CHAPTER VI.

"I beg your pardon," said Peggy, looking at Agnes with great scorn.

"'Mrs. Smith and niece' are down on the register. It was the clerk who

registered us in that way, and all of you seemed to take it for granted

that _my_ name must be Smith also. Perhaps I ought to have corrected the

mistake at once; but after I overheard that conversation on the piazza,

and--saw somebody examining the register a few minutes later" glancing

away from Agnes with a smile at Will, who looked rather sheepish--"after

that I thought I'd let the mistake go until the rest of the family

arrived, it was so amusing."

"Oh," retorted Agnes, "this all sounds very straight and pretty, but I

dare say you've got used to telling such stories. Perhaps you'll tell us

now what name you do call your own, and if it is by that those South

American friends you write to are known."

"Perhaps Mr. Tom Raymond will tell you," answered Peggy, quickly. "I've

thought for some time that he might be one of the Tennis Club that came

out to Fairview at my brother's invitation last summer, and I thought he

suspected who I was, and--and wouldn't tell because--because he saw,

just as I did, what fun the mistake was. But now, if he will, he can

introduce me--to my friends, Tilly and Will Wentworth, as--"

[Illustration: "Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!"]

"Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!" shouted Tom, before Peggy could go

any further.

"Pelham!" cried Tilly, in a dazed way.

"Pelham!" repeated Will.

"Yes, Pelham! Pelham!" exclaimed Tom, exultantly, flinging up his cap

with a chuckle of delighted laughter.

"And you're not--you're not the daughter of that dreadful Smithson?"

burst forth Tilly, in a little transport of happy relief.

"'That dreadful Smithson'? Who is he, and who said I was his daughter?"

"_She_ said it," roared Will, darting a furious look at Agnes; "and she

cooked it all up out of this," suddenly pulling the paper from his

pocket.

"Give it to me!" cried Agnes, breathlessly, springing forward to snatch

the paper from his hand.

"No, no, you wanted me to give it to Miss Smith a minute ago, and now

I'll give it to--Miss Pelham, and let her see what you've wanted to

circulate about the house," answered Will.

"I--I--if I happened to notice it before the rest of you--and--and

thought that it might be this Miss Smith--"

"That it _must_ be! you insisted," broke in Will.

"With all that about the change of name, and the age of the girl,

and--and--the 'South America' I saw on the blotting-pad, and the South

American dress," went on Agnes, incoherently,--"if I happened to be

before you, you thought afterward, I know you did, that it might be;

and--"

"With a difference, with a difference!" suddenly rang out Peggy Pelham's

clear young voice in tones of indignation. She had read the newspaper

slip; and there she stood, scorn and indignation in her face as well as

in her voice. "Yes, with a difference," she went on vehemently. "If they

thought it might be, after you had paraded the thing before them, you,"

with a renewed look of scorn, "thought it _must_ be, because you wanted

it to be, because you had got to hating me. Oh, I can see it all

now,--everything, everything; how you patched things together, even to

that blotting-pad which I had used after directing my letter to my

uncle, Berkeley Pelham, who lives in Brazil. Oh, to think of such prying

and peering," with a shudder, "and to think of such enmity, anyway, all

for nothing! I've heard of such enmity, but I never believed in it, for

I never met it before. And all this time there was Tilly Morris,--oh,

Tilly," whirling rapidly about, "what a dear, brave, generous, faithful

little thing you've been," the ringing voice faltering, "for in spite

of--even this--this dreadful Smithson, you stuck to me and tried to

shield me."

"Oh, I knew, and so did grandmother, that you were innocent, whatever

might just possibly have happened to--to--"

"Mr. Smithson--" And Peggy began to laugh. But the laugh ended in

something like a sob, and she hurriedly hid her face on Tilly's

shoulder. When an instant after she looked up, it was to see that Agnes

had disappeared.

"Yes, the enemy has fled," said Tom Raymond. "The minute you dropped

your eyes she was off. We might have stopped her, Will and I, but there

wasn't much left of her. Oh, oh, oh! isn't she finished off beautifully,

though?" and Tom gave way at last to the hilarity he had so long

manfully repressed.

"Finished off! I should say so!" cried Will, joining in Tom's laughter.

"And to think that you were a Pelham,--one of Agnes's wonderful Pelhams

all the time," put in Tilly, still with an air of bewilderment.

"And am now," laughed Peggy. "Oh, Tilly, you are such a dear!"

"One of Agnes's wonderful Pelhams!" shouted Tom. "Guess she won't be in

a hurry to set up a claim to 'em now!" and Tom burst out again in wild

chuckles of hilarity.

"And I never saw her, and I don't believe she ever met one of us

before," cried Peggy.

"She told Amy that she didn't know the Pelhams yet, but that her Aunt

Ann did, and her aunt was coming next month and would introduce her to

them when they arrived," said Tilly, with a demure smile.

"Well, she'll probably like my sister Isabel's Skye terrier, with its

fine name of Prince, much better than she does my poor little plebeian

doggie, with its vulgar name of Pete," remarked Peggy, her eyes

twinkling with fun.

"Oh, Peggy, to think of your hearing all that talk about the dog and

everything."

"And everything? I should say so!" cried Will, starting up and looking

rather red as he recalled his own words.

"Yes, and everything,--all about the dogs and the difference between the

Wentworths and the Pelhams," took up Peggy, dimpling with smiles.

"Oh, I say now," began Will.

"Yes, you may say now just what you did then. I liked it,--I liked it.

It was sensible and plucky of you, and it was such fun. Oh, when I think

that but for auntie and me coming on ahead of the rest, and without a

maid, and the hotel clerk writing only 'Mrs. Smith and niece' in the

register, I should never have had all these wonderful experiences, and

never have known what a friend my Tilly could be,--when I think of all

this, I want to dance a jig, just such a jig as they are playing this

minute;" and up she jumped, this smiling Peggy, and, catching Tilly in

her arms, went waltzing down the path with her toward the hall from

whence floated the gay strains of the "Lancers."

But what was that sound,--that long-drawn, jubilant sound that suddenly

rang over and above the dance music?

"Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-a-a-a," rang the clear, piercing notes; and out

from halls and offices and parlors came a little flock of folk to see

that most interesting of arrivals at a summer resort,--a coaching-party.

"Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-a-a-a," wound the coach horn; and up the carriage

drive rattled a superb vehicle, drawn by four superb gray horses. The

long summer daylight yet lingered, and showed the faces of the party

atop of the coach.

"It's the Pelham team, and that's young Berk Pelham holding the reins,"

said a bystander.

Dora and Amy Robson, who had run out with the others from the

dancing-hall, caught Tom Raymond as he was passing them; and Dora

whispered,--

"Are they the Pelhams,--Agnes's Pelhams?"

"'Agnes's Pelhams'? Oh, oh!" gurgled Tom, nearly choking with suppressed

laughter. Then, "Yes, yes, Agnes's Pelhams; but where is Agnes? She

ought to be here to welcome her Pelhams."

"She's gone to bed with a headache or something. She came in looking

dreadfully a few minutes ago."

"I should think she might; she had had a blow."

"What do you mean? But, look, look! those Pelhams are speaking to that

Smith girl."

"No, they're not."

"But they are, Tom; don't you see?"

"No, I don't see any of them speaking to a Smith girl, but I do see Miss

Pelham speaking to--Miss Peggy Pelham."

Dora tossed her head impatiently. "What a silly joke!" she thought;

but--but--what was it that that tall young lady who had just jumped down

from her top seat on the coach was saying?

"The minute I read your letter, Peggy, telling me of this little dance,

Berk and I planned to drive over with the Apsleys and waltz a little

waltz with you. Twenty miles in an hour and a half. Isn't that fine

time? And you are looking so much better, Peggy, for the salt air, and

away from all our racket. Mamma was wise when she sent you on ahead with

auntie, but we're all coming to join you next week."

"Tom, Tom, you were not joking?" gasped Dora.

"When I said that girl was Peggy Pelham? Joking? No, it's a solid

fact,--so solid it's knocked Agnes flat. Oh!" and Tom began to shake

again; "it's too rich, it's too rich. Come over here away from the

crowd, you and Amy, and let me tell you the whole story, and then you'll

see what a blow Agnes has had."

Never had a narrator a more excitingly interesting story to tell, and

never did narrator enjoy the telling more than Tom on this occasion; but

though his hearers hung upon his words, these words were full of

bitterness to them; and when at the close he flung his head back and

said, "Isn't it the greatest fun?" Dora, out of her shame and

mortification, cried,--

"Yes, fun to you,--to you and Will and Tilly, because you are on the

right side of the fun; but I--we--are disgraced of course with Agnes.

Oh, we've been just horrid--horrid, and such fools!"

"Well, I--I sort of forgot about you, that's a fact, in Agnes,--for it's

her circus from the start; you and Amy," giving his little chuckling

laugh, "are only humble followers, pressed into service, you know, by

the ringmaster. The thing of it was, you hadn't sand enough to stand up

against Agnes."

"And Tilly had," responded Dora, in a mortified tone.

"Oh, Tilly! Tilly's a trump, always and every time. She's on the right

side of things naturally."

If Dora and Amy needed a still lower abyss of humiliation, they found it

in this last sentence of Tom's, which showed them plainly what poor

creatures he thought they were "naturally" to Tilly.

Before many hours the story of "that little Smith girl" was known

throughout the house, and mothers and fathers and guardians heard with

amazement that so serious a little drama had been going on without their

slightest knowledge until this climax. One mother, however, Mrs. Robson,

was more than amazed when she found what an influence Agnes had exerted

over her daughter and niece.

"Don't offer as excuse that you didn't dare to tell me how things were

going on for fear of offending Agnes Brendon," she said indignantly.

"Didn't Tilly Morris dare to tell her grandmother?"

