”

Whatever they may have thought, no one objected outwardly, and Betty

called up Martha on the telephone and invited her over.

Needless to say, the invitation was accepted, and soon Martha appeared,

looking greatly pleased.

“Hello, Martha,” said Betty, most cordially, and made a place for the

new-comer by her side.

The others spoke pleasantly enough, but without enthusiasm, and then the

business meeting was begun.

After some discussion Betty was made president and Dorothy

vice-president, Lena Carey was treasurer, and Constance was recording

secretary, with Jeanette for corresponding secretary.

This gave each an office with the exception of Martha, and as soon as

Betty saw how things were going, she calmly created an office for her

friend.

“I nominate Martha Taylor for auditor,” she said, in her most decided

way.

“What’s that?” asked Lena.

Now Betty wasn’t quite sure herself what an auditor was, or whether it

was a usual office in a club, but she didn’t care. It made an official

title for Martha, and so kept her from feeling slighted.

“An auditor?” responded Betty, airily. “Oh, that’s the one who looks over

the books and accounts of all of us, to see if we’ve added up right, and

all that.”

This wasn’t a specially pleasing idea to the treasurer and the two

secretaries, but they understood Betty’s determined expression, and they

submitted with good grace.

So matters went on pleasantly, and Martha was greatly elated at being

chosen to fill what she considered a most important office.

“But I don’t always add right myself,” she said conscientiously.

“Never mind; I’ll help you,” said Betty, smiling at her. “Now, girls, for

a name. I don’t like a high-sounding name. Let’s have something plain and

straightforward.”

“The Fresh Air Fund Club,” suggested Lena.

“The Fresh Air Club is shorter,” said Constance.

“The Fresh Club is shorter yet,” said Dorothy, laughing, “and the boys

will call us that, anyhow, when they hear about it.”

They decided on “The Fresh Air Club,” and then, all business matters

being settled, they proceeded to plan their first entertainment.

“Let’s have something really nice,” said Martha. “We can get Hetherton’s

Hall to hold it in, without paying anything. My uncle is one of the

managers, and I know he’d let us have it for a charity.”

This was a most advantageous offer, and, had it come from any one else,

it would have been hailed with enthusiasm. As it was, nobody said much,

except Betty, who exclaimed:

“Why, Martha, that will be fine! If we don’t have to pay for the hall, we

can make a lot of money, for that’s generally the biggest item.”

“Yes,” agreed Constance; “all the things to sell will be given to us, or

we’ll make them ourselves. You mean a sort of fair, don’t you, Betty?”

“Yes; only a special kind, you know—a bazaar, or something like that.”

“What is a bazaar?” asked Martha, with such an air of blank ignorance

that Constance frowned at her.

“A bazaar,” began Lena, “why, a bazaar is—it’s just a bazaar. Anybody

knows what a bazaar is.”

“Oh,” said Martha, not much enlightened, but realizing that she was

supposed to be.

“Lena didn’t explain it very clearly,” said Betty laughing. “I’m not sure

I know the difference myself between a bazaar and a fair.”

“Neither do I,” said Constance; “I think they’re about the same, only

bazaar is the new-fashioned name.”

“And a bazaar is bigger,” said Dorothy, “more elaborate, you know, with

booths and flags and things like that.”

“And you dress up in costumes at a bazaar,” added Jeanette.

“Good!” cried Betty. “I love dressing up in fancy costumes. What sort do

they wear?”

“Oh, sometimes all sorts of costumes, and sometimes just flower-girl

dresses and things like that.”

“If you mean that sort of a fair, I read about one not very long ago that

might be very nice, I think,” suggested Martha, a little timidly.

“What was it?” asked Betty, as no one else expressed any desire to know.

“Well, it was a bazaar of the months. Only you have to have boys in

it—six girls and six boys, and each one has a table and sells things

belonging to that month. Flowers for May, you know, and fans for August,

and all sorts of things for Christmas, the December one.”

“It sounds lovely,” said Dorothy kindly; “but it would be funny to sell

Christmas things and valentines and fans in March.”

“Not at all,” said Betty. “People could buy their valentines and

Christmas presents, and hide them away till next year. I think it’s a

fine idea. Then each one of us could dress up in a costume to fit the

month, such as the Queen of May or the April Fool.”

“Yes,” said Martha, “but you have to have boys for Fourth of July and

April Fool and Santa Claus.”

“Well, we will,” declared Betty. “We’ll ask six boys to be honorary

members of the club and help us with the bazaar. Let’s call Jack in now.”

They all agreed to this, and Jack came in, much pleased to help with the

great project.

As the young people talked it over, it seemed to assume grand

proportions, and Betty proposed that they lay the whole plan before her

mother before they should proceed further. Mrs. McGuire listened with

great interest as the purpose of the Fresh Air Club was explained to her.

“Excellent!” she said at last “I’m sure it will be a lovely bazaar,

there’s room for such pretty decorations and costumes. Have you chosen

your parts?”

They hadn’t, but, with Mrs. McGuire’s assistance, they undertook the

matter at once.

Everybody agreed that golden-haired Constance must be the May Queen. She

was just right for it, with her blue eyes and fair, pretty face.

“Do I have a booth?” she said. “What shall I sell?”

“Not exactly a booth for you,” said Mrs. McGuire, “but a bower, a real

May Queen’s bower. And you must sell flowers, of course—not only

nosegays, but potted plants and ferns and things like that.”

“And wild flowers and pond-lilies! Oh, Constance, your booth will be the

prettiest of all!” cried Dorothy, a little enviously.

“You won’t find many wild flowers or pond-lilies in March,” said Mrs.

McGuire, smiling; “but the florist will help us out with many blossoms,

and we may have to use paper flowers for the bower. Dorothy, you are just

the one to be the Summer Girl; that’s the one for August, you know.”

“Oh, I will! And I know just how I’ll fix my booth! I’ve just thought of

it. I say, girls, suppose we don’t tell all about our booths, but

surprise each other! Just choose our parts, you know.”

“All right!” said Betty, “choose away. Jeanette, what month do you want?”

“I’ll take June,” said Jeanette, who already had a pretty plan in her

wise little head.

“I want October,” declared Lena, her eyes twinkling as she thought of

Hallowe’en possibilities.

“September was represented by Diana in the bazaar I heard about,” said

Martha; “I think Betty ought to be that. She’d make a lovely Diana.”

“So you would, Betty!” said Constance. “Do take that.”

“Very well,” agreed Betty. “What do I sell?”

“Grapes,” said Lena; “but as you can’t get grapes in March, you’ll have

to sell grape jelly!”

“I can get hothouse grapes,” said Betty. “But this leaves only November

for Martha. What can you be, Martha—a turkey?”

“November isn’t much of anything,” said Martha. “It’s sort of

uninteresting.”

“Well,” said Constance, tossing her head; “it’s the only one left.”

Betty’s eyes flashed at this, but she only said:

“All right, Martha, you take November. I’ve a good idea for it; I’ll tell

you afterward. Now let’s fix up the boys. What month do you want, Jack?”

“Well, since you ask me, I’ll take January. I’m great on January.”

“All right; and we’ll ask the other boys and let them choose. Oh, I hope

they’ll all do it! Won’t it be fun?”

It was fun, but it also proved to be a great deal of work. Indeed, if the

grown-ups hadn’t helped them out, the young people could scarcely have

carried the affair through. Grandpa Irving took a great interest in it

from the beginning, and planned so many improvements and additions that

the bazaar soon became a really large enterprise.

It was called “The Palace of Time,” and Mr. Irving agreed to assume the

character of old Father Time and preside at the bazaar.

His principal aids were four ladies who represented the four seasons, and

who were to wear appropriate costumes to designate Spring, Summer,

Autumn, and Winter. Each of these ladies presided over the three booths

which belonged to her season, and thus the success of the young people’s

booths was made more sure.

The other boys had proved quite as pleased as Jack to take part in the

affair, and all of those who were to take part, as well as many of their

friends, worked hard during the few weeks of preparation.

One thing Betty resolved, and that was that Martha must have an

attractive booth and one that should somehow prove to be among the most

popular. After she told her grandfather how the other girls felt toward

Martha, Mr. Irving also declared that he, too, would look out for her.

“Never you mind, Betty,” said her grandfather; “we’ll just fix it so that

Martha’s booth will be crowded with people all the evening.”

And so, though nobody knew exactly what Martha was going to do, it was

soon known that hers would be the supper booth.

Lemonade was to be served by July; ice-cream by August; flowers, of

course, would be sold by May; and candy would be found in the February

booth.

But November being the month of Thanksgiving and plenty, it was deemed

appropriate to have the more substantial refreshments on sale there.

Martha was delighted with the plan Mr. Irving proposed, and, with the

help of Miss Connington, the young lady who took the part of Autumn, she

made ready for her November booth.

When the night of the bazaar came, everything was in readiness, and

hundreds of people were waiting for the entrance-doors to open.

And when at last they were admitted, the beautiful scene was greeted with

great applause.

At the end of the room was the throne of Father Time. This was on a

raised platform, behind which was a large sheet painted with the figures

of the zodiac.

Time himself, who was, of course, Mr. Irving, was robed in long white

garments, which fell in classic folds about his tall and stalwart frame.

A white beard and “forelock” added to the effect, and he carried a scythe

and hour-glass.

But his genial smile and cordial words of greeting were not much like the

grim old gentleman who is represented as going about and cutting down

all, both great and small. Not wishing to shirk his part of the real work

of the evening, Mr. Irving had some small articles for sale on his

“throne.” There were hour-glasses and smaller sand-glasses; clocks and

watches; diaries and calendars; and even a metronome, which, he said, he

was particularly anxious to dispose of, because it beat Time! As all

these articles had been donated, and as they were quickly bought from the

entertaining old gentleman, the funds of the Fresh Air Club were

considerably added to, that night, by Father Time.

The young ladies who represented the four seasons were dressed as if they

were models for the pretty modern picture calendars. They did not sell

things, but hovered round the booths that were under their supervision,

and took care that everything went right.

The booths themselves were marvels of elaborate ingenuity.

January was what looked like a snow palace. It was really a little

mosque-shaped house, built of a light framework covered with cotton-wool.

This was sprinkled with diamond-dust, and scattered bits of tinsel

frosting, and glass icicles. It was electric-lighted, and a more

fairy-like palace could not be imagined. Jack presided over it in the

guise of Jack Frost. His suit was white Canton flannel sprinkled with

tinsel frost, and his peaked cap and roundabout jacket were trimmed with

ermine—or what looked like it.

He had on sale anything and everything that had to do with

January—skates, sleds, sleigh-bells, warm caps and mittens, New Year’s

cards, year-books, and even soap-stones and foot-warmers for sleighs. His

booth was a gay and cheery place, with a bright fire of gas-logs blazing,

and red-shaded lamps all about.