Everywhere it was Tilly Morris,--Tilly Morris, the kind, the brave, the

honest! Even Mrs. Brendon, who came at last to know the fact, in her

alarm and irritation assailed her daughter one day in the presence of

the Robsons with these words,--

"Why couldn't you have behaved amiably and sensibly, like the little

Morris girl? I don't see where you learned such suspicious, calculating,

worldly ways of judging people and things?"

And then it was that Agnes turned upon her mother and gave utterance to

these bitter, brutal truths,--

"I've learned them from the older people I've seen all my life,--the

people who come to our house. They judge other people that they don't

know anything about in just such calculating ways. They are always

talking with you about this one or that one's social position, and they

never make new acquaintances without finding out what set they belong

to; and I was never allowed from a little girl to make acquaintances

with any children whose mothers were not in the right set; and

amiability and goodness had nothing to do with it,--nothing, nothing,

nothing!"

THE EGG-BOY.

"Marge, Marge, here is the egg-boy!"

Marge dropped her book and ran to join her sister Elsie, who by this

time was on the back piazza talking to a boy who had just driven up in a

farm-wagon.

"We want two dozen more,--all nice big ones, and by to-morrow, for it is

only three days before Easter, and they must be boiled and colored to be

ready in season."

The boy stared. "Colored?" he repeated in a puzzled, questioning tone.

"Yes," answered Elsie, "colored. Don't you color eggs for Easter?"

"No."

"How queer! But you know about them, of course?"

"No, I don't."

"Not know about Easter eggs? Where in the world have you lived not to

know about Easter? I thought everybody--"

"I do know about Easter," interrupted the boy, sharply. "All I said was

that I didn't know about your colored eggs."

"Oh, well, I guess it is Episcopalians mostly who keep that old custom

going in this part of the country, and I suppose your people are not

Episcopalians, are they?"

"No."

"Well, _we_ are, and we've lived in Washington, too, where everybody has

colored eggs, and all the boys and girls there used to go to the

egg-rolling party the Monday morning after Easter; and a good many of

them go now."

"Egg-rolling party?" cried the boy, with such wide-open eyes of

astonishment that Elsie and Marge both burst out laughing, whereat the

boy flushed up angrily, and seizing the reins was starting off, when the

cook called to him to wait until she had the butter-box ready for him to

take back.

"Oh!" whispered Marge, "we've hurt his feelings, Elsie; it is too bad."

Then she ran forward, and said gently: "'Tisn't anything at all strange

that you didn't know about the rolling. Elsie and I didn't until we went

to Washington to live, and saw the game ourselves, and had it explained

to us; and I'll explain it to you. We had a lot of eggs boiled hard, and

dyed all sorts of pretty flower colors and patterns; and these we took

to the top of a little hill near the White House, and each one, or each

party, started two or three or more eggs of different colors, and made

guesses as to which color would beat. After the game was over, we

exchanged the eggs we had, and gave away a good many to the poor

children. Oh, it was great fun."

The boy laughed. "Fun! I should call it baby play!" he said derisively.

"Well, _you_ can call it baby play if you like," returned Marge, with

great dignity; "but the 'baby play' has come down through a good many

years. It is an old Easter custom that was brought over from England by

one of the early settlers at Washington."

"I--I didn't mean--I'm sorry--" began Royal, stammeringly; when--

"Royal! Royal Purcel!" called out a voice; and a little fellow scarcely

more than six or seven years old came running up the driveway, and made

a flying leap into the wagon.

"Do you belong to a circus?" cried Elsie.

"No; wish I did. I belong to Royal."

"Who is Royal?"

"Who is Royal?" repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face at

her.

"He means me. My name is Royal,--Royal Purcel; and he," nodding towards

the child, "is my brother."

"Royal Purcel! _What_ a funny name! It sounds--"

"Don't, Elsie," remonstrated Marge.

"It sounds just like Royal Purple," giggled Elsie, regardless of her

sister's remonstrance.

Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royal

thrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another word

or glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace.

"Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life," said Elsie.

"A boy that can't take a joke I don't think is much of a boy."

"Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they're more'n

ever so now," said Rhoda.

"Why?" asked Marge.

"Why? Because they used to be the richest farmers about here. They owned

pretty nigh all Lime Ridge once. Now they hain't got nothin' but that

little Ridge farm. It's a stony little place, and how they manage to get

a livin' off of it beats me."

"How'd they happen to lose so much?"

"Oh, the boy's father took to spekerlatin', and then some banks they had

money in bust up."

"Well, he needn't fly up at everything because he isn't rich," said

Elsie. "That's regular cry-baby fashion. He's a royal purple cry-baby,

that's what he is, and I mean to call him that, see if I don't;" and

Elsie laughed in high glee as this mischievous idea struck her. And

while she and her sister were discussing Royal and his temper, Royal was

discussing that very temper with himself.

"To think of my being such a fool as to show mad before those girls. I'm

a regular sissy," was his final conclusion as he drove down the road.

The next morning, bright and early, he was up at the Lloyds' with two

dozen fine big eggs. "As handsome a lot of eggs as I ever see,"

commented Rhoda, as she took them in.

"Are they going to color them all?" asked Royal.

"I s'pose so. Here are some of their old ones. They've been b'iled as

hard as stones. They'll keep forever;" and Rhoda handed out of the open

window a little basket of colored eggs.

"But some of these are painted," said the boy, taking up an egg with a

pattern of flowers on it.

"No, they ain't; they're jest colored in a dye-pot. Them that looks as

if they was painted were tied up in a bit of figgered calico and b'iled,

and when they come out of the b'iling they took the calico off, and

there was the figgers set on the eggs. See?"

"Yes, I see;" and Royal turned the egg round thoughtfully for a moment,

then suddenly put it down, and started off towards his wagon on a run.

"Land sakes!" called out Rhoda; "what's come to you all at once to set

off like that?"

"Muskrats!" shouted Royal, with a laugh as he jumped into the wagon.

"Ben a-settin' traps for 'em, eh?"

Royal nodded as he went rattling down the driveway.

"Did Royal Purple bring the eggs?" asked Elsie Lloyd, a little later.

"His name ain't Purple; it's Purcel," corrected Rhoda, innocently.

Elsie giggled. "Well, did Royal _Purcel_ bring the eggs?" she asked.

"Yes, there they be."

"Oh, oh! aren't they beauties?"

"They be; that's a fact," agreed Rhoda. "Royal, he's done his best for

ye now, anyway. He's kind o' quick, like all the Purcels, but he's real

accommodatin'."

"So he is, Rhoda, and I'll give him one of the prettiest eggs we turn

out for being so 'accommodatin';' and we are going to have some extra

pretty ones this time. See this now, and this, and this!" and Elsie

whipped out of her pocket several bits of bright calico. One was a

pattern of tiny rosebuds; another a little lily on a blue ground.

"The lily ones will be just lovely if they turn out well, and they will

be the real Easter egg with that lily pattern," said Marge,

enthusiastically.

By Saturday afternoon a goodly array of eggs of all colors and patterns

were "ready for company," as Elsie and Marge expressed it; for on

Saturday night a party of their friends were coming to them for a three

days' visit. It was about an hour after these friends had arrived, and

they were all hanging admiringly over the pretty display of eggs, that a

box was brought in by one of the servants. It was neatly tied, and

directed in a bold round handwriting to "Miss Elsie and Miss Marge

Lloyd."

"What _can_ it be?" said Marge, wonderingly.

"We'll open it and see," cried Elsie. And suiting her action to her

word, she cut the string and lifted the cover; and there she saw six

eggs undyed, but each painted delicately with a different design. On one

was a cross with a tiny vine running from the base; on another a bunch

of lilies of the valley; and another showed a little bough of apple

blossoms. On the remaining three the subjects were strangely unusual,--a

palm and tent, with a patch of sky; a bird with outstretched wings,

soaring upward with open beak, as if singing in its flight; a cherub

head with a soft halo about it.

"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed the girls, in a chorus; and, "Who _could_ have

painted them?" wondered Marge; and, "Who _could_ have sent them?" cried

Elsie.

In vain they hunted for card or sign of the donor. They could find

nothing to give them the slightest clew.

"Perhaps, papa, it is Mr. Archer," said Marge at last, turning to her

father. Mr. Archer was an artist friend.

"Oh, no, this isn't Archer's work; it's a novice's work, though very

promising," her father replied.

"Cousin Tom's, then?"

"And too strong for Tom."

"Then it must be Jimmy Barrows."

"Well, it may be Jimmy. We shall know when he comes with Tom on Monday.

It's bold enough for Jimmy, but I didn't think he had so much fancy."

And finally it was settled that it could be no other than Jimmy Barrows.

Jimmy was a great friend of their cousin Tom; but while Tom was only an

amateur artist, Jimmy was studying to be a professional one.

"It's such fun to have Jimmy do these, and send them without a word,"

said Elsie to her sister.

"Such a generous thing to do, too! I wonder if he would like some of

_our_ eggs as specimens? We might give him one of each kind."

"Oh, Marge, don't think of offering him those calico-colored

things,--anybody who can paint like this!"

"Very well; but, Elsie, which one are you going to give to Royal

Purcel?"

"To Royal Purcel?"

"Yes; don't you remember you told Rhoda you were going to give him one

for being so accommodating?"

"Oh, I'd forgotten. Well, here, I'll give him this,--it's the very

thing;" and Elsie snatched up a bright purple one.

"Oh, Elsie, don't!"

But Elsie fairly danced with glee as she cried, "I will, I will; it's

the very thing,--royal purple to Royal Purple!"

The young visitors, when all this was explained to them, joined in the

merriment; but Marge--kind, tender little Marge--hid away one of the

blue and white lily eggs, to get the advantage of Elsie's mischief by

bestowing _that_ upon Royal.

But Royal was quite out of Elsie's thoughts by Monday morning. It was a

beautiful morning; and by nine o'clock, when Tom and Jimmy Barrows

arrived, the lawn and sloping knoll at the east of it were bright and

dry with sunshine. On the piazza the various baskets of eggs were

standing; only "Jimmy Barrows's gift" had been set aside as "too good to

use."

"My! haven't you got a lot, though?" cried Tom, as he surveyed them.

"But what are these in the box here?"

"Yes, what are they?" sparkled Elsie. "Ask Jimmy Barrows."

Jimmy, with a wondering expression on his face at this remark, came over

and looked down at the treasured eggs. "Who did these?" he asked

quickly.

"'Who did these?'" mimicked Elsie. "Oh, you needn't try that. We found

you out at once, or _I_ did."

"You think I painted 'em--I sent 'em?" queried Jimmy.

"Of course I do. Now, Master Jimmy--"

"Miss Elsie, just as true as I'm standing here, I never saw them

before."

Elsie shook her head at him, but Jimmy did not see her. He was lifting

the eggs and examining them.

"No, honest, I didn't paint 'em, Miss Elsie. I wish I had; but I can't

do things like that--yet. I can draw as well, am a better draughtsman,

maybe, but I haven't got the ideas. The fellow who did these has got a

lot of original ideas."

Mr. Lloyd came forward here with great interest. "Did any of you,"

turning to Elsie and Marge, "ask who brought the box?"

"Yes," answered Elsie. "I asked Ann, and she said 'a bit of a boy

brought 'em;' she didn't know who he was."

"Ask Rhoda to come here. She knows the neighborhood."

Rhoda came, and Mr. Lloyd put the matter before her. Had she any idea

who the "bit of a boy" was?

"I didn't see him, but it might be Bert Purcel," answered Rhoda. "Folks

get him to do errands sometimes. He's just drove up with his brother to

bring the chickens. I'll send him 'round, and you can ask him."

"Did you leave a box here Saturday night?" Mr. Lloyd inquired

pleasantly, when the boy stood before him.

The red lips began to frame a "No," then closed tightly together, while

the slim little figure whirled about and made an attempt to leap over

the piazza railing,--an attempt that would have been successful if one

foot had not caught in a stout vine.

Royal, waiting in the wagon at the back porch, heard a sudden cry, and

hurried to see what had happened. He found Bert scrambling to his feet,

brisk and angry. The child made a dash towards his brother, and seized

his hand.

"What's the matter?" asked Royal. No answer, but a renewed tug at his

hand to draw him away.

"The little fellow tried to jump the piazza railing and fell," explained

Mr. Lloyd, laughingly.

"Papa just asked him a question,--if he brought us a box Saturday night;

and as he didn't want to answer, he ran," spoke up Elsie.

"I didn't, I jumped!" cried the child.

Everybody laughed.

"Can't _you_ tell us?" asked Marge, looking at Royal. "_Did_ your

brother bring it?"

"Yes," answered Royal, flushing up.

"And who sent it?" asked Elsie, impatiently. She waited a moment for an

answer. As none came, she asked still more impatiently, "Do you _know_

the person who sent it?"

"Yes," in a hesitating voice.

"Did the person tell you not to tell?"

"No," in the same hesitating voice.

"Then why in the world _don't_ you tell? You've no right to keep it back

like this. It is our affair, not yours, and so it is our right to know

who it is. Don't you understand that we don't want people to send us

things--presents--and not know anything about who it is?"

Royal looked startled, and the flush on his face deepened. Elsie thought

she had conquered him, and chirped out an encouraging, "Come, now, who

was it?" But to her surprise the boy flung up his head with an angry

movement, and with a defiant glance at her said stubbornly,--

"I've a perfect right _not_ to answer your question, and I sha'n't!"

"Well, of all the brazen--"

"Elsie!" warned her father, "don't say anything more."

"You'll let me say one thing more, papa. Rhoda told us that this boy was

very accommodating, and he brought me such nice big eggs, I thought he

was, and meant to give him something to show my appreciation, and I'd

like to give it to him now. Here," taking something from her pocket,

"give this to your brother," she said to little Bert, who stood eying

her curiously. The child's hand opened involuntarily. Into it dropped a

_royal purple_ egg.

Royal saw and understood. "Give it back to her!" he cried.

Bert, feeling the passion in his brother's voice, drew off, and _flung_

the egg with all his might at Elsie. Luckily for her, it missed its aim

and whizzed past, striking some article with a breaking crash beyond

her.

"Oh! oh! oh! it's fallen on the painted eggs!" cried Marge, "and,"

running forward, "it has spoiled the lovely cherub head; see, the shell

is all cracked to pieces!"

"You horrid, wicked boys!" cried Elsie, in the next breath.

But Royal heard nothing of these comments. The moment he saw that Bert's

recklessness had injured no one, he had turned away with him, and was

now driving out of the yard, scolding the youngster roundly for his

action, and not a little subdued himself at what might have been the

result of it.

"Papa, I think they ought to be punished, and the big boy made to

tell," exclaimed Elsie, when she found the two were out of her reach.

"What did you say was the name of the boys?" asked Jimmy Barrows, who

had taken up the cross and vine egg, and was peering at it very closely.

"Purcel."

"Well, just look at this;" and with the tip-end of a tiny knife-blade

Jimmy pointed out something in the delicate vined tendrils that had

hitherto escaped notice. It was the name "R. Purcel," cunningly inwound

in the tendrils. Every one crowded up to inspect this discovery.

"It must be some relation of the boy's, and that is why he felt he had a

right to keep it secret," said Mr. Lloyd.

"But it was Royal's present, whatever relation he got to paint the eggs

for him, for it was only Royal who knew about _our_ eggs; and this is

the way we've paid him!" cried Marge, with a glance of indignant

reproach at Elsie.

"I don't think he got anybody to do it for him; I--I think he did it

himself," spoke up Jimmy.

"Royal Purcel! that--that farm-boy?" shrieked Elsie.

"Yes," answered Jimmy. "I thought so all the time, when you--when he

was standing under--under your questioning fire." And Jimmy laughed.

"But how did he learn?" cried Elsie, in astonishment.

"I don't think the boy has had much instruction," said Jimmy. "I think

he has great natural talent, and has had very little opportunity to

study." Jimmy was now peering at the palm and tent egg, and, "See,

here's the name again, in this thready grass," he said, "and he has

probably marked all the eggs in this cunning way."

Jimmy was right. On the bird's wing, amid the lily leaves, and on the

apple bough, they also found "R. Purcel" hidden deftly from casual

observation.

Elsie was silent as, one after another, these discoveries were made.

Finally she could contain herself no longer, and burst out,--

"To think of his painting all these beautiful things and giving them to

us,--to me, when I've been such a horrid little cat to him! Oh, papa, I

must do something,--I just must!"

"Well, I should think it would become you to say you are sorry and to

thank him," said Mr. Lloyd, smiling.

"But, papa, I want to take the pony-carriage and go after him, and ask

him to come back to the egg-rolling; and if Jimmy Barrows will go with

me--"

"I'd be delighted, Miss Elsie."

"He'd make it easier,--he'd know what to say, and Royal would know what

to say to him. The others will excuse us; we won't be long. Oh, may

I--may we, papa?"

"Well, as you seem to have settled everything, I don't see but I must--"

But Elsie did not wait to hear more. She knew she had not only her

father's consent, but his approval, and was off like a flash to order

the carriage.

If the Lloyds had been better acquainted in Lime Ridge, Royal's work

would not have been such a great surprise to them. A good many of the

Lime Ridge people could have told them of the boy's talent, and how it

had been discouraged by his family. There was no money now to support

and educate him in that direction, and it had been arranged with an old

friend who was in the wool business that the boy should go into his

employ as soon as he had graduated from the Lime Ridge High School. This

was considered a very lucky prospect for him, but Royal hated it. From

a little fellow he had shown a great love for pictures, and had covered

every scrap of paper he could find with crude drawings.

When he was eight years old, a visitor had given him a box of paints and

brushes. Two years later he had become acquainted with an artist who was

staying a few weeks at Lime Ridge, and went with him on his

sketching-tramps. With him he learned something about an artist's

methods, and received from him as a parting gift, various artist's

materials that he had made industrious use of.

The whim of painting the eggs and sending them to the sisters had come

to him as a sort of apology to them for his exhibition of temper, and he

had no idea that his name, so palpable to his artist eye, would escape

their observation as it did. He expected his gift and its motives to be

recognized at once. Instead, he was questioned as if he were nothing but

an ignorant errand-boy; and, bitterest of all, even when he had

confessed to a knowledge of the giver, the possibility of his being the

painter himself was not for a moment suspected. But while he stood

leaning over the farm-gate thinking these bitter thoughts, a stout

little pony was bringing him what he little dreamed of. "Catch me ever

going amongst 'em again,--an overbearing lot of city folks," he was

saying to himself, when, patter, patter, patter, round the turn of the

road came the stout little pony, and before the boy could make a

movement to get away, Elsie Lloyd had jumped from the wagon, and stood

in front of him.

"I've come to ask you to go back with us, and forgive me for being such

a horrid little cat to you. I didn't understand. I thought--" and then

in a perfect jumble of words Elsie went on, and poured forth her

contrition and explanation, at the same time introducing Jimmy Barrows,

who knew just what to say, and said it with such effect that Royal's

spirits went up with a bound, and almost before he knew to what he had

consented, he was sitting on the little back seat of the phaeton,

talking with these "city folks" as if they were his best friends, as

they turned out to be.

All this happened four or five years ago, and to-day where do you

suppose Royal Purcel is, and what do you suppose he is doing? In Mr.

Carr's mills, learning to pick and buy wool?

Not he. He is in Paris with Jimmy Barrows, studying hard, and supporting

himself by making business illustrations for various newspapers. It is

humble work, but it serves for his support while he is preparing for

higher things; and the "higher things" are not far off, for two or three

of his sketches in oils have attracted the attention of the critics, and

he has furnished a set of drawings for a child's book that has been well

paid for and well spoken of. And Jimmy Barrows wrote home to Tom Lloyd

the other day,--

"Royal is going to be a howling success, as I always prophesied; but

what a time your uncle and I had to persuade his family of this

possibility, and to get him off from that wool-picking! But I guess they

began to believe we were right when this spoiled wool-picker wrote them

last week that he'd paid the last cent of his indebtedness to Mr. Lloyd.