Mrs. McGuire had assisted, and many visitors thought Jack’s booth the

finest of all.

Harry Harper, as St. Valentine, presided over the February booth. He was

dressed like the pictures of the old saint, and in his booth were many

cupids and doves.

The decorations were garlands of paper roses tied with blue ribbons, and

red hearts and gold darts of all sizes. He had a real little post-office

established, and did a thriving business with the tender missives he had

in stock. He also had the candies, as they were “sweets,” and then Harry,

with a view to making more money, had declared that he was entitled to

use all the holidays that belonged to his month, so he added a small

tableful of souvenirs appropriate to Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s

Birthday. There were little hatchets, and bunches of cherries, and

portraits of both Presidents, and these favors sold as well as his

valentines.

The next booth was March, and this was a funny one. It represented a

lion’s den, and was a sort of cave which was built partly of real rocks,

and partly of huge boulders made of wood and covered with brown muslin

and moss.

Bob Carey was the lion, and as he had procured a lion’s “make-up” from a

theatrical costumer’s, he was a fine animal. He said that, as March, he

had to be either a lion or a lamb, and he preferred the lion’s part. It

was not easy to find articles for sale appropriate to March, but he had

succeeded in getting donations from the shopkeepers of garden implements,

such as rakes and spades and hoes, which are useful in that month; also

packets of flower and vegetable seeds, and (which made every one smile) a

huge pile of sheet music, consisting only of popular _marches_. He had,

too, funny little souvenirs for St. Patrick’s Day, and so humorous was

Bob himself, in his character of the Cozy Lion, that he had many

visitors.

April was in charge of Elmer Ellis, and he was an “April Fool.” His

costume was that of a court jester, and the bells on his cap and on his

bauble jingled merrily as he played pranks on all who came his way. He

had no booth, but was under a huge umbrella, as, he explained, it might

rain at any minute in April. He sold umbrellas, rubbers, rain-coats,

sprinkling-cans, garden hose, and also he had a stock of what were known

as “April Fool candies.” These he sold readily, for they are harmless fun

and cause great merriment. Also he sold bundles carefully tied up with

contents unknown, which “fooled” the buyers.

Constance Harper was the May Queen and held court under a beautiful arbor

of vines and flowers. She wore a white frock with flower garlands, and a

long white veil crowned with flowers.

She held a gilded scepter, and pages stood at either side to wait on her

Royal Highness. Her little slippered feet rested on a satin cushion, and

pretty Constance certainly was the most attractive picture in the hall

that night.

She sold flowers of all sorts—lovely growing plants and ferns, and dainty

baskets of blossoms, as well as tiny nosegays and boutonnières.

Altogether, it was probably the most beautiful booth of all, and it

received great admiration.

June was Jeanette Porter. She had not taken the idea of the “month of

roses,” but chose to represent a “Sweet Girl Graduate.”

Over her white frock she wore a black silk gown, and on her head a

“mortar-board.”

She looked like a fair, sweet Portia, and her wares were all books. She

did a fine trade, for Jeanette was a general favorite, and the books

found a ready sale.

July was in charge of Fred Brown, and he represented “Young America.”

Although a big boy, he dressed himself in the garb of a little one, and

blew his tin trumpet and waved his flag with all the boisterousness of a

child of ten on Independence Day.

His booth was a mass of flags and bunting and fireworks, and he sold

anything he could find that was patriotic, from copies of the Declaration

of Independence to a package of torpedoes.

He also had the lemonade for sale, as that seemed to him to be a Fourth

of July beverage. He had persuaded a few men, the best speakers he knew,

to deliver occasional short orations, so, with these attractive

novelties, it was no wonder that his booth was well attended all the

time.

August was left to Dorothy Bates. She was one of the prettiest of all,

though one of the simplest in her costume and manners.

She was a Summer Girl; and dressed in a white duck outing-suit, her

sailor-like blouse turned in at the throat and turned back at the wrist,

she was a charming picture.

She had no booth, but sat in a hammock beneath a cleverly contrived

shade-tree. About her, on what represented grass and sand, were

camp-stools, and her visitors were served with ice-cream and little

cakes. Also, she sold fans and parasols, and so gay and winsome was

pretty Dorothy that the camp-stools were always occupied, while others

stood waiting their turn.

September was Betty’s month. She had had a beautiful Diana

hunting-costume made for her, and in the dark-green cloth, with its black

braid and gilt buttons, Betty’s slim, straight young figure looked very

picturesque. Her booth was a sort of tent, with the flap turned back, and

she sold sporting goods of all sorts.

Some kind shopkeepers had donated fishing-rods and reels, trout flies,

game-bags, bows and arrows, and many such wares. Betty was happy and gay,

and her dark curls clustered round her merry, rosy face as she wheedled

her patrons into making further purchases of all sorts of wares.

October was Lena Carey’s choice. She used all the traditional features of

Hallowe’en, and in a semi-darkened tent she told fortunes to gullible

victims. Dressed as a witch in a red robe, a black cape, and a red peaked

hat, she fondled her own pet black cat, though old Tabby would not look

weird and mysterious.

The interior of Lena’s tent was scarefully decorated with bats and

strange devices, and was adorned with lighted Jack-o’-lanterns.

Lena was clever at fortune-telling, and, as her clients were not exacting

as to methods, she managed to satisfy them all with most pleasant, even

if most improbable, promises for the future.

Next came November, which was Martha’s. At first it had not seemed easy

to think of a character for Martha appropriate to November. But as Betty

looked at the round, stolid face, full of wholesome good nature, but not

piquant or fascinating, she exclaimed:

“Good gracious, Martha! You’re just like your grandmother. Do chirk up

and giggle sometimes!”

Then her own speech gave her an idea. “Martha,” she cried, “that’s just

it! You shall be your own grandmother! November is the Thanksgiving

month, and the very spirit of the Thanksgiving feast is the Grandmother.”

So chubby-faced Martha was transformed into the dearest old lady you ever

saw—white hair, cap, and spectacles; plain gray gown, with kerchief

crossed on her bosom, and knitting work beside her; everything of

old-fashioned style, even her reticule and black silk mitts.

Mr. Irving, true to his word, assisted with Martha’s booth. It was indeed

a realistic old-fashioned New England kitchen, with its settings

represented as faithfully as possible. And the homely old New England

supper viands that were served there were so good and delectable that

Martha’s booth was crammed with people from opening to closing time.

December, as you’d doubtless guess, was a Christmas tree.

Although it was really March, so splendid was the great tree, decorated,

and lighted elaborately, and so jolly was Ralph Burnett, who stood by as

Santa Claus, that it was difficult not to think it was Christmas eve.

On the tree everything was for sale. The wares first, and, when they were

gone, the decorations, and even the electric lights and candles were

sold.

Indeed, everything in the whole place was sold. As the evening wore on,

all the supplies gave out, and the frantic “months” ran around to each

other’s booths trying to beg or borrow something to sell. The cash-boxes

were full of jingling coins, yet the buyers were unsatisfied. The Fresh

Air Club had not expected such a large and generous audience, and they

stood in their dismantled booths, resolved to have even a larger and

finer bazaar, next winter.

“And, you see, Grandpa,” said Betty to Mr. Irving, “Martha did have a

successful part as November, and her full share of custom. Why, Martha’s

kitchen was full of people all the time. Constance was perfectly lovely,

sitting in state on her throne, but, now and then, there weren’t many

people around her booth.”

“Well, Betty, sometimes people would rather eat than buy flowers.”

“Yes; that’s why I felt sure Martha’s booth would be a success. But, of

course, I sha’n’t say anything to Constance about it.”

And Constance never mentioned the subject, but Martha was never slighted

by the girls again.

VI

BETTY’S PRACTICAL JOKE

One evening, soon after the bazaar, the McGuires were dining with the

Irvings, and naturally were discussing the very successful entertainment.

“And I think,” Mr. Irving remarked, “that the young chap who took the

part of ‘April Fool’ was one of the hits of the evening. He was so merry

and good-natured, and yet so full of quips and pranks, why, he nearly

fooled me two or three times!”

“Oh, pshaw, Grandpa,” said Betty, saucily, “it would be easy enough to

fool you; you’re so—so honest and good-natured, you know.”

Mr. Irving looked at the roguish, smiling face with pretended severity.

“Indeed, Miss Curlyhead! So you think it easy to fool your simple-minded

old grandfather, do you? Well, little lady, you’re greatly mistaken! In

fact, you’re quite wrong! Fool me! Humph! Why, when I was in college, the

boys said I was the only one they could never play a practical joke on!”

Mr. Irving looked very proud of his record for shrewdness, but his eyes

twinkled as he saw Betty’s incredulous smile.

“All right, Miss Mischief,” he went on, “if you doubt my word, try it.

I’ll wager you a hat you can’t get off a joke upon your unsuspecting old

grandfather that I don’t see through before it reaches its climax. Fool

me, indeed!”

“I don’t want to fool you, Grandpa,” said Betty, demurely, “only I think

I could—that’s all.”

“You little rogue, you do, do you? Well, the burden of proof rests with

you.”

“You know you wagered a hat,” said Betty, smiling; “did you mean it?”

“Well, my child, I’ll own up that I said ‘wager a hat,’ because that’s a

slang phrase—or at least it was in my youth—that doesn’t mean anything in

particular, and I said it without thinking. But I’ll stand by it. You

shall have the prettiest hat in Boston if you succeed in playing even the

mildest little joke on your old grandfather.”

“Now, Father,” said Mrs. McGuire, “I don’t think practical jokes are nice

at all; and I don’t think you ought to put Betty up to such nonsense.”

“As a rule, my dear, I agree with you; and I don’t want Betty to get the

habit of doing such things. But this is an exceptional case. And, too, a

good-natured joke does no harm, especially if the victim invites it

himself.”

“I think you’re safe, Grandfather,” said Jack. “I don’t believe Betty or

anybody else could fool you. You’re too quick.”

“Thank you for that compliment, my boy,” said Mr. Irving; “and then, too,

remember that I am forewarned.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Irving, laughing at the conversation; “I think your

chances for a new hat from Grandfather are slim, Betty dear.”

“I really don’t need a new hat—just now,” said Betty, thoughtfully, “but,

all the same, I’d like to win that one, and I’m going to try.”

Betty’s dark head wagged in a determined fashion, and, after a little

further chaff, the subject was dropped.

But the next day Betty took it up again with Jack.

“I want to play a perfectly splendid joke on Grandpa,” she said, “one

that he will remember all his life.”

“Well,” returned Jack, “you’re modest in your desires, aren’t you!”

“But I do want to, Jack. Think what fun it would be! Now, help me think

of something, do!”

“Let me see; I can’t think of things in a minute, you know. But here’s

one thing; next Friday is the first of April—you might play an April Fool

Joke.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Betty, gleefully, “that’s just the thing! Anything is

allowable on April Fool’s Day. Now, what shall it be?”

“Betty, if you want a really fine affair, we must give some thought to

it. Neither do we want any simple joke that we’d make up ourselves. But

let’s try something classic. Now there’s an old story called ‘Trajan’s

Jest,’ or somebody’s, and I’ll look it up, and perhaps we can adapt it to

modern times.”

“Oh, Jack, I don’t want any old Roman performance, with togas and

sandals!”

“No, goosey, not that. But just wait till I think it all out. Oh, Betty,

it’ll be fine! Just you wait!”

So Betty waited while Jack looked into some reference books, and when he

found what he wanted, they soon had their heads together over the volume.

After an hour of reading, chattering, laughing, and planning, Jack said:

“And so, you see, it’s all clear sailing, if you girls can only carry it

out in the right way.”

“Oh, we can!” cried Betty. “Dorothy is so very dramatic, and Jeanette

will be lovely in her part. Mine is the hardest.”

“Of course it is; but it’s your joke, you know. Shall we tell Mother

about it?”

“I’d rather not—till it’s over. It’s all right, you know; she wouldn’t

disapprove, but she’d think we couldn’t do it.”

“It seems as if you ought to tell her.”

“Oh, I’ll tell her that we’re going to play the joke. Here she comes now.

Come in, Mother!”

Mrs. McGuire came into the library where the children were. “What is it,

dear?” she said.

“Why, we’ve planned the joke for Grandpa,” said Betty, her eyes dancing

with fun, “and it’s going to take a lot of acting. And, Mother, I don’t

want to tell you about it till it’s all over. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, child; that is—I suppose, of course, it’s nothing wrong or

impolite.”

“Oh, no; it’s all perfectly correct and proper. Dorothy and Jeanette and

I are to do it, but Jack planned it all. And, Mother, we’ll want the big

carriage on Friday afternoon.”

“All right, deary; now, mind, you are quite sure, aren’t you, I wouldn’t

disapprove?”

“Yes, Mother,” and Betty’s honest eyes were clear and frank. “It’s a

jolly joke, but there’s nothing wrong about it, is there, Jack?”

“Not a thing,” said Jack, chuckling. “I’ll look out for the girls,

Mother. The whole affair won’t take an hour.”

“Very well, then; go on. Your grandfather will be as pleased as

yourselves if it succeeds.”

There was much more planning, and then, when the whole affair was

explained to Dorothy and Jeanette, they entered into the scheme with

glee.

“It’ll be just like amateur theatricals!” cried Dorothy, clapping her

hands. “We must rehearse our parts. Oh, won’t it be fun?”

“Can you dress up to look like a young lady?” said Jack. “Not a disguise,

you know, but just make yourself look as if you were eighteen or twenty

years old?”

“Oh, yes,” declared Dorothy. “I’m almost sixteen, anyhow. And I’ll wear

one of sister Ethel’s dresses, and do my hair up high. I’ll wear a hat of

hers, too, one of her prettiest ones.”

“Oh, not too fancy, you know,” warned Jack. “You must dress plainly.”

“All right; I’ll wear a small hat and a dotted veil. Oh, I’ll look grown

up; never fear.”

“Jeanette will, too,” said Betty; “she looks older than she is, anyhow.

What’ll you wear, Jean?”

“I’ll wear one of Mother’s gowns,” said Jeanette, smiling. “She’s so

small and slender, her things just about fit me. Black, I think, with

white collar and cuffs.”

“I’ll wear a long cloak,” said Betty, “and a thick, dark veil, so Grandpa

can scarcely see my face at all.”

“And glasses,” said Jack. “I’ll get you a pair of dark spectacles, so he

won’t see your eyes at all. Now let’s write the letter.”

Then, all suggesting, but Jack doing most of it, the following letter was

composed, and was copied by Jeanette:

Mr. William Irving,

_Dear Sir_: Although I have been in more fortunate circumstances, I am

now quite poor. I desire a position as secretary, and I apply to you,

because my great-uncle Roger Arundel used to be in your class at

college, and I have often heard him speak of your kind heart and

generous disposition. I will call at your office, to see you about the

matter, this afternoon at three o’clock. Please let me speak to you,

even if you cannot give me a position.

Yours truly,

Frances Arundel.

“Was there a Roger Arundel in Grandpa’s class?” asked Betty, looking

admiringly at the letter.

“I don’t know of any,” said Jack; “I made up the name.”

“Then of course there wasn’t,” said Betty. “Why didn’t you choose a name

from his class list?”

“Oh, I didn’t quite like to do that. It didn’t seem right. But it won’t

matter. You girls will have to manage the Roger Arundel item. Now, are

you sure you understand your parts? Come on, let’s rehearse. I’ll be

Grandpa.”

They rehearsed for an hour or more, and declared they understood their

parts perfectly.

“But you must disguise your voice more, Betty,” said Jack. “Talk as if

you had a cold in your throat.”

So Betty tried again and succeeded in achieving a hoarse, harsh whisper.

“That’ll do,” said Jack, approvingly. “Talk like that and you’ll be all

right.”

At last the first of April came, and the other girls came over to Betty’s

to start off together on their escapade.

Mrs. McGuire had been taken into the secret at the last moment, thus

having had no chance inadvertently to give a hint to the unsuspecting

victim.

She helped the three girls to make themselves look as much as possible

like full-grown young ladies. And, indeed, the fact that they all wore

long dresses and had their hair done up high so changed their appearance

that little further disguise was necessary.

Dorothy wore a tailor-made suit of her sister’s. It was of dark-blue

cloth and somewhat worn, an old one having been chosen on purpose. A

small blue straw hat, with a few roses, was very becoming, and the effect

of it, with its carefully adjusted veil, was to make her look fully

nineteen or twenty years old.

Jeanette, in a plain little black suit and white shirt-waist, looked a

very demure young lady. Her trim black hat showed no touch of color, and

her sad little face assumed a pathetic expression that made Jack laugh.

“You’ll do, Jeanette!” he exclaimed; “you’re just a picture of ‘a young

lady in reduced circumstances.’”

But Betty was the most disguised of all. This was necessary, for Mr.

Irving scarcely knew the other two girls, anyhow, and the success of the

scheme all depended on his not recognizing Betty.

She wore a plain, dark dress borrowed from Dorothy’s sister. Over this

was a long coat, rather loose and full, of tan-colored cloth.

Her hair was drawn tightly back and done in a knot, and she wore large,

dark spectacles. Already there was no resemblance left to Betty, but Mrs.

McGuire added a thick, dark-brown veil, which was draped loosely over her

face in old-fashioned style, and tied bunchily around her neck.

“He’ll never know you in the world, Betty!” declared Jack. “You’re just

all right! Now let’s hear your voice.”

“Is this Mr. Irving?” said Betty, in such hoarse, raucous tones that they

all shrieked with laughter.

“That’ll do,” said Jack, critically; “but don’t overdo it. Remember, you

don’t want Grandfather to suspect you. Now come on.”

Jack and the three girls got into the carriage and were driven to Mr.

Irving’s office in the city.

It was half-past two when they reached the building. “Just right time to

a dot,” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Go on up, Dorothy; are you

nervous?”

“Not a bit,” returned Dorothy, smiling, as she left the carriage. “Be

sure to send the others in time.”

“Trust me!” said Jack, and Dorothy entered the big building and went up

in the elevator.

She went to Mr. Irving’s offices, and was admitted by a clerk, who said

Mr. Irving was in his private office, and asked the visitor’s name.

“No name is necessary,” said Dorothy, in very grown-up tones. “I am

expected.”

She walked past the clerk and into the inner office. Mr. Irving looked at

her in perplexity as she entered.

“Miss Frances Arundel,” said Dorothy, looking a little shy, as she

approached the desk. “Didn’t you get my note?”

“Oh—’m—yes,” said Mr. Irving, hastily turning over some notes and letters

before him.

“I am a bit early,” went on Dorothy; “I wrote I would be here at three

o’clock, but I was so anxious to secure a position, I came earlier. Can

you employ me, sir?”

She looked imploringly at Mr. Irving, who, to tell the truth, had quite

forgotten the note he had received an hour or so before. He had read it

hastily and intended, when the writer came, to turn her over to his

clerk; but Dorothy’s earnest face arrested his attention, and he paused

as he was about to ring the bell for his attendant.

“You speak of Roger Arundel,” he said, glancing at the note he held in

his hand. “I never knew any one by that name.”

“You didn’t, sir?” Dorothy exclaimed, looking greatly surprised. “Why,

wasn’t he in your class at college?”

“No, he was not,” said Mr. Irving, decidedly. “What college did he

attend?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Dorothy, “but—it must have been some other

William Irving, then. But, please, can’t you find me some employment? I

am greatly in need of it!”

Mr. Irving looked at the agitated girl, and felt sorry for her.

“What can you do?” he said, not unkindly. “Have you had any experience in

clerical work?”

“Clerical work?” said Dorothy, opening her eyes. “Do you mean church

work? I belong to the Sunday-school.”

It chanced that Dorothy had never heard the word “clerical” used before,

and she imagined it referred to the clergy.

Mr. Irving bit his lips to keep from smiling.

“I mean office work,” he said; “have you ever been in an office?”

“Oh, no, sir; you see, we just lost our money lately. But I’m sure I

could learn.”

“Are you a stenographer? Can you type-write?”

“No, not either. But I can write a good hand, and I’m quick at figures.

Couldn’t I copy letters for you? I’m very tidy about my papers.”

“H’m, well, we don’t have our letters copied by hand. I’m afraid, Miss

Arundel, I can’t give you a position.”

“Oh, please, sir,”—Dorothy’s lip quivered a little,—“we’re quite poor.

Mother tried to take in sewing, but she’s ill now, and—and I’m the only

support of the family. Do let me address envelopes or something!”

Mr. Irving was very much embarrassed. He had never had an experience just

like this before. Clearly, the girl was a refined little gentlewoman, and

all unused to the business world.

He judged her to be about eighteen or twenty, and wondered what he could

do for her.

He looked over the letter again.

“You say your great-uncle spoke of me? Where is your uncle now?”

“He’s—he’s not living, sir,” said Dorothy, looking down. “And I’m sure

you’re the Mr. Irving he meant, because he said you were so

kind-hearted.”

Naturally this touched the old gentleman’s heart, and he truly wanted to

help the girl. But in his office he employed only skilled workers, and

there was no place for Dorothy.

“Bless my soul, child,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do with you!

Arundel—Roger Arundel. No, he was not in my class, but he may have been

in the college while I was there. However, I’d be glad to help you if I

could,—but I can’t think of a thing for you to do.”

“No?” said Dorothy, but with a hopeful inflection in her tone, as if

perhaps he might yet think of something.

“You see,” she went on, “I simply _must_ get work. So of course I came

here first, I felt so sure you’d help me if you could.”

“Yes—yes; of course. Now, let me see—let me see. You say you’re good at

figures?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, suppose you try adding up these columns.”