Houp-la!"

"'A howling success'! And it's all through me," laughed Elsie, as she

read this portion of Jimmy's letter; "for if I hadn't eaten humble-pie,

and run after Master Royal that morning, he would not have met Jimmy

Barrows, and might have been wool-picking to this day. Yes; it's all

through me and my humble-pie. Houp-la!"

MAJOR MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS PROMISE.

CHAPTER I.

"Never had a Christmas present?"

"No, never."

"Why, it's just dreadful! Well, there's one thing,--you _shall_ have one

this year, you dear thing!" and Molly Elliston flung down the Christmas

muffler she was knitting, and stared at her visitor, as if she could

scarcely believe what she had just confessed to her. The visitor

laughed, showing a beautiful row of small white teeth as she did so. She

was a charming little maiden of twelve or thirteen, this visitor,--a

charming little maiden with the darkest of dark hair that hung in a

thick shining braid tied at the end with a broad red ribbon. Molly

Elliston thought she was a beauty, as she looked at her dimpled smiling

face,--a beauty, though she _was_ an Indian. Yes, this charming little

maiden was an Indian, belonging to what was once a great and powerful

tribe. When, three years ago, Molly Elliston had come out to the far

Northwest with her mother to join her father on his ranch, she had

thought she should never feel anything but aversion to an Indian. Molly

was then seven years old, and had always lived at some military post,

for her father had been an army officer until the three years before,

when he had given up his commission to enter into partnership with his

brother upon a sheep and cattle ranch. A few miles from this ranch was

an Indian reservation. The tribe that occupied it had for a long time

been quite friendly with white people, and were therefore not altogether

unwelcome neighbors to the Ellistons. Molly thought they were very

welcome, indeed, when one day, in the third summer of her ranch life,

she made the acquaintance of this pretty Wallula, who was not only

pretty, but very intelligent, and of a loving disposition that responded

gladly to Molly's friendly advances.

"But to think that you've never had a Christmas present!" exclaimed

Molly again, as Wallula's laugh rippled out. "If I'd _only_ known you

the first year we came! But I'll make it up _this_ year, you'll see; and

oh! oh!" clapping her hands at a sudden thought, "I know--I know what

I'll do! Tell you?" as Wallula clapped _her_ hands and cried, "Oh, tell

me, tell me!" "Of course I sha'n't tell you; that would spoil the whole.

Why, that's part of the fun that we don't tell what we are going to do.

It is all a secret until Christmas eve or Christmas morning."

"Yes, I know,--Metalka told me; but I forgot."

"Of course your sister must have known all about Christmas after she

came back from school. Why didn't _she_ make you a Christmas present,

then, Lula?"

"Metalka?" A cloud came over the little bright face. "Metalka didn't

stay long after she came back. She didn't stay till Christmas; she went

'way--to--to heaven."

"Oh!"

"If Metalka had stayed, I might have gone to school this year."

"I thought you _had_ been to school, Lula."

"Oh, no! only to little school out here summers,--little school some

ladies made; and Metalka tole me--taught me--showed me ev'ry day after

she came back--ev'ry day, till--til she--went 'way. I can read and

write and talk, talk, talk, all day in English,"--smiling roguishly,

then more seriously and anxiously. "Is it pretty fair English,--white

English,--Major Molly?"

"'White English'!" laughed back Major Molly. "You are such fun, Lula.

Yes, it's pretty fair--white English."

Lula dimpled with pleasure, then sighed as she said, "If I could go 'way

off East to Metalka's school, two, three, four, five year, as Metalka

did, then I could talk splen'id English, and I could make heap--no, all

sort things, and help keep house nice, and cook like Metalka."

"But why don't you go, Lula?"

"Why don't I? Listen!" and Wallula bent forward eagerly. "I don't go

because my father won't have me go. Metalka went. When she first came

back, she was so happy, so strong. She was going to have everything

white way, civ--I can't say it, Maje Molly."

"Do you mean civilized?"

"Yes, yes; civ'lized--white way. And she worked, she talked, she tried,

and nobody'd pay much 'tention but my father. The girls, some o' them,

wanted to be like her; but the fathers and mothers would n' help, and

some, good many, were set hard 'gainst it; and then there was no money

to buy white people's clothes, they said. It took all the money was

earned to pay big 'counts up at agency store, where Indians bought

things,--things to eat, you know; so what's the use, they said, to try

to live white ways when everything was 'gainst them, and they stopped

trying; and Metalka was so dis'pointed, for she was going do so

much,--going help civ-civ'lize. She was so dis'pointed, she by-'n'-by

got sick--homesick, and just after the first snow came, she--she went

'way to heaven. And that's why my father won't have me go to the school.

He say it killed Metalka. He say if she'd stayed home, she'd been happy

Indian and lived long time. He say Indian got hurt; spoiled going off

into white man's country."

"How came he to let your sister go, Lula?"

"Metalka wanted to go so bad. She'd heard so much 'bout the 'way-off

schools from some white ladies up at the fort one summer, and my father

heard too. A white off'cer tole him if Indian wanted to know how to have

plenty to eat, plenty ev'rything like white peoples, they must learn to

do bus'ness white ways, be edg'cated. So he let Metalka go; _he_ could

n' go, he too old; but Metalka could go and learn to read all the books

and the papers and keep 'counts for him, so 't he'd know how to deal

with white men. When Metalka first took 'count for him, after she came

back, my father so pleased. He'd worked hard all winter hauling wood,

and killing elk and deer for the skins; and my mother 'n' I had made

bewt'ful moccasins and gloves out o' the skins, all worked with beads;

and so he'd earned good deal money, and he 'd kept 'count of it

all,--_his_ way, and 't was honest way; and kept 'count, too, what he'd

had out of agency store; and Metalka understood and reckoned it all up,

and said he 'd have good lot money left after he'd paid what he owed at

the store. But, Maje Molly, he didn't! he didn't! They tole him he owed

_all_ his money, and when he said they'd made mistake, and showed 'em

Metalka's 'counts, they laughed at him, and showed him big book of

_their_ 'counts, and tole him Metalka didn't know 'bout prices o'

things. Then he came home and said: 'What's the use going to white

people's schools to learn white people's ways, when white people can

come out to Indian country and tell lies 'bout prices o' things?' And

that's the way 't is ev'ry time, my father say; the way 't was before

Metalka went to school. The bad white trader comes out to Indian country

to cheat Indians. _He_ knows white prices, but he don't tell Indian

white prices; he tell Indian two, three time more price. That's what my

father say. And Metalka, when she see it all, she so disjointed, she

never get over it, and my father say it killed her, like arrow shot at

her."

"But your father doesn't think all white people bad; he doesn't dislike

all their ways?"

"No; it's only white traders he thinks bad, and the white big chiefs who

break promises 'bout lands. He like white ways that Metalka brought

back, and he built nice log house to live in instead of tepee, 'cause

Metalka wanted it; and he like all you here, Maje Molly, 'cause you good

to me. But, Maje Molly"--and here the little bright face clouded

over--"my mother say _all_ white peoples forget, and break promises to

Indians."

"No, no, they don't, Lula; they don't, you'll see. _I_ sha'n't forget;

_I_ sha'n't break _my_ promise, you'll see,--you'll see, Lula. On

Christmas eve I shall send you a Christmas present, sure,--now

remember!" answered Molly, vehemently.

CHAPTER II.

It was the day before Christmas,--a beautiful, mild day, very unlike the

usual winter weather in the far West. At the Ellistons' windows hung

wreaths of pine, and all about on tables and chairs tempting-looking

packages were lying. Some of these were from their military friends, and

most of them were directed to "Major Molly," the name that had been

given to Molly when she was a little tot of a thing, and the pet of the

fort where she lived. On this Christmas day, as she watched her mother

fold up the pretty bright tartan dress that was to be her Christmas

present to Wallula, she said gleefully,--

"Don't forget, mamma, to write on the box, 'Wallula's Christmas present

from Major Molly.'"

It had been Molly's intention to have Wallula to tea on Christmas eve,

and then and there to bestow upon her the pretty gift. But invitations

to dine at the fort had frustrated this plan, and so it was arranged

that Barney McGuire, one of the ranchmen, should come up and carry the

box over to the reservation late that afternoon; and as the short winter

day progressed, and Molly found that she must have a little more time to

finish off the table-cover she wanted to take up to the Colonel's wife,

she said to her mother,--

"Instead of going on with you and papa at five o'clock, let Barney

escort me to the fort after he leaves Wallula's present; that will give

me plenty of time to finish the cover, and plenty of time to get to the

dinner in season."

"Very well," answered Mrs. Elliston; "but you must promise me to start

with Barney as soon as he comes back for you, whether the cover is

finished or not. You mustn't be late."

At five o'clock, when Captain Elliston and his wife rode off, Molly was

working away at her cover with the greatest industry. Now and then, as

she worked on, she glanced up at the clock. If everything went

smoothly,--if the silk didn't knot or the lace didn't pucker,--she would

be through long before Barney came back for her. But presently she

thought, where _was_ Barney. He ought to be there for the box by this

time. She worked on a little longer, her ear alert for the sound of

Barney's horse. At last she went to an upper window and looked out. She

could see, even in the gathering dusk, a great distance from that

window, away across toward the sheep-corrals and cattle-pens; but nobody

was in sight. What did it mean? Barney was punctuality itself.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more she worked with flying fingers,

and still there was no sight or sound of Barney; but her work was

finished, and now--now, what then?