Mr. Irving took down a book of accounts, and opened it at random.

“Here now, here now,” he said, “don’t put your figures on the page; they

may be wrong. Add these columns on a separate sheet of paper—so—and let

me think what I can do for you.”

Dorothy took the pad of paper and the pencil he gave her, and going to a

seat at a side-table, she began to add. So excited was she over the way

the plan was working, she could scarcely see the figures at all, but she

added away industriously, now and then peeping at Mr. Irving.

He was intently studying the note, and occasionally he would look off

into space, as if trying to recall Mr. Roger Arundel!

In a few moments the door opened, and the office boy said: “A lady to see

you, sir.”

“What name?” said Mr. Irving.

“Here it is, sir; she just wrote it on this paper.”

Mr. Irving took the paper from the boy, and read on it, “Miss Frances

Arundel.” He gave a start and glanced at Dorothy. She was looking at him

with horror-stricken face, and just then Jeanette came in at the door,

closing it behind her, and leaving the office boy outside.

Jeanette looked quietly at Mr. Irving, and said:

“Did you get my letter?”

“I got a letter from Frances Arundel, yes,” said the old gentleman, who

was fast getting bewildered.

“I wrote it,” said Jeanette, calmly. “I hope you can give me some work to

do.”

“You wrote it!” said Mr. Irving. “Then who is that lady there?”

Jeanette turned a casual glance at Dorothy.

“I don’t understand you, sir,” she said; “are you asking me who that lady

is? Isn’t she your secretary or something?”

“She says she’s Frances Arundel,” said Mr. Irving, grimly.

“What!” cried Jeanette; “what nonsense! _I_ am Frances Arundel. I wrote

that letter you hold in your hand, and I have called to see if you can

give me a position.”

“You wrote this letter?”

“Of course I did. I also wrote on the paper which I just gave to your

office boy. If you will compare the two, you’ll find them the same

penmanship.”

This seemed sensible enough, and Mr. Irving looked at both papers, and as

Jeanette had written the letter, a glance was sufficient to show that

they were indeed by the same hand.

“What does this mean?” said Mr. Irving, looking sternly at Dorothy.

“Forgive me,” pleaded the little rogue, looking very sad and remorseful;

“I oughtn’t to have done it, I know, but I overheard this lady in the

street-car saying she was coming to see you to-day, to ask you for a

position, so I thought I’d come ahead of her, and—and—maybe I could get

it. I need it more than she does.”

Dorothy cast a beseeching glance at Jeanette, who returned it with a

haughty look.

“I can’t help what she needs,” said Jeanette, turning away from Dorothy,

who was pretending to be almost weeping. “I came to ask you for a

position, not out of charity, but because my uncle was your chum at

college, and—”

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Irving; “I never heard of Roger Arundel.”

“Oh, you must have forgotten him, then,” said Jeanette, tossing her head,

as if it were a matter of no moment. “But I’d like a position all the

same. I’m a competent secretary, and can give satisfaction, I’m sure.”

Mr. Irving was at his wits’ end. He looked at the two young

ladies—Dorothy crumpling her handkerchief into her eyes, and looking very

forlorn and pathetic; Jeanette rather haughty and dignified, with an air

of standing her ground in spite of the impostor who was trying to take

her place.

“You are experienced, you say?” he said, turning to Jeanette, and

thinking that, if she were indeed competent, he might find a place for

her.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, taking off her gloves; “shall I go right to

work?”

“Oh, bless my soul, no!” cried the flurried old gentleman. “I haven’t

engaged you yet. I don’t do things on the jump like that. Look here,

Miss—you first one—what’s your name?”

“Mary Crane,” said Dorothy, saying the first name that came into her

head, and feeling that she couldn’t keep up the game much longer.

“Well, Miss Mary Crane, you go on with your adding, and I’ll look into

your case later. It seems to me you were pretty sharp to pick up

information on a street-car and put it to use so quickly! Did you

overhear all that Arundel business, too?”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Dorothy, who was, in truth, nearly choking with

laughter.

“Well, you’re a quick-witted young person, whatever else you may be. Now

you go on and add. Miss Arundel, I’ll talk with you. You say you’ve had

experience. Where have you worked?”

Jeanette looked blank. This question had not been in her rehearsals, and

she was not as quick at invention as Dorothy. While she hesitated, the

door opened again, and Betty walked in unannounced. She closed the door

behind her, and said, in a hoarse whisper:

“Mr. Irving, I am Miss Arundel. I called to see you in hopes you could

give me employment of some sort.”

“Three of ’em!” exclaimed Mr. Irving. “Bless my soul!” And he sat

helplessly looking at the three girls.

He had no suspicion of Betty’s identity, for her long garments and thick

veil and dark glasses were a complete disguise.

The other two he had seen but once or twice, and of course did not

recognize them in grown-up attire.

Not a notion of a “joke” entered his mind, but he was mystified by what

appeared to be a most extraordinary situation.

“You are Miss Frances Arundel?” he said, looking directly at Betty.

“Yes, sir,” she replied hoarsely, but steadily. “I came to see you

about—”

“I have your note,” said Mr. Irving, the paper being still in his hand.

“I didn’t write you any note,” said Betty, in well-feigned surprise. “I

just came in now, hoping I’d find you in, because I wanted to ask you—”

“For employment, because I used to know your Uncle Roger!” Mr. Irving

almost shouted.

“Yes,” said Betty, seemingly pleased, “but how did you know about Uncle

Roger?”

“I tell you I have your note.”

“And I tell you I wrote no note. Let me see it, please.”

Betty scanned the letter, and then said, very gravely:

“Mr. Irving, I didn’t write that. Some impostor must have represented

me.”

“Two of them, in fact,” said Mr. Irving; “here they are.”

Betty looked at Dorothy and Jeanette, seeming to notice them for the

first time.

“Oh, I understand,” she said angrily; “these two young women sat behind

me in the street-car, and they must have overheard my conversation with a

friend to whom I confided my plan of coming to you. Did they claim to be

Miss Arundel? Which of them did?”

“Both!” said Mr. Irving, who had grown deeply interested in the queer

affair. “They must have deceived each other as well as yourself.”

Dorothy and Jeanette were the personification of discovered culprits.

Dorothy’s face was buried in her handkerchief, and she shook

convulsively, apparently with sobs, but really with suppressed laughter.

Jeanette looked crestfallen, but still haughty and independent. Her

manner seemed to say that she had been discovered, but she was ready to

face the consequences.

“I own up,” she said, as Mr. Irving seemed to want an explanation. “This

other young lady and myself overheard Miss Arundel, and we both tried to

get the position ahead of her. I’m sorry we failed.”

Jeanette’s high and mighty air was almost too much for Betty, but, as a

spasm of laughter seized her, she managed to turn it into a fit of

coughing.

“I have a fearful cold,” she said, still whispering hoarsely, “but it

will be better soon. Did you say you had a position for me? I need money

very much and I know you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Bless my soul! I don’t know!” exclaimed poor Mr. Irving, who was totally

bewildered now by the trio of poverty-stricken girls. “I don’t give out

positions. My assistants do that. What do you want, anyhow?”

A short pause followed this sentence, and then, throwing off her veil

with one hand, and pulling off her glasses with the other, Betty cried:

“I want a hat, Grandpa! I want a hat!”

“Bless my soul!” gasped Mr. Irving, dropping back into his chair.

“_Betty!_ bless my soul!” and then, as the other girls took off their

veils and broke into bursts of laughter, Betty snatched up the desk

calendar, which stood at April 1, and held it before her grandfather’s

dazed eyes.

Rapidly, then, it dawned upon him. The laughing girls, the date of April

1, and Betty’s demand for a hat, were the missing links to a full

understanding of it all.

“A perfect success, Betty!” cried Jack, coming up to the jolly group when

he heard the laughter.

“Was it!” cried Betty; “_was_ it, Grandpa?”

“You scamp!” he cried; “you rogue! you mischief!” and seizing Betty, he

kissed her rosy cheeks in hearty appreciation of her clever practical

joke.

“Well, I should say it was!” exclaimed Mr. Irving, who was, as Mrs.

McGuire had prophesied, quite as much pleased with the whole thing as

were the jokers themselves. Then Dorothy and Jeanette were greatly

complimented on their pretty acting; and Jack, as his share of the

performance was explained, also received commendation from the old

gentleman.

“The very best joke ever!” Mr. Irving exclaimed, going off again and

again in peals of laughter. “How did you get in, Betty? I’ve given orders

to admit no one when I’m busy.”

“Oh, I just told them I was Betty,” she replied. “The boy looked at me

suspiciously at first, but when I spoke without my ‘cold,’ of course he

knew me!”

“You little witch! Nobody ever tricked me before! Now, you, each of you,

and Jack too, can get the very best hats you can find in Boston and send

the bill to me.”

“Oh, goody, Grandpa, that will be great fun!” cried Betty. “But you go

with us, won’t you, to pick them out?”

“Yes, I’ll go right now.”

“No; we can’t go in these rigs. But we’ll hurry home and put on our own

frocks; then we’ll come back here for you, and we’ll all go hatting.”

“Very well; don’t be long.”

“No, sir; we’ll be back in half an hour.”

And so they were.

VII

THE GREEN PAPER DOLL

“Oh, Betty, I’m so upset!” exclaimed Dorothy Bates, as she came into the

McGuire library one afternoon in early May.

“What’s the matter, Dotty?” asked Betty. “The party isn’t off, is it?”

“No; we’re to go, all right; but Jeanette can’t go. She has such a cold,

her mother won’t let her go away from home. And I’ve just come from

there. She really is ill; isn’t it too bad?”

“Yes, indeed it is! We would have had such a lovely time, all together.”

“Well, we’ll go, anyhow. And, Betty, as Irene expects three of us, I

think it would be nice to ask some one to go in Jeanette’s place. I’d

like to ask Constance Harper, but I know you don’t like her very much.”

“Oh, I like Constance well enough, but she doesn’t like me.”

“Well, whichever way it is, you two never seem to get along very well

together. But who else is there?”

Betty hesitated a minute, then she said:

“I’d like to ask Martha Taylor.”

“Martha! Why, Betty, nobody likes Martha. And well—you know Martha, poor

girl, has to count every penny, and—and she never seems quite at her

ease—not that that’s anything against her, but she wouldn’t have pretty

dresses and hats, and the people at Halstead House are often dressy and

gay.”

“I know it; but if Martha doesn’t mind that, we needn’t. And, Dorothy,

you don’t know Martha as well as I do. She never has any good times, and

it’s that that makes her shy and awkward. Oh, do ask her to go with us,

if only for my sake.”

“Betty, what a queer girl you are! I like Martha well enough, but I don’t

believe she’ll go with us. I’ll ask her, though, as you’re so set upon

it.”

“What’s this enthusiastic discussion all about?” asked Mrs. McGuire,

pausing at the library door, as she was passing through the hall.

“Oh, Mother, come in!” cried Betty. “What do you think? Jeanette is quite

ill and she can’t go with us to the house-party at Irene Halstead’s.”

“That is too bad; I’m very sorry. Shall you ask any one in her place,

Dorothy?”

“That’s just what we’re talking about, Mrs. McGuire. Betty thinks it

would be nice to ask Martha Taylor, but I don’t think she quite fits in.”

“But think how she’d enjoy it! Martha almost never gets invited to a

lovely outing like this one you have in prospect. Why, she’d be overjoyed

to go.”

“Yes’m, I s’pose she would,” admitted Dorothy; “but she’s—she’s so

bashful, you know.”

“That’s mostly because you girls slight her. Now you’ve a fine

opportunity to give her a pleasure, do it, and do it heartily and kindly.

Let her feel that you really want her to go with you.”

“Yes, do,” said Betty; “and, truly, Dot, if you ask her as if you wanted

her, and if you treat her cordially, you’ll be surprised to see how gay

and jolly Martha will be.”

“All right,” said Dorothy, agreeably; “I really do like her, and I’ll do

my best. Come on, Betty, let’s go and ask her now.”

Betty whisked away, and returned in a few minutes with her hat on, ready

to start. It was but a short walk through the bright May sunshine to

Martha’s house, and they found her in the garden, watering some flower

seeds she had just planted.

“Hello, Martha!” called the two girls, and she came running to meet them.

“Come, sit on the veranda,” she said; “it’s so pleasant there. I’m glad

you came to see me.”

“We’ve come to invite you to a party,” said Dorothy, plunging into the

subject at once.

“A party!” exclaimed Martha. “Where?”

“Oh, Martha,” cried Betty, “it’s more than a party—it’s a house-party! At

a lovely country place,—Dorothy’s cousin’s,—and we’re to stay from

Wednesday till Saturday! Isn’t that grand?”

It was so grand that Martha could scarcely realize it.

“I go?” she said. “For three whole days! Oh! what a party!”

“Yes, it’s going to be lovely,” said Dorothy. “A May party on Friday, and

lots of picnics and things on the other days. Will you go with us,

Martha?”

“Indeed, I will! I’m sure Mother’ll let me. But, girls, I don’t know if

my clothes are good enough for such a grand place.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Betty. “Don’t think about that. Just come on and have a

good time, and never mind what you wear.”

Mrs. Taylor was delighted to have Martha go with the other girls, and at

once set about furbishing up her wardrobe as best she could.

And, indeed, when at last the day came to start, Martha, in her trim,

neat traveling-suit, looked almost as well dressed as the other two. They

were to travel in charge of Mr. Halstead, Dorothy’s uncle, who was

returning to his country home after a short business trip to Boston.

He was a genial, affable sort of man, but after a little kindly

conversation he left the girls to entertain themselves, and became

absorbed in his paper.

Martha was as happy as a bird. The prospect of the good time coming

seemed to transform her, and she was so gay and merry that Dorothy

concluded she had misjudged her, and that Betty was right about her.

When they at last reached Halstead House, Irene was on the veranda to

greet them.

She kissed her cousin Dorothy and greeted her warmly, and then welcomed

the other two as Dorothy introduced them.

Neither Betty nor Martha had ever met Irene before, but Mrs. Halstead had

written for Dorothy to bring two friends with her, and so the girls were

at once made welcome.

Two other girls were visiting Irene, so the house-party numbered six

young people, and a gay flock they were. Maude Miller and Ethel Caswell

were from New York, and proved to be pleasant and kindly, so Martha was

not shy or embarrassed, and soon the half-dozen were chatting away like

old friends.

Halstead House was a large colonial mansion with innumerable rooms and

wide porches and gardens.

Irene was the eldest child, and there were also a small boy and a baby

girl of three. The little Daisy reminded Betty of Baby Polly, and she

made friends with her at once.

Friday was Irene’s birthday, and in honor of it there was to be a May

party, with a May-queen, May-pole, and all the traditional features. Of

course this was the principal event of their visit, but the six girls

managed to have a lot of fun besides. There was a lake on which to row, a

pony-cart to drive, tennis-courts, croquet-grounds, and everything that

could make country life pleasant.

On Thursday afternoon the girls decided to walk down to the village.

It was a pleasant walk along shady roads, and in a short time they found

themselves in the tiny hamlet, with its little post-office and two or

three small shops.

Martha had been in especially gay spirits all the way. She had laughed

and joked until Dorothy began to feel she had reason to be proud of her

merry friend instead of ashamed of her.

But Betty looked at Martha curiously. She couldn’t quite understand her

to-day. Several times Martha had started to say something to Betty, and

then stopped, as if afraid the others would hear.

“What is it, Martha?” asked Betty, at last, dropping a little behind the

others. “What are you trying to say?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Martha, turning red and looking embarrassed. Then, as

if with a sudden determined effort, she turned to the whole group and

said:

“Will you—won’t you—all come in and have ice-cream with me?”

It was a pleasant invitation, but Martha stammered so and seemed so

nervous about it that Irene hesitated before replying. Betty hesitated,

too, for she knew that Martha had little, if any, spending-money, and she

wondered at this unexpected hospitality.

But Martha turned pleading eyes upon her.

“Make them come, Betty!” she said. “I’d be so glad if they would.”

“Come on, girls,” said Betty. “Indeed, Martha, we’re very glad to accept

your invitation; it’s so warm and dusty.”

Dorothy, though mystified at Martha’s sudden rôle of Lady Bountiful, took

her cue from Betty and said:

“Oh, how lovely! I’m just famishing for ice-cream.”

The others accepted gracefully, too, and they all went into the latticed

inclosure where ice-cream was sold. There were many little tables and

chairs, and pushing two tables together, the girls all sat round, and

Martha asked each one to choose her favorite flavor.

Martha looked very happy and a little excited; her cheeks were red and

her eyes bright, and Betty thought she had never seen her look so pretty.

“Aren’t we having a good time?” said Ethel Caswell, as they slowly ate

the refreshing dainty.

“Yes, indeed,” said Maude Miller. “It’s my turn to treat next. Let’s come

down here again to-morrow morning, and I’ll buy the ice-cream.”

“All right,” agreed the others, and Betty and Dorothy secretly resolved

to find some pleasant way to do their share of the “treating.” Martha

beamed with pleasure to think she had been the one to start a round of

merry times, and, as an additional touch to their present feast, she

ordered some small cakes. Betty and Dorothy looked frankly astonished,

for it was an expensive little place, and they wondered if Martha knew

how much her “spread” would cost.

But Martha smiled so gaily that they couldn’t offer any remonstrance, and

the pretty cakes were brought and enjoyed by all.

When at last the little feast was over, the check was brought and handed

to Martha. Betty didn’t see the amount, but she saw that again Martha

turned scarlet and looked embarrassed. But, with an air of endeavoring to

look unconcerned, she drew a crisp, new five-dollar bill from her purse,

and then, receiving her change, she put it away with the same elaborate

carelessness, not stopping to separate the notes from the silver.

“Whatever is the matter with Martha?” thought Betty. “She’s trying to act

a part, I think.”

Back walked the merry half-dozen girls to beautiful Halstead House, and

grouped themselves on the veranda to wait for dinner-time.

“Let’s build air-castles,” said Irene. “What would yours be, Betty?”

“Do you mean that _could_ be real, or _couldn’t_?”

“Yes, that could be real, but aren’t likely to be, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Betty, promptly. “Well, I’d be a princess, with

golden hair all twined with pearls; and a long white satin train, with

little page-boys holding it; and slaves fanning me with long

peacock-feather fans.”

“My, how fine!” said Dorothy, “but it’s too story-booky for me. My

air-castle is just to travel all over the world—not by any magic, but

just travel in real cars and boats, and see all the countries there are.”

“I think that’s a nice air-castle,” commented Irene. “What’s yours,

Ethel?”

“Oh, I’d like to be famous; a great celebrity, you know. I don’t care

whether it’s in the musical or artistic or literary line. But I’d like to

feel, and to have other people feel, that I’d done something grand.”

“I don’t believe you ever will,” said Maude, laughing. “Now, my

air-castle is awfully prosaic. I’d like to be a nurse.”

“Oh, what a funny air-castle!” exclaimed Martha. “How can you like to be

mixed up with sickness and medicines and such things?”

“That’s just what I should like. And then to feel that I was helping to

make people well! Oh, I think that’s fine!”

“Yes, I s’pose it is,” said Martha. “Mine isn’t so noble; I’d just like

to be at the head of a big house—about like this—and have a lot of money.

Not a great fortune, but just enough to entertain my friends and give

them good times—just as Mrs. Halstead does.”

“That’s very pretty, my dear,” said Mrs. Halstead herself, who had just

stepped out on the veranda to summon the young people to dinner. And

again Martha became embarrassed and blushed rosy red, as Mrs. Halstead

smiled at her kindly.

The next day was fair and beautiful, a perfect day for a May party.

“It’s a few days past the first of May, which is the real May-day,” said

Mrs. Halstead, at breakfast, “but as it’s Irene’s birthday, we thought

we’d celebrate it by a May party. So it’s an afternoon affair, from four

to seven, and we’ll have a May-pole dance to wind up with.”

“And a May-queen?” asked Betty. “Queen Irene, of course.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Halstead, “Irene will be queen, as it’s her party. And

all you girls must be ladies-in-waiting. You may make wreaths for

yourselves and trim your dresses with flowers or garlands any way you

choose. Now, scamper, and don’t bother me, for I’ve lots of things to

attend to.”

“Mayn’t we help you, Mrs. Halstead?” asked Betty.

“No, my dear. There’s really nothing you could do to help. Indeed, you’ll

assist me most by entertaining yourselves.”

“All right,” said Ethel. “As Maude has invited us to go to town with her,

we’ll have that to entertain us this morning.”

But as they walked out of the dining-room and through the broad hall,

Maude said:

“I’ll have to take back my invitation, girls. I’m not going to take you

to get ice-cream this morning.”

“Why not?” cried Ethel, impulsively, and then, as they all saw that Maude

did not smile, they felt rather uncomfortable.

For a few moments nobody spoke, and then Betty, to change the subject,

said:

“All right; let’s play tennis, then.”

But there was a constraint over them all, and no one knew exactly why.

To be sure, it was strange for Maude to invite them to go for ice-cream,

and then to recall her invitation so suddenly. But they each felt there

was more than that in the air, and Maude looked so disturbed that it

seemed there must be something serious the matter.

So strong was the conviction that it would prove embarrassing, that Betty

repressed her inclination to invite the girls to take ice-cream with

_her_ instead of Maude.

Instinctively she felt she had better not do this, and so she proposed

tennis instead.