There was only Hannah and John, the two house-servants, at hand. Hannah

couldn't go, and John had strict orders never to leave the premises in

Captain Elliston's absence. She looked at the clock; every second seemed

an age. If Barney didn't come, if _no one was sent in his place_, her

promise to Wallula would be broken, and Molly remembered Wallula's

words, "My mother say all white peoples forget, and break promises to

Indians;" and her own vehement reply, "_I_ sha'n't forget; I sha'n't

break _my_ promise, you'll see, you'll see, Lula!" Break her promise

after that! Never, never! Her father himself would say she must

not,--would say that _somebody_ must go in Barney's place, and there

was nobody,--nobody to go but--herself!

"Yer goin' alone, yer mean, over to the Injuns!" demanded John, as Molly

told him to bring her pony, Tam o' Shanter, to the door.

"Yes, yes, and right away, John; so hurry as fast as you can."

"Do yer think yer'd orter, Major Molly? Do yer think the Cap'n would

like it?" asked John, disapprovingly.

"John, if you don't bring Tam 'round this minute, I'll go for him

myself."

"'T ain't safe fur yer to go over there alone!" cried Hannah.

"Safe! I know the way, every inch of it, with my eyes shut, and so does

Tam; and I know the Indians, and Wallula is my friend; and I told her

she should have her present Christmas eve, sure, and I'm going to keep

my promise. Now bring Tam 'round just as quick as you can."

John obeyed, though with evident reluctance, and Hannah showed her

disapproval by scolding and protesting; but they had both of them lived

on the frontier for years, and their disapproval therefore was not what

it might have been under different circumstances. Molly, they knew,

could ride as well as a little Indian, and was familiar with every inch

of the way, as she had said, and Wallula was her friend.

"And 't wouldn't 'a' done the least bit o' good to hev set myself any

more against her. If I had, just as like as not the Cap'n would 'a'

sided with her and been mad at me, for he thinks the Major's ekal to

'most anything," John confided to Hannah, as he brought the pony round.

The pony shied a little as Wallula's Christmas present was strapped to

his back. But at Molly's whispered, "Tam! Tam! be a good boy. We're

going to see Wallula,--to carry her something nice, just as quick as we

can go," the little fellow whinnied softly, as if in response; and the

next moment, at Molly's "Now, Tam," he started forward at his best

pace,--a pace that Molly knew so well, and knew she could trust,--firm

and even and assured, and gaining, gaining, gaining at every step.

"Good boy, good boy!" she said to him as he sped along. But as he began

to hasten his pace, it occurred to her that it was only about half an

hour's easy riding to the reservation, and that after leaving there she

could easily reach the fort in another half-hour,--so easily that there

was no need of hurrying Tam as she was doing; and she pulled him up with

a "Take it easy, Tam dear." As she spoke, Tam flung up his head, pricked

up his ears, and made a sudden plunge forward. What was it? What was the

matter? What had he heard? He had heard what Molly herself heard in the

next instant,--the beat of a horse's hoofs. But the minute it struck

upon Molly's ear she said to herself, "It's Barney; for that's old

Ranger's step, I know." Ranger was an old troop horse of her father's

that Barney often rode. But in vain she tried to rein Tam in. In vain

she said to him, "Wait, wait! It's Ranger and Barney, Tam!"

The pony snorted, as if in scorn, and held on his way. What _was_ the

matter with him? He was usually such a wise little fellow, and always

knew his friends and his enemies. _And he knew them now_! He was wiser

than she was, and he scented on the wind something that spurred him on.

But, hark! What was that whirring, singing sound? Was that a new signal

that Barney was trying? Was it--Whirr, s-st! Down like a shot dropped

Tam's head, and like an arrow he leaped forward, swerving sideways to

escape the danger he had scented,--the danger of a lariat flung by a

practised hand.

Oh, Tam, Tam! fly now with all your speed, your mistress understands at

last. She is a frontier-bred girl. She knows now that it is no friendly

person following her, but some one who means mischief; and that mischief

she has no doubt is the proposed capture of Tam, who is well known for

miles and miles about the country as a wonderful little racer. Yes,

Molly understands at last. She has _seen in the starlight_ the lariat as

it missed Tam's head, and she knows perfectly well that only Tam's speed

and sure-footedness can save them. Her heart beats like a trip-hammer;

but she keeps a firm hold upon the rein, with a watchful eye for any

sudden inequalities of the road, while her ears are strained to catch

every sound. Tam's leap forward had given him a moment's advantage, and

he keeps it up bravely, his dainty feet almost spurning the ground as he

goes on, gaining, gaining, gaining at every step. In a few minutes more

they will be out of the reach of any lariat, then in another minute safe

at Wallula's door.

In a few minutes! As this thought flashes through Molly's mind, wh-irr,

s-st! cuts the still air again. Tam drops his head, and plunges forward.

Though the starlight is brighter than ever, Molly does not _see_ the

lariat, but there is something, something,--what is it?--that prompts

her to fling herself forward face downwards upon Tam's mane; and the

lariat that was about to drop over her head once more falls harmless to

the ground, and Tam once more seems to know what danger has been

escaped, and starts forward again with an exultant bound. They are

almost there! Molly sees the smoke from the tepees of the reservation,

and a light from a log cabin, and draws a breath of relief. But not yet,

O brave little frontier girl, O gallant little steed, is the race won

and the danger passed! Not yet, oh, not yet! for just ahead there is a

treacherous pitfall which neither Tam nor his mistress sees,--a hollow

that some little animal has burrowed out, and into this Tam plunges a

forefoot, stumbles, and falls!

CHAPTER III.

"She _said_, 'I sha'n't forget; I sha'n't break _my_ promise. You'll

see, on Christmas eve, I shall send you a Christmas present, sure. Now

remember.' On Christmas eve! And to-night is Christmas eve!"

Wallula had said this over and over to herself ever since the sun went

down. She had kept count of the days from the day that Molly had made

her that vehement promise. That promise meant so much to Wallula. It

meant not merely a gift, but keeping faith, holding on, making real

friends with an Indian girl. And her mother had said, "_She'll_ forget,

like the rest. White peoples always forget what they say to Indians."

And her father had nodded his head when her mother said this. But

Wallula had shaken _her_ head, and declared with passionate emphasis

more than once,--

"Major Molly will never forget,--never! You'll see, you'll see!"

Wallula had awakened very early that morning, and the minute she opened

her eyes she thought, "This is the day before Christ's day. To-night,

'bout sundown, Major Molly'll keep her promise." All through the day

this happy thought was uppermost. In the afternoon she followed Major

Molly's instructions, and hung pine wreaths about the cabin.

The short afternoon sped on, and sundown came, and the gray dusk, and

then the stars came out.

"Where's your Major Molly now?" asked the mother. There was a sharp

accent in the Indian woman's voice, and a bitter expression on her face.

But it was not for Wallula; it was for the white girl,--the Major Molly

who, in breaking her promise to Wallula, had brought suffering upon her;

for on Wallula's face the mother could see by this time the shadow of

disappointment gathering. It made her think of Metalka. Metalka had gone

amongst the white people. She had come back full of belief in them, and

it was the white people's white traders with their lies and their broken

promises that had hurt Metalka to death. There was only little Wallula

left now. Was it going the same way with Wallula? These were some of

the Indian mother's bitter resentful thoughts as she watched Wallula's

face.

Wallula found it very hard to bear this watchfulness. She felt as if her

mother were glad that her prophecy had proved true, that the white girl

had broken her promise; but Wallula was wrong. Her mother's bitterness

and resentment were the outcome of her anxiety. She would have given

anything, have done anything, to have saved Wallula this suffering. If

something would only happen to rouse Wallula, she thought, as she

watched her. There had come a visitor to their cabin the other day,--the

chief of a neighboring tribe. When he saw Wallula, he said he would come

again and bring his little daughter. If he would only come soon! If he

would only--But, hark! what was that? Was it an answer to her wish,--her

prayer? Was he coming now--_now_? And, jumping to her feet, the woman

ran to the door and flung it open. Yes, yes, it was in answer to her

prayer; for there, over the turf, she could see a horse speeding towards

her. It was coming at breakneck speed. "Wallula! Wallula!" she turned

and called. An echo seemed to repeat, "Lula, Lula!" At that echo

Wallula leaped up, and sped past her mother with the fleetness of a

fawn, calling as she did so, "I'm coming, coming!" In the next instant

the wondering woman saw her child running, as only an Indian can run, by

the side of a jet-black pony whose coat was flecked with foam, and whose

breath was well-nigh spent. As they came nearer into the pathway of

light that the pine blaze sent forth from the open door, something that

looked like a pennon of gold streamed out, and a clear but rather shaken

voice cried, "Lula, Lula, I've kept my promise; I've kept my promise!"

The next moment the owner of the voice had slid from the pony's back

into Wallula's arms, and Wallula was stroking the streaming golden hair,

and crying jubilantly, "She's kept her promise, she's kept her promise!"

"Yes, I've kept my promise. I've brought your Christmas present. There

it is in that box strapped across Tam. If somebody'll unstrap it and see

to Tam, we'll go into the house, and I'll tell you what a race I've had.

I can only stay a few minutes, for I must get to the fort if your

father'll go with me. I don't dare to go alone now."

"To the fort?" asked Wallula, wonderingly.

"Yes, I'm going there to dinner; but let's go in. I'm so tired I can

hardly stand; and Tam--"

But as a glance showed her that Tam was being cared for, and that

Wallula's mother was carrying the box into the house, Major Molly

followed on with a sigh of relief, and, doffing the riding-suit that

covered her dress, flung herself down before the blazing fire, and began

to tell her story. When she came to the point where Tam stumbled and

fell forward, she burst out excitedly,--

"Oh, Lula, Lula! I thought then I should never get here, and I don't

know how we did it, Tam and I; I don't know how we did it, but I kept my

seat, and I gave a great pull. I felt as strong as a man, and I cried,

'Tam! Tam! Tam!' and Tam,--oh, I don't know how he did it,--Tam got to

his feet again, and then he flew, flew, _flew_ over the ground. We'd

lost a minute, and I expected every second the lariat would catch us

sure after that, but it didn't, it didn't, and I'm here safe and sound.