Half-heartedly they went for their rackets, and as they went toward the

courts, Irene and Maude fell behind and talked in whispers. Then they

turned and went back to the house.

The other four went on, and had nearly finished a set of tennis when the

two rejoined them.

Maude looked angry, and Irene looked as if she had been crying, but no

questions were asked, and no information was offered as to the cause.

“Take my racket,” said Betty to Maude, “and play a set with Martha. I’d

just as lief sit and watch you.”

“No, thank you,” said Maude. “I don’t care to play.”

Betty looked up suddenly at this, and saw Maude give Martha a

contemptuous glance and turn away.

Martha turned red and looked dismayed, as she well might at such a

speech.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Betty, ready to take up the cudgels for

Martha, if need be.

“Never you mind,” said Maude. “Martha knows what I mean!”

“I don’t!” stammered Martha, choking with mortification at being thus

spoken to.

“Oh, yes, you do!” said Maude. “I’m very much obliged for your

_ice-cream_!”

“Betty, what does she mean?” cried Martha, turning helplessly toward her

friend.

“She doesn’t mean anything,” said Irene, looking angrily at Maude.

“Mother told you to wait.”

Maude turned sullen, and refused to say anything. Betty looked mystified,

but wasn’t sure whether she ought to insist on an explanation or not.

She had been responsible for bringing Martha, and if Maude didn’t like

her, it was unfortunate, but to discuss it might only make matters worse.

Dorothy, with her ready tact, came to the rescue. “You four play,” she

said, throwing down her racket, “and Maude and I will go for a row on the

lake.”

Maude brightened up at this, and Betty concluded that she had been merely

ill-tempered over nothing, after all.

“I’m going to tell you,” said Maude to Dorothy, as they pushed out on the

lake, “but I promised Mrs. Halstead I wouldn’t say anything to Martha

about it. I’ve lost five dollars, and I can’t help thinking she took it.”

“Who? Mrs. Halstead?”

“Mercy, no! Martha.”

“Never! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, didn’t you notice that new five-dollar bill she paid for the

ice-cream with?”

“Yes.”

“It was exactly like mine. You see, I had a new, crisp bill that Father

gave me to spend while I was here. And when we went to town yesterday, I

thought I wouldn’t take it for fear I’d lose it. And Martha, or somebody,

must have taken it, for when I got home it was gone.”

“I don’t believe Martha took it.”

“Who else could have done it? Mrs. Halstead says she knows her servants

didn’t take it. She’s had them for years, and they’re perfectly honest.

And you know how queerly Martha acted while she was paying for the

ice-cream. She doesn’t have much money, does she?”

“No,” said Dorothy, reluctantly.

“Then how would she happen to have a new five-dollar bill just like mine,

all of a sudden? And why would she act so embarrassed and queer about

treating us to ice-cream?”

“Martha loves to treat,” said Dorothy, a little lamely. “But I’m sure she

never took it,” she added doggedly. “I’m going to ask her.”

“No, you mustn’t. Mrs. Halstead said she’d make up the loss to me, but we

must not speak to Martha about it. Of course I won’t take five dollars

from Mrs. Halstead, but I promised I wouldn’t tell Martha that she took

it.”

“You were very ‘uppish’ to her, though!”

“Well, who wouldn’t be? That bill was on the table in my bedroom, and

Martha was in the room after I was. And when I came home, it was gone.”

“You were very careless to leave it on the table.”

“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t want to take it with me, so I stuck it behind a

picture that stands on the table. Nobody would have seen it, but Martha

knew it was there; she was in the room when I put it there.”

“Maybe it blew off the table.”

“It might have, but I’ve looked all over the room everywhere.”

Dorothy sat silent. She hadn’t wanted Martha to come, but Betty had

coaxed her into it, and this was the result.

“Well,” she said at last, “I’m going to tell Betty about it, anyway. I

know she’ll think as I do, that Martha couldn’t have done such a thing.”

“No, don’t tell Betty.”

“Yes, you will tell Betty, too!” said a voice, and looking up, the two

girls saw Betty looking at them. The boat had drifted near shore, and

Betty beckoned to them to come in.

“Now, you tell me what it’s all about,” she said, as they landed. “I’m

not going to be kept out of it any longer.”

When Betty spoke like that, her comrades usually obeyed her.

Half scared at Betty’s frowning face, Maude told her story.

“What foolishness!” said Betty, as she finished. “Martha could no more

take a penny that didn’t belong to her than I could!”

“Then what made her act so flustered when she invited us to have

ice-cream and when she paid for it?” demanded Maude.

“I don’t know,” said Betty.

“And where would she get a new five-dollar bill all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know,” said Betty.

“And where is my bill?” wound up Maude, triumphantly, and again Betty was

forced to reply, “I don’t know.”

“But all the same,” she went on, “Martha didn’t take it! And I’ll prove

it somehow!”

“You can’t prove it unless you find my bill.”

“Then I’ll find your bill!”

“You can’t; I’ve hunted everywhere for it.”

“Well, I _will_ find it, and I’ll make you take back all you’ve said

about Martha.”

“I’m sure I’d be glad to,” said Maude, staring at Betty’s angry face;

“I’ve no wish to make her seem dishonest if she isn’t.”

“I’ll clear this matter up!” exclaimed Betty, “and then you’ll feel sorry

for what you’ve said. And first I’ll go and tell Martha, and let her

speak for herself.”

“No, you mustn’t do that! Mrs. Halstead forbade us to mention it to

Martha.”

“All right; then I’ll take Martha and go straight to Mrs. Halstead and

let her tell her.”

“But you can’t now, for Mrs. Halstead is superintending the May-pole. The

carpenters are putting it up, and she asked us to keep away.”

“Well, I’ve got to do something! I can’t rest till Martha is cleared.

Poor Martha! I don’t see how anybody could think such a thing of her!”

Betty put her arm through Dorothy’s, and they went on ahead, leaving

Maude to follow alone.

“Betty,” said Dorothy, “we know Martha never has spending-money. And for

that to be a new bill that she had yesterday does look queer. And she did

act awfully funny about it all.”

“I know it, Dorothy,” said Betty, in a tone of despair; “I think it looks

awfully queer. But I wouldn’t own up to Maude that I thought so. And,

even if it does look queer, I won’t believe Martha took Maude’s money

unless she tells me so herself—so there, now!”

Betty had unconsciously raised her voice in her indignation, and as they

turned a corner of the path, they came upon the other girls, sitting on a

settee, waiting for them.

“What are you saying, Betty?” asked Martha, her face perfectly white.

There was no blushing embarrassment now; Martha looked horrified, and

even incredulous, but she was calm and self-possessed. Betty quite forgot

what Maude had said of Mrs. Halstead’s orders, and spoke right out to

Martha.

“Martha,” she said, “did you see Maude take some money out of her purse

and lay it on her table yesterday?”

“Yes, I did,” said Martha.

“Did you take it from the table—to—to put it in a safer place—or

anything?”

“No, of course I didn’t! Why should I?”

“Well, it wasn’t a very safe place,” began Betty.

“I should say it wasn’t!” exclaimed Maude.

“Well, I didn’t touch it!” said Martha. “What are you talking about,

Betty?”

“Then where did you get that new five-dollar bill you spent yesterday?”

burst out Maude, unable to control her tongue.

Martha looked at her.

“Do you mean to say that you’ve been thinking that was _your_ money?” she

said, in a low, scared sort of voice.

“Yes, I do!” declared Maude.

“Oh, oh! I didn’t, didn’t! Betty, Betty, what _shall_ I do!” and Martha

burst into a fit of crying which nothing could stop.

“Now, you see,” said Betty, as she caressed her weeping friend. “Please

all leave her to me.”

The others went away a little shamefacedly, while Betty remained with

Martha. She waited until the first bursts of sobs were over, and then she

said:

“Now, Martha, brace up. I know and you know you didn’t take her old bill,

but we’ve got to prove it.”

“How can we prove it?” asked Martha, between her sobs, as she dabbed her

eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, Betty, I wish I hadn’t come!”

“So shall I, if you act like this. Cheer up, I tell you, and help me, and

we’ll fix this matter right yet.”

“How brave you are!” said Martha, looking up at Betty’s determined face.

“Somebody’s got to be, and you won’t,” said Betty, smiling. “Now tell me

everything you know about Maude’s money.”

“I don’t know anything, except what she told you. I was sitting by the

table when she stuck it behind the picture. I thought it was a funny

place to put it, but I didn’t say so. I wouldn’t have been so careless

with my bill.”

“Where did you get your bill, Martha?”

“Uncle Fred gave it to me on Christmas. He said to save it until I was

sure I’d thought of the thing I’d like best to buy with it. And I was

_sure_ I’d rather treat you all to ice-cream than to buy anything for

myself. Oh, Betty, I do love to be hospitable to people, and I never have

a chance! And when the chance really came, I was so glad and so happy

about it, that it made me rather fidgety and embarrassed.”

“You dear thing!” cried Betty, kissing her. “And then to think of how

they’ve spoiled your little ice-cream party! Well, go on; then did you

stay in Maude’s room after she left it?”

“Only a minute, to say good-by to little Bobby Halstead. He was playing

around there, and he’s such a cunning little chap.”

“_Bobby!_ I’ve an idea! Now you stay right here till I come back! Don’t

you move!”

Betty flew into the house and went in search of four-year-old Bobby. She

found him in his nursery, mounted upon his black hobby-horse.

“Tell me, deary,” she said, “when you were in Maude’s room yesterday, did

you see any money around?”

“Pennies?” asked Bobby.

“No, not pennies. Paper money. Green money.”

“Ess, green paper, but not moneys. I cutted out a paper dolly; see! It’s

not vewey good ’cause my sissiz was dull.”

Bobby dived down into a box, and produced a queer-shaped paper doll which

was surely cut from a five-dollar bill!

Betty’s eyes danced, but she only said quietly:

“Where did you find the green paper, deary?”

“In ve was’e-bastick,” said the child; “I can always have what’s in ve

was’e-basticks. Muvver said I could.”

“Yes, of course you can. That’s all right. But lend this dolly to Betty,

won’t you? Just for a little while?”

“Ess, I will,” and the child gave it up willingly enough.

Back ran Betty with her prize.

“There!” she cried, triumphantly waving the five-dollar doll above her

head. “I told you Martha didn’t know anything about Maude’s money. It

must have blown from the table into the waste-basket, and Bobby picked it

out.”

“Oh—I do—remember!” said Maude, slowly, “the waste-basket was upset when

I came home! So I looked through all the scraps carefully, but of course

I didn’t find it. I’m awfully sorry, Martha,—truly I am,—more sorry than

I can say! I don’t suppose you can ever forgive me.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” said Martha, smiling through her tears.

“I’m going to forgive you, too, Maude,” said Betty; “but it will take me

a little while. I am afraid it will be half an hour before I can feel

toward you as if you hadn’t done this.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Maude, contritely; “but, Betty, I didn’t know

Martha as you did, and it _did_ look queer.”