I've kept my promise, I've kept my promise, Lula."

"Yes, she kep' her promise, she kep' her promise!" repeated Wallula in

glad triumphant accents, glancing at her mother, and at the tall gaunt

figure of her father standing in the shadow of the doorway.

[Illustration: Wallula clapped her hands with delight]

Wallula was a young girl, and this mystery of a Christmas-box was full

of delight to her; but just then a greater delight--the joy of Major

Molly's fidelity--made her forget everything else. But Molly did not

forget. The minute she had finished her story she sprang to her feet,

and produced the contents of the box. Wallula clapped her hands with

delight when the pretty bright dress was held up before her.

"Just like Major Molly's,--just like Major Molly's! See! see!" she

called out to her father and mother.

The mother nodded and smiled. The father's eyes lighted with an

expression of deep gratification; then he leaned forward eagerly, and

said to Molly,--

"Tell 'gain 'bout where you saw--heard--lar'yet."

"Just as we got to the little pine-trees where the old Sioux trail

stops," answered Molly, promptly.

"Yah!" ejaculated the Indian, grimly, in a tone of conviction. Then,

turning, he took down a Winchester rifle, slung it over his shoulder,

and started towards the door, saying to Molly as he did so: "You stay

here with Wallula. I go up to fort and tell 'em 'bout you."

"Oh, take me with you, take me with you!" cried Molly, jumping up.

The Indian shook his head. When Molly insisted, he said tersely: "No,

not safe for little white girl yet. Maje Molly stay here till I come

back."

Molly's face fell. Wallula stole up to her. "I got bewt'ful Chris'mas

present for Maje Molly," she said softly. "Maje Molly stay see it with

Wallula."

"You dear!" cried Molly, flinging her arm round Wallula.

The Indian father nodded his head vigorously, and his face shone with

satisfaction. "Yes, yes!" he said. "Wallula take care you. You stay till

I come back."

In looking at and trying on the "bewt'ful Chris'mas present,"--a pair of

elaborately embroidered moccasins lined and bordered with rabbit

fur,--and in dressing Wallula up in the tartan dress, the time flew so

rapidly that long before Molly expected it the cabin door opened again,

and the tall gaunt figure reappeared.

Behind it followed another figure. Molly ran forward as she saw it,

and, "Papa, papa!" she cried, "I waited and waited for Barney, and he

didn't come; and I couldn't bear for Lula not to have her Christmas

present to-night, for I'd promised it to her to-night. She told me, when

I promised, that white people always broke their promises to Indians,

and I said over and over that _I_ wouldn't break _my_ promise; and I

couldn't--I couldn't break it, papa."

"You did quite right, my little daughter,--quite right."

There was something in her father's manner as he said this, a

seriousness in his voice and in his eyes, that surprised Molly. She was

still more surprised when the Indian suddenly said,--

"She little brave; she come all 'way 'lone to keep promise, so she not

hurt my Wallula. She make me believe more good in white peoples; so I go

to fort,--I keep friends."

"You've been a friend indeed. I sha'n't forget it; we'll none of us

forget it, Washo," said Captain Elliston; and he put out his hand as he

spoke, and grasped the brown hand of the Indian in a warm friendly

clasp.

At the fort everything was literally "up in _arms_,"--that is, set in

order for business, and that meant ready for resistance or attack. Molly

had lived most of her fourteen years at some Western military post, and

she recognized at once this "order" as she rode in.

"What _did_ it mean?" she asked again, as the Colonel himself met her

and hurried her into the dining-room; and the Colonel himself answered

her,--

"It means, my dear, that Major Molly has saved us from being surprised

by the enemy, and that means that she has saved us from a bloody fight."

"I--I--" faltered Molly. Then like a flash her mind cleared, and she

struck her little hand on the table and cried,--

"It was an Indian, an unfriendly Indian, who followed me, and Washo knew

it when I told my story!"

"Yes, Washo knew it, and, more than that, he had known for some days

that those particular Indians had been planning a raid upon us, and he

didn't interfere; he didn't warn us because he had begun to think that

we were all bad white traders, and he wouldn't meddle with these braves

who proposed to punish us, though he wouldn't go on the war-path with

them. But, Major Molly, when he heard your story, when he saw how one of

us could be a little white brave in keeping a promise to an Indian, _for

your sake_ he relented towards the rest of us."

"And when he asked me to tell him where I first heard the lariat--"

"When he asked you that, he was making sure that it was his Sioux

friends,--for he knew they were to send out a scout who would take

exactly that direction."

"But why--why did the scout chase _me_?"

"He was after Tam, no doubt,--for this Sioux band is probably short of

ponies, and Tam, you know, is a famous fellow,--and the moment the scout

caught sight of him he would give chase."

"Did he get Ranger that way? And where, oh, where is poor Barney?"

"The probability is that the scout visited the corral first, and

captured Ranger, who is almost as famous as Tam."

"But, Barney--oh, oh, _do_ you think Barney has been killed?"

"We don't know yet, my dear. Your father has gone off to the ranch with

a squad of men. He'll soon find out what's happened to Barney. And

don't fret, my dear, about your father," seeing a new anxiety on Molly's

face. "The raiders by this time have seen our signals, and have found

out we're up and doing, and more than a match for them; so don't

fret,--don't fret, any of you," turning to his wife and Mrs. Elliston.

"I don't think there'll be so much as a skirmish."

And the Colonel was right. When the Indians saw the signals and the

other signs of activity, they knew that their only chance of overcoming

the whites by taking them unawares was gone. There were a few shots

fired, but no skirmish; and by the time the moon rose, the fort scouts

brought in word that the whole band had departed over the mountains. A

few minutes after, when Captain Elliston rode in, the satisfaction was

complete, for he brought with him the news of Barney's safety. Ranger,

however, was gone. The Indian--or Indians, for there were two of them at

that point--had succeeded in capturing him just as Barney had started

out from the corral. A stealthy step, a skilful use of the lariat, and

Barney was bound and gagged, that he might give no alarm; and all this

with such quiet Indian alertness that a ranchman farther down the

corral heard nothing.

So harmlessly ended this raid, that might have been a bloody battle but

for Major Molly's Christmas promise!

POLLY'S VALENTINE.

CHAPTER I.

Polly was seven years old before she knew anything about valentines.

This may seem very strange to most girls, for most girls have heard all

about Valentine's Day by the time they are three or four, and have had

no end of fun sending and receiving these friendly favors. But Polly

didn't know a thing about them until she was seven. I'll tell you why.

Polly was one of a number of children who lived in an Orphan's Home, and

Polly herself was the youngest of the orphans.

One morning as she looked out of the window, she saw the postman

suddenly surrounded by a whole flock of little girls, and heard one of

them say, "Oh, _haven't_ you got a valentine for me?" And then the whole

flock cried, "And for me? and for me?" And the postman laughed

good-naturedly, and, looking through his pack of letters, took out two

or three quite big square envelopes, and handed them to one and another

of the clamorous little crowd.

Polly, hearing and seeing all this, wondered what a valentine could be.

She did not ask anybody the question, however, just then; but when the

postman came around at noon, and she saw the same scene repeated, her

curiosity could not be restrained any longer, and she started off to

find Jane McClane,--for Jane was fourteen years old and knew everything,

Polly thought.

Jane was in the linen-room mending a sheet when Polly found her, and

being rather lonesome was quite willing to enter into conversation with

any one who came along. But Polly's question made her open her eyes with

surprise.

"A valentine?" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say, Polly, you never

heard of a valentine before?"

"No, never," answered Polly, feeling very small and ignorant.

"Well, to be sure," said Jane, "you're very little, and ain't 'round

much, but I _should_ have thought you'd have heard _somebody_ say

something about valentines before this; but you ain't much for listening

and asking, I know."

"No," echoed Polly; "but I'm listening now."

Jane laughed. "Yes, I see you are. Well, a valentine is just a piece of

poetry, with a picture to it, that anybody sends to a person on

Valentine's Day."

"What's Valentine's Day?"

"Why, it's the day you send valentines, to be sure,--the 14th of

February."

"Is it like Christmas? Was Valentine very good, and is it his birthday

as Christmas is Christ's birthday?"

"Mercy, no! What queer things you do ask when you get going, Polly!

Valentine's Day is just Valentine's Day, when folks send these poetry

and picture things for fun, and don't sign their own names, only 'Your

Valentine,' and that means somebody who has chosen--chosen to be

your--well, your beau, maybe."

"What's a beau?" asked innocent Polly.

"Polly, you don't know _anything_!" cried Jane, in an exasperated tone.

"A beau is--is somebody who likes you better 'n anybody else."

"Oh, I wish I had one!"

"Had one--what?" asked Jane.

"A beau to like me like that; to send me a valentine."

"Oh, oh! you are such a baby," laughed Jane.

"I ain't a baby!" cried Polly, indignantly; and then her lip quivered,

and she began to cry.

"Hush, hush!" said Jane; "if Mrs. Banks hears you, she'll send you out

of here quicker 'n a wink."

But Polly could not "hush" all at once, and continued to sob and sniff

behind her apron; Jane trying in the mean time to soothe her, but not

succeeding very well, until she thought to say,--

"If you won't cry any more, Polly, I'll get Martha"--Martha was the

chambermaid--"to show you _her_ valentine; it's a beauty."

Polly dropped her apron and began to swallow her sobs, while Jane ran to

Martha, who was very proud of her valentine, and very glad to show it

even to little Polly Price; and the valentine _was_ a beauty, as Jane

had said. Polly, looking through the tears that still hung on her

lashes at the group of little cherubs that were dancing out of lily-cups

and roses, cried, "Angels, angels!" winding up with, "Oh, I _wish_

somebody 'd send me a valentine!"