“Yes, that’s so,” conceded Betty. “I think I’ll get over it in a

_quarter_ of an hour.”

She did, and when it was time for the May party, the late unpleasantness

was ignored by all, if not entirely forgotten.

Mr. Halstead gave Maude a five-dollar bill to replace the one his son had

spoiled, and he then also presented her with the green paper doll, as a

reminder not to trust too much to appearances.

VIII

THE CHAPLET OF HONOR

As soon as June had fairly dawned upon the calendar, the girls of Miss

Whittier’s school began to prepare for closing day.

It was customary to give an evening entertainment, in which all the

pupils took part.

“This year,” Miss Whittier announced to the class, “I have a very

delightful plan, of which I will now tell you. It is not exactly a play,

but a little staged allegory which I am sure you will all think very

attractive.”

Betty listened eagerly, for “staged allegory” sounded rather dry and

poky, and yet it might turn out to be fun after all.

“Sounds like ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’” whispered Dorothy, who sat next her,

and Betty’s imagination immediately saw all the girls with packs on their

backs, climbing the Hill of Difficulty. But Miss Whittier went on to

reveal her plan.

“It is called ‘Honor Chaplet,’” she said, “and it represents all the

women who have done praiseworthy deeds presenting their claims for the

Chaplet of Honor, which is to be awarded to the one who best merits it.

Of course the characters represent women of all time who have become

famous for great deeds or noble efforts.”

Betty’s head gave a nod of satisfaction. The whole plan appealed to her,

for it meant “dressing up,” and she dearly loved to wear fancy costumes.

“We will have a pretty stage,” said Miss Whittier, who on occasions like

this talked sociably with her pupils, “and I’m sure you will all be

willing to help with the work of decorating it.”

“Yes, indeed,” and “We will,” said the girls, and then Constance Harper

asked:

“Who are the characters, Miss Whittier? Will you tell us now?”

Reading from some papers she held, Miss Whittier named about thirty

celebrated women, including Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, Pocahontas, Grace

Darling, Florence Nightingale, Isabella of Spain, Joan of Arc, Queen

Victoria, Barbara Frietchie, Rosa Bonheur, and many others well known to

history or tradition.

“I think,” she went on, “you may each select the character you prefer.

If, by chance, two choose the same one, we can easily adjust matters

afterward. I will distribute papers, and you may each write your own

name, followed by the character you choose.”

“While we’re doing that, won’t you tell us a little more about the play,

Miss Whittier?” said Dorothy Bates.

“The plot, if it can be called a plot, is simple. One girl must represent

the Goddess of Honor. She will stand on a pedestal, and hear the claims

of the various celebrities. She will wear a classic costume, and will

have a chaplet of bay to bestow on the successful one. She will be

attended by four allegorical figures, representing War and Peace, Art and

Wisdom. These girls will also wear classic draperies, and look as much as

possible like statues. The other characters will, of course, wear

costumes suited to their personalities.”

“And is there any dialogue?” asked another pupil.

“Yes; each character makes a short speech, setting forth her claims to

honor and glory. This seems a little ostentatious,” Miss Whittier smiled,

“but that is the way the play is written. Then, finally, the Goddess

awards the chaplet to the one she deems most worthy.”

“And which one is that?” asked Betty.

“I won’t tell that yet,” said Miss Whittier, smiling; “I’ll not divulge

that secret until you have all chosen your parts, for, naturally, you

would each desire the one who will receive this crown.”

This seemed sensible to Betty, and she began to consider what part she

would like to take.

Miss Whittier had a full list of names written on the blackboard, that

all might see them, and Betty studied them with care.

The four allegorical figures did not appeal to her at all. It would be no

fun to stand, perhaps on a pedestal, draped about with Greek togas, or

whatever statues wore, and not even a red sash by way of coloring!

The Goddess of Honor was, of course, the most desirable, and Betty almost

decided to write that against her name. But, she reflected, it was

doubtful if Miss Whittier would think her well suited for that. A goddess

ought to be tall and fair and statuesque, and Betty was anything but

that. Her round Irish face and somewhat tilted nose and rosy cheeks were

far from classic in type. And, anyhow, probably some one else would

choose that one who would be much better fitted for the part. So Betty

carefully considered the other names. Pocahontas and Queen Elizabeth both

attracted her. She did not look particularly like an Indian maiden, nor

yet like an English queen, but as she glanced around the room, she saw no

one that looked more so than she; at least, no one looked like Queen

Elizabeth, though some of the slim, straight-haired girls might make a

better Indian.

But, as she gazed, Betty decided that looks would not have much to do

with it. The girls must depend on their costumes to represent the

character they assumed.

And so Betty hesitated between the two she liked.

Queen Elizabeth would be grand! In fancy, she saw herself in a stiff,

quilted satin petticoat, and long, heavy train of crimson velvet, edged

with ermine; a huge ruff round her neck, and a gorgeous gilt crown! This

would be fine. Yet there was something very attractive about the idea of

Pocahontas; an Indian costume trimmed with gay fringes and beads; leather

leggings, and tall quill-feathers sticking up round her head; a bow and

arrow, perhaps, and a quiver slung from one shoulder! Yes, it was

enticing, but the Queen’s costume was grander and even more enticing in

color and glitter. So Betty wrote her own name, and then wrote “Queen

Elizabeth” below it, and the papers were all gathered up.

Miss Whittier dismissed the girls then, and said she would tell them

definitely the next day what character each should have, and, moreover,

she asked them not to tell any one about the entertainment, nor to tell

each other what rôle they had chosen. So, as the girls were conscientious

in these matters, they did not tell each other what parts they wished to

take, but many and eager discussions were held about the details of the

great occasion.

Betty told her mother of the choice she had made, as the pledge of

secrecy did not include mothers.

Mrs. McGuire smiled at the idea of Betty robed as Queen Elizabeth, but

she said:

“Well, at any rate, you look quite as much like Elizabeth as any of the

other girls. And we’ll fix up a fine costume for you. I’ll find a picture

of the Queen in her most gorgeous robes, and we’ll have it copied as

nearly as possible.”

“And I must have a lot of jewels!” said Betty, clasping her hands

ecstatically at the thought of such grandeur.

“Yes,” said Mrs. McGuire; “you may wear my necklace, and perhaps Grandma

will lend you some large old-fashioned brooches. I think we need not be

so very particular as to their being really of the Elizabethan period.”

“Oh, no; any glittery things will do. I think we ought to try some

necklaces of big imitation gems.”

“Perhaps we shall! At any rate, we’ll copy the picture as nearly as we

can.”

“And it will be a gorgeous costume, won’t it? Oh, I’m glad now I didn’t

choose Pocahontas!”

“What sort of speech do you have to make, Betty?”

“I don’t know, Mother. Miss Whittier has them, all type-written, and she

will give them to us soon, she said. But I’ll not have any trouble to

learn it. I can learn things to recite so easily.”

“Yes, your memory is wonderful. And I suppose one of the teachers will

train you.”

“Yes, in gestures and expression. Oh, Mother, won’t it be fun?”

“Yes, girlie? I know it’s just the sort of fun you like.”

“Oh, I do; I’ll walk like this.” Catching up her slumber-robe from the

couch, Betty held it from her shoulders like a court train, and walked

across the room with stiff, stagy strides, holding her head very high.

“Hello, your Majesty, what are you doing?” said Jack, appearing at the

door.

“Good for you, Jack!” cried Betty; “I’m pleased that you should have

recognized what was meant for a queenly gait. I’m Queen Elizabeth of

England.”

“Pooh! You look more like the White Queen of Looking-Glass Land!”

“Well, maybe I do now; but just you wait till I get my velvet train and

jeweled crown,—and, oh, Mother, shall I have a scepter?”

“Yes, I think that’s part of the costume.”

“Oh, what fun!” and seizing Jack, Betty waltzed him about the room by way

of expressing her glee.

“Hi, Betty, go slower!” he exclaimed breathlessly; “queens dance stately

minuets—they don’t dance break-downs!”

“This queen does,” said Betty, calmly, but she let Jack go, on condition

that he would help her hunt the library for books containing pictures of

the Queen.

Next day no mention was made of the entertainment until after lessons

were over. It was nearly time for dismissal when Miss Whittier summoned

the pupils to her in the assembly-room.

She looked at them in a little perplexity, and then she smiled.

“I did not foresee the result,” she said, “when I asked you young ladies

to choose your parts for our little play. I thought that if two or even

three should choose the same character we could readily arrange matters

by a little friendly discussion. But, to my surprise, when the papers

were looked over, this was the result: twelve girls have chosen the

Goddess of Honor; nine have selected Pocahontas; seven want Queen

Elizabeth, and the others are scattering. Now, as you can readily see,

this state of affairs requires arbitration. So I am obliged to tell you

that we must disregard your wishes, and assign the parts as we, the

teachers, think best.”

The girls laughed heartily when they realized how many of their number

had asked for the most desirable part, that of Goddess of Honor, and they

agreed that, after all, the fairest way was for the teachers to assign

the parts, and then there could be no preference.

“And so,” went on Miss Whittier, “I have prepared full directions for

each of you. Here are the envelopes for you all, and in your envelope you

will each find the name of the character you are to take, with full

description of costume, and a copy of the lines you are to learn to

recite in the play. And please remember the appointments are final and

unalterable.” The envelopes were distributed, and each girl looked

eagerly inside to see what her part might be.

“You are dismissed,” said Miss Whittier. “There is no further occasion

for secrecy, though I’m sure it will be better for the success of our

entertainment not to tell your friends who will be in the audience much

about it beforehand.”

“What’s the matter, Betty?” said Dorothy, as, with Jeanette, they all

started homeward. “You look as if you’d lost your last friend.”

And truly Betty did look woebegone. Her cheeks were flushed with anger,

her lips were drawn in a tight line, and her eyes already showed hints of

flooding with tears.

“Look at that!” she exclaimed tragically, as she held out her paper

toward the girls.

“‘Grace Darling!’” read Dorothy. “Oh, Betty, you don’t like your part, do

you?”

“Like it!” cried Betty; “read what the costume is!”

“‘Simple sailor suit,’” read Dorothy, “‘of dark-blue flannel, small

yachting-cap, or no hat at all. Carry an oar.’ Why, that’s a sweet little

costume, Betty.”

“Sweet little nothing!” cried Betty, stormily. “I don’t want to wear a

common, every-day sailor suit! And carry an oar! Oh!”

“What did you want?” asked Jeanette.

“I wanted to be a goddess,” said Betty, honestly. “But I didn’t write

that, ’cause I was ’most sure Miss Whittier would rather have a

yellow-haired girl for that. So I chose Queen Elizabeth, but I’d have

been satisfied with Pocahontas. But Grace Darling! Oh, I think it’s

mean!”

“Why, Grace Darling was very noble and heroic,” said Jeanette.

“Oh, of course. Grace Darling herself was wonderful. I just adore her!

But I want to wear a pretty costume in the play—a grand one, you know,

like a queen or something.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dorothy, sympathetically, for she well knew Betty’s

love of bright colors and gay “dressing up.” “I think it’s a shame, too.

Maybe Miss Whittier will let you change with me.”

“No, she said we positively couldn’t change our parts. And, anyhow, I

wouldn’t take yours if it’s nicer than mine. What is yours, Dot?”

“Queen Elizabeth,” said Dorothy, feeling as mean as if she had been

caught in a wrong action.

Betty had to smile at Dorothy’s contrite tone.

“Well,” she said, “I’d rather you’d have it than any one else. Mother’ll

lend you her necklace, I know. What’s yours, Jeanette?”

“Joan of Arc, and just the one I wanted.”

“That’s nice,” said Betty. “I’m glad you got it. But, oh, girls, I wish I

had a pretty one. If I’d only had Priscilla or Cleopatra, or anybody that

wore pretty things! But ‘a simple sailor suit!’”

“It’s too mean for anything!” declared Dorothy; “it takes the fun out of

the whole thing.”

“Oh, no; it isn’t so bad as that,” said Betty, smiling through her

gathering tears. “I s’pose I’ll get over my disappointment. And I’m silly

to care so much, anyhow. What’s Constance?”

“She’s the Goddess,” said Dorothy, reluctantly, for this seemed to add

another straw to Betty’s burden of woe.

“I’m glad of it,” said Betty, generously. “She’ll be a lovely goddess,

she’s so pretty and graceful. Well, let me help you girls with your

costumes, as long as I haven’t any of my own to fuss over. I can get an

inexpensive, ‘simple sailor suit’ ready-made.”

Betty turned in at her own gate, and after their good-bys the other girls

went on.

“It’s just horrid,” said Dorothy; “I know how bad Betty feels about it,

and I’m going to ask Miss Whittier to change it somehow.”

“She won’t do it,” said Jeanette; “I wish she would, but I know she’ll

say if she changes one she’ll have to change others, and it’ll be a

regular mix-up.”

And that’s just what Miss Whittier did say, though in different words.

“No, my dear,” she said kindly, but decidedly, when Dorothy told her

about it. “I’m sorry Betty is disappointed, but several of the girls have

already asked to change their parts, and I’ve been obliged to say ‘no’ to

each; so of course I can’t make an exception in favor of Betty.”

This settled it, and Betty accepted her fate, outwardly with a good

grace, but secretly with a rebellious heart.

“It’s such a mistake,” she said to her mother, “for girls like Kate Alden

and May Jennings would _like_ to have only simple costumes to prepare.

And they have to rig up as Martha Washington and Mary, Queen of Scots!

Either of them would rather have Grace Darling, and only have to get a

‘simple sailor suit!’”

“It _is_ too bad, Betty dear,” said her mother; “I’m just as sorry as I

can be. But I can’t see any help for it, so we must submit.”

“Yes; I know it, and I’m not going to growl about it any more. But it

does make me mad!”

Betty kicked a footstool, as if to relieve her overburdened feelings, and

then laughed at herself for her foolishness.

She learned her lines carefully, determined to do her part as well as she

could, if her dress was plain and inconspicuous.

Her speech was full of brave and noble thoughts, and Betty practised it

often, and observed conscientiously her teacher’s instructions as to

inflections and gestures. It was easy for Betty to learn by heart; so

easy, indeed, that she unconsciously learned most of the other girls’

speeches by merely hearing them at rehearsals.

Often she would amuse her mother and Jack by breaking forth into some of

the stilted lines of the play.

“I am Pocahontas,” she would say, striking an attitude of what she

considered Indian effect; “I claim the prize, Goddess, because I, in

years that are past, rendered a service——”

“There, there, that will do, Betty!” Jack would cry. “You are a born

actress, I know, but I’m studying my English history now, and Pocahontas

doesn’t belong with the Saxon kings.”

“Oh, English history!” said Betty, mischievously.

Then, stalking grandly up to him, she held an umbrella for a scepter, and

declaimed:

“Goddess of Honor! You see before you Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. A

noble monarch, not alone in power, but in majestic traits that won for

her the loyalty and adoration of her loved and loving subjects. A queen

who——”

“Off with her head!” cried Jack, throwing a sofa-pillow at Betty, who

promptly threw it back at him, and then ran laughing from the room.

It was not Betty’s way to mourn over what couldn’t be helped, so she went

cheerfully with her mother to purchase the despised sailor suit. They

bought the prettiest one they could find—a blue serge with white collar

and cuffs and a silk sailor tie. But though it was becoming and would

have looked just right had Betty been starting on a yachting cruise, it

was not to be compared with the elaborate costumes most of the girls were

preparing. And, though it was cold comfort, Betty was true to her word,

and helped the others all she could to make their gowns effective. She

lent her Roman sash, her embroidered Japanese kimono, and her spangled

Egyptian scarf to girls who could use them effectively. She helped

Dorothy with her Elizabethan garb, and Jeanette with her Joan of Arc

costume.

As for the Goddess, Constance had a most resplendent robe. It was of soft

white shimmering stuff dotted all over with gilt spangles. Billows of

this material fell from her shoulders in long, graceful folds, and swept

away in a rippling train. A high crown of golden filigree-work was to be

worn on her beautiful, fair hair, and while in one hand she was to hold a

classic scroll, in the other she was to carry aloft a long, slender, gilt

trumpet. The costume was superb, and almost took Betty’s breath away when

she first saw it.

“Oh, Constance,” she said, “let me try it on, do! Just for a minute! I’ll

be awfully careful of it.”

Constance agreed, of course, though she secretly feared that impetuous

Betty might tear the gauzy stuff.

But Betty donned it almost reverently, and then, imitating Constance’s

pose, as she had seen her at rehearsal, she began:

“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those

who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come unsummoned!

I am here to-night, bearing the Chaplet of Honor, the award of Fame. To

whom shall I award it? Who best deserves the greatest guerdon, the

highest honor Fame can bestow? Speak, noble women of all time, speak, and

claim your due!”

So often had Betty heard Constance declaim these ringing lines at

rehearsal that she knew them as well as her own, and so inspired was she

by the beautiful raiment she had on that her oratory was quite in spirit

with the character.

“Good gracious, Betty!” said Constance, “I didn’t know you could recite

so well. Try your own speech now; it’s a good chance to rehearse. But get

out of that gown first. I’m terribly afraid you’ll catch it on

something.”

“No, I won’t,” said Betty, stepping gingerly out of the glistening mass

as it fell about her feet. “Now listen to mine.”

She recited the lines Grace Darling was supposed to speak, and so

earnestly did she tell of the noble work she had done in saving life that

it seemed as if the most stony-hearted of goddesses must be moved to

award her the Chaplet of Honor.

It was not known even yet who should receive the wreath. Each girl was

expected to do her best, and after all had taken part, the Goddess would

make the award. Of course it was arranged beforehand who should have it,

but, as this was not known, each secretly hoped for it.

At last the day of the great event arrived.

The entertainment would begin at eight o’clock, but the girls were

requested to be at the school at half-past seven.

Some of them dressed at home and came all ready for the stage, but those

who had more elaborate or eccentric costumes brought them with them and

dressed at the school. Betty dressed at home, for her sailor suit could

easily be worn under a light coat. She went with a heavy heart, for,

though she had scolded herself for being a silly, and had forced herself

to make believe she didn’t mind, yet when the evening arrived, and she

saw many of the other girls in glittering, fanciful dresses, she felt

again the bitter disappointment of her plain little frock.

“Remember, Betty girl,” said her mother, as they separated, Betty to go

to the school-room and Mrs. McGuire to the audience-room, “you must make

your success by your own work to-night. The others may have beautiful

trappings, but you must win out by your really good work in declamation.

Win the hearts of the audience by your pathetic story of Grace Darling’s

work, and you may represent the part better than those who have elaborate

costumes do theirs.”

Betty smiled, knowing her mother’s advice was good, and yet unable to

repress a little feeling of envy as she saw the resplendent figures all

around her. But she could and did help showing it.

She went about among the girls, helping one or another to adjust her

adornments, or prompting some one who was frantically rehearsing her

lines.

“I can prompt any of you, if you need it,” said Betty, laughing, “for I

do believe I know every line of this whole play. I didn’t try to learn

it, but I’ve heard it so often, it sticks in my head.”

At eight o’clock Miss Whittier marshaled them in order to go on the

stage. Of course the curtain was still down, as the Goddess had not yet

taken her place, but after its rising the others were to enter one by one

and address themselves to the arbiter of their fates. They waited, almost

breathlessly, in the hush that always comes before the lifting of a

curtain.

“Where is Constance Harper?” asked Miss Whittier, in a whisper, of

another teacher.

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I supposed, of course, she was here. She

said she’d dress at home, as her robe is so frail, and that she’d be

here, all ready to go on the stage, at quarter to eight.”

“Dear me,” thought Betty, “Constance is nearly always late, but I thought

she’d be on time to-night.”

Of course, at such entertainments, no one is greatly surprised if the

performance is a little delayed, but the absence of Constance seemed

ominous to Miss Whittier.

“I think we’d better send for her,” she began, when a man came in, in

breathless haste. He carried a large white box, and, going straight to

Miss Whittier, he said rapidly:

“Miss Constance, ma’am, she sprained her ankle—just now. She slipped

coming down-stairs, and she can’t walk nohow.”

“Sprained her ankle!” cried Miss Whittier. “Can’t she be here to-night?

Who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Harper’s coachman, ma’am; and Miss Constance she was all

dressed in her angel clothes and all, and jest goin’ to get in the

kerridge, when she slipped on the shiny stair, and her high-heeled

slipper twisted somehow, and she jest sprained her ankle. So Mrs. Harper,

soon’s she could, she got the party clo’es offen her, and she’s sent them

to you, ’cause she says somebody else’ll have to do Miss Constance’s

piece to-night.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Whittier, clasping her hands. “What can we do? But we

must do something quickly. Lena Carey, you’re about Constance’s size;

can’t you take the part of Goddess?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Miss Whittier,” said Lena, looking longingly at the

spangled white mass in the box, which had just been opened, “but I don’t

know a word of her lines. It’s all I can do to remember my own.”

“What shall I do!” cried Miss Whittier, in despair. “Does anybody know

the Goddess’s part? Oh, why didn’t I think to have an understudy!”

Betty hesitated. It seemed presumptuous for her to offer, for she well

knew she didn’t look like Miss Whittier’s idea of a Goddess of Honor. But

no one else volunteered, so she said:

“Miss Whittier, I don’t look right, I know, but I know every one of

Constance’s lines perfectly.”

“You blessed child!” cried Miss Whittier; “do you really? Are you sure,

Betty?”