"She didn't know a thing about valentines; never heard of them till just

now," Jane explained to Martha.

"Well, to be sure," said Martha, "she is the greenest little thing; but

then she ain't never been to school like the rest of ye, and things is

very quiet and out-of-the-way like in the Home here, and she's nothin'

but a baby."

"I ain't a baby! I ain't, I ain't!" screamed Polly.

"Polly, Polly!" warned Jane. But Polly only burst out afresh in loud

sobs and cries. Jane was a good-natured girl, but she could not stand

this, and, reaching forward, she gave Polly a little shake, and said,

"Now, Polly Price, you just stop and be a good girl, or I'll never have

anything more to do with you."

Polly gasped. Three years ago, when she was first brought to the Home,

she had been assigned to a little bed next the one that Jane occupied,

and had been more or less under the elder girl's care. Jane had been

very good to the child, and with her womanly ways and superior

knowledge she stood to Polly for both mother and sister. No wonder,

then, that she gasped at Jane's threat. What would she do if that threat

were carried out, and Jane had nothing more to do with her? What would

life be in the Home without Jane?

Polly did not ask herself these questions in exactly these words, but

she felt the desolate possibility that had been suggested to her; and it

was so appalling that it quite overpowered her flare of temper, and

stopped her sobs and cries as effectually as Jane could have desired.

But Jane herself, busy with her darning, did not notice the expression

of Polly's face, and had no idea how deeply her words had penetrated the

child's mind until hours afterwards, when, as she was preparing to go to

bed, Polly's voice called softly,--

"Jane, haven't I been a good girl since?"

Jane started. "What in the world are you awake for now, Polly Price?"

she asked. "It's nine o'clock. You ought to have been asleep long ago."

"I couldn't go to sleep, I felt so bad," answered Polly.

"You felt so bad; where? Have you got a sore throat?" inquired Jane,

remembering that a good many of the children's illnesses began with sore

throat.

"No, 'tisn't my throat."

"Where is it, then--your stomach?"

"No, it's--it's my feelin's. I felt bad 'cause--'cause you said if I

didn't stop cryin' and be a good girl, you wouldn' ever have anythin' to

do with me any more. But I did stop, and I _have_ been a good girl

since, haven't I?"

"Yes, oh, yes, you've been good since," bending down to tuck Polly in.

As she stooped, Polly flung her arms around Jane's neck, and

whispered,--

"Do you love me just the same, Jane?"

"Yes, I guess so," replied Jane, smiling.

"I love you better 'n anybody in the world, Jane."

"And you'd choose me to be your valentine, then, wouldn't you?" laughed

Jane.

"Oh, yes, yes; and if I could only send you one of those po'try picture

things, I'd send you the most bewt'f'lest I could find. Don't you wish I

could, Jane?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Did you ever have a valentine, Jane?"

"No, never."

"Those girls 'cross the street had 'em, and Martha had one. Why don't

you and I have 'em, Jane?"

"You 'n' I? Those girls across the street know girls and boys who have

fathers and mothers to give them money to buy valentines with."

"Why don't we know such girls and boys?"

"'Cause we don't. We're poor, and live in an Orphans' Home. Those girls

only know folks that live like themselves."

"But Martha lives right here, just where we do, and Martha had a

valentine."

"Martha's different. She's only paid for staying here to work. She's got

folks outside that she belongs to. It was a cousin of hers sent her that

valentine."

"Oh," and Polly gave a soft sigh, "I wish _we_ had folks that we

belonged to! Don't you, Jane?"

"_Don't_ I!" and as Jane said this, she dropped down upon Polly's little

bed, and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, Jane, Janey! what's the matter? Has somebody hurted your feelings?"

"No, no," answered Jane, brokenly; "nobody in particular. I--I felt

lonesome. I do sometimes when I get to thinking I don't belong to

anybody and nobody belongs to me."

"Janey, _I_ belongs to you, don't I?" And around Jane's neck two little

arms pressed lovingly.

"You don't belong to me as a relation does. You ain't a sister or a

cousin, you know."

"Can't you 'dopt me, Jane?"

Jane laughed through her tears. "What do you know about adopting?" she

asked.

"Martha tole me 'bout it. She said folks of'n 'dopted children to be

their very own, and that mebbe some time somebody'd 'dopt me; and I tole

her then I didn' want anybody to 'dopt me, but--I'd like you to 'dopt

me, Jane. Couldn't you?" with great earnestness.

"Of course not, Polly. Folks who adopt children are older 'n I am, and

have money to take care of 'em. But I do wish some nice lady would adopt

you,--some nice lady with a nice home."

"But I'd rather stay here 'long o' you, Jane. I don't want to go 'way

from you; I'd be lonesome. But mebbe they'd 'dopt you too. Would you

like to be 'dopted, Jane?"

"I don't know's I would. I'm too old now; I couldn't get to feel as if

they were own folks, as if I really belonged to them, as you could.

But, Polly," suddenly sitting up and looking very seriously at Polly,

"you mustn't think I'm finding fault with the Home here. It's a very

comfortable place, and we are treated well. I only feel kind of lonesome

sometimes when I see girls like those across the street, who have

mother-and-father homes."

"And valentines," cried Polly.

"Oh, Polly, Polly! you'll dream of valentines to-night," laughed Jane;

"and mind you send me one in your dream, and the very prettiest you can

find."

"I will, I will!" exclaimed Polly, flinging her arms again about Jane's

neck, and giving her a good-night hug and kiss. "The very prettiest I

can find! the very prettiest I can find!" And saying this over and over,

Polly drifted away into the land of sleep.

CHAPTER II.

And sure enough, when it was well on towards morning, she did dream of

valentines,--piles and piles of them, and out of them all she was

hunting for the prettiest, when she heard a strangely familiar voice,

calling,--

"Come, come, Polly! It's time to get up if you want any breakfast."

Polly opened her eyes to see Martha looking down at her. "Oh, Martha,

Martha," she cried, "if you hadn't waked me, I should have got it. I'd

_almost_ found it, and in a little minute I'd 'a' had it sure."

"Had what?" asked Martha.

"Janey's valentine;" and, sitting up, Polly told her dream.

Martha laughed till the tears came. "You _are_ the funniest young one we

ever had here," was her comment, when she caught her breath. "Some time

you'll dream you're an heiress, and wake up counting out your money to

buy valentines with."

"What's an heiress?" inquired Polly.

"Oh, a girl that has a bankful of money," replied Martha, carelessly.

Polly gave one of her long-drawn "O--hs," then slipped out of bed, and

began to dress so slowly that Martha said to her,--

"What are you dreaming about now, Polly?"

But Polly didn't answer. She was too busy pulling on her stockings, and

thinking of something else that Martha had said, and this "something"

was "a girl with a bankful of money." Martha little suspected what

effect her words had had, little thought what a fine scheme she had set

going. If she had, the scheme would certainly never have been carried

out, or never have been carried out as Polly planned it. And Polly knew

this perfectly well, and kept as still as a mouse all through

breakfast,--so still that the matron, Mrs. Banks, asked, "Don't you feel

well, Polly?" whereat Polly choked over her oatmeal as she confusedly

answered, "Yes, 'm."

If it had been any other child, Mrs. Banks would have suspected that

there was some mischief brewing behind this stillness; but Polly had

never been given to mischief, so she was not further questioned or

observed, and thus left to herself she scampered back to the dormitory

after the chamber-work was done, and, going straight to a small bureau

that stood between Jane's bed and her own, she cautiously pulled out the

lower drawer, and took from it a little toy house. This pretty toy house

was nothing more nor less than a child's bank that had been given to

Polly one Christmas, and into which she had dropped the pennies that had

been bestowed upon her from time to time. Polly had long yearned for a

paint-box; and whenever she went out, she used to stop at a certain

shop-window where these tempting things were displayed, and wonder how

much they cost. One day she summoned up courage to go in and ask the

price of the smallest.

"Twenty-five cents," the clerk told her. Polly at first was dismayed.

Twenty-five cents seemed a vast sum to her. But it was a long time yet

to next Christmas, and perhaps by then she _might_ find even as much as

that in her bank. This hope had warmed her heart for weeks, so that when

she was smarting under the first sense of disappointment about the

valentines, she consoled herself with the thought of the little

paint-box that might soon be hers. But when Martha had said, "Some time

you'll dream you're an heiress, and wake up counting your money out,"

and had told her an heiress meant a girl with a bankful of money, like a

flash of lightning came another thought into Polly's mind,--the thought

that then and there from _her_ little bank she might count the money to

buy a valentine for her dear Jane; and once this thought had entered

Polly's head there was no putting it out. Over and above everything it

kept gaining, until it sent her to tugging at that red chimney. Then

suddenly the chimney that had stuck so fast gave way.

Polly nearly fell backward, it was so sudden; but righting herself, she

shook the treasure into her lap, and fell to counting it. She counted up

to ten; that was as far as her knowledge of arithmetic went. Putting

aside the ten pennies into a little pile, she began to count the rest.

"One, two, three," she went on until--why, there was another pile of

ten, and more yet; and the "more yet" counted up to five. Polly couldn't

"do sums." She couldn't add these two piles of ten and the "more yet,"

and she couldn't ask Jane or any one else in the house to do it for her.

But what she _could_ do, what she _would_ do, was to slip the whole

treasure back into the bank, and take it around to the shop on the

corner, the shop where she had seen the paint-boxes, and where she was

sure she should also find plenty of valentines. So getting into her

little coat and hood, she scampered out and off, unseen and unheard by

any of the household. It was rather terrifying to find several other

customers in the shop, but she had no time to wait until they had left,

and, going bravely forward, she called out, "Please, I want a

valentine." But the clerk was busy, and paid no attention to her; so she

pressed a little nearer, and piped out again in a louder tone, "Please,

I want a valentine."

But even this did not succeed in getting his attention. Oh, what

_should_ she do! Perhaps in another minute Jane or Martha or Mrs. Banks

would have missed her, and be hunting for her; perhaps they would be

sending a policeman after her. Oh dear! oh dear! And summoning up all

her courage, she cried out in a voice full of sobs and tears, "Oh,

please, _please_, I want a valentine right off now this minute!"

"Don't you see I'm busy now?" said the clerk, sharply.

But the lady he was waiting upon had turned and looked at Polly as she

spoke, and immediately said to the clerk,--

"Oh, do attend to the child now. Her mother has probably told her to

make haste."

"She hasn't any mother. She's one of the children at the Orphans' Home,"

replied the clerk in a lower tone.

"Oh!" And the lady started and looked at Polly with new interest, and

then insisted still more earnestly that she should be attended to at

once, at the same time beckoning Polly to come forward.

Polly obeyed her; but as she glanced at the cheap little five-cent

valentines the clerk put before her, she shook her head disdainfully. "I

want a bigger one; I want the bewt'f'lest there is," she informed him.

The young man laughed. "How much money have you got?" he asked.

Polly produced her bank, and triumphantly shook out its contents.

"Oh,"--laughing again,--"all that? How much is it?"

"I don't know jus' exac'ly. I can count up to ten, and there's two ten

piles, and--and--five cents more."

"Oh, two tens and five. Yes, I see,"--running his fingers over the

little heap,--"that makes twenty-five. You've got twenty-five cents.

Here are the twenty-five-cent valentines;" and he uncovered another box,

and left her to make her choice.

"Twenty-five cents!" echoed Polly. Why, why, why, that was enough to buy

the little paint-box! She glanced down at the twenty-five-cent

valentines. They presented a dazzling sight of cherubs' heads and wings

and flowery garlands. She lifted her chin a little higher, and there,

staring her in the face, was the very little paint-box, with its two

brushes and porcelain color plate, and it seemed to say to her: "Come,

buy me now; come, buy me now. If you don't, somebody else will get me."

And she _could_ buy it now, if only--she gave up the valentine--Jane's

valentine; and--why shouldn't she? She hadn't told Jane anything about

it; Jane didn't expect it; Jane wouldn't ever know about it. Why

shouldn't she? And Polly drew a deep sigh of perplexity as she asked

herself this question.

"What is it?" a soft voice said to her here. "What is it that troubles

you? Tell me. Perhaps I can help you."

Polly started, and turned to see the lady who had made way for her

standing beside her. The lady smiled reassuringly as she met Polly's

perplexed glance, and said again,--

"What is it? Tell me."

And Polly, looking up into the kind sweet face, told the whole

story,--all about the long saving for the little paint-box, Jane's

valentine, and everything, winding up eagerly with the appeal,--"And

wouldn't _you_ buy the paint-box now 'stead of the valentine, 'cos the

paint-box mebbe'll be gone when I get more money?"

"Wouldn't I? Well, I don't know what I should have done when I was a

little girl like you. I dare say, though, that I should have felt just

as you do--have done just as you, I see, are going to do now."

"Bought the paint-box!" cried Polly.

"Yes, bought the paint-box," laughed the lady.

Polly beamed with smiles, and gave a rapturous look at the treasure that

was so soon to be hers. But presently the rapture faded, and a new

expression came into her face. The lady was watching her very

attentively.

"Well, what now?" she inquired. "Doesn't the paint-box suit you?"

Polly gave an emphatic nod. Perhaps it was that nod that sent two little

tears to her eyes.

"Then, if it suits you, shall I speak to the clerk, and tell him you've

changed your mind about the valentine, and will buy the paint-box?"

Polly shook her head, and two more tears followed the first ones.

"You're not going to buy the paint-box?"

"N-o, I--I gu-ess not. I guess I'll buy the valentine. Jane didn't ever

get a valentine, and she hasn't got anybody to give her one but me."

The blurring tears made Polly's eyes so dim here, she could scarcely

see; but through the dimness she sent one last good-by look at the dear

paint-box, and then resolutely turned to the valentines, from which she

selected the biggest and "bewt'f'lest" she could find, the lady crowning

her kindness by stamping and directing it, and finally mailing it in the

letterbox just outside the shop door.

CHAPTER III.

"What yer watchin' for, Polly?"

Polly didn't answer.

"Guess I know," said Martha, laughing; "yer watchin' for the postman to

bring yer a valentine."

"I ain't," said Polly.

Just then the postman crossed the street, and ring, ring, went the Home

bell.

"I told you so," said Martha, as she ran down to answer it. In a minute

she was back again holding out a big square envelope, and saying again,

"I told you so."

"'T ain't for me," cried Polly.

"Ain't your name Polly Price?"

"Yes," faltered Polly.

"Well, here 's 'Polly Price' written as plain as print. Just look now!"

and Martha held forth the missive.

Polly looked. She could read her own name in writing; and there it was,

sure enough, plain as print,--Polly Price, and it was written on an

envelope exactly like the one she had chosen to send to Jane. A fearful

thought came into Polly's mind. She had told the lady her own

name,--Polly Price,--and it was Polly Price she had written on the

envelope instead of Jane McClane. Oh! oh! oh! and then Polly burst

out,--

"It ain't mine, it ain't mine, it's Jane's. The lady made a mistake."

"What lady?"

"The lady in the shop."

"What shop?"

And then Polly had to tell the whole story.

"And that's where you were after breakfast, you little monkey, breaking

a bank, and running away with it, to buy Jane McClane a valentine. Well,

if this isn't the funniest thing I ever heard of. Jane! Jane! come up

here and show Polly _your_ valentine!" And up came Jane, her face

beaming with smiles, holding in one hand a big square envelope, and in

the other an open sheet all covered with lilies and roses and cherubs'

faces; that very "bewt'f'lest valentine" that had been chosen for her.

Polly, staring at it in amazement, cried out, "Why, she's got it! she's

got it!" And then, pulling open the envelope addressed to Polly Price,

she stared in amazement again, and cried out, "Why, this is just like

_that_ one,--the one I bought for you, Janey!"

And then it was Jane's turn to cry out in amazement, to say, "_You_

bought it; how did _you_ buy it, Polly?"

"She broke a bank and ran away with the money," laughed Martha.

"I didn't, either. The chimney's made to come out, and the bank's my

bank," retorted Polly, indignantly.

"You took _your_ money,--your money you've been saving to buy the

paint-box with, to buy this valentine for me?" asked Jane.

"Yes," faltered Polly.

"And gave up the paint-box! Oh, Polly, Polly, you're a dear;" and Jane

swooped down upon Polly with a tremendous hug. Polly returned the

embrace with ardor, and then, "Who d' you s'pose," she asked, "who d'

you s'pose sent _me_ one jus' exactly like yours? It must be somebody

that likes me jus' as I like you, Janey."

"Mrs. Banks wants you to go down to the parlor, Polly. There's some one

to see you," a voice interrupted here.

"To see _me_?" cried Polly.

"Yes,--don't stop to bother,--run along." And Polly ran along as fast

as her feet could carry her, wondering as she went who had come to see

_her_, who had never in her life had a visitor before. At the foot of

the stairs she stopped in shy alarm. Then she tiptoed across the hallway

to the parlor threshold, and there she saw the lady who had been so kind

to her in the shop.

"Oh, it's you!" exclaimed Polly, joyfully.

The lady laughed, and held out her hand. "Yes, it's I," she said. "Did

Jane get the valentine all right, and did she like it?"

Polly nodded, and then burst out with the story of her own

valentine,--"Jus' like Janey's!"

"And who d' you s'pose sent it?" she asked confidingly, nestling against

the lady's knee.

"I think it must have been one of the good Saint Valentine's

messengers," answered the lady.

Polly's eyes opened very wide. "Saint Valentine! Tell me 'bout him," she

said.

"A very wise man has told about him,--a man by the name of

Wheatley,--and he says that this Valentine was a good bishop who lived

long ago, and so famous for his love and charity that after he died he

was called Saint Valentine, and a festival was held on his birthday,

when all the people would send love tokens to their friends."

Polly's face was radiant. "Oh, I _thought_ Valentine was a somebody very

good, and that Valentine's Day was his birthday. I asked Jane if 't

wasn't. Oh, Janey, Janey!" running to the foot of the stairs in her

excitement, "come down and hear 'bout Saint Valentine!"

"Polly!" said Mrs. Banks, reprovingly.

"Oh, don't stop her," cried the lady. "I like to hear her, and I want to

see Janey." After this there was nothing for Mrs. Banks to do but to

send for Jane. As the strong, womanly-looking girl entered the room, a

new idea entered the lady's mind. "It's the very thing," she said to

herself,--"the very thing." At that instant carriage wheels were heard

at the door, and the bell was rung sharply and impatiently. "Oh, it must

be my Elise," said the lady.

The next instant the door was opened, and in hopped--that is the only

word to use--a little lame girl of ten or eleven, lifting herself along

by a crutch. She was very pale, and her eyes were sunken with suffering;

but she looked about her with a smile, and said in a quick, lively

way,--

"I got tired of driving 'round the square waiting for you, mamma; so I

thought I'd come in."

"I'm glad you did; I wanted you to see--"

"I know--Polly! Mamma 's told me all about you, Polly, you and Jane and

the valentine; and that's Jane. How do you do, Polly? how do you do,

Jane?" nodding and laughing at them in a way that made Polly and Jane

laugh too, whereupon this odd little girl exclaimed, "That's right,

laugh, do! I like laughy folks;" and then, as she said this, her little

figure swayed and would have fallen, if Jane, who was very quick of

motion, hadn't sprung forward and caught her in her arms. The girl's

face was all puckered up into little wrinkles of pain; but as soon as

she could speak, she said, "Aren't you strong, though, Jane!"

Jane couldn't say a word, but Polly piped out, "If I let you have my

valentine to look at a little while, do you think you'd feel better?